Happy. Would she be happy? Would she ever be happy again? She thought of the words people throw around so loosely—happy, love, sorry. How many times had she said, “I’m happy for you”, when she hadn’t meant it? Or said, “Love you” to someone she barely knew? Or said she was sorry? She had just about worn this word out.
Chapter Eight
Jenny hesitated after stepping off the elevator.
“Are you okay?” Ashley stopped and waited.
“I’m okay. Just remember the signal. If I need to leave, I’ll tug on my necklace.” She looked down at the delicate chain holding the gold Celtic knot that had belonged to her grandmother.
Ashley had swept her long chestnut hair up, showing off a graceful neck and hazel eyes. The form-fitting dress she had chosen hugged her body in all the right places. Next to her, Jenny felt like a frump with her hair in need of a cut and style and wearing a pantsuit that was now one size too large. She wanted to turn back, go home and huddle in her sweats.
Ashley looped an arm through hers. “You’ll tug the necklace. Got it. Come on. Greta only uses the best caterers, so the food’s bound to be great. Not to mention the vintage wine she serves. And I’m sure Greta will have the good taste not mention anything about what happened.”
Jenny pressed the buzzer, and the door swung open. “Hi. You must be Ashley and Jennifer. Please, come in.”
The man was handsome, with dark brown curly hair, contrasting gray eyes, and a warm, dimpled smile. Jenny studied his face. It looked vaguely familiar.
Ashley gave Jenny a shove through the open door. “Hi. I’m Ashley, and the mute here is Jenny.”
“Gavin.” He closed the door and turned. “May I take your coats? Greta’s regaling her other guests with war stories from the world of publishing. Don’t worry. Your names haven’t come up—yet. Go on in.” He opened a closet and retrieved two coat hangers.
Greta stood when they entered the great room. The penthouse apartment overlooked Boston Harbor. A baby grand piano occupied a corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft lighting gave warmth to the cathedral-ceilinged room. “Welcome. I’m so glad you both could make it on such short notice. Let me introduce you to my colleagues.” She took Jenny’s hand and dragged her toward the sofa. Ashley trailed behind.
A man dressed casually in dark brown slacks and a contrasting beige sweater stood as they entered.
“This is Dr. Simon Carlson and his wife, Myra. Simon is the chair of the history department, and Myra is a linguistics professor. This is Jennifer Barnes, my editor, and Ashley Rogers, the Vice-President at Harbor Lights Publishing.” She turned, pulling Jenny around with her. “And this dashing young man is Gavin Santorino.”
He nodded and smiled before Greta turned again, tugging Jenny in a full circle. “Please help yourselves to drinks. Dinner will be served in about half an hour.” She released Jenny’s hand and drew Ashley into the conversation she had been conducting about the state of the publishing business.
Jenny headed toward the bar.
“Greta assumes everyone is at home here. What can I get you to drink?” Gavin stepped up to the open counter serving as a bar.
“White wine, please. And I’m sure Ashley would like the same.”
He picked up a bottle, scanned the label, then set it down and reached for another. “Let’s open the good stuff, shall we?” He grinned.
“I probably wouldn’t know the difference. I’m not much of a drinker.”
He poured a glass and handed it to her. “Take a sip, and see if that’s to your satisfaction.”
She did as instructed, letting the wine roll along her tongue before she swallowed. “Oh, this is good.”
“Ah-ha. See, I know wine. It’s the Santorino side of the family.”
“Does your family have a vineyard?”
He laughed. “No, but we have drinkers. Unfortunately, so does the Irish half.” He lifted his glass. “After this, I switch to club soda. Two is my limit. Cheers.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Shall we join the fray?” He carried a glass of wine to Ashley.
Gavin’s ease helped Jenny to relax. She took a chair next to his. Greta never broke stride in her monologue about the changing face of romance novels.
Gavin shook his head and leaned toward Jenny. “I can’t put Greta together with some of the stuff she writes.”
“You read romance novels?”
“I have to. Greta gives me a signed copy of every book, but I know she expects a review—and it had better be a positive one. You edit for her?”
“I work for Harbor Lights and, yes, I’ve edited three of Greta’s books.”
“I always wondered about editors having to read some of those scenes over and over. I mean, how do you…? How do you not get…too involved?”
“Too involved?”
“She’s pretty graphic. I think she gives me her books in an attempt to shock me.”
“Oh. Well, it’s like anything else. You have to maintain an objective distance, read it for its technical merit. Does she shock you?”
“Not really. But it must get tough. There have been a few times I’ve read Greta’s books, then needed a cold shower.”
Warmth flooded her face. “Yes, well, that’s why I’m the professional.” She laughed nervously.
“Gavin, what are you saying to Jenny? You’ve got her all flustered. Jenny, ignore half of what he says, and take the other half with a grain of salt.” Greta lifted her empty glass. “Gavin, would you be a dear and refill this for me? I’m going to check with the cook.”
****
Once they were seated at the table and served, Greta nodded to Gavin. “Would you say grace, please?”
Jenny caught Ashley’s eye and raised a brow. This was something new for Greta’s dinner parties.
Gavin bowed his head, and the rest followed suit. Jenny glimpsed his face out of the corner of her eyes. His eyes were closed, and he drew in a breath before blessing the meal. Something in his demeanor and his voice struck a familiar chord with Jenny.
While Greta presented her captive audience with the plot for her next novel, Gavin nudged Jenny’s arm and whispered, “Do you think Greta talks in her sleep?”
Jenny choked on her wine, and grabbed her napkin, dabbing her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” He patted her back.
She looked up to see Ashley watching her.
“The thing I love about your writing, Greta, is that you give the rest of us women the hope that those somewhat tamable alpha males you feature are really out there.” Myra said.
Simon smiled at his wife. “And what if they are out there?”
Myra placed a hand on his forearm. “It gives the women who don’t have an already housebroken alpha male like you at home the hope of finding one, sweetheart.”
“Well, with all that sugar, I guess we can pass on dessert,” Greta said.
Ashley laughed. “Oh, no you don’t. I happen to know you have chocolate mousse pie from Stein’s. I’m not leaving here without a big slice.”
****
Like the queen she was, Greta ushered her guests back to the living room for drinks following dessert. Jenny walked to the window behind the piano and looked out over the harbor.
“It’s beautiful at night, isn’t it?”
She startled at the baritone voice in her ear.
Gavin grinned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“That’s okay. I’m a little jumpy. Probably all that sugar and caffeine.”
“Do you have family here in Boston?”
“No. I’m from Maine, near Camden. I used to live in Cambridge, but I’m staying in Maine most of the time now, and working from there. How about you?”
“A Southy—born and raised in South Boston. Irish mother, Italian father—hence, my name. Two brothers and two sisters, all older.”
“Ah, the baby of the family. Do you know Greta from the university?”
“Yes. I teach a class in world religions.”
>
“Interesting.”
He cocked his head. “When people use that word, it can mean a lot of things. What do you mean?”
“Religion. Do people really study that anymore?”
“I have a full class this semester—all under the age of twenty-five.”
She glanced out at the harbor. “That explains it. When they live a little longer, they’ll see the folly in religion.”
“Oh. I see. A lapsed Catholic?”
She stared up at him. “Something like that. Jaded may be a better term. Let’s just say I’ve learned the hard way that what is said and what is done are two very different things.”
He sat on the piano bench and motioned for her to sit down. “How does someone so young get this jaded?”
Jenny swirled her wineglass, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. “Life doesn’t give us exemption because of age.”
“Hmmm. What did life do to you?”
She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she would have to answer that question. Instead, she toyed with the black and white piano keys, barely making a sound. “Enough. It’s done enough.” She stood and grasped the necklace, praying for Ashley to look up.
Gavin stood with her. He glanced from Jenny to Ashley, then back to Jenny, grinning. “I don’t think she’s catching the signal. Why don’t we go over and I’ll announce my departure, then you can do the same?”
Warmth rushed into her cheeks. “Do you miss anything?”
“Oh, I miss a lot of things. Someday I’ll tell you about it. I’d love to continue this conversation. Would you have lunch with me tomorrow?”
“I don’t think—”
“Not a date, I assure you. I don’t meet people my age every day who can engage in a stimulating conversation about religion. I promise I won’t defend the church or whoever it was who angered you.”
“I’m not angry.”
He bit his bottom lip, showing the tips of perfect white teeth. He picked up the note pad that lay beside the telephone and scribbled down an address. “Meet me here tomorrow at twelve-forty-five. Lunch is on me. If you’re not there by one o’clock, I’ll know I said something that offended you.”
Before she could say another word, he turned and joined the others. “Greta, I’m afraid I have to be going. Simon, Myra, it was a pleasure, as always. Ashley, I hope we meet again.” He turned and stared at Jenny. “You, too, Jenny.”
Greta escorted him to the door, chatting the entire way.
Jenny clutched the necklace and glared at Ashley.
“I think we’ll have to be going, too,” Ashley said. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Greta.”
At the door, Greta kissed them each on both cheeks. She hugged Jenny and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re back. You take care of yourself.”
“I will. Thanks so much.”
Greta smiled. “You and Gavin seemed to have hit it off. Did you two solve all the world’s problem?”
“Not all. He seems to be very nice, and very bright. Well, thanks again.”
Jenny passed Ashley in the hall as they headed to the elevator.
“Jen, wait up. Jeez, are we in a race?”
“I just want to go home.”
“Does this have anything to do with Gavin?”
“He asked me to lunch tomorrow, to finish our conversation.”
“What were you talking about?”
“Religion.”
Ashley arched an eyebrow. “Oh.” The bronzed elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. “Are you going?”
“Of course not.” But what if she did? Maybe this was just the thing she needed right now. She had been apologizing for months, begging forgiveness for a crime everyone else claimed she hadn’t committed. How did she put all of this into perspective? The answer seemed to lie in her faith. No…in her religion. Not faith. She’d lost that a long time ago. And her religion—well, that was a distant memory, a set of rules that didn’t deliver what they promised. Maybe she needed to finish this discussion, if only to prove to herself that she was right.
Chapter Nine
As Jenny entered the Victorian house she had shared with Matt and Cooper, a wave of dizziness hit, and she clutched the doorframe. The armed security system blinked red. She positioned her finger over the keypad, hesitating as she recalled the code. The green light affirmed her selection of numbers. She breathed in, expecting the familiar scent of home. Instead, stale air filled her lungs.
Her footsteps rang hollow on the hardwood floors. Ashley had done more than gather her things. She had put Cooper’s belongings away. No jacket hung haphazardly on the coat tree. No Power Rangers littered the hallway. Anger flared briefly inside her at Ashley’s presumption to rid all evidence of her son. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard.
She moved through the living room to the den, trailing her fingers through the layer of dust on the polished cherry desk. Matt’s briefcase stood off to the side. His laptop sat, closed, in the center of the desk.
Jenny sat in the leather chair and placed her hands palm down on the laptop, expecting to feel his presence. She felt only the cold, hard surface of the machine. But that could be his presence. Things had grown cold and hard between them over the past year. She leaned forward, her cheek resting on the computer.
When she lifted her head, her fingers traced the moist pool of tears left on the shiny black surface. Sadness, not grief. She rose and headed to the kitchen. The barren refrigerator had been emptied. Canned goods still lined the pantry shelves. She pulled several plastic bags from one of the shelves and began to check the dates and stuff the cans inside. She would drop these at the food bank on Melrose Avenue on her way back to Ashley’s.
After placing the last of the canned food in the back of the SUV, she returned to the house. At the foot of the stairs, she stopped and stared upward. She closed her eyes and imagined the sounds of Cooper, racing down the stairs, calling to her that he was going outside.
Jenny placed an icy hand on the banister and lifted a weighted foot onto the first step. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. She turned into the first room on her right—the master bedroom. A pair of her jeans lay draped over a chair in the corner. A small silver tray atop the dresser held Matt’s diamond studded cufflinks, a tie clip, and a set of keys. A fine layer of dust clouded the surfaces of the furniture. She streaked a finger along the chest of drawers, leaving a wavering trail.
Swinging open the door to the walk-in closet, she breathed in the scent. Matt’s aftershave still hung in the air and on his suits. She picked up the empty arm of one of his suit jackets. Empty. When did our lives get so empty? She had loved him in the best way she could. It hadn’t been enough.
Her business suits and dress clothing occupied the opposite end of the closet. She should pack up Matt’s clothing and…and do what? Donate his twenty-five hundred dollar suits to a men’s homeless shelter?
Backing from the closet, she returned to the hall. The door to Cooper’s room stood closed, and a sign stating “enter at your own risk” in bright red print hung on the outside. She wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, and paused. He’s not going to be in there. You know that.
She opened the door slowly and remained in the doorway. Bright sun filled the room, and dust particles filtered through the light beams. His soccer uniform hung, freshly laundered, on the closet door. A poster of the World Cup team drooped above the bed. She searched the floor for the missing thumbtack and stretched to fasten it back into place. Sitting on the bed, she hugged a black and white soccer ball pillow to her chest.
An ache, so intense it stole her breath, clutched in her center. She hunched over the worn pillow, waiting for tears to come. When they did, she lay down and pulled her knees up to her chest. Once she had no more tears to shed, she rose and picked up a scrapbook from the computer desk. The front of it read: “Personal property of Cooper Barnes.” The letters were haphazard. She had written out the words and had him copy what she had printed.
Jenny sat cross-legged on the bed with the book across her knees. She swiped her hand over the front and opened the cover. The first page was a picture of Cooper in his soccer uniform. He had mostly stood on the sidelines, cheering for his team. But it hadn’t mattered to him that he didn’t play much. What was important to Cooper was that he wore the uniform and belonged to the team.
Her smile faded when she remembered how Matt had pushed Cooper to be assertive and insist the coach let him play. Cooper was only eight years old. The look on his face at the thought that he had disappointed his father had nearly crushed Jenny. She turned the pages. In the middle of the book, she came to several pages filled with photographs from their trips to Miley’s Cove. She studied each one, watching Cooper grow taller, more lean.
Closing the book, she set it aside with the soccer ball—the start of a collection she would take home with her. After checking the two guest rooms, she gathered up the things she wanted and returned to the den. The desk was locked. Matt was big on security. Where the hell did he keep the key?
A search of every possible hiding place in the den left her empty handed. She went to the garage and removed a screwdriver from Matt’s toolbox. On the third try, the center desk drawer slid open, wood splintering around the lock. She found the inside lock release that would open the rest of the drawers and flipped it up.
Files were neatly arranged and labeled: bank accounts, credit cards, medical, household, auto, insurance, and miscellaneous. She retrieved a canvas tote bag from the hall closet and placed the folders in the bag. At the bottom of the drawer lay a manila envelope. She lifted it up and read the front: To be opened in the event of my death.
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