Too Close

by Hilary Norman

  Until the day before yesterday, when Nina had strolled with her into the rose garden, and had brought the real world – still her world, after all – crashing alarmingly back into her life.

  Her fall from those steps on Catherine Street had been no accident, Nina had told her.

  It ought, it seemed, to have happened to Nina, not to her.

  Because someone had wanted Nina to suffer this way, perhaps even to die, as she might have died, had she not survived brain surgery.

  The same someone who had done all they could to make the San Francisco police believe that Nick – Nick, of all people – had done this to her. The same someone who had told the police that Nick was hiding heroin in his house – heroin, for God’s sake. The same someone who had sent the police photographs incriminating him in a child abuse case.

  Nina had blown a hole ten miles wide in her peaceful, voiceless, aphonic world, and since that last visit, Phoebe had been transformed. Until then, it had seemed to her that there was perhaps nothing much that she desperately wanted, or needed, to say. Her family knew she loved them; she hadn’t needed a voice to tell them that. And what else was there?

  ‘We need you to tell the police that Nick had no motive to want to harm you,’ Nina had told her, out there in that beautiful desert oasis of Boule de Neige and Maiden’s Blush roses. ‘They have it in their heads that you might have found out something about his being connected with drugs or child abuse.’

  Child abuse! Phoebe hadn’t just wanted to talk then – she had wanted to scream – and not just at the police. She had looked into her sister’s eyes, seen the deep unhappiness in them, and although Nina hadn’t told her any more – Lord knew that was probably enough, after all, for a first sitting – Phoebe had known that there was much more to tell.

  Suddenly, there were a hundred questions she was burning to ask. Surely Nina didn’t – couldn’t – believe that there was anything – anything – to those crazy, monstrous accusations? And what about their father? What about William, and the way she’d noticed – Phoebe supposed now that maybe she had noticed more than she’d let herself admit – the change in his expression whenever Nick had been around?

  Oh, God, she had to start talking now.

  Whatever it took, however much effort or pain, she didn’t care. It was time to get back, to her family, to the real world.

  It was time to speak.

  Chapter Seventy-four

  On the Friday morning before Thanksgiving, sitting in his room in the old New Orleans-style Art Center, surrounded by trial sketches he’d been struggling with for a Good Housekeeping commission, Nick made a call to the Personal Crimes Division of the San Francisco Police Department, and found Helen Wilson at her desk.

  ‘How are you, Mr Miller?’ Affable, for her.

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Wilson commented.

  ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Holly Bourne. We haven’t talked for weeks. I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have been glad of that,’ Wilson said, in her dry way. ‘Not talking to us, I mean.’

  Nick wasn’t going to let Wilson sidetrack him. He had almost managed to convince himself that he had ceased being the cops’ prime suspect when he’d brought them the LAPD-confirmed news about Holly at the Mistral Inn. He was damned if he was going let Wilson sour-talk him into reverting to that role.

  ‘You haven’t found her then?’ he said.

  ‘We haven’t yet had a conversation with Ms Bourne, no.’

  ‘But you are still looking for her?’ Nick gave her no more than a second. ‘She’s dangerous, Inspector,’ he reminded her urgently. ‘You have to find her.’

  ‘And we hope to,’ Wilson said, calmly, ‘since we clearly can’t eliminate her from our enquiries until we’ve spoken to her.’ She paused. ‘Though it might be worth remembering we still don’t have a shred of evidence that she is – as you claim – actually dangerous.’

  ‘You didn’t have any evidence against me either when you pulled me in for questioning.’

  ‘We had just cause to question you, Mr Miller.’

  ‘Because Holly Bourne called you and lied about seeing me on Catherine Street.’ Nick hadn’t intended getting angry, but Helen Wilson always made it impossible not to. ‘She didn’t even give you her name, and you call that ‘just cause’, but when I come to you and tell you that Holly broke into my hotel room, that doesn’t count as evidence.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Wilson pointed out, ‘there’s no one else to confirm that she was in your room.’

  ‘There was no one else to confirm that I was on Catherine Street.’

  ‘But you were close to Phoebe Ford,’ Wilson said, ‘which made it our duty to talk to you.’

  Nick made himself count to five.

  ‘Are you looking for Holly Bourne as a suspect or not, Inspector?’

  ‘You know I’m not going to answer that, Mr Miller.’ Wilson paused again. ‘But if you or your private investigators come up with anything new on the lady, I’m sure you won’t hesitate to pass it on to us.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t,’ Nick said.

  Chapter Seventy-five

  You could just never tell when things were going to turn around.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’ Nina asked Nick on the phone that evening, just a few hours after his comfortless talk with Wilson.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Spend Thanksgiving with us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Your wife and daughter.’ Nina paused. ‘Dad’s staying in Arizona. Even Teresa’s going to be out at a cousin’s, so it’ll be just the three of us.’

  Nick took a moment.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said, softly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Want to see Zoë tomorrow?’

  ‘Does San Francisco have hills?’

  ‘I may not be around – I have some errands to run. But I’ll tell Teresa to expect you. Morning or afternoon?’

  ‘Afternoon, if that’s okay.’ Nick paused. ‘And I could use a little time in the studio, if that isn’t a problem.’

  ‘No problem,’ Nina said.

  Chapter Seventy-six

  I put down the phone and lie back on my hotel bed.

  Thanksgiving.

  Just the three of us. Alone all day.

  She sounded so happy when I said yes.

  Did she honestly think there was the slightest chance I was going to refuse?

  It’s dark in my room, and quiet. Until now, each night when I’ve gone to sleep in this perfectly pleasant place, I’ve felt my loneliness more keenly than I can easily describe. Even on those nights after Nina and I have spent a few hours together, drawing closer. Especially on those nights, when I’m so intensely aware of how crazy it is that we’re both going to our respective beds alone.

  Nina, at least, has Zoë to turn to on those nights. I’ve had nothing but the knowledge of my own folly.

  I feel differently tonight.

  I have a strong sense that Thanksgiving may be the day we end this madness. My madness.

  Nothing has really changed, of course.

  Nothing has gotten any better on the Holly front.

  But I am beginning to accept that there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m beginning to see that Nina is probably – almost certainly – right. That returning to my family and using our united strength to shut Holly out, is the only real defence we truly have.

  How much longer can I possibly allow myself to go on letting one insane person destroy my happiness with my own family?

  There must be a limit, even to my foolishness.

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Working for the Millers was really not the kind of job Teresa had hoped it would be. Too much tension all the time. Too much responsibility. The husband and wife, seemingly i
n love but living apart, their baby daughter coming last instead of first.

  It could not happen in the Vasquez family. Not in any good Catholic family. It was not right. She knew that Barbara Rowe – whom she had not seen since Mrs Miller had returned from her last trip to Arizona – felt the same way, even though she, too, was separated from her own husband, the father of her unborn child. Still, the Rowes were a different case, with the husband such a cruel man. A woman was entitled to protect herself and her baby from that kind of man.

  She was walking into a drugstore on Van Ness Avenue on Saturday morning to buy deodorant and shampoo when she thought she saw Barbara Rowe at the check-out counter. She was wearing a raincoat with its collar turned up, and a smart hat, its brim low over her forehead, so that Teresa had to look closely before she was certain it was her.

  Barbara Rowe was paying for tampons.

  She sensed Teresa’s stare, and glanced up.

  The expression on her face was cold enough to freeze blood.

  ‘How are you?’ Teresa asked her, a little shaken by the look.

  ‘Fine, thank you. And you?’

  ‘I’m well.’ Teresa hesitated. ‘Is everything all right with you?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  The frost was unmistakable.

  Barbara Rowe turned her back and walked away.

  Holly rang the Millers’ doorbell on Monday morning, fifteen minutes after watching Nina leave the house carrying an attaché case, presumably to go to Ford Realty.

  Vasquez answered, the baby in her left arm.

  ‘Mrs Rowe.’

  Holly stood on the doormat, a small package in her hands.

  ‘Peace offering,’ she said, with her warmest smile.

  ‘Come in.’ Vasquez stepped back. She looked uncertain.

  ‘No one else home, I take it?’ Holly asked, going inside.

  ‘No one.’

  Holly handed Vasquez the gold-wrapped package of Godiva chocolates. No expense spared in the interests of diplomacy.

  ‘You liked these last time you came to my house.’ She smiled at Zoë. ‘And how is this little beauty?’

  ‘She is well.’ Vasquez looked at the chocolates. ‘You should not give me so many gifts.’ She didn’t invite Holly any further than the entrance hall. Saturday’s snub had been too conspicuous.

  ‘This one’s an apology.’ Holly put out her hand and stroked the baby’s hair. Its softness sent a tiny shiver through her. ‘For being awful to you the other morning at the drugstore.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ The nanny’s tone belied her words.

  ‘You see,’ Holly said, lowering her voice though they were alone in the house, ‘I had just had a small scare with my pregnancy.’ She paused. ‘A little bleeding.’

  Vasquez’s right hand flew to her mouth.‘Válgame Dios!’

  ‘It’s fine now,’ Holly reassured her.

  ‘You’re sure? The doctors have told you the baby is okay?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘I am so glad for you,’ Vasquez said from the heart.

  ‘So you understand now why I might have seemed a little strained when you saw me?’

  ‘Of course I understand.’ Vasquez paused. ‘Do you have time now, for some tea? Mr Miller is not coming until the afternoon.’

  Holly felt a pulse beating in her left temple. ‘To see Zoë?’

  ‘Same as every day.’ Vasquez shrugged. ‘He loves her very much, and if you ask me, he still loves his wife, too. It’s all crazy, I think.’

  Holly had an intense urge to slap Vasquez’s face.

  Instead, she smiled at her.

  ‘You’re very romantic, Teresa,’ she said.

  And went back next door.

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Thanksgiving Day was all they had hoped and prayed it would be.

  Just the three of them.

  They worked together in the kitchen. Nina had intended to do all the preparations and cooking by herself, but then she had seen that that would only be perpetuating Nick as a ‘visitor’, so she changed her mind and told him to come early enough to lend a hand.

  Clare Hawkins, who knew about the separation and the fact that they were sharing the festivities, telephoned at around ten in the morning to wish them the happiest day imaginable; and then Nina called William, who was spending a communal Thanksgiving with Phoebe and other patients and relatives at the Waterson, and William passed the phone to Phoebe so that Nina could tell her sister how much she loved her.

  ‘Tell Phoebe I love her too,’ Nick said, as William came back on the line.

  ‘Did you hear that, Dad?’ Nina said, with great firmness and clarity. ‘Nick wants you to tell Phoebe that he loves her.’

  ‘I heard,’ William said.

  ‘Tell her, Dad.’

  ‘I will,’ William said.

  ‘Tell her now,’ Nina persisted, ‘so I can hear you.’

  She heard him.

  ‘Thank you, Dad,’ she said. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Be careful, my darling,’ William said, and hung up.

  They used the dining room, laid a handsome table, lit candles, ate off their best porcelain from Gump’s, used the silver cutlery, and placed Zoë’s little infant seat where they could all watch each other. They ate pumpkin soup, turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, red cabbage and Brussels sprouts, and for dessert they abandoned tradition and ate warm pecan pie with Nina’s home-made vanilla ice cream; and they both drank Calistoga water (every last drop of social liquor in the house having been thrown out, guests notwithstanding) right through to coffee, and they both felt as warmed as if they’d had the finest claret.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Nina asked at around five o’clock, after they’d washed up and cleared away and played with the baby for a while in the living room.

  ‘Zoë’s going to need feeding,’ Nick said, softly.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Nina agreed. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then she’ll need bathing.’

  ‘Agreed. Then what?’

  ‘Then she’ll get real sleepy and need putting to bed.’

  ‘That takes care of our daughter’s needs,’ Nina said. ‘What about ours?’

  Nick looked at her. ‘You’ll probably need a back rub.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘I could take care of that,’ he said, ‘if you’ll let me.’

  She looked back at him, right into his eyes.

  ‘I’ll let you,’ she said.

  They were both silent for several moments.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Nina said. ‘We both know this is crazy.’

  Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘I know that no one’s found Holly yet, and I know you said you think you shouldn’t come home until she’s been found,’ Nina went on, steadily, though tears were pricking. ‘But I think we’ve both come to realize that we’re probably never going to need each other more than we do right now.’

  Still Nick said nothing.

  ‘Help me out here, Nick,’ Nina said. ‘Please.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You love me, don’t you?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘You still want to come home, don’t you?’

  ‘More than life.’

  ‘So do it,’ she said, simply, and went straight on. ‘And don’t ask me what happens if someone calls you tomorrow to say they’ve found Holly. Or what happens if she comes to San Francisco and walks the Tenderloin all night until someone rapes her and then she calls up Inspector Wilson and claims it was you?’ She took a breath. ‘What if the next big quake hits tomorrow, Nick? What if—’

  ‘All right,’ Nick said. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘What I want to know is, what happens tonight after we put Zoë to bed and there are no more chores to be done?’

  ‘We go to bed,’ Nick said.

  ‘And in the morning?’

  ‘I’ll go to the Art Center and pay my bill and get my stuff.’
/>   ‘And come home,’ Nina said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Nick said.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  We made love tonight. I won’t say it felt like a first time, or even that it was remarkable lovemaking. It’s always been wonderful with Nina, from the first. What made it perfect – for me at least – tonight, was simply that it felt so normal. Our bodies, fusing together in our bed, warmth into warmth, breathing life and joy into each other. I think we have both been very cold since we parted.

  Nina’s sleeping now. We always start out snuggled up, her head on my chest or my shoulder, or like spoons, my arms wrapping her to me, but sleep itself often separates us a little, one or other rolling away to a more private space, only a stray hand or entwined foot maintaining the link, keeping us joined. Nina usually sleeps on her side, her face often obscured from me by her hair. Tonight she’s on her back, her right arm thrown back at an angle above her head on the pillow, her left arm resting on my chest.

  I don’t dare move in case I wake her.

  I don’t want to move.

  Her skin is pale and smooth, her lips slightly parted. A few long honey hairs have escaped from those brushed back from her face, and they stroke her left eyelid and cheek. As she exhales, softly, regularly, the hairs ruffle then settle again, ruffle and settle . . .

  I lie still and watch my wife.

  The mother of my child. Our child.

  Her breasts are hidden beneath the covers. They were so warm and so responsive when I touched them before, when I kissed them. My wife is a passionate woman.

  I am the luckiest man alive tonight.

  Holly Bourne slips into my mind for a moment, skulking in by some back door, and in my mind I take both hands and push her out again.

  She has no place here tonight.

  Nor any other time.