She Loves Me Not

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She lunges abruptly for the receiver. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Still nothing.

  Her blood runs cold . . .

  And then she hears it.

  Piano music.

  Chords she remembers vaguely from her childhood; a duet she used to play with her father, back when he was still living at home, before Mommy got sick and he left.

  She tried to teach it to Sam on his parents’ piano when they first started dating, but gave up when he couldn’t learn the treble melody or the chords. She remembers his mother laughing about it, saying she recalled him telling her once that only sissies played the piano.

  “Who is this?” Rose’s voice wavers; she struggles to keep it low, not wanting to wake the children.

  No answer.

  Just the piano music.

  “Who is this?”

  Nothing.

  Rose slams the phone down, her heart pounding.

  She sinks onto the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them as if to somehow shield herself from the anonymous caller, whoever—and wherever—he is.

  The song was a stroke of genius. He is quite pleased with himself as he hangs up the phone, then presses the stop button and sets aside the tape recorder. Pure genius.

  After all, if he’s going to keep making these middle-of-the-night phone calls, he might as well let her know he means business, lest she assume he’s just a random wrong number.

  Now that he’s on a roll, maybe he should also call—

  No. Not yet.

  He should never even have crept out of the shadows to announce himself to her. She didn’t seem suspicious of him, but that’s beside the point. It isn’t her turn. Not until he’s finished with Rose.

  One at a time—that’s how he planned it.

  First Olivia—a.k.a. Staten Island Woman, he thinks, his lips curling into a smile.

  Then Rose.

  Then . . .

  Stop! Don’t even think about her. You’re supposed to be focusing on Rose, and only Rose.

  Too late for that now. It’s already begun again. He’s already complicated things.

  He clenches his fists in anger, pacing the room, squeezing his eyes shut whenever the stern voice in his head makes him cringe with remorse.

  What’s the matter with you? Have you no patience?

  Why did you have to jump into the next one already? You were supposed to wait until Rose was taken care of before moving on. Just like you did before. That was the plan. The plan was about control. The plan depends on control, dammit!

  Roiling in self-fury, he impulsively snatches a water-filled glass and lifts it, prepared to hurtle it against the wall.

  No! Stop! Get hold of yourself.

  Somebody will hear the glass breaking, think it’s a break-in, and call the police.

  He sets the glass gently on the table again and takes several deep breaths.

  Maybe he’s being too hard on himself.

  So he got a little too eager to meet his next challenge. So he slipped up. So what? He can’t undo that now.

  What he can do is take his time from here on in, savor the process, relish every moment.

  After all, when it’s over, she’ll be gone for good.

  And that’s what you wanted. You wanted to make her pay for what she did. You wanted to make sure she could never betray you again.

  She thought she was so clever. She thought she had you fooled. She still does. Won’t she be surprised to learn that you’ve had the upper hand all along?

  Grinning, he looks across the lamplit room at his bed, and then at the clock. Earlier, before he made the call, he felt fatigued. Now his body is fired with an adrenaline rush sparked by the sound of Rose Larrabee’s terrorized voice.

  He won’t sleep now—nor does he want to. He should begin getting ready for the big day ahead of him. And after it’s over, he’ll focus only on Rose once again. She deserves his full attention.

  He walks swiftly and quietly down the short hall to the bathroom, where he stands in front of the mirror and lathers his face with shaving cream. The eyes that stare back are naked, almost unfamiliar without the colored contact lenses to which he’s grown accustomed.

  Perhaps they aren’t necessary. Chances are, nobody would ever think to connect him to the Snow Angel or Staten Island Woman. Still, the slight disguise—colored contacts, a different hair color and style—helps to keep him in character. So does the wardrobe that fits his current identity perfectly, but is a far cry from anything he’d have worn in the old days, in his real life.

  And what is your real life going to be now?

  He finds himself wondering, as he sets aside the can of shaving cream and reaches for his razor, where he’ll go from here.

  After it’s over, all of it. After Angela is gone for good . . .

  Thoughtful, he raises the razor to his face.

  He originally thought the completion of this project would have to wait until next winter. But now that he’s impulsively taken the first step, there’s no real reason he can’t accelerate the plan a bit without sacrificing his enjoyment.

  Yes . . . and then what?

  Then he’ll have to start building a whole new life for himself. A life without—

  “Ow! Dammit!”

  He hurtles the razor across the room in fury.

  In the mirror, he glimpses the trickle of crimson now winding along the white foam on his cheek.

  Just like Angela’s blood in the snow.

  Just like Olivia’s blood in the snow.

  Just like Rose’s blood will look on the snow, any day now . . . just as soon as the weather cooperates.

  He dabs at the cut on his cheek, retrieves the razor, then gingerly finishes shaving his face, crooning a Christmas carol. Ironic, isn’t it? Angela once told him that it was her favorite.

  “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow . . .”

  Chapter Six

  Monday morning, Rose is awakened from a dead sleep by the piercing ring of the telephone.

  She impulsively fumbles for it on the bedside table, remembering only as she lifts the receiver what happened earlier, in the middle of the night.

  Braced for silence, or that eerily familiar piano music again, she clears her throat and manages a tentative, “Hello?”

  “Rose?”

  A strange male voice is on the other end of the line.

  She grips the receiver. “Yes?”

  “It’s Luke.”

  Luke? It takes her a moment to place the name. Then, realizing she’s speaking with her boss, she sits straight up in bed. Luke rarely calls her at home.

  “Oh . . . good morning.” She rubs the sleep from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early on a holiday . . .”

  Her eyes go automatically to the clock on the nightstand. Eight-twenty-six.

  “. . . but I’m in a bind. Bill says he has the flu”— Luke’s tone indicates he doesn’t believe it—“and I have to be out of town today so I can’t be at the store to cover for him. Would you mind opening this morning and staying until Emily gets there at two?”

  Emily is the college student who works three jobs to pay her tuition. Rose opens her mouth to protest.

  “I’ll pay you double-time and a half since it’s a holiday,” Luke adds hastily, as though he’s read her mind.

  Double-time and a half?

  “I don’t know, Luke. I promised my kids that I’d—”

  ‘Triple-time,” he interrupts, sounding as though he’s trying to quell his impatience, tempering his brusque offer with, “I know you aren’t required to work holidays, but I’m really in a bind, Rose.”

  Triple-time. She’ll be able to put that directly toward the alarm system.

  And in truth, she didn’t promise the kids anything special for today, other than yet another a game of Candyland.

  “All right,” she decides, “I’ll come in, as long as I ca
n get somebody to watch Jenna and Leo for the day.”

  “Terrific. Thanks, Rose.”

  After she hangs up, she hesitates, still grasping the phone. Normally, she’d call Leslie to take the kids. But is that fair? Her sister-in-law has been with them all weekend. She never seems to mind, but . . .

  What about Hitch?

  He’s always offering to help. And he mentioned, when he dropped off Leo on Saturday afternoon, that he’d be puttering around the rest of the weekend if she needed him.

  I need you, Hitch, she concludes, dialing his number.

  But the phone on the other end only rings. And rings. And then an answering machine picks up.

  “Hitch, it’s Rose. I was calling to see if—well, nevermind. You’re probably out for the day. Um, I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

  She presses the Talk button to disconnect the call. Belatedly, she thinks she should have left him Sam’s pager number. He probably doesn’t know she carries it with her. As far as she can recall, only Leslie and the kids’ schools have that number.

  But asking Hitch to page her when he gets the message won’t solve her babysitting problem. She has to get her butt to work, and she has to find somebody to take the kids now.

  It’ll have to be Leslie again, poor thing. No matter what she and Peter were going to do today, she’ll offer to change their plans. Rose wonders if Leslie’s fiancé is beginning to get sick of sharing her with a needy single mom and a pair of kids who are terrific, but, in high enough doses, would manage to drive a saint to a loony bin.

  And Peter seems to take his uncle role in stride, but you never know. Rose wouldn’t blame him if he would prefer to spend the day alone with his fiancé for a change.

  Who else is there, though?

  Christine?

  Her babysitting offer certainly seemed genuine. Even enthusiastic.

  Rose pads over to the bedroom window and parts the blinds to peek down into the driveway next door.

  Only Christine’s Volvo station wagon is parked in front of the detached garage. And though it’s a holiday, the Chevy Christine’s husband drives to the commuter train station on weekdays is gone.

  Well, she did say this is his busy season and that he’s been working constantly.

  But maybe he just ran out to get a newspaper and coffee or something. Chances are, if he’s going to be home, he won’t be thrilled to spend Presidents’ Day babysitting for a couple of kids he’s never met.

  With a sigh, Rose reluctantly begins dialing Leslie’s number after all.

  Isabel pulls the Mercedes out of the two-car garage of her two-story colonial and finds herself in a gray world covered in an inch or so of slushy wet snow—with more on the way, according to the weather forecast on the car radio.

  “Folks north and west of New York City are expecting a good six inches before dark,” the weather reporter says, sounding gleeful. Maybe he’s a skier.

  Isabel, who most certainly is not a skier, moans loudly as she steers carefully down the curved, slippery driveway, knowing it will be plowed and salted before she gets home. The man who does her landscaping in the summer clears her driveway in winter, but he doesn’t shovel.

  Six inches of snow means she’ll have to find somebody to come shovel the steps and walkway. She can’t do it herself anymore—at least, she’s not supposed to. Doctor’s orders.

  But sometimes doctor’s orders aren’t very practical. Especially for a woman who lives alone for nine months of the school year.

  Driving carefully along a slick stretch of winding, woodsy Route 22 on the way to her office, she turns up the radio to sing along with an old Jimmy Buffet song. Ostensibly chosen by the DJ to conjure images of summer on this blustery day, the tune reminds Isabel of last winter’s vacation to Key West with Rob.

  “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville . . .”

  Yup, that pretty much describes it. She smiles, remembering the long, lazy days in the sunshine sipping the frozen drinks, eating conch fritters and key lime pie. They had been dating almost a year by then.

  Isabel’s smile fades with the song’s last notes, as she recalls how Rob left shortly after their return. An investment banker, he was abruptly transferred to his firm’s London office. Of course, she couldn’t possibly have gone with him. She has two daughters to think about.

  And anyway, he didn’t ask.

  “It’s a good thing rush-hour traffic is nonexistent on this holiday Monday,” the DJ cuts into her thoughts, “because a tractor-trailer that jackknifed several hours ago across three lanes west of Hartford on Interstate 84 still has westbound traffic backed up for miles.”

  Uh-oh. Chances are, Mr. Gabriel is caught in the mess. She told him 84 was the most direct route down to Westchester from Boston.

  Well, she can catch up on paperwork while she waits for him. There’s always plenty to do.

  As Isabel turns onto Route 35, the tires hit an icy patch on the pavement.

  She feels them lose traction, feels the car sliding toward a towering oak tree at the edge of the road.

  Panic rises within her as she turns the wheel, fighting her instinctive urge to slam on the brake.

  At the last instant, with the tree looming closer, she regains control of the car and swerves to miss it.

  “You’re okay,” she whispers, shaken, pulling onto the shoulder.

  Well, of course she’s okay.

  Dr. Henry’s calm, reassuring voice echoes back to Isabel as she takes a deep breath and steers onto the highway again.

  Just remember that the odds for survival are with you, Isabel.

  Yes, but Dr. Henry wasn’t talking about the odds of surviving a car wreck.

  He was referring to the fact that more than half of those suffering from primary pulmonary hypertension make it to the three-year mark after surgery.

  “If you make it that far, Isabel, Dr. Henry promised, then there’s an excellent chance you’ll be around to dance at your daughters’ weddings.”

  But it hasn’t been three years yet, she reminds herself. She has ten more months to go until that milestone.

  She smiles, thinking about the best Christmas present she ever received—a pair of healthy lungs that came from a total stranger she’ll tragically never be able to thank.

  “Hey, what are you doing here today?” asks Camille, the receptionist, as Leslie steps into Fit ’N’ Fabulous. “It’s a holiday. No classes, no personal training sessions. Remember?”

  “I know, but I felt like I needed a workout.” Leslie unzips her parka and steps behind the counter to hang it in the closet beside Camille’s jacket.

  “Uh-oh—let me guess. Too many slices of cherry pie to celebrate George Washington’s birthday and now you need to work off the extra calories?”

  More like one big fight with Peter, and now she needs to work off the tension. But she isn’t about to tell Camille her personal business. Next thing she knows, it’ll be all over the gym.

  “Something like that.” She flashes the receptionist a cheerful smile and slings her gym bag over her shoulder once again.

  In the locker room, she trades her boots for a pair of sneakers, then sheds her sweatshirt and hangs it in a locker with her gym bag. A woman steps out of the shower room clad in only a towel, and rubbing another one over her wet hair.

  “Hey, Leslie, what are you doing in here?” Renee, a fellow trainer, asks before Leslie can duck out unseen.

  “Oh, I’m just working out, for a change.”

  Willowy, frosted-blonde Renee is by far Leslie’s least favorite person at Fit ’N’ Fabulous. She’s always bragging about her perfect husband and their three perfect children and their perfect house. Her husband is a successful bond trader so she doesn’t even have to work. She calls training her hobby and frequently giggles about how her paychecks pile up because she always forgets to cash them. Not exactly hilarious to someone like Leslie, who is doing her best to make ends meet and save up for her summer wedding.

  “I thought you sa
id on Friday that you and Peter were going to go look at cars today,” Renee comments. She naturally has a perfect memory to go along with her perfect everything else.

  “Yeah, we changed our minds.”

  In truth, Peter changed his mind.

  Rather, Peter forgot.

  Leslie wasn’t surprised when he rolled out of bed before dawn this morning and took a long shower. But when she staggered into the kitchen thinking it would be nice if she joined him for breakfast, she didn’t expect to find him dressed in his steel-toed work boots and pouring his coffee into a travel mug.

  “So what are you guys doing instead today?” Renee asks, opening a locker and pulling out her gym bag.

  Leslie averts her eyes, and not just because Renee has dropped her towel with no sense of modesty. She admits, “Peter’s working.”

  “Working? But it’s a holiday!”

  Apparently, not for Peter, who claims he had told her all along he wasn’t taking today off. “How can I take off, Les? I need this job. Arty’s one of the busiest contractors around, he pays better than anyone else. There are plenty of carpenters who’d be glad to take my place.”

  “What about Rose and her shelves?”

  “I’ll finish them as soon as I can,” he growled. “She’s not pushing me . . . why are you?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Renee says, pulling on her black lace bra. “He’s a construction worker. I guess they don’t get paid holidays.”

  “He’s actually a carpenter, and he’s in the middle of an important job over in Bellport.”

  Or so he says.

  “You must be so disappointed.” Shaking her head in sympathy as she steps into her matching panties, Renee is acting as though Peter’s just left Leslie standing at the altar.

  “Actually, it’s no big deal at all.” Leslie can’t believe she’s defending him when just a few hours ago they were at each other’s throats.

  “Really? If you don’t have plans for today, why don’t you come home with me? I’ve been wanting to show you my new granite countertops. They’re much brighter than the old ones.” The ones she had ripped out a few months after they were installed, because she didn’t love the color—which she, of course, had spent months picking out.