“Oh . . . no, thank you.” Taken aback by his invitation—one that was worded more like an order—Rose does her best to sound casual. “I’m kind of anxious to get home and hug my kids again.”
“I can imagine. Well, another time, then.”
She forces a smile. “Sure.”
Another time?
Does Luke want to date her?
First Hitch, and now Luke. It’s too much. Too much, too soon after Sam.
“I’m going to go back to talk to Emily before I leave,” he says. “Have a nice afternoon with your kids, Rose. And drive home carefully. Weather like this can be deadly when you’re out . . .”
He trails off.
She looks down at the scuffed toes of her boots. “I’ll be careful.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rose. I forgot . . . about your husband.”
“It’s okay. He didn’t die on an icy road.”
“I know, but . . .” He shrugs, looking helpless.
He knows?
“It’s okay. “She wonders who told him about Sam. Netta? Bill? Someone sitting on the next stool at the counter in the diner?
“I just didn’t mean to remind you of anything sad.”
“I know.” She wants to tell him that there are reminders every moment of every day. That nothing he says can possibly make it any harder for her.
But she only says, “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” before hurrying out into the rain.
“Ben Kirkmayer.”
“You’re there!” Christine is surprised to hear his voice on the other end of the telephone.
“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”
“I tried to call you earlier, a few times. I kept getting your voice mail.”
“I was working down the hall in the conference room. Why didn’t you leave me a message?”
“It wasn’t important.”
“Oh. Well . . . how are things going? Did you alphabetize the CDs like you were going to?”
“No, I . . . I didn’t have time.”
No, she only had time to cry. And brood. And wonder how she’s managed to create a lifelong enemy out of their next-door neighbor less than twenty-four hours after befriending her.
“Is it snowing out there?” Ben asks. She hears paper rustling on his end.
Christine glances out the kitchen window at the soggy, dismal dusk. “No. Just raining. Why? Is it snowing in the city?”
“It was. Not anymore. Listen, I’ve got a lot to do before I can get out of here, so . . .”
“I’ll let you go,” she says, because she knows he expects it, not because she wants to.
“Okay. I’ll call and let you know what train I’m taking. They’re running on a holiday schedule, so . . .”
“Ben?”
“Yeah?” He sounds distracted. She hears the tapping of a keyboard.
“I got my period.”
Silence.
Then, “Oh. That’s too bad, babe.” He says it in the same tone he’d use if she told him she just poured a bowl of Cheerios, then realized they’re out of milk. He adds, “Maybe next month.”
“Maybe.”
Silence again.
Then the keyboard resumes its tapping.
“Bye, Ben.” Christine hangs up and stares bleakly into space.
Caught up in Love Story, munching microwave popcorn, Isabel is dismayed when the phone rings.
Granted, she’s seen Ally McGraw’s lingering death scene so many times she can recite the lines by heart. Still, she resents the interruption of what has thus far been a relaxing evening spent curled up beneath the ugly but warm afghan Cassandra made years ago when Ted’s mother taught her how to crochet.
At the second ring, Isabel reaches absently for the cordless phone on the table beside the couch. Screening the call doesn’t even enter her mind. In her line of work, you pick up the phone whenever and wherever it rings.
“Hello?” Her eyes are on Ryan O’Neal, wearing an awful seventies brown plaid blazer and trying to stave off grief for his beloved Jenny, who looks astonishingly robust for somebody who is moments away from death.
“Is this Isabel?”
The instant she hears the voice, she knows who it is. In a rush, everything that happened earlier today comes back to her, and Love Story is forgotten.
“Yes, this is Isabel.” She wedges the receiver between her shoulder and ear and reaches a trembling hand toward the television remote to press Mute.
“This is Mr. Gabriel. I don’t suppose you happened to notice whether I left my bag in your back seat earlier?”
“I . . . No, I didn’t notice.”
The moment the words are out of her mouth, she regrets them.
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.
He knows. He knows I’m lying.
But if he does, he refuses to let on, merely saying, “I’m sure I left it there. If you wouldn’t mind keeping it for me, I’ll come back to town to get it in a day or two . . .”
“I can leave it at the office for you, in case I’m not—”
“ . . . and I’d like to bring my wife along and take a look at one of those houses again.”
“You would?” Startled, she tries to recall whether he showed more than a passing interest in any of the properties she showed him earlier. “Which house is it?”
“The contemporary with the large wooded lot.”
“Twenty-seven Gilder Road?” Of all the houses they saw, that one was by far the least likely to attract a buyer. Then again, it’s twice reduced and one of the more affordable listings; it’s also vacant so that a new resident can move in right away.
“That’s a wonderful home, Mr. Gabriel,” Isabel says with false enthusiasm. “And I think the owner is ready to accept a reasonable offer. When would you and your wife like to see it?”
“Would tomorrow afternoon be too soon?”
“Not at all.”
“Wonderful. We’ll take the shuttle down from Logan and rent a car. We can meet you in the office at three so that we can drive right over before it gets dark. I want my wife to see the grounds. She’s an avid gardener and when I showed her the listing and all the details about the perennial flowerbeds she was excited.”
Isabel opens her mouth to remind him that the property will still be snow-covered tomorrow, but he’s already saying briskly, “So we’ll see you then?”
“Yes, I’ll see you then.”
Only when she hears a click, followed by the dial tone, does it occur to Isabel that she still doesn’t have his correct phone number. Damn. She should have asked him for it before he hung up.
Perhaps, she thinks, the wrong number was inadvertent.
That doesn’t explain the duct tape.
But maybe there’s a logical explanation for that, too. She had no business snooping through his bag—and she has no business suspecting him of anything more than wanting to buy a house.
Selling 27 Gilder Road would be a coup, considering how long it’s been on the market and how many agents have unsuccessfully shown the property. She could certainly use the sale as additional leverage to land the Jason Hollander listing. That particular property is going to sell itself, probably in a matter of days, and the commission will enable her to give Andrea a spectacular graduation gift in May. A car, or a month abroad . . .
Feeling better already, Isabel picks up the remote and turns up the television volume again.
For the first time ever, as she watches the tear-jerker wind to a close, her eyes are dry. They’re focused on the screen, but her thoughts are on Mr. Gabriel.
She still thinks he’s odd, to say the least. Yet she can’t help being reassured by the knowledge that he’s bringing his wife along tomorrow, and they’re meeting at the office.
If Isabel feels the least bit uncertain about the situation, she’ll simply come up with some excuse to back out.
And lose the opportunity to sell 27 Gilder Road?
That’s not going to
happen, she reassures herself. Everything will be fine, so stop dwelling on it.
She turns up the television volume another notch, just in time to hear the dying Jenny Cavilleri say, “It doesn’t hurt, Ollie, really . . . it’s like falling off a cliff in slow motion.”
The words never fail to send a chill through her—now, more than ever.
Was death like that for the woman who was struck down in that Christmas Eve hit-and-run?
If it weren’t for that stranger’s tragic fate, Isabel would undoubtedly have already discovered whether Jenny’s eloquent description rang true.
A familiar wave of guilt washes over her. Survivor’s guilt.
She was meant to die, because I was meant to live.
Isabel has to believe that. It’s the only way she can come to terms with what happened.
With a shudder, she wraps the afghan more closely around her shoulders.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
How could he have left his bag in the back of her car?
She was lying when she said she didn’t open it. He’s certain of that. Does she think he’s gullible enough to believe her?
Well, what did you expect from her?
She’s always been a liar. You knew that.
She said she wanted to be with you forever, that she didn’t love him. That you were the one she loved. The only one.
She said she would spend Christmas with you.
Then, when she told you that she couldn’t she said it was because her mother was sick.
Did she think you weren’t aware that she didn’t give a shit about her mother? That you weren’t aware that she hadn’t visited her mother since the wedding? That you didn’t know she only wanted to forget every part of her life as Angela Marie Patino from South Jersey?
A sick mother.
He shakes his head.
Even her excuse was a cliché.
He still remembers how badly he wanted to believe it, though. So badly that he tailed her around the city for hours on that blustery Christmas Eve, in and out of shops and department stores. A few things she bought would have been suitable for a sick mother—or so he wanted to believe. Just as he wanted to believe a limousine would arrive to take her out to Jersey to visit her mother.
It wasn’t easy, keeping her in sight that busy afternoon. Snow was falling over Manhattan—snow on Christmas Eve, for the first time in decades. It seemed that the entire population of the metropolitan area was out in it.
The merry crowds clogging the sidewalks and the department store aisles made it somewhat difficult to keep Angela in sight, but it was all the easier for him to find camouflage in the throng. He had on jeans and a big hooded parka—slumming it, Angela would have called it. She always got a kick out of dressing down when they were together.
“Look at us! Nobody would ever guess that we’re multi-millionaires,” she would say gleefully.
It used to amuse him, how readily she counted herself among the elite, when her own status was earned merely by virtue of marriage, while his was . . .
All right, it wasn’t exactly earned. But . . .
“But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it,” Angela told him once. “I like to think that we all get what we deserve.”
Her way of justifying her own gold-digging past, no doubt.
It infuriated yet fascinated him, watching her drop thousands of Brookman dollars on lavish gifts that Christmas Eve. Gradually, his hopes began to rise, as he watched her pick out an extravagant men’s cashmere sweater and an imported Italian silk tie that would be just right with his newest custom-made suit.
Could she possibly be shopping for him?
Had she changed her mind about not spending Christmas together?
Was she planning to surprise him with piles of presents?
If she was, he would give her the one he bought for her. The custom-designed heart-shaped, diamond-encrusted gold pendant engraved with her name. When she told him she wouldn’t spend Christmas with him, his first thought was that he should walk over to the river and throw it in. Something had stopped him from doing that, and now he’s glad.
Angela’s last stop, as the snowy December sky turned dark, was Tiffany’s.
He feared he might run into somebody he knew among the last-minute shoppers, or that an acquaintance would call out his name, and Angela might hear it.
Luck was with him, and he went unrecognized.
He stood behind a tall vase filled with Christmas greens as she spoke with a clerk, who assured her that her special purchase was ready for her, just as promised.
“Thank you for putting a rush on it,” he heard Angela say. “Next year I’ll get my holiday shopping started earlier.”
“I’ll show you the engraving so that you can check the spelling, Mrs. Brookman,” the clerk said, and added with a laugh, “Although if it’s wrong now, you’ll have to rely on Santa Claus to leave something under the tree for your husband.”
He boldly peered from behind the boxwood boughs to see Angela holding up an expensive gold watch. She was only a few feet away—too far for him to see what was engraved on the back of it.
But he heard her clearly reading the letters aloud, spelling out a name that wasn’t his own.
That was when he knew what he had to do. He didn’t know how he would go about it, or even when, other than that it had to be soon. If he couldn’t have her, nobody would.
He followed her when she left the store, clutching her light blue shopping bag with the pile of others in her gloved hand.
He watched her pause to tuck a folded bill into a charity Santa’s hand, and throw several dollars into a supposedly blind beggar’s cup.
She must have been in a good mood. Usually, she had disdain for street people, as she did for anyone she considered beneath her. For all her high-profile charity work, Angela had little interest in helping anyone other than herself.
Swamped in rage, he stalked her at a distance as she made her way uptown and east, heading toward home from the crowded sidewalks of Fifth and Madison. The storm was growing worse, and people were retreating to the cozy comfort of their homes and churches this Christmas Eve dusk.
In the east sixties, Angela turned up a quiet side street dotted with brownstones and luxury apartment buildings. The block was all but deserted.
He followed her, wondering how he could do it and make it look like an accident, just as he had with his father . . .
A random mugging turned violent, perhaps? But if he attacked her on the street she would start screaming. Knowing Angela, she would put up a tremendous fight to protect her precious jewelry and cash.
Maybe it won’t be tonight, he decided—just as he spotted a yellow cab pulling up in front of the awning in front of an upscale high-rise up ahead. A uniformed doorman came out to greet the fur-coat-draped female passenger as the cabbie opened the trunk. It took both men to unload the piles of paper shopping bags and parcels. The cabbie seemed reluctant to help carry them inside, but changed his mind the moment the woman flashed him a large tip. He left the motor running.
In the split second it took for the doorman, the cabbie, and the woman to step through the glass entrance to the building, he slipped behind the wheel of the running cab.
Shifting it into Drive, he pulled the car forward, barreling toward the sidewalk, and Angela.
Her body made a dull thud as she was struck by the bumper. She flew up into the air and landed on the snowy curb, deathly still.
It took only a moment for him to put the cab into reverse and back it up the few yards to where it had originally been parked.
He left the motor running and the door open.
The cabbie would be none the wiser.
He strode down the quiet street, fighting the urge to stop when he reached Angela.
He glanced at her as he passed by. She lay facedown in the snow, red blood pooling in the white drift beneath a crack in her skull. He smiled when he realized that it reminded hi
m of the raspberry snow cone he bought her at Coney Island last summer, long before she betrayed him.
His only regret was that she never knew what hit her.
He glimpsed the cabbie getting into his taxi and driving off, oblivious to the dent on the fender or the broken body lying in the shadow of several garbage cans.
His heart light and his steps jaunty, he walked around the corner, leaving her there to die without a backward glance.
By the time a passing businesswoman discovered her and called an ambulance, he was several blocks away. He smiled when he saw the sirens racing down slippery Second Avenue, sensing where they were going, and that they were too late.
You liked to think we all get what we deserve, Angela, he reminded her silently as he continued toward home through the falling snow. And you certainly did.
Hearing keys in the door, Leslie looks up from the issue of Self magazine she’s been trying to read for the last hour. She spent most of that time wondering if Peter is going to show up here after work. Now that she has her answer, she wonders whether he’s going to pretend this morning’s fight never happened.
The door opens.
She remains on the couch. Be casual. As though it never occurred to you that he might go home tonight instead of coming here.
“Hi, babe. Man, it’s crummy out there.” He wipes his boots on the mat inside the door, then drapes his wet coat over a hanger.
“Don’t put that back into the closet,” Leslie tells him, seeing that he’s about to. “If it’s wet, just hang it on the doorknob.”
He does, then comes over and plants a kiss on the top of her head. He smells of rain and cigarettes.
“What’d you do today?” he asks, sitting beside her and reaching down to unlace his boots.
“Worked out. Went to Rose’s. Stopped at my parents’ house to check the pipes.” She decides not to tell him about her temporarily missing niece and nephew. While the drama was unfolding it seemed important that she share it with him. She tried a few times to reach him on his cell phone and hung up on his voice mail.
Now that it’s all over and the kids are safely home, she isn’t in the mood to tell Peter. At least, not at the moment. She’d rather resolve this morning’s argument so that she can put aside her nagging doubts about marrying him.
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