She Loves Me Not

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  There is no one on earth who loved Angela the way he did.

  No one, he thinks fiercely, pushing aside the nagging memory of his wife’s anonymous lover as he follows Ralph McGlinchie into the house.

  “I guess I should go. Peter’s probably wondering where I am,” Leslie says reluctantly, setting down her mug, drained of the herbal tea Rose brewed for both of them after a dinner of take-out pizza, Leslie’s treat. Rose, she knows, is flat broke.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to borrow some money?” she asks Rose, pushing back her chair and looking around for her purse.

  “No, Les, it’s okay. But thanks anyway. You’re sweet. Like I said, my boss is supposed to come over to bring me my paycheck, and I’ll deposit it first thing in the morning. It’ll be fine.” Rose smiles, but her eyes are worried and rimmed by dark circles, as though she hasn’t slept in a week.

  “Do you want me to wait until he shows up, just to be sure?” Leslie offers, as they hear a clattering sound from the other room.

  Leo’s block tower toppling over again. He’s trying to build it taller than he is, as Jenna coaches him from the coffee table, where she’s coloring with markers. They’re actually getting along this evening, for a change.

  “No, you should go home before it gets late,” Rose tells her. “I’m sure he’ll be here. And if worse comes to worst and he forgets, I’ll just get the check in the morning when the store opens and he’ll have to let me go back out to the bank then. Anyway, you’ve already done enough today, Les.”

  “I just wish we’d found Cupid. I can’t believe that even if he ran away, he wouldn’t find his way back.”

  “Maybe he still will. That’s what I keep telling the kids.” Rose closes her eyes and rubs her temples, as though her head is aching.

  “Why don’t you let me stay and get them into bed while you go take a long hot bath or something?” Leslie suggests. “I can answer the door if your boss shows up.”

  Rose smiles. “Go home, Leslie. You have Peter there waiting for you, and you told him you’d leave right after we ate. That was two hours ago.”

  “Yeah, but notice he’s not so worried he’s calling to see if I’ve left yet,” Leslie says wryly. “He’s probably snoozing in my living room in front of some game, oblivious. Then when I get there and try to get him to come to bed with me, he’ll say he’s not tired and he’ll stay up on the couch with the lights and TV on till all hours.”

  “Welcome to being somebody’s wife, Les,” Rose says with a grin, carrying both their mugs to the sink and turning on the water. “Sam used to do that all the time. It’s a guy thing, just like dropping clothes on the floor in front of the hamper, and—”

  She breaks off with a startled cry, her gaze focused on the window above the sink.

  Leslie rushes over to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I . . . I thought I saw something, but . . .”

  “Outside?”

  Rose nods.

  It’s difficult to see out with the kitchen light casting a glare on the glass. Leslie hurriedly reaches for the nearby wall switch and flicks off the overhead fixture.

  Now the yard is more visible, albeit dark. There’s no moon tonight.

  “Maybe it was Cupid,” Leslie suggests, going toward the door. “I’ll go see if he’s out there.”

  Rose trails her to the door. “Be careful, Les.”

  “Cupid?” she calls as she steps outside, her breath frosty in the crisp night air. “Cupid, puppy, are you out here?”

  No answer.

  Nothing.

  Leslie walks out into the yard, gazing at the dark, silent clumps of shrubs that border the property.

  “Cupid?”

  Her voice is slightly hoarse after an entire afternoon spent doing just this. She listens carefully for scampering in the bushes, or any sign that the puppy is lurking close by. There is nothing.

  Leslie stands there for a few minutes, watching, listening.

  She can’t help but think about Sam. Her brother died a few yards from where she’s standing, in the side yard, beneath the electric cables stretching to the street.

  She shudders.

  Convinced the yard is empty, she gives up and retreats to the house, where her sister-in-law is waiting anxiously in the back doorway.

  “What did you think you saw?” she asks Rose as she closes and locks the door behind her. “Because there’s definitely nothing there.” Unless the bogeyman is hiding in the bushes, she almost adds, but catches her tongue. She doesn’t even want to joke around about something like that. Rose is stressed out enough.

  “I don’t know . . . I thought I saw someone standing out there, looking in at me.” Rose presses a hand against her chest. “It almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Don’t even kid about that, Rose.” Leslie puts an arm around her sister-in-law and pulls her close. “I’m not going home. I’ll stay. With the puppy missing and everything . . . you just shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  “Oh, Les, you don’t have to—”

  “I know. I want to.”

  Rose bows her head for a moment. When she raises it, her eyes are shiny with tears and gratitude. “Thank you. That would be . . . you have no idea how great that would be.”

  “Good. I’ll call Peter and tell him.” Leslie is already walking toward the phone. As she dials her own number, she tells Rose, “Why don’t you go take that bath now? I’ll get the kids into their pajamas and put them to bed.”

  “You know what? I’m going to take you up on that. If my boss comes, just tell him I’m . . . I don’t know. Just say I went out.”

  “Why?” Leslie asks as the phone rings on the other end of the line. “Don’t you want him to picture you lounging naked in a tub full of bubbles?”

  Rose doesn’t return her suggestive smile. “Actually . . . no, I don’t. He’s been a little . . .”

  Intrigued, Leslie asks, “A little what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my imagination. It just seemed to me like maybe he might be . . .”

  She trails off, but Leslie has read between the lines. “He’s interested in you, Rose?”

  “No! Not really. Just—”

  “Flirting?” The phone rings again.

  “God, no. He’s not the type to flirt. It’s just that he’s been really nice to me lately, and now he’s bringing my check over here. I guess I’m glad you’re staying so that I don’t have to—”

  “Be alone with him?” The phone rings again. Where the hell is Peter?

  “Everything sounds so much more sordid coming from you, Leslie,” Rose says, shaking her head. “But yeah. I guess that’s what I meant. Anyway . . . like I said, it’s probably just me reading things into it that aren’t there, so . . .”

  Leslie hears a click in her ear, but it isn’t Peter’s voice that comes on the line. It’s her own, on the answering machine’s recording.

  Frowning, she waits for the beep, then says, “Peter, if you’re there, pick up. I’m going to stay at Rose’s tonight, so . . . can you pick up? Come on, it’s me. Peter?”

  No answer.

  “Peter? Are you there?”

  Apparently, he’s not.

  “Maybe he didn’t hear the phone if he’s sleeping,” Rose suggests as Leslie hangs up.

  “It’s right next to the couch.”

  “Maybe he’s in bed.”

  “He wouldn’t go to bed this early. I guess he went out.” She throws up her hands to make light of it. “Maybe I’m out of coffee grounds and he had to run to the store. Who knows? I’m sure he’ll call when he gets back and realizes I’m not home yet.”

  “I’m sure he will. But if you want to go home and—”

  “Are you kidding? This is girls’ night. I’m putting the kids to bed. Go take your bath and when you come back down we’ll find something to watch on TV. Anything but a basketball game.”

  Left alone in the kitchen, Leslie finishes washing the mugs, then turns out the ligh
ts. Before leaving the room, she crosses again to the window above the sink and peers out.

  Nothing but an empty yard.

  But she can’t help feeling unsettled this time—as though there might be some unseen threat lurking in the shadows.

  It’s just because stupid Peter didn’t answer the stupid phone, she thinks, turning away from the window. Where could he possibly have gone at this hour on a week night—and why didn’t he at least call to tell me he had to go out?

  Peering out from behind the trunk of an ancient maple tree, he notes that the kitchen window has gone dark once again.

  He glimpses the figure of a woman standing there, and then she’s gone, and he’s alone again in the silent depths of the yard.

  He wonders how long Leslie is going to stay tonight. Usually, when she visits, she’s long gone by this hour.

  Not that it matters.

  He won’t be venturing into the house again tonight.

  Standing over her bed last night, watching her sleep for as long as he dared, should have been tantalizing enough to last him until tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, when it snows.

  But what if it doesn’t? What if the forecasters are wrong again, or if this storm fizzles out before it reaches Long Island?

  He can’t wait any longer than twenty-four hours.

  Rather than sating his blood lust, killing Isabel left him ravenous.

  If it doesn’t snow here tomorrow night as predicted, he’ll just have to bring Rose with him.

  There’s plenty of snow on the ground in the Catskills. What’s the difference if he brings her there alive? It might be nice to show her around David Brookman’s cabin.

  After all, he and Angela spent so many passionate hours there—when she wasn’t feeling guilty, that is.

  “If David ever found out I brought you up here . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” he would say, kissing the worry lines on her forehead. “He’ll never know.”

  They only used the cabin in January and February, when her husband was safely out of range, and relaxing at his condo and on the golf course in the Florida sunshine. Angela was supposed to spend the winter there with him, but she kept finding excuses to fly back to New York on weekends.

  “I can’t stay away from you,” she would tell him, falling into his waiting arms at the airport.

  “What did you tell him this time?”

  “That I had to host a charity benefit. He’ll barely notice I’m gone. He’s too busy golfing with his father and all their rich buddies. You don’t golf do you?”

  “Never,” he lied, kissing her neck.

  Of course he golfed. He golfed, and he sailed, and he skied—rich men’s sports, all of them. It amazed him, sometimes, that he and David Brookman had traveled in the same circles all their lives, but never met. Of course, David is a good ten years older and went to MIT; he, on the other hand, went to Berkeley, drawn to the bohemian northern California lifestyle—and of course, the fact that Father didn’t agree with his choice. Not that there was a damn thing he could do about it. Mother was paying. Mother was always willing to pay, just as long as he stayed out of her hair.

  A light goes on in an upstairs window. It’s the bathroom, he knows. The shade is down, but it’s a lace one that isn’t entirely opaque. The silhouette of a woman is visible there, and she’s getting undressed.

  His pulse quickens. He eyes the lattice against the side of the house. It stretches nearly to the second floor, ending just below the bathroom window. If he used it as a ladder and put his face right up to the window, he might be able to catch a glimpse of Rose through the shade.

  He moves swiftly, mounting the lattice with the agility of an acrobat. The snarl of bare wisteria vines make it a tricky climb, and he winces when a splinter embeds itself into the tender palm of his hand, but he presses on. He’s nearly reached the top when he hears a car coming down the quiet street, slowing just in front of the Larrabee home.

  He freezes, clinging to the lattice.

  The car turns into the driveway below, the glaring headlights illuminating his perch like the sweeping searchlight from a prison guard tower.

  Don’t move.

  Don’t breathe.

  Maybe whoever it is didn’t see you.

  But the car door opens abruptly, and a male voice calls sharply, “Hey! What the hell are you doing up there?”

  After testing the temperature of the brimming tub, Rose turns off the water. A little hot, but it will cool down quickly. She steps in gingerly and sinks gratefully into the rose-scented bubbles, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub.

  It’s still hot. Too hot.

  Maybe if she—

  What was that?

  She distinctly heard a sharp thudding noise from somewhere outside.

  She sits up quickly, the water sloshing around her, some of it splashing over the side and onto the mat beside the tub.

  “Leslie?” she calls.

  No answer.

  Not surprising. Rose can hear her in Jenna’s room on the opposite end of the second floor. The three of them are giggling in there, singing silly nursery rhymes. It’s good to hear Jenna and Leo sounding so happy after today’s trauma with the lost puppy. Thank God for Leslie.

  Everything is fine, Rose tells herself. Just take your bath and stop being so paranoid.

  Hah. Paranoid.

  On her way to the bathroom, she made a detour to her bedroom. Just to make sure Sam’s gun was still in the nightstand drawer. Just to make sure the bullets are still in the locked box in the top of the closet.

  Both the gun and the bullets are just where Sam left them.

  And you’re not going to do a damned thing about it, Rose tells herself sternly. She simply can’t take the chance of keeping a loaded weapon anywhere in this house. Not with Leo here, there and everywhere, getting into things.

  And anyway, she has no idea how to load a gun, and would be afraid to try.

  Hitch would probably show you, if you really wanted to know.

  But she doesn’t.

  She doesn’t want to know.

  Smiling at the sound of her children’s laughter wafting in from Jenna’s room, Rose sits back in the water.

  Ouch! It really is burning her skin.

  Reaching for the cold tap, she turns it on to cool the tub down a little, disappointed when the loudly splashing water drowns out the laughing voices down the hall.

  “And the police never had any clue who might have done it?” David asks Olivia McGlinchie’s parents, who shake their heads sadly.

  They’re seated together on the old-fashioned sofa opposite David’s wingback chair, the husband’s arm protectively around his wife’s frail shoulders. David can’t help wondering whether Joanne McGlinchie was always this delicate wisp of a woman. Judging by the framed family photos on the table, she wasn’t. He suspects overwhelming grief robbed her frame of a few dozen pounds and put the gray streaks in her dark hair.

  “The detectives on the case never even pinpointed a single suspect.” Ralph sighs. “When she disappeared, they treated the case as though she were a teenager who had run away. They looked at the situation—at this young woman who suddenly could see after a lifetime of disability—and they thought that she had probably gotten carried away with her new independence.”

  “We told them she would never do that,” Joanne inserts, her voice unwavering, almost hardy, for the first time tonight. “Our daughter would never abandon her car in a parking lot and take off in the middle of a snowstorm. She would never leave us to worry for months on end, not knowing if she was alive, or—”

  She breaks off, shaking her head. As her husband pats her shoulder, the dog at their feet stands and nuzzles his nose against the woman’s leg, as though he senses her sorrow.

  His name, the McGlinchies told David when he first arrived, is Buddy, and he was Olivia’s Seeing Eye dog. When she regained her sight, she couldn’t bear to part with him and kept him as her beloved pet. They fo
und him hungry and distressed in their daughter’s Port Richmond apartment after her disappearance.

  David clears his throat, deciding now is as good a time as any to tell the McGlinchies that he owns a home close to the spot where their daughter’s body was found. And that somebody opened and read the letter Olivia sent him through the donor agency.

  But Ralph speaks first, resuming the account where his wife left off. “No, Olivia would never have put us through that hell. We knew something was wrong but there was nothing we could do about it.”

  “We tried,” Joanne puts in. “Ralph bought a computer, and he learned how to use it. He sent Olivia’s picture all over the Internet, asking if anyone had seen her.”

  “Nobody had, but I found out that there are far too many people like us out there, desperate parents with missing kids,” Ralph says sadly. He takes a deep breath. “By the time our daughter was found, murdered, too many months had passed for the police to pick up anybody’s trail. They tried, but—”

  His wife snorts.

  “They did try, I’m sure,” he repeats, patting her shoulder again. “They came here several times to question us, wanting to know all about her life, and if there was anybody we thought was suspicious.”

  “And there wasn’t?”

  Ralph McGlinchie shakes his head. “She had so many new friends, once she regained her sight and got a place of her own, she started driving. She went to the city sometimes, and she started dating.”

  “She had a boyfriend?” David asks.

  “A few.” Her mother smiles. “She said it was a whole new ball game, dating when you could see what the other person looked like, and they could see you. She spent a lot of time on her appearance, you know. She started shopping, and wearing makeup, and paying attention to fashion. She went through what most girls experience when they’re adolescents. It was such fun to see her that way. And she looked so beautiful. I know that coffee will be ready in a moment, but first . . . would you like to see some pictures of her?”