Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “So,” she said brightly and meaninglessly once she and Terry had run out of distractions like ordering a drink and glancing at the menus they were handed. She was glad they weren’t near a window. Even though there was no rational reason for fearing being seen, she still couldn’t help feeling guilty about sneaking off to lunch with the first man she’d met since David who had the ability to get her so flustered that she’d say things like “So,” without having any idea of what was to follow.

  “This isn’t bad,” she said with a wave of her hand. She was referring to the restaurant, but once she said those words, she wondered if perhaps she was unwittingly admitting to some other feeling.

  “No.” Terry was quick to agree. “Not bad at all.” He was looking at her intently, his eyes glowing in a way that seemed to be mocking her, his mouth almost giving in to a smile.

  Oh, dear, have I really gotten so bad at this? Jessica was thinking, feeling morose. Have I already forgotten how to have lunch with a man? And here I thought it was like riding a bicycle, something you never forgot how to do.

  She reminded herself that this wasn’t exactly “lunch with a man.” In fact, she didn’t know what it was. She wondered how the quart of chocolate milk was doing out in the trunk of her car.

  “So,” Jessica said again. “How are you finding Sea Cliff?”

  Terry shrugged. “Pretty quiet. A little lonely. I have been busy, though, dealing with Lloyd’s affairs and all. It turns out that for a successful real estate magnate, he wasn’t exactly the most organized person in the world. His filing system is ... well, let’s just say it doesn’t even deserve to be called a filing system.’’

  “He must have had a secretary to help keep him organized.’’

  “Up to a point. But Lloyd apparently had a few sidelines going. Things he was working on by himself.” With a frown, he added, “It’s going to take me longer than I expected to make sense of everything.”

  Tiny lines had appeared around his eyes and at the corner of his mouth. Jessica was dismayed to find that she found them most attractive. She looked away.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .” she said brightly.

  When she glanced up, she found that Terry was staring at her. Was it lust? she was wondering. Or was he merely taken aback by the banality of her conversation? And perhaps more important, at what point had she lost the ability to discriminate between the two?

  “Listen,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe you’d feel more comfortable if we didn’t talk about this.”

  Terry’s face had already softened into a smile. “Okay. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, Jessica McAllister. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? What I mean is, you don’t exactly impress me as the typical suburban wife and mother.”

  That sounded like a challenge. She could feel her cheeks turning pink. How had this happened, this total and instantaneous regression, this drop twenty years back in time? She was fifteen again, out on her first date with Fred Caristadt, turning crimson simply because his hand happened to brush against hers as he reached for the catsup.

  “Let’s just say I’m trying really hard to get the hang of all this. The wife and mother bit, that is.”

  “I’d think that somebody like you would get bored easily.”

  “Well, I try to . . . Wait a minute.” She cocked her head to one side and squinted. “What do you mean, ‘somebody like me?’ What is that supposed to mean?” She was startled to find that, once again, she was flirting with Terry.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ve just got this strange feeling about you.”

  Jessica laughed. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Wait.” Terry held up his hand, surrender-style. “This isn’t coming out right,” he said with a chuckle. “Especially since what I’ve really been intending to do is ask you for a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Sort of. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  Jessica relaxed a little. Was that all. Terry probably just wanted to ask her about the best place to buy fresh produce, or maybe have her steer him toward the most honest auto mechanic around.

  But his expression was dead serious as he folded his hands and placed them on the table.

  “Jessica,” he said in a low voice, “the police have run out of leads in my brother’s murder. They’ve put the case on the back burner, so I’ve decided to do a little investigating of my own. And, well, I want you to help me.”

  “What?” Jessica thought that the din of the restaurant had caused her to hear him incorrectly. “You want me to what?”

  “I want you to help me find out everything I can about my brother’s murder. To be my right hand in this investigation I’ve decided to undertake. To help me piece together what really happened to Lloyd.”

  Terry’s matter-of-factness was evenly matched by Jessica’s shock. “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you’re smart, levelheaded, and organized. Because you live in Sea Cliff. And because you used to second-guess people for a living. You’re a pro at that; you told me so yourself.’’

  “Oh.’’ Jessica nodded as she began to understand. “You mean my background in market research.”

  “Exactly. Weren’t you bragging to me at dinner the other night about how you developed this really great ability to see through people?” He flashed her a teasing grin. “Well, that’s what I need. Somebody who can get out there and talk to people and try to make some of the pieces of this puzzle fit together.’’

  “And you can’t do that by yourself?” Jessica asked doubtfully.

  Terry shook his head. “I’m the outsider, remember? You’re the one who lives here.”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot.”

  She was already certain what her final answer was going to be. Terry’s idea was preposterous. Jessica McAllister, a sleuth? While there had been a point in her life when she was certain she was capable of anything, these days it was all she could do to remember where she had parked the car. Then there was the guilt factor. She still hadn’t gotten over Sammy’s accident and the ensuing trip to the emergency room. Surely if she had been more attentive, more involved with her son, she could have managed—somehow—to prevent it.

  “Gee, Terry, I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid I’m simply not the Perry Mason type.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? I could give you a hundred reasons why not. And not having enough time would head the list.”

  There. That was a good, respectable excuse, one that was certainly true enough. Besides, it prevented her from having to admit to all the self-doubts that were plaguing her these days.

  “You sound as if you really mean it.” Terry sounded disappointed. “Is there any chance you’ll change your mind?”

  Jessica shook her head. “Nope. I’m really sorry, Terry, but the cloak-and-dagger business is really not up my alley.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. Let me give you my telephone number anyway. Just so you have it.”

  Before she had a chance to protest, he pulled a pen out of the inside breast pocket of his jacket, such a convenient invention that Jessica had always regretted its absence in women’s clothing. He scribbled a telephone number on his paper napkin.

  “Here we go. Just in case.” He slid it across the table.

  Jessica glanced at it warily, then picked it up and folded it in half and then in half again.

  “Just in case,” she repeated, without very much conviction.

  As she tucked it into her purse, she made a point of pushing it way down to the bottom, beneath the torn receipts from the Citibank machine and the crumpled tissues that were compulsory in the pocketbooks of mothers.

  “So,” she said with forced gaiety. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

  Chapter Eight

  Unlike in Los Angeles, where people are reportedly afraid to merge, the cars and taxis and buses whipping down New York City’s Second Avenue were merging and converging
and diverging with a vengeance. A checker cab wove in and out of the four lanes with an abandonment that indicated the driver’s unwavering faith that the plastic Jesus hanging from his rearview mirror was a guarantee against bodily harm. A motorcyclist didn’t even flinch as he squeezed in between a Pepsi truck and a U.S. mail truck. Then there were the countless delivery vans, double-parked and even triple-parked, exhibiting a lawlessness reminiscent of the Old West.

  Jessica gripped the steering wheel of her car as if it were the safety bar of a roller coaster. It was difficult for her to admit, but she was finding midtown Manhattan just a little bit intimidating. This ex-city slicker who had once prided herself on being able to find a taxi even during a rainy rush hour, who used to chuckle over out-of-towners who waited to cross the street on the curb rather than in the street, now found herself punctuating each stunt she witnessed with a soft whimper.

  It had been a good two months since she had ventured into the city. And she had found she had to fight against all kinds of psychological resistance, as if in trying to establish herself in her new environment she had to reject totally the place she had left behind. David was still coming in every day, commuting to his job at Stanton, Markham & Hayes. But ever since the day she had crossed the East River in a truck stuffed with everything she owned, Jessica had been overwhelmed by the very idea of confronting all that urbanness head-on. Indeed, she had been somewhat in awe of her husband as he regularly headed for the Long Island Expressway armed with bridge tokens, subway tokens, and a degree of self-confidence that, in her eyes, bordered on bravery.

  “I guess I’m becoming a hick,’’ she had quipped with a shrug. She knew in her heart that she was only half-teasing.

  Then came the telephone call from Anne Marshall. Like Jessica, Anne had been a marketing director at Klinger-Wycoff, the only other woman at that level in the entire marketing department. In fact, their careers had been parallel all along. And then, right about the time that Jessica announced that she was taking an indefinite leave of absence in order to give the motherhood business a try, Anne had been promoted to vice president.

  “What are you, in exile or something?’’ Anne had demanded over the telephone in that no-nonsense way she had, a manner that came dangerously close to being brash. “Get those suburban buns of yours in here. We’ll have lunch. First I’ll tell you how much I love my job, then I’ll proceed to complain about it nonstop until dessert. And then it’ll be your turn, when you can bore me to tears by dragging out the eight million baby pictures you no doubt carry around in your purse.”

  Jessica had agreed without hesitation. The idea of lunching in the city, once as much a given as riding the subway, now sounded positively glamorous.

  That morning there had been a half-hour battle with Sammy over the issue of whether or not showing up for school au naturel was appropriate. Jessica had resorted to all manner of pleas, threats, and offers in her attempts at winning over a pint-sized person who refused to have a red-and-blue striped Oshkosh polo shirt substituted for the top half of a set of flame-retardant Superman pajamas.

  Even in the midst of the negotiations, she managed to put the house in order. She was her usual whirlwind of efficiency as she washed the breakfast dishes, skillfully poured uneaten morsels of shredded wheat back into the box, made two beds, tossed three shirts, two pairs of pants, and five socks into the hamper, made one peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread, hold the crusts, and sorted several dozen pieces of Tinker Toys, Legos, jigsaw puzzles, and Popoids so they could then be shoveled into their appropriate containers.

  “Hey, Mom?” Sammy had said as she wrestled with the top half of his Superman pajamas, trying to force it over his fuzzy, yellow, bowling-ball-sized head.

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Superman is the strongest, right?”

  “He’s pretty strong,’’ Jessica said. She knew from experience that when talking to her son, she had to be careful of what viewpoints she committed herself to.

  “Superman is stronger than Batman, right?”

  “Well. . .I’d say they’re about the same.”

  Sammy considered that one for a few seconds. “Superman and Batman are very strong.”

  “Right.”

  “But Wonder Woman isn’t very strong.’’

  Jessica’s eyebrows immediately shot up. “Sure she is! Wonder Woman is just as strong as Superman and Batman.’’

  Sammy laughed, as if she were teasing him. “No, she’s not,” he said in that unmistakable You’re-not-going-to-pull-the-wool-over-my-eyes-just-because-I’m-thirty-years-younger-than-you-are tone of voice. “She has muscles like this.”

  He flipped one hand down, demonstrating the old limp-wrist routine.

  “Sammy, trust me on this one. Wonder Woman is strong.”

  “She is not.”

  “She is too!” Jessica’s tone was taking on a hysterical edge. “She can do anything that Superman and Batman can do.”

  “She can not.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jessica challenged. “And why not?”

  “Because,” Sammy explained matter-of-factly. “She’s not a man.”

  There on his cherubic face was that same superior smile that Jessica had seen on so many males during her life, men who were twenty, thirty, fifty years Sammy’s senior.

  After a morning like that, it had been a great relief to climb into the front seat of the Volvo and head for the open road. She had a full day of freedom ahead of her. After school, Sammy was going straight to a friend’s house for a play date, where he would be picked up by David, today sneaking out of work early. No motherhood for the next ten hours; no wifehood, either. Just a day to herself to have lunch with Anne and then browse around Bloomingdale’s—the real one, not one of the branches—or wander around her old neighborhood or do anything that happened to strike her fancy. It was almost too good to be true.

  Even so, the fact remained that for two months she had been tucked away in a place where there was free parking everywhere, a place where red lights really meant something. And now, after having been away for so long, her initial reaction was to be horrified at how crowded everything was. She was equally alarmed at how expensive things were. When she pulled into an unassuming-looking midtown garage, she found herself staring at the posted rates in disbelief.

  The offices of Klinger-Wycoff presented her with one more surprise. They had been totally redone since the last time she had been there. The high-tech look that had characterized the mid-eighties, all sharp edges and cold efficiency, had been replaced with a much softer look. Padded sofas and soft, inviting chairs were arranged around a coffee table in the waiting area. Oil paintings in gilt frames, ornate lamps, thick, patterned carpets ... it was more like a hotel lobby than an office building. This was the first time Jessica had been back in a year, and while she had expected to feel twinges of homesickness, she instead felt as if she were in a place she had never seen before.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked, looking as if she were hardly in a hurry to help anyone.

  “Yes,” Jessica said brightly, almost as unnerved by not being recognized as she was over not recognizing anything. “Anne Marshall, please.”

  The young woman at the desk raised her chin a couple of inches or so. “Is she expecting you?”

  This was the last straw. She had to remind herself that she was an outsider now, that there was no reason for this young woman to know her from one of the kids the messenger service sent over.

  “Yes,” she replied, lifting her own chin a little. “She’s expecting me.”

  “So how the hell are you?’’ Anne demanded heartily a minute or two later as she came striding across the reception area. She looked as if she owned the place, or at least a healthy portion of its stock. “Jessica, you look great. So relaxed. Rosy-cheeked and all that. You look so ... so rested. I guess building a nest puts the pounds on. Hey, you’re not pregnant again, are you?”

  Good old Anne. But Jessica knew there
was more than a grain of truth in her observation. She had put on weight, those seven extra pre-pregnancy pounds that she had yet to force off. Even so, she had thought she looked great today. In fact, five minutes earlier she felt positively svelte in the royal blue wool dress she had pulled out of her closet and had dry-cleaned just for this occasion. Sure, it was four years old, bought with a slightly different figure in mind. But while Jessica had thought she was doing a pretty good job of faking it, she suddenly felt as puffy as the “before” picture in an ad for a premenstrual diuretic. So much for delusions.

  Anne, meanwhile, looked like a Seven Sisters alumna about to lecture an auditorium full of undergraduates on the rewards of life on the fast track. She didn’t need pinstripes, either. These days she was apparently following the trend of softening the classic dress-for-success image, for a much more gentle look: a pastel flowered skirt with a cream-colored silk blouse and a boxy, loose-fitting jacket. Her makeup was muted rosy tones. Her blond hair was almost shoulder length, more traditionally feminine-looking than Jessica ever would have dared try back in her own days as a cog in the corporate wheel.

  Despite her initial shock, however, Jessica was glad to see Anne again. She was even slightly in awe of her, looking as self-assured as she did. Everything about her said that she was in control, that she belonged in this sleek world in which wielding power came as naturally as perspiring.

  “You’re looking pretty good yourself,” she returned, hoping that none of the envy she was feeling showed.

  “Are you kidding?” Anne countered. “I was up all night with those damned E.P.P. reports. I swear, those K-14s are going to be the death of me yet.”

  Jessica had only a dim recollection of the dreaded K-14s. She could remember hating them, suffering all the way through their tedious preparation . . . but at the moment, she couldn’t for the life of her remember what on earth they were for.

  But Anne had already moved on to other things.

  “You don’t mind if we go right to the restaurant, do you? I’ve got a meeting at three.” She wrinkled her nose, then added in a conspiratorial tone, “It’s time for the quarterly review. And you know how awful that is.”