by Olga Bicos
She ticked off in her head what might be signs of a mental breakdown. Being overwhelmed by the little things? Fears that you can’t cope? Imagining people are following you so that you spend hours looking over your shoulder or staring out a window into the dark?
But he was out there. She knew he was.
In a second, she’d kicked off the heels, was up on her knees staring into the murky white night through a crack in the blinds. As if she might actually see Ryan down there? As if she’d somehow acquired X-ray vision? Stop checking the window and turn on the lights, foolish woman.
Right before he’d hailed the taxi, sending her on her way, he’d been about to tell her something.
“This is completely insane.”
She snapped on the table lamp beside her, then dove across the couch and turned on its mate.
“There,” she told the sudden brightness.
She picked up the wine. She put on her shoes and tapped her foot. She put down the wine and took off the shoes. Then, inching down the couch, she crept toward the window blinds for another assault.
It was like a presence. He was out there, waiting.
He murdered his fiancée and got away with it…probably because he was crazy or something…pretty sure he was institutionalized.
At least, that was Emma’s story.
“I suppose if I want to imagine someone following me,” she told herself, “it should probably be a crazed murderer.” No sense in holding back.
Dropping the blinds, she lay on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. She should probably get something to eat, raise the blood sugar, bring the imagination down a notch.
Only, she couldn’t move. She felt pinned to that couch, at the same time exhausted and wound too tight. She thought about the article in the paper, knowing she’d entered some sort of family battlefield. And tonight, what had Ryan said to her? Something about Daniel’s game?
Pawn to queen’s four…
The image fit. The ice queen and the drunken king. Daniel and Harris, the two knights. And the castle, Cutty House.
Only, she didn’t know the rules to this game, didn’t even know its possible dangers. Harris thought she should walk away, just put another notch on the belt of failure and move on.
But to what? She’d never get another chance like this. Drew had taken care of that.
Questions, questions. And the clock long past the witching hour. She left the couch and slipped on her heels, thinking about her blood sugar again. But before she reached the kitchen, she did an about-face and raced for the door, grabbing her coat on the way out. He wasn’t there…only she didn’t plan to spend the next hour worrying about the possibility. At least, that’s the story she told herself as she ran down the stairs before she could come to her senses and turn back.
11
It was a terrible thing to be standing in front of an alleged murderer when it was really dark and deserted outside and you’d forgotten to bring a handy weapon, or a cell phone, or Batman and Commissioner Gordon.
A backup plan would have been nice.
But she’d misinterpreted the situation. Despite all the Sturm und Drang a girl could shake a stick at, she’d needed to face her fears. The idea that Ryan was stalking her was like the monster under the bed. She had to throw back the covers and look for herself. Emma’s tale of mayhem could have started, “Once upon a time…” for all the good it had done Holly.
But darned if he wasn’t standing right in front of her still dressed in his Armani best, the night and the fog making mischief all too possible.
He’d been across the street, using an awning for camouflage. She’d run right into his arms, as if she was trying to be convenient. The fog, again. He even smiled as he set her to rights, making everything that much worse because he was happy to see her.
“Holly Fairfield,” he whispered down to her. “Aren’t you a surprise.”
The wind kicked up, turning the fog into a fine white mist swirling like a snowstorm. She’d swear he’d combed his hair with his fingers, it was such a worried mess, and she imagined his blue eyes had a strange focus. He was so close she could smell mint on his breath. A polite stalker, this guy, with minty-fresh breath.
He took a step toward her, she took a step back. Whistle a tune, and they could make their own dance movie.
“I should march right back up those stairs and call the police.” Realizing her mistake, she added, “Instead of just announcing that I plan to call the police. Dear God, I really hope you’re not dangerous.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said, picking up where they’d left off. Cha, cha, cha… “I would have gone up eventually. You’re right. We’re both tired of waiting.”
“Waiting?” She still wasn’t clear about the rules of their game.
“You need to know about Nina.”
Every once in a while in life came these moments. Some were good, some, not so good. But they were always memorable. Right then, in that instant, Holly knew she’d never forget this moment.
She’d remember the fog, like a cloud closing in, the sound of the cable cars rumbling into their barn on Washington behind her, the throb of the compressor, the high-pitched squeal of brakes. The way he said the name Nina, sad and excited at the same time.
And Ryan standing before her. She’d remember him, and the anticipation in his eyes, most of all.
“Buckle up,” he said. “I think you’re in for a hell of a shock.”
He grabbed her hand. She resisted the urge to pull away. Don’t antagonize…
And suddenly, they were off.
He dragged her through the narrow streets, an impromptu Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, San Francisco style. The two flat blocks of Taylor, almost at the pinnacle of Nob Hill, showed corridor views of the financial district through snatches of fog, as if they both might swan dive into the hazy metropolis of lights below. The Disneyland theme continued as they passed Huntington Park, the mist heavy there, and cornered Grace Cathedral, the bells chiming like Notre Dame.
“Cutty House,” he shouted, confirming what she’d suspected was their destination.
She kept wondering when she should start screaming her fool head off, but she couldn’t find the breath. She was panting too hard. Geez, he must work out. Long before she was ready, Cutty House loomed ahead, abandoned for the night, its Beaux-Arts splendor shrouded in mist. The house appeared to be lying in wait behind its wrought-iron gates, crouched like a beast in the shadow of the Cathedral Apartments next door.
He didn’t need a key. He knew all the building’s secrets, after all, finding a service entrance that just needed a jiggle of the knob, a lift and a push to open the door. He held out his hand for her, this time inviting her to follow. When she hesitated, thinking that walking into that dark house might take a leap of faith even she couldn’t muster, he asked, “You want to know the truth?”
Only, she wasn’t fast enough for Ryan. He snatched her hand, making her do the Slinky thing, whiplashing her ahead.
She imagined this had been his playground as a child, these dusty, untended halls. When he was old enough, he’d probably worked for his father guiding guests up the stairs while reciting the evening’s specials. He didn’t need lights to find the room they entered on the third floor, all dark and straight out of a Hitchcock film. Even before he switched on the Tiffany lamp, she saw linens covering furniture and paintings, the white sheets glowing with reflected light coming from the room’s only window.
Finally she found her voice. “Don’t do this,” she said, sounding all too meek. She tried to think of a good reason. I’ll scream. I’ll kick you in the shins.
“It’s only a remodel, for God’s sake,” she said.
He didn’t pay her the least attention, making his way past the shrouded obstacles. “They took her down.”
They’d entered some sort of storage room. Ryan was busy navigating the furniture, dragging out what appeared to be a large painting covered with a drop cloth. There were several in the room, r
emnants of what was rumored to be a grand collection. Ryan leaned the portrait against the wall so that the light from the floor lamp would shine directly on whatever lay beneath.
“But I know all their secrets,” he said, standing next to the painting. “It didn’t take long to find her.”
He pulled off the cloth. Holly was standing at such an angle that she couldn’t see what he’d unveiled—and wasn’t sure she wanted to. She kept her eyes on Ryan instead.
He’s watching for my reaction…
She stepped closer but kept her eyes averted. He’d brought her here to look at a painting?
She took a few more steps. Get it over with…then he’ll let you go home. She thought about the design sketches Daniel had turned down that afternoon, thought about his impossible dreams for Cutty House, the New Generation. She could be finishing that wine right now, her feet tucked away warm in her bunny slippers, worrying over another bout of financial ruin instead of this.
She realized she was afraid to look at the painting, as if he might show her something horrible, like those photographs they used to take of the dead in Victorian times. They were trying to capture the essence of loved ones who had crossed over before they were buried and lost forever. Holly had seen one in a book, a dead woman posed in her Sunday best.
“Look at her,” he said. “Or do you already know?”
She thought about what she did know, his question triggering a memory. A possibility came to light, like a clue overlooked but suddenly recalled. Or maybe she’d picked up Harris’s trick for reading body language. Ryan stood beside the portrait, almost hesitating, as if he, too, were afraid to look.
He murdered his fiancée….
That first night, in the ballroom, she could have sworn she’d heard him call out a woman’s name. And just now, outside the apartment, what had he told her?
You need to know about…
“Nina,” she said, guessing the subject of the portrait, her eyes rising to focus there—but not seeing what she expected to at all.
“Is this a joke?” she asked.
Because it was a painting of Holly.
Only, the woman in the portrait wore an elegant black gown Holly didn’t own, accessorized with pearl earrings and a necklace Holly had never seen. She had chestnut hair cut in the same classic bob, a high-maintenance style Holly hadn’t worn before today, blow dryers and irons not being part of her beauty arsenal.
The angle of the chin gave off a challenge Holly could swear she’d never pull off. And the woman’s expression belied her younger years, a girl captured in the transition to womanhood. The exotic brown eyes, too, appeared all-knowing even in the stillness of the painting. But the mouth, the shape of the face…My face.
On the gold plaque at the base of the frame appeared a name. “Nina,” she repeated, reading the inscription on the plaque.
“Do you understand now?” he asked. “Why Daniel brought you here?”
Of course.
She thought she’d said the words out loud, the pieces coming together like the north-seeking pole on a compass. “Of course.”
Nina’s tragic death. Ryan’s fall from grace. Daniel taking over the family business.
And Ryan, that first day when he’d seen her at Cutty House, following her ever since. Completely obsessed.
“I look like Nina.” She looked up from the painting, at Ryan. “The woman you killed.”
She saw the shock of her words on his face. She supposed it mirrored a bit of what she felt. Touché, Holly.
“They do say that, don’t they. That I killed her,” he said, admitting nothing. “That I ran her off the road.”
But Holly’s attention was back on the painting. “My hair, the clothes.”
“He dressed you to look like her.”
As if the resemblance weren’t strong enough already? “You were engaged,” she said, remembering the story. Emma, gleeful over cocktails: They say he killed his fiancée. And today, the fun they had choosing new clothes. Come on, Holly, it’s on Daniel. Try this one. Turning her into someone else.
She felt bombarded, as if the information were scrolling past on a computer screen and she was trying to catch a word here or there to make sense of things.
Now she had her answer. Now she knew why Ryan watched her like a man possessed.
“Daniel went to a lot of trouble.” She tried to imagine what it would be like for Ryan, seeing her. “He must hate you very much.”
“And then some,” he answered.
It was all she’d needed to say. Whatever was driving him seemed to collapse and slip away. He dropped the cloth, covering the portrait.
This time, he didn’t try to stop her when she walked away.
Vanessa cinched the silk wrapper tight around her waist and slipped her toes into the satin mules. They were perfectly silly shoes for a woman her age, pink with fur trim—as if anyone cared if she looked elegant at this hour. She could hear Samuel’s voice all the way down the hall. The library, then.
“Why can’t I fucking come over! I paid for the damn place, didn’t I?” Screaming like a child.
She followed the sound of his voice, knowing what she’d find. He’d have a whiskey in one hand, the cell phone in the other.
“God help me, sometimes I think…don’t hang up on me!”
She pressed her palm to the heavy oak, the door already slightly ajar. She pushed until she could glimpse inside, inching open Pandora’s box. He can’t hurt me anymore. I know what he’s become.
She watched Samuel pace before the fireplace, slashing his free arm through the air, the rhythm of it emphasizing a word here and there as a sliver of whiskey hugged the bottom of his glass. He still wore his tuxedo; the bow tie hung limp like spaghetti.
The library had been her father’s favorite room, its fireplace a masterpiece in marble and carved mahogany. Her grandfather had imported the piece from Italy, wanting only the best for his home. The sad thought came that the room deserved better than what she’d given, taking on Samuel.
“I’m not threatening you. I just need to see you.” He had his back to the door, his temper now reduced to a needy whisper. “I’m here alone with the old bat, for God’s sake. It’s so fucking depressing, all these damn parties she drags me to.”
They’d been at a charity function for the local Cancer Society. She’d left early, embarrassed by the looks of sympathy from friends as they took in Samuel’s fall from grace. She’d gone straight to bed; Samuel, straight to the bar.
Of course, he was having an affair. For a moment, she actually wondered who might want him. Probably someone young and in need of money.
“I thought I’d see you tonight.” The fight had left him altogether. She thought he sounded very much like a boy denied his favorite toy.
She’d read a book once about marriage, a little novelette no bigger than her hand, the kind they tucked away at the cash register for last-minute gifts. There was a passage she’d never forget, written by a young newlywed: The most important decision I will ever make is who I choose to be my husband.
She remembered the day she’d bought that palm-sized book. There’d been a party. Gil and Samuel were at the height of their conspiracy to bring Cutty House and the vineyard together. They planned to start a chain of restaurants that featured Gil’s wines on the menu. Patrons could also purchase wines in the gift shop to take home.
That night she’d drunk too much and made a pass at Gil. She’d wept in his arms that she’d chosen the wrong man. How gently he’d rejected her, making her hate him all the more. Gil, who would never cheat on his beloved Marta.
She pushed the door open. Samuel turned, looking furtively over his shoulder. He had the puffy eyes of a drunk and the soft mouth of a man done in by his vices. Seeing her standing there, he dropped his whiskey. The glass shattered on the marble tiles of the hearth. Shards of crystal and ice scattered across the parquet.
“It’s the old bat,” she told him. “She’d like a word with you, if
you don’t mind?”
“I’ve made a mess,” he whispered into the phone, his bloodhound eyes still on his wife. “I’ll call you back.”
He stood frozen, a tableau of guilt. She remembered the first time she’d met Samuel. He’d reminded her of those marble statues she’d seen while touring Greece with her parents. Every part of him was chiseled perfection. He’d been enormously popular in high school, the quarterback on the football team. Of course, every girl wanted him. Him and Gil.
“What do you want?” he asked, crossing the room for a fresh glass, ignoring the mess on the floor. It was someone else’s job to pick up after him.
“I want to speak to you about the architect Daniel hired. I think we might need to do something about her. Ryan came by today. He was very upset. I just wanted your opinion.”
“My opinion? That’s a laugh.”
But she ignored him, telling herself she had a noble cause. To protect Ryan. “I spoke to Daniel. He thinks she might help,” she said, trying somehow to reach him. “The resemblance. Nina’s ghost rising to save Cutty House and all. But I’m worried about what that kind of publicity might do to Ryan.”
“For God’s sake, Van,” he said, turning on her. “He’s not coming back, even if you dangle some look-alike before his eyes. He doesn’t belong to you anymore, or haven’t you figured that out?” He toasted her with the whiskey. “Ryan has Gil to look after, remember?” He took a drink, smiling at the joke. “But you can’t help yourself, can you? Dreaming that he’ll come sniffing after your little architect when she’s not the real thing. Not even close. And just like Daniel, love—” raising the glass again “—she’ll disappoint.”
At times like this, she could understand what Ryan had done. That woman, Nina, she’d become just too painful to bear.
“When you run out of money,” she said, the venom slipping out, “that woman will leave you, Samuel.”
“Is that a threat?” He smiled. “I’m surprised you’d even bother at this point.”
He came to stand before her, his eyes bloodshot, his nose flowering red with broken blood vessels. Years of disappointments had distorted his chiseled perfection.