by Nancy Martin
"I had mixed feelings at first," he admitted, pouring for himself. "I like the street. But my leg, the time I've spent here in Philadelphia— things have added up for me. I've changed. Mellowed, I guess. It's time for something new."
"So you'll take the new job?"
He touched his glass to mine and met my gaze. "I was hoping you'd help me decide."
The untimely waiter appeared at my elbow and offered to put the roses in water. We allowed him to clear the table, and he promised he'd return with menus.
I drank a tiny swallow of champagne and put the flute down.
Richard drank more deeply from his glass, then watched the bubbles rise in the wine while he gathered his words. Slowly, he said, "I didn't accept the job yet, Nora. Because you're part of the equation."
Unconsciously, my hands tightened until my knuckles turned white. I took a breath and unclenched my fingers.
"Becoming an editor means settling down, staying in one place for a few years. It's not just building a career. It's building a whole life. You know I always planned to go back to New York, and my job there is still waiting for me. But my priorities have changed. I've come to some important conclusions."
I couldn't find any words.
"You've made a difference in me, Nora." He put down his glass and met my gaze steadily. "I want to stay here in Philadelphia with you. In fact, I want to marry you. I know we've got things to work out, but I'm ready to do that. We'd make a hell of a team, darling."
"Richard—"
"Will you marry me?" he asked. "I want to be with you."
"And," I asked softly, "my baby?"
He reached for my hand and held it on the table. "I know you're carrying someone else's child. I won't deny it bothers me. Hell, for a while I thought it was a deal breaker. I thought about convincing you to give it up for adoption or ... something. But now I realize how important kids are to you. If I need to be the father to your children, I'm willing to do that. I don't care whose DNA is involved."
"But—"
"It could be our baby." He caressed my fingers. "I'd like to try, Nora."
The waiter returned. He brought menus. I doubted I could eat a mouthful, but I accepted the leather-bound folder and felt oddly glad to get my hands on it. Unconsciously, I held the menu between Richard and me and tried to steady my heartbeat. The waiter told us the chef's specials, but I didn't hear them. Things were happening way too fast. Perhaps sensing our discomfort, the waiter promised to return later and went away.
When we were alone again, Richard reached over and pushed my menu to the table so he could see me. "I love you, Nora," he said. "We'll keep the baby's paternity a secret. We'll make it work."
I wanted to believe him. Richard was offering me a way out, a way to have a normal life. For an instant, I felt a warm rush for his kindness. But I said, "Michael will find out. Someday he will."
Through pure dumb luck or some kind of alchemy, Michael was going to learn he had fathered my child. I knew it, and I dreaded it. I could imagine his reaction—part joy, part bottomless rage at being kept in the dark and denied what was his. He took nothing lightly— nothing of importance, that is. His emotions would be titanic.
Richard tried to read my expression. "Would it be easier if I did it for you? If I told him now?"
"No!"
Shaken by the suggestion, I could only imagine what Michael might do if Richard told him the truth. "Please don't do that, Richard. Promise me you won't. He'll be so upset."
At that, Richard abruptly slugged his champagne and set the glass down sharply. He planted one forefinger on the tablecloth. "Look, Nora, I've put my heart on this table. I think I deserve something besides some misplaced concern for the feelings of a thug."
"He's not a—"
"Goddammit, I'm trying to propose, and just like always we end up talking about him."
"I'm sorry. I want you to understand—"
"It's you who doesn't understand." Heads turned toward us, so Richard lowered his voice. "He's an evil son of a bitch, and the sooner you realize that, the better."
"Richard—"
"The shit hit the fan today. And this time Abruzzo's going down."
"What are you talking about?"
"Little Carmine Pescara? Poof, he's gone! And the kid hasn't run off to join the marines, Nora. Word is, he's been whacked. Probably by your old boyfriend to cover up the cop killing. The kid knew too much or maybe he shot the cop himself—I don't know—but he's some kind of pawn in this game, and Mick Abruzzo's behind it all."
Suddenly I couldn't catch my breath.
"Little Carmine's mother watched the kid go off to the mall yesterday. But airport security found his car in the long-term lot this afternoon with the trunk wide open and the kid's suitcase unzipped. With his cell phone on the top."
"The police checked all flights?"
"Of course they did. If Carmine left the city, it wasn't by plane."
"So you think Michael kidnapped him from the airport parking lot? Maybe the boy left with a friend. Maybe he's gone to Atlantic City or the beach or . . ."
"Or somebody killed him."
"No," I said.
"Maybe they're holding Carmine hostage." Richard sat back to muse. "But why bother? Why keep a noisy kid around when it's easier just to pop him in the head and dump his carcass in the Atlantic? The Abruzzos aren't known for their humanitarian deeds. I'll bet his body's disintegrating in the ocean right now."
A swarm of bees began buzzing in my head. A cloud of them rose up around me, darkening the room.
Richard got out of his chair. His napkin fell through the swarm and disappeared into the blackness that had been the carpet. Next thing I knew, he had pushed my head between my knees and was telling me to breathe.
The waiter came back, looking anxious, as I sat up.
"Sorry," Richard said. "I guess I surprised her."
The waiter smiled uncertainly and backed away. The diners near us returned to their own drinks, studiously pretending I hadn't just made a fool of myself. I drank another swallow of champagne, but my hand shook too much to hold the glass for more.
Richard sat down again and leaned forward on his elbows. "Nora, this is serious business now. If you know something about Carmine Pescara, you have to tell me."
"I don't know anything."
"Think. There's got to be something you overheard. Even something you suspected?"
"Michael's not involved in this."
"He's involved," Richard said. "Up to his neck. In fact, he'd better be walking around in a bulletproof vest these days, because if he hurts Carmine, some other wiseguy is going to kill him. But you can help Mick, Nora. And if Little Carmine is still alive, you could save his life, too."
"But I don't know anything. I've never met the boy! I don't know anyone else in the family."
"Nora, I'm here to protect you now. I'll make sure you're safe. There's no reason to lie for him anymore."
My mind cleared very quickly. "Is this story so important that you would accuse me of lying to you?"
"I love you," Richard said, husky and intense. "Together we can put him behind bars and out of your life."
I put both hands over my eyes. "No."
"Nora—"
I felt a dull ache reach upward from inside me, and I wondered fleetingly if it was the pain of a breaking heart. I dropped my hands into my lap. "I don't know what to believe," I said. "Do you love me and want to marry me? Or do you want this story?"
"Yes to both questions. Look, you know Abruzzo isn't the right man for you. But marrying me can help us both. With you by my side, I could be the managing editor of the paper in a couple of years. And you'd be rid of him and free to do everything you want. You could be a real community leader. You want to make a difference, don't you? It's your destiny, but you can't do it chained to a mobster."
"But first you want me to help with this story," I said as everything became clear. "You're using me to get it, aren't you?"
; Richard sat very still. "Of course not."
Unsteadily, I put my napkin on the tablecloth. "I need to be alone."
"Nora?"
"I'm going to the ladies' room," I said. "I'll be back."
But in the bathroom, I discovered the pain I'd felt wasn't my heart at all. There was a spot of blood in my underwear.
Chapter Fifteen
I phoned the doctor immediately from the telephone in the bar, but ended up speaking with her on-call associate. He asked me questions and listened politely to my answers. In the end, he tried to assure me that light spotting wasn't unexpected, but if it got worse I should get to the emergency room.
"Go home and relax," he said kindly. "Avoid sexual activity for a few days."
No problem, I thought. I planned to swear off sexual activity for the rest of my life.
I hung up, not feeling any less terrified than before, and turned around to find Richard standing at the bar, leaning on his cane. He stared at me, white-faced with anger.
"You called him, didn't you? Abruzzo?"
Coldly, I said, "I'm finished fighting, Richard."
"You did," he said, sounding amazed as well as furious. "I can't believe it."
"I did not call Michael," I said. "I'm not feeling well. I want to go home."
For an instant, I could see he didn't believe me. Then he looked away, defeated, and said wearily, "I'll drive you."
"No. I'll take the train. Libby will pick me up at the station."
"That's ridiculous. I'll drive—"
"If we stay together any longer tonight, Richard, one of us is going to say something we can't take back. Will you get my coat? I'm going to call my sister."
In silence, he walked me to Suburban Station and bought my ticket. We barely spoke until the R5 arrived.
"Nora," he said, "I'm sorry—"
"So am I."
"This isn't the way I thought the evening would go."
He kissed my cheek as I stepped on the train.
Libby picked me up at the Doylestown stop to drive me to the farm over back roads. I thanked her profusely. Fortunately, she was too wrapped up in herself to ask about me.
"I couldn't help it," she said in her minivan. "I'm weak! I've always given in to my most basic needs. It's part of my character—the insatiable hunger for satisfaction."
"You went off your diet," I guessed.
"Those damn cupcakes!" she cried.
The box from Verbena's bakery was on the floor between the front seats of her minivan. I noticed the string had been broken and the lid savagely torn open.
"I only ate half while I waited for your train," she confessed. "I couldn't stand it any longer! They were just too scrumptious looking!"
She showed me the demolished half of a cupcake, now unappetizingly squished into a Kleenex.
"It's all right," I said. "You can get back on your diet tomorrow. A little slip once in a while is natural."
She shoved the cupcake remains into her coat pocket. "I could kick myself! I was going to try the Chocolate-Cake Diet tomorrow, and now I can't." She burped and belatedly clapped her hand over her mouth. "Where did that come from?"
"Are you okay?" I noticed she was sweating. "You look kind of feverish."
Libby put the back of her hand against her damp face and frowned. "I don't know. Maybe I don't feel so good."
"No wonder. After a week of watching your diet, even half a cupcake could wreak havoc."
"You think?" she asked, sounding doubtful. "I don't know. . . ."
Suddenly, she braked and pulled over. The instant the minivan stopped moving, she threw herself out the door. I heard retching.
She climbed back into her seat a moment later, shaking.
"Are you okay?" I passed her a handful of fresh tissues.
"N-no," she whimpered. "I feel really sick."
"Let's call Rawlins. He can pick us up. You shouldn't be driving."
"I think I can make it," she said uncertainly.
We stopped twice more before arriving at Blackbird Farm. Libby left the van running as she bolted for my downstairs powder room. I shut off the engine, gathered up our handbags and the box of cupcakes and followed her into the house. From the sounds Libby made behind the closed powder room door, it was clear we'd barely arrived in time.
I knocked. "Lib? Can I do anything?"
She groaned and didn't answer.
Behind me, Emma said, "What's going on?"
I turned to discover my little sister in full Dungeon regalia. She wore a black leather bodysuit and tall patent leather boots that reached her midthigh. The heels looked sharp enough to impale anyone who dared get within range.
"Good grief," I said. "You could scare the Hell's Angels in that getup."
"They visited last week. If you ask me, they're a bunch of sissies."
Libby interrupted us with another volley of vomiting.
Emma said, "Wow, that's pretty impressive puking. And in rehab, I heard some pros."
I wasn't in a joking mood. "She's really sick, Em."
Emma joined me listening at the door. "Does she have the flu?"
"She ate half a cupcake, that's all."
Emma frowned. "This sounds a little extreme."
I took a closer look at her outfit. It actually covered up Em pretty well, and the leather was very good quality. But I said, "Are you going to be late for work?"
"I was just leaving." She noted my disapproval. "You want to come along? You might see something interesting."
"No, thanks."
"For instance," said Em, "you might see Boykin Fitch."
"What?"
Emma grinned. She leaned against the bathroom door. "Surprised you, huh? I remembered where I'd seen him before. He's a regular at the Dungeon. He's one of the guys who wears a mask, but—"
I forgot about Boy Fitch. "People wear masks? Oh, Emma!"
"Only the ones who want to keep their identities a secret from the voting public. Your pal Boykin has a kink that might startle his constituents. Most people don't want a senator who likes to be spanked on a regular basis."
"It certainly puts his campaign in a different light, doesn't it?"
Emma nodded. "Yeah, but does it make him guilty of murdering Zell Orcutt?"
"Good detective work, Em."
"Just call me Watson."
Libby retched again, and we both winced.
I said, "Maybe Libby fibbed. Maybe she ate more than just half a cupcake."
"Sounds like she ate a dozen."
"She was feeling fine one minute, then this." A lightbulb went off in my head. "You don't suppose . . . ?"
"What?"
"The cupcakes came from Verbena." I told Emma the short version of what I'd seen at Cupcakes. "Do you think those cupcakes were tainted?"
"You mean deliberately poisoned?" Emma asked.
"Oh, my God." My knees wobbled, and I sat down on the bench in the hallway. "The police were going to question ChaCha this afternoon. Verbena must have hoped to prevent her from telling them something about Zell's murder."
"Did you eat any cake?"
"No."
A new siege of sickness reverberated in the bathroom.
Emma said, "That's it. We're going to the hospital." She pounded on the bathroom door. "Libby! Come on, we're going to the emergency room."
"I can't move," Libby croaked. "Just leave me here to die!"
Emma barged into the bathroom, mopped Libby's face with a towel and then bullied our sister to her feet. Libby looked even worse than before—white-faced and perspiring so heavily that her hair hung in damp strands. She was almost too weak to stand. Emma grabbed her around the waist, and the two of them staggered out the back door. I grabbed coats for everyone and brought up the rear, armed with plastic bags and paper towels.
Emma stuffed Libby into the backseat of her own minivan and made sure I fastened my seat belt before she set off at high speed. In the backseat, Libby kept her head in a plastic bag.
We arrived
at the Doylestown hospital in record time and found the emergency room blessedly empty but for an elderly gentleman who appeared to be sleeping in front of CNN. The emergency room staff remained calm except for a few suspicious glances at Emma's choice of wardrobe. Beneath our father's Burberry raincoat, her stiletto boots and dog collar were plain to see.
Then Libby upchucked in the middle of the waiting room, and everyone forgot about Emma. Libby got priority status as they whisked her away.
"Now," Emma said to me, "let's get you taken care of."
As luck would have it, my own doctor was in the hospital delivering a baby. Between contractions, she came down to the emergency room to see me, looking younger in blue scrubs than when she wore the more formal white coat in her office. Somehow, it was more reassuring to see her ready for action.
Dr. Stengler studied the notes already prepared by the resident who had thoroughly interviewed me, then gave me a quick exam before helping me sit up again. "No cramps, right?"
"Just an ache, really," I said.
"You haven't been eating much since I saw you last week."
"Not much," I admitted.
"Not good." She closed the file and slid closer to me on the wheeled stool.
I liked Rachel Stengler very much. She had a no-nonsense bedside manner, but a sense of humor I appreciated. Tonight, however, the humor was subdued.
She put her hand over mine. "We've talked about this, Nora. Sometimes we can't stop nature."
I felt my heart lurch.
"This pregnancy has been delicate from the start. 1 wasn't happy with your hormone levels at last week's appointment. And now this. With your history, we knew there was a chance things weren't going to turn out well."
"Am I losing this baby?" I whispered.
"Let's not talk like that yet." She squeezed my hand. "We need to take care of you, though. I want to admit you to the hospital, get some fluids into your body, make you relax for a couple of days. We'll watch your hormone levels."