by Joy Fielding
“It’s just that you’d like me to mind my own business.”
Sandy shrugged. “Ian’s coming over tonight to take the kids out to dinner.”
“All the more reason for you not to be there.”
“I can’t.” After all, it was possible that Ian’s real reason for coming over wasn’t just to see the kids. It was possible he wanted to see her as well, that Liana Martin’s disappearance had made him realize what a complete idiot he’d been these last few months, and that he now realized how important his family was to him. There was no way he could be happy with his inflatable human doll. He’d been having one of those midlife crises he used to belittle in others. He’d gone temporarily insane. Yes, that was as good a description as any, Sandy decided. But now he’d come back to his senses, and all five of those senses were telling him that you didn’t just walk out on a marriage of almost twenty years, you didn’t leave the woman you’d married when she was all of nineteen, a woman who’d borne you two children when she was little more than a child herself, while at the same time earning her teaching degree and putting you through medical school. You didn’t desert a woman like that. You didn’t leave a woman of substance for a woman of silicone.
Except, of course, that’s exactly what he’d done.
“So, who arranged this blind date?” Sandy asked, hoping to change the subject.
“I’d rather not say.”
“What do you mean, you’d rather not say?”
“You’ll get mad.”
“Why would I get mad?”
“Because I’ve already used up all your goodwill.”
“Tell me.”
“I met him on the Internet.”
“Don’t tell me that.”
“I told you you’d get mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m dumbfounded. I’m speechless.”
“Would that it were so.”
“How could you agree to go out with a man you met in a chat room? Especially now, when a young girl is missing.”
“It wasn’t in a chat room. I swear. It was one of those online dating services. I signed up a couple of weeks ago.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s been three years since Brian died. Because I’m lonely. Because I’m forty-three, and five feet no inches tall and weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, and I live in Torrance, where I’ve already slept with all the eligible men, and even a few who weren’t so eligible, and I just thought it would be nice to meet someone who can talk about something other than tractors and grapefruits. And you should see, Sandy, since I signed up, I’ve had e-mails from men all over the country, and some of them sound pretty great.”
“If they’re so great, what are they doing looking for women online? Forget I asked that,” Sandy said, recalling how handsome Ian had looked the morning he’d announced he was leaving her for Kerri Franklin. “Okay. So, this guy you’re going out with tonight …”
“His name is Jack Whittaker, he’s fifty-five, his wife died last year of leukemia, and he has his own business selling widgets, or something like that. Anyway, he’s from Palm Beach, and he’s stopping in Torrance on his way to visit friends in Naples, and he suggested having a drink and getting to know each other.”
“So why would you want me hanging around?”
“Well, because of Liana Martin.” Rita smiled her sweetest smile, the one that brought dimples to her cheeks. “In case this guy turns out to be a psycho killer or something.”
Sandy laughed. She and Rita had clicked from the moment they’d met in the staff room at the start of the school year, and she’d quickly become Sandy’s closest friend in Torrance, the only good thing that had happened to her since leaving Rochester.
“Actually, what I was thinking was that we could already be having drinks when he shows up. And then, if I decide I like him, I could give you some signal, you know, like I could wink or toss my head.” Rita tossed her head back, then grabbed her neck in pain. “No, I can’t do that. He’ll think I’m having a spasm. But, anyway,” she continued over Sandy’s laughter. “How about I’ll scratch the side of my nose, and you’ll beat a hasty retreat?”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Maybe next time.”
“How about next week? I’m meeting this guy in Fort Lauderdale.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I told you, this service is terrific. What do you say? If he has a friend …”
“Maybe.”
“Great.”
“I said, maybe.” Sandy shook her head, half in amazement, half in admiration. “Do I not make myself clear?”
“‘It’s a new world, Goldie,’” Rita said.
“What?”
“It’s a line from Fiddler on the Roof.”
“You’re quoting Fiddler on the Roof?”
“The drama department did a production of it last year. It was fabulous. You wouldn’t believe what good voices some of these kids have. Count Dracula, for instance. He played the tailor, and he was fabulous.”
Sandy tried picturing Victor Drummond as a poor Russian tailor. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much of a stretch. “Can I use your phone?”
Rita pulled the old-fashioned, black telephone across the tall counter, almost knocking over several bottles full of cotton balls and tongue depressors. “I can’t believe you don’t have a cell phone.”
“I hate the damn things.”
“You need one. What if there’s an emergency?”
“Someone can always find me.”
“What if you’re the one having the emergency?”
Sandy ignored the question. “You have a home number for the Drummonds?”
Rita crossed to the small desk wedged into the corner under the window overlooking a side alleyway. She pulled the school directory out of the top drawer and quickly located the Drummonds’ phone number. “What are you going to say to them?”
“First of all, are they aware their son hasn’t been in class since Tuesday?” Sandy said as she dialed. “And that he has a rather nasty cut on his arm? And that I think someone should have a look at it.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“That would be my recommendation.”
“Which I’m sure will be welcomed with open arms,” Rita said.
The phone rang five times before the Drummonds’ answering service clicked on, and Sandy left a short message asking them to contact her as soon as possible. “Nobody’s ever home for these kids. No wonder they’re so lost.”
“You’re saying we should all give up our jobs and be stay-at-home moms?”
Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Kerri Franklin is a stay-at-home mom.”
Sandy rolled her eyes toward the recessed ceiling. “Obviously there are no easy answers.”
“Sure I can’t change your mind about going out with me later?”
“My cue to leave.” Sandy got off her chair, opened the door, and stepped into the hall. “Be careful tonight.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. If you have even a twinge that something’s not right with this guy, you get out of there immediately.”
“Yes, Mother.” Rita stuck her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her fingers.
Sandy laughed and closed the door. Seconds later, she was marching down the wide corridor of the main building toward the exit, inhaling the smells inherent to all high school corridors: perspiration, dirty socks, and cloying cologne, mouthwash, and disinfectant. The concrete walls were painted a dull yellow and covered with framed photographs of students who’d attended classes over the twelve years the school had been in operation. There were pictures of the football, baseball, and basketball teams, as well as a glass cabinet devoted to their trophies. There were also photographs of the short-lived chess club, the shorter-lived debating club, and a whole section devoted to the drama department’s various productions. Sandy scanned the pictures for one of Victor Drummond, but the only ph
otos from Fiddler on the Roof were of Tanya McGovern, Amber Weber, and Liana Martin as the milkman’s three marriageable daughters, and one of Greg Watt as their beleaguered father, Tevye. Truly, the Fiddler from Hell, Sandy thought, her eyes returning to the picture of Liana Martin.
Where was she anyway? What had happened to her?
“So what do you think?” a voice asked from somewhere behind her, and Sandy jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
Sandy spun around to find Gordon Lipsman, the school drama teacher, watching her through disconcertingly crossed brown eyes, a grin spreading from one side of his big, square head to the other. “Gordon. I didn’t hear you.”
“Sneakers.” He indicated his shoes with a lowering of his eyes. “Very sneaky.”
Sandy forced a smile onto her lips. Gordon Lipsman was one of those people whose eagerness to be liked made it almost impossible to comply, the kind of person who gave stereotypes a bad name. He spoke with an ersatz British accent that was more annoying than authentic, because as far as anyone knew, he’d been born right here in Torrance. Now forty, he’d never married and, until recently, had been living with his widowed mother and more than a dozen cats in a house on the outskirts of town. His mother had died in February, resulting in a mild emotional meltdown and the postponement of this year’s musical offering, reputed to be Kiss Me, Kate.
“I see you’ve been admiring our Drama Hall of Fame.”
“It’s very impressive.” Sandy began a silent count of the cat hairs covering Gordon Lipsman’s blue-and-white-striped seersucker jacket. And was that ketchup on his sleeve? “I had no idea Greg Watt could sing.”
“Oh, he’s full of surprises, that one. He was an absolutely splendid Tevye, although his father didn’t take too kindly to the idea of his son wasting valuable time onstage when he thought he should be out working. He made it quite clear that Greg was not to partake in any more such flights of fancy. Although I don’t think those were his exact words.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’ve been hoping to change his mind. He’d make a wonderful Petruchio, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t realize the drama department was doing a show this year.”
“Oh, yes. My mother, may she rest in peace, would have wanted it that way. And Kiss Me, Kate was one of her favorite shows.” Tears filled his eyes, only to vanish in the very next breath. “I was thinking of your daughter for the lead. She’s such a pretty girl. Do you think she might be interested in trying out?”
“I guess you’d have to ask her.”
“I was hoping you might intercede on my behalf.”
“I’ll mention it to Megan,” Sandy offered. Then: “What about Tim?” Getting involved with the drama club might be just the ticket for drawing Tim out of his shell, she was thinking. He liked the theater, and maybe getting a part in the school play would help boost his confidence. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
“Tim?”
“My son.”
“Oh, yes. Tim. Quiet chap. Doesn’t say much. Well, I’m afraid he’s all wrong for Petruchio, of course, especially if Megan agrees to play Kate. It wouldn’t do for a brother and sister to play lovers, after all. No, that would never do. But there are lots of smaller roles. He’s certainly welcome to audition on Monday.” Surprisingly strong hands fluttered nervously to his face, landing at the tip of his bulbous nose.
Sandy thought of the caricature that Greg had drawn of the man, the way it had captured his essence in a few crude strokes. “Is that blood?” she asked suddenly.
The color immediately drained from the drama teacher’s face. “Blood? Where?”
“On your sleeve.”
Gordon stared at the stain on his cuff, then slowly raised it to his nose, sniffing at the offending blotch as if he were an animal. “Spaghetti sauce,” he pronounced after a moment’s pause. He held out his arm, as if offering her a chance to confirm his assessment.
“I should get going.” Sandy turned to leave, tripping over her feet in an effort to avoid Gordon Lipsman’s outstretched hand, and collapsing into him. They stumbled toward the wall in a kind of free-floating, spastic tango. “I’m so sorry,” she said when she was finally able to extricate herself from his clammy grasp. She turned, surreptitiously brushing away several stray cat hairs that had jumped from his jacket to her pink cotton blouse. Joey Balfour was standing about twenty feet away, a cell phone in his hand, extended toward her.
For one crazy second, Sandy thought that a call had come through for her on his line, and that he was offering his phone to her as a courtesy. Only when he ran laughing down the corridor did Sandy realize what had actually happened.
By the time she got home, a photograph of her in Gordon Lipsman’s arms was plastered all over the Internet.
EIGHT
Megan, Tim. Your father’s here.”
Megan glanced slowly toward her locked bedroom door, then looked back at the unsettling image filling her computer screen.
A familiar high school corridor. A man in a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit. A woman in a conservative, pink cotton blouse and navy, pleated skirt. His arm encircling her waist. Her back arched, her head thrown back. What could actually pass as a smile on her face. It looked as if they were dancing, Megan thought, although her mother had insisted they most assuredly were not. Megan grinned. While it was decidedly strange to see her mother in the arms of anyone other than her father—and especially the unlikely arms of dorky Mr. Lipsman—she thought her mother looked pretty, and she welcomed even the hint of a smile on her lips. It had been several months since Megan had seen her mother’s face register anything but sorrow. Although that was better than nothing at all. Often there was just this vacant stare. Megan knew when she saw that faraway gaze in her mother’s eyes that she was peering into the past, trying to figure out how everything had gone so terribly wrong.
It wasn’t your fault, Megan wanted to assure her in those moments, but she didn’t because, deep down, she thought it might be her mother’s fault after all. If only she’d dressed a little sexier or made some effort to tame her unruly curls. If only she hadn’t been so eager to voice her opinions, if she’d interrupted her husband less, gone along more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have spent so much time in distant chat rooms. Maybe he wouldn’t have connected with Kerri Franklin. Maybe they’d still be a family.
Megan sank back in her chair, blew a series of imaginary bubbles with her lips. Her mother had mentioned that Mr. Lipsman wanted her to try out for the part of Kate in the school’s upcoming production of Kiss Me, Kate, and maybe she would. Especially if Greg Watt, who she thought was really cute, could be persuaded to play Petruchio.
Her mother would undoubtedly be horrified at the knowledge she found anything even remotely attractive about Greg Watt and question Megan’s sanity. A girl her age had better things to think about than boys like that, she’d say.
And what could Megan offer in her defense? That she alone was able to see through the bad-boy facade, that she saw beyond the arrogant set of his jaw and the cockiness of his strut, that she liked the way his shoulders mimicked the calculated swagger of his hips, the way his jeans hugged his slender thighs and tight rear end? Oh, sure. That would go over well.
Tight rear end? Megan repeated silently, feeling herself blush. Who her age talked like that? Still, she could barely bring herself to think the word ass, let alone say it out loud. She was her mother’s daughter in that regard, she thought with a sigh, deciding that if her mother hadn’t been such a prude, such a stickler for decorum and proper language, her father might now be sitting in front of the TV, eating a sandwich, and not waiting impatiently by the front door to take her and her brother out for dinner. She turned back to the computer, pressed a key, and watched the image of her mother in Mr. Lipsman’s arms instantly evaporate. Would that it were so easy to make problems disappear in real life, she thought, reluctantly picturing Liana Martin.
Where was she? What had happened to h
er? It had been four days since anyone had seen her.
She returned to the main menu, clicked onto MSN, pressed several more keys, then sank back in the chair, refusing to dwell on unpleasant possibilities, preferring instead to imagine herself in Greg’s strong, muscular arms. He’d protect her from harm, she thought, feeling his imaginary warm breath wrapping around her own, his lips lowering slowly, teasingly, to hers. The kiss that followed was both urgent and tender, as his hands gently cupped her face, just like they did it in the movies, Megan thought, wondering if Greg had ever entertained such fantasies about her.
It wasn’t entirely out of the question, she decided. Even though she was a year younger and a grade behind him, and they’d never actually had a real conversation—“Hi. How ya doin’?” was about the extent of it—she’d noticed the way he looked at her each time she passed him in the halls. And once, just a couple of weeks ago, she’d caught him staring at her in the cafeteria, and he’d turned away quickly, obviously embarrassed at having been discovered, and tossed a piece of cake across the table at his friend Joey Balfour, who retaliated by hurling the contents of his cup of Coke in Greg’s face, and the next thing you knew, there was this major food fight going on, and both Joey and Greg ended up being suspended for two days. Megan shook her head, wondering why Greg bothered wasting his time with a cretin like Joey Balfour. She knew that although they might appear similar on the surface, Greg was nothing at all like Joey, who was crass and crude and just plain dumb. Greg was none of those things. Deep down, he was sweet and smart and sensitive. Not to mention sexy. Megan was determined to get to know him better. And if it took auditioning for a part in Mr. Lipsman’s next musical extravaganza, well, then, that’s exactly what she’d do.
She glanced back at the computer screen and frowned, as she did each time she saw the message that had been sitting there since Tuesday.
SAMPSONS BEWARE! DELILAH’S ON THE PROWL!
DELILAH’S out CRUISING the halls, and she’s bigger and better than ever. Well, maybe not better. But certainly BIGGER. And she’s got a new handle—no, not a love handle, although we bet she has lots of those too!!!! It’s a nickname. And it’s not DELI. Although we kind of like that one. No, this handle comes courtesy of MRS. SANDRACROSBIE,