As for Kay . . .
God knows she can well afford to squander a couple hundred bucks if it turns out the others don’t like her in person.
But she really hopes that they do. Desperately hopes so.
That’s why you’re going, isn’t it? It’s why you said yes when you meant no. Because the thought of friends—seeing friends, friends who care . . .
For the past few days the idea of coming face-to-face with her fellow bloggers seemed a lot less threatening than she’d imagined. Maybe because she misses Meredith so much, and needs to fill the aching void.
There’s alone, and then there’s lonely. One is safe and comfortable; the other . . .
Well, it never bothered her so much before. But the last few days haven’t been easy. She keeps thinking of Meredith, remembering Meredith, knowing what Meredith would want—expect—her to do.
She was such a good person. So strong. So much stronger than she ever knew.
She was always making self-deprecating comments in her blog, masking her insecurities behind humor. She didn’t allow herself to crawl into a hole and hide, not even in the face of the worst news imaginable.
If I could just be more like her . . .
But this is a start.
She has crawled out of her hole. It’s the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, and what’s the worst that can happen?
When the doorman calls up to tell her she has a visitor, Jaycee has just thrown on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and of course her blond wig. She doesn’t wear it around the apartment when she’s home alone, but Beatrice, her cleaning lady, comes on Saturday mornings.
Usually not until later, though. Jaycee was about to sit down with her first cup of coffee and her laptop to enjoy a few moments’ peace.
“Who is it?” she asks Mike, the doorman.
“It’s Mr. Wallace.”
Cory. Of course. Always Cory.
She tells the doorman to let him up, then opens the laptop to quickly see if there were any overnight developments on Meredith’s murder.
Nothing, other than a death notice in a small suburban Ohio newspaper, with mention of today’s memorial service.
By now Jaycee knows that the others are either in Cincinnati or on their way: Landry, Elena, and A-Okay.
She got Landry’s e-mail with all the arrangements—I’m cc’ing you just in case you can join us last minute, Jaycee!—and knows they’re staying in a hotel out where Meredith lives.
Lived.
There’s a knock on the apartment door. Jaycee quickly deletes the browser history, closes the laptop, and goes to answer.
Cory is standing there.
“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping aside for the one person in this world who always knows exactly where to find her, even when she’s hiding.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be up.”
“So you came anyway? Were you going to wake me up?”
“Absolutely.”
He’s clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a polo shirt beneath a rain jacket, his reddish hair spiking up over his forehead to make him look like a boy rather than a grown man. On a good day, he reminds her of Kevin Bacon—young Kevin Bacon, from the Footloose days—and she adores him. On a bad day . . .
On a bad day, she doesn’t want to deal with him, period. Because she only wants to be left alone.
But most of the time Cory refuses to allow that. And once in a while she winds up grateful for his persistent presence in her solitary life.
“It’s a crappy day out there,” he announces. “Humid as hell, and it’s supposed to rain.”
Yeah, well, it’s a crappy day in here, too—this being the anniversary and all. That fact won’t have escaped Cory, she knows.
“Thanks for the weather report,” she tells him. “Is that why you’re here? Because I usually just check Accuweather online if I want—”
“I brought you a newspaper,” he says, thrusting it at her, along with a white paper bag, “and a bagel.”
“Thank you.” She opens the bag, peers inside to see that it’s sesame, toasted, plain, cut into four pieces. Just the way she likes it. “I’d say come in . . . but oh, look, you’re already in. As usual.”
“Love you, too,” he says easily on his way to the kitchen.
She closes the door behind him, locks it, and follows him.
He helps himself to a cup of coffee from the pot she just brewed. “Did you use the Costa Rican beans Adam gave you the other day?”
Adam is Cory’s longtime boyfriend. A travel agent, he’s always jetting off to exotic places and bringing back gifts for his friends. Jaycee is touched that he considers her one of them—even now, after all these years, after . . . everything.
She wonders, sometimes, whether he knows . . . everything. But the past never comes up. Nor does the future. Usually, they just talk about his travels, and food, books, films . . .
Things normal people discuss.
Right. Because you like to pretend you’re a normal person. It’s a nice . . . escape.
“I haven’t used the Costa Rican beans yet,” she tells Cory. “This time, I used good old American beans I bought myself.”
“Where, at Starbucks?”
“How did you guess?”
“You’re a fan.” He makes a face. “And it’s so . . .”
“Ubiquitous?” she supplies. They’ve had this conversation before. Ad nauseam.
“Exactly.”
“Some of us appreciate that.”
“Some of us don’t.” He opens the fridge to look for milk.
“So tell me . . . what’s the point of this visit?”
“Open the paper,” he says without turning around. “Page eight.”
Uh-oh.
I should have known.
She puts the paper down on the counter.
Opens it to page eight.
Scans the page, then looks up at him, shaking her head. “I thought you said we were going to get past this. It’s been—”
“I know how long it’s been. What you need to do is—”
“I know what I need to do, Cory,” she says grimly. “I’ve been trying to do it. It’s impossible, okay?”
“Nothing is impossible.”
He’s wrong about that.
If only she could go back in time and erase not just the past seven years, but the past twenty—pick up where she left off in that dreaded, dismal little town she left behind years ago . . .
It would be easy, then, to change the course of her life, become someone else.
Someone whose name had never been heard beyond a five-mile perimeter; someone no one imagined was capable of becoming a success, or making a fortune, or . . .
Or committing a murder, even when you’re only doing what has to be done . . .
The alarm goes off, jarring Elena from a sound sleep.
Lying in her bed in that split second before she opens her eyes, she knows that something is off, but what is it?
She forces her eyelids open. The room is dark—rainy day dark, though, not night dark. According to her digital alarm clock, the time is wrong. It’s an hour later than she usually gets up, which is . . .
Wait a minute. This isn’t a weekday, it’s a Saturday.
She usually sleeps in on weekends, but this morning she only gets an extra hour because she has a flight to catch because she’s going to—
Starting to roll over, Elena gasps.
That’s it. That’s what’s off. Not the time or the dreary light that’s falling across her bed, but the fact that someone is sharing it with her.
Lying absolutely still so as not to wake whoever it is, she thinks back to last night. She was at the staff party, held at a banquet hall located about halfway betwee
n the school and the town where she lives. She remembers the speeches—she even delivered one, in honor of the retiring Betty Jamison—and she remembers the dinner, but not the dessert, and . . .
Wine . . . there was a lot of wine. Too much wine.
Again.
Dammit. When will she ever learn?
The waiter kept refilling my glass . . .
Yes, sure, it’s the waiter’s fault.
She remembers thinking that he was cute and wondering whether he was straight or not. She remembers that he was looking at her sympathetically, probably keeping the wine flowing because . . .
Oh, God.
She closes her eyes again, listening to her visitor’s rhythmic snoring in time to the rain pattering on the roof.
She has a wicked headache; her mouth is dry, stomach queasy . . .
Queasy not just because of the wine, but because she just remembered the reason the waiter took pity on her.
She arrived late and got stuck at the end of the table next to the one person no one else wanted to sit near.
Now she forces herself to roll over, open her eyes, and confront the ugly truth snoozing away right here in her bed, covers thrown down to reveal his hairy chest.
Tony Kerwin.
Landry had been worried about making her relatively tight connection in Atlanta, but thanks to thunderstorms rolling across Georgia, the outbound flight is going to be delayed at least an hour.
Settled into a seat at the gate, facing a wall of plate glass so that she can watch the torrential rain, she calls home to let Rob know she made it this far.
“How was the flight?” he asks.
“Fine. Landing was a little bumpy because of the weather.” She tells him about the delay, then asks to talk to the kids.
“Addison went out for a run, and Tucker’s still in bed.”
“Okay. Tell them to call me if they want. I have nothing to do but sit here and wait.”
“I’ll leave a note. I’m headed out golfing.”
“Oh, right.” He goes early to beat the afternoon thunderstorms that tend to roll in at this time of year.
“I was thinking that later, after I get out of work, I’ll take them for crab claws and po’boys at Big Daddy’s.”
“Wish I could go.”
“No claws and po’boys in Cincinnati?”
“I doubt it.”
She can hear clattering plates and silverware in the background and knows he’s emptying the dishwasher. For some reason, that makes her even more homesick than the sound of his voice . . . and she’s only been gone a few hours.
After hanging up with Rob, she wonders briefly if she should text both Elena and Kay to let them know she might be arriving late, but decides against it. The memorial service doesn’t start until three o’clock. Even with the delay, she’ll be arriving with plenty of time to spare.
What now?
She has her laptop with her. She’d been thinking she might find time during the weekend to write a new blog post, something she hasn’t done all week. She hasn’t had the heart to write about the tragedy, or the interest in anything else.
I still don’t. Maybe after the funeral. But not now.
The laptop stays in her bag. She’s idly flipping through one of the celebrity gossip rags Addison gave her, trying to become absorbed in the latest tinsel town divorce scandal, when a shadow falls over the page.
She looks up, startled.
A man she recognizes as having been on her flight out from Mobile says, “Hi. Would you mind . . . I’m going to go grab a coffee and I’d rather not lug my bags.” He points to a rolling suitcase and leather messenger bag a few seats away. “Can you keep an eye on them for a few minutes?”
He has a brisk demeanor and a northern accent. Remembering that the TSA is always making announcements about untended luggage, she hesitates, then nods. “Sure. No problem.”
“Thank you. Can I bring you something? Do you drink coffee?”
“I do, but . . . no, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She watches him stride away through the boarding area, then glances at his bags again, wondering whether he’s on the same connecting flight or one that’s delayed out of a nearby gate, then wondering why she’s suddenly feeling vaguely guilty for wondering—not to mention for noticing that he’s handsome.
Not as handsome as Rob, by any means. Different handsome. Dark handsome, versus Rob’s golden boy good looks.
She’s well out of her comfort zone now, not only traveling alone, but having a strange man offer to buy her a cup of coffee.
Although he probably didn’t mean it like that . . .
Oh, please. Of course he didn’t. He was just being polite.
Look at her. She’s a middle-aged mom wearing jeans, a hoodie, and no makeup, her blond hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She’d left too early to worry about what she looked like this morning and had been planning on having enough time at the hotel to pull herself together before she meets the others. Hopefully, she’ll still have it, but if not . . .
What you see is what you get.
She licks her finger, turning a page of the magazine, scanning it—a photo montage of celebrity bikini beach shots with plenty of cleavage, only serving to remind her that her own bikini and cleavage days are long behind her. She turns another page, and then another . . .
Then, oops! Remembers she’s supposed to be watching Mr. Coffee’s luggage.
Restless, she tucks the magazine back into her carry-on, checks her watch, and takes out her phone again.
There’s a text from Addison: Dad said u called. Jumping into shower then have 2 leave 4 work. Talk 2 U later. ILY.
She smiles and texts back ILY2: I love you, too.
Landry toys with her phone for a minute, remembering that she never did return her cousin’s call from the other night. Barbie June left another message—a slightly pissed-off-sounding one—last night while she was out to dinner with Rob. She meant to call back, but when she got home she still had to pack, and by then she wasn’t in the mood to talk to her cousin anyway, with the trip looming and the alarm set for 4:00 A.M.
She glances at the window again in time to see a large bolt of lightning zigzag the sky almost directly overhead. She has nothing but time on her hands for the immediate future, so she might as well call back now and face the wrath of Barbie June, who never takes kindly to being put off.
Her cousin answers the phone immediately, with a high-pitched, “Landry! I have been so worried about y’all!”
“Worried? Why?”
“It’s not like you to ignore your messages, and I’ve been trying to track you down all week!”
“I’m sorry, it’s been a rough week, and—”
“I heard what happened! Aunt Ardelle”—Landry’s mother—“told Mama that you were flying away to a funeral up North!”
That gives Landry pause. She’d called her mother yesterday to let her know she was leaving for the weekend; that an old friend had died. When her mother asked who it was, she said, truthfully, “No one you know.”
“A college friend?”
“Something like that.” Then she successfully changed the subject, asking about her mom’s roses. An avid gardener, Ardelle Quackenbush always welcomes the opportunity to talk horticulture.
Now, Landry tells her cousin the same thing about the funeral: “It’s no one you know.”
“Your mother told my mother it was someone from college.”
“She did? Bless her heart. Her hearing is getting worse by the day. It wasn’t someone from college.”
“Oh, thank the Lord! I’ve been on the alumni Web sites all morning trying to figure out who it could have been and why I wouldn’t have heard about it, too. Who was it?”
Landry sighs inwardly. “It was someone I met online.”
There’s a pause.
“One of those bloggers?” Barbie June asks. “The ones who are always writing notes to you like they know you?”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think? I read your blog! I’m your cousin!”
Landry clears her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you read it.”
“Of course I do!”
Then why, she wants to ask, haven’t you ever said anything positive about it until now? Why are you always making disparaging remarks about anything having to do with social networking?
“Which friend died?” Barbie June persists.
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t—”
“Landry! I just said I read your blog. I know who all the regulars are—the ones who always comment. I know you consider them friends. Who was it?”
Fair enough. If she’s been reading, then Meredith’s name will be familiar to her. Meredith was always one of the first to leave a comment whenever she posted a new entry.
“It was Meredith,” she tells Barbie June.
“Really? I didn’t even know she was sick again!”
Rather than inform her cousin that she wasn’t, in fact, sick again, Landry asks, “How could you know?”
“I’ve read her blog, too. You can link to them through their names when they leave comments on your page. I’ve read most of— Oh. Well, there it is.”
“There what is?”
“I’m on her blog now.” Keyboard tapping. “There are all these comments about it being sudden . . . What in the world happened to her?”
This feels wrong to Landry—Barbie June asking about Meredith, almost as if she knows her. Until now her real life and online life have been as neatly compartmentalized as Addison’s cases of beads. Now it’s all been upended and jumbled together, leaving her oddly unsettled.
“Landry?”
“It was an accident,” she says briefly, thinking that Meredith’s—or maybe just her own—privacy seems to have somehow been violated. Maybe it shouldn’t feel that way, but it does. She wishes she hadn’t called back.
The Perfect Stranger Page 13