by Lois Winston
“Call me Charlie,” he said. He, in turn, called me “hon.”
“Look, hon,” he said, finally dropping the receiver into its cradle, “I don’t know about art for beans. I’m a hard-nosed divorce lawyer with a golden track record. Betrayal, deception, greed—these things I know. But line and beauty . . . Hell, a judgment in my favor and a big check, that’s what I call beauty.”
He sat on the edge of his desk directly across from my chair, his crotch at eye level, and grinned. “But the office has to look nice, you know, to instill confidence. So basically you do it, hon. I don’t give a shit what goes up there.” He flung an arm out toward a blank, green wall.
He gave me a quick tour, during which time he took three telephone calls, waving his arms and mouthing words to me while listening to the person on the other end. “Haven’t found a secretary yet. You don’t happen to know any gals interested in office work, do you?”
Sorry, I told him, I didn’t.
I got the blueprints, but no color samples, although I did get the name of his decorator. “What was your name again?” he asked as I was getting ready to leave.
“Kate Austen.” I wrote it down on the back of Daria’s business card and handed it to him. “Call me if you have any questions.”
He studied the card. “Austen. You any relation to Andy Austen?”
“He’s my husband.”
Charlie slapped his thigh. “No kidding? What a small world. We were fraternity brothers together at San Jose State, way back when. How long you two been married?”
“Nearly seven years.” My voice had a prim, almost defensive quality to it I didn’t like.
“What-a-ya know.” Charlie chuckled. “Watch out for that seven-year itch. It’s what brings in half my business.” He chuckled again. “Any kids?”
“A daughter. She’s five.”
“God almighty, Andy a father. Who would have thought? Guess he’s settled down after all, the old rogue.”
I left Charles Gatskill chuckling over some private memory and headed for my car. Between the blueprints, the file, my notes and handbag, I had trouble finding my keys. I began searching my pockets, where instead of keys I found a matchbook from the Royal Arms Motel. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I’d picked it up; then I recalled that Kimberly had found it in Pepper’s purse the day of the dolls’ party. Tossing the matches onto the seat beside me, I searched some more, finally locating the keys at the bottom of my purse, and started home.
I tried to think about Gatskill’s office and what was needed, but found myself instead pondering the intricacies of the seven-year itch. Was that Andy’s problem? Was it my own? Had we somehow been tripped up by the colorless routine of familiarity, or did the rift strike much deeper? And did it matter, ultimately? At some point didn’t you just accept things for what they were?
Of course some women, like Sharon, simply filled the void with rumpled sheets and sweet, sticky passion. In some ways it was the easiest solution. Then I thought of Michael curled around me in bed last night, the sleepy early morning kiss that woke me, and wondered if I would ever be satisfied with a steamy afternoon in some drab hotel with the shades drawn.
And that was when I understood, suddenly, what Pepper had been doing at the Royal Arms Motel. It was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. Uneasily, I glanced at the matchbook on the seat next to me. El Camino Way, Danville. The freeway passed right by there. I could get off and back on in an instant And be back at the gallery in plenty of time to go over the Gatskill file with Daria.
I found the motel easily. It was one of those indistinguishable, L-shaped things you find in every city. This one was pink stucco, with a neon sign announcing showers and cable TV in every room. Clean and neat, but hardly elegant. As I parked the car, my mind hastily sorted through possible strategies, tossing out one after another.
Mentioning the word “murder” was an iffy proposition. It might bring out the public servant in some people, but would be just as likely to make others clam right up. I could, of course, rely on the tired old ruse of pretending to be a private investigator tracking down the beneficiary of a large inheritance. But if anyone asked to see my ID, I’d be in trouble. Finally, I concocted an elaborate story about my sister who was suffering from amnesia and had been missing for several months. Fortuitously, someone resembling her had been spotted in this very area. The family was, of course, anxious to learn all we could.
As it turned out, the young man behind the desk was very accommodating and not at all interested in my story. He was simply happy to have someone to talk to.
I described Pepper, realizing as I spoke, that the qualities which made her so stunning in the flesh were actually pretty commonplace when reduced to mere words. “About my height but thinner, blond hair, green eyes.”
The young man shook his head sadly. He would really like to help, but the description didn’t ring a bell.
Then I remembered the picture Mary Nell had given me last week. Like everything else that goes into my purse, it was still there. I only hoped the man at the desk didn’t connect the picture with the recent front-page murder story.
“Yeah,” the young man said eagerly when I handed him the snapshot. “I remember her.” His eyes left the picture long enough to inspect me, head to toe. “You two are sisters?”
“Stepsisters, actually.”
“Oh, that explains it.”
I did my best to smile graciously. “Did she stay here long?”
“She didn’t stay here exactly.” His face grew red. Serves you right, I thought. “Mostly she came Friday afternoons, pretty regular. With a guy. I don’t think they ever stayed the night.”
I nodded to show I wasn’t shocked.
“She hasn’t been here for a couple of weeks, though.”
“I see.” Then, remembering my story, I added excitedly, “Mama will be so happy to know we’re getting close to finding her. Would you by any chance have a name or number?”
“The records are locked up, I’d have to ask my boss. You want me to do that?” He reached for a paper and pencil and shoved them at me with puppy-like eagerness. “Tell me where we can reach you, and I’ll ask him tonight.”
“Maybe you could just describe the man she was with. She used to have a boyfriend who lived around here. If it’s the same guy, we might be able to locate her that way.”
“Let’s see.” The young man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He was big, at least six feet, curly red hair. With a mustache.”
The shock must have shown on my face.
“Is that him?”
“It might be.” Keep cool, I told myself. Jim isn’t the only six-foot redhead in the area, even with a mustache. But I felt a sharp chill at the center of my brain, nonetheless.
“You know where to reach him?” the young man asked.
I stared at him blankly.
“There’s a chance you can track him down through that car he was driving last time they were here. It was the craziest thing you ever saw. A Volvo with one blue fender and a red trunk. He said it was a loaner or something.”
If my face was white, it went even whiter. Poor Daria, I thought. It wasn’t fair. The most trusting woman in Walnut Hills, one of the few who still believed in faithfulness and the sanctity of marriage. And probably the only woman who still loved her husband with the same devotion and fervor as the day she married him. I thanked the young man behind the desk, who seemed puzzled by my sudden lack of enthusiasm, and left quickly.
Back on the freeway, I drove as slowly as I dared, dreading my return to Walnut Hills. I’d have to call Daria and make some excuse for not going back to work that afternoon. Facing her would be too difficult right then. I needed time to prepare myself.
As it turned out, an excuse found me. Out of the blue, my car ground to a complete stop just as I approached the interchange. I managed to pull to the side of the road and flag down a policeman, who called the towing company for me. He offered
to call a friend too, but I declined and, just to be safe, waited until I’d been towed to our local repair shop before calling Daria. Busy as she was, that wouldn’t have prevented her from dropping everything and rushing out to rescue me, whether I wanted her to or not.
TWENTY
The mechanic, a skinny little man with tobacco breath, broke the news gently, handing me a cup of lukewarm coffee before sitting himself down in the pink plastic chair next to mine.
“Looks like the engine’s blown,” he said, with a doleful twist of his mouth. “You musta’ had an oil leak you didn’t catch.”
I nodded numbly, picking at the Styrofoam cup with my fingernail. “How expensive will it be?”
“Probably around a thousand dollars. Can’t say for sure till we get the thing apart.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’d sold my watercolor, a piece of my heart and soul, for a rebuilt engine!
“Just be glad it happened close to home,” the man said reassuringly. “You wouldn’t believe some of the awful things that can happen to people.”
Oh, yes I would, I thought. And most of them have nothing to do with automobiles. “How long will it take to get the car running again?”
“A couple of days at the minimum, maybe a week. We’ve got a loaner you can have for twenty bucks a day. Doesn’t look like much but it runs real well.”
I nodded bleakly and followed the man to the back of the shop. I had a terrible feeling, even before I saw it, which car the loaner was.
“Looks like a crazy quilt, I know, one blue fender, a red back end, but the car’s in good shape mechanically so you don’t have to worry.” With a chuckle, he handed me the keys. “Least ways it’s easy to pick out in the grocery parking lot.”
Gingerly, I slipped into driver’s seat, taking shallow little breaths and holding my body erect, as if I could squeeze myself clear of the deception and betrayal that hovered in the hot, stale interior.
~*~
The car did run smoothly, the man had been right about that, and I was able to get to school in time to pick up Anna, who took one look at our new vehicle and wrinkled her nose.
“What a dorky car,” she said, without the least bit of humor.
I explained about the blown engine and told her the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, but she remained unimpressed. So unimpressed, in fact, that she crouched in the seat and ducked her head below window level so that none of her friends would recognize her on the way home.
When I’d parked the car—in the garage rather than on the street, much to Anna’s relief—I let myself into the house, ready to kick off my shoes and collapse. But the phone rang before I’d even put away the keys.
It was Andy, calling collect. “Where are you?” I asked.
“London.”
“What’s wrong?” He didn’t sound sick, but I couldn’t think why else he would be calling.
“Nothing’s wrong. Do I need an excuse to call home?”
“It’s just that it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I guess it has.” His voice wavered, and he paused a moment before asking, “Have you and Anna been getting my cards?”
Anna’s been getting them, I thought. And I’ve gotten a couple of hastily scribbled postscripts you managed to add for my benefit. But I told him, “Yes, they’ve been getting here.”
Another pause.
“How is Anna?”
“Fine.”
“And you?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? You sound kind of funny.”
“It must be the connection.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment; then there was a loud crash on the other end and a muffled shit.
“Sorry,” Andy explained when he got back on the line, “I knocked over a bottle of beer. Made a real mess. So, what’s new?”
Well, let’s see . . . I’ve been screwing a man who knocks me off my feet, I’ve got a job, I sold a painting, I’ve had a miscarriage and I’ve made a fool of myself by accusing Robert of murder. Then I remembered he didn’t even know about Pepper. “Pepper Livingston, our neighbor to the left, was killed a couple of weeks ago, murdered actually, in her own house.”
“Jesus, is that for real?”
“Even I would not be stupid enough to make up something like that.”
“I didn’t mean that, it’s just such a shock. How did it happen?”
I told him about the murder and then summarized the investigation by saying the police appeared to have no suspects and no leads.
“Holy shit,” he said when I finished.
I could see that six weeks of European culture had not done a lot to smooth Andy’s rough edges, but something in his tone brought back to me, very vividly, an image of the Andy I had fallen in love with. “See what happens when you run off,” I teased. “You miss all the excitement of living in Walnut Hills.”
“That’s not all I missed,” he said softly.
“Oh?”
He laughed. “Right, ‘Oh.’”
“There’s more,” I said, reverting to safe ground. “Turns out she was having an affair. I found out just today the man she was seeing was Jim.”
“Hmm.” Andy coughed lightly, the laughter gone.
“You knew?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Well, yes.”
I was incredulous. “You knew Jim was cheating on his wife, my best friend, and yet we’d all get together for dinner and kid around as if nothing had happened? You even sympathized with Daria about Jim’s hectic schedule.”
“Listen, Kate, everybody has their own style. And Jim is my friend. You don’t judge friends.” His voice had a clipped, condescending edge to it. “Nothing was going to come of it anyway.”
“You mean Jim’s conscience was catching up with him?”
“No, Pepper wouldn’t divorce Robert, if you can believe that. A guy like Jim has the hots for her—wants to marry her—and she opts for money, a pampered life and marriage to Robert.”
“Maybe she loved him.”
“Don’t make me laugh. She wanted a sugar daddy, and there was no way Jim could compete. Anyway, she finally put a halt to it, said Jim was putting too much pressure on her. He told me a couple of weeks ago, right after she broke off with him. God, the guy was hurt And humiliated. I mean here he is, head over heels in love with her, and it turns out she’s just out for a good time.”
“A couple of weeks ago?”
“Yeah. Must have been about a week before she was killed, now that I think of it.”
“He told you this?”
There was a long moment of silence; then Andy cleared his throat. “I called him, wanted to sort of touch base with things at home.”
“You called Jim a couple of weeks ago, but not me? You didn’t even write me a letter.”
“Hey, you know I needed to work some things out.”
I felt a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. “And have you?”
“I’m not sure.” His voice sounded hollow. “But I’m coming back. I should be there in about a week. There are a few loose ends around here I need to wind up first”
I wondered if one of those loose ends was an Italian model posing as a cousin. “Why come home if you’re not sure?”
“I’ve missed you and Anna.” He paused, waiting for me to respond, and when I didn’t, he took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can be what you want me to be,” he said finally, “but I’m willing to give it another shot.”
“Give it another shot? You make it sound like you’re trying to unstop the kitchen drain.” All the hurt I’d tucked away, trying to pretend it didn’t exist, suddenly dropped like a heavy metal ball to the pit of my stomach. “Nothing’s going to be any different unless you really want it to be. Unless you care enough to work hard to make it happen.”
“Don’t start in on me already, Kate. We’ll talk when I get there.”
“I had a miscarriage,” I said, blur
ting out the words before the thought had fully formed in my mind.
Andy was quiet a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “that’s one thing we won’t have to deal with.”
“That’s it?” My voice sort of squeaked, but I don’t think Andy noticed.
“Look, Kate, I know you want another baby, but this isn’t the right time. That’s got to be pretty obvious.”
Nothing had changed. That was pretty obvious.
~*~
Anna danced around the room when I announced that Andy would be coming home. “But it might only be for a visit,” I warned. “He might not stay.”
“But why not?”
I pulled her onto my lap. “It has nothing to do with you, honey. Daddy loves you very much, and he misses you.”
Tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear, I took a deep breath and tried to explain something I was having trouble understanding myself—how the wonderful, loving feelings that brought people together initially could sometimes wither to indifference. “It’s sad,” I told her, “but wishing it weren’t so doesn’t change a thing; wishing just isn’t enough.”
Anna raised her head and scowled. “Still,” she insisted, abruptly jumping from my lap and continuing her twirling about the room, “it will be nice to have Daddy back home, won’t it?”
For the rest of the afternoon she busied herself making cards and pictures to welcome Andy back. “If he knows how much we missed him,” she said, looking at me with wide, serious eyes, “maybe he won’t leave again.”
My chest grew tight watching her.
When Michael called later that evening, asking to drop by, I begged off. “I’m not up to company right now.”
“I’m hardly company,” he chided. “Just for an hour or so.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’ll rub your back. You don’t even have to talk. Ever since this morning, when I woke up next to that warm, sweet, beautiful body of yours, I’ve been walking around with a silly grin on my face. I just want to make sure I wasn’t imagining it all.”