“Glutton for punishment, huh?” she inquired, nursing the oversized Coke she’d bought at McDonald’s on the way home. Normally Leslie was a diet soda kind of girl, but I knew whenever she felt the effects of a lost evening she invariably went for the leaded variety.
I scowled at her. “It’s just an easy way for me to tell him in person that I don’t think we should see each other again.”
“Uh-huh. And de Nile is just a river in Egypt.”
“In this case, yeah, it is.”
She regarded me for a moment, one eyebrow lifted, dark eyes speculative. “If you say so. Too bad you’re just not feeling it, but hey—chemistry is a weird thing.”
True that, I thought, but just nodded. Maybe I could blame my strange obsession with Pieter Van Rijn on a funky combination of pheromones. It would be easier than giving in and admitting I was nuts.
“Still,” she added, then picked up her Coke and followed me as I went to the door. It was about time for me to rescue my last load from the dryer downstairs. “Make sure you save his phone number. Maybe he’ll be so devastated by your dumping him that he’ll need the comfort of a nice Jewish girl.”
“What about Joe?” I inquired.
She shut the door for me so I wouldn’t have to set down the laundry basket and then grinned. “Honey, I may be meshugge, but I’m not stupid.”
I laughed, but didn’t bother to respond. I didn’t know if I could say the same thing about myself.
Maybe it had been my obvious reticence on the phone, or perhaps a change in the tides. I couldn’t be sure, but Jonah did seem to be on his best behavior that night. He kept the talk about my “brilliant future” to a minimum and seemed to make a conscious effort to ask me about myself—my family, growing up in Billings, that sort of thing.
Actually, even to me those subjects were pretty dull. After all, I’d left Billings for a reason. I didn’t want to confide in Jonah the sudden desperation I’d felt when the company I’d been working for had offered me an assistant manager job. Everyone had thought that of course I’d take it. How could I have ever made them understand that if I’d accepted the position I’d be dooming myself to a lifetime of middle management and paper pushing, an SUV and a husband who fished and a few kids somewhere down the line? I’d felt as if I were about to suffocate, and no one really understood except my Uncle Bret. “Get out, and don’t worry about what other people think,” he’d told me. “No one is living your life but you.”
Those weren’t confidences I was about to reveal to Jonah. But he seemed interested to hear about my uncle’s cattle ranch, or how we were so close to Yellowstone that it had been pretty much the default summer vacation destination for most of my life.
“Guess that’s sort of how I feel about Disneyland,” Jonah said. “I could never understand what the big deal was, since I’d gone at least four or five times a year since I was a little kid. The attraction paled the older I got, unfortunately.”
I laughed, but I thought I understood. Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say. Was that why Pieter Van Rijn fascinated me so much, because he seemed to be such a mystery?
Jonah said, “I’ve got some more intel on Van Rijn, too.”
Part of my chicken enchilada seemed to lodge in my throat. I coughed, then grabbed my water glass to wash down the offending morsel. Jesus, was Jonah psychic or something? “Oh, really?” I managed.
“Yeah, I was talking to Linda. She’s wife number two, but actually a decent person, especially compared to the fembot.” Jonah sipped at his margarita. “Anyway, she was with my dad when he started his antiques kick, so I figured she might know something about Van Rijn. Supposedly he relocated here after he got dumped by his fiancée back in Amsterdam.”
“He got dumped?” I repeated. Somehow I had a hard time believing anyone would willingly walk out on Pieter Van Rijn. “How did Linda find that out?”
A shrug. “Linda’s one of those people who can find out anything about anybody. Good thing my dad had a prenup with her, or she would’ve taken him to the cleaners.”
That cryptic statement didn’t make sense at first, until I realized Jonah probably meant his father had been messing around with wife number three while still attached to wife number two. No wonder he had issues.
Speaking of issues, the revelation about Van Rijn got my mind churning. I could understand wanting to start over in a new place, but L.A. was a hell of a lot farther from Amsterdam than it was from Billings. “So why did his fiancée bail?”
“Found somebody richer, Linda says. I guess it was marginally better that he found out what a gold-digger she was before he married her.” Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe just the poor lighting in the Mexican restaurant where Jonah had taken me, but I thought I caught a flicker of unholy glee in his eyes. “Must’ve done a real number on him, since Linda says Van Rijn runs through women like Lindsay Lohan runs through bad hair extensions. She expressed concern because she thought you sounded like a nice girl from what I’d told her about you.”
The remark about Van Rijn treating women as expendable made a certain sick feeling begin to grow in my stomach, but immediately after that I felt a flash of anger. This Linda person could just be repeating gossip that didn’t have any basis in fact. Anyway, I was beginning to think Jonah might enjoy making Pieter Van Rijn sound bad.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, and laid down my fork. I’d lost my appetite by then. “He’s just my boss. It’s not like there’s anything going on between us.” Unfortunately.
This time there was no mistaking the look of relief that crossed Jonah’s face. “Glad to hear it,” he said, his tone too casual.
“So anyway,” I remarked, eager to change the subject, “how do you know this Tom at the radio station?”
If Jonah recognized my question for the red herring it was, so be it. At least it got us away from the uncomfortable topic of Van Rijn’s alleged love life. Although I’d gotten through the exchange without betraying to Jonah any of my true feelings toward my boss (I hoped), the information Jonah had imparted was definitely less than welcome. I didn’t want to think of Pieter Van Rijn as a womanizer. Then I’d start wondering just how many women there actually had been, and if all this were true, why he hadn’t made a move on me. Not his type? Not pretty enough? Too young? Too unsophisticated? Too…well, fill in the blank.
With a supreme effort of will I wrenched my attention back to Jonah. I wouldn’t let him see that his words had gotten to me. No, I’d just pretend I was having a good time, even if it killed me. And I still had the recording session to get through. Well, I had no one to blame for my current situation but myself.
Repressing a sigh, I took an extra-deep pull of margarita through my straw and resigned myself to a very long night.
Actually, the session at the radio station was more fun than I had thought it would be. For one thing, Jonah was safely hidden away behind a thick pane of Plexiglas. And his friend Tom turned out to be friendly and helpful, with a refreshing lack of Jonah’s “I’m too hip” attitude. We laid down two tracks—one of me covering Pat Benatar’s “We Belong,” and the other my take on Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” I didn’t know where Tom found the backing tracks, but I guessed that Jonah must have told him my approximate range, and he’d gone from there.
After I was done, Tom spent some time adjusting the mix on the two songs. At first it was sort of excruciating to listen to my own voice blaring through the headphones he lent me, but as he worked away on his computer I became more and more impressed by all the machinations that go on in the background in order to make a singer sound flawless.
“It’s too bad you’re only going to give this to your parents, but here you go,” Tom said, handing me the CD he’d just burned. “You sounded great.”
“Thanks,” I replied, and took the CD and put it in my purse. “You’re going to dump those files, right?”
“Already in the trash. You’re holding the only copy.”
With a lift of his shoulders, Tom said, “Nah, it’s cool. I understand.”
After that I thanked him again, and Jonah took me out to his car. He was mercifully silent on the drive back to my place, his expression pensive. It was only after we’d gotten out of the car and were walking up the stairs to my apartment that he said, “You’re not going to change your mind?”
I knew he was just referring to the songs I had recorded, but I figured his comment was as good a jumping-off point for the gentle letdown as any. “No,” I replied, and paused so that I was blocking the door to my apartment. “Look, Jonah, I do appreciate your going to the trouble to set all this up for me, but I really don’t want things to go any further…either with the music or with you.”
For a few seconds he appeared puzzled. Then comprehension must have dawned, because his mouth took on a tight, ugly look. “So you just went along with me tonight so you could get a free demo CD?”
Oh, yeah…make this all my fault. “Um, no,” I said, forcing myself to keep my tone as calm as I could. Some tense times at home right after Alex had left for college had impressed upon me the necessity of avoiding a screaming match whenever possible. “As I recall, you were the one who talked me into going tonight. So don’t try to make this about me when it’s pretty much been all about you.”
He crossed his arms. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, really.” Before things could degenerate any further, I pulled my keys out of my purse and jammed the key to my apartment into the lock. “Again, I’m sorry, but I think it’s better if we just say goodnight.”
For a split second I was afraid Jonah would grab the door or maybe even my arm to keep me from going inside. He made some weird little abortive movement toward me, then spat out, “Fine…whatever,” and stomped off down the stairs.
Well, that wasn’t pretty, but it could have been worse. Feeling immeasurably relieved, I slipped inside my apartment and turned the deadbolt. After a second or two, I reached up and slid the safety chain into position as well. It never hurt to be careful.
Maybe I should have felt bad for Jonah. I did sort of blindside him, after all. At the moment, though, all I could feel was an overwhelming sensation of relief.
Nine
It was strange to walk into Pyramid Imports on Monday morning and realize I wouldn’t see Pieter Van Rijn for at least four more days. At least I’d managed to avoid bungling the alarm when I let myself in, but that was small comfort compared to the fact that I’d be alone here all day with no one to talk to and nothing to break up the monotony.
On my desk sat an envelope with my name printed on it in Van Rijn’s careful hand. I lifted it, mystified, and broke the seal. Inside was a check for two thousand dollars and a note. Van Rijn had written, I did not want to make you wait until next week for this in the event I am detained past Friday. Do not hesitate to call if you have any questions or issues.
I felt a rush of warmth go over me. So even in his haste he had been concerned about my situation and had made sure I wouldn’t be left high and dry, at least as far as my finances were concerned. Of course, he had no way of knowing how modest my lifestyle actually was. That first advance he’d given me had pretty much covered my expenses for the month. The check I held now was just gravy. It wasn’t postdated, but I knew I wouldn’t deposit it until Friday. The advance had been generous enough. I wasn’t going to trespass on Van Rijn’s largesse by putting this check in my account before my regular payday.
Besides the check, he’d left another stack of letters to transcribe, as well as a pile of file folders with another note. File cabinets are in my office, was all it said, but I smiled anyway. Last week I hadn’t had any filing to do, save to put a few copies of shipping manifests in the files in my own desk. It seemed as if Van Rijn had done his best to make sure I’d have something to do in his absence besides answer the phone and sign for deliveries.
I turned on the Mac. After I’d logged in and opened my mail program and Word, the phone rang. I picked it up at once. “Pyramid Imports.”
“Katherine.”
There was something about hearing my name made subtly exotic by Van Rijn’s clipped accents that made me feel all melty inside. I gathered myself as best I could and said, “Hello, Mr. Van Rijn.”
“It would seem you had no problems with the alarm?”
“No, none.” In the background I could hear faint clinking noises and the low murmur of conversation. I wondered if he was calling me from a restaurant. After that thought crossed my mind, I also began to wonder whether he was there alone, or if he had a companion. Maybe my Amsterdam analogue?
“Excellent.” He paused, and said something in what had to be Dutch. I heard an equally unintelligible reply. The voice was male, and I felt a rush of foolish relief. Then he continued, “I doubt I’ll know before Thursday if I will be coming straight back to Los Angeles or whether I must go to New York for the weekend. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Great,” I replied, and floundered for something witty and responsible-sounding to say next. Of course I drew a blank. “Um—thank you for the check.”
“De rien,” he said.
Luckily I remembered that much French. It’s nothing, the standard self-effacing answer always made in response to someone else’s gratitude. “Well, it’s not nothing to me.”
He laughed. “Very good, Katherine. I must say au revoir for now—have a good day, and do not hesitate to call if there is a problem.”
I answered, “I won’t.”
“Good-bye, then.” And he hung up.
The connection was gone. I set the handset back in the cradle and tried to tell myself that Thursday wasn’t really that far off. The specter of his staying away even longer was something I didn’t want to contemplate right then.
I managed to kill most of the morning in the usual bored cubicle-dweller ways. I played around on Facebook (of course my sister had already posted images of her ultrasound, which I found a little freaky), transcribed two of Van Rijn’s letters (I figured I should try to space them out a little), took the usual FedEx delivery and deflected another request for a date, then finally engaged in a lengthy instant-message conversation with Leslie until her boss came along and kicked her off. But after that I figured I should at least begin to tackle the pile of files Van Rijn had left for me, so I gathered up roughly half of them and headed for his office.
An odd little prickle of unease ran down my spine as I unlocked the door and let myself in. I kept expecting someone to appear and ask me what the hell I thought I was doing in there. Of course Van Rijn had left everything in perfect order; not one piece of paper left out on the desk, not one pen lying by the phone. His computer’s screen was blank and dark.
It was so quiet that I imagined I could hear the air conditioning hissing softly through the vents. Maybe I should have turned up the music on my own computer so I could hear it in Van Rijn’s office. It wasn’t as if there was anyone around to protest the noise pollution. But I knew it was silly of me to get spooked in the middle of day. Sure, if I were here all alone at night. However, it was eleven-thirty in the morning, and I knew the building was locked up tight. I had nothing to worry about.
I set the stack of files on top of the first cabinet. Filing ranked up there with organizing my sock drawer in terms of fun things to do, but it had to be done, and I was being grossly overpaid to do it. Better to suck it up and get it over with.
Humming under my breath in an attempt to fill some of the unnerving quiet, I got to work. I only had to pay partial attention to what I was doing; after all, filing wasn’t exactly rocket science. But as I opened a new drawer and prepared to put away some papers in a file marked “Pathfinder Freight,” my gaze fell on a folder labeled “Personnel.”
I froze for a second, staring down at the neat, innocuous-looking label. Without really thinking, I slipped the Pathfinder paperwork in its respective folder, but I couldn’t stop st
aring at the personnel file. Could it really be that easy? Did I have the possible answers to Van Rijn’s disappearing secretaries right at my fingertips?
I knew I should shut the drawer and not look. It wasn’t any of my business. So far Van Rijn seemed satisfied with my work. Why jeopardize my situation by snooping into things that were none of my concern?
Bluebeard’s wife had probably told herself the same thing about that locked room…and we all know how well that worked out. My hand seemed to reach of its own volition toward the file, and I drew it out of the cabinet.
The folder felt dauntingly thick. Just how many women had filled the secretary position at Pyramid Imports before I came along?
Way too many, from what I could tell. However, if I wanted to find any salacious details, they’d have to come from someplace besides these files. They were simple employment application forms for the most part, each with a neat stamp at the top that said “Termination Date,” followed by a day, month, and year. I made some quick calculations; it looked like most of these women had lasted around a month or so. The longest tenure I could find was four months, and the shortest a scant two weeks. Some of the application forms also had resumes stapled to them, but not all. They appeared to be kept in reverse chronological order, since my application and resume sat on top. Mine was the only one that didn’t have the ominous “Termination Date” stamp at its head.
Just put it back, I told myself. Now.
But I didn’t. Instead, I flicked past my paperwork to look down at the application immediately beneath it. Gina Stillman—of Pasadena, if the information on the paperwork was correct. I didn’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be. After all, she’d quit barely a week and a half ago. It was remotely possible that she’d picked up stakes and moved right afterward, but I didn’t think that was likely.
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