The Unquiet

by J. D. Robb; Mary Blayney

  “I am?”

  “Do you have a green dress?”

  “A—? No, I don’t think—”

  “A green blouse? A green T-shirt?”

  “Um, I’ve got a T-shirt that says ‘Everybody loves an Irish girl.’ ”

  “Yes, yes, I knew it. With shamrocks on it.”

  “Wow! Yeah!”

  “This is what you will be wearing when you tell Bob it is time for him to go. Oh, I see it, it is so very, very clear.”

  Molly hardly ever gave advice this specific—too dangerous, not to mention arrogant—but she’d heard enough about smarmy, lying, despicable Bob to have not a single qualm in Donette’s case. They went over the scene, what she would say, all the possible arguments Bob might use, until Donette said, “Okay, I got it,” and Molly thought this time she really might. “But can’t I call you up after? Just one last time, to tell you what happens?”

  “ Alas, dear one, I will not be here.” As of midnight tonight, the psychic line would be kaput. “But don’t worry, all will be well. I had a vision of a small bird, a sweet little bird, darting out of her cage and taking flight. Flying high, free and happy. At last, enjoying the life she was meant to live!”

  Maybe it would work. Donette sounded hopeful by the end of the call, and steady enough to thank Molly for “all your help, all these weeks. I’d’ve been lost without you.” Maybe she’d do better on her own, no sympathetic Gypsy ear on the other end of the line, constantly soothing, constantly reassuring. Tough love. She’d certainly be richer.

  Charlie called while Molly was loading the contents of her bathroom cabinet into a cardboard box. “Oliver’s trying to get ahold of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You avoiding him or something? I think he’s depressed.”

  “Charlie, I’m so busy right now, can I call you back? In a few days?”

  “A few days?”

  She hadn’t told him about the move, the fate of her house. Not for any particular reason. Except that she found the whole subject nauseating. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s such a busy time for me right now.”

  “Sure, sure. You got a life.”

  “Oh, Charlie.”

  “What? I get it—you’re young, gorgeous, you got better things to do. It’s not a problem.”

  “Would you stop that? I’m moving.”

  “Moving! Where to?”

  “A smaller place—easier to take care of. Also, I’m giving up the psychic line. Tonight, in fact.”

  “How come?”

  “But you can still call me, of course. How come? Oh, Charlie, I need a real job. A full-time job that pays, you know, real money. So I’m taking the summer off from school and starting on Monday. It’s a job in phone sales.”

  “That’s crazy. Although you got the voice for it.”

  “Listen, Charlie. I tried to tell you this once before, but you didn’t hear me. The thing is—I don’t think I’m actually psychic.”

  “Oh, pshaw.”

  “No, truly. It runs in the family, but I don’t think it runs in me.”

  “So you mean . . .” She could hear him processing the news. “You mean . . . nobody’s thinking about me?”

  “See, here’s where it’s confusing. I feel very strongly that someone is thinking of you. A meaningful woman, someone who could change your whole life.”

  “Oh. Whew. Okay, then.”

  “But I don’t know where it’s coming from! Because, God knows, if I were psychic, I’d’ve done something about my own life before . . . well, anyway.”

  “Before what?”

  She laughed. “Nothing, I’m not in too great a mood tonight, that’s all.”

  “Okay, you listen to me. Are we pals?”

  “Of course. Of course we are.”

  “Then it goes two ways. Sometimes you help me, sometimes I help you.”

  “Oh, Charlie.” She was so touched. “You are . . . so dear to me.”

  “Likewise. So what can I do to help?”

  “Not a thing. Honestly. Except what you’re already doing—being my friend.”

  “No problemo. Okay, here’s what you can do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Take my obnoxious grandson’s call.”

  After that, every time the phone rang and it wasn’t Oliver, she felt let down. Not that she would’ve spoken to him anyway, but it had given her a small lift—very small on this, the lousiest day of her life—to be the one not talking. And now he wouldn’t even call her so she could not answer.

  She’d have called her aunt, who always cheered her up with something sweet or funny or weird, but Aunt Kit was furious with her for not confiding in her about the foreclosure. “You know, Moll,” she’d said at the end of their last conversation, “this wouldn’t be happening if you’d taken my advice years ago and gotten some cash out of that worthless ex.”

  “So, you told me so?”

  “Look at him now, raking it in, and who put him in a position to rake it? You. You threw away your career for his, and now where are you? He set you back years.”

  Exactly the sort of thing Molly didn’t care to hear tonight, so she didn’t call.

  FOURTEEN

  Her voice was like your favorite music, familiar and thrilling at the same time. “Hello. It is Madame Romanescu,” she said, and the words went straight to your heart. Brought you back, in case you’d been missing.

  “Howdy,” Oliver said. “It’s Shorty.” Stupid name; he wished he’d called himself “Slim” or “Lefty.”

  But she repeated it with such gladness and relief—“Ah, Shorty”—it didn’t matter. He settled deeper into the chair on his small deck overlooking Q Street, thinking the world would be a better place if everybody had somebody to call them “dear one.”

  “I am so happy you called, Shorty.”

  “Reckon you say that to all of us.”

  “No, oh no. Believe me.”

  He did. And that was another part of her magic. “How’re you doin’? You sound a mite down.”

  “It has not been a good day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You, too?”

  “Yeah, but nothin’ dire. I just called to hear your voice.”

  “I’m so glad. Are you drinking a cup of Arbuckles’?”

  “No, ma’am. Glass o’ whiskey tonight.” Wine, actually. “We cowboys got a saying: Never drink unless you’re alone or with somebody.”

  Where did he come up with this stuff? But she laughed her low, throaty laugh, so it was worth it. “I love cowboy sayings,” she said. “Tell me another one.”

  He thought. “Don’t squat with your spurs on.”

  This time her laugh was higher, freer. Familiar . . .

  “You like that one?”

  “Shorty, you cheer me up. But I have something to tell you.”

  “I got something to tell you, too. You go first.”

  “No, you. Please. Tell me your news.”

  “Yeah? Well, okay. I just wanted you to know, I quit my job at the Double K.”

  “Oh my. Are you happy?”

  “I’m . . . Yeah. I reckon I am, now that it’s done. Feels right.”

  “Yes. I think so, too.”

  “Not sure what was holdin’ me back.”

  “Caution. Your natural prudence.”

  “That, and maybe thinkin’ . . . maybe I didn’t quite deserve to get exactly what I wanted.”

  “Ah,” she said lightly. “But that’s gone now?”

  “More or less.”

  “Good riddance. And now you will—what?”

  “Well, I got my eye on a . . . a piece o’ land not too far from here. I got enough saved up to buy it and start a little herd o’ my own.”

  “ And raise the dogies in new, modern ways.”

  “Did you know cattle-raisin’ causes more greenhouse gases than cars do? If we changed their diets—the dogies, I’m talkin’ about—we could reduce methane emissions, fix global warming,
fix acid rain.... Okay, I’ll shut up.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Shorty.”

  “You are, huh?”

  “You’re a good man. And you will be a great success, I know it.”

  “What about you? How come you’re havin’ such a low-down day, Miss Romy?”

  “Oh, my friend. Where to begin.”

  “How ’bout the beginning?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Not enough time.”

  Funny thing to say, he thought, for a woman who got paid by the minute. “The middle, then. Anywhere you want.”

  Another sigh. “It’s nothing. I have fallen on hard times,” she said with a laugh, mocking herself.

  “Is it that sidewinder?”

  “That—? Oh, him. No. Well, not only him.”

  “Because that’s a varmint that oughta be shot.”

  “Did you take my advice, Shorty? Did you ask the lady you don’t even like if she stole your horses?”

  “Didn’t get the chance. She’s not talkin’ to me anymore.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “No big deal.”

  Silence from Romy.

  “Okay, it’s a big deal, but danged if I know why.”

  “I understand.”

  “I figure you do. How come?”

  “The same thing has happened to me. The man—he is gone, and that’s good, and yet it feels as if I have lost something quite . . . valuable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Perhaps . . . irreplaceable.”

  “Yeah.”

  They shared a gloomy silence. He wished he knew a way to cheer her up but, too bad, he was all out of cowboy sayings.

  “What’s it like in Hoboken tonight?” he asked.

  “There is a full moon. Are you outside?”

  “Yep. I’m . . . sittin’ up on a butte, lookin’ out across the prairie.”

  “How beautiful it must be.”

  “You ever been out West?”

  She said no, she never had, and he said she oughta come out sometime, he’d show her the sights. They talked about this and that, unimportant things, like old friends, and he wondered how he could feel so comfortable and connected with a woman he’d never seen and didn’t know. A woman who made her living talking to strangers.

  “Hang on a sec,” he said, “I got another call comin’ in.” He checked the number. “It’s my grampaw,” he told Romy. “Kinda late for him to call.”

  “Do you need to—”

  “Nah, he’s okay, I’ll catch him later.”

  “Shorty, I must go soon. But first I have something to tell you.”

  “Oh hell—you said that, and I plumb forgot. Sorry.”

  “Never mind. I didn’t want to say it anyway.”

  “Now you got me worried.”

  “This is the last time I can speak to you.”

  “Say what?”

  “I am resigning. As Madame Romanescu. This night is my last night. That’s why I was so glad when you called, so I could tell you—”

  “Shoot. Hang on two secs—” Charlie again. “Okay, I’m back. Now, what’s this you’re tellin’ me? You’re resigning?”

  “It’s part of having fallen on hard times,” she said with another rueful laugh. “I have to get serious about my life. Oh, Shorty—I’ve said good-bye to so many people tonight. Why are you the hardest?”

  “Well, wait now, maybe we can—” He heard a buzz on her end of the line. “What’s that?”

  “My doorbell,” she said in a wondering voice. “Who could it be? It’s almost midnight.”

  “I’ll hang on while you—Well, shit.” Charlie again! “I think I better call him—”

  “Yes, you must—”

  “But I’ll hang on while you see who’s—”

  “I’m looking through the . . . Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “It’s my aunt!”

  “Oh. Well, uh . . .”

  “I have to go. I’m so sorry. Good-bye, good-bye, dear one—”

  “ Aw, Romy.”

  “Have a happy life, my dear friend.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “I will miss you!”

  His phone beeped again. There was nothing else he could do—he hung up on Romy.

  “What?” he said in a loud, not at all respectful voice to his grandfather, who answered before the first ring finished.

  “Romy’s getting foreclosed,” said Charlie.

  “What?”

  “Romy’s getting foreclosed!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m telling you. Says right here.” Sounds of newspaper rattling. “Can’t believe I was about to throw this out. It’s last week’s.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Trustee’s Sale of valuable fee simple property improved by premises known as 622 Palmer Street.’ That’s Romy.”

  “No, Grandfather, Romy lives in Hoboken.”

  “No, no, she lives here. Blah blah, terms of sale, yackity yack . . . ‘for sale at public auction at the front of the Courthouse for the County of Montgomery, on June 11 at 11:18 a.m.’—that’s tomorrow.”

  “Grandfather—”

  “You gotta do something!”

  “Hang up. I’ll call her.”

  “Hah?”

  “Hang up!”

  But when he dialed Romy’s 900 number, he got a message saying it was no longer in service.

  It was one minute after midnight.

  FIFTEEN

  “I still think this is a horrible idea,” Molly said, holding the car door for her aunt. The older lady got out gingerly—arthritis in her toe—ignoring the hand Molly held out to help. “I don’t need to see this, Aunt Kit, I don’t need closure or—”

  “Who said anything about closure?” Aunt Kit straightened to her full height—five feet eight—and brushed down imaginary wrinkles in her straight, slim skirt. She’d arrived last night wearing her silvery hair in a new style, short and snazzy. “I’m telling you, something’s going to happen.”

  “Yeah,” Molly muttered, stuffing quarters into the parking meter. “The bank’s going to buy my house back. And you want me to watch. It’s inhumane. I’m just not—”

  Her aunt’s arm around her waist cut her off. “Hush. I’ve got a good feeling about this. When did you turn into such a gloomy Gloria?”

  She’d have answered—Two months ago, when I got a letter called Notice of Intent to Foreclose—but Aunt Kit gave her such a bracing squeeze just then, she didn’t have the breath. “You’re certainly not grumpy,” she accused as they waited for the Walk light at the corner. “You’re practically glowing.”

  “I am?” Aunt Kit widened her bright blue eyes, laughed her big laugh. Her fair Irish skin was etched with delicate lines that deepened when she smiled, which was often. At seventyfive, she looked—Molly studied her in the harsh morning sun—ten years younger. At least. Hope I got those genes, she thought, far from the first time.

  Why did they hold foreclosure auctions outside? What if it rained? What if it snowed? She’d always thought “on the courthouse steps” was just a saying, a metaphor, a verbal holdover from the Middle Ages—but look, there they were, about thirty people milling around in a sort of courtyard area under the portico of the extremely ugly gray stone county courthouse. “Still have that good feeling?” she thought of asking Aunt Kit, but anything out of her mouth for the next twenty minutes or so was going to be snarky and mean. She vowed to shut up. Just get through this, then you can go home.

  Except she couldn’t.

  Somebody’s house was up for sale right now. A man in shirtsleeves and a tie was auctioning it off like a—a rug at an estate sale. “Three ninety, three ninety, do I hear three ninety-one, ninety-one, ninety-one, do I hear ninety-one?” Long pause. “Sold for three hundred ninety thousand dollars.” Barbaric, thought Molly, looking around for the poor owner. Nobody was weeping, nobody looked heartbroken. Well, they wouldn’t come, of course; they wouldn’t have a crazy great-aunt who d
ragged them here to be eyewitnesses to the death of their dreams. They wouldn’t have a sadistic . . .

  Oh God!

  She let go of Aunt Kit’s arm to dodge behind the nearest column, pressing her back flat against it to stay upright. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  “What, honey?” her aunt asked mildly, looking around. “He just announced your house. I think it’s starting.”

  “This can’t be, it can’t be. This is a bad dream.” Except for her ex-husband, there was no one in the world Molly less wanted to meet at this moment than Oliver Worth. And still her stupid heart skipped that stupid beat, just to see him. She peeped around the column, helpless not to look. He was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Charlie was with him! Did they have a foreclosed house? Surely not. Were they buying a foreclosed house? Not Charlie—but she wouldn’t put it past Oliver. He’d probably enjoy profiting from someone else’s misfortune. The next best thing to scenic mountaintop removal.

  Aunt Kit was gazing about, trying to see what Molly was seeing. All at once, everything about her went still. Her face froze. Her mouth dropped.

  “Stop, don’t look!” Molly hissed. “They’ll see us!”

  “Who?”

  “Oliver! Oliver Worth. And Charlie. I can’t believe they’re here! God, this is my absolute worst nightmare.”

  “That’s Charlie?” And she started walking toward him.

  “What are you doing? Don’t go over there! Aunt Kit—” Molly made a grab for her shoulder, but her aunt shrugged her off like an annoying child and marched straight over to Charlie.

  Molly looked up at the sooty concrete ceiling, thinking, I’ll kill her. And then, Well, this is as low as it’s ever going to go, which was a kind of comfort, and followed.

  “Charlie,” she heard her aunt say, but in the strangest voice, low and wondering. Charlie turned toward her and said—nothing ; he seemed struck dumb. He just stared until Aunt Kit said, “I’m Kit.” And then he echoed it, “Kit,” like “Lord” or “Messiah.” “I’m Charlie,” he said. Then they just looked at each other.

  Oliver, who had been attending to the auction, saw Molly and did an actual double take. She was grateful for the halfminute’s warning she’d had; otherwise her face would look like his: gob-smacked.