She grabbed her tote bag and purse and dashed into the hall, heading for the elevator. Her head spun; her thoughts raced. She wished she hadn’t agreed to see Giles tonight, but he’d insisted. Well, tonight she would. The elevator doors opened. Even in the clear sunlight, her dilemma remained cloudy.
Giles sat at the breakfast table alone this morning; well, not quite. Felicity, bless her soul, was more vigilant today. He appreciated that about her, almost as much as he savored the relative peace, however temporary. He’d been fooled before, he reminded himself, while sipping strong, black coffee from a bone china cup. June had had numerous near death experiences, but always, she’d survived them.
Well, he didn’t really want the Junebug to die, not permanently. Just for the remainder of his physical life would do quite nicely. He spread orange marmalade on his dry white toast and gazed out the leaded glass at the expansive lawn. The thing was, thoughts like these made him feel that he was a wicked, evil man. Why…why, that he was not!
He straightened his back against the wooden slat in the mahogany dining chair. He was Giles Dingwerth, President of Dingwerth Distinctive Designs, son of Giles Merriweather Dingwerth, former President of Dingwerth Distinctive Designs, grandson of Giles Everding Dingwerth, former former President of Dingwerth Distinctive Designs, great-grandson of Giles Harrison Dingwerth, founder of Dingwerth Distinctive Designs…well now, a person with such a grand legacy simply couldn’t be evil now, could he? No. Of course not. Giles blotted his sticky mouth with his starched napkin. He took a deep breath and relaxed. He felt so much better.
“Mr. Dingwerth?”
For a reason Giles couldn’t explain, Felicity’s soft voice startled him. “Yes, what is it?”
“Will you be going to the hospital today to visit Mrs. Dingwerth?”
For propriety’s sake, Giles knew he should feign indignation. “Of course. Didn’t you think I would plan to visit my ailing wife? Don’t I always?”
Felicity’s lined face bore no expression; neither did her voice. “It’s just that Rocco called, sir. He would like to know of your plans.”
“Well, I’ll call him, then. Why all the fuss?” At that moment, Giles didn’t quite know how to interpret the sudden suspicion in Felicity’s eyes. In the next one, however, it became clear.
“Rocco says he must pick up a lady at two o’clock for you. He wants you to let him know of your plans for today.” Felicity stared at the floor. “Since Mrs. Dingwerth became ill so, you know, so quickly.”
“Look at me, Felicity. I’m sure you know that my relationship with my ‘lady’ as you call her, is not a simple friendship. As I told you when it started six months ago or so, a man of my position often has such a lady in his life. It’s not such a big deal. You do know Mrs. Dingwerth is quite prone to illness, real or imagined, and that she makes things worse when she breaks her diet, which is just as often. Besides, it wouldn’t surprise either of us, or Rocco either for that matter, if Mrs. Dingwerth knew of my ‘lady.’ Has she ever mentioned anything to you?”
Felicity was tempted, Giles could tell, but no, she wouldn’t tip her hand. She wasn’t talking, not yet. Instead, she simply shook her head. “No.”
“Very well, then. Please dust up the guest room in the west wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Felicity?”
“Sir?”
“Fresh sheets on the bed?”
“Sí.”
“Good. I’ll call Rocco, don’t fret about that. By the way, has Bunny called? I was wondering about Daniel.”
“No, sir. No word from Miss Bunny.”
“Funny, don’t you think so? I mean, after all that’s happened?” Giles waited, and waited some more. Felicity didn’t utter a single word. She simply turned and began to clear the breakfast dishes from the table, and somehow, Giles sensed the reason for her silence.
After all, there was still a lot going on, wasn’t there?
“Any word from your ex?”
Gabby leaned closer to Marc across the polished marble counter. It was just before 9 a.m., and the lobby of the Hotel Charlotte was still calm. Usually, things didn’t pick up until just before noon. Today was no exception.
At the veiled reference to Brock, Marc’s jaw stiffened. “Actually, yes, I have.”
Oooh, thought Gabby, this would be good. After all, she loved nothing better than a good clean, dirty fight. She summoned her best soothing tone of voice. “Has something upset you?”
“Well,” Marc said, “I wouldn’t exactly say that, but…”
“What? What is it, Marc?”
Marc stared past her shoulder at something, well, eye-popping it seemed. “Isn’t that Leila Bolivar?”
“Who?”
“You know, the model from South America. Leila Bolivar. Everyone says she’s having an affair with Giles Dingwerth. But of course, you already knew that.”
Gabby felt ecstatic! Her nerves had nerves. She lived for moments like this one, by golly. It was Christmas, and Marc here was Mr. Santa himself, because, true or not, if everyone already thought so, solid news like this belonged in the Gateway Gabette. “Tell me,” she said, her gaze fixed on the lithe, glamorous Leila, her hair whipping in the breeze, her long, graceful legs striding toward the waiting Mercedes. Together, she and Marc watched as the Mercedes sped away, and for a few seconds, they were inexplicably speechless.
“Gabby, I really do have work to do,” Marc said, rearranging the mounds of receipts that littered the cluttered desk before him.
“But, we need to talk.”
“About? I’ve told you all I know. Now, shoo.”
“Listen to you! Hardly one word about Brock, and you expect me to leave. Come on, Marc. Everyone wants to know about Angela Hart, you know that.”
“What’s to know? You know, this is really painful for me, Gabby, do you realize that?”
“I can appreciate that. And…so can my readers. Don’t you think they want to know about the cunning temptress that ruined your perfect life?”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“I thought so. Let’s have it. It’s coffee break time.”
“Hmmm. What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want? Maybe I can get it for you.”
Again, Marc’s gaze was focused on something behind her, what, Gabby couldn’t say. That is, until she turned to see a rumpled Dan Hunter approach the desk. Great. The donut guy. Marc leaned across the counter to whisper. “You asked me what I want? Now that is someone I would like to meet. I just love his smile.” Marc smoothed his hair and smiled at Dan. “Can I help you?”
Dan looked breathless enough for the both of them. He edged in beside Gabby and pressed his chapped hands against the cold marble counter. “Leila Bolivar, please? Do you have her room number handy? I seem to have misplaced it.”
“I’m sorry?” Marc said.
Dan coughed and cleared his throat. “Leila Bolivar, the model. Has she checked out?”
Marc raised an eyebrow and sneaked a quick look in Gabby’s direction. “Why no, I don’t have any record of that,” Marc said, “though I believe she stepped out for a bit. Would you like me to ring her room?”
“You say she stepped out?”
“I believe so, sir. I’m sure she’ll be back sometime today. Is there any message?”
Gabby thought Dan appeared to be in another place, far, far away. Suddenly, he reached for his cell phone and stepped towards the revolving door, shaking his head from side to side, as if to say “no.” All he did say was simply, “thanks.” In a flash, he was on the phone. “Leila? Hey, it’s me, Dan. Did you call early this morning?” He laughed. “I thought it was you. How about tonight? Why not? See what you can do, okay? I mean, I’m free tonight. My wife’s going out for awhile. Yeah sure, call me back.”
Gabby and Marc watched as Dan strolled into the hotel coffee shop. “I thought you said she was having an affair with Giles Dingwerth,” Gabby said. “You got your facts mixed up.”
“Don’t think so. Why don’t you find out? This is right up your alley. Besides, you don’t like Dan Hunter anyway.”
Marc drummed his fingers on the counter. “Wait a minute. I might be able to help you after all.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call Brock.”
“Because?”
“Because. Maybe I’ve been hanging around you too long, who knows? Or maybe because he once mentioned that Dr. Hart took care of Mrs. Dingwerth.”
“You devil, you.”
Dr. Hart scanned his clipboard for some last minute comments. He was well aware that his patient’s husband, Giles Dingwerth, IV, lest he need to be reminded, fidgeted before his eyes, literally aching to leave. Lunch date, perhaps? He knew he was being perverse, but, he decided to prolong the consultation; watch Giles dangle like a spider from a sticky, tangled web.
Come to think of it, hadn’t Angela mentioned something about Giles Dingwerth a while back? Angela prattled on so much. What was it that she’d said? He would think of it eventually. “Well,” he said, “do you have any further questions? If you like, I could probably send June home around five or so today…”
“Oh no! No. NO.”
“Well Giles, really.” Dr. Hart chuckled, an uncomfortable moment for the both of them. “You do want her to come home, don’t you?”
“What I mean is, doctor, I want her to be ready to come home. She’s not an easy woman to live with anyway, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that you had a bit of trouble yourself along those lines, didn’t you? And, you know June. Women are difficult, by God. They’re moody, they’re irrational, they’re demanding…so unlike a man. Well, you know…now, there’s my phone. Would you excuse me for a minute?”
Dr. Hart tapped his pen against the metal clip on the board. What if he had refused? Eavesdropping as he did now, however, he was so glad he hadn’t. Giles sounded a wee bit upset, well a lot really, and he was making no effort to conceal his angst. “Well, when can I see you then?” he said. “What? Stomach flu? Well, I’ll come over and keep you company. Oh, my wife’s fine, really. I just saw her. She was, uh, sleeping. That’s what I said. I saw her sleeping. Look, Leila, I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later. Fine, then. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Giles flipped his cell phone shut and turned around to face Dr. Hart. His face was flushed a bright pink.
Leila? Dr. Hart felt confused. Had he heard Giles say Leila? That was it! June Dingwerth mentioned her name at least a dozen times since her admission, before she’d gone into a coma. Now he recalled how she’d wept while she recounted Giles’ hushed conversations with Felicity, that ended when she entered the room, the lies Giles told her that never added up to anything, the anonymous phone calls, when all June could do was say hello, hello, hello, over and over again.
Now June, he’d assured her, you’re not well, we both know Giles loves you desperately, he’d never do anything to hut you, etc., etc. He’d said the same thing to various other patients in the same situation.
Whatever June Dingwerth was, she was not stupid or overly romantic. She didn’t buy it. “Dr. Hart,” she’d said in her raspy smoker’s voice, “it’s that model Leila Bolivar that Giles wants, not me.”
Even then, he’d wondered why June elected now to confide this scandal to him, as obviously sick as she was. Couldn’t they discuss this at a later date, he’d asked? And then, he recalled now, she had said the strangest thing.
“I just want you to know Giles might not mind it very much if I were to suddenly, shall we say, fade into the sunset.” June had sat straight up in the bed, her eyes wide with clarity. “If I should suddenly die, doctor, it might not be an accident. My death might not happen in the way it was meant to. That’s what I’m saying.”
“June, are you saying Giles would like to kill you?” He recalled now how he had chuckled at the idea. “Do you hear yourself? With all respect, you’re talking out of your head.”
With her jaundiced complexion and tousled, tangled hair, he suspected she was losing her sanity. Now, with the flushed, sheepish husband standing before him, his mouth grew dry. He felt his teeth clench. He wasn’t sure he knew the truth anymore. Besides, there was something worse.
He was beginning to believe that perhaps he didn’t want to know the answer.
Eleven
“Angela?”
Angela Hart leaned against the kitchen counter, and sucked a lazy drag from her cigarette. Eugene bored her. Bored, bored, bored her! And now, he was on the phone again, just when she was preparing to serve Brock’s favorite asparagus-mushroom quiche. She flipped the wide sleeve of her tangerine chiffon caftan away from her bony wrist, and sighed audibly into the receiver. “I have company, Eugene. This is not a good time.”
She turned to see Brock entering the kitchen, clad in his black silk kimono. What a body—so taut and tanned—so unlike Eugene’s pale, fleshy one. What did her soon to be ex-husband want? “What kind of emergency? Everything is an emergency to you, Eugene. That’s why I left you, remember?”
She stubbed out her cigarette and popped a peppermint breath mint into her mouth. The quiche was getting cold. Eugene was babbling something about June Dingwerth, the old tart. Of course she remembered June. Who could forget that neurotic mess?
“Are you coming, baby?” Brock said, unfolding his napkin.
Angela loved it when he called her baby. She would have hung up on Eugene if their divorce was final, but alas… “Alright, alright, what is it? Who was Giles fooling around with? Well, it’s just a rumor, Eugene. That’s all. Brock heard it from a customer. That’s right, he’s a stylist. I said, a stylist, with style. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
What a pest. How could she, why would she, remember anything about the Dingwerths? She just didn’t care that much.
“Well, he’s sitting right here, let me ask him.” Angela covered the receiver with her long fingers. “Darling, do you remember who Giles Dingwerth was supposedly fooling around with? I mean, the gossip, you know.”
Brock sipped white wine from a small goblet. “It’s only a nasty rumor, darling.”
“Brock, it’s Eugene. I just want to get off the phone. Now.”
“Fine. But, you didn’t hear it from me. And, I’m not going to reveal my sources, either.”
“Tick, tock, Brock—”
“Leila Bolivar.”
“The model? What would she want with Giles Dingwerth?”
Brock took another sip from his glass. “My lips are sealed.” He gestured toward the succulent quiche, browned to perfection. “May I?”
“Go ahead, I’ll be right there.” Angela uncovered the receiver. “Eugene, are you sitting down? Alright, it’s just a rumor. Leila Bolivar. The model, right. How should I know? Look, I’ve got to go. And Eugene, my lawyer will be calling yours, probably, oh, tomorrow morning. Yeah, you too.”
Angela replaced the receiver and took a place at the table. Brock still looked good, but somehow, the quiche didn’t. Not anymore. Calls from Eugene did that to her.
“Are you alright?” Brock nudged the quiche toward her plate. “You must be hungry after our little rendezvous.” He winked at her and cut a chunk of quiche with his fork. She watched him chew it, brushing crumbs from the table into his napkin. He was right. The afternoon had been good. The quiche looked, well, good. So, what was wrong?
She couldn’t put her finger on it. She loathed herself for the thought, but after speaking to her ex-husband, she couldn’t deny the difference between the two men. What was it? In some ways, Brock was a better lover than Eugene, wasn’t he? Yes, but…well…there was that sneaky suspicion Brock was only trying to please her, that he wasn’t satisfied, really satisfied with her at all. Not like Eugene had been. Was she imagining things? She didn’t think so.
Would this be a good time to discuss it with Brock? She gazed at her handsome, younger lover and, for onc
e, quickly decided.
No. She didn’t think so.
Like sludge through a drain, the words ran through his memory. Dr. Hart felt confused. “Leila, I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later,” and “Leila Bolivar. The model, right. How should I know?” Like a tornado, sordid thoughts whisked through his mind, causing him to jump to hasty, and he reminded himself, probably wrong conclusions regarding the Dingwerths. Was June’s life in danger? What should he do about it?
He drove slowly, headed for his lonely apartment, leased in desperation and haste the day after Angela and he separated. Heavy clouds crowded the dusky sky. The wind gusted through the brittle leaves, whistling through some random crevices in his temporary car, rented while his Cadillac was being repaired after a hit and run accident in the hospital parking lot.
Finally, he reached his destination, and shook his head in disgust. Even as he made his way to the long, low building he called home, at least for now Giles’ remark stung his ears. “…you had a bit of trouble yourself along those lines, didn’t you, doctor?”
Dr. Hart jabbed his tinny key into the cheap lock, his rounded shoulders slumping with fatigue. Giles Dingwerth was right. Who was he to judge anyone? Yes, he thought, while he poured himself a glass of Cabernet, he’d had trouble with Angela, but that didn’t mean…it didn’t mean he couldn’t judge reality for what it clearly was. He knew what June had said. He’d heard Giles on the phone. He’d even talked to Angela—what a sacrifice that had been! He took a gulp of wine to fortify his nerves. There, that was better. What if June died? He took a deep breath and sighed.
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