Fade to Black (29 page)

“Soderland?”

“I’m here.”

“This is unofficial, got that?”

“Got it.”

“We’ll take her.”

Sheer, positive energy surges through Flynn; he victoriously smacks the steering wheel with his palm and grins, tilting his head back and mouthing the word yesss.

Then he pulls himself together.

“I’m glad” is his cool, professional response to de Lisser. “What’s the deal going to be?”

“We’ll get back to you in a day or so with our offer. But remember, this is between you, me, the studio, and Hamilton. We’re still holding that open casting call.”

“Of course,” Flynn says quickly, familiar with the intricacies of the business.

“The studio will be in touch with the particulars.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” he says, knowing there will be very little negotiation involved.

Not like with Mallory, when everybody wanted a piece of her, when offers were coming in faster than the waves at Surfrider Beach in Malibu. With Mallory he had mastered the art of the multimillion-dollar deal; with Mallory he was able to bleed them all dry to make it worth her while. She had died at the height of her career, and no matter what threats she made about firing Flynn because of his drinking, the truth remains that he had done right by her.

Rae isn’t going to command anywhere near the kind of money or perks that Mallory had.

Not yet.

But soon …

E
lizabeth sees that the house next door is dark when she pulls into her driveway, and her heart sinks.

Where’s Frank?

He had said he’d be there all night.

And she had promised Manny she’d talk to him.

She supposes she could call the police, but that would mean complications that might delay her exit.

With Frank she can simply explain the situation and ask him to handle it from there. Manny will be safe in his hands. He’s a law officer, and a father himself. She trusts him.

Not enough to tell him that she’s leaving town, of course.

She’ll just go.

She
has
to go, she thinks, her nerves on edge as she shifts her car into park and glances first at the Minellis’ darkened home, then at her own.

It’s almost eight o’clock.

There’s no time to lose.

She gets out of the car and goes to the house, vaguely noticing that raindrops have started to fall …

And belatedly remembering that she’d left the zippered canvas bag right out on the counter.

Panic seizes her as she fits her key into first one, then the second dead bolt.

How could she have been so careless?

What if there’s been another break-in?

What if her money, her ticket out of here, is gone?

She’ll be trapped, like a helpless animal in a hunter’s snare, waiting to become prey.

She throws open the door and heaves a sigh of relief.

It’s there, right where she had left it.

She hurries over, grabs it, unzips it, and checks the contents just to be sure.

It’s there, dozens of packets of big bills, enough to build a new life someplace.

She glances at the clock on the wall, which is edging perilously closer to eight.

What should she do?

You have to get the hell out of there, before he realizes you’ve stood him up
.

Before he comes after you....

But what about Manny?

She had promised him she’d talk to Frank.

A noise outside startles her.

Her heart racing, she turns toward the window, then breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s Frank, having stepped out his back door to put something into the garbage can.

Thank God
.

Thank God
.

Never has she seen a more welcome sight.

She hurriedly shoves the pouch of money into a cupboard, then goes back to the door. It’s raining more heavily now, with the familiar swishing sound a summer rain makes as it plops onto thankful foliage and grass.

“Frank,” she calls across the dusky yard.

He looks startled, glances up. “Hey there.”

“I didn’t realize you were home.”

“Oh … I was watching television in the dark. I like to do that sometimes, when Pam isn’t around.” He wipes raindrops from his face and continues. “She always has the house lit up like Sakonnet Lighthouse. You should see our electric bill. It’s—”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Elizabeth interrupts, glancing again at the clock behind her, on the wall.

“Sure you can talk to me. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine with me, but … it’s about a friend.”

“Okay … I’ll be right there. Let me just run in and turn off the oven. I had put a pizza in, and the buzzer’s about to go off, so—”

“You don’t have to do that. It’ll take only a minute,” Elizabeth says, fighting to keep the desperation out of her voice. “I won’t keep you from your pizza—”

“It’s no big deal,” Frank tells her. “I’ll be right there.”

He disappears into his house.

Shaking, she returns to her kitchen and the ticking clock.

Outside, the rain falls steadily on the roof, gaining in intensity. There’s a far-off roll of thunder, signifying that the promised storm is on its way, that they’re in for a good soaking.

She paces across the floor, returns to the door to look for Frank, and sees that he’s not yet on his way over.

“Damn,” she whispers, pacing again.

She’s got to get out of there.

Before it’s too late …

“N
o, it’s all right,” Harper Smith tells the owner of Momma Mangia, a dapper man with slicked-back hair and a thick dark mustache. “I’ll wait for her right here. I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”

The man nods and turns to a young couple who’s just arrived, shaking raindrops from their hair. They are without reservations. He tells them that he has nothing available, and they’ll have to wait.

“How long?” the guy asks, glancing anxiously at his date.

They can’t be out of college yet, Harper notes absently. The girl, a pretty blonde clad in a white summer dress and sandals, looks innocent and nervous. The boy, in his Polo shirt and carefully pressed chinos with perfect creases down the front, is obviously eager to impress her.

“It could be an hour, maybe more. On weekend nights we’re very busy. We strongly recommend making dinner reservations,” the owner tells the young couple.

“Sorry about this. I didn’t know,” the boy says to the girl, and then to the owner, “We’ll wait, I guess.”

The man nods.

Harper checks his watch.

Eight-oh-five.

Where is she?

He remembers how reluctant she’d been to agree to have dinner with him.

What if she’s changed her mind?

What if she isn’t coming?

Why had he agreed to let her meet him here, to let her drive to the restaurant herself?

He should have insisted that he pick her up, that it be like a regular date.

That’s all I wanted
, he thinks, irritated, glancing again at his watch, and then at the door.
Just a regular date
.

Was that too much to ask?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

It would all depend on Elizabeth.

He folds his arms grimly and leans back against the wall to wait, keeping a watchful eye outside, where the wind has picked up and the rain is falling harder.

T
he wipers are making a rhythmic squeaking against the windshield as Pamela wearily steers the Toyota off the exit ramp leading from 195 to 114 south, the divided highway that runs through the East Bay.

“The speedway” Frank calls it because of the winding curves and other drivers’ tendency to fly along the road at seventy and eighty miles an hour.

Make sure you never go over the speed limit on 114, Pamela. Especially with the kids in the car
.

How many times has she heard that from Frank, who as a police officer has seen countless fatal wrecks on the road?

How many times has she resented him for uttering that last part?

Especially with the kids in the car
.

As though she would ever take a chance with her children.

As though he doesn’t care how fast she drives when she’s alone.

“Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be home,” she announces to Hannah, who’s been whining ever since they left Boston an hour and a half ago.

The traffic hasn’t been as bad on the journey home as it had been going in, but the roads around Boston and Providence were still congested enough to make it a stressful trip, especially with the rain and the cranky kids in the backseat.

“Hannah? We’re almost there,” Pamela says again.

There’s no reply, and she glances briefly over her shoulder to see that her daughter’s pale blond head is slumped to the side.

She, like Jason, is sound asleep.

It’s about time
, Pamela thinks, shaking her head as she accelerates onto the wet highway, eager to put an end to this trip from hell.

What had she been thinking, just taking off like that?

Why hadn’t she waited to make sure her parents were going to be home, or at least thought to bring the telephone number and address of their summer home?

Because you were too angry at Frank to think straight
, she reminds herself.

All you wanted to do was get out of there, to make him worry about you and the kids
.

So.

Is
he worried?

Or is he glad they’re gone, eager to seize the opportunity to dash next door and into the willing arms of their single and available neighbor?

We’ll soon find out, won’t we?
Pamela thinks as she presses down on the accelerator, Frank be damned, and steers out into the left lane to bypass the traffic that’s sticking to the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit.

“I
’m really glad that you came to me with this problem, Elizabeth,” Frank is saying.

He’s seated next to her on the couch, the picture of a casual conversationalist with his arm stretched along the back and one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.

Outside, the storm has intensified, with booms of thunder occasionally punctuating the patter of drops on the roof. The lights keep flickering; it’s only a matter of time before the power goes out. It happens often in electric storms like this.

“I figured you would know what to do about Manny’s situation without his automatically being sent to foster care,” Elizabeth tells Frank, doing her best to keep a hysterical edge from creeping into her voice.

The digital clock on the VCR across the room says that it’s 8:22.

Her mind is whirling.

Any second now, Harper Smith is going to show up here, looking for her. He’ll be in a rage that she never showed up at the restaurant.

She has to get out of there....

But Frank isn’t showing any signs of imminent departure, probably because he isn’t eager to go out into the nasty weather. Why, of all times, does it have to be stormy
now?

“The situation is very serious,” he’s saying. “That poor kid must be going through hell, with a mother like that. I mean, I never had a mother—she died giving birth to me—but my situation was better than having some drug-addict mother coming around threatening to kidnap me,” he concludes, shaking his head in an isn’t-that-a-shame gesture.

Elizabeth shifts nervously on the couch cushion, looking again at the clock: 8:23.

“I agree with you that this situation will have to be handled very delicately,” Frank goes on, rubbing his chin with his palm, as though in deep thought.

Please, just go
.

Please … I have to get out of here
.

But even as she wishes she’d never asked to talk to Frank Minelli, she’s certain it was the right thing to do. She had promised Manny, and now he’ll get the help he needs.

“Are you all right, Elizabeth?” Frank interrupts himself to ask, and she realizes that while she’s been staring at the clock, he’s been looking intently at her.

“I’m … fine. It’s just that … I have to be someplace.”

“In this weather?”

“I had … plans.”

He raises an eyebrow, then slaps his cheek as though the light has just dawned.

“Your date,” he says, “with Harper Smith.”

“That’s right.” Does she sound as desperate as she feels? Can he hear her heart pounding, see her entire body trembling?

“I guess I thought you’d changed your mind about going out with him.”

“I was going to back out of it,” she says, “but then I realized it would be best not to jump to conclusions. To, you know … give him a chance, I guess …”