Four Wives (21 page)

“M
OMMY, WHAT ARE YOU
doing?”

With
Dora the Explorer
just ending, Jessica turned her attention to her mother and the book on her lap. Curious now, she moved closer until she was almost on top of her sleeping baby brother.

“Can I see?”

“There’s nothing to see. It’s grown-up reading,” Love said, pulling the book away from her child. It was just paper and ink, but she felt an instinctual fear that it might somehow be toxic.

“Can I see?” Jessica asked again as she maneuvered around Baby Will and sat on a pillow near her mother’s head. Love sighed, then opened to a page. Looking down at the words, Jessica pretended to read as she had seen Henry do, her face squinting with a concentrated stare.

“It’s grown-up writing, Jess.”

“About real monsters?”

Love tried not to laugh. In a futile attempt to bridge the television gap between Henry and Jessica, Love had made any movies with “real monsters” off-limits for Jessica. Scooby-Doo cartoons were OK, Harry Potter was not. Inadvertently teaching her three-year-old about real monsters was not exactly a proud parenting moment.

“No. No monsters. It’s just about life.”

“My life?”

“No. Nobody you know. Just a man.”

Nobody you know …just a man.
Just the girl’s grandfather, whom she would likely never meet. For the best, Love imagined. Still, there was something terribly wrong about that.

The sound of Bill’s voice in the hall downstairs had Jessica scooting off the bed.

“Daddy!” she yelled, and then she was gone, her attention fully diverted.

Love smiled as she watched her daughter bounce out of the room. A little blond jumping bean.

She returned the book to the night stand. She hadn’t read it’not one word’and her defiance was comforting. That man was from her past, from another universe. And it was in that universe she had ended up in the hospital, nearly dead from a handful of pills. For years she had placed her father in the bin with everyone else who had written her off. Friends, the few she’d had, admiring researchers who’d followed her progress, investing their time and energy. She’d spun out of control, placed their reputations in jeopardy. Her self-destruction had been almost passionate as she immersed herself in degradation. But none of it could take back that night when she was still a girl, or quiet the shame that ate away at her day after day until, finally, she could take no more. Her mother’s pills had been right there, the ones Yvonne had been too righteous to take. Those with front-row seats had orchestrated the spin to keep the story quiet’that after years of a troubled existence, Love Welsh had tried to take her life, but like everything else had failed.

It was in the aftermath of that ugly truth that she’d met Dr. Bill Harrison, the reason she had these three beautiful children. Still, no one ever spoke about it. Not her mother, whose Valium she’d taken’an old prescription that Yvonne had been given when her own mother died. Not Bill, who’d been on his ER rotation. Not even her father, who had been cunning enough to keep it from the media, releasing a statement from New York that very night to the effect that his daughter had been admitted for dehydration and exhaustion following a flu. There’d been no way to prove that she’d suffered an overdose without violating medical confidentiality, so the tabloids had printed the bullshit story, then left it alone. And, as it turned out, the public cared so little about her by then that the story died before the slightest amount of speculation began to gather speed.

Even so, her world had finally crashed that night, leaving her adrift. Still alive but immersed in the sickening feeling of death, she had ruled out another suicide attempt. And yet the same emptiness was there, taking the more subtle form of depression where a powerful anxiety had once been. She’d taken to sidewalk cafes where she could drink coffee and smoke, and most of all, not be home where her mother’s guilt stared her down in every room. At twenty-five, her life had felt over.

Six months later, she’d heard his voice over her shoulder. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? “

She’d braced herself for the humiliation’turning to face some L.A. star-seeker who would quickly realize she was one of the fallen. As it happened, it was far worse.

“Dr. Harrison,” she’d said, lighting a cigarette. “Yeah, you know me. Give it a second and it’ll come to you.”

Dr. Bill Harrison had been the only thing from her overdose that she’d allowed herself to remember, and she had used the thought of him to comfort herself in the dark moments that came and went. When he was before her again, the fear that he would reflect on her weakness with disdain had been more than she could bear. She’d taken a long drag on her cigarette and masked her feelings with a facade of indifference.

But with disarming kindness, the young doctor had simply smiled.

“Love Welsh.” His voice had been full of delight.

“Nothing gets past you, Doctor,” she’d said, still feeling irreverent.

“May I?” He’d pulled out a chair then and sat down at her table before she could answer.

“How are you doing?” He was concerned, and his sincerity had pulled her in.

“I’m better,” she’d lied. And he’d seen through it.

“Really? You look kind of thin. Have you been eating?”

They talked then, about her, about suicide and depression. Bill spoke from his brief experience on a psych-ward rotation, and as the son of parents who lived their lives in a state of perpetual unhappiness. Without the slightest hint of judgment, he’d pulled from her things she had told only a select few, things she had thought she would never tell another living person. And he’d listened with the patience that was his way.

“I have to go. I have rounds,” he’d said at the end, and Love felt like grabbing him and never letting go. Then, with a boyish nervousness, he had continued. “But maybe we can do this again. Can I call you?”

Closing her eyes now, Love thought about how easy it had been. She’d written down her number, and he’d called the next day. And the next, and the day after that. On their third date, she’d laughed for the first time in a very long time, and by the end of that month, she never wanted to look back. When Bill gave her a way out, she took hold without thinking. Moving east to raise a family, leaving L.A. for dense woods and suburban charm had been the surest path to leaving it all behind. And the illusion that she no longer cared still meant something. Happily married, content with the sacred occupation of motherhood’all of it protected her from the scrutinizing glare of her own failings. She’d sent little cards to some of her former teachers, announcing the arrival of each of her three children. And some had sent back gifts and kind notes.
So happy you ’ve found a life for yourself … congratulations … looks like everything worked out.
If they suspected for a moment that she cared about the life she’d thrown away, they would think her pathetic, and that was not something Love could bear. Especially not from her father.

She looked now at Baby Will curled up beside her, then at the book on her other side. It didn’t matter what her father had revealed. The past was back, living inside her. She could feel it now, now that she was stopped dead in her tracks. The daily tasks that had occupied her for years were being done by others’her mother, Bill, and her friends’as she lay in bed, her back in agony. There was nothing for her to do but think. And remember.

“I’
LL GET IT.
You go home,” Randy said, reaching for the receiver. Marie mouthed a
thank you,
then started for the door.

“Wait!”

When she turned around, he had his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the Farrells’ neighbor,” he said in a whisper, his eyebrows raised.

Marie dropped her bag at the door and bounded back to the desk, waving her hand for the phone.

“Can you hold on a second?” Randy asked the woman’the one neighbor who had children in the same age range as the Farrells’. Randy had left a message for her two days before, but had since given up on hearing back. He hit the
hold
key, then looked at Marie.

“What’s her name? “

“Andrea Rasman. Three kids’ten, six, and two. The two-year-old is a little girl.”

“That’s how old Simone Farrell would be.”

Randy nodded. “They’re a few houses down from the Farrells’ old place.”

“OK.” Marie exhaled deeply as she reached for the phone. She looked at the red blinking
hold
key, but did not touch it. There was no doubt in her mind that something was not right with the Farrell case. The domestic disturbance that no one had mentioned’not even Connely, Carson’s fear of Marie asking too many questions of his wife, and his insistence that Marie help him get to the other kids’increased visitation, overnights, vacations. He had not sanctioned an interview with his neighbor. In fact, he had instructed her not to dig into their past beyond what he himself was willing to disclose. She was violating his trust, her fiduciary responsibility to him as a client.

But there were three small children whose baby sister was dead.

She looked at Randy for reassurance, a first-year law student who couldn’t possibly know which call to make. She looked to him just the same because he knew what was going through her mind and, at the very least, could share her uncertainty.

“Want me to do it?” he asked, giving her an out. He wasn’t a lawyer yet. The worst thing that would happen to him was a scolding from their client.

Marie shook her head, then placed the phone on Speaker and released the Hold.

“Mrs. Rasman?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Marie Passeti. I’m a lawyer down in Hunting Ridge, Connecticut. I was hoping you could help me with a case. It involves the Farrell family.”

“The Farrells?” The woman sounded curious.

“Yes. Did you know them?”

There was a slight pause before the answer arrived. And when it did, Marie could tell from the woman’s tone that a decision had just been made. “We did. They don’t live here anymore.”

“I hope you don’t mind the Speaker. I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” Marie lied. She wanted Randy to hear the call, but wouldn’t risk involving him further.

“No. That’s fine.”

“I’m representing Carson Farrell in the divorce.”

Andrea Rasman let out an audible sigh. “Oh,” she said. “They didn’t make it?”

Marie looked at Randy, who was now taking notes at his desk.

“No. And now Mrs. Farrell wants sole custody. Because of the accident, she’s claiming Carson isn’t fit to care for the children.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, and Marie found herself surprised at the woman’s apparent sincerity.

“It is. I was hoping you could give me your impressions’about both parents. Carson appears to be a good father.”

“He was. You know, from what I saw. Mostly I was with Vickie and the kids. They all went to school together. Most afternoons they’d wind up in one yard or the other.”

“I know how that goes. I have two of my own. It’s great living so close to other families.”

“We knew all the kids. They moved here just after their second was born. Then they had the next two. It was so tragic. Simone was the sweetest little girl.”

“That’s what I hear. Carson is still shaken up about it.”

There was no response.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the family’the Farrells’ relationship, or any problems with the kids?”

“Oh, no. Those kids were angels. Did great in school.”

“Did any of them see a psychiatrist for any reason?”

“Not that I knew of. They were always home after school. No regular appointments or anything like that.”

“And the parents?”

“That I wouldn’t know,” she said, then tried to explain further. “Vickie and I were friends because of the kids. We really didn’t talk much. Just phone calls to make sure we knew where everyone was. Whose house they were at. They really kept to themselves. I tried for a while to get them to come over for dinner, but she always made excuses. Finally, I just stopped asking.”

Marie felt herself tensing up. This woman had to know something useful after living three doors down for five years.

“What about the incident with the police? A little while before the accident. Did you know about that?”

Again, there was a distinct hesitation. “Who did you say you were representing?”

Randy looked up from his notes, holding his breath.

“Carson Farrell.”

Marie waited, trying to interpret the silence on the line. She was close to giving up on Andrea Rasman when the voice came through the box.

“I knew. Everyone knew. We had some new neighbors’an older couple who moved in. It’s the house on the right of the Farrells’ old place. We were all used to it. No one liked it, but calling the police? That’s a little over the top. I suppose they didn’t know what was happening, maybe thought someone was in trouble.”

“Was it really that frequent?” Marie asked, pretending that none of this was news to her.

“I’m sure Carson played it down. He’s like that. Very private.”

Marie felt a surge of adrenaline. “How often did they fight?”

Andrea Rasman spoke, and now seemed committed to telling what she knew.
“Very
often. After Simone was born. To their credit, they kept it away from the kids. There was a lot of anger, from what I could tell. I think the fourth child pushed them over the limit. You could hear her at night’ especially when the weather turned warmer and the windows were open.”

“You said
her.
You mean the baby?”

“Not the baby.
Vickie Farrell.
Honestly, Carson had the patience of a saint.”

Marie turned to look at Randy, who was now standing beside her.

“He’s a good man,” Marie said, trying to cover her confusion.

“Yes, he was.
Is.
I hope he gets to see his kids. That’s really all I know. I’m sure you got all of this from Carson.”

“It’s OK. I’m glad to have an outside source if we wind up in court. You’ve been very helpful.”

“OK.”

“Have a good night,” Marie said, disconnecting the call.

“Damn.” Randy was sitting back down. “What’s going on here?”

Marie felt her heart pounding. This was not what she had expected, and her mind was spinning with the possibilities.

“What do we know about Farrell’s firm? Is there anyone there we can talk to?”

“Marie … ,” Randy started to say. It was one thing to snoop around the neighborhood with people the Farrells would never see again. But the firm was far riskier.

“Just tell me what you know.”

“It’s a small retail operation. They used to have offices in Manhattan, Boston, and Chicago but the market decline left them only in New York. Boston closed when the Farrells moved. It’s the reason they moved. Chicago folded last year.”

“Farrell got transferred to New York. What about the rest of the place?”

“Not sure. I can look up the company annual reports and do a cross reference of names.”

“No. I need his secretary. How can we find her?” Marie asked, already thinking of an answer herself.

“We have to go back through
everything.
Phone records, check registers’maybe he gave her a Christmas bonus. The deposition transcript. I need to find her name without raising any eyebrows. Then I need to find her.”

Randy studied Marie’s face, thinking he could understand where she was going with all of this. “I’ll do it. You go home. The girls are waiting.”

Marie got up from her chair, then sat back down. She reached for the phone and hit the speed dial for Anthony’s office. “No,” she said, waiting for the connection. “They can hang out at Love’s until Anthony gets home. For once, he can put my work first. This is too important.”