She Loves Me Not (18 page)

“I can imagine. Well, another time, then.”

She forces a smile. “Sure.”

Another time?

Does Luke want to
date
her?

First Hitch, and now Luke. It's too much. Too much,
too soon after Sam.

“I'm going to go back to talk to Emily before I
leave,” he says. “Have a nice afternoon with your kids, Rose. And drive home
carefully. Weather like this can be deadly when you're out . . .”

He trails off.

She looks down at the scuffed toes of her boots.
“I'll be careful.”

“Oh, God, I'm sorry, Rose. I forgot . . .
about your husband.”

“It's okay. He didn't die on an icy road.”

“I know, but . . .” He shrugs, looking
helpless.

He
knows?

“It's okay. “She wonders who told him about Sam.
Netta? Bill? Someone sitting on the next stool at the counter in the diner?

“I just didn't mean to remind you of anything
sad.”

“I know.” She wants to tell him that there are
reminders every moment of every day. That nothing he says can possibly make it
any harder for her.

But she only says, “I have to go. I'll see you
tomorrow,” before hurrying out into the rain.

“B
en
Kirkmayer.”

“You're there!” Christine is surprised to hear his
voice on the other end of the telephone.

“Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?”

“I tried to call you earlier, a few times. I kept
getting your voice mail.”

“I was working down the hall in the conference
room. Why didn't you leave me a message?”

“It wasn't important.”

“Oh. Well . . . how are things going? Did
you alphabetize the CDs like you were going to?”

“No, I . . . I didn't have time.”

No, she only had time to cry. And brood. And wonder
how she's managed to create a lifelong enemy out of their next-door neighbor
less than twenty-four hours after befriending her.

“Is it snowing out there?” Ben asks. She hears
paper rustling on his end.

Christine glances out the kitchen window at the
soggy, dismal dusk. “No. Just raining. Why? Is it snowing in the city?”

“It was. Not anymore. Listen, I've got a lot to do
before I can get out of here, so . . .”

“I'll let you go,” she says, because she knows he
expects it, not because she wants to.

“Okay. I'll call and let you know what train I'm
taking. They're running on a holiday schedule, so . . .”

“Ben?”

“Yeah?” He sounds distracted. She hears the tapping
of a keyboard.

“I got my period.”

Silence.

Then, “Oh. That's too bad, babe.” He says it in the
same tone he'd use if she told him she just poured a bowl of Cheerios, then
realized they're out of milk. He adds, “Maybe next month.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again.

Then the keyboard resumes its tapping.

“Bye, Ben.” Christine hangs up and stares bleakly
into space.

C
aught
up in
Love Story,
munching microwave popcorn, Isabel
is dismayed when the phone rings.

Granted, she's seen Ally McGraw's lingering death
scene so many times she can recite the lines by heart. Still, she resents the
interruption of what has thus far been a relaxing evening spent curled up
beneath the ugly but warm afghan Cassandra made years ago when Ted's mother
taught her how to crochet.

At the second ring, Isabel reaches absently for the
cordless phone on the table beside the couch. Screening the call doesn't even
enter her mind. In her line of work, you pick up the phone whenever and wherever
it rings.

“Hello?” Her eyes are on Ryan O'Neal, wearing an
awful seventies brown plaid blazer and trying to stave off grief for his beloved
Jenny, who looks astonishingly robust for somebody who is moments away from
death.

“Is this Isabel?”

The instant she hears the voice, she knows who it
is. In a rush, everything that happened earlier today comes back to her, and
Love Story
is forgotten.

“Yes, this is Isabel.” She wedges the receiver
between her shoulder and ear and reaches a trembling hand toward the television
remote to press Mute.

“This is Mr. Gabriel. I don't suppose you happened
to notice whether I left my bag in your back seat earlier?”

“I . . . No, I didn't notice.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she
regrets them.

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the
phone.

He knows. He knows I'm
lying.

But if he does, he refuses to let on, merely
saying, “I'm sure I left it there. If you wouldn't mind keeping it for me, I'll
come back to town to get it in a day or two . . .”

“I can leave it at the office for you, in case I'm
not—”

“ . . . and I'd like to bring my wife
along and take a look at one of those houses again.”

“You would?” Startled, she tries to recall whether
he showed more than a passing interest in any of the properties she showed him
earlier. “Which house is it?”

“The contemporary with the large wooded lot.”

“Twenty-seven Gilder Road?” Of all the houses they
saw, that one was by far the least likely to attract a buyer. Then again, it's
twice reduced and one of the more affordable listings; it's also vacant so that
a new resident can move in right away.

“That's a wonderful home, Mr. Gabriel,” Isabel says
with false enthusiasm. “And I think the owner is ready to accept a reasonable
offer. When would you and your wife like to see it?”

“Would tomorrow afternoon be too soon?”

“Not at all.”

“Wonderful. We'll take the shuttle down from Logan
and rent a car. We can meet you in the office at three so that we can drive
right over before it gets dark. I want my wife to see the grounds. She's an avid
gardener and when I showed her the listing and all the details about the
perennial flowerbeds she was excited.”

Isabel opens her mouth to remind him that the
property will still be snow-covered tomorrow, but he's already saying briskly,
“So we'll see you then?”

“Yes, I'll see you then.”

Only when she hears a click, followed by the dial
tone, does it occur to Isabel that she still doesn't have his correct phone
number. Damn. She should have asked him for it before he hung up.

Perhaps, she thinks, the wrong number was
inadvertent.

That doesn't explain the duct tape.

But maybe there's a logical explanation for that,
too. She had no business snooping through his bag—and she has no business
suspecting him of anything more than wanting to buy a house.

Selling 27 Gilder Road would be a coup, considering
how long it's been on the market and how many agents have unsuccessfully shown
the property. She could certainly use the sale as additional leverage to land
the Jason Hollander listing. That particular property is going to sell itself,
probably in a matter of days, and the commission will enable her to give Andrea
a spectacular graduation gift in May. A car, or a month
abroad . . .

Feeling better already, Isabel picks up the remote
and turns up the television volume again.

For the first time ever, as she watches the
tear-jerker wind to a close, her eyes are dry. They're focused on the screen,
but her thoughts are on Mr. Gabriel.

She still thinks he's odd, to say the least. Yet
she can't help being reassured by the knowledge that he's bringing his wife
along tomorrow, and they're meeting at the office.

If Isabel feels the least bit uncertain about the
situation, she'll simply come up with some excuse to back out.

And lose the opportunity to
sell 27 Gilder Road?

That's not going to happen,
she reassures herself.
Everything will be fine, so
stop dwelling on it.

She turns up the television volume another notch,
just in time to hear the dying Jenny Cavilleri say, “It doesn't hurt, Ollie,
really . . . it's like falling off a cliff in slow motion.”

The words never fail to send a chill through
her—now, more than ever.

Was death like that for the woman who was struck
down in that Christmas Eve hit-and-run?

If it weren't for that stranger's tragic fate,
Isabel would undoubtedly have already discovered whether Jenny's eloquent
description rang true.

A familiar wave of guilt washes over her.
Survivor's guilt.

She was meant to die, because
I was meant to live.

Isabel has to believe that. It's the only way she
can come to terms with what happened.

With a shudder, she wraps the afghan more closely
around her shoulders.

S
tupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

How could he have left his bag in the back of her
car?

She was lying when she said she didn't open it.
He's certain of that. Does she think he's gullible enough to believe her?

Well, what did you expect from
her?

She's always been a liar. You
knew that.

She said she wanted to be with
you forever, that she didn't love him. That you were the one she loved. The
only one.

She said she would spend
Christmas with you.

Then, when she told you that
she couldn't she said it was because her mother was sick.

Did she think you weren't
aware that she didn't give a shit about her mother? That you weren't aware
that she hadn't visited her mother since the wedding? That you didn't know
she only wanted to forget every part of her life as Angela Marie Patino from
South Jersey?

A sick mother.

He shakes his head.

Even her excuse was a cliché.

He still remembers how badly he wanted to believe
it, though. So badly that he tailed her around the city for hours on that
blustery Christmas Eve, in and out of shops and department stores. A few things
she bought would have been suitable for a sick mother—or so he wanted to
believe. Just as he wanted to believe a limousine would arrive to take her out
to Jersey to visit her mother.

It wasn't easy, keeping her in sight that busy
afternoon. Snow was falling over Manhattan—snow on Christmas Eve, for the first
time in decades. It seemed that the entire population of the metropolitan area
was out in it.

The merry crowds clogging the sidewalks and the
department store aisles made it somewhat difficult to keep Angela in sight, but
it was all the easier for him to find camouflage in the throng. He had on jeans
and a big hooded parka—slumming it, Angela would have called it. She always got
a kick out of dressing down when they were together.

“Look at us! Nobody would ever guess that we're
multi-millionaires,” she would say gleefully.

It used to amuse him, how readily she counted
herself among the elite, when her own status was earned merely by virtue of
marriage, while his was . . .

All right, it wasn't exactly
earned.
But . . .

“But that doesn't mean you don't deserve it,”
Angela told him once. “I like to think that we all get what we deserve.”

Her way of justifying her own gold-digging past, no
doubt.

It infuriated yet fascinated him, watching her drop
thousands of Brookman dollars on lavish gifts that Christmas Eve. Gradually, his
hopes began to rise, as he watched her pick out an extravagant men's cashmere
sweater and an imported Italian silk tie that would be just right with his
newest custom-made suit.

Could she possibly be shopping for him?

Had she changed her mind about not spending
Christmas together?

Was she planning to surprise him with piles of
presents?

If she was, he would give her the one he bought for
her. The custom-designed heart-shaped, diamond-encrusted gold pendant engraved
with her name. When she told him she wouldn't spend Christmas with him, his
first thought was that he should walk over to the river and throw it in.
Something had stopped him from doing that, and now he's glad.

Angela's last stop, as the snowy December sky
turned dark, was Tiffany's.

He feared he might run into somebody he knew among
the last-minute shoppers, or that an acquaintance would call out his name, and
Angela might hear it.

Luck was with him, and he went unrecognized.

He stood behind a tall vase filled with Christmas
greens as she spoke with a clerk, who assured her that her special purchase was
ready for her, just as promised.

“Thank you for putting a rush
on it,”
he heard Angela say.
“Next year I'll get
my holiday shopping started earlier.”

“I'll show you the engraving
so that you can check the spelling, Mrs. Brookman,
” the clerk said,
and added with a laugh,
“Although if it's wrong now, you'll
have to rely on Santa Claus to leave something under the tree for your
husband.”

He boldly peered from behind the boxwood boughs to
see Angela holding up an expensive gold watch. She was only a few feet away—too
far for him to see what was engraved on the back of it.

But he heard her clearly reading the letters aloud,
spelling out a name that wasn't his own.

That was when he knew what he had to do. He didn't
know how he would go about it, or even when, other than that it had to be soon.
If he couldn't have her, nobody would.

He followed her when she left the store, clutching
her light blue shopping bag with the pile of others in her gloved hand.