The Cinderella Hour (32 page)

Intensive
Care Unit

Grace
Memorial Hospital

Wednesday,
November
2

2
:
00
p.m.

“Bea.”

“Mira.”

“I thought we agreed you were going home and sleeping until
this evening at least. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we reached this agreement
only three hours ago.”

“You reached the agreement. I didn’t. Just wait until you’re
sixty-six and some thirty-one-year-old decides that
you
are decrepit.”

“You’re not decrepit!”

“You’ve got that right. I’m also perfectly capable of going a
day or two without sleep. I want to be here, Mira. There’s no place I’d rather
be—except watching Wendy so that Thomas could be here.”

“Her panic had nothing to do with you.”

“I know. It’s just too soon for her.” Bea withdrew a lilac-colored
envelope from her purse. “I thought I’d entertain you with a little show and
tell. It’s the dance program from my own Glass Slipper Ball.”

“How
romantic
. Let me see.”

The charm designed by Bea’s sophomore class was gold. The
tassel that held it was emerald.

Gold and emerald.

Gold
in
emerald . . . like in the memory Mira couldn’t
quite remember.

And now was clear.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Bea? I have to talk to Vivian.”

“I’ll go get her.”

“No. We’ll go to her. Every second she’s talking to Daniel
brings him a heartbeat closer to recovery. Maybe I shouldn’t even tell her—no,
I have to. First her. Then the police.”

“The police?”

“Yes.” Mira searched with her feet for the hospital-issue
slippers on the floor. “I honestly think I could walk to Daniel’s room, but I
have a feeling there are rules.”

“About ICU patients wandering around on their own? I’d say
so.”

“The nurses believe it’s helping
you to hear me talk,” Vivian murmured. “I hope so, Daniel. I’ve decided you’re
not actually hearing what I’m saying, that it’s the tone of my voice you’re
responding to. Maybe I sound like your wife? I should probably be reading aloud
to you instead of telling you things about me. But the truth is it’s helping me
to talk to you. And as long as it’s helping you, too, and you’re not really
hearing the words anyway . . .”

She paused for a moment, her eyes downcast. “You wouldn’t
like me much if you did. I’m not a very nice person. I’ve already told you why.
I never wanted Snow to lose the baby. I’ve searched my heart and know it’s
true. But I’m responsible for killing that unborn baby as surely as if I’d attacked
Snow the way Mira was attacked. I’m no better than the bastard who assaulted my
sister.

“That’s why I know you’re not hearing my words. Your heart
would be racing with outrage if you did. Instead, when I talk to you, your
heartbeat becomes calmer and stronger. Even I can detect the difference in the
monitor bleeps. I don’t have the courage to tell Mira what I did to Snow. But
Luke will eventually tell her, and that will be the end of Mira and me.”

Vivian sighed. “I don’t want it to end. It’s only beginning
now, and it feels so hopeful, as if we could become the sisters I think we both
want to be. I should be grateful to Blaine for getting us to talk to each other
the way we’re talking now. I
am
grateful. But I’m also suspicious of his
motives. I even wonder if helping us become closer was what he had hoped to
achieve. I know what you must be thinking. What other result
could
he
have wanted? For us to believe his lies and go from not really knowing each
other to hating each other with a passion? That’s pretty sinister, isn’t it?”

Vivian shook her head. “But if his motives were good, and
loving, then why didn’t he ever talk to me about my low self-esteem? It would
have helped me so much if he had . . . if he’d ever told me he loved me
for
me
. . . if I could have felt safe enough in his love to confess to him
what I’ve confessed to you.

“Listen to your heartbeat, Daniel. Steady and calm. Sometimes
I wish you were hearing me. It would be good to know you don’t think it’s awful
of me, traitorous of me, to suggest that my husband isn’t the wonderful man
everyone believes him to be.”

“He’s not.”

“Mira! What are you doing here?”

“Blaine is not a wonderful man, Vivian.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s the one who attacked me.”

Vivian’s exhausted face registered no surprise. But it wasn’t
because exhaustion was blocking all emotion. Hope made a fleeting appearance in
her tired eyes. Hope, and relief. “How do you know?”

“Remember the flash of gold I saw? And the impression I’ve
had that there was also something green? The gold was Blaine’s ring. His sister’s
ring.”

“There weren’t any prints, Mira. The investigators said your
attacker must have worn gloves. You couldn’t have seen the ring.”

“I did see the ring, Vivian. And the investigators were
right. The attacker,
Blaine,
was wearing gloves. But they were the kind
you can buy in the paint supply aisle at Home Depot. Green—and transparent.”

Vivian’s gaze fell to the wedding band she wore and its
glittering diamond. Six months ago she had been a bride. But before that she had
been an officer of the court. She still was. “We have to call the police.”

For the second time in as many
days, Bert Wells had a delivery in Hilltop. Like last night’s delivery, these
tuxedos were for boys. Hilltop fathers owned tuxedos. Their growing sons didn’t.

Bert was glad today’s delivery was in broad daylight. The
world was clearer. His reflexes felt sharper. Even his joints were happier,
their creakiness warmed by the glow, if not the heat, of the autumn sun.

Bert needed every ray of sunlight on this November afternoon.
He was coming down with something. A virus, he decided, although a couple of
the symptoms were unlike any virus he had ever known. In addition to the
expected spaciness, his right hand was tingling and his vision was off.

At the moment, the spaciness was the most troubling. He drove
right past the mansion where the delivery was to be made. He would have to go
to the crest of the hill. The driveway this side of the Larken estate was ideal
for a turnaround.

Bert guessed he would be alone as he pulled into the drive
and backed out. Hilltop streets tended to be empty in the middle of the day. He
would have all the time in the world to make the slow, safe maneuvers his foggy
brain and tingling hand—and now leg—would need.

Then he would drop off the tuxedos and head for home.
Although . . . a bowl of chicken soup from Jan’s Kitchen on Main would taste
awfully good. Where did that thought come from? He hadn’t been to Jan’s since
that day, years ago, when he ran into Bea. She had been so sad on that day. But
she had seemed better, he believed, after walking hand-in-hand with him and having
soup and rolls at Jan’s.

Bert felt like having Jan’s chicken noodle soup today—with Bea.
Felt like strolling hand-in-hand with her today . . .

Blaine
was driving twice the speed limit.
Fifty in Hilltop’s ridiculously posted twenty-five. He always drove at least
forty. Any resident who wasn’t hopelessly feeble—or excessively law-abiding
like Vivian, or absurdly animal-cautious like Mira—always did.

He was in full control at fifty. And, in his opinion, would
have been in full control at twice that.

But fifty was a nice speed for the winding road. He was
savoring the way the car took the turns, savoring every morsel of this
delicious day.

His mind had sped past the annoyance at the ICU. It wanted to
race ahead to tonight’s
Cinderella Hour
. But he reined it in.

There were important, if mundane, details to attend to—like
the email he would have Louise send to patients, colleagues, women’s
organizations, and his allies in Congress. In their collective outrage, his
myriad supporters would keep alive—for many weeks—the story of the preposterous
accusation against him. Tonight would be the first of numerous public dialogues
with Patrick and Leigh. With each successive encounter, his accusers would be
further vilified. But rising above the fray, and despite his disciples’ clamor
for revenge, he would be magnanimous in his forgiveness.

He couldn’t call Louise until he reached the mansion. Thanks
to Mira’s surprise return home last night, he had been forced to discard both of
his cell phones: the disposable one, to which he had forwarded his office phone
before the pre-interview sound check, and his known one, the records for which
the police would be welcome to check.

The records were clean. The phone wasn’t. Dealing with Mira
had added precious seconds to his timetable. In his haste to strip off his
protective garments before getting into his car—and taking the disposable phone
off hold before Helen wondered where he was—his other phone had fallen from his
belt onto the gas-splattered ground. He had tossed it into the bag with the
contaminated clothes. Forty minutes later, while one of his grateful patients
was sharing her story of postpartum depression, he had dropped the bag in a
Dumpster in Evanston that would be emptied at dawn.

The untraceable phone, wiped of prints, had been thrown into
a hospital trash can during the sprint from his office to the operating room
when news of Mira’s injury finally reached the show. The phone had served him
well. He had also used it to make the obscene calls to the veterinarian on Meadow View Drive.

Blaine
was eager to get Louise going on the email. Her passive-aggressiveness was
already on high alert. Feeling more put-upon than usual because of the deluge
of inquiries following his radio appearance, she obviously thought that if he
could take the rest of the day off, so could she. That would be her reward for sending
the email, he decided. Her last reward. Come Monday, Louise would be replaced.

Blaine
depressed the accelerator just as the delivery van came into view. Although
backing into the street, its journey was slow enough that he could easily
swerve around it, even though its speed was increasing.

Its horn was also sounding, a steady blare caused not by an
impatient hand but by the weight of the driver’s torso slumped over the wheel.

Dr. Blaine Prescott made an immediate diagnosis—heart
attack—and an immediate decision. He could still swerve past. The van would
roll to a stop when it reached the other side of the road. Eventually, someone
else would drive by. And, if the driver was destined to survive, he would.

Blaine
had neither the time nor the inclination to help. He didn’t need the Good
Samaritan credential. He had saved enough lives. Just ask any of the supporters
who would be calling
The Cinderella Hour
tonight, assuming they got the email.

And if whoever discovered the slumped body rang the bell at
the mansion’s front gate? If it suited him, Blaine would play hero then.

But not now.

As it happened, the doctor’s diagnosis, as well as his
decision, were wrong. They were also the final diagnosis—and decision—Blaine
Prescott would ever make.

The garbage truck on the other side of the runaway van wasn’t
responsible for collecting rubbish from behind a fast-food restaurant in Evanston. Nor did it belong to the same fleet. It was a Town of Quail Ridge vehicle. Every
other Wednesday it made its recycling rounds in Hilltop.

The truck was stopped and empty. Both driver and runner were rushing
toward Bert’s van, hoping to help. They didn’t hear the squeal of Blaine’s tires as he executed the perfect swerve. The blaring horn drowned it out.

The horn was no match, however, for the sound of metal
against metal as the stopped truck and speeding car collided.

Wind
Chimes Hotel

Suite
12
-
222

Wednesday,
November
2

10
:
00
p.m.

“I’m Snow,” she said to the
handsome man who answered the suite’s double door.

“I’m Patrick. And,” he said softly, “I know who you are.
Please come in.”

“Snow,” Ellen whispered.

Snow gazed at the mother she hadn’t seen for sixteen years
and whose voicemail message had trembled with such uncertainty. Snow heard that
same uncertainty now, and hated it.

The Scarlett she had known had never been afraid.

But it wasn’t to Scarlett that she spoke. Or Tara, or
Melanie, or Leigh.

It was to the mother who had held her as a baby, laughing,
touching, loving . . . until, or so that mother believed, life got in the way.

Snow was trembling, too, as she crossed plush carpet to where
her mother stood. Trembling—with certainty.

When she was close enough to touch, she smiled, and to the
mother who was waiting to touch, hoping to smile, beginning to believe, she
said, “Hi, Mom.”

Eleven minutes after Snow and Luke
had returned to her condo, and two minutes after she had finished
listening—again—to Ellen’s message, Luke received a cell phone call that
changed their plans to go to Ellen’s suite together.

The plans didn’t have to change. Detective Lansky could drive
from Quail Ridge to Grace Memorial and make the notification himself. Arguably,
it was his job. But so was an investigation of the accident, and Luke was
closer both in miles and in history to Blaine Prescott’s wife and
sister-in-law.

Luke would go to the hospital while Snow went to the hotel.

She would be fine going alone, she told him. What could be
safer than visiting her mom? Besides, the threat that prompted Luke’s pledge
never to let her out of his sight no longer existed.

Luke had no difficulty gaining access to the ICU. He had been
on Mira’s authorized visitors list from the start. And Dr. Sandra Davis, in the
thirty-third hour of her thirty-six-hour shift, had received a call from the
Quail Ridge PD. Luke Kilcannon would be arriving with personal—and very
delicate—news for Vivian and Mira Larken.

News, Dr. Davis decided, that Bea Evans could hear as well.
She assumed neither sister would object. Bea and Mira were in Mira’s room when
Dr. Davis got the call. Before Luke arrived, she came up with a plausible
medical reason for Vivian to leave Daniel’s room. She would come looking for
her in Mira’s room, she said, when it was all right for her to return to Daniel.
While Vivian was away, Dr. Davis herself would keep him company.

Vivian and Bea were at Mira’s bedside when Luke appeared. His
expression gave fair warning that it wasn’t a social visit. And, in fairness,
he didn’t keep them in suspense.

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “Involving Blaine. His car collided with a truck. He died instantly.”

“Blaine is dead?”

“Yes, Mira. He is.”

“I told the police I thought it was Blaine who attacked me—only
I didn’t say
thought
. I said I was sure.”

“Don’t second-guess yourself, Mira. You weren’t wrong about Blaine. And his death had nothing to do with your calling the police. Rob Lansky was
deciding the best way to approach Blaine as a suspect when he received word of
the crash.”

“So Blaine wasn’t being pursued?”

“No. And if he’d stopped to offer medical assistance instead
of speeding up to avoid it, he’d be very much alive. The blame for Blaine’s death is his alone. You’re not responsible, Mira. And the cops aren’t, and the
truck driver isn’t, and although, knowing him, it will take some convincing, Bert
isn’t responsible, either.”

“Bert?” Bea’s worry was immediate. “He was there?”

“It was his van Blaine swerved to avoid.”

“You said something about medical assistance. Was Bert
injured?”

“Not in the accident. He’s had a TIA, like Noah did. Or maybe
a small stroke. The paramedics were going to bring him here. Someone from neurology’s
probably examining him even as we speak. I’d be happy to go with you, Bea, if
you’d like to look for him.”

“I would. Thank you. After you finish telling Mira and Vivian
everything they want to know.”

“I don’t have any more questions,” Mira said. “I will have.
But not now.”

Luke turned to Blaine’s silent widow. She looked stricken.
But unlike other survivors he had seen, it was guilt, not grief, that shadowed
her face. Guilt, perhaps, that what she felt most of all was relief.

“He was a bad man, Vivian.”

She nodded.

“Do you have questions?”

She shook her head. “Not now.”

“Okay. I’m around, and Rob will be here in a while. Mira?”

“Luke?”

“What I said to you yesterday afternoon—”

“I don’t remember it! Isn’t that convenient?”

Luke smiled. “Thanks.”

“Thank
you
, Luke, for carrying me out of my burning
home.”

“Anytime,” he said. “But let’s make it never again.”

“Agreed.”

“Snow is eager to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Bea was standing, anxious to begin the search for Bert. Luke
shared her sense of urgency, but . . .

“I need a private moment with Vivian.”

“With me, Luke?”

“Yes. I noticed an alcove on the way in. Vivian? Come with
me.”

“Blaine
was
a bad man,”
Luke began when they were alone.

“I know. You told me. And I was beginning to come to that
conclusion myself.”

“Good.”

“So. Thank you, Luke. Well,” she said, “I guess I’d better
get back to Mira.”
And Daniel.

“There’s more, Vivian. You’re not responsible for Snow’s
miscarriage.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No,” Luke said quietly. “You’re not. The baby was lost hours
before you talked to Snow. She didn’t know it at the time, and I only learned
about it last night. But it’s true, Vivian. I know you haven’t forgotten what I
said to you yesterday, any more than Mira’s forgotten what I said to her. I’m
asking you to forgive me.”

“You didn’t say anything I haven’t said to myself countless
times.”

“Then forgive yourself, Vivian.”

“I didn’t want your baby to die, Luke.”

“I know that. And Snow knows it, too.”

“Snow does?”

“She knew it at the time. She’s never blamed you, Vivian. Not
then. Not now. She also believes your motives were pure, that you truly cared
about my future . . . and me.”

“I did. To the extent that I’m capable of loving, I really
did love you.”

Luke nodded. Gently. “I’ve always and only been in love with
Snow.”

A faint smile curved her lips. “I get that.”

“I know you do. So start working on getting
this
,
Vivian—you are capable of loving. Without limits. Loving, and being loved.”