Whispers and Lies (13 page)

A
t ten o’clock, Josh announced it was time for him to be heading back to Miami.

He was right. It was time to call it a night. We’d polished off the homemade pumpkin pie, drunk all the champagne, finished the last of the Baileys. Alison had cleared the table, hand-washed the dishes, and led us in an impromptu game of charades, which she’d handily won. “I’m very good at games,” she’d said proudly.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I told Josh, feeling a slight twinge in my stomach, like a poke in the ribs, as I rose from the living room sofa and followed him to the door.

“Nice meeting you, Josh,” Denise called after him.

“See you again soon, I hope,” Alison said.

K.C. said nothing, although I detected a slight nod of his head that meant either good-bye or that he was too drunk to do more.

No one else made a move to leave. Clearly, Josh and
I were the only two people in the room who understood the value of timing.

The warm air embraced us, like a lazy lover, as we stepped outside and gazed up at a sky heavy with stars. The smell of the ocean filtered through the night air like silver threads through a dark tapestry, lingering like an expensive perfume. “Beautiful night,” I remarked, walking beside Josh to his car.

“Lovely evening all around.”

“I’m so glad you could make it.”

“So am I.” He looked down the empty street. “Feel like taking a little walk? Just to the corner,” he added when I hesitated.

I’m not sure why I hesitated. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to prolong my time with Josh for as long as humanly possible. Probably I was leery of leaving my other guests alone in the house for too long. “Sure,” I heard myself say, ignoring my concerns, falling into step beside him. My arm brushed against his. I felt a jolt, like a small but potent electrical charge, shoot through my body.

“I was hoping for a few minutes alone with you,” Josh said.

“Do you want to talk about your mother?”

He laughed, stopped walking. “You think I want to get you alone so I can talk about my mother?”

I looked toward the sidewalk, afraid I was so transparent my thoughts were visible on my forehead. I felt his hand at my chin, a succession of increasingly powerful shocks raising my eyes back to his, as I watched his face tilt toward mine. If he gets any closer, I thought, he’s liable to be electrocuted.

“I’d really like to kiss you right now,” he said.

A loud sigh escaped my lips as he moved closer. My heart was pounding right through my clothes, like a baby kicking in its mother’s womb. Except it wasn’t my heart, I realized with a sudden gasp. It was my stomach. And it wasn’t passion. It was pain. My God, was I going to be sick? Was he going to kiss me and then shrink back in horror while I threw up all over him? Certainly that was one way of ensuring tonight would be a night to remember, I decided, as his lips settled gently on mine.

“Very nice,” he whispered, kissing away my fears, his arms wrapping around me like a cloak.

Instantly I relaxed.
Come back into the house
, I wanted to say.
Come back and tell the others they have to leave. Stay and make love to me all night. You can drive back to Miami in the morning
.

Except, of course, I said no such thing. Instead I kissed him again and again, then stood there grinning like an idiot until it became obvious he wasn’t going to kiss me anymore, and we turned back, walking hand in hand toward his car, my mind racing with my heart, my intestines doing a slow rope burn against the inside of my stomach. I was thinking that it doesn’t matter how old we are, fourteen or forty, we’re ageless when it comes to love.

“Thanks again for a wonderful evening,” Josh said when we reached his car.

“Thank
you
for the champagne and the roses.”

“I’m glad you liked them.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

He kissed me again, this time on the cheek, his
eyelashes fluttering against my skin, like butterfly wings. “I’ll see you next week,” he said, climbing into his car.

I watched in silence as he backed his car onto the street, heading toward Atlantic Avenue. When he reached the stop sign at the corner, he waved without looking back, as if he knew I was still watching him. I waved back, but by then he was already halfway down the next block.

It took several minutes before I was able to move. Truthfully, it was as much the tingling on my lips and cheek as the renewed cramping in my gut that rendered me immobile. Too much rich food and excitement for an old lady, I decided when I was finally able to put one foot in front of the other. I returned to the house, prepared to tell the others that the party was officially over, but my living room was empty. Had everyone cleared out while I was gone?

It was then I heard the sound of careless laughter bouncing above my head like a rubber ball. What were they doing upstairs? I wondered, temporarily forgetting about the pains in my stomach. “Alison,” I called from the foot of the stairs.

Immediately Alison’s head popped into view at the top of the landing. “Josh leave?”

“What are you doing up there?” I asked, ignoring her question.

Denise suddenly appeared beside Alison. “My fault. I asked for a tour of the house.”

“There’s not much to see.” I watched the two young women make their way down the stairs, K.C. nipping at their heels like a large, uncoordinated golden retriever.

“It’s like a little dollhouse,” Denise pronounced.

“I’m sorry,” Alison whispered in my ear. “She was up the stairs before I could stop her.”

Whatever annoyance I was feeling was replaced by a sharp jab to my solar plexus. I grimaced, grabbed my side.

“Something wrong?” Alison asked.

I shook my head. “I think I should have skipped that second helping of pie,” I muttered, hoping I wouldn’t have to say more.

“Okay, guys,” Alison announced immediately. “Party’s over. Time to pack it in.”

We said our good-byes at the front door. Alison kissed me on the cheek. I think Denise hugged me. K.C. mumbled something about being slightly inebriated, then almost fell into the leafy branches of the large, white oleander that sat to the right of the front door. Then they were gone, and the house was quiet, save for the whispering of the leaves.

S
URPRISINGLY
, I had no trouble falling asleep.

My stomach seemed to settle down the minute everyone left, so I attributed the discomfort to all the excitement: the elaborate dinner; a house full of new people; my first kiss in forever; Josh; Josh; Josh. “Yes!” I said in Alison’s voice. Then again, watching her clap her hands together and jump up and down with glee. “Yes, yes, yes!”

And then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew I was dreaming. Wild dreams. Crazy dreams. Dreams where I was running around the house in helpless circles, trying to find Alison, to warn her of danger, although the danger was nonspecific, undefined. At one point, I was climbing up the stairs when K.C. jumped out
at me from the shadows, long legs flying, karate-style, through the air toward my stomach.

I gasped, doubled forward in my bed, barely made it to the bathroom, where I threw up, copiously and repeatedly. But even a thorough purging of the night’s dinner provided little relief. I sat on the tile floor, my head spinning, painful spasms shooting through my body like pinballs, wondering whether it was possible I was having an attack of appendicitis. Unlikely, I knew. It was much more likely to be a simple case of overindulgence, or perhaps even food poisoning. I wondered if any of my guests had gotten sick.

Oh, God, poor Josh, I thought, pushing myself to my feet and creeping slowly, my back hunched, like a doddering old woman, toward my bedroom window. I pulled back the lace curtains, stared at the cottage behind my house, surprised to see the lights still on. I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was almost three in the morning, awfully late for Alison to be up. Was she sick as well? I pulled on my housecoat and gingerly made my way down the stairs.

I unlocked the kitchen door and tiptoed outside, the grass cool on my bare feet. A sudden rush of nausea almost overwhelmed me, and I gulped frantically at the fresh air until the feeling subsided. I took several long, deep breaths before continuing toward the cottage door. It was then I heard the sound of laughter from inside the cottage. Clearly, Alison wasn’t sick. Nor was she alone.

I returned to the house, relieved that Alison was okay, that it appeared no one else had gotten sick. My reputation as a cook was safe, I thought, and might have laughed
had it not been for the renewed spasms that catapulted me toward the kitchen sink. Dozens of ceramic eyes looked down disapprovingly from the shelves above my head, the pitiless, blank stares of the china ladies passing silent judgment on my condition.
Serves you right
, the women shouted through pouting, painted lips.
That’ll teach you to have too good a time
.

I was halfway up the stairs when the phone rang.

Who would be calling me at this hour? I wondered, moving as quickly as my stomach would permit. Alison? Had she seen me outside the cottage door? I pushed my bent frame toward the phone beside my bed, answered it at the start of its fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Have a nice evening?” the voice asked.

Not Alison. A man. “Who is this?”

“I have a message for you from Erica Hollander.”

“What!”

“She says you better watch your step.”

“Who is this?” The phone went dead in my hands. “Hello? Hello?” I slammed down the receiver, too angry to speak, too weak to try. I fell back on the bed, hands shaking, heart pounding, my brain alternating between trying to place the voice and to put it out of my mind altogether. What did his strange message mean? Of course, sleep was no longer an option. I spent the balance of the night rolling from one side of the bed to the other, either too hot or too cold, my teeth chattering or my forehead bathed in sweat, my arms securing the blankets tightly under my chin, my feet kicking them angrily back to the foot of the bed. For hours I lay on my back observing the moonlight slither through the lace of my
curtains, watching the darkness bleed from the sky until it grew light. Whenever it looked as if I might be granted a few minutes respite, a not-quite-familiar voice would sneak up beside me and whisper in my ear:
I have a message for you from Erica Hollander. She says you better watch your step
.

At around eight o’clock, I pushed myself out of bed. I was still nauseous and weak, but at least my stomach was no longer threatening to burst from my body. My forehead felt a little warm to the touch, and my hands were still trembling. I decided to make some tea, maybe eat a piece of toast, although, at the thought of food, my stomach lurched. Maybe just tea, I decided, about to head downstairs when I heard voices outside my window.

I shuffled toward the sound and pulled back the curtains, careful to stay out of sight. Alison was standing in the open doorway of the cottage talking to Denise, both still dressed in last night’s clothes. Denise was doing most of the talking, although I couldn’t make out what she was saying. The look on Alison’s face, however, told me she was paying close attention.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” Denise suddenly shouted toward the inside of the cottage. “Time to get your bony ass out of there.”

Seconds later, K.C. stood in the doorway. His shirt hung open and his blue jeans rode dangerously low on his skinny hips, emphasizing the line of dark hair that spiraled from the center of his bare chest down past his belly button, then disappeared beneath the buckle of his black leather belt. His short brown hair was matted and uncombed, and sleep clung to his eyes as carelessly as the half-smoked cigarette that dangled from his lips.

I watched him toss the cigarette into my bed of pink and white impatiens, then lean toward Alison and whisper something in her ear, his fingers playing with the gold necklace at her throat as his eyes glanced toward my bedroom window. Was he talking about me? I wondered, careful to keep out of sight. Did he know I was there?

Alison pushed him playfully aside, waving after them as he and Denise ambled along the side of the house to the street. My eyes followed after them until they disappeared into the shadow of a nearby tree. When I looked back, I saw Alison staring up at me, a strange look on her face. She waved, signaled that she was coming over. Seconds later, looking remarkably fresh and rested for someone who’d been up all night, she was at the kitchen door.

“Are you all right?” she asked as soon as she saw me.

“I was sick last night.” I promptly collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Sick? You mean like throwing-up sick?”

“I mean like throwing-up sick.”

“Oh, yuck! That’s awful. I hate throwing up. It’s my least favorite thing in the whole world.”

“I can’t say I’m overly fond of it myself.”

“You know how some people tell you that throwing up will make you feel better? Not me. I’d rather feel sick as a dog for weeks on end than throw up. That’s why it was always such a joke to me when people thought I was bulimic. As if I would ever do anything to make myself vomit. I mean, yuck!”

I could almost see the exclamation point.

“I remember when I was a little girl,” she continued, “and I got sick one night after eating too much red
licorice, and every night after that, when I’d climb into bed, I’d ask my mother if I was going to be all right. And she’d roll her eyes and say yes, but I wasn’t convinced, so I’d make her promise. Even still, I’d grit my teeth until I fell asleep.”

“You didn’t believe your mother?”

Alison shrugged, her eyes circling the kitchen. “You want some tea?”

“I’d love some.”

She busied herself with the mechanics of making tea. She filled the kettle with water, dropped a tea bag into a mug, got the milk out of the fridge. “You probably drank too much champagne,” she ventured, eyes glued to the kettle.

“A watched pot never boils,” I told her.

“What?”

“ ‘A watched pot never boils.’ One of my mother’s little aphorisms.”