Who Do I Talk To? (38 page)

Everything was moving along until I got to the laundry room tucked away behind the kitchen. All four washing machines were busy. Good grief ! I only had a load of underwear and a few necessities for my trip. Who—?

Just then Lucy lumbered in, dragging her cart. Her
empty
cart.

“Lucy! What are you doing? Are all these yours?” I pointed at the four machines.

“Yeah, what of it? Decided to dump it in, wash it all. Don't know what it's like in North Dakota. Might need my winter coat an' stuff.”

“Oh, Lucy.” I leaned against the wall, shaking my head.

In spite of Lucy's wash-a-thon—which, I had to admit, I'd been hoping she'd do for a long time—I managed to get almost everything done that afternoon and evening. Sinking into my office chair after supper, I turned on my computer and glanced at my watch. Almost eight . . . I had time to work a little more on the funeral program and still get to bed by lights-out.

Wait
. . . Mike Fairbanks had said he and the boys were supposed to get in at O'Hare Airport around seven thirty. Philip was going to pick them up, take them back to the penthouse, and they'd see me tomorrow morning here at the funeral.

That meant P. J. and Paul were already here! In Chicago! How was I supposed to wait fourteen whole hours before I saw them tomorrow? I couldn't. I had to see them! Grabbing a pad of notepaper, I started jotting down times. Half an hour, give or take, to get their bags if they checked anything . . . maybe another sixty minutes to get to Philip's parked car and drive into the city. Add another half hour for good measure . . .

At nine thirty I got off the El at the Berwyn stop and walked briskly the two blocks to Sheridan Road and turned north. The warm night air was somewhere in the seventies, cooled by a nice breeze off the lake. I'd had to get an “emergency pass” from Sarge just to go out and come in past curfew, and she'd shaken her head when I wondered out loud whether I should take Dandy with me since it was dark. “Just
go
, Gabby Fairbanks. You want protection? Dandy and I'll walk ya to the El and you can give me a call when you want to come back. But give the poor dog a break. They don't let dogs on the El anyway.”

Now Richmond Towers rose just a few blocks ahead of me, lighted windows hugging the curves of the building like a clingy dress. I hesitated as I reached the revolving doors that would take me into the lobby of the luxury high-rise, my knees suddenly going rubbery. What was I walking myself into? Philip would be there, and I hadn't been invited.
Oh God, I don't want a nasty confrontation in front of the boys . . .

Through the glass doors I saw a familiar figure rise up from behind the semicircular desk. My rubbery knees toughened up. I pushed through the doors. “Mr. Bentley! What are you doing here at this time of night?”

The doorman's eyebrows lifted as I came up to the desk. “I could ask you the same thing, Mrs. Fairbanks. Let me guess . . . Awhile ago two young men who looked an awful lot like you went up the elevators in there”—he pointed to the glass security area that separated the lobby from the elevators—“accompanied by their father and somebody I'd guess was Mr. Granddaddy.”

I nodded, relieved to hear they'd arrived safely. “Yeah. Couldn't wait until tomorrow to see them. But, well, kinda decided last minute.”

Mr. Bentley pursed his lips. “In other words, they don't know you're coming.” He leaned toward me over the counter. “Don't you worry, Firecracker. You've got a right to see those kids. Hold on to that. Go on. I'll buzz you in.”

“Wait. Your turn. Why are you working the evening shift? Did you switch?”

Harry Bentley shook his head. “Just traded a few hours with Gomez, who covers the first night shift. So I, uh, you know . . . so I could come to your lady mother's funeral tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, Mr. B.” I ran around to the other side of the desk and gave the man a big hug. “You're the best. Okay, say a prayer for me. I'm going up.”

Two minutes later the elevator dinged at the thirty-second floor and the door slid open. I stepped out onto the gleaming marble tile of the foyer. Ceramic urns full of silk flowers stood on either side of the penthouse door. And somewhere on the other side of the door I heard a TV going and the banter of youthful voices.

My heart thudded in my chest. But I raised my hand . . . and knocked.

An eternity passed. Then the door opened. There he stood—tall, tan, shirt collar open, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His left eye twitched, betraying his outwardly detached demeanor.

“Hello, Philip.”

“Gabrielle. What are you doing here?” My husband swiveled his head toward the front room and frowned. “Did my father—?”

“No. I knew he and the boys were flying in tonight, and . . . I just want to see P. J. and Paul for a few minutes, Philip. I don't plan to stay long.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside. “Fine. They're in the front room.” He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

I closed the door behind me and walked softly through the gallery. My heart was still tripping, and my skin prickled with excitement. P. J. and Paul were flopped on the long end of the wraparound couch, their backs to me, their grandfather Mike stationed at the other end, watching something on the plasma TV. I crept up behind them and laid one hand on P. J.'s dark-brown hair, falling over his forehead like his father's, and the other on Paul's lighter curls. “Hey.”

Paul's head whirled. “Mom!” he screeched, hurling himself over the back of the couch and tangling me in an awkward hug. P. J. jumped up too, came around, and locked his arms around me. For thirty blissful seconds, I held both my big boys in my arms, laughing and crying and drinking in the familiar smell of their skin and hair.

To his credit, Mike Fairbanks shut off the TV. “Good to see you, Gabby,” he said gruffly, and also disappeared toward the kitchen.

I sat on the couch, my boys snuggling on either side. Paul fired questions like a machine gun. “Why didn't you bring Dandy? Is he okay? What happened to Grandma? Grandpa Mike says you're going to bury her in North Dakota. Can we go with you?”

P. J. reached out and shoved his brother. “Can't, dork. I've still got a couple of weeks to go before lacrosse camp is over.”

As best I could, I tried to fill the boys in on what had happened to their Grandmother Shepherd, assured Paul he'd get to see Dandy tomorrow, and told them I was working as hard as I could to find a place to live so we could be together again. “But P. J.'s right—you guys need to stay in Virginia until he finishes camp the end of July. Then . . . well, hopefully we'll get you back here with your dad and me as soon as possible.”

Their faces had gone ashen. P. J.'s mouth tightened. “What do you mean, find a place to live? Does that mean you and Dad are getting a divorce?”

I'd dreaded this moment. But I shook my head. “Nobody's said anything about divorce. But . . . your dad and I are having some problems, and we need to be apart awhile to sort things out.”
Sort things out . . .
I hoped Philip was listening.

Finally scooching off the couch, I stood up. “I better go. I still have things I need to do to get ready for Grandma's funeral tomorrow.” I grabbed them both in another three-way hug. “I'm so glad you came,” I murmured into their hair. “I've missed you so much.” Untangling myself, I found my purse and headed for the front door.

Paul ran after me into the gallery. “Mom! Don't go!” He threw his arms around me. “Can't you stay? We can go to the funeral together tomorrow morning.”

I gently pried off Paul's arms and opened the door, aware that Philip had appeared in the arched doorway on the left, wiping his hands on a terry towel. “No, I can't stay, honey. But I'll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Paul sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay, Mom. We'll get there early—right, Dad?”

My breath caught. Philip had stopped in midwipe, but lifted his chin and stared at me as if daring me to answer Paul's question.

I am Gabrielle . . . strong woman of God.

I held Philip's gaze, unblinking. “Sure, Paul. You boys and Granddad Mike can come as early as you like. But your father isn't coming to the funeral. He'll be going to work tomorrow.”

I stepped out and pulled the door shut behind me.

chapter 39

The multipurpose room began filling early the next morning with residents and guests for the ten o'clock funeral service. The Kirkland & Sons funeral director and three of his staff had arrived at eight in their long, black hearse, unloading my mother's metal blue casket onto a wheeled cart and setting it at the front of the circle of chairs. I was surprised at the number of flower arrangements that arrived. As the funeral staff opened the casket, I busied myself looking at the cards—a large spray of pink gladiolas from the Manna House board and staff . . . red and white carnations from SouledOut Community Church . . . a mixed flower arrangement of colorful mums and daisies from Mercy Shepherd . . . a spray of white lilies with a card that said, “With sympathy, the Fairbanks Family.” Probably Marlene's doing. But nice.

Another flower arrangement arrived by messenger, a huge spray of bloodred roses, which the funeral staff set up on a large stand. It took me a few moments to find the card . . . and then I couldn't believe my eyes. “With sympathy, Fairbanks & Fenchel Commercial Development Corp.”

Of all the nerve!

Estelle Williams, smelling like gardenias and dressed in a black-and-white tunic over wide, silky black trousers, leaned around me and read the card. “Humph. Want me to chuck 'em for you, honey?”

Ha
. I could just see them sailing out the front door and landing in the gutter. “Yeah . . . later. After the service.” I didn't want any drama—for my sons' sake. Not today. But I took the card and stuck it in my pocket. No sense letting Philip “look good.”

“Well, I gotta tend to some last-minute food prep. You gonna spend some time with your mama?” Estelle tipped her head toward the open casket, and I followed her gaze. My mother's face—so like her, and yet unlike her too—peeked out from the soft crepe lining of the shiny blue metal casket.

“Um, maybe when P. J. and Paul get here. Think I'll go wait for them outside.” On my way to the foyer, I greeted several board members and got warm hugs from Avis and Peter Douglass, who were consulting with the female keyboard player from SouledOut about the service. Precious and Sabrina stood at the double doors, handing out the simple program and helping to seat people. “Thanks for ushering, Sabrina,” I said, giving the pregnant teenager a hug. “You look beautiful today.”

But I had to hide a smile as I overheard Precious send two of the residents back upstairs to “get somethin' decent on—you look like some ho. This is a funeral for a grand lady, an' don't ya forget it!”

The foyer was a beehive. Slipping around the crowd, I pushed open the oak doors and stood on the steps, my black crepe skirt blowing in the stiff breeze of another warm Chicago day. Craning my head this way and that, I was relieved to see Lucy coming up the sidewalk with Dandy, wearing a bandanna around his neck like a doggy cowboy. I'd been half-afraid she'd disappear again, and Paul would be devastated.

“Hey there, buddy.” I bent down to give the dog a scratch behind the ears, his golden coat freshly brushed except for the area where the hair had not yet grown over his scars, when a familiar black Lexus SUV pulled up in front of Manna House.

I stiffened. Philip was driving.

The doors on the passenger side opened, and Mike Fairbanks and the boys piled out. Paul, unmindful of his good slacks and summer dress shirt, dashed over to Dandy, who immediately started barking and leaping all over him. Philip's father slammed the car door and hustled up the steps after P. J. My father-in-law gave me a peck on the cheek.

“What is Philip doing here?” I hissed in his ear.

Mike Fairbanks turned and jerked his thumb in a
get-moving
motion. “He's not staying. I made it clear he's not invited . . .

Boys! Let's go in.” They trailed Lucy and Dandy into the cool foyer.

I could have hugged him. Strange, I'd never felt that close to Philip's father, but suddenly I found him in my corner. I started to follow them inside when I saw Lee Boyer crossing the street in the middle of the block, making him pass directly in front of Philip's car. He had shed his jeans and boots for slacks, dress shirt, and tie. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, Lee peered over his wire rims at the car and driver, then at me. He raised his eyebrows . . . then came on up the steps and gave me a hug. “I'm so sorry about your mother, Gabby. You doing okay?” He followed my eyes as I lingered just long enough to make sure the SUV drove off. “Is that him?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.