Live to Tell Page 15

It takes her a few minutes to rig the fishing line across the doorway at shoulder height for herself—and leg height for everyone else in the house.

  There.

  It’s impossible to see the fishing line unless you’re looking for it…and no one will.

  Sadie looks around her room, memorizing exactly where everything is—which doesn’t take long, because everything is right where it should be. Then she ducks under the fishing line and walks across the hall to Lucy’s room.

  The door is open. Sadie overheard Mommy telling Lucy to get up a few minutes ago, before she went down to load up the car with Ryan.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” Lucy assured Mommy. She even went down the hall to the bathroom, as if to prove the point before Mommy, satisfied, went back downstairs.

  Now, however, Lucy is back in bed, lying on her back, eyes closed. There’s a hardcover book lying open on her bed.

  “Lucy?”

  No reply.

  “Lucy?” Sadie repeats. “Why do you think Daddy didn’t come yesterday?”

  Her sister doesn’t say anything.

  She must be sleeping.

  Sadie turns away.

  “I don’t know, Sades.”

  Startled, she looks back at her sister.

  Now Lucy’s eyes are wide open—and her expression tells Sadie that her big sister is even more worried about Daddy than she is.

  Stepping from her car onto the sunlit parking lot at Tide-water Animal Rescue, Elsa inhales the briny breeze off the nearby Long Island Sound.

  Remember to appreciate the tiniest pleasures, Joan told her before she left the therapist’s office after her last appointment.

  Tiny pleasures. Yes. Sunshine, salt air…puppies.

  A trucker found a newborn mixed-breed litter yesterday, abandoned in a plastic laundry basket left along I–95. According to an e-mail Elsa received early this morning from Karyn, the director of the privately funded shelter, only three of the puppies had made it through the night.

  Hurrying across the pavement toward the low, cedar-shingled building, she hopes the trio is still hanging in there.

  She opens the door to an encouraging sign: Karyn seated at her desk, bottle-feeding a tiny bundle of black fur.

  “Morning, Elsa,” she says softly—which is completely out of character for a vivacious motor mouth like Karyn. Obviously, she’s trying not to jar the puppy.

  “Good morning. Who do you have there?”

  “This is Zuko.”

  “Zuko?”

  Karyn nods enthusiastically. She gives a temporary name to every animal, believing an identity is important even for the shelter’s transient residents. A major film buff, she tends to choose characters or elements from her favorite movies, based on her perception of the creature’s temperament or appearance.

  “Remember John Travolta in Grease? Black hair, black leather, very cool…Danny Zuko.”

  Elsa grins. It could be worse. Much. Just last week, they took in a Rottweiler Karyn dubbed Hannibal—as in Lecter—whose owner mercifully surfaced a few days later to reclaim him.

  Elsa peers into the cardboard box on the floor beneath a strategically placed warming bulb. Curled together on a blanket are two more puppies. Unlike their brother, they have russet-colored fur.

  “I suppose these are the Pink Ladies?”

  Karyn shakes her brunette curls. “Close. The runt is Frenchy, but the other one’s a male—his name is Greased Lightning.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see when you pick him up. Listen, why don’t you grab yourself some coffee and then update the Web site with the puppies? I took some pictures of them earlier—they’re in the digital camera by the computer.”

  Elsa heads over to the coffeepot in a kitchenette alcove, then settles herself in front of the computer with a steaming cup.

  Of all the tasks that come along with her shelter volunteer work, this is her least favorite. Every time she logs onto the site’s pet adoption page—with its tagline Won’t You Provide One of These Lost Souls with a Loving Home?—she’s reminded of Jeremy.

  Karyn doesn’t know about him, though. When Elsa met her, and Karyn asked whether she had any children, she said no. It’s not the whole truth, but it spares her having to answer additional questions that are even more painful.

  She uploads the photo of the puppies, then writes the copy to go along with it.

  Somewhere out there, someone has a loving home and a heartful of longing…

  Just as Elsa once did.

  I still do.

  If Jeremy were to come home now…

  Eyes flooded with tears, Elsa checks to make sure Karyn hasn’t noticed. No, she’s over by the cardboard box, trying to get a grip on a squirming reddish puppy—Greased Lightning, no doubt.

  She hastily wipes away the tears and does her best to focus on the copywriting until Karyn interrupts her.

  “Hey, want to trade places? This little guy needs his bottle and some serious cuddling—and I’m pretty much cuddled out.”

  With an eager nod, Elsa goes over to the most comfortable guest chair in the office, settles into it, and holds out her arms.

  “Careful—he’s a little escape artist. I’ll go grab the bottle. Got him?”

  “Got him,” she assures Karyn, holding the writhing puppy close and nuzzling his soft fur with her cheek. Within moments, he settles his warm little body against her.

  Karyn returns with the bottle, her brown eyes widening in surprise behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Wow. What’d you do to him?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you’ve definitely got the touch. Too bad you never had kids—you’d be a great mom.”

  The moment the words are out of her mouth, Karyn looks as if she wants to take them back. “Sorry,” she tells Elsa, “I know that’s personal. I mean, maybe you didn’t want kids, or maybe you couldn’t have them—oh God, why do I always say the wrong thing?”

  “It’s okay.” Not really, but…poor Karyn. And poor me. “You’re right. It is too bad. And maybe I would have been a great mom…”

  But I wasn’t.

  If Jeremy were here, you could ask him. He’d probably be glad to tell you about all the mistakes I made.

  But Jeremy isn’t here.

  Jeremy doesn’t know that Elsa can see many things more clearly now—things she would have done differently, given the chance.

  And if she’s right—and he isn’t coming back—then she’ll never be able to tell him how sorry she is for failing him.

  Glenhaven Episcopal Church, a classic white clapboard structure with a steeple and stained glass windows, sits on the tree-shaded green in the heart of town.

  When Ryan and Lucy were little, Lauren brought them to a series of music classes in the basement recreation room. She hasn’t set foot in here since, but it’s changed little, if at all, over the years. Same damp smell, same dim fluorescent lighting, same wooden stage framed by worn maroon velvet curtains and filled with folding chairs and tables that are taken out as needed.

  They’re not needed today—and if they were, there wouldn’t be space to set them up. The rec room is jam-packed with castoffs for the upcoming tag sale. Not just boxes of knickknacks and bags of clothing, but furniture, too. Nice furniture.

  As Ryan returns to the car for their last box, Lauren runs her fingers along the polished surface of an Art Deco–style dressing table with a rounded mirror.

  “If you’re interested in that, you’d better get here early on sale day.”

  Lauren turns to see the woman who introduced herself as Alana from the Junior League. She’s either stiff or shy—Lauren couldn’t tell which at first, but—noting her arch smile—she’s now leaning toward stiff.

  She’s noticed that Alana keeps peeking into the boxes Lauren and Ryan have brought in, taking stock of what’s inside. She isn’t exactly wrinkling her nose, but she’s not looking tempted to put aside anything for herself, either.

  “Oh, I’m not
interested in this.” Lauren hastily removes her hand from the dressing table. “I’m here to get rid of things, not accumulate more.”

  “Well, there really are some great pieces here. Furniture, and clothing, too.”

  Was that a hint? Is she taking in Lauren’s coffee-stained shorts and faded Gap T-shirt and thinking she’d do better in some other mom’s hand-me-downs?

  “I’ll be back with clothes, too, before the week is out,” Lauren informs her. “My kids are growing like weeds, so I’ve got to go through their closets.”

  Imagine—Alana doesn’t look thrilled by the prospect of wardrobe donations from the Walsh family.

  Thankfully, Ryan appears, lugging the final box.

  “Is that it?” Lauren asks.

  “That’s it.” He plunks it down, hard—with the distinct sound of breaking glass. “Oops.”

  Alana shakes her hair-sprayed head. “I certainly hope that wasn’t anything valuable.”

  What, she thinks there might be vintage Haviland Limoges amid the wreckage?

  Dismayed, Ryan looks at Lauren.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. Accidents happen.” She reaches for the box and notes that it’s the one she marked “FRAGILE.” Of course it is.

  But who cares about a couple of old teacups?

  “What are you doing?” Alana asks as she lifts it.

  “We’ll take this one home and get rid of whatever’s broken, then bring the rest back.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can take care of it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to cut yourself,” she tells Alana—just as her cell phone rings in her back pocket.

  Nick?

  She hurriedly plunks the box down—more breaking glass—so that she can answer it, dimly aware of Alana’s incredulous expression.

  It isn’t Nick. The call is from home.

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks Lucy as her thoughts fly to the unfamiliar dog walker. What if—?

  “No,” Lucy replies. “Have you talked to Daddy today?”

  With another twinge of foreboding, she tells her daughter that she hasn’t. Conscious of Ryan’s concerned gaze—and Alana’s curious one—Lauren adds, “I’m sure he’ll call. Don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help it. I sent him a bunch of texts and he never answered any of them. I just tried to call him at home and on his cell phone and at work, too, because Sadie was worried, and I got his voice mail, too. He should be there by now, Mom, it’s after nine o’clock.”

  “Maybe he’s out of cell phone range and he can’t get messages.”

  Silence. Lucy isn’t buying that. She knows something is wrong. Not oops-crossed-wires wrong.

  Seriously wrong.

  “Listen, I’m going to drop Ryan off and then I’ll be home. We’ll figure things out when I get there, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lucy says in a small voice.

  Hanging up, Lauren sees that Alana is now holding the box marked “FRAGILE.”

  Lauren no longer gives a damn whether she cuts herself or not. She can keep the box, and everything in it.

  “Come on, Ryan.” She fishes her keys from her pocket. “I know you have to meet your friends.”

  “Maybe I should just come home with you instead, in case… I mean Dad…we don’t know where he is, and—”

  “Dad’s fine,” she assures Ryan—and Alana, in case she was thinking about telling her Junior League friends that the philandering Nick Walsh is now MIA.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick has to be fine. Please, please, please let him be fine.

  If only it were possible to make something happen simply by telling yourself over and over that it will—that it has to.

  But no one knows better than Lauren that that’s impossible. If it weren’t, Nick would still be here with her and the kids, instead of…

  God only knows where, she thinks bleakly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back when she and Nick were still married, Lauren spoke often to his assistant, Georgia. If she couldn’t reach him in his office or on his cell, she had no qualms about calling Georgia directly and asking her to track him down.

  Things are different now.

  She’s had no contact with Georgia since Nick moved out. She often wonders what—if anything—he’s told his colleagues about the situation. Do they even realize he’s no longer living at home? Maybe not—she doubts he bothered to change his address in the personnel files. He gets very little corporate mail, but what there is still comes here to the house.

  Now, as she dials Georgia’s number with both her daughters looking on from their seats at the kitchen table, she rehearses her words carefully. The moment she hears the assistant’s familiar voice on the line, though, she forgets what she was going to say.

  “This is Georgia.”

  “Georgia, this is…” No, not Nick’s wife. “…Lauren Walsh.”

  “Lauren!”

  Funny, what one can read into one word spoken over a telephone line.

  She knows about the split, Lauren realizes. And she’s nervous.

  “How have you been? And the kids? How are the kids? They must be getting so big.”

  “Yes…listen, Georgia, I need…is Nick in today?”

  There’s a pause.

  Lauren’s heart sinks.

  It’s a simple yes-or-no question. Rather, it would be, on any given weekday. Nick should be there.

  “Actually—I’m not quite sure he’s in yet,” Georgia tells her.

  “Yet? I mean, it’s almost ten-thirty. That’s not like Nick. Did he have an early meeting or something?”

  “Um…can I put you on hold for a few minutes, Lauren?”

  “Sure.”

  Canned music fills the line.

  Lauren looks at the girls, sitting there in front of their untouched bowls of soggy cereal, and offers a bright, fake smile.

  “Is she going to get Daddy?” Lucy asks hopefully.

  “I think so.”

  Please, please, please let that be the case.

  “Eat your breakfast, girls.”

  Sadie pushes her cereal away. “It’s mushy.”

  “I’ll pour you a fresh bowl.”

  Sadie shakes her head vehemently. Watching Lucy put an arm around her little sister’s shoulders and give her a squeeze, Lauren fights a wave of apprehension.

  “Lauren?” Georgia is back on the line.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to transfer you to HR.”

  Homeroom? is Lauren’s first thought, living, as she does, in her own little suburban mom world, far from corporate America. What the heck is Georgia talking a—

  Oh.

  HR. Human resources.

  That makes about as much sense as homeroom, though. Maybe they routinely transfer all the nosy ex-wives to HR.

  “Thanks, Georgia.”

  “Sure. Good luck.”

  Good luck?

  Does Georgia, too, suspect that Nick is in some kind of trouble? Does she know something Lauren doesn’t?

  Lauren realizes, with an odd burst of relief, that “good luck” is the kind of thing you say to a spurned woman calling around looking for her ex-husband.

  The coffee she drank earlier burns in her stomach as she waits on hold again. She busies herself unloading the dishwasher, not wanting the girls to see her face. Chauncey comes sniffing around the clean dishes and she nudges him away with her shin.

  When she arrived home ten minutes ago, she’d been glad to see that the dog had been walked and returned to the house without incident. Now the replacement dog walker is the least of her concerns.

  “Mrs. Walsh?” an unfamiliar voice asks over the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Marcia Kramer. Georgia Ames said you needed to speak to me.”

  “No, I actually… I needed to speak to my husb—ex-husband. I’m not sure why she transferred me to you.”

  “She did say
that Nick was expected this morning but isn’t in yet.”

  “So he is back from vacation, then?”

  “He’s due back today, yes. But we haven’t heard from him and he’s apparently running late.”

  “I see.”

  In the awkward moment of silence that follows, Lauren’s thoughts race through various reasons Nick might not have returned her calls or shown up for work this morning. All are grim.

  “I can get a message to him when he arrives, if you’d like?”

  “Thank you. If you could just have him call home—me—the kids.” She hates that she’s stammering, hates that Georgia put her in the position of having to talk to a stranger about her ex-husband’s whereabouts, hates that Nick is missing, and—because it’s always there, even now, amid the worry—hates that he left her.

  She hangs up the phone and turns to see the girls’ expectant faces.

  “Daddy’s not at work yet,” she tells them.

  “Can you call Beth?”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Lauren might have snapped at Lucy’s suggestion. Now, she actually considers it—albeit only briefly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Anyway, I don’t even have her number.”

  “I do. It’s programmed into my cell.”

  That gives Lauren pause. She doesn’t particularly want to imagine her daughter cozily chatting on the phone with Nick’s mistress.

  “Dad gave it to me,” Lucy explains, “in case I ever need him and can’t get ahold of him.”

  “You can always get ahold of me.”

  “Mom! I know that. He meant on weekends when we’re at his house, or whatever.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be able to get ahold of him when you’re at his house?”

  “You know…if he has to go out for a little while.”

  Lauren stares. “Dad goes out without you when you’re at his house?”

  “Sometimes. You go out when we’re at your house, too.”

  “Oh, Lucy, come on. This isn’t my house. It’s our house. And Dad is supposed to be spending that weekend time with you, not…”

  Her. Beth. The other woman.

  Why, though, is she surprised?

  For the first time in a long time, she allows herself to consider that Nick might actually be missing of his own accord. That he might have carelessly gone off someplace with no regard for the kids.