The Black Widow Page 3

  “Bad news,” Alex says. “I thought you’d want to know. It was negative again. We’ll do another test in a few more days, but if it’s still negative . . . well, you know what that means, don’t you?”

  No reply.

  “All right, then I’ll remind you. It’s like I said in the beginning. You only get three strikes before you’re out. And just in case the next test is negative . . .”

  Leaving the rest unsaid, Alex clicks off the flashlight and closes the door, moving the bookcase into place with a heavy sigh.

  Back upstairs, Gato has vanished, and the food and milk sits barely touched on the floor where Alex left it.

  “Hey! Where did you go?”

  The cat is nowhere to be found, and now isn’t the time to conduct a thorough search. Not for the cat, anyway. No, it’s time to sign into the online dating account again and launch the hunt for a new prospective candidate. Just in case . . .

  Chapter 2

  On Tuesday morning Gaby arrives at work well before 7:00 A.M. Last night was one of those nights when she couldn’t fall back to sleep after waking up, not even after taking an antihistamine for her allergies. She finally decided she might as well get an early start on the day after the long weekend.

  The receptionist’s desk is deserted as she steps off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor and unlocks the glass door with her electronic key card. She makes her way through darkened corridors, past rows of bookshelves holding recently published titles, cubicles housing assistants’ desks piled high with more books and manuscripts, and her colleagues’ closed doors.

  She unlocks her own, flips on a light, and drops her tote bag on the lone guest chair. It usually doesn’t discourage coworkers from plopping themselves down there to distract her with chitchat once the day gets under way, but it never hurts to try.

  She sits down at her desk with a large coffee and bagel she bought from the cart on the corner, same as she used to do way back in her entry-level days as an impoverished editorial assistant. Back then, as a recent City College grad, she was still living with Abuela, her Puerto Rican grandmother, in a tiny walk-up just off the Grand Concourse in the Bronx.

  Later, when she was married to Ben, she upgraded to espresso and scones from various coffee chains. He made good money and encouraged her to spend it. Now that he’s gone . . .

  Well, the comfortable lifestyle is by far the least of what she misses. But it was nice—while it lasted—not to worry about affording the daily basics on her publishing salary.

  Their divorce agreement was straightforward, with virtually no shared assets and no custody issues. Her attorney cautioned her not to move out of their apartment and advised her to go after spousal support, among other things, but she just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible.

  She doesn’t regret that decision. Lingering in dead-marriage limbo would have been even more excruciating than finding herself completely on her own again, seemingly overnight.

  She sips her coffee and finds it too weak for her liking. That’s ironic. Most days it’s too strong.

  All right, Goldilocks, time to get down to business.

  Reluctantly turning her attention to her computer screen, she signs into her e-mail account.

  It takes just over an hour to go through her in-box and address the issues that have arisen since she left the office Friday evening. She checks her voice mail, too, and returns a call to a British author who touched base yesterday wanting to brainstorm titles. It goes straight into voice mail: “I’m busy writing. Leave your number and I’ll call when I finish the bloody book!”

  Gaby leaves a brief message, then hangs up and checks the clock on the computer screen. It’s still too early to return the other calls.

  Now, while the office is still quiet, would be a good time to get some manuscript reading done, but first . . .

  She logs into her InTune account.

  The familiar logo pops up: a pair of musical notes—beamed notes, the kind connected by a bar across the tops—that have smiling faces. Jaz told her that the Web site had originally been created to match couples based on their musical tastes, just as other niche sites match them based on religion, income level, hobby—any number of societal subcategories. InTune has maintained its music-themed name and logo, but has since morphed into a mainstream dating site that seems to be favored by the vast majority of New York singles.

  It takes Gaby three tries to remember the password. She’d changed it last night from the original one she and Jaz had created, worried that if her well-meaning but meddling cousin still had access to the account, she might use it to pose as Gaby, flirting with strangers left and right . . .

  Which is the whole point of these sites in the first place, right?

  But her style isn’t nearly as brash as Jaz’s. Plus, she’s looking for a very specific type of man.

  “Oh, really?” Jaz said yesterday afternoon, after uploading the Central Park photos and helping her finish her profile. “What type is that?”

  All right, so maybe she doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for. But she definitely knows what she doesn’t want: a fling with a jerk who’s trolling around online for easy bait.

  “Who wants that?” Jaz asked with an easy shrug. “Listen, we all want the same thing. Love. So come on . . . are you ready to let this account go live?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll never be ready.”

  “I will be. Just . . . let me get used to it for a few more days.”

  “Why wait? The sooner, the better. Don’t you want to see how many guys you attract?”

  “What if there are none?”

  “With those pictures? Come on, mami, you know you’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful?

  There may have been times in her life when Gaby really did feel beautiful. A long, long time ago. Definitely when she was a little girl, and her daddy used to come home on leave to visit her at Abuela’s. He always called her “Bonita”—pretty little one.

  But he went to Iraq and never came back. Not because something happened to him over there. No, he still sent e-mails from time to time—from Iraq, but later from Las Vegas, from Texas, from California. So far as she knew, he was still alive and well, safely back in the States. He just stopped visiting. Stopped calling her Bonita.

  Right around the time she realized he’d left her behind for good, teenage Gaby decided her hair was too wild, her skin too dark, her hips too wide, and her features too exotic to conform to anyone’s idea of beauty.

  Years later, when she and Ben fell in love, he complimented her all the time. Not just on her looks, of course. But it meant a lot, especially when she was pregnant and ballooning toward two hundred pounds, to see the desire in his eyes and hear him say sweet things without sounding sappy. Somehow, he managed to convince her that she was beautiful—and that he loved her, would always love her, no matter what.

  Interesting that the two men in her life who professed their adoration eventually abandoned her.

  So. Beautiful? No, she doesn’t think of herself that way.

  But Jaz, ever her personal cheerleader, promised, “As soon as your dating profile goes live, guys are going to come crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “Like cucarachas. Terrific.”

  Her cousin rolled her eyes. “Only you would compare guys to cockroaches. What am I going to do with you, Gabriela?”

  Leave me alone, Gaby wanted to say.

  But of course that’s not what she really wants. Alone has come to mean lonely.

  Anyway, Jaz really does have her best interests at heart. She isn’t just a cousin, she’s the sister Gaby never had—though sometimes she also likes to act like the mother Gaby never had.

  Jaz’s own mother, Tia Yolanda, had—along with Abuela—truly been the mother Gaby never had. Not since she was a toddler, anyway. Tia Yolanda and Gaby’s mother, Gloria, were sisters. Cruelly, the lupus that killed Gloria when she was just in her twenties also took Tia Yolanda’s
life a decade later.

  After that it was just Abuela looking out for both Jaz and Gaby, who have always, always, had each other’s backs.

  And so, sitting here on a cloudy Tuesday morning, sipping watery coffee from a paper cup, Gaby signs into the dating Web site and finds that her profile has gone live. As Jaz predicted, a number of guys have reached out, interested in connecting. Like her own page, theirs only show first names.

  Gaby skims through the messages, ruling them out one by one.

  Jack: too pushy . . .

  Greg: too boring . . .

  Eli: too creepy . . .

  And then . . .

  All too familiar.

  First the name catches her eye, then the postage-stamp-sized photograph attached to the response, which consists of only one line: Fancy meeting you here.

  Ben.

  Online, a person can be anyone he or she wants to be.

  That’s the beauty of these Internet dating sites. You can call yourself by another name, make up an exciting background and glamorous career, even use a photo-shopped head shot—within reason, of course. You don’t go and shave fifty pounds off your body or twenty-five years off your age, and you don’t claim to be a celebrity or a billionaire, because those are things you obviously can’t pull off once you meet someone in person.

  But early on, when you’re trying to bait the trap, so to speak, you really have to offer something that will tempt anyone who comes across your profile.

  The picture he just uploaded to his latest page on the InTune Web site hasn’t been digitally altered, but it is a few years old. In it he’s wearing a red sweater. He read someplace that a splash of red attracts the opposite sex when it comes to online photos.

  The snapshot was taken a couple of Christmases ago, at his former in-laws’ home. He was thinner and more handsome then, still hitting the gym every day and getting a good night’s sleep every night, back before all the trouble started. He had more hair and fewer wrinkles—issues that can be easily remedied with the right imaging software.

  Expensive software—which he can no longer afford, thanks to her.

  Thanks to her—his ex-wife, who left him for another man—he has to take a little white pill every morning. It’s an antidepressant that causes all kinds of fun side effects, like nausea, dry mouth, and headaches. And, the doctor warned him, even worse ones if he forgets to take it: crying spells, dizziness, even suicidal tendencies. So of course he takes it daily—thanks to her.

  And thanks to her, and all the stress and heartache she’s wreaked upon his life, he didn’t even consider taking new pictures for his new online dating profile. When he looks in the mirror lately, he doesn’t like what he sees. When he looks at old pictures, he does. Case closed.

  He leans back in his chair and surveys his latest profile.

  Any eligible female who stumbles across “Nick’s” tall, dark, and handsome picture will most likely click through to read his questionnaire.

  First, she’ll check out his age, thirty-one; his location, Upper West Side; his occupation, architect.

  Already impressed, she’ll see that he’s never been married and has no children. That will most likely be met with approval because, really, who wants that kind of baggage?

  Not me. Not most single people in their right mind.

  With Nick Santana—that’s the name he’ll be using this time—a woman seeking an unencumbered man won’t even have to worry about pets. He lied that he’s allergic, to keep the crazy cat ladies away.

  He couldn’t believe how many of those he found when he first entered the realm of online dating. It seemed like such a cliché until he started noticing just how many single women posted photos of themselves cradling kittens, or managed to work feline-centric answers into their questionnaires.

  Nick Santana’s questionnaire just covers the basic favorites in every category.

  Favorite Food: Italian. Who doesn’t love Italian food?

  Favorite Movie: The Last of The Mohicans. An oldie but not ancient; suitably rugged, with both historic and literary appeal, plus a romance.

  Favorite Music—

  Someone clears her throat behind him and he jumps, startled. Turning around, he sees Ivy Sacks, the project manager, standing in the doorway of his cubicle.

  “How’s it coming along?”

  Ivy is referring to the spreadsheet that has, with a quick click of the mouse, replaced the dating questionnaire on his desktop screen.

  “It’s . . . you know. Coming along.”

  “When do you think it’ll be finished?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Good. I need to get it to Bill before he leaves on vacation at the end of the day.” She pauses. “How about you? Are you thinking of taking a vacation this summer?”

  “Me?”

  “You have three weeks coming. You know what they say—use it or lose it.”

  “I’ll see,” he mutters. Thanks to his ex and all the money they racked up in legal fees for the divorce attorneys, he won’t be able to afford a vacation for a long, long time.

  Still, Ivy lingers. “So how are things in the neighborhood? Any more excitement lately?”

  “What? Oh—no. Not lately.”

  He’d made the mistake of telling her about a drive-by shooting last month just a few blocks from his apartment in Howard Beach, and a break-in on a lower floor in his building. He’d figured that if he emphasized what a rough neighborhood he’d been forced to move to after the divorce, she’d take pity on him and maybe raise his salary. All he’d accomplished was to generate more topics for the small talk she likes to force on him.

  “Everything’s been pretty quiet around the ’hood,” he assures her now.

  “That’s good. Really good.”

  For a moment she just stands there looking at him. Her expression is impossible to read.

  “Anything else?” he asks, hands poised on the keyboard as though eager to get back to work on the spreadsheet.

  “I was just wondering . . .”

  When she trails off, he doesn’t prompt her to continue. He’s tempted to, because she might want to talk to him about a raise or promotion. Then again, what if she’s on the verge of asking him out?

  This wouldn’t be the first time, since the divorce, that he’s gotten that vibe.

  It’s bad enough that she sent him a friend request on Facebook. He ignored it, hoping she wouldn’t bring it up. She hasn’t. But he still suspects she’s interested in more than a professional relationship.

  Not cool. Ivy is his supervisor. She’s also the only woman at the firm who happens to be roughly his age and single. Her facial features and build are far too angular for his taste, and she’s blond—so blond that her hair is almost white, her eyelashes and eyebrows invisible. He likes brunettes. It isn’t just Ivy’s looks that don’t appeal to him, though. He’s shallow, but not that shallow. Her retiring, overly earnest personality makes it impossible to imagine her ever kicking back and having the slightest bit of fun.

  “Never mind,” she says. “Just shoot that spreadsheet over to me when you’re done, okay?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  He waits for her to leave.

  The moment she does, he clicks away from the spreadsheet, back to his online profile.

  Favorite Music?

  Perhaps the easiest question of all.

  Smiling to himself, he writes Classic Rock.

  Chapter 3

  Friday evening, Gaby leans into the mirror above the sink in the ladies’ room down the hall from her office. This isn’t the first time she’s applied mascara without a handy place to rest her elbow, but she used to be a lot more proficient at it. Tonight it’s smudge city.

  Maybe the shaky hand is due to the extra large coffee she bought on the street after lunch, hoping to make up for another sleepless night.

  More likely it’s caused by nerves.

  She’s about to go on her first date in . . .

  How long h
as it been?

  Years.

  Her last first date was with Ben, of course. They’d been friends for a long time before he asked her out, so she wasn’t nervous. Well, maybe in a good, butterflies-in-the-stomach way. Not like this.

  A nearby stall door opens. Kasey Leibock, a fellow editor, comes out, high-heeled pumps clicking on the tile floor. She’s carrying a large tote bag, probably off to catch her commuter train home to the suburbs.

  Seeing Gaby, she raises an eyebrow. “Wow! Look at you! Hot date?”

  “I don’t know about ‘hot,’ but . . . yeah, I have a date.”

  “Lucky you. What I wouldn’t give.” Kasey turns on the water and pumps soap into her hands, not noticing the incredulity on Gaby’s face.

  Kasey is going home tonight to her husband and three kids, the youngest a toddler born a few months after Josh. Every time Gaby overhears Kasey talking about something her son—his name is Dylan—is doing, she thinks, Josh would be doing that now. He’d be saying funny things, and going to preschool, and throwing tantrums that we’d laugh about later.

  Kasey was still out on maternity leave when Gaby lost Josh. She brought her own infant son to the wake—because she was nursing, she later told a colleague who scolded her that it had been insensitive.

  “I said it would have been better for her not to come at all,” the colleague, Anne, later told Gaby. “And she was offended. You know Kasey.”

  Yes. She knows Kasey. They’ve worked together for almost a decade—through both their engagements and weddings, pregnancies and childbirths. All milestone events, to be sure—but with Kasey, everything is a big noisy production. She brags, she complains, she shares endless pictures, she solicits advice and freely doles it out . . .

  Anne, a quiet fellow senior editor who lives alone with her cats and seems to like it that way, has very little patience for Kasey. “She’s missing a sensitivity chip,” she’s been saying for years—though never as vocally as after the nursing-baby-at-the-wake incident.