She Loves Me Not Page 5

  Rose watches him out of the corner of her eye, wondering, as she often does, why he’s not married. He’s a good decade or more older than she is, and handsome: a graying Harrison Ford/Richard Gere hybrid. She knows he’s single and childless, but has no idea whether he’s divorced, or widowed, or has a girlfriend. It’s not the kind of question she feels comfortable asking. In fact, she tends to feel awkward around him under any circumstances.

  It doesn’t help that she occasionally catches him looking at her with what strikes her as something more than professional employer-employee interest.

  He must know about Sam. It’s a small town; people talk. Yet Luke doesn’t ask personal questions. In fact, today’s inquiry about the weather is about as verbally casual as he gets.

  Turning away from the display, Luke says, “When you finish stocking the shelves, Rose, you can get to work on the Valentine’s cards.”

  “Straightening them?”

  “No, putting them away.”

  “Already? Netta used to leave the seasonal cards up until a few days after the holiday, just in case—”

  “You can put them away today,” Luke repeats. “We have to make room for more Saint Patrick’s Day stock, and the rest of the Easter and Passover cards should be coming in from the distributor any day now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be sure to sort the cards as you put them away. Make sure each one has the right-sized envelope.”

  She nods, resenting his explicit instructions. How difficult is it to put away greeting cards?

  But Luke, in his characteristic micro-management style, goes on, “Stack any cards that don’t have envelopes together with rubber bands. They seem to be walking away from the display this year.”

  “The cards?”

  “No, the envelopes,” he says over his shoulder, already heading toward the back of the store.

  Envelopes.

  Rose is reminded yet again of the strange Valentine she received yesterday.

  The envelope was red. Not a small one you might get in a box of note cards, but the larger, rectangular kind that comes with a full-sized greeting card.

  A ridiculous thought flits into her mind, and she shoves it promptly out again.

  Of course Luke had nothing to do with it.

  Why on earth would he anonymously send her a paper heart?

  But then . . . why would anyone?

  Hearts.

  Hearts, flowers . . .

  Christ, they’re everywhere today, aren’t they?

  Hearts, flowers . . . reminders.

  With a grimace, David Brookman turns abruptly away from the red and white stationery store window display, focusing instead on the intersection before him. A steady stream of traffic zips past the towering gray office buildings that line Lexington Avenue. David takes a step back as a yellow cab swerves to miss a pothole, spattering brown slush onto the pedestrian-congested curb. The air is wet with icy precipitation that can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be rain or snow.

  If there’s a more dismal place in which to spend the month of February, David can’t imagine where it might be.

  You don’t have to stay here, he reminds himself. It’s your choice. You can go south, the way you used to.

  His father just called again last night to urge him to join him and David’s stepmother on the balmy Gulf Coast.

  David regularly escaped to his own condo there right after New Year’s, staying at least through President’s Day weekend. Hell, he’d have gone down for the whole winter, but she didn’t want to spend the holidays in the South. Said it wouldn’t seem like Christmas without cold weather, and snow.

  She loved snow.

  He closes his eyes briefly, pushing aside an unwanted memory.

  When he opens them again, the orange DON’T WALK sign across the street has turned to a white WALK. He crosses the intersection, careful to sidestep puddles in his black calfskin Ferragamo oxfords.

  One of these days, he really should find a closer rental garage. Parking his Land Rover three blocks from home isn’t practical on a day like this.

  Halfway down the next block, he mounts the steps of a narrow brownstone, snaps his black umbrella closed, and turns his key in the lock.

  Home.

  Home again.

  A new maid, whose name escapes him, scurries into the entry hall as he wipes his feet on the mat.

  “Good morning, sir.” She radiates polite detachment and a bit of uncertainty.

  Soon, she’ll take his frequent absences in stride, just as the others have.

  He nods at her, depositing his dripping umbrella in the stand by the door and tossing his wet Burberry trench on the coat tree.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” the maid asks, as he flips through two days’ worth of mail in its designated basket on the nearby table.

  “No, thank you.” He picks up the customary stack of bills, financial statements and credit card offers, then strides toward the double glass doors leading to his study.

  Stepping across the threshold into a dim, paneled haven, he inhales the familiar scent of leather, furniture polish and lingering pipe tobacco.

  Here, with the maroon draperies drawn, the silence punctuated only by the steady tick of the antique mantel clock, David is sheltered from the harsh city at his doorstep; from the harsher past with its haunting memories.

  Sitting at his desk, he slips a finger beneath the flap of the first envelope on his pile of mail then curses.

  Blood oozes from a paper cut. He sticks his finger in his mouth, wincing at the warm, salty taste, then opens the top drawer to find his letter opener.

  He really should use the damn thing more often, if only for practical reasons. Never mind that it’s an heirloom, custom-designed, engraved with the family coat of arms and monogrammed with David’s initials. His grandfather gave it to him the day he returned to New York with his MBA and joined the family’s real estate business. Well, empire would be a more accurate word, David thinks, rummaging through his drawer.

  The letter opener doesn’t seem to be here.

  He frowns, trying to recall the last time he used it.

  Truth be told, he never uses the letter opener.

  Well then, when was the last time he saw it?

  He has no idea. It’s so easy to lose track of time these days, he thinks, glancing at his daily calendar.

  Shaking his head, he tears off several pages: the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth.

  Today’s date stares boldly up at him.

  He toys with a sharpened pencil, rolling it back and forth in his fingers.

  February fourteenth.

  Valentine’s Day.

  So?

  It’s just another bleak day in another bleak month.

  Just another holiday spent without her . . .

  He clenches his jaw.

  Without Angela.

  As vulnerable in David’s strong fingers as the fragile neckbone of a hapless fowl, the pencil splinters abruptly in half.

  Turning onto Shorewood Lane late that afternoon with her children strapped into the back seat, Rose glimpses a familiar blue car parked in her own driveway.

  “Hey, look, Aunt Leslie’s here!” Jenna exclaims. “Do you think she can stay for dinner, Mom?”

  “We’ll ask her.” Rose parks at the curb, not wanting to block Leslie in and have to come out again later to move the car. According to the WLIR meteorologist on the car radio just now, the freezing rain that’s been falling over New Jersey and the city all day is moving slowly eastward, and may turn to snow before dark.

  Rose intends to change into sweats and warm socks, light a fire, and stay indoors for the rest of the evening. She had planned to brood, as well, but that will be impossible with upbeat Leslie around.

  “Hi, guys!” Dressed in her skintight black gym clothes beneath a yellow parka, Leslie bounds out of her car as soon as Rose turns off the ignition. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Look what I brought!”

  Ye
s, look what she brought. Rose doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  It’s a puppy. A little black puppy with an enormous red bow around his neck.

  Jenna and Leo dash across the snowy yard, squealing with joy.

  Rose follows more slowly, lugging the bag of orange prescription bottles, Jenna’s backpack, the pink construction-paper-covered tissue box filled with her valentines, and a paste-smeared, heart-decorated white paper bag containing Leo’s.

  “Hey, Ro.” Leslie flashes a broad white grin and twinkly green eyes, looking enough like her brother to create a fresh wave of aching loss in his widow. “The puppy’s for the kids. I’ve got something for you in the car.”

  “Leslie—”

  Jenna whirls on her with a pleading expression. “We can keep him, can’t we, Mommy?”

  Too befuddled to think clearly, she doesn’t know what to say.

  “Sam told me he was planning to get them a puppy that last Christmas, but that you wanted to wait till they were a little older.” Leslie shrugs. “I figured, they’re more than a year older now . . . and I saw this little imp in the window of the pet store at the mall this morning. He was so adorable. It was like he was made for you guys. I would’ve called first to check with you, Rose, but I knew you were at work and I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Of course you didn’t. And a puppy is no bother at all.

  Rose looks from Leslie to Jenna to Leo. Her son is giggling as the squirming puppy licks his face. She sighs. “Okay. We’ll keep him.”

  What else can she do?

  Leave it to Leslie to go and spring a dog on them when it’s all Rose can do to singlehandedly feed and care for two children, not to mention maintain her own health and sanity.

  “I’m so glad, Rose.” Leslie looks relieved. “I’ve got to call Peter and tell him he was wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?” Rose asks.

  “When I told him about the puppy, he said it was a bad idea. He said you don’t go and buy someone a dog without asking them. But I told him to mind his own business, and that he doesn’t know you well enough to say that.”

  Sometimes Rose wonders if Peter and Leslie even know each other well enough to be planning a future together. They certainly seem like complete opposites. Leslie is a vegan yoga instructor/personal trainer; Peter indulges a fierce nicotine and caffeine addiction. And Rose has never heard the reserved carpenter say more than a few words without being interrupted by bubbly Leslie. But then, he doesn’t seem to mind.

  Besides, just because Rose is the look-before-you-leap type doesn’t mean a whirlwind courtship can’t work for somebody else. Particularly somebody like Leslie, who wears her heart on her sleeve and lives her life guided by instinct alone. She’s clearly head-over-heels for Peter. Rose just hopes he feels the same.

  “Well? What are you going to name this little guy?” Leslie is asking the children.

  “Cupid,” Jenna says promptly.

  “No! Jenna, I want to think of a name!” Leo says.

  Okay, here we go. Puppy fight number one. Rose closes her eyes, exhausted just thinking of what lies ahead.

  Leslie intervenes. “Hey, Leo, just think about it. Cupid is a pretty great name for a Valentine’s puppy.”

  Miraculously, Leo’s ominous pout transforms to a reluctant grin. “Yeah, Cupid is okay. But I get to feed him first.”

  “Then I get to walk him first,” is Jenna’s response.

  “Come on . . . we can walk him now. All three of us.” Leslie sets the puppy on the ground.

  A sudden gust sways the bare branches overhead and tosses a tuft of Rose’s long, loose hair across her eyes. Arms laden with the kids’ belongings, she turns to face into the wind. As her hair blows back from her face, her gaze falls on the side yard.

  She frowns. The white blanket of snow is marred by tracks of some sort.

  “How are we going to walk him?” Jenna is asking. “Won’t he run away?”

  “Nah, I bought him a leash. We’ll let Mommy go inside and get settled before we bring him in. Okay, Mommy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “We’re going to walk the dog while you go inside. What do you say?”

  Rose turns to flash her sister-in-law a tight smile. “Sounds good, Aunt Leslie.”

  Leslie looks more closely at her, lowering her voice as the kids romp at her feet with the puppy. “You okay, Ro?”

  “Yeah . . . it was just a long day. And Leo was up in the middle of the night.”

  “Again?”

  She nods. “Mr. Gregg said he was so exhausted that he fell asleep with his head on the table after snack this morning.”

  “Who’s Mr. Gregg?”

  “The new instructor at Toddler Tyme.”

  “A guy working in day care? That’s unusual.”

  Rose shrugs. “He’s great with the kids. Especially with Leo. And he had a good suggestion for getting him to sleep through the night again.”

  Leslie leans her willowy frame back against her open car door. “Yeah? What? Drug him?”

  “Actually, he said I should get a sound machine. You know, the kind that creates white noise in the room. He said his mother has used one in her apartment in the city for years. It drowns out sirens and street noise.”

  “Well, there’s no street noise out here.” Leslie gestures at the quiet neighborhood around them.

  Rose looks again at the side yard.

  There appear to be footsteps in the snow there. Maybe an animal? Or kids cutting through the yard?

  Or maybe it’s just your imagination, because that’s where Sam died. Maybe you want to think his ghost is hanging around there . . .

  “Here, Ro—this is for you.” Leslie takes a gold-wrapped box of Godiva truffles from the front seat of the car, along with a leash for the puppy.

  “For me? Thanks, Leslie.” Touched, Rose kisses her sister-in-law on the cheek, wishing she had thought to buy Leslie a Valentine’s treat, or at least send her a card.

  Sam always brought his sister flowers on Valentine’s Day. His mother, too.

  “They get carnations, but the roses are only for my Rose,” he would say, as though he thought she minded his gifts to the other women in his life.

  Of course she didn’t. She always took pleasure in seeing how bighearted Sam touched the lives of everyone around him.

  “Here . . . let me put this in Jenna’s backpack for you,” Leslie is saying. “You don’t have a free hand.”

  “Thanks.” Rose wrestles her thoughts away from Sam as his sister unzips the backpack on her shoulder.

  “Oops,” Leslie says, as a calculator drops out.

  “My calculator!” Jenna shrieks. “Did it break? I need it for my homework!”

  “Calm down, Jenna,” Rose admonishes.

  Leslie turns it on, commenting, “I can’t believe you get to use a calculator for math homework these days. Back when I was a kid, you’d get into trouble if you did that. Don’t worry, Jen, it works fine,” she announces, pressing some buttons and handing the calculator to her niece. “Look. What numbers are those?”

  “3-1-7-5-3-7,” Jenna reads off.

  “Now flip the calculator over and read it upside down.”

  Jenna does, and her face breaks into a broad grin. “It’s your name! Leslie!”

  Rose peers over Jenna’s shoulder. Sure enough, it does say Leslie.

  “Your dad taught me that when I was a little kid,” Leslie says.

  “Do my name!”Jenna commands.

  “I can’t, but I can do Leo. See?” She punches in 0-3-7 and flips it over.

  “It says Le,” Rose observes.

  “Darn it. I forgot. The zero won’t stick when you push it first. Oh, well. It’s still pretty cool, huh, guys?” She tucks the calculator back into Jenna’s backpack, zips it closed, and bends to attach the leash to the puppy’s collar. “All right, let’s go, everyone. We’ll head down to the bay.”

  “Just don’t let Leo get too close to the water,” Rose calls af
ter them as they set off down the block, pulled along by the scampering puppy.

  She walks up onto the porch, unlocks the door, opens it, and deposits everything she’s holding inside. Then she retreats down the steps, flinching at the sound the snow makes under her boots as she walks across the yard.

  There are definitely footprints here.

  Okay, this is no reason to worry. Don’t let your imagination get carried away with you.

  But it isn’t her imagination.

  Someone has been here, and it wasn’t a ghost.

  Judging by the prints in the snow, it was one person—and an adult, at that.

  The footsteps lead from the street to a thatch of shrubs along the side of the house, just beneath the living room window.

  Rose’s heart begins to pound.

  Has somebody been prowling around while she’s gone during the day?

  Or—even more unsettling—while she’s here at night?

  She stands on her tiptoes and examines the window for signs of a break-in. There are no pry marks. The inside latch is securely locked.

  The tracks make an about-face at the window, retreating toward the street again, yet Rose slowly circles the house, checking every ground-floor window, making sure everything is secure.

  Should she call the police?

  And say . . . what? I’m alone, and I’m afraid?

  But she has a reason to be frightened. Someone has trespassed on her property. That’s a crime . . . isn’t it?

  Coming full circle to the living room window again, Rose has every intention of going inside and calling the police. Maybe they can send a patrol car around to keep an eye on things when she’s at work . . . and at night, too. After all, she was in such a rush this morning, the footsteps could very well have been here then, and she just didn’t notice—

  Oh.

  Her gaze falls on the silver-gray electric meter a few feet from the window, almost obscured by a tangle of bare wisteria vines that climb the lattice against the house.

  That explains it.

  The meter-reader must have been here while she was out.

  Case closed.

  Relieved, Rose sighs and gazes skyward. Thick black storm clouds are rolling in from the east. And somewhere up there, Sam is probably laughing at her.