at First Sight (2008) (13 page)

"Paige?" I swallowed. "Hey, how you been?" I was trying to sound lighthearted. But immediately, I knew that was a mistake.

Chandler's death had been a national news story. I should have been sad--should have told her how sorry I was.

"You haven't heard?" Her voice seemed small. "It's been all over the TV."

"Heard what?" I had no choice now except to play dumb, but I gotta tell you, this was really sounding lame.

"Chandler was killed," she whispered. "A hit-and-run two days ago. Somebody just . . . just drove over him and then ran away."

"Oh, my God!" I was trying not to deliver the line badly. "My God, Paige. How awful."

"Chick, I'm so, I'm just . . . " Close to tears now.

"Oh . . . I know, I know," I said, cooing these words. But to be honest I was really angry with myself for the bungling way I was handling this.

"I just called to tell you that his funeral is on Saturday at two. I know you probably can't come, but I just wanted you and Evie to know about it."

"Saturday," I said numbly. "No kidding . . . " I was still at a loss. I'd killed her husband and now Paige was inviting me to his funeral. The insanity of it was mind-boggling.

"Gee, Paige, I'm so . . . I'm so sorry . . . so terribly, terribly sorry." You can see how weak all this was. I was floundering, but in the back of my mind, I wanted to make my opening mistake sound better, to clean up my mess, so I took a shot.

"The reason I probably hadn't heard about it is I'm smack in the middle of a big financial thing at the company$ I ad-libbed. "We'v
e b
een kinda locked behind closed doors working on a big deal for the past week and I haven't seen much, if any, TV."

As soon as this was out of my mouth I cringed. Another mistake. Obviously there were dozens of people who knew that I'd flown to New York to meet with the gnome in the shiny pants and hadn't been locked behind closed doors for a week like I'd just said. See how tough it is to get this shit right?

"Paige? When's the funeral again?" I needed to change the subject and get off this.

"Oh, that's so sweet, Chick. But you don't need to come. It's so far for you. I just . . . wanted you and Evelyn to know that it's Saturday afternoon at All Saints Episcopal Church here in Charlotte. If you send something, don't send flowers. I've got enough flowers to open a shop. But we'd love a donation to Chandler's learning foundation."

"Right. Right . . . I'll do that. I know this is a horrible time for you, but I'll pray for you, Paige. I'll pray for Chandler."

I'm sure God was up there waiting for that fucking prayer. But there you have it. That's what I said. She was on the verge of tears again. I could hear it in her voice and her breathing as she thanked me.

I had an overwhelming desire to ease her suffering. So, unexpectedly, without even planning it, I heard myself say, "Don't worry, Paige. I'll be there. I'm never too busy for a friend. I'll help you get through this. I'll see you Saturday. You have my promise."

After we rang off, I stood there, realizing I had just agreed to go to the funeral of a man I'd killed.

Sometimes, I swear, I amaze myself.

Of course, that phone call changed everything.

An hour earlier I'd been fuming over the fact that Evelyn wanted to go to Vegas with Mickey D. Now I couldn't get her off on that trip quick enough.

The funeral was Saturday at two. I checked and there were no red-eye flights from L
. A
. to Charlotte, but I could fly into Atlanta if I got out of here right after Evelyn left for Vegas on Friday night. Evelyn said that the Mr. USA Oildown was a two-day thing, which meant she and Mickey D wouldn't be back in L
. A
. until late Sunday. With the time change from the East Coast, I could easily beat her home Sunday night.

My mind started racing while I paced, making plans. I even thought about what I would wear to the service. No kidding. Two days ago, I'd killed this guy, and now I was worrying about a sexy look for his funeral. None of the shallowness of these thoughts was lost on me, either. Even though I was appalled at myself for this line of thought, I decided to wear my new black Armani with the threequarter-length European cut. It's a long line and takes some pounds off. Not that it matters, but I look damn good in it.

I picked up the phone and booked the Friday night red-eye flight on Delta, then reserved a room at the Atlanta airport Hilton. I could get a few hours' sleep, rent a car, and easily make the drive to Charlotte in the morning.

Evelyn arrived back home at five. I knew she'd been at Gold's Gym helping Mickey with his pre-contest routine because she was in her spandex gear, her eraser-sized nipples clearly visible, protrudin
g t
hrough the thin sports bra. When she saw me she threw her purse down angrily on the side table in the entry.

"Y'know what, Chick?" she fumed. "I've been thinking about it and this is total bullshit. The money in our charge account is half mine. This is a fucking community property state. If I wanna spend our money, I can spend it any way I want. I don't have to get your permission first."

"You're absolutely right," I said, taking her starch out faster than a Tijuana laundry.

"I am?" She seemed stunned. Over the past year, about the only thing we'd agreed on was not to exchange birthday presents.

"Yes, you are," I said softly. "I acted badly. You're interested in bodybuilding. Your trainer is about to enter a very important national contest. Of course you'd want to be there to see him compete. It was wrong of me to say what I did. I apologize. I think you should go."

"Really?" She was standing in front of me now, her long, tapered legs slightly spread, her expression puzzled. Evelyn wasn't used to this kind of stuff from me and was immediately suspicious. I had to rein in my Mr. Reasonable act, or run the risk that she'd totally reject it.

"I'm going to trust you and Mickey to be adults," I said, trying to get back on the right side of the line.

"I'm not fucking him, Chick."

She was such a delightfully subtle creature.

"I know you're not. I know that. I'm sorry I made a big deal out of the trip to Vegas."

She was still distrustful, studying me suspiciously, the way you'd study a large, black spider in the back of your cupboard, not quite sure if it was dangerous or how to handle it.

"This is for real?"

"Yeah, yeah . . . I want you to do the things that interest you and I'll try and find things to do that interest me."

"I'm not sleeping with him. I don't even find Mickey D the least bit attractive."

Boy, how dumb did she think I was? But I let her have that round. I just nodded and smiled and tried to look supportive.

Anyway, without giving you the whole play-by-play, it went down pretty much the way I wanted. She and Mickey were on the phone immediately, making plans. The conversation lasted for an hour. I found out later that some of his weightlifter friends and some girls who were competing in Miss Fitness USA were all going to follow each other to Vegas. A rolling steroid party.

Evelyn sat at her desk and was bright and animated as she talked to Mickey, waving her lacquered nails over the phone like a voodoo priestess blessing goat entrails. All thoughts of our bail-jumping daughter were left in the dust as we both planned for the weekend.

It occurred to me that Evelyn had not mentioned Chandler's death. It had been on the news for two days, and yet, not a word about it from her. I wondered how she had missed it. On the other hand, if she knew, why hadn't she said anything? I chewed on that for a long time. After careful deliberation, my guess was she hadn't heard.

I could think of no reason why she would fail to mention it if she had. So, how the hell had she missed it?

I had my suspicions there as well. They went like this: I knew that Mickey D didn't have a TV, because Evelyn had wanted to loan him one of ours, a while back. My guess? Evelyn and the man she didn't find the least bit attractive had been over at his place while I'd been in New York trying to save our business. Since there was no Melissa to worry about, she'd probably just moved in with Mickey for a few days so she could set his hand brake for him.

Well, okay, that's fine. I'm through worrying about it because once this all settles down, I'm gonna give Evelyn a standard California drive-by divorce. She can have half the community property, which right now, with all my liabilities, comes to minus eight million. If there was ever a cheap time to shed this marriage, now was that time. In case you're bad with math, her half of minus eight million is zip.

She left for Mickey's apartment Friday, with a big smile, carrying her luggage, which was just one gym bag. My nudist wife probably wouldn't be wearing much in Vegas, despite the fact that she'd just hit the charge account for a thousand dollars in new clothes--probably bought herself some snappy new nipple jewelry.

After she was gone, I turned on the answering machine, packed my overnight bag, and left. I had plenty of time to catch my flight.

With all of this going on, I still never once thought about Melissa. I know, I know. I should have been out on the streets driving around, trying to find her before she ruined her life, but I was s
o f
ucked up at this point, I had lost sight of my priorities. So I was off to LAX, my mind reeling with the possibilities that lay ahead.

A funeral probably isn't the best place to strike up a new relationship with the widow, but I wanted Paige Ellis more than I'd ever wanted anything else in my life.

I wasn't thinking straight. On that Friday night in April, I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

Chapter
15

IT WAS HARD FOR PAIGE TO CONCENTRATE AT THE FUneral. Her mind was filled with gruesome images of Chandler's dead body, produced by the open casket viewing that she'd had the previous day. Her friends told her that she should look at Chandler in death--that it would help her say goodbye and accept the fact that he was gone. She had long ago learned that most sentences containing the word "should" were downers, but she'd ignored her own counsel. Now her last memory of him was the ghastly, chalky-looking face that rested on a silk pillow in the coffin. That memory of him, for the moment, had replaced all others.

It didn't look like Chandler, either. The embalmers, working from photos, had made him too thin and stern. Chandler had always been lit from the inside. A kinetic spirit who seemed to glow. Sometimes, when she'd had an open period at school, she would sneak b
y h
is classroom and peek through his door. He was so focused when he taught that he often didn't even see her. Watching him work with his L
. D
. students was like watching a magician perform.

When he first took over the class, he'd been told by the principal that 90 percent of the kids were already lost causes--delinquents who never came to class, or anger-management cases that he was supposed to just sit on and keep out of trouble. But Chandler beat those odds by turning their anger into excitement. He found ways to inspire them, and most became interested students. The ones who played hooky would find him on their front porches with a deal. Come to school for a week; if you don't like it, I'll pay you fifty dollars. He held contests to challenge the kids who refused to read. The prizes were field trips to baseball games. Unorthodox, but he almost never had to pay up. He challenged these kids, but more importantly, he gave them his respect.

The lump of clay lying in the casket in the mortuary's slumber room just wasn't Chan. Paige had to concentrate hard to erase that waxy memory from her mind. She wanted to remember Chandler alive, holding her hand and looking into her eyes. She wanted to remember their lovemaking, their laughter.

She liked to remember the times they ran together on the river path. Chandler was quick, but she was the distance runner and usually left him around mile six. "Where you been, buddy?" she'd grin when he finally chugged in.

"You cheated," he would joke as he bent over, gasping for breath. "You stayed in shape."

She remembered the sand squeaking between their toes as they walked the beach at sunset. They talked about everything: current affairs, art, religion, sex. They argued with each other--mostly politics. He was the Democrat, the limousine liberal, a dove: "We shouldn't try and solve the world's problems with force!" he would say. She was the army brat--a fiscal conservative, the hawk: "We should stay the course and kick some Al Qaeda ass!" They argued, they challenged each other, they laughed, they made love, they discussed thoughts so personal that both of them knew they could never be shared with anyone else.

The day after he died, she began an oil portrait of him, but had stopped, because even with all her talent and all her focused love, she couldn't capture him. He was so much more than the sum of his parts.

The funeral was mercifully over in an hour. The people who spoke seemed loving and sad, but to be perfectly honest, she'd only heard parts of what they'd said. Chandler's parents, Peter and Sophia Ellis, had flown in from Los Angeles immediately after they heard. Chandler's father was a tall, handsome man with wavy hair and a strong jaw. Physically, he always reminded her a little of Billy Graham. At the gravesite, he talked about Chandler as a boy, playing in the backyard of their house. He told of a time when his son had found a bird with a broken wing and how he'd nursed it back to health. It never flew again, but he'd kept it as a pet and even taught it to eat from his hand. Chan's first disabled student.