Grand Avenue (44 page)

She’d had breakfast in bed, gone for a long walk in the country, sucking the fresh air deep into her lungs, relishing the peace and quiet, careful not to let anything interrupt her newfound serenity. No newspapers, no television, no radio. Not even in the car on the drive back into town. A CD of Glenn Gould on the piano accompanied her home.

“Do you want me to come upstairs? Tuck you in?” her lover had asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Chris had answered. And she was. For the first time in her life, she could honestly say she was fine and mean it. She was at peace. She knew who she was. She was no longer afraid.

She could hear the phone ringing as soon as she stepped off the elevator. Probably Tony, she thought, taking her time as she walked down the hall. He’d found her. Fine. So be it. She wasn’t afraid anymore.

She opened the door, locked it behind her, debated whether to answer the phone or just let it ring. Who would be calling her at almost eleven o’clock at night besides Tony? She almost didn’t answer it, but something propelled her toward it. What if it was important?
She lifted the phone to her ears, the sound of Susan’s voice assaulting her even before she said hello.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all day.”

Maybe it was a dream, Chris thought now, knowing it wasn’t, but clinging to the pretense nonetheless. She closed her eyes, saw Barbara’s face on the inside of her lids. Her sweet face, Chris thought, watching it change, grow perversely younger with the passage of time. Barbara hadn’t needed the layers of makeup she’d insisted on wearing, or any of the plastic surgery she’d subjected herself to over the years. Indeed, Barbara had remained beautiful almost in spite of herself. Why had she never realized how beautiful she was?

“My sweet, beautiful Barbara,” Chris cried into the hard pillow of the blue-and-green-checkered sofa. “I never even got to say good-bye.”

The words unleashed a flood of angry, bitter tears, and Chris had to bite down on the pillow to keep from screaming out loud. “No!” she wailed, writhing on the sofa as if in physical pain, covering her face with the pillow, as if to block out all sight, all sound, all sensation. “No!” The word echoed against the cheap fabric, damp with her tears. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Chris almost didn’t hear the timid knocking on the door, and even after she did, even after she understood that it was something other than the sound of her brain knocking against her skull, hammering for release, that there was actually someone in the hall, tapping to be let in, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to get up off the couch and answer it. Probably it was Susan, come to see if she was all right. Or maybe one of the neighbors, having heard her muffled cries. Maybe Tony, come to
deliver the good news personally. Or to put her out of her misery once and for all. “Who is it?” she asked from the sofa, forcing herself to her feet. But the only answer she received was more knocking on the door. Chris walked toward the sound, not bothering to wipe her face or dry her eyes, not bothering to ask again who it was, not bothering to look through the peephole, not caring who was on the other side. Fine, she thought. So be it. She took a deep breath and pulled open the door. Immediately, the breath caught in her lungs, the air froze around her. “My God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God.”

“Can I come in?”

Chris stepped back, her wet eyes wide with shock.

“Are you all right?”

Chris nodded, shook her head, fumbled for words that refused to come.

“I can’t stay long. Dad thinks I’m at a friend’s house. I can’t stay long.”

Chris wiped the tears from her eyes with an impatient hand. They got in her way, and she would allow nothing to hamper her view of the glorious young girl standing before her. “Montana,” she whispered in a voice that could barely be heard, her eyes sucking her daughter in like liquid from a straw—the long blond hair, the pale skin, the apple cheeks, the wondrous navy blue eyes. She was a young woman now.

“Are you all right?” her daughter asked again.

“I’m all right,” Chris heard herself answer.

Montana closed the door behind her, although she took only a few tentative steps into the room.

“It’s a mess,” Chris apologized, imagining the room
through her daughter’s eyes—the old-fashioned shag carpeting in the same garish tones as the sofa, the small glass-topped table hugged by two mismatched chairs, the tiny galley kitchen.

“It’s fine.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Susan told me. I called her this afternoon. She called me back after she spoke to you.”

“You called her?”

“Barbara was dead. They thought Dad might have …” Montana stopped, swallowed, lowered her eyes to the floor, as if to escape the intensity of her mother’s gaze. “Nobody knew where you were.”

“You were worried about me?”

“Where were you?”

Chris tried, but couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter, as if she were afraid that should she turn away, even for half a second, the girl would disappear. “Would you like to sit down?”

Montana shook her head, leaned back against the door.

“Can I get you anything to eat, something to drink? Water?”

“I’m okay,” Montana said, then: “Would
you
like some water?”

Chris nodded, sinking to the sofa when she felt her legs about to give way, her eyes following her daughter into the galley kitchen, staying on her as Montana filled a glass with water and brought it back into the living room. Chris felt a bolt of electricity charge through her body as their fingers briefly touched. It took every ounce of strength she had to keep from
throwing herself into her daughter’s arms, smothering her sweet face with kisses.

“Where were you?” Montana repeated.

Chris shook her head, not sure what to say. “After Susan’s mother’s funeral, I went for a drive in the country. I stayed overnight at this little inn, spent the day walking around, visiting antique stores …”

“Alone?”

“No. A friend was with me.” How much could she tell her? Chris wondered. Dear God, there was so
much
to tell her.

“So you didn’t hear anything about what happened.…”

“Until maybe an hour ago.” Chris sipped her water slowly, her eyes never leaving the beautiful young woman who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other before her. Montana wore white jeans and a pink, sleeveless sweater, and her arms were slim and toned. How she ached to feel those arms around her, Chris thought, watching as Montana pulled a chair away from the small, round, glass-topped table and sat down.

“At first they thought Dad did it.”

“I know.”

“But he was home last night, looking after Rowdy.”

“Rowdy’s sick?”

Montana shook her head with pronounced vigor. “He just has a cold. He coughs all the time. Keeps everybody up.”

“Has he been to the doctor?”

“It’s just a cold,” Montana said, growing quickly defensive. “Dad’s taking good care of him. He gets up every night to give him his medicine.”

Chris said nothing. Her baby had a cold. Tony was giving him his medicine.

“He’s a good father,” Montana said. “He takes good care of us.”

“I’m glad.”

“You probably don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“I know you two had problems …”

You don’t know, Chris wanted to say, said nothing.

“But ever since you left …”

“I’ve tried to see you so many times. You know how much—”

Montana jumped to her feet. “I should go.”

Chris was instantly on her feet as well. “No, please. Please don’t go. Please.”

Montana’s eyes moved nervously between her mother and the door, as if trying to figure out the time it would take to run the short distance, as if she were afraid that should she try, her mother might tackle her to the ground. She hesitated for what felt like an eternity before sitting back down. “He’s been a good father,” she repeated.

Chris nodded, afraid to say anything lest she say something that would send Montana catapulting out of her chair again. “How’s Wyatt?” she ventured after a lengthy pause.

“He’s okay.”

“And you?”

Montana seemed surprised by the question. “Me? I’m fine.”

“You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoying school?”

“It’s okay. One more year, then I’m off to college.”

“Just one more year?”

“I’m thinking of applying to Duke. Or maybe Cornell.”

Duke or maybe Cornell, Chris repeated silently, wondrously.

“I’m not sure yet what my major will be. Maybe political science. Maybe English literature. I haven’t made up my mind.”

Were they really sitting here making polite conversation? Was any of this really happening?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Chris ventured, afraid to overstep, but so hungry for information, she could almost taste it on her tongue.

“I have a friend,” Montana said, as Chris had said earlier. “I don’t know if you’d call him a boyfriend exactly. We hang out.”

“What’s his name?”

“David.”

“David,” Chris repeated. “I always liked that name. What’s he like?”

“He’s tall, funny, really smart.”

“Kind?”

“What?”

“Is he kind?”

Montana shrugged her growing impatience with the conversation. “I guess.”

“That’s the most important thing. To be kind.”

A moment’s silence as Chris willed Montana’s eyes to hers. If you take nothing else away from this visit, Chris’s eyes directed, understand that.

“So, where are you working these days?” Montana asked, shifting uneasily in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, returning both to the floor.

“I’m a receptionist at an advertising agency. Smith-Hallendale. Maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re at the corner of Vine and Fourth.”

Montana shook her head no.

“My boss is this really great woman. Emily Hallendale. I met her when I worked at the Mariemont Veterinary Service.” Chris thought back to that awful day when she’d fled the doctor’s office with her pockets full of sedatives and her thoughts full of suicide. She felt the hand on her elbow, watched herself spin around, saw the look of concern in Emily Hallendale’s eyes. She’d reluctantly accepted Emily Hallendale’s offer of coffee, then gratefully accepted her offer of a job. At Smith-Hallendale, Chris had met the great love of her life. So funny how things work out, she remembered thinking at the time.

So funny how things work out, she thought now.

“Do you really think Tracey murdered her mother?” Montana was asking, her voice low, as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I don’t know what to think,” Chris answered honestly.

“I never knew her very well.”

“No,” Chris agreed.

“But she always seemed nice.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I don’t think she did it. I mean, how do you kill your own—” Montana broke off, looked uneasily
around the room. “I really have to go.” She pushed herself off the chair. “You won’t tell Dad …”

“Of course not.” Chris followed her daughter to the door, knowing it was pointless to protest. “Could we do this again sometime?” she asked, feeling like a nervous suitor.

Montana nodded slowly, her back to her mother. “I’ll call you.” She opened the door, about to walk through.

“Montana?”

Montana stopped, held tight to the doorknob. “Can I hold you? Just for a minute? Would that be all right?”

Montana swiveled slowly toward her mother’s open arms, hesitated, then stopped, drew back, shook her head.

Chris reluctantly dropped her arms to her sides. Clearly her daughter wasn’t ready for such a momentous step. It had taken all her energy, all her courage, just to reestablish contact. Chris felt a slight tear in the muscles around her heart. “That’s all right. I understand.”

Montana turned back toward the door. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll call you.”

And then she was gone, the door closing behind her.

Chris stretched out her arms to embrace the lingering aroma of baby powder mixed with a hint of lemon. She took a deep breath, wrapped her arms around the bittersweet scent, held it tight against her lungs. “I’ll be waiting,” she said to the empty room.

V
icki pulled her black Jaguar into the crowded lot next to the Helen Marshall Correctional Institute for Women so that it deliberately straddled the dividing line between two parking spaces. Let them yell at her, she thought, climbing out of the car and making her way across the lot toward the depressingly modern eight-story structure that housed female offenders, the top two floors of which were reserved for those awaiting trial. At least she wasn’t driving a Camry or LeSabre, or any of those other luxury wannabes with delusions of grandeur she occasionally saw overlapping two parking spaces, as if it mattered whether someone took a nick out of their sides.

She walked briskly up the front steps and into the spacious foyer of rose granite and black marble, sweeping through the metal detector as she handed her brown alligator purse and matching briefcase to the security guard for inspection. She retrieved both, signed her name to the registrar, and headed for the
bank of elevators on the right side of the lobby, head judiciously down, a message to all who saw her that she had no time for casual distractions.

“Vicki,” someone called out anyway, and Vicki looked up to see a lawyer whose name was either Grace or Joy or Hope or Faith, one of those inspiration-filled monikers that almost guaranteed disappointment, waving to her from beneath a predominantly orange-and-red tapestry that stretched across one wall. “Great picture of you in the paper the other day.”

Vicki nodded her thanks, although she was more miffed than thankful. She hadn’t thought the photo all that great. If anything, it made her look dour and even a little jowly. She’d have to be careful how she stood in the weeks ahead, to make sure she kept her chin up and her eyes down, confident but not cocky. Just a trace of the coquette. Enough to intrigue, not enough to alienate. It was tricky, but manageable. Tracey wasn’t the only one about to go on trial.

And she’d do better to stick with darker colors. Thank God it was the end of September and fall colors were starting to reemerge. Aside from being naturally slimming, darker tones were more dramatic, especially in print. And Vicki expected to see a lot of herself in print over the coming months. She’d already been the subject of two articles, one in the
Cincinnati Enquirer
, the other in the rival
Post
. Of the two, the
Enquirer
’s profile was decidedly the more flattering. The
Post
continued to see her as merely an ambitious extension of her husband. A luxury wannabe, Vicki thought with a defiant shrug of her shoulders. The article had questioned
her motives, her capabilities, even her judgment in agreeing to defend a young girl charged with the cold-blooded murder of one of her closest friends.