Heart of the Night (2 page)

Using the piece to house liquor had been a brainstorm. Not only did it give her the convenience of a bar in the bedroom, where she needed it most, but it meant that the prying eyes that monitored the bar in the den saw little change in the liquor levels from one week to the next.

She told herself that she didn't have a real problem; she just enjoyed a drink now and again. She believed it was her right to get drunk once in a while. She was convinced that whoever meted out the good times in life had robbed her blind.

Slipping a lone ice cube into her glass, she added a finger of water and three of scotch. Satisfied after a sample swallow, she closed the armoire doors, then began to wander around the room. Kenny Rogers was singing about his woman, but it wasn't Kenny Rogers she wanted to hear, and she certainly didn't want to hear about his woman. It seemed to Susan that the whole world was paired off. She was the only one alone. She, and Jared Snow.

He was alone, sitting in that studio of his. She could close her eyes and picture him there in the heart of the night, talking to her. She loved listening to him, often waited through the music just to hear his voice again. Whether she was totally alert, or tired, dazed, or groggy, if Jared Snow told her to climb the steeple of Trinity Church and jump, she'd do it in a minute. His voice was that seductive.

With one arm wrapped around her middle and the other propping the glass to her lips, Susan sluggishly stepped around the perimeter of the huge bed she had all to herself. Stopping at the night stand where her sleekly housed radio stood, she lightly caressed the buttons on top.

Jared Snow exuded confidence. She had never met him; not many people had, it seemed, yet that split second's worth of silence that always followed the mention of his name said something to her. She was sure that Rhode Islanders stood a little in awe of him, because he was a mystery, a blank sheet of paper in an area where anyone who was anybody was a full dossier.

Rumor had it that he was from the West Coast, that he was wealthy, that he owned both this station and others. Susan couldn't understand why in the world, if he owned the station, he would be working the night shift. For that matter, she couldn't understand why he would be working at all. For
that
matter, she couldn't understand why, if he owned other stations, he'd chosen to work in Providence.

Not that she would have it any other way. She didn't know what she would do if he were no longer a voice in her night. She relied on his being there. On weekends, when he was off, she was depressed. When substitutes filled in for him, she felt let down.

She wasn't wild about his music. He played too many ballads about things that were too true, and the truth could be brutal at times. When he played songs about love, she felt jealous. When he played songs about love gone wrong, she despaired. But he was good, damn, he was good. So confident, so smooth, so able. She needed a man like that.

But what would a man like that, one who was rich and well known and totally together, want with a woman like her? Susan wondered. What was she, anyway?

With a disgusted grunt, she tipped the glass to her lips and let its potent contents sear a path to her stomach. Emboldened then and momentarily angry, she whirled to face the mirrored closet wall.

She was beautiful. If nothing else, she knew she was that. She was taller than Savannah, more shapely than Savannah, and the curls—which Savannah didn't have—of the huge, auburn mass that cascaded around her shoulders had taken more than one man's breath away. Even Savannah admitted that her sister was beautiful.

But beyond being beautiful, what was she?

Savannah was something. She was a career woman, a professional. She had made it in a man's world. As Paul DeBarr's golden girl, she'd become a visible presence on the Providence political scene. Her name was often in the morning papers connected with one or another of the most spectacular cases. She was known and respected. She was in an enviably prestigious position.

Although she was not beautiful the way Susan was, men looked, really looked at her. Susan had spent years trying to figure out her sister's appeal. For lack of any better explanation, she'd decided that Savannah had some kind of aura. Even when they had been kids, Savannah had been popular. She hadn't been the loudest or the most gregarious in their crowd, but friends flocked to her. Nothing had changed since then. Although Savannah didn't have much free time, the moments she had were filled. Savannah had everything. Even her name was better than Susan's. But then, Susan reasoned, Savannah had been born first. That said a lot.

“Tunin' in to the sound of cool country,”
came the grainy voice from the nightstand.

Turning toward it, Susan pressed the old-fashioned glass to her chest, heedless of its cold or the moisture that dampened the delicately embroidered bodice of her thin batiste gown. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and listened to the lazy drawl that stroked her from head to toe.

“This is Jared Snow, warmin' you in the heart of the night. WCIC time is one forty on a cold and quiet March Monday in Providence. Keep your blanket pulled up and your dial set at 95.3 FM, for a little country in the city. WCIC Providence, kickin' in now with K.T. Oslin and a cut from
80's Ladies…”

Perfectly timed, his voice faded as the singer began. Susan wondered how he did that. Wealthy or not, owner of the station or not, he knew what he was doing. He was competent, like Savannah. He had power, like Savannah. He was just what Susan wanted but couldn't have.

Taking a healthy swallow from the glass, she sank lifelessly onto the chaise and brooded.

Savannah could have Jared Snow; Susan would bet on that. Savannah could have just about any man she wanted, and none of them would be losers. During the past year she had dated the dean of admissions at Brown, the city editor of the newspaper, the evening anchor at WJAR-TV, and one of the more prominent professors at RISD. The fact that she didn't seem interested in getting involved brought them on, if anything, in droves. It wasn't fair. The less she cared, the more they persisted. And Susan, who
did
care about having a relationship, who would give anything for just one of those dashingly prominent men, was stuck on the same old carousel of Newport society.

Up and down, round and round.

Screw old wealth, she thought, and drained her glass. Then she lay back against the pillows and waited for the liquor to numb her, or sleep to take her, or for the song to end and Jared Snow to talk her through the night.

*   *   *

Megan Vandermeer sat in the center of the huge jacuzzi with her knees drawn to her chest. The long, fleecy robe that flared around her was the only thing that had flowed in the tub in weeks. Like the elaborate ice maker on the refrigerator door and the sophisticated burglar alarm system, the jacuzzi was broken. Repairing it would cost a bundle. Will didn't have a bundle.

Tightening her tremulous arms around her legs, Megan buried her face in the folds of the robe and rocked back and forth in gentle time to the slow ballad that hummed from the speaker on the wall. At least that still worked, she mused gratefully. How she'd loved lying in the jacuzzi late at night with the water swirling around her and Jared Snow's voice gentling her nerves. She couldn't use the jacuzzi now, but she could still listen to Jared Snow. He was so calm, so smooth, so reassuring. He suggested the kind of deep inner peace Megan had always searched for but never found.

Why was life so damned difficult, she asked herself despairingly. Why was life easier on some people and harder on others? Why did
she
have to struggle and struggle for the smallest reward?

Dropping her head back, she cast a pleading glance at the stuccoed ceiling, but no answer was written there. All she saw was a spot where the toilet on the floor above had overflowed. The ceiling should be painted, she thought, then realized that the toilet had to be fixed first. But Will could not do even that until their finances improved. After all, no one knew that the toilet was broken, he had said, or that the jacuzzi, the alarm system, and the ice maker were broken. If one of the stately white columns at the front of the house were to fall, Megan suspected he would hawk his mother's heirloom china to fix it. Appearances were important. It was critical, he said,
critical
that people not suspect the Vandermeer fortune was gone.

Megan gritted her teeth and wondered whether there was a term for the Midas touch in reverse. Everything she touched fizzled.

“WCIC Providence,”
came the soft, deep voice from the wall.
“You're in cool country, 95.3 FM.”

She relaxed her jaw, closed her eyes, and listened.

“This is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, bringing you the best of Nashville at six minutes after two in the
A.M
. You've been listening to Foster and Lloyd, the Judds, and T.G. Sheppard. Stick with me at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, kickin' back now to an old favorite by John Denver.…”

She sighed, willing herself right into the speaker, through the wires and transmitters, and into Jared Snow's soul for a minute. He was so calm, so together. If only she could be that way. But her stomach was twisting, and her hands would have been shaking if they hadn't been clutching her legs so tightly.

And Will, bless him, was sound asleep in the bedroom.

She knew how he did it. He took pills. And maybe rest was what he needed more than anything. His world was crumbling around him. The pressure was extraordinary. The Vandermeers had been a viable force in Rhode Island circles practically since Roger Williams had established the state. Will had been born wealthy, he was used to being wealthy, and he couldn't conceive of life any other way.

Megan could. Her father had been a truck driver. He had died when she was two, after his truck went off a bridge in an ice storm. Her mother had gone to work, but there was not much money in unskilled labor, even less once the bills had been paid. By the time Megan turned fourteen, she was working to help out where she could, but theirs had been a losing battle. Any raise in pay that either of them received was promptly eaten up by a hike in the rent or in the cost of gas or clothing or food. Money slipped through their hands like water rather than accumulating and then working for them, as Megan's mother would have had it do. Money bred money, she told Megan, and she only had to point across the bay to Newport to illustrate her point. “Those people don't work,” she had said. “They invest their money, reinvest the profits, and live off the interest. That's the way I want to live. That's the way I want you to live.”

To that end, she had applied Megan to the prestigious Amsterdam Academy in Bristol. Judged bright and ambitious by the admissions department, Megan was accepted on full scholarship. Her mother had figured that three years among the East Coast elite would open doors for Megan. She had long since realized that her own salvation would come through Megan's.

While at the academy, Megan befriended the cream of Newport society and long after graduation, her friendship with the Smith girls endured. It was at a grand party on the Smiths' front lawn that Megan had been introduced to William Vandermeer III. Though he wasn't Newport, he came close. When Megan married him, both mother and daughter moved into the elegant Vandermeer mansion on the East Side of Providence.

We almost made it, mama, Megan thought, and began a rapid rocking back and forth.

“Takin' it slow and easy in the wee hours at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, where the country sounds are always cool. That was John Denver, and this is Lee Greenwood. Jared Snow here, in the heart of the night, I'm listenin' with ya.…”

Her rocking became less frenetic as she took a breath, let it out in a shaky sigh, then looked at the wall speaker as though it were the matching face to the voice she'd heard.

She wasn't in love with Jared Snow. She loved Will. But just then Jared was the one who gave her what she needed. He was an escape from the tension that constantly gnawed at her, a breath of stability in a shaky world.

With her eyes closed, she continued rocking. The music from the radio washed over her as the water from the jacuzzi should have done, and beyond the music was the memory of Jared Snow's voice. She let it take her from one song to the next, clearing her mind of everything but the dream it embodied. Comfort. Security. He seemed to offer so much, but as the minutes passed, the feeling faded as the rest of her dreams had already done, and she was bereft. Suddenly the porcelain beneath her felt cold. Pressing her lips to her robe, she caught a cry of fear before it could escape.

Her life was not supposed to be this way, she wailed silently. She was supposed to marry her prince and live happily ever after. But the castle walls were crumbling, and, alone, the prince was helpless. She had to do something.

“We're movin' along at two twenty-one with the smoothest of down-home sounds, cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence.”
He spoke gently, the words flowing with barely an effort, so soft, so laid-back.
“The temperature is twenty-five degrees and falling outside my door, so wrap up tight and stay warm while you're thinkin' country cool. This is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, kickin' around with you right up until six in the morning.…”

Megan squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't have until six o'clock. Slowly, she released her knees from the cinch of her arms and folded her legs down against the bone-dry tub. Her eyes opened and fell to her lap, to the small, black gun that Will had given her when she had first become a Vandermeer. For her own protection, he had told her.

He'd been right, but not in the way he had envisioned.

C
HAPTER
2

“Good timing,” Savannah's secretary called as Savannah rounded the corner and came into sight. Holding the telephone receiver high enough to be seen above the plants rimming her station, she wiggled it and mouthed, “The boss.”