Live to Tell (12 page)

Ryan shakes his head, vigorously sawing at a hunk of beef.

Mrs. Wasserman sits with her fork poised, waiting for him to say something more.

He doesn’t.

After a moment, she asks, “So she’s been here in town all summer?”

“Pretty much.”

“I wonder why I haven’t seen her.”

“Janet,” Mr. Wasserman says.

“Yes?”

“Let him eat.”

“I’m just making dinner conversation.”

“It sounds like an interrogation.”

“I’m concerned about Lauren. I haven’t seen her since the—” She breaks off.

Funny that a person who has so much to say apparently doesn’t want to utter the word “separation.”

“Why don’t you just give her a call if you want to know how she is?”

Ian’s dad, whom Ryan has always considered a quiet, nerdy kind of guy, just became his new hero.

“I’ll have to do that. Ryan, honey, I don’t mean to bother you. I’m just concerned. I know what it’s like. I came from a broken home, too.”

Ethan looks up with interest. “How did your house break, Mommy?”

“No, it didn’t break, it was…”

“Broken,” Ian supplies, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“How?” Ethan persists.

“It means my parents were divorced. Like Ryan’s. And I remember how very hard it was on me. Ryan, I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Yeah, sure. Ryan tries to imagine himself baring his soul to his new pal, Mrs. Wasserman.

Uh, I don’t think so, dude
.

“I mean it, Ryan. If you ever feel like you want to confide in someone who’s been in your shoes…”

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

She looks pleased. “Good. Does anyone want some more shrimp?”

Ryan shakes his head, having lost his appetite and wishing he was anywhere other than here—even back at his so-called broken home.

When Garvey’s cell phone rings in the midst of a dicey cocktail hour conversation about campaign finance, he’s relieved.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m expecting a call and this might be it.” He reaches into his pocket and checks the number.

This is definitely it.

He hurriedly excuses himself from the group of businessmen and ducks through the nearest archway leading out of the hotel ballroom.

“Is it done?” he asks into the phone as he strides toward an isolated corner, keeping his voice low.

“Yes.”

“No mess this time, right? You made sure?”

“No mess.”

“And you have the file.”

The telltale silence on the other end of the line answers the question—which wasn’t really a question, dammit, because it never occurred to him that they could possibly come this far and fail.

It’s all Garvey can do not to cry out in sheer frustration and rage.

But there are eyes on him, of course. Plenty of security at these dinners, and press, too—not to mention hundreds of people wanting to shake his hand.

“I think I know where it is, though.”

“You
think
?”

“I—”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in person,” he suggests into the phone, keeping his expression as neutral as if he were having a mundane chat with his wife or a campaign adviser.

“Wouldn’t that be too risky?”

“Hell, yes,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “But it’s riskier to let this drag on and on.”

If you want something done right…

But he doesn’t dare do this himself. All he can do is provide explicit instructions, and make it absolutely clear what’s at stake here.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“The usual place.”

“And the usual time?”

“Yes.”

He hangs up without a good-bye, pastes a cheerful smile on his face, and makes his way back to the ballroom full of supporters.

It’s been a year since Lauren bothered to open the secret cubby in the kitchen—which ostensibly means that anything stored inside can safely be tossed away.

She’s been moving from closet to cupboard for a few hours now, doing her best to forget that Nick has yet to get in touch with her. Then again, maybe he’s called Ryan’s cell phone by now. Ryan’s still over at Ian’s, but any second now he should be calling for a ride. When he does, Lauren is sure, he’ll mention that his father called and is just fine.

On her hands and knees, she empties the narrow space, which, like the hidden cupboard upstairs in Sadie’s closet, is concealed by a decorative panel and lacks a knob. The two shelves are mainly lined with a collection of old florist vases left over from the days when she had a husband who sent her flowers.

The vases might have outlasted the husband—not to mention the flowers—but it’s definitely time to get rid of them, Lauren decides.

Suddenly, Chauncey, asleep on the floor nearby, stirs to life. His ears prick up as if listening for something.

Sure enough, Lauren hears footsteps on the driveway outside the open windows.

Barking, the dog barrels toward the back door, prepared to either greet or attack the newcomer, as needed.

“It’s okay, boy, shh,” Lauren tells him.

She gets to her feet and turns to see a figure standing on the other side of the screen door. For a split second, relieved, she thinks it’s Nick.

Then she remembers that Nick usually comes to the front now. She flips on the outdoor light. Ryan.

“How did you get home?” She nudges Chauncey out of the way with her knee and unlatches the door.

“I walked.”

“All the way from Glenhaven Crossing? Why? I was going to pick you up!”

Ryan shrugs and reaches for the handle.

“Careful—don’t let anything in with you.” She eyes the moths flitting around the overhead bulb. “Why didn’t you call me for a ride?”

“You know…’cause I knew you were busy.”

“Ryan, it’s dark out and you’re twelve years old. You don’t go walking around town by yourself at night.”

“I was fine.”

“You were lucky. Remember what I told you—bad things happen everywhere, all the time.”

Why does that phrase keep popping into her head?

This time, it sparks renewed trepidation. She hasn’t heard from Nick yet.

“Mom, I’m fine,” Ryan tells her.

“Yes, and thank God for that.” Lauren can just imagine what Janet Wasserman thinks about a single mother who can’t be bothered to pick up her child. Then again… “I’m surprised Ian’s mother let you go off alone, Ry.”

“Um, she didn’t really know. I just kind of…left.”

“Did you have a fight with Ian or something?”

“Nope. Can we not talk about this right now? You kind of sound like Mrs. Wasserman.”

“Oh, God help me.”

Ryan snorts.

“Sorry. That just slipped out. Forget I said that. You know I like Ian’s mother a lot.”

“Yeah, Mom, sure you do.”

“I do,” Lauren protests—not very convincingly, it seems, because Ryan shakes his head.

The boys have been friends since kindergarten, and Lauren was friendly enough with Janet Wasserman over the years, though never particularly close. Swapping playdates, chipping in for classmates’ birthday gifts, arranging rides to and from school activities…those were the kinds of things she was comfortable discussing with Janet.

Not personal lives, though. Janet has long held a well-deserved reputation as a busybody. Harmless, but a busybody nonetheless.

“Come on, Mom,” Ryan says, “she’s not your friend.”

“No,” Lauren admits. “Not lately. Maybe I once would have considered her a friend, though.”

“Why did you lose all your friends when you and Dad split up?”

Startled by the question, she’s about to deny Ryan’s assumption. But why? He’s not blind, or stupid. He knows a circle of women no longer surrounds her—that Trilby is all she has left.

“I’m not sure why, exactly, Ry. I guess when you go through hard times, you find out who your true friends are.”

She watches him digest that and prays it’s not a lesson he’ll have to learn the hard way.

“Do you want to make new friends?” he asks.

“Sure. But it’s not easy.” Not wanting him to feel sorry for her, she changes the subject—sort of. “So did Mrs. Wasserman ask you a lot of questions?”

“Pretty much.”

“About what?”

“You know…stuff.”

“Me and Dad?”

Ryan looks uncomfortable, and Lauren decides there’s no such thing as a harmless busybody.

“What did she want to know?”

“Everything.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, Ry…” Lauren loops her arms around her son’s shoulders. He’s almost as tall as she is. Someday soon, he’ll be taller. But he’s still her little boy.

Ryan was always so easygoing, so nurturing, so sweet. So…

On my side.

Not that he’s chosen sides in the divorce—they’ve been careful not to drag the kids into it. Of Lauren’s three children, though, it’s her son who has always made her feel like half of a two-man team that sticks together, win or lose. Always.

Years ago, when Ryan was just a toddler, she stubbed her toe. She remembers hopping around in pain, trying not to curse in front of the kids. Ryan disappeared into the next room and came back with a box of SpongeBob Band-Aids and the boo-boo bunny ice pack from the freezer.

“I fix you up, Mommy,” he said, and gently kissed her toe.

She cried.

She cried again when she repeated the story to Nick that night.

“I feel like he thinks he has to be the little man of the house when you’re not home,” she told him. “Lucy, she’s in her own world. It’s not that she doesn’t care—it’s more that she doesn’t notice. But Ryan looks out for me.”

“That’s good. When you’re old and decrepit, he can come take you out in your wheelchair to the early-bird special,” was Nick’s glib response.

“Really? Where will you be?” she asked indignantly.

“Dead and gone, I’m sure.”

He was kidding around, but even at the time, she was sobered by the thought of being widowed, even in the far-off future. It was inconceivable that Nick might die and leave her alone one day—even though women statistically tend to outlive their husbands, and he was almost eight years older than Lauren in the first place.

She didn’t like to think about it, though. They had a whole lifetime ahead of them.

Till death do us part.

Nick, apparently, heard it wrong.

Nick heard
Till Beth do us part.

Damn him, she thinks automatically, as always—then feels guilty, remembering that she’s spent the last few hours worrying about his well-being.

“Has Dad called your cell phone, Ryan?”

“No. Why?”

“I just thought you might have heard from him.”

“You mean you haven’t?”

Seeing the worry in her son’s eyes, Lauren wishes she hadn’t brought it up. Time to change the subject. “So listen, Ry, I’m sorry you had to deal with Mrs. Wasserman.”

“I didn’t. I just ignored her.”

“Good. You have to be polite, okay? But you don’t have to tell her anything that isn’t her business.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“At least you ate well, right? Steak and shrimp? Was it good?”

“It was okay. Got any leftover macaroni and cheese?”

Lauren smiles. “In the fridge.”

She goes back to filling a carton with the old florist vases, and Ryan puts the macaroni and cheese into the microwave.

“Is someone coming to pick up all this stuff for the tag sale?” he asks, eyeing the boxes and clutter on the floor.

“No, I have to get it over to the church basement tomorrow morning.”

“By yourself?”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll help you,” Ryan tells her, and for the moment, he really is her little boy again. Sweet Ryan, always there to help her; always on her side.

“Can we do it early, though, Mom? I told the guys I’d meet them at the pool when it opens.”

Her little boy, with his own life to lead.

“Early,” she agrees. “And I’ll drop you at the pool afterward.”

Then she remembers… Beth will be back in town this week; she might be there. Should she warn Ryan that he might run into her?

No. No way. He doesn’t have reason to avoid her—not like Lauren does.

Or does she?

Maybe it’s time to stop rearranging her life for fear of crossing paths with Beth—or with the local gossips.

Yes, let them talk.

Let Beth feel guilty when she sees Lauren—if she has it in her.

If she doesn’t, well, that’s life.

Lauren squirms inside, thinking again of yesterday’s phone call from Nick, so obviously in the throes of lovemaking…

Or was he?

Of course he was, she tells herself. She’s heard him make those noises countless times. Gasping…moaning…

Then again—those sounds aren’t merely associated with passion. She supposes that a person in trouble—Nick in trouble—might sound the same way.

What if he’d had some kind of accident and was calling for help?

It happens. People drive their cars off the road and are trapped, injured, with their cell phones.

But if that were the case, she’d have been notified by now…

Unless he hasn’t been found.

“Mom, do you think five minutes is long enough?” Ryan asks, and she looks up to see him peering at the microwave.

“Five minutes? One minute would have been good, two, tops!” Lauren forgets, for the time being, about Nick as she hurries to help her son.

Looking up as Garvey exits the elevator in his running clothes, the doorman puts aside his
New York Post
and steps out from behind the desk. “Morning, Congressman.”

“How are you, Henry?”

“Fine,” he replies, though Garvey figures it’s a lie. Henry’s in the middle of a nasty divorce. “You?”

“Fine.” Far from it, but just as Garvey doesn’t want to hear the sordid details of the doorman’s business, he isn’t about to spill his own.

“Glad to hear it. Looks like it’s going to be another hot one today.”

“You know it. That’s why I always like to get in my exercise before the sun comes up.”

“I know you do. Have a good run.” Henry holds the door open for him.

“See you in a bit.”

Garvey jogs off down the block, still lit by streetlights. Behind him, he assumes the sky is just beginning to brighten, but he’s heading west toward Fifth Avenue and Central Park.