Live to Tell (15 page)

“Were you any good at it?”

Garvey grins and shakes his head. “Not very. Are you?”

Caroline nods. “We should go together sometime, Daddy. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Absolutely.” He pats her tousled dark hair. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Why are you always worrying about how I’m feeling?”

Garvey toys with the fringe on a throw pillow. “Because you’re my little girl. I’m supposed to worry about you.”

“You don’t worry about Annie.”

“Sure I do.”

“Not like you worry about me. Is it because I was sick when I was little?”

He nods, not wanting to discuss it with her. Caroline knows very little about her childhood illness. She was too young to remember, and has never asked many questions. Garvey and Marin decided long ago that there’s no need to burden her with the details. All she knows is that she was in the hospital, had surgery, got better.

But maybe those days of Caroline’s willing oblivion are coming to an end, because she asks, “Daddy? What did I have, exactly?”

He feigns confusion. “What do you mean?”

“When I was sick. Was it cancer?”

“No, nothing like that.”
Something far rarer, and much more lethal.

“Can I get it back again?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But was it—”

“I’ve got to go get some work done now, okay? You get some rest.”

Garvey plants a kiss on Caroline’s cheek and leaves the room, closing the door again behind him.

Passing the gallery of family photos in the hallway, he glances, as always, at his favorite, a prominently displayed black and white father-daughter portrait.

The sitting with a well-known photographer was an appropriate—and bittersweet—Father’s Day gift from Marin. Garvey knew only too well what she was thinking. Neither of them ever said it aloud, though.

The photo was taken years ago, but every detail of the day is as vividly etched in Garvey’s mind as the precious image is captured on film.

He remembers Marin, six months’ pregnant with Annie, huffing and puffing up the four flights of stairs to the Tribeca studio. It was on the top floor—exposed brick, barren floor space, skylights.

He remembers how the sunlight spilled over Caroline’s silky hair as she sat for hours on his lap, so still—so very still.

“What a serene little girl she is,” the photographer commented, and Garvey forced a smile.

The smile appeared in the portrait, as well—a sweet, tender smile directed at his little girl, whose head was tilted against his chest, dark eyes solemnly looking up at her daddy.

“She looks just like you,” the photographer said, several times. He even grinned at Marin and asked, “Are you sure she’s yours?”

“No,” Marin quipped in return, patting her rounded belly, “but I’m pretty sure this one is.”

Garvey was sorry when the session was over that day. He would have been quite content to sit there forever with his daughter safely held in his arms.

I still would
, he thinks, and forces himself to turn away from the picture.

He can’t believe, after all these years, that the past is coming back to haunt him in a way that he never imagined.

That some lowbrow reporter with spectacular luck and a sketchy plan actually thought he could get away with blackmailing one of the most powerful men in New York should have been laughable. Yet somehow, instead of a joke, Byron Gregson turned into Garvey’s worst nightmare—even posthumously.

But it’ll be over soon
, he assures himself.

For all he knows, the mission to Glenhaven Park has already been accomplished. Really, there’s no reason to think that it won’t be.

He hopes that this time, there will be no bloodshed.

But sometimes, it simply can’t be avoided.

And sometimes, if you want something done right…

Garvey sighs, shaking his head, praying it won’t come to that.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

H
igher!” Sadie calls, pumping her bare little legs as the swing arcs into the air.

Lauren steps back a bit, positioning her hands as it pendulums back toward her.

They’ve been at it for a good ten minutes now, and her arms are getting tired. She can smell the chlorine from her swim wafting from her skin. She wouldn’t mind jumping back into the water. Funny, because earlier, she was chilly in the pool and couldn’t wait to get out.

But it’s warm here in the open field with the sun high overhead.

And her nerves are on edge.

Even a vigorous swim didn’t ease the tension gnawing away at her. Tension because of Nick—and because, back at the house earlier, she could have sworn someone was lurking in the backyard.

She knows what she saw—for a split second, anyway. She knows what she felt—a pair of eyes on her.

Yet who’s to say whether her own mind conjured both the shadow—a trick of the light?—and the sensation? Would it be that surprising, under the circumstances?

It might be more surprising to find that someone had actually been out there.

Imagine—a garden-variety Peeping Tom in Glenhaven Park. Ludicrous.

About as ludicrous as it is for her to be here with the kids, like it’s just an ordinary summer’s day. But she’s got to keep them busy, at least, until she knows more about Nick.

She’s almost found herself wishing Beth would show up. If she does, Lauren has every intention of putting her pride aside and questioning her about Nick’s whereabouts.

That she isn’t here doesn’t bode well.

“Higher, Mommy!”

She gives the swing another push and Sadie giggles, soaring toward the clear blue sky once again.

“I can’t wait until he’s that age.”

Lauren turns to see a man strapping a chubby, bald baby into one of the harness swings on the adjacent bar.

“Higher!” Sadie screeches, descending again.

“Sometimes I wish she were
that
age,” Lauren replies, indicating her daughter and then the baby.

“Really? How come?”

“Mommy! Higher!” Sadie demands. “Higher!”

“Guess.” Lauren smiles wryly, and the dad laughs.

The dad? How do you know he’s a dad?

She sneaks a sidewise look at him. Baggy khaki cargo shorts, five o’clock shadow, a bit of a gut, baseball cap, boat shoes without socks—yep. He’s a dad, taking the week off from a corporate job, no doubt.

Then again, he might be an uncle. Or a manny. Trilby says lots of local women are hiring male sitters for their sons.

“I’d get a manny for my boys if Bob weren’t such a jealous type,” she once told Lauren.

“Bob probably wouldn’t be a jealous type if you weren’t such a flirt,” Lauren returned with a grin.

“True. Can you imagine having a strapping young manny around the house?”

Lauren couldn’t imagine it, no.

She sneaks another peek at the guy pushing the baby on the swing. He’s not exactly strapping—nor particularly young. Early forties, she’d guess.

He sees her looking. “So you’re saying I should be glad my son can’t talk, is that it?”

His son. So she was right the first time. He
is
a dad.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she advises, appreciating the momentary distraction of casual conversation. “Once they start talking, they don’t stop—unless they’re thirteen, and you need information from them. Then it’s like they took the vow of silence and will be shot if they speak.”

“What kind of information do you need?”

“Is the party going to be chaperoned? Who drank the rest of the milk and put the empty carton back into the fridge? You know—that sort of thing.”

He laughs. “I don’t need that kind of information yet. But I do need to know other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like, is something hurting you or are you just screaming for the hell of it?”

“Oh, right. I remember those days. Trust me, after three kids, I know the answer is usually B, I’m just screaming for the hell of it.”

He laughs again. Wow, she’s on a roll.

“So you have three kids?”

She nods and indicates Sadie. “She’s my youngest.”

“He’s my only.”

“One is good. One is outnumbered.”

“Not exactly.”

Hmm. A single dad?

“You know,” he goes on, looking around, “I kind of expected this playground and the pool to be more of a happening place.”

“It usually is, but it’s August. The town is empty right now—everyone’s on vacation. Are you new here?”

He nods. “We just moved into a house over on Castle Lane.”

“Really? That’s the next street over from me. I’m on Elm.”

“You know the three-story stone house on the corner of Castle and Second?”

She nods, impressed. “The one with the portico? That’s an amazing house.” A mansion, really. Interesting, because this guy doesn’t strike her as fabulously wealthy.

“It’s an architectural masterpiece,” he agrees. “Our place is four doors down on the opposite side.”

“Really? Then you must be right in my backyard.”

“What does your house look like?”

“A dark yellow Queen Anne.”

“I think I’ve seen it through the trees out back. I’m in the dumpy white Cape with the puke green shutters.”

She laughs.

“Ah, finally.”

“Finally what?”

“You’re laughing. You seemed so serious, like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

If only he knew.

“I was hoping to make you laugh—even if it is at my poor little house.”

“Actually, I haven’t even seen your house. I mean, I never go down that street, believe it or not.”

“Oh, come on, the neighborhood’s not
that
bad.”

“No, I just don’t have any reason to—it’s a dead end.”

“Cul-de-sac, the Realtor called it.”

“Yeah—I guess ‘dead end’ lacks a certain charm.”

“So does ‘rundown wreck’—that’s probably why she listed our house as a ‘fixer-upper.’”

“Hey, we have one of those, too.”

“Well, I hope your husband is handier than I am.”

Nick. The mere thought of him sucks the fun right out of the conversation.

“He’s not handy. I mean, I don’t know how handy you are, but he isn’t handy at all.”

And he isn’t my husband anymore, either
.

And he seems to have fallen off the face of the earth over the weekend, and I have no idea what to do about it, or where I even fit into the picture, other than as the mother of three very upset children.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she rakes a hand through her hair, still damp and stiff as broom bristles, thanks to the chlorinated water.

“Luceeeee…look at meeee!” Sadie trills from the swing, and Lauren follows her gaze to see her older daughter racing up the hill from the pool. She’s on her phone.

No—her phone is pink.

Patting her pocket, Lauren realizes her own phone is missing. In her distraction, she must have left it up at the pool—and now Lucy has it.

Nick must have called at last.

Madison Avenue in the East Sixties is a sea of yellow taxicabs and black Town Cars. The sidewalks are crowded, and Marin and Annie have successfully lost themselves in the throng, their faces mostly concealed by oversize sunglasses. There will be no photos in tomorrow’s
Post
or
Daily News
captioned
Wife and daughter of gubernatorial hopeful Garvey Quinn spotted overspending and overeating.

“Too bad Caroline has to miss out,” Annie comments, licking the double-scoop ice cream cone she’s holding in one hand and swinging a Barneys shopping bag in the other.

She means it, Marin realizes, hearing the wistful note in her younger daughter’s voice. Annie adores her big sister—and Caroline treats her like crap.

Always has.

Maybe, somewhere deep down inside, Caroline harbors resentment toward her sister based on a truth she’s never even been told. In essence, she does know what happened to her—but not the whole story. Is it possible that she senses it?

She was a toddler when Annie was born. She could very likely have picked up on the emotional roller coaster surrounding Marin’s pregnancy and her sister’s birth—the shroud of secrecy, the bitter disappointment.

She might even have some memory of her own ordeal in the months that followed—and subconsciously hold Annie to blame.

Just as Garvey does.

He’ll deny it to his dying day, but Marin doesn’t buy it for one moment.

She saw the look on his face when the lab results came back. She knew, even before he said it, that he didn’t want her to carry the pregnancy to term.

And she knew that this time, she was going to stand up to him. It was their baby, but her body. She made the final decision, without her husband’s support.

Caroline’s own resentment of her sister might very well have nothing to do with her own latent memories or instincts. Maybe she’s simply picked up on her father’s feelings and mirrors them.

She is, after all, Daddy’s girl.

Annie is not.

But I love her enough to make up for her father—and her sister, too, for that matter
, Marin thinks fiercely.

“Oh, Mom, look!” Annie stops walking and points at the plate-glass window of a pet shop. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

The purebred puppy stares back at them with soulful eyes.

“He is,” Marin agrees.

“Can we get him?”

“Annie, you know you’re allergic.”

That’s been a sore spot in the Quinn household for years—mostly with Caroline and Garvey. Both of them often talk about how they would love to have a dog. Garvey, Marin suspects, because the dog would complete the wholesome family image. Caroline, meanwhile, has always claimed to be an avid animal lover—probably because she knows her sister’s allergies mean no pets allowed.

“I could get shots,” Annie tells Marin. “Dr. Federman said so. Then the fur wouldn’t bother me as much.”

“But he didn’t say that if you got shots, you wouldn’t suffer at all. It’s not worth it, Annie.”

“I really want a puppy, Mom. Please? Look how cute and cuddly he is.”

“Sorry, Annie. Come on, let’s go see if we can find those jeans you wanted.”

“I’d rather have a puppy,” she says good-naturedly, and Marin smiles, shaking her head.

“Meanie. Dad would say yes.”

What is there to say to that?

Dad must love you more, then
.

Or
Dad doesn’t care that your allergies would make you miserable.

Or maybe just “I’m sorry, Annie.”

For a lot of things. Things I hope you never, ever have to find out about.

“Mom—” Lucy thrusts Lauren’s cell phone at her. “I was near your chair and I heard it ringing so I answered it.”

“Is it Daddy?”

She shakes her head. Her green eyes are frightened.

“Lucy—here, watch Sadie.” Lauren takes the phone and moves away from the playground with it, not wanting the girls—or the dad—to overhear.

Bad things happen everywhere…even here.

Lauren’s heart is pounding as she answers the phone with a strangled-sounding “Hello?”

“Mrs. Walsh?”

“Yes.”

“This is Marcia Kramer again. From—”

“Yes, from Nick’s office. I know. Have you heard from him?”

“I’m sorry, we haven’t.”

Lauren’s heart sinks.

It’s better than bad news…but it definitely isn’t good.

“Some of his colleagues are concerned,” Marcia Kramer goes on. “They say this isn’t like him. No one has been able to track him down at home or on his cell phone. I was wondering—”

She breaks off, clears her throat.

“I hate to ask, but…”

Again, Marcia seems unable to bring herself to the point.

Feeling sick inside, Lauren has a good idea what it might be. She sinks onto a bench and turns her back to the playground, clutching the phone hard against her ear.

“Would it be possible for you to put us in touch with Nick’s—
friend
?”

There it is.

She knew it.

Some small part of her—an immature, wounded, vindictive part of her—is tempted to feign innocence—or at least cluelessness.
Nick has a lot of friends
, she might say.
I have no idea which one you mean
.

But this is serious. Nick is missing.

“Beth,” she tells Marcia. “That’s her name.”

“And she’s Nick’s—”

“Girlfriend. Yes. Beth.” Lauren rarely says the name out loud. It doesn’t sit well on her tongue, sounds odd to her ears, even now.

Beth.

I hate her
, she thinks churlishly—ridiculously, under the circumstances. But the small, immature part of her seems to have taken over suddenly, smothering rationality.
I don’t want to call Beth looking for Nick and I don’t want Marcia Kramer or Georgia to call Beth looking for Nick and I sure as hell don’t want Lucy to call Beth. Ever. For any reason.

“I understand she was traveling with him on the trip.”

For God’s sake, Marcia Kramer
, Lauren wants to scream,
don’t you understand how excruciating this is for my family?

“Yes,” she hears herself say, almost sedately. She looks over at the playground. Lucy is pushing Sadie on the swing, but watching Lauren. She can sense her daughter’s trepidation from here.

The dad and baby are gone, she notices. Just as well.

Tears fill her eyes as she looks at her daughters. Hers…and Nick’s.

They need to find out where their father is.

Chances are, Beth will know. She might even be with him at this very moment.

“Have you heard from—Beth—at all today?” Marcia wants to know.

“I haven’t heard from Beth
ever
.”

“So you don’t have her phone number?”

“My daughter does,” she says, resigned. “I’ll get it.”

Elsa wearily eyes the raised flowerbeds that run along the front of the house. They desperately need watering—if it’s not too late. Most of the plants have shriveled or keeled over entirely.

Why did she have to go and plant all those impatiens back in May, when she and Brett first moved in?