She Loves Me Not (16 page)

First, she tries home again. Then Christine's house again.

Then, realizing she has no other choice, she calls Bill.

She doesn't even have to look up his number, dialing it quickly from memory and holding her breath as it rings.

There's a click—and then Bill's recorded voice. It's gone directly to voice mail. Dammit. Is he on the phone? Or did he go out somewhere?

Rose doesn't bother to leave a message. She slams down the phone, grabs her keys, and heads for the door.

R
ose's SUV isn't parked in the driveway, and there's a vaguely familiar car at the curb in front of her house.

Normally Leslie would walk right in the front door, but today, she knocks. When there's no reply, she tries the knob.

To her surprise, it's unlocked.

“Rose? Hello? Anybody home?” Leslie calls.

Silence.

Frowning, Leslie pushes the door open and steps into the house, wondering why Rose would leave it unlocked after yester—

A figure suddenly looms in front of her in the hall.

She lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.

It takes a moment for her to realize that it's a man—and he's no stranger.

“Where are Rose and the kids?” she demands of the unsmiling Scott Hitchcock. “And what are you doing here?”

I
sabel reaches home shortly after one o'clock to find that her driveway hasn't been plowed after all. The landscaped half-acre surrounding her gray-shingled, green-shuttered colonial is draped in a pristine blanket of white, marred only by the barely visible indentations left by this morning's tire tracks.

Scowling, Isabel pulls the Mercedes as far off the road as she can without sliding down into the snowy ditch. She steps out the driver's-side door, and her leather pumps vanish promptly beneath a frigid drift.

“Dammit,” she mutters under her breath. She has no idea what she did with the plow guy's phone number. She never has to call him—he just comes when it snows. Except today, she thinks grimly. Today, when it's snowed more in the last five or six hours than it has since Christmas.

It just figures. It's just been that kind of day.

She'd already had to drive all over creation on slick, winding roads with Mr. No Personality sitting silently beside her, vetoing just about every house she showed him based on the curbside view alone. The few he agreed to go into were so disparate in architecture, size and cost that she still has little sense of what it is he's looking for.

When she suggested that they break for lunch, Mr. Gabriel abruptly told her he had to get on the road back to Boston before the weather got any worse. He promised to call her by midweek to discuss the properties they looked at.

Maybe he will, and maybe she'll never hear from him again. The latter might be preferable, even if it means losing a potential commission. All she wants to do right now is curl up on the couch with a cup of hot coffee and the remote control, and stay there for the rest of the afternoon. The rest of the week, maybe, if this crummy weather keeps up.

She spent all her days on the couch watching daytime television during the bleak winter months when she was recovering from her surgery. Though she'd never admit it at the office, or even to her daughters, she kind of misses Judge Judy, the soaps, and QVC.

Leaning into the back seat to retrieve her leather briefcase, Isabel sees Mr. Gabriel's black canvas shoulder bag on the floor beside it.

Terrific. She may be hearing from him sooner than she wants to.

She takes his bag with her as she wades up the snowy driveway to the house, her feet already numb and her shoes most likely ruined. Dammit again. Turning the key in the side door deadbolt, she decides that the first thing she'll do—after she changes into a pair of warm slippers—is find the phone number for the plow guy.

No, she amends, as she sets her briefcase and Mr. Gabriel's bag on the bench inside the mudroom, the first thing she'll do is call his house in Boston to see if his wife can track him down. He left over an hour ago, but maybe he stopped for lunch and hasn't gone very far. If he doesn't want to turn around and come back for his bag, she can always FedEx it tomorrow.

Isabel kicks off her wet shoes and wiggles her frozen toes on the slate tile floor, then opens her briefcase to find the client sheet she wrote up for Mr. Gabriel earlier. She uses her cell phone to dial the long-distance number, sitting on the bench to peel off her soaked stockings as it rings on the other end.

“Service,” a male voice says abruptly in her ear.

She hesitates. Service? What the heck?

“Is this the Gabriel residence?” she asks.

“This is Frank's Auto Parts. You got the wrong—”

“This isn't 617-555-3987?”

“Right number, wrong place.” He hangs up.

Isabel looks more closely at the phone number to see if there's an eight she might have mistaken for a three, or a seven that might really be a one . . .

Nope. She wrote it very carefully.

Now what?

She glances at his bag, hoping there isn't anything important inside of it. It certainly isn't very heavy. In fact, it almost feels empty.

Well, maybe there's some contact information inside. Something like an office telephone number, or a cell phone number.

Should she look?

It wouldn't be snooping. She's simply trying to figure out how to contact the man.

Holding the bag gingerly on her lap, Isabel slowly slides the zipper tab toward the opposite strap. If the contact information isn't handy—say, on a business card stuck in a plastic compartment inside—she won't go through his things. She'll just wait for him to call her.

You could do that anyway,
she reminds herself.

But the bag is already unzipped, and she can't deny that she's dying to look inside to see what she can find out about the enigmatic Mr. Gabriel.

Isabel pulls the bag open, peers into it . . . and gasps.

W
hen Rose turns the corner onto Shorewood Lane, the first thing she notices is Leslie's car parked in front of the house. Driving closer, she sees that Hitch's truck is right in front of it.

The front door of the house is ajar.

She pulls up at the curb and, leaving the keys in the car, rushes up the porch steps, glancing over at Christine's driveway as she goes. It's empty.

Rose bursts into the house, hoping against hope that she'll find Leo and Jenna waiting to greet her.

Only Cupid dashes into the hall, barking wildly, tail wagging excitedly. Rose brushes past him, her heart pounding.

“Rose?” Leslie emerges from the kitchen, cordless phone in hand. “I was just trying to page you.”

Hitch is right on her heels. “I got your message from this morning. Rose, is everything okay? Where are the kids?”

“I don't know,” Rose wails as a fresh wave of panic washes over her. “I left them here with my neighbor when I got called into work.”

“Not that creepy guy next door?”

“What creepy guy next door?” Hitch asks Leslie.

“The one who came out yesterday when the police were here, to see what was going on. There was something about him that I didn't—”

“The police were here yesterday?” Hitch interrupts. “Why? Rose, what the heck is going on?”

“It's a long story . . .” Her mind is whirling. She leans against the wall for support. What should she do next? Where can they be?

Calm down. Maybe Christine just took them out for a little while. Maybe they'll be back any second.

Rose takes a deep breath. If it weren't for the strange things that have happened around here in the last few days, she'd never suspect that anything might be amiss. But right now, she can't shake the terrible suspicion that Christine Kirkmayer has kidnapped her children.

That's ridiculous. She's a good person. You wouldn't trust just anybody with the children.

Well, what if somebody abducted Christine
and
the kids?

But why would anybody do that?

Then again, why would anybody make prank calls in the middle of the night, and break in here to leave the sound machine on at full blast?

“Which neighbor had the kids, Rose?” Leslie is asking. “Please say it's not that guy.”

“It's his wife, Les. She was so sweet, and she offered to babysit, and—”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I did! I called both of you but when nobody was home I called Christine.”

“Dad has the flu—I had to bring him to the doctor first thing this morning,” Hitch says apologetically. “The second I got the message that you needed a favor, I tried to call you back, and when I didn't get you, I came over. I got here about a half hour ago, and the front door was unlocked.”

The knot of fear tightens in Rose's gut. She looks from Hitch's concerned gaze to Leslie's frightened one and asks, “What should I do?”

“Call the police,” her sister-in-law says promptly. “Or the FBI. Kidnapping is a federal offense.”

“Wait a minute, we shouldn't jump to conclusions.” Hitch lays a gentle hand on Rose's arm. “Maybe your neighbor just took the kids out to eat.”

“And maybe she's a psychotic killer. Her husband sure as hell acted like one.”

Dazed, Rose asks Leslie, “What are you talking about?”

“Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, but Rose, I'm telling you, that guy gives me the creeps.” Leslie has tears in her eyes. “If he did anything to Jenna and Leo I'll—”

“Cut it out, Leslie!” Hitch says harshly. “Rose said she didn't leave the kids with him, and it isn't helping to stand here speculating about worst-case scenarios.”

Leslie clamps her mouth shut, but glares at him, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. She goes into the kitchen, phone in hand, dialing.

“Who are you calling?” Rose asks.

“The police.”

Rose nods. A strangled sob escapes her.

“Look, it's going to be okay, Rose.” Hitch puts his arm. around her trembling shoulders. “Trust me.”

She finds herself leaning against him, grateful for his rock-solid bulk beside her. It's how she used to feel with Sam at her side.

She looks up at Hitch. “You really think it's going to be okay?”

“I know it is.”

Rose wants more than anything to believe him.

D
uct tape.

Why the hell would he need duct tape?

Isabel drops it back into the bag and tosses the bag on the mudroom bench, recoiling as though she's just found it filled with live roaches.

As the bag lands, something falls out of the side pocket and clatters on the tile floor.

It's only a pen.

Good.

There's nothing ominous about a pen.

There shouldn't be anything ominous about duct tape, either. Plenty of people use it. Electricians, plumbers, mechanics . . .

Serial killers.

She laughs aloud, albeit nervously, at the ridiculous thought. It's a strange, hollow sound in the empty house.

What she needs is to make some tea, turn on the television, and forget about the unnerving Mr. Gabriel. She never should have looked into his bag in the first place. She deserves to have her imagination run away from her.

Isabel bends to retrieve the blue and white plastic pen from beneath the bench. About to tuck it back into the bag, she catches sight of the inscription on the side.

Milligan's Cafe On the Bay.

There's a phone number, too. One that has a 631 area code.

She's certain she's dialed it before. It must be a new one for a section of Massachusetts, but she doesn't know anyone there, really.

Frowning, she tosses the pen into the bag, leaves the bag in the mudroom, and heads for the front hall.

She's halfway up the stairs when it strikes her.

The 631 area code doesn't belong to Boston.

It's Long Island.

So?

Isabel is doing her best to remain rational, but after the duct tape discovery, it isn't easy.

Maybe he's visited someone on the Island, or been there on vacation.

Or maybe her fleeting suspicion yesterday was correct, and he lied about coming from Boston in the first place.

But why?

One thing is certain. Potential commission or not, Isabel is through with Mr. Gabriel.

Chapter
Seven

“C
an I have
more M&Ms, Chwistine?” Leo asks from the back seat.

“Sure, sweetie.” She takes the open bag from the
console and reaches behind her to hand it to him without taking her eyes off the
road. It's still raining like crazy and she's out on Sunrise Highway.

“I don't know if he should have more,” Jenna says
worriedly, strapped in beside him. “Mom says you get a tummy ache if you eat too
much chocolate.”

“She does not,” Leo protests, his mouth crammed
full of candy.

“Yes, she does! You're lying! Christine, he's
lying!” Jenna says as urgently as if Leo were teetering on the rail of the
Triborough Bridge.

Now what? What does she say to that? How does she
respond without taking sides?

She has definitely gained new respect for Rose—in
fact, for all mothers, including her own. She figured this babysitting
experience would be a good opportunity to find out what it's like to have
children, and she still wants some of her own, desperately. But she has to
admit, after a few hours of nonstop chatter with frequent eruptions, blatant
sibling rivalry, crumbs, spills, and stains, she's looking forward to turning
the kids back over to their mom.

Christine is spared having to conjure an
appropriate response to the lying accusation, as the kids have seamlessly moved
on to an argument about who got the better toy in their fast food kid's meal.
From what Christine could tell, they both consisted of pieces of colored plastic
that were ostensibly meant to be saved, and more pieces collected so that an
actual toy could be assembled.

“Can we stop for ice cweam on the way home?” Leo
interrupts the toy argument to ask, as they pass the Carvel shop.

“Maybe later,” Christine says, pushing back a
twinge of guilt. A glance at the dashboard clock tells her their mother should
be arriving home shortly.

“Please, Christine? Just one quick sundae?” Jenna
begs.

“Not right now, sweetie. We need to get back before
Mommy does.”

Christine wonders belatedly if maybe she should
have paged Rose, or even called her at the bookstore to tell her she was taking
the kids out for lunch and to rent some videos at Blockbuster. She made the
decision impulsively, when she found herself on the verge of having to play yet
another game of Candyland. At the time, anything seemed preferable. Even lugging
two children from place to place in a drenching downpour.

She figured they'd be back long before now, having
underestimated the amount of time they'd spend deciding where to eat, what to
order, where to sit, which movies to rent, and which snacks to get from the bulk
candy bins, not to mention tracking down public rest rooms everywhere they
went.

In one of them, Christine discovered that she got
her period after all.

Late, but unmistakably here.

Now all she wants to do is go home and cry, as she
does every month when this happens. She really let herself think that this time
there might have been a chance.

Pushing the bitter disappointment from her mind,
she turns the Volvo onto Shorewood Lane, saying, “When we get inside we'll clean
up the mess you guys made in the—”

“Look, the police are back!” Jenna calls out
abruptly.

“Yay! The powice!” Leo chimes in. “Maybe the powice
guy will wet me sit in his car again.”

Christine stares in dread at the patrol car parked
in front of the Larrabee residence, along with three other vehicles, one of
which belongs to Rose.

The fried chicken sandwich and onion rings she
swallowed earlier begin to churn in her stomach as she instinctively slows the
car.

“Did something happen to Mommy?” Jenna asks
fearfully.

“Of course not,” Christine says with a certainty
she doesn't feel. “Mommy's fine.”

“Uncle Hitch is here,” Jenna says as Christine
passes the house and turns into her own driveway. “And Aunt Leslie, too.”

“They-o's Mommy!” Leo shouts as Rose bolts out onto
the porch next door.

Christine exhales in relief. Thank goodness. Thank
goodness nothing has happened to Rose. For a moment she was certain—

“She's crying!” Jenna fumbles with her seat
belt.

Numb, Christine sits with her hands frozen on the
wheel, watching Rose dash across the muddy grass toward her car.

“Thank God!” she sobs, throwing the back door open.
“Thank God you two are all right!”

“Who, us?” Leo's innocent question is swallowed by
his mother's fierce embrace.

“Rose, was there another break-in?” Christine asks
as Rose hauls Jenna toward her across the seat to hug her, too. “What's going
on?”

“What's going on?” Rose turns on her, her voice
trembling. “You disappear with my children and you ask what's going on? Where
the hell were you?”

Christine is stunned. The greasy contents of her
stomach pitch and roll. The police are here because of
her?

“Hell is a bad word,” Jenna informs her mother.

Rose ignores her, glaring at Christine. “How could
you have taken off with my children? I didn't give you permission to drive them
anywhere, in your car, without their booster seats—”

“I thought—I didn't think—I mean . . . my
car has built-in booster seats,” Christine says lamely, on the verge of tears.
“I would never drive them someplace without booster seats.”

“Where were you?” Rose's voice is shrill.

The children are silent, watching their mother with
enormous eyes.

“I just took them out to lunch and to get a movie.
I'm so sorry, Rose. I didn't—”

“You left the door unlocked. After everything that
happened yesterday, you left the door unlocked. Anyone could have walked
in.”

“I couldn't lock it. I didn't have a key, and—”

“I didn't have a spare key to give you. And anyway,
this isn't about the door. It's about you taking my children.”

How the hell could you have
been so stupid? She's right. You just went without thinking.

She repeats, “I'm so sorry, Rose. I didn't mean to
scare you. And I never thought about yesterday when I left the door unlocked. I
figured it's a safe neighborhood, and we weren't going to be gone long, and
. . . I screwed up. I know.”

“Everything okay, Mrs. Larrabee?” a male voice
calls from the porch next door.

Christine looks up to see a uniformed police
officer keeping a watchful eye on them.

“They're fine,” Rose calls back. She pulls both
children out of the car. “Come on. Let's go home.”

“My toy!” Leo protests. “I want my toy!”

Rose ignores his plea, trudging across the lawn
with him squirming in her arms. Jenna trails along beside her, the bag of videos
dangling from her hand. The little girl shoots a last wary glance at Christine
over her shoulder as they walk up the porch steps.

Rose doesn't even look back.

“T
hat
cop thinks I'm an idiot,” Rose tells Hitch, who has sat with her at the kitchen
table since the police officer finished taking his report and left twenty
minutes ago.

“He does not,” Hitch says, but he doesn't sound
very convincing.

The officer—the same one who was here yesterday
when she found the sound machine blasting—seemed almost amused when the children
came into the house utterly unscathed, arguing about which video they were going
to watch first. He questioned them about what went on while they were out with
Christine, and actually laughed when Jenna accused Leo of stealing her Barbie
doll in McDonald's.

“I have kids, too,” he told Rose, in parting. “I
know how it is. My wife freaks out over every little thing.”

Freaks out.

Every little thing.

“He definitely thinks I'm an idiot,” she tells
Hitch again. “I swear, it's going to take an armed robbery at the store for me
to ever call the Laurel Bay Police Department again.”

A shadow passes over his face. “Don't even say
that. And anyway, you did what any mother would do. Just be glad the kids are
all right.”

They sure are. They each ate a big bowl of ice
cream before going out to walk Cupid with Leslie, who has promised to stay with
them until Rose gets home again.

“I have to go back to work,” she says reluctantly,
rubbing her aching neck.

“Why don't you just call and tell them you can't
come back today?” Hitch asks.

“There's no one to call. I was in the store alone
today. I just locked the door and rushed out of there. I left the lights on, and
the money drawer in the register—if Luke finds out, he'll be livid.”

“Luke is your boss?”

She nods and wraps her hands around the still-warm
cup of tea he made for her, saying it would calm her nerves. It hasn't. At this
point, she can't imagine what will.

“Just tell him what happened, Rose. If he's human,
he'll understand.”

“I doubt it. He might be human, but he isn't a
parent. He can't possibly—”

“I'm not a parent, and I understand.” Hitch reaches
out and touches her arm.

She looks up at him, surprised—especially when she
sees the expression in his eyes. Mingling with his compassion is something else,
a sweet tenderness that she's never glimpsed there before.

“Rose, you've got so much to deal with. I wish
you'd ask me for help. I wish you understood how much I really . . . I
want to be here for you.”

“Hitch, you are here for us. Just like you said at
Sam's funer—”

“Not just for all of you. I mean . . .
for
you,
” His fingers tighten slightly on her
arm.

The teacup shakes in her hand, sloshing warm liquid
over her fingers.

She pulls away from him, reaching for a napkin,
nervously wiping the spill.

“I'm sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn't have said
anything.”

You
didn't
say anything,
she thinks, rising to toss the soggy
napkin into the garbage beneath the sink.
At least, not
what I wanted to hear.

Wanted
to hear?

Does she want Hitch to be interested in her?

Confusion whirls through her, stirring long
forgotten needs along with a wave of caution.

Was it her imagination, or was Hitch implying that
he's interested in her? It's been so long since she tried to read between the
lines when talking to a man.

Sam was never good with words. After years of
marriage, she knew how to interpret him, knew how he felt about her.

It was like this in the
beginning, though,
she reminds herself, turning on the faucet at the
sink, reluctant to again face the man sitting silently at her table.
Sam was like Hitch. He would say things, things that would
make my heart skip a beat, things that would make me wonder.

She absently squirts liquid soap onto her hands and
holds them beneath the warm stream of water, pondering her own reaction to what
she believes—or maybe
wants
to believe—Hitch was
trying to convey. To her surprise, she can't deny, try as she might, that his
cryptic words have sparked a familiar warmth somewhere inside of her, in a place
left cold and vacant with Sam's death.

If I turn toward him again,
will that look in his eyes be gone?

Slowly, she turns off the water and dries her hands
on a dish towel, then turns to face Hitch again.

Her breath catches in her throat.

He's still looking at her that way. As
though . . .

As though he cares about her. As though he longs to
offer her more than friendship.

She catches her lower lip beneath her teeth,
uncertain what to say, what to do, but knowing the next move is hers.

Go for it,
a voice
commands her.

Sam's voice, she realizes.

Sam would want this. If I was
going to give any man a chance to live up to Sam, he'd want it to be
Hitch.

She crosses to the table and takes a deep breath.
“Hitch—”

The back door bangs open.

The puppy scampers in, trailed by Jenna and Leo,
with Leslie behind them calling, “Wait! You guys are all muddy! Rose, sorry, I
told them to wipe their feet.”

Surrounded by chaos, Rose looks at Hitch. He's
grinning at something Leo is saying as he climbs onto his lap.

The moment has passed.

And now that it has, Rose isn't at all sure she
wants it to come again.

W
ith
tapering snow flurries dusting the windshield of his car, David pulls up to the
cabin. He turns off the ignition and opens the door, taking a moment to breathe
in the pure mountain air and absorb the absolute silence.

There. That's better. Much better.

His boots make a pleasant crunching sound in the
snow as he walks up onto the porch. He stands on his toes to remove a loose plug
from a knothole high in the wall beside the door. After fishing the key from its
hiding spot, he unlocks the door, then replaces the key in the knothole.

One of these days, he thinks, as he has countless
times before, he should probably take it with him instead of leaving it
here.

Then he asks himself, as he always does, why
bother? His family has used that hiding place for the key for a good fifty
years, and nobody has ever stumbled across it before. Even if somebody did,
there's nothing of tremendous value in the cabin that anybody would bother
stealing.

That was part of the reason Angela never really
liked this retreat in the Catskills. Roughing it held little appeal to a girl
who'd grown up in a shabby two-bedroom, one-bath ranch on the wrong side of the
tracks in Jersey. Plus, she claimed the two-hour drive up here from the city
made her nauseous, and that the cabin smelled like mildew.