She Loves Me Not (3 page)

“Toddler PMS,” Sam used to call it when Jenna was small and prone to late-day tantrums.

Sometimes, Rose and Sam actually laughed about it. Now, as a solo parent, Rose finds nothing amusing about the challenges that lie ahead tonight.

Breathing the pleasant scent of wood smoke wafting in the frigid air, she trudges to the foot of the driveway, the rubber soles of her ancient L.L. Bean duck boots making a squeaky crunching noise in the packed snow.

The sound always sends shivers down her spine.

Sam used to tease her about it—called it her “wince-able,” in that unique way he had of coining phrases. The translation—wince-able: the everyday thing that makes you wince. According to Sam, most people—himself included—shared winceables. Like a fork scraping on a blackboard. Like Styrofoam squeaking.

Not snow crunching.

“Most people consider that a pleasant sound, Rose.”

“I can't help it. It bugs me, Sam.”

She stops in front of the domed plastic mailbox, noting that the black metal post is still wrapped in the red velvet ribbon Leslie insisted on twining around it the weekend after Thanksgiving. Sam's sister also brought over a boxwood wreath for Rose's front door. It, too, is still there, shriveled and browning at the leaf tips.

Rose really should take it down and get rid of the mailbox ribbon, too. But another day won't hurt. Besides, red velvet ribbon isn't just suitable for Christmas, she thinks wryly. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

And my valentine is gone. Forever.

A lump rises in her throat.

Oh, Sam . . .

She flips through the mail to distract herself. Pennysaver, telephone bill, credit card application, school board newsletter . . .

And a rectangular red envelope with a typewritten label addressed to her.

The kind of envelope that might contain an invitation, or a greeting card . . .

Or a Valentine.

Yeah, right.

Rose flips it over, looking for a return address label.

There is none.

Curiosity surging through her, she slips off her brown knit glove and slides her finger into the gap in the envelope flap. She rips it open, expecting to find a card.

There isn't one.

Frowning, Rose presses the outer edges of the envelope to peer inside.

At first, she doesn't see it. In the fading afternoon light, it blends in against the red paper envelope.

Then she spots it.

Pulls it out.

Unfolds it.

A red paper heart, creased down the middle.

That's all.

The kind of thing Jenna or Leo might make in school, with construction paper and safety scissors.

But this doesn't appear to be a child's handiwork. The edges are cut perfectly straight.

Who would send her a paper heart?

Rose turns it over and over again, and again and again, searching for a signature.

There is none.

A red paper heart.

A heart.

A chill slithers down Rose's spine—and this time, it has nothing to do with crunching snow.

H
earing a car door slam, Christine Kirkmayer rises from the couch and goes to part the drapes covering the wide bay window facing the street.

The little girl next door is home.

Jenna.

An oddly fragmentary name, in Christine's opinion. As though somebody were too lazy to complete it on the birth certificate.

Jennifer is much better. If Christine and Ben ever have a baby girl, maybe they'll name her Jennifer.

But hopefully, if they have a baby, it won't be a girl—at least, not one with her mother's unfortunate genes.

Christine sighs, watching Jenna Larrabee waving at the occupants of the car that just dropped her at the curb.

Then she notices Jenna's mother standing in the shadows over by her own car in the driveway.

She doesn't know Rose Larrabee well. In fact, she's only met her once and seen her a few times in passing since December, when she and Ben moved here from the city.

But anyone can see that something is wrong. There is tension in Rose's posture, in her rigid wave before the car at the curb pulls away, red taillights disappearing into the dusk.

As Rose goes to meet Jenna by the front steps, Christine notices that her expression is troubled—and that she's clutching something in her hand.

Papers, or . . . mail?

That's what it looks like from here.

Hmm. Maybe she got something disturbing in the mail.

Christine's imagination takes flight as she watches Rose hug her daughter and unlock the front door.

Maybe she just got a foreclosure notice from the bank. Or a letter from her late husband's mistress . . . not that Christine has any reason to suspect that her husband had a mistress. But wouldn't it be interesting if he did?

Both mother and daughter have disappeared inside the house. Just as Christine is about to turn away from the window, Rose steps back outside, without the mail.

She returns to the car, opens the back door and takes her younger child from his car seat.

The little boy is groggy. He doesn't want to walk to the house, but his mother coaxes him along.

Why doesn't she just pick him up?

Christine shakes her head, watching. If that were her child, she would carry him into the house, no matter how heavy he was.

She lets the beige curtain fall back into place, then glances back at the television set and the first of several New York evening newscasts. That's all there is to do at this time of day: watch the news. The five o'clock news, and then the five-thirty news. The six o'clock news, capped off by the national news at six-thirty. She probably knows more about current events than Tom Brokaw does.

If only Ben would let her get cable television. But he's too cheap—or thrifty, as he refers to himself—for that. He says cable TV is a waste of money, and more importantly, a waste of time. He says the same thing about the Internet, and won't spring for a DSL connection. As a result, the computer's modem is so slow that she rarely spends time surfing the Web, and that's fine with Ben. He wants her to spend her time doing other things. Reading, volunteering, maybe even taking a class or two at a local college.

That would cost money, of course, but Ben says it would be good for her, after all she's been through. He also says that if she wants, she can go back and get the teaching degree she never finished a decade ago, when her loan money and grants ran out and she left City College to take a secretarial job.

What Ben doesn't say is that if she became a teacher, she could go back to work and eventually bring in a good salary to supplement his.

Christine has no interest in a college degree or a teaching job. She wants only one thing.

A baby.
That
would be good for her.

The doctor says there's no physical reason she shouldn't be able to conceive, despite everything.
Just give it time and it'll happen. Just relax, and it'll happen.

Well, they've been trying for almost a year now, and she's done nothing but relax in the two months since they moved to Laurel Bay. What else is there to do here?

Leaving expensive, crowded Manhattan was Ben's idea. They looked for houses closer to the city, in Nassau County. But everything was so expensive, and so small. Out here on the eastern end of the island, they could afford something decent—not that this two-story turn-of-the-century Victorian is Christine's dream house. But it does have charm, and the neighborhood is safe and family-friendly. It's so close to the water that gulls fly overhead and the dank scent of salt and seaweed hangs heavy in the air on warmer days.

Ben said he wouldn't mind the commute to his midtown accounting firm—two hours each way. And he doesn't seem to mind.

Christine is the one who minds.

She sighs. Another evening stretches ahead, long and lonely. Ben won't be home until almost nine. She's become a suburban housewife cliché. Nothing to do but watch the news, daydream about babies, and spy on the neighbors through a crack in the curtains.

“M
ommy, can I lick the beaters?” Jenna asks, hovering at Rose's elbow as she turns on the mixer. Her long hair, precisely the glossy dark shade of the devil's food cake batter, hangs perilously close to the bowl.

Rose tucks the wayward silky-straight strands back over her daughter's shoulders, saying firmly, “No, you can't lick the beaters. There's raw egg in there.”

“I like raw egg.”

“It's not good for you, Jenna. You can get sick from it.” Rose checks the back of the Duncan Hines box to see how long she's supposed to mix the batter.

“You used to let me lick the beaters,” Jenna grumbles.

“That was before I read that raw eggs aren't good for children.” Oops. She was supposed to be mixing it on medium speed, not low. She hurriedly adjusts the dial.

Too high.

A chocolate shower spatters all over the tan Formica counters, the knotty pine cabinets, the green striped wallpaper.

“Mommy! “Jenna shrieks.

“Shh!” Rose hurriedly turns off the mixer. “You'll wake up—”

Leo's frightened cry drifts down from the second floor.

“—your brother,” she finishes lamely.

Just what she needs.

It took her a half hour to get Leo down the first time. Now he'll want her to sit with him again until he drifts back to sleep. At this rate, she's not going to finish the cupcakes till midnight—at which point, she'll have to start writing out valentines for Leo's classmates, and praying he'll miraculously sleep through until morning.

He used to do that, but for the past few weeks, he stirs at every little sound. At first she thought he might be coming down with the flu that's been going around, but he's been healthy. And he's long past the teething stage.

“Wow, what a mess.” Jenna's brown eyes are more enormous than usual as Rose surveys the kitchen in despair. “There's cake mix everywhere, Mommy—even up in the sky.”

Rose looks up just as devil's food raindrops fall from the ceiling, landing in her eye.

It stings, and dammit, Leo is howling up there.

It's all Rose can do to keep from joining in.

“I'm going to go up and calm him down,” she tells Jenna as she hurriedly splashes water in the sink, trying to flush her eye. “Don't you dare touch the mixer.”

“But I can finish—”

“No!” Rose's tone is sharp. “You could get your fingers cut off in the beaters. It's dangerous.”

“You think everything is dangerous,”Jenna mutters, idly picking up Rose's electronic pager from the kitchen table.

“And don't touch my pager, either,” Rose admonishes.

“It's Daddy's pager, not yours,” Jenna snaps at her, tossing the pager back on the table.

Rose's breath catches in her throat. Jenna's right. It is Sam's pager. Rather, it
was.
But she's been using it ever since she started working again, carrying it just in case one of the kids' schools needs to reach her in an emergency. It's cheaper than buying a cell phone . . . and anyway, it makes her feel closer to Sam. He always had the pager hanging from his belt loop when he left the house.

She chooses to ignore Jenna's comment, saying only, “Did you finish your math worksheet?”

“Yup.” Jenna is smug.

“Did you remember to put your name and the date on top?”

“I put my name. I didn't know the date.”

“It's February thirteenth,” Rose says over her shoulder, making her way to the front of the house. “Which reminds me . . . if your homework is done, then go start writing out your valentines, Jenna.”

“You said you'd help me.”

“You know how to do it.”

“It's not fun alone.”

No. Nothing's fun alone.

Rose sighs. “Okay, wait here. I'll be back down as soon as your brother's back to sleep.”

She grabs her coat and the kids' jackets, which are draped over the stairway bannister, and carries them up the stairs. The house is a true Victorian, with very little closet space upstairs and none on the first floor. Sam was going to turn an alcove off the living room into a coat closet someday.

Someday . . .

Rose climbs the stairs, pushing Sam from her thoughts only to have them taken over by the mysterious red envelope again.

Who sent the construction paper heart?

And why the typewritten address label?

Maybe she has a secret admirer. But if that's the case, wouldn't he have written something? Or at least, have sent a regular card, instead of a plain red heart?

It isn't necessarily scary.

Just . . .

Odd.

Rose doesn't have the patience or the energy for
odd.
She's doing all she can do to make it through each day as it is.

“Mama!” her youngest child wails.

“Coming, Leo.” She trudges wearily up the stairs.

F
resh from a relaxing late-night bubble bath, Christine turns a critical eye on the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

Her blond hair looks good, at least. The baby-fine, hippie-straight hair that fell out with chemotherapy never grew back, and was replaced instead by thicker, bouncier tresses that air-dry in the kind of loose waves she used to futilely attempt with a curling iron.

Yup, all it took was life-threatening cancer and the ravages of chemo to give me the kind of hair I always coveted,
she thinks dryly.

And anyway, she isn't thrilled with her image from the neck down. Maybe she should have taken one of her flannel nightgowns out of her drawer to wear tonight, instead of this skimpy negligee she got as a bachelorette party gift from the girls in her office. This old house is so drafty that her bare arms and legs are covered in goose bumps, and the nightgown doesn't fit right anymore, either. The slinky fabric strains across her midsection, and the bodice gaps where her cleavage used to be.