She Loves Me Not (7 page)

Only when Angela stayed beside him in bed until morning did he willingly sleep in the dark, her mere presence seeming to banish the shadows.

He opens the drawer and pulls out the leather-bound scrapbook he's been working on.

The first page contains the front page from the
New York Post
with its December 25 dateline and its bold black two-inch type.

SNOW ANGEL CLINGS TO LIFE

Accompanying the grim headline is a photograph of Angela, one he never saw before it was printed in the paper. It shows her tanned and smiling, wearing a skimpy, unfamiliar bikini and standing on white sand with aqua-colored water and palm trees in the background. Every time he opens the scrapbook and catches sight of that picture, he staves off a renewed flood of resentment.

Yes, she had another life before he came along . . .

But that isn't the trouble.

It's the other life she had while she was
with
him that stings like seawater on an open blister.

The photograph was undoubtedly taken within the last few months of her life. In it, her hair is shoulder-length and streaked with blond. She wore it long and dark until that final summer, when he talked her into the cut and highlights. He went to the beach with her a few times after she changed her hair . . . Long Island beaches, with nary a palm tree in sight.

The newspaper photo is evidence that at some point that summer or fall, she snuck away to a southern beach without telling him.

What else didn't she tell him?

Jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands, he glares into her smiling face, then turns the pages abruptly, past similar headlines and articles clipped from other newspapers. He pauses briefly on another front page from the
Post.
December 27.

TRAGIC SNOW ANGEL HEAVENBOUND AT LAST

He snorts at that; resumes flipping pages.

The last big headline devoted to Angela reads
SNOW ANGEL'S PRECIOUS GIFTS
. Beyond that, the type grows smaller, the articles fewer and farther between. And after funeral coverage—grainy snapshots of her grieving husband, father, friends, all in dark sunglasses—there is nothing more.

Not for a year.

Then . . .

STATEN ISLAND WOMAN MISSING SEVERAL DAYS

And, months later, after the spring thaw . . .

POLICE BELIEVE BODY THAT OF MISSING STATEN ISLAND WOMAN

But those accounts didn't make the front pages. The tabloids had more pressing stories to cover than the mysterious unsolved disappearance and murder of a young woman who was found by hunters in a shallow grave sixty miles from where she was last seen. The remains were presumably skeletal; there was no mention in the press that both her eyes had been burned out before she died.

Humming to himself, he takes more clippings from the envelope where he's been keeping them all. It doesn't take him long to paste them into the album following the others. These are one-paragraph articles clipped from various sources. A Staten Island woman's death, while brutal, lacked the glamour and poignancy, the exquisite
timing,
of the Snow Angel's tragic accident.

He takes the last clipping from the envelope, an article clipped from
Newsday
, the local Long Island paper. A photo accompanies it: a smiling man cradling a newborn.

LAUREL BAY DAD ELECTROCUTED

He runs the glue stick over the album page, then presses the last clipping on, carefully smoothing the edges with his fingertips.

There. Done.

For now.

He leafs through the empty acid-free pages. Soon, there will be more headlines to paste here.

He smiles in anticipation, wondering how the papers will describe her.

WIDOWED MOM
, most likely.

But
WITHERED ROSE
has a nice ring to it, too.

Perhaps, he thinks, she'll be legendary once again. As legendary as the lovely, noble Snow Angel.

But the press will never make the connection between Snow Angel and Withered Rose and Staten Island Woman.

Nor, he gloats, will the police.

Only he knows the truth.

Only he knows why she has to die.

Only he knows when that will be.

Giddy with power, he closes the book as the lights flicker again.

Fatigued, he swiftly locks the scrapbook safely in its drawer once again.

Then he goes to the next room and climbs into bed, taking the flashlight with him. He turns it on, just in case.

Just in case the lights go out in the night.

Only cowards are afraid of the dark.

He grins, remembering his father's face the last time he glimpsed it—beneath him, cowering in terror.

Who's a coward now, Dad? Who's a coward now?

Still smiling, he drifts contentedly off to sleep.

Chapter Four

A
week later, Rose holds Leo's hand as they pick their way around the puddles in the Toddler Tyme parking lot. The morning sun beams brightly. Bare tree branches stir overhead in an unusually warm breeze for February. It feels more like April.

Rose glances up at the blue sky. It's hard to believe snow may be in the forecast for the holiday weekend ahead.

It's also hard to believe she's not engaged in a mad morning rush for once. She had to drop off Jenna fifteen minutes early today and help her set up her prehistoric diorama in the school gym. Rose promised she would come back to tour the first grade's annual dinosaur exhibit later—which means she'll have to ask Luke to let her leave work before her shift is officially over. She's not looking forward to that, but the day has begun so brightly that she refuses to dwell on potential cloudbursts.

Reaching the top step, Rose opens the door and ushers her son into the dim vestibule.

“Nobody's here yet, Mommy.”

“I saw Miss Candy's car in the parking lot,” Rose assures Leo, leading him into the hallway. The lower walls are lined with labeled cubbies and hooks; the upper with bright construction-paper artwork.

“Did you see my howt, Mommy?” Leo points at a jagged red shape clumsily pasted to a white doily mounted on manilla paper.

“It's a beautiful heart, Leo.” Rose smiles at him. Before the sight of the paper heart propels her thoughts back to last week's bizarre, anonymous Valentine, she hears a voice calling her name.

“Hello, Mrs. Larrabee. Hi, there, Leo!”

Candy Adamski coming toward them down the corridor. The director is wearing a denim jumper with a red-and-white-striped turtleneck, tights, and ballerina flats. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail tied with a red ribbon, and red plastic balls dangle from her earlobes. They look like tomatoes, or . . .

Cherries?

Yes, they're cherries.

It takes a moment for Rose to make the connection. Cherries . . . George Washington . . . Presidents' Day!

Congratulations, you have just advanced to the bonus round.

“You're looking cheerful this morning, Mrs. Larrabee.”

Rose realizes she's grinning. “Oh . . . well, I guess that's because I'm not in a rush for a change. And Leo slept through the night, thanks to Mr. Silva's suggestion.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“He told me I should buy one of those white-noise machines for Leo's room. I bought one the other day, and ever since then, he's been sleeping much better. He likes it when I make it sound like ocean waves. It's soothing for him.”

“I'll tell Gregg that it was a success.”

“Tell me that what was a success?”

They turn at the sound of a male voice behind them. Gregg Silva is wiping his brown Timberlands on the mat just inside the door.

Leo makes a beeline for him. “Hi, Mist-o Gwegg!”

“Hey, buddy. How's it going?”

“He's got extra energy today, thanks to you.” Rose tells him about the success with the sound machine as Candy turns on lights and takes out craft supplies.

“I'm glad it worked,” Gregg says. “My mother swears by hers. And if my upstairs neighbors don't quiet down, I'm going to have to get one myself.”

“I grew up in Brooklyn, in a building with hardwood floors,” Rose tells him as Leo hangs his coat and hat in his cubby. “I remember how loud footsteps overhead can sound.”

“It's not the footsteps that are keeping me up at night.” Gregg flashes a white-toothed grin. “My neighbors are newlyweds. It sounds like their bedsprings could stand to be oiled—and I'd swear the damn thing is on wheels and they're moving it around the room.”

Rose can feel her cheeks grow hot. She can't think of a thing to say, other than, “That must be loud.”

Luckily, children are trickling into the hallway accompanied by harried working parents. Fumbling in her pockets for her gloves, then remembering it's too warm to need them, she says, “Well, I'll let you get to work.”

Gregg smiles. “Have a great day.”

“You, too.” She quickly kisses Leo good-bye and beats a hasty retreat.

Outside again in the winter sunshine, Rose finds herself looking forward to the long weekend ahead. When Netta Bradley hired her at the store, it was with the stipulation that she wouldn't have to work evenings, weekends, or holidays. Netta knew about her cardiomyopathy and was concerned about her health. Luke, presumably unaware of all she'd been through, only grudgingly agreed to maintain that limited schedule.

With the kids off from school on Monday for Presidents' Day, there will be three lazy mornings without having to rush out the door. Three homework- and hassle-free evenings. Three days to do whatever they feel like doing. If it really does snow, maybe she'll take the kids—and the never-used sleds Hitch bought them for Christmas—over to the hill behind the school.

Reaching her car in the rapidly filling parking lot, Rose opens the door and climbs inside. She's about to turn the key in the ignition when she sees the red package on the passenger's seat.

Slowly, she removes her hand from the key and reaches for the small, shrink-wrapped, heart-shaped box of chocolates.

Valentine chocolates—the inexpensive kind that are sold in every supermarket and drugstore in town.

What are they doing here, in her car?

She turns the box over, then searches the seat and the floor of the car.

There's no note.

Nothing but the chocolates.

A week after Valentine's Day.

She left the car unlocked. She always does. Anyone could have left the chocolates on the seat while she was inside the school.

But who would do it?

And why?

Maybe they were here before, she thinks suddenly. Maybe she just didn't notice them earlier. Maybe one of the kids put them there.

Leo.

Is he stealing again?

It's been awhile since he went through that phase, but it does make sense. He's crazy about chocolate. Maybe he saw the box of candy someplace and—

She gasps, hearing a sudden rap on the window beside her head.

Turning, she sees Gregg Silva standing beside the driver's side of the car. He pulls the door handle, opening it before she can protest.

Rose fights the urge to cry out.

“You dropped this,” he says, smiling, and she realizes he's holding one of her brown knit gloves.

“Oh . . . thanks. It must have fallen from my pocket.”

Can he hear her voice wavering? Can he tell how badly he frightened her, looming up beside her the way he did?

“No problem.” His gaze falls on the box of candy in her hand. “It's a little late for Valentine's Day, don't you think?”

She shrugs and looks away, catching sight of a dark green Nissan parked in the next spot over, on her passenger side. That's Gregg Silva's car.

It would have been easy for him to get out of his car earlier, open her passenger door, and slip the chocolates onto her seat. It would have taken him a couple of seconds at most, and even if there were other parents in the lot, they would most likely be too distracted by their children to notice.

“Are you okay, Rose?”

She turns toward Gregg again, trying to imagine that he's secretly infatuated with her.

The notion is almost laughable. Even in her young, single days, she never attracted men who look like him. He probably has too many blond, skinny girlfriends to give this world-weary widow a passing thought.

“I'm fine,” she tells him.

“Are you sure? You look upset.”

“I'm just . . . I'm late for work. Thanks for the glove.”

He grins and steps back from the door.

“You're welcome. Enjoy the chocolates.”

He's just being friendly,
she tells herself as she pulls the door closed.
He's not trying to hint that he left the candy for me.

Troubled, Rose starts the ignition and drives slowly out of the parking lot, glancing into the rearview mirror.

She half expects to see Gregg Silva still standing there, watching her, but the spot where he was standing is empty.

Rose glances again at the heart-shaped box on the opposite seat. Then she reaches down with her left hand and pushes the button to lock the car doors.

C
ontrol.

It's all about control.

He reminds himself of this as he paces through the living room. His watch reads two fifty-seven
A.M
., but he isn't sleepy. The lamps are brightly lit, the television is droning, he's fully dressed.

You have the upper hand,
he reminds himself.
Just as long as you don't reveal that you know who she really is, you have the upper hand.

But it's tempting. So tempting to taunt her, at least, with the truth. Now, in the dead of night, when she's lost in a sound sleep. Or perhaps she's awake, feeling vulnerable, pondering his little gifts.

His hand grips the cordless telephone receiver.

No. He can't let himself dial. He mustn't.

Yet it infuriates him that she dares to feign innocence, just as she did before. She acts as though she doesn't recognize him; she plays the part of the virtuous suburban mother, so certain nobody suspects.

And they don't seem to.

He is fairly certain that he alone is aware that the real Rose Larrabee died that day . . .

The day the Snow Angel supposedly saved her life.

B
y ten o'clock Saturday morning, Rose wonders why she ever found herself thinking a long weekend would be a good thing. While romping through the living room with the puppy, Leo toppled and shattered the Lenox vase Sam gave her on their last anniversary. He denied it—and a half hour later flatly denied squirting an entire bottle of liquid rose-scented soap down the sink drain, though he reeked of the stuff.

While trying to wash down the suds Rose realized that the lightbulb over the medicine cabinet is burned out and she doesn't have a spare one on hand. Then the puppy pooped on her bedroom carpet and Leo tracked it all over the upstairs. And of course, the kids have been bickering all morning.

She can't even get them out of the house. With the temperature hovering just above freezing, the promise of a snowfall has been transformed into the threat of sleet. In fact, a storm appears imminent as Rose glances at the western sky through the kitchen window above the sink.

“Mommy, I'm hung-wee,” Leo whines from the doorway.

“Are you kidding me? I just spent the last half hour making the chocolate chip pancakes you begged me for, and watching you push them around on your plate before you fed them to the puppy under the table when you thought I wasn't looking.” Rose rinses the remnants of batter from the bowl with the sprayer, then squirts liquid soap into it.

“I did not do that, Mommy! I ate them!”

She sighs. Terrific. First it was a stealing phase with him; now it's blatant lying. What's next? Sneaking cigarettes?

“Anyway,” he grumbles, “I don't like that kind of choco-wat chip pancakes. I like the kind in the dye-no.”

At the diner, a.k.a. Milligan's, there are no child portions on the menu and her kids refuse to share. She winds up paying more than ten dollars so that they can each take a few nibbles from two heaping platesful of chocolate chip pancakes with sides of bacon. Even Sam couldn't have polished off those portions.

“The diner is too expensive,” Rose tells Leo. “Homemade food is much better.”

“I hate homemade food.”

Rose runs hot water into the soapy mixing bowl. “We don't say hate in this house.”

“Jenna says it.”

“Well, the next time you hear Jenna say it, you let me know.”

“Jenna!” Leo shrieks. “Mommy told me you're not awowed to say hate anymore!”

In the living room, parked in front of a Scooby Doo cartoon, Jenna ignores him.

Leo resumes his mantra. “I'm hung-wee, Mama.”

Rose sighs. He calls her Mama when he wants to play up the
poor little me
attitude—and it usually works.

“I'm hung-wee. Can I have something to eat?”

“Leo, you'll have to wait until—”

A shadow falls over the sink.

She gasps.

“What, Mommy? What happened?”

Somebody is looming outside the window.

A hand knocks on the glass.

“Oh . . . “ Rose presses a hand at the base of her throat, relieved. “It's only Hitch.”

She dries her hands and crosses to the back door to let him in, glad she got dressed between the pancakes and the kitchen cleanup. Granted, she's only wearing faded jeans and one of Sam's old sweatshirts, but it's more presentable than the flannel boxers and droopy T-shirt she's slept in for the past three nights.

“Hey, Jenna! Uncle Hitch is here!” Leo dances his way over to the door in his footed pajamas.

“Careful, Leo, don't slip.” Rose steadies her teetering son by the shoulders as she opens the door.

Scott Hitchcock, who always says that front doors are only for “real” company, steps into the kitchen. A taller, burlier version of Sam, he has a thick thatch of black hair and a crinkly-eyed grin. His clothes could have come out of Sam's closet: work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, and a well-worn canvas barn coat.

“Hey, Rose. Hey, lion-boy.”

Leo giggles. “My name isn't wion-boy.”

“You sure about that? Because I seem to remember you roaring pretty loudly when you were a baby.”

Rose has to smile at that. Home on leave from the army, Hitch once slept on their couch on a memorable weekend when Leo was a colicky newborn. Sam got a big kick out of his bachelor pal's aversion to the screaming baby. He kept insisting that Hitch hold him, plunking the red-faced, screaming Leo into his arms and cooing, “Here, go to Uncle Hitch. He'll sing you a lullaby.”