The Black Widow (5 page)

They both nodded, as if it made sense.

Maybe it did to the waiter.

For his part, Ben decided she was wearing too much of that pink lipstick in the first place. Too much eyeliner, too, and too much perfume . . . too much everything. Except clothing.

She has on a skimpy little black dress that was probably meant to entice him but just shows that much more of her fake tan and skeletal body. The more flattering description she used to describe herself on her Web site was “svelte,” but to Ben, she’s just plain scrawny. There’s nothing wrong with that, per se. Some men probably appreciate a female figure that’s not particularly—well, feminine.

Ben has always preferred flesh to bone, curves to angles.

Camilla takes one last sip from the straw, leaving a slick pink smudge at the top, and pushes away her empty glass with a jangling of bracelets. “That was yummy.”

“Do you want to order another one?”

He expects her to decline. Their meals are on the way.

“Are you twisting my arm, Ben?”

“Nah, I’d never do that,” he assures her.
No, because it would snap like a twig.

“Well, it
is
the weekend. Why not? TGIF, right?”

“Sure. Right.” Ben signals the waiter.

“Another round, sir?”

“No, I’m fine. Just the cosmopolitan.”

The waiter walks away, and Ben sips his beer as Camilla goes back to the long, involved story she’d been telling him earlier—one he’d hoped she’d forget she was telling.

Something about her sister—or maybe her roommate? and a dog—or a cat—named Foo Foo. Every time she says the name, she punctuates it with a tipsy giggle.

As first dates go, this isn’t the worst he’s had since the divorce, but it’s not exactly the best, either.

Sometimes it takes longer for him to figure out that he has no intention of ever seeing the woman again. This time it was almost instantaneous.

Which means that at the end of the night, he’ll have to figure out whether to come right out and say that to her, or let her think he’ll be in touch.

He’s always believed honesty is the best policy. He doesn’t necessarily believe that anymore. Not when it comes to dating. Not after having had one woman burst into tears when he told her he didn’t think they were compatible, while another lashed out at him in a screeching, angry tirade on the street in front of the restaurant.

Sometimes he wonders why he’s even doing this at all. Meeting strangers online, asking them out . . .

“You’re a single guy. It’s what you do,” Peter told him. “Unless you want to be a recluse.”

No. He doesn’t want that.

That’s what happened to his father after his mother died of a fast-growing cancer about ten years ago, not long after their retirement.

Pop used to be a vital, interesting guy. Plenty of friends, and an active social life that revolved around their sizable, vibrant Puerto Rican family . . .

“They’re all couples,” he said when Ben urged him to accept invitations to dinner and parties. “They don’t need me hanging around.”

“They care about you, Pop.”

“That’s fine. They can care. But nobody wants to be a third wheel.”

“You’re not a—”

“Benito. Stop. Leave it alone.”

What Pop meant was
Leave me alone.

Ben’s brother had done just that, and tried to convince him to do the same.

“He’s a stubborn old man. He’s been a stubborn old man since he was
young
. Why try to change him now?”

“I’m not trying to change him. I’m trying to encourage him to keep things the way they’ve always been. He’s always had people around him.”

“Yes, because Mom was a people person. He wasn’t. All he ever needed was her.”

It was true, Ben realized. He’d never thought about it before. Looking back at the way his parents behaved in social situations, he remembered that his extroverted mother could work a room like nobody’s business. Pop mostly stayed by her side, focusing on her while she focused on socializing.

“Now that she’s gone, Pop doesn’t need anyone,” his brother said. “Just let him be.”

“Let him be? You want me to wash my hands of him? Is that what you’re planning to do?”

“Of course not. We’ll both check in on him, visit him—but we can’t drag him out and force him to live again. It’s never going to happen.”

Ben realized his brother was right.

It was Gaby who wouldn’t let him give up. She never stopped trying to coax Pop back to the land of the living.

Ironic in so many ways . . .

Years after he stopped living, Pop finally died of a heart attack. He was alone in the apartment, of course. It happened not long before Gaby got pregnant with Josh. She was the one who found him that morning when she stopped by to drop off some homemade meals.

Pop never met his grandson. But Ben’s devout Catholic mother had instilled a firm believe in the afterlife, and he found comfort in the fact that his parents were waiting to greet Josh in heaven.

Gaby took no comfort in that; no comfort in anything he or anyone else had to offer. She cried about Josh being alone and afraid in a cold, dark place. She lost her grasp on her own faith and retreated into grim isolation after losing their son, much as Ben’s father had after losing his wife.

Well, that’s not going to happen to me. I’m not spending the rest of my days alone and miserable.

The waiter arrives at the table with the second cosmopolitan on a tray, trailed by a busboy with their salads.

Camilla puts a straw into the fresh drink and lifts the glass toward him. “Cheers.”

“What are we drinking to?”

“To us.”

He obliges, echoing her toast though he knows there will never be an
us
that involves the two of them.

But somewhere out there—in this vast city, or in cyberspace—there might be a woman he will eventually love the way he loved his wife. Sooner or later he’s hoping to find her. He just has to keep on looking.

“Okay, you have
got
to try this.” Ryan holds out a forkful of warm apple tart, topped by a dollop of vanilla bean ice cream. “It’s amazing.”

Gaby leans over to taste it and nods. “It
is
amazing.”

“Here—share the rest with me.” Ryan slides the dessert plate toward her, but she shakes her head.

“I’m so full. I can’t eat another bite.”

“Sure you can.”

“Well . . . maybe one more. Or two . . .”

He laughs as she lifts another forkful to her mouth. “I love a woman who loves to eat.”

The apple confection turns mealy and sour in her mouth. She forces herself to swallow it, puts her fork down, sips the herbal tea she ordered in lieu of her own dessert.

Ryan is oblivious, dredging another wedge of tart through the rapidly melting ice cream on his dish and telling her about the pies his mom used to bake after they all went apple picking in the fall when he was a kid. He painted such a cozy scene that Gaby was willing to forgive him for consistently referring to Greenwich as if it were some far-flung New England town. It might lie within those geographical boundaries, but really, it’s a New York suburb largely populated by wealthy white-collar commuters.

Until now she’s been having a great time with him, but . . .

I love a woman who loves to eat.

Ben said those same words—or something very similar—on their first date years ago. They’d gone to a twenty-four-hour diner at four in the morning after a night out on the town. It was Labor Day weekend, early September, but August’s swampy heat lingered in the air.

He’d ordered a BLT. She’d ordered half a roast chicken, which came with soup and salad, her choice of two sides—she got the mashed potatoes and string beans—and a Jell-O square for dessert.

“What?” she asked, seeing the look on Ben’s face after the waiter who’d taken their order walked away. “Aren’t you starving after all that dancing?”

Ben teased her about it for the rest of the night. Well, morning. After the diner, they went to the beach to watch the sunrise. In fact, he teased her about her appetite for years afterward, especially when she was pregnant and insatiable.

I love a woman who loves to eat . . .

“You haven’t taken your second bite,” Ryan tells Gaby.

“I really am stuffed.” She sets down her fork.

“You know what? So am I. How about if we go walk off some of this food? It’s a nice night. We could head down toward the Village, see a late movie or stop off someplace for a glass of wine . . .”

She looks at her watch, pretending to calmly contemplate that idea as her mind screams,
No way!

“It’s almost ten. I’d better not,” she tells him, hoping she sounds sufficiently reluctant to say no. “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?”

“I have to work—you know, at home. Still trying to catch up after the long weekend. And being outside wouldn’t be good for my allergies, with all the pollen in the air right now. You know . . . the trees are in bloom . . .”

“We don’t have to walk. We can take a cab.”

“No, really. I should get home.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” she says, although suddenly she isn’t.

Can she take it back?

Why not walk to the Village on a warm, beautiful night and have a glass of wine?

Ryan is a great guy. She’s just spent the last couple of hours laughing and talking with him. She never mentioned her marriage, and he—also divorced—didn’t mention his. Naturally, she didn’t tell him she’d had—and lost—a child. For a little while she’d actually forgotten that, too.

“Next time, then,” Ryan says with a shrug.

“Next time,” she agrees.

Maybe it’s guilt that makes her stick with the lie about having to work in the morning. Maybe it’s fear.

Five minutes later they’re out on the street. She’s planning to take the subway uptown, but Ryan insists on putting her into a cab. They’re plentiful, eliminating the need to prolong the date a moment longer.

“I had a good time,” he says, leaning in the open back seat window after handing the driver a twenty. “I hope you did, too.”

“I did.”

“We’ll do it again.”

“We will,” she agrees.

As the cab races away up Tenth Avenue, she refuses to allow herself to look over her shoulder.

You did it,
she tells herself, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.
You met a stranger, and he turned out to be halfway decent.

Halfway decent?

Ryan Hunter is exactly the kind of man she should be looking for—and she’d actually found him online.

So she was wrong. Jaz was right.

But I’m not admitting that to her,
Gaby thinks, as the cab speeds toward her apartment sixty blocks north.
Not yet, anyway.

Steering the BMW out of the parking garage conveniently located just across the street from Tequila Sam’s, Alex gives a friendly wave to the attendant.

The kid, who has oversized bushy sideburns, perhaps in an unsuccessful effort to mask the acne scars on his cheeks, can’t be more than nineteen or twenty. He nods and smiles back, undoubtedly pleased with the extralarge tip he just pocketed for lending a helping hand with the passenger’s-side door—not to mention the passenger.

“My date had a little too much to drink, unfortunately,” Alex had explained while fishing for the receipt. “Right, sweetie?”

The response was too slurred to make out.

“Yo, want to sit down?” the attendant had asked, and offered a chair before disappearing up the ramp to retrieve the car. By the time he came back, Alex had no choice but to ask for a helping hand.

“Looks like your friend here is down for the count, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“How about you? Are you all right to drive?”

“Me? I’m fine. All I’ve had is seltzer.” Seltzer with a wedge of lime—masquerading as a vodka tonic.

Now, heading north up Tenth Avenue, then making a left toward the West Side Highway, Alex glances over.

Still out cold.

That’s fine.

Better than fine.

“You can rest all the way home,” Alex says, reaching for the radio knob. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”

Electric guitar fills the car. AC/DC’s
Back in Black
. Nice.

“How’s that? Good? You did write on your profile that you enjoy classic rock,” Alex tells her passenger, with a small smile. “We have so much in common, don’t we?”

Nick Santana, passed out in the passenger seat courtesy of the Rohypnol she dumped into his Maker’s Mark before he got there, doesn’t respond.

Chapter 4

June heat shimmers in waves on the pavement this evening as Gabriela steps out of her building’s lobby. It’s not even summer yet, according to the calendar, but already the city is in the throes of its first official heat wave.

Upstairs in the refrigerated air of her office, she needed a cardigan all day. Now, as the full impact of the sidewalk steam bath hits her, she hastily takes it off and tucks it into her tote bag, wondering if she should run back up and leave it on the back of her door. There’s no way she’s going to need it at Yankee Stadium tonight.

But, checking her watch, she realizes she doesn’t have time to go back up. She’s meeting Ryan in ten minutes.

As she heads down the block and turns south on Madison Avenue toward Grand Central Terminal, she finds that she’s looking forward to spending this June evening—hot or not—at the ballpark with Ryan.

She really wasn’t even sure she’d ever see him again after her skittish exit from their first date. But he texted her to make sure she’d gotten home all right, and called a few days later. He waited just long enough for her to assume she’d heard the last of him; just long enough for her to be too caught off guard to come up with a reason why she couldn’t go out with him again.

They’ve had a couple of dates since. First, he took her out to dinner again; the second time, to a Broadway play. The more time she spent with him, the more she found herself forgetting the past—at least for a few hours. He was fun, and funny—not to mention sweet, and sexy.

Realizing he was about to kiss her good-night after their second date, she forced herself to close her eyes and let it happen.

She’d expected it to feel all wrong: kissing someone other than Ben. But somehow it didn’t.

Maybe because it’s been so long since she and Ben had actually even kissed in a romantic way.

They’d tried—and failed—to regain their passion after Josh died.

Well, Ben had tried. Semblances of normalcy were important to him. That felt wrong to her, but her therapist told her that everyone’s journey through grief and healing is individual. It’s not fair to judge. And their marriage counselor had encouraged her to open herself up to her husband not just emotionally, but physically. She found it impossible to do either.

Looking back, Gaby sometimes wonders if she’d made any real effort at all. Maybe not. Numb with grief, she never imagined her heart could be capable of feeling anything ever again—for Ben or anyone else.

But Ryan kissed her and it was okay. More than okay. The second time he leaned in, she didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around him and kiss him back.

Since then, slowly but surely, she’s been coming alive again.

Sleeping Beauty stirring back to life.
That’s the analogy Jaz chose to use.

“You and your fairy tales.” Gaby rolled her eyes at her cousin.

“You’re the one who got me into them in the first place, when we were little kids, remember?”

She remembers. Jaz was a reluctant reader, Gaby an avid bookworm. She started reading stories aloud to her cousin from a book of fairy tales, drawing her into the story and then leaving off at a pivotal point. Thus, a curious Jaz was forced to keep reading herself if she wanted to find out what happened.

“You’re Sleeping Beauty,” Jaz insisted, “and Ryan is your handsome prince, and now you’re alive again.”

When she saw Dr. Milford yesterday, the therapist noticed right away that her mood had brightened.

“I’ve never seen you this chipper, Gabriela,” she said. “What’s changed?”

“Not much, really,” she said, but as she began to talk about what had gone on since her last appointment, she realized that quite a bit had changed. Good things had been happening for her.

Last week, a debut novel she acquired—against the executive editor’s better judgment, albeit with her eventual blessing—hit the
New York Times
best-seller list. Anne and a couple of the other editors—Kasey not included—took her out to dinner to celebrate.

Another day, heading to the subway after work, she spontaneously ducked into Saks Fifth Avenue to get out of a sudden thunderstorm and found the store in the midst of a tremendous clearance sale. She bought three designer dresses she’d never have been able to afford otherwise.

“Amazing what a new outfit can do to improve your outlook,” Dr. Milford said with a smile.

Gaby told her that her allergies have improved lately, too, now that spring is finally giving way to summer. No more daily sinus headaches. After two weeks of endless rain that served to wash away all that pollen, the sun has been shining against a brilliant blue sky for the last few days.

And then there was Ryan. When she told Dr. Milford she’d met someone and gone out on a couple of dates, the woman nodded her approval.

“I’m not jumping into another full-blown relationship or anything, though,” Gaby hastened to tell her.

“No, of course you’re not. You’re just having fun.”

“I am,” she realized. “I’m having fun.”

“It’s about time. And you deserve it, Gabriela.”

Yes, she does.

And so later last night, when Ryan texted her to ask if she was busy tonight—a weeknight—she almost breezily wrote back
I’m free!

Great! Just got 2 seats behind home plate—Red Sox/Yankees.

Maybe she did have an uncomfortable little twinge when she saw that, thinking of Ben. He’d never call it the Red Sox/Yankees game; it would be the other way around.

Yankees/Red Sox.

How well she remembers his enthusiasm for the century-old archrivalry, remembers how much he loved to hate the Sox.

He’d probably hate Ryan as well.

Too bad. She’s happy for a change. Maybe just fleetingly; maybe she doesn’t know where they’re headed, but she won’t let herself worry about that. For the first time in ages, she’s living in the present.

Naturally, Jaz has been thrilled with this turn of events. It seems like every other sentence out of her mouth is a variation of “I told you so” or “Does he have a friend for me?”

Never married, with her thirtieth birthday looming in August, Jaz has been even more determined lately to find Mr. Right.

Or maybe
determined
isn’t quite the right word.
Desperate
seems more accurate. At her most dramatic, Jaz is convinced she’ll wind up a
jamona
like their spinster great-aunt Ula.

Gaby told her she couldn’t possibly fix her up with one of Ryan’s friends. Not at this stage, anyway.

“Why not?”

“Because . . . it’s not like we’re a couple.”

“Maybe not yet. But you’re on your way. And there’s nothing wrong with sniffing around to see if maybe he has someone nice for your favorite cousin.”

“I thought you were into meeting guys the old-fashioned way—online.”

“Hey, I’m open to anything,
mami.
Aren’t you glad you were, too?”

Yes. She’s glad. Yes, it’s nice to be dating someone, but really, it’s about having turned a corner at last—a sharp
corner—on the road to healing.

Having reached 47th Street, she falls in with the throng of commuters streaming into Grand Central Terminal’s northern passage entrance.

There was a time, after Josh was born, when she couldn’t imagine herself ever being a part of the professional rat race again. She’d negotiated a part-time work-at-home editorial consulting schedule after her maternity leave ended, and she and Ben had discussed her eventually phasing out her career altogether in favor of full-time motherhood. Instead . . .

Instead
.

After the unthinkable happened, she got her job back. Full-time. In the office. Her boss offered her the option of continuing to work at home:
Whatever you need, Gabriela. Whatever makes it easier.

Being at home didn’t make it easier. Nothing made it easier. And she couldn’t bear to be in that apartment any longer.

Stop. Don’t think about that.

At the bottom of the long escalator, she makes her way quickly through the air-conditioned network of tunnels to the main concourse.

The vast open area is a sea of striding New Yorkers and gawking, photo-snapping tourists who—oblivious to the rhythms of rush-hour Manhattan—wander into the purposeful paths of impatient, exhausted commuters rushing for trains home to their Westchester or Connecticut suburbs. Tonight there are baseball fans in the mix as well, most of them wearing Yankees gear and heading for the Metro North and subway lines that will carry them to the stadium in the Bronx, just a stone’s throw from Abuela’s apartment where Gaby had grown up.

When Ryan texted Gaby to meet him here “by the clock,” she didn’t have to ask for clarification. The information booth, topped by an enormous brass clock, is the quintessential meeting place for New Yorkers. She used to meet friends here back in high school and college, and later she’d meet Ben . . .

But it’s Ryan, not Ben, who’s waiting for her by the clock tonight. Still in his suit and tie, he’s intently typing on his phone as she walks toward him, and doesn’t see her.

She wonders whether he’s catching up on work e-mail or maybe just texting with a friend. She touches his arm and he looks up.

“Hey!” He smiles, quickly tucking his phone away without bothering to finish what he was doing, and gives her a hug. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” she says truthfully, and together they head for the train.

“You owe me big for this,” Ben’s brother, Luis, tells him as they settle into their prime seats—courtesy of Luis’s boss—to watch batting practice.

“What?
You
owed
me
big for helping you carry that old TV down three flights of stairs last month.”

“No, you did that because I helped you move last fall, remember?”

“
After
I walked Budgie and Paris for a week in September while you and Ada went to Vieques for a second honeymoon.” Ben doesn’t bother to remind him that Budgie and Paris are the yappiest, crappiest—literally—dogs in New York. Luis knows that better than anyone. The family pets have been a bone of marital contention between him and Ada for years.

Then again, so have their twin daughters—and just about everything else.

His brother’s marriage has always been volatile, though things improved after Bettina and Marisol went off to college last August—ironically, right around the time Ben’s own marriage was dying a final death.

“It wasn’t a second honeymoon,” Luis points out. “It was our only honeymoon. We couldn’t afford one twenty years ago. We couldn’t afford it now, but I always promised Ada we’d do it as soon as the girls left. Too bad she’s not a baseball fan. I could have promised her a game in these seats instead.”

“They probably cost more than your week in Vieques. Here’s to your boss.” Ben lifts his plastic cupful of beer in a toast. “Anyway, looks like you and I are even now, so—”

“What? Bro, field level corporate seats behind home plate for the Yankees/Red Sox doesn’t make us even. It makes you—” Luis breaks off, staring wide-eyed at something other than the players on the field.

“What?” Ben follows his gaze to the crowd filing into the rows ahead of theirs, down to the right.

“Nothing, I just thought . . .” Luis shakes his head. “Never mind. What was I saying?”

“You were saying we need some better pitching, same thing you say every game, every season.”

“Because it’s true. It’s always true. But I mean after I said that— Oh, yeah. I was saying you owe me, big-time, for inviting you to come tonight.”

“Yeah, guess I do. Thanks, Luis.” Ben grins, takes a sip of cold beer, and settles back to watch batting practice.

Nick Santana’s real name is Carlos Diaz.

Alex discovered that—among other things—when she went through his wallet that first night, while he was still passed out in the front seat of her car.

Carlos—three letters away from Carmen. A very good sign. Maybe an omen.

Carlos Diaz. There must be dozens—maybe hundreds—of other guys with that name in New York alone.

Is that why he decided to change it to Nick Santana? Was he merely trying to be unique? He could have done a better job with that.

Or was it a discretionary move, covering his tracks on the dating site?

Alex wondered at first whether he might be married.

It doesn’t really matter in the long run. But things would certainly be easier if he were single. That way, there was less chance anyone would be waiting for him to come home that night.

After going through his wallet, she carefully replaced it in his pocket and turned her attention to the other belongings he was carrying.

There was a small prescription medication vial containing a couple of pills she later identified as SSRNs—antidepressants. She confiscated those. The only medication she wants him taking is what she gives him—with or without his knowledge.

And then there was his cell phone.

A little targeted snooping through his texts, e-mails, and contact lists told her that he was most likely single, as he’d claimed. But you never know.

She also figured out that he’s no architect, doesn’t live on the Upper West Side, and isn’t a mere thirty-one years old—though he might have been when he posed for that photo he used on his InTune profile, the one where he’s standing in front of the Christmas tree wearing a red sweater.

He lied on his profile. Does it matter?

If she were looking for a romantic hero, it might. But the love of her life has already come and gone.

Now she needs a man for only one thing. A man with very specific qualifications.

Nick—Carlos—may not be an architect, as he’d claimed, but he does work for a construction company. She doesn’t know exactly what he does there. But when they met that night in the bar, he told her that building is in his blood, and she believed him. She could hear the passion in his voice. That’s what counts.