The Pact (15 page)

N
ot surprisingly, we all demurred on the offer of wedding cake. Somewhat disappointed, Mrs. Furlong disappeared upstairs for a postprandial siesta, while we began clearing the table and putting things away in the kitchen. Peter excused himself as well, explaining that he needed to call into his office and take care of some work. I couldn’t blame him; anyone would want some time alone to absorb that his hostess had just suggested he might be a murderer and supplied him with a motive in one fell swoop. Nor had Mrs. Furlong’s little soliloquy done much to calm my own anxieties.

Matthew went to the library to check in on the police and returned with the now empty plate of sandwiches. Hilary started to ask him if O’Donnell had said anything about her or the fine quality of food preparation, but Matthew silenced her with a rare, stern look. His sense of humor had disappeared about halfway through lunch. With the exception of Hilary, whose high spirits were just about invincible, we were all considerably less cheerful than we’d been an hour before.

“Who do they want to see next?” Luisa asked Matthew.

He shrugged, his expression tired. “How about you? Are you up for it?”

“Not especially, but I may as well get it over with. It’s probably more fun than washing dishes.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Matthew.

“You don’t know how I feel about dishes,” said Luisa, with a half smile. “Besides, just think what all that scrubbing would do to my nails.” She squared her shoulders and headed for the door with her usual regal bearing, which always made me think of a queen off to greet her adoring subjects.

The rest of us busied ourselves rinsing plates and glasses and loading the dishwasher. Nobody was very talkative, except, of course, for Hilary, who chattered on, oblivious to the fact that nobody was paying any attention to her. With so many helping out, we were done in a matter of minutes. The afternoon stretched before us, alarmingly empty. It was barely 1:00 p.m. I realized that we’d forgotten to cancel the reservation we’d made at a café in town for the bridesmaids’ lunch. Well, I thought with resignation, that was the least of today’s problems.

“Now what?” I asked. I felt like I should be doing something to figure out what had happened to Richard, but I wasn’t sure what that something would be.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said Jane. “I was thinking it would be nice to take a swim.”

“In the lake, I’m assuming?” asked Hilary. “I have a feeling the pool’s off-limits for now.”

“Ugh, Hil,” I said.

“The lake sounds good to me,” said Jane. I agreed, thinking that it might give me time to collect my thoughts until I could figure out a better plan of action.

Matthew begged off, saying that he had to attend to the police, and Sean said he’d stay behind to talk to them after they were done with Luisa. Matthew asked Jane not to stay out too long, noting that she still had her own police interview to go through. “I’ll bring Peter in after Luisa and Sean are done, but after that I expect you’ll be up. The police spoke to the Furlongs this morning, and Rachel, Hilary and I have spoken to them already, too. I thought I’d try to save Emma until last, and I should probably keep an eye on her while her mother’s resting.”

“That’s probably wise,” said Hilary. “I think Lily needs some time to recover from her liquid lunch.”

He sighed. “Has Jacob come back to the house?” he asked. “Has anyone seen him?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “Should we try to track him down?”

“No. I’ll go get him if the police want to see him again.”

Back in Emma’s room, I took off the old locket of my grandmother’s that I always wore and placed it on the dresser. I quickly exchanged my sundress for my bathing suit, an emerald green one-piece, and wrapped a Thai silk sarong around my hips. I hadn’t actually had time to hit the beaches when I’d been in Thailand a few years ago on a deal, of course. I’d been shut up in conference rooms during the day and busy rerunning numbers in my hotel room at night. But I’d had just enough time to purchase some lovely beachwear in the duty-free at the Bangkok airport before my flight home.

I was almost out the door when I remembered that I’d forgotten sunblock. I stepped into the bathroom and began rummaging through Emma’s medicine cabinet. We both shared an astonishing inability to tan, hers derived from her pure stream of Anglo-Saxon blood and mine the product of a childhood spent in a land where if you blinked you could easily miss summer. The contents of the medicine cabinet made me laugh. Where other people kept their aspirin and mouthwash, Emma stored a set of watercolors and an array of paintbrushes. I found a bottle of lotion claiming unparalleled sun protection power lurking behind some linseed oil and a mortar and pestle. I pulled it out and applied it liberally to the exposed parts of my body before rewrapping myself in the sarong.

I went back down the stairs and headed out through the kitchen door. I retraced the steps we’d taken the previous night out to the dock, delighting in the feel of the summer sun on my bare shoulders. My flip-flops slapped gently against the soles of my feet, and the path was covered with a thick carpet of loose pine needles. What with the sunshine, blue skies and chirping birds, it really was an idyllic day. I couldn’t help but be glad that I wasn’t spending it watching Emma make the biggest mistake she possibly could.

I left my flip-flops and the sarong on an old upturned canoe that rested on the grass and stepped onto the narrow strip of beach that edged the water. The sun had warmed the sand, and the heat felt welcoming to my bare feet. The lake stretched out before me, a gentle breeze stirring some mild ripples along its surface. In the distance I could see a few lonely sailboats dotting the horizon.

Jane was already standing waist high in the water, a navy-blue maillot hugging her lean frame and broad swimmer’s shoulders. Not only had she been a world-class sailor in college, she’d also been one of the stars of the diving team, single-handedly compensating for the utter lack of athleticism among her friends. “Come on in,” she called. “The water’s great.”

I knew that she was lying. No matter how I chose to enter the water, I would find it shockingly cold. It was one thing to dabble your toes as I had the previous evening; total immersion was a different matter altogether. Even in August the lake retained an Arctic tinge. I gingerly poked a foot in and then jumped back. “What are you talking about? It’s like ice!”

“That’s just at the edge,” she told me, flipping onto her back and fluttering her legs. “It’s balmy out here. Like a bathtub.” One that had been filled with barely melted snow. I gave her a dubious look.

“Come on,” she cried again. “Don’t be a wuss.”

“I’m proud of being a wuss. It suits me.”

“You should just dive right in. Otherwise you’ll be there forever.”

She was right, I knew. No amount of mental preparation could prepare me for the iciness that awaited, and the longer I waited the less likely I was to brave it. There was only one way to handle it. Before I could change my mind, I strode out onto the dock, and with a running start, dove in headfirst.

“Aaacckkk!” I howled, as soon as my mouth reached the surface. “Jane, you rat, it’s freezing.” My teeth began to chatter. Surely water this cold should be ice, I thought. Perhaps lake water was special and didn’t actually freeze when its temperature went below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit? I knew I should have paid more attention in my high school chemistry class.

Jane laughed. “Well now that you’re in, I’ll race you to the raft.” She took off with long, even strokes. I didn’t bother to try to race her; competition’s no fun when you don’t stand even a chance of winning, and Jane was probably in training for a megatriathlon or some such thing. I followed with a lazy sidestroke.

The raft was anchored roughly a hundred yards from shore, a set of wooden planks that floated atop empty barrels. By the time I’d hoisted myself up the ladder, Jane had already stretched out on her back. “Slowpoke,” she said.

“Show-off,” I answered, stretching out beside her. The sun-baked surface of the raft radiated warmth, and the gentle rocking motion was soothing. “Aah,” I sighed. “This is more like it.”

“Mmm,” Jane murmured her agreement.

“Oh, bugs,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was supposed to get a fax from my office, and I forgot to check the machine.”

“Relax,” she said. “Wall Street’s not going to implode if you take an hour off.”

“I know, I know.”

“Besides, weren’t you supposed to be putting in fewer hours now that you’re a vice president?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but it doesn’t seem to be working out as planned. The head of my department keeps throwing deals at me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I suppose so. I mean, it’s helping me to reestablish credibility after that mess last year,” I said, referring to the deal Richard had screwed up.

“Well, not to be too coldhearted or anything, but it looks like Richard finally got his payback for that,” said Jane in her no-nonsense way.

“True,” I acknowledged. “But it would have been far better if the deal had never gotten so messed up in the first place. It’s like I’m on a probation of sorts right now, and I have to prove myself all over again.”

“Do you think you’re going to stick it out?” she asked.

“At the firm, you mean?” She nodded. “Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “I’m too close to making partner to give up now. Once I get elected, my hours really will get better, and I’d hate to think that all the years of drudgery I’ve put in so far would come to nothing. Plus, the money at that point will be pretty spectacular.”

“That’s nothing to sneeze at. I just hope you don’t neglect your love life in the meantime.” Her voice took on a teasing edge. “You know, spend too much time worrying about your work, when exciting, seemingly eligible men are around.”

“You’re a subtle one, aren’t you?”

“I try,” she said modestly. “It’s just that I think Peter’s really great. Sean thinks so, too.”

“He is,” I agreed. “Definitely a cut above the guys I’ve been meeting in New York.” Not that I really met anyone in New York—I was always at the office or in meetings or traveling on business. My romantic life of late had been limited to occasional blind dates, all of which had been fruitless except for the comic stories they yielded. Like the guy who brought his own utensils, plate and glassware to dinner and then lectured me on the fat content of every bite I ate. He’d nearly fainted when I ordered crème brûlée for dessert.

I changed the subject. “What’s going on with you and Sean?” I asked.

“Not much. The biggest news is that I’m going to be teaching trig this year along with algebra, so I’ve been busy prepping. Unfortunately, it’s hard to wing it when it comes to sines and cosines. And nothing much changes with Sean—just the usual valves and pipes.” Jane taught math at a private school in Boston, and Sean’s family owned a small industrial concern that supplied municipalities with pipes, fire hydrants and other pieces of equipment. It wasn’t glamorous, but it provided a healthy living for the large and close-knit Hallard clan.

We chatted a bit more about the Hallards and their insatiable appetite for grandchildren before lapsing into a comfortable silence, each busy with our own thoughts. I hadn’t gotten much rest the previous night, and a wave of tiredness swept over me. I struggled to stay awake, reminding myself that I was supposed to be developing an action plan, but the bright sun and gentle motion of the raft soon lulled me to sleep.

When I woke, I saw Hilary wading in the water near the shore with Peter. I used this opportunity to discreetly check out his body, which up to now had been hidden by relatively baggy clothing, and I was delighted to see that his torso was long and lean but nicely muscled. He was also wearing a pair of completely reasonable swim trunks that would never be a source of embarrassment to anyone who was with him. Swim trunks, perhaps even more than shoes, were an excellent indicator of what else might lurk in a man’s wardrobe. I shuddered as I recalled a Winslow, Brown summer picnic at which my date, who up until that point had seemed perfect in every way, showed up in a neon-green Speedo.

Then I took in Hilary’s string bikini, in a shade that could only be described as shocking pink. However, it was unclear whether the shocking part was due to the color or the striking lack of material. A hot stream of jealousy coursed through my veins. Hilary had always had an easy, flirtatious way about her that was part of her breezy confidence and sensuality. But usually her tastes in men were so wildly different from mine that I’d never felt even remotely threatened. And if my romantic history was checkered, Hilary’s was a minefield. She went through men like Kleenex, seizing upon them eagerly when the need arose, then balling them up and discarding them without a second thought.

You didn’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to understand her behavior. Although Harvard prided itself on its diversity, my group of friends was relatively homogenous, if not in terms of interests, at least in terms of backgrounds. Emma and Luisa both came from immense family fortunes, and Jane’s family was comfortably well-off. My parents had struggled to make ends meet on their slim academics’ salaries, taking out a second mortgage to help send their three children to college, but we’d never wanted for anything important. And we all had parents who were still married. My parents’ thirty-eight years of domestic bliss was nearly eclipsed by Jane’s parents’ forty years, the tight-knit clan of the Caselanzas, and, at least so I’d thought until this morning, the golden perfection of the Furlong family. We had a shared history of secure and stable childhoods.