The Second Silence (30 page)

‘My father used to take me picnicking here when I was little,’ she recalled mournfully. ‘When Robert first started talking about developing it, I guess it didn’t seem real to me. It was just a lot of brainstorming sessions and blueprints and three-martini lunches with Grant Iverson.’ She felt a wrench of loss, as if the scarred earth, once thick with trees, now dotted with trucks and graders and bulldozers, represented everything she herself stood to lose.

Hank’s arm tightened about her shoulders. ‘I’d heard about the mall, but I had no idea of the scale it was on.’ He whistled softly between his teeth. ‘It must be fifteen or twenty acres.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Who’s the lucky guy getting chewed out?’

Her gaze instantly picked out Robert amid a cluster of tiny figures in hardhats. He was giving hell to one of the workers and had adopted what she thought of as his alpha-male pose—head thrust forward, gesticulating with an upraised fist. Though the guy was at least a head taller, he cowered in response.

‘That’s his foreman, Mike Henshaw.’ Even from this distance she recognized Mike from the thick slab of belly slung over his belt. ‘He’s been with the company over thirty years, so he must be used to it by now. From what I’ve heard, Robert’s dad was even tougher on his crews.’

‘I take it the old man’s retired.’

‘More or less. Cole still goes into the office for an hour or two every day, but he’s basically out of the loop. There’s no question who runs things now. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Robert’s brother—’

Noelle broke off, her attention drawn to a white newer-model Cadillac making its way along the dirt access road that linked the site to the highway just east of it. She recognized it at once as her mother-in-law’s and drew in a sharp breath. What was
she
doing here? Wasn’t Gertrude supposed to be home watching Emma? She watched the Caddy pull to a stop in front of the trailer that served as Robert’s field office. An elderly woman climbed out, remarkably trim for her age, with a bulletproof bouffant an indeterminate shade between beige and blond. She wore a suit and high heels and carried a shopping bag.

A moment later the door to the passenger side flew open, and a small dark-haired figure bounded out. Noelle watched helplessly, invisible to her daughter, as Emma dashed toward her father. She felt as if the solid ground beneath her had suddenly given way.

Oh, God, it was too much. The last straw.

Yet somehow, incredibly, it was galvanizing her. Like a blowtorch burning away the excess layers of dead skin, leaving her newly minted.
If I had a gun, I would kill him,
she thought.

The epiphany was so strong and so unnerving that it caused her to sag, with a low cry, into Hank’s arms. Her head was filled with a high white noise, like the sound of the wind finding its way through a cracked casement. She was aware of his hands—his fine healing hands—stroking her back, smoothing away the sharp edges of her pain. His breath was warm against her temple. When he kissed her, it was as if this were part of her journey, too, tied in with Emma somehow. As if the woman she’d first glimpsed in Hank’s eyes, a woman with a mind of her own and heart that wasn’t going to be put on hold, had at last emerged from the shadows into full sunlight.

CHAPTER 11

I
T WAS DARK
by the time Mary passed through the tollbooth at I-87. All the way up the FDR and onto the Third Avenue Bridge, the traffic had been bumper to bumper. And she still had two hours to go. God, what a perfectly awful day. Starting with her morning staff meeting, at which Brittany had given her the litany of bad news: the clients who had been growing restless, the bookkeeper suspected of dipping into petty cash, the daily barrage of calls from Howard Lazarus concerning the Rene’s Room banquet.

Her come-to-Jesus with Leo Le Gras had been the day’s low point. Tracking him down at his SoHo loft, she’d found the soused caterer nearly incoherent. When a crisp reminder of his responsibility to her failed, she’d been forced to make a decision. Mentally writing off the sizable deposit she’d forked over, Mary had informed Leo nicely, but firmly, that he was fired.

Fortunately she’d come prepared. Armed with a short list of names from her Rolodex, she’d set out to find a replacement. The first candidate, Private Reserve on East Sixty-fourth, had been a near miss. She’d found the
pâté brisée
a trifle less than flaky, the
haricot vert
a tad overcooked. The chef had been accommodating, a bit
too
accommodating; he left her wondering if his availability had been such a miracle after all.

The chef at Mais Oui, in TriBeca, was the polar opposite, an overbearing primadonna who’d expected her to grovel at his feet. The sample dishes served to her on small Herend saucers had been divine, of course, but reluctantly she’d had to pass. After the near disaster with Leo, she didn’t need any more temperamental caterers in her life.

By the time she arrived at Madame Gregoire’s West End Avenue penthouse, Mary had nearly run out of hope. But one look at the stout French
maman
with her large work-reddened hands and gray hair twisted into a bun had been enough. Madame was as unaffected as her cuisine proved superb. Mary, stuffed from her two previous samplings, nonetheless found herself inhaling the tidbits of delicate lobster and shitake mushroom salad, the artichoke terrine and venison cubes marinated in peppercorn sauce. She’d made out a check on the spot.

Yet as she set out for home, Mary felt none of her usual sense of accomplishment, only a gnawing emptiness. What was a banquet compared with her daughter? She should have obeyed her instincts and stayed home. Apparently the interview hadn’t gone well. Noelle had neglected to phone and wasn’t home when Mary called. It was Doris who had given her the fill, muttering something about the woman being a horse’s ass—strong language, coming from her mother.

Poor Noelle,
she thought.
I should have been there.

Mary flashed back on this morning’s outburst. Noelle’s words had stung, but she had to acknowledge there was some truth in them. What was also true was that she loved her daughter. How could she make Noelle
see
that? Had it been foolish to imagine that temporarily moving back home would make a difference?

Home.
Even the word had lost its meaning. Where
was
home these days? Not Burns Lake, not anymore, though it wasn’t without its share of pleasures. Sitting out on the porch in the evening, lulled by the creak of the swing. Sacks of homegrown produce left at the back door. Waking up to the sound of birds and the wick-wick-wick of sprinklers up and down the street. Every season, too, had its timeworn traditions. The annual Fourth of July parade, featuring the newly crowned Silver Beauty Corn Queen in a Cadillac convertible cruising down Main Street. The outdoor Nativity play at Christmas, followed by hot buttered rum and candlelight caroling. In October there was the Pumpkin Festival sponsored by the Daughters of the American Revolution, the highlight of which was a reenactment of the Battle of Sandy Creek, complete with muskets and cannon.

Yes, there was much to value about Burns Lake. The best it had to offer, though, was time. Precious time with her daughter and with Trish. On a much lesser scale her mother, too, who wouldn’t be around forever.

And let’s not forget Charlie.

Mary’s hands tensed about the steering wheel.
Charlie.
Memories rose, warm as the air blowing in through the vents. Being with him was like going back to a house she’d once lived in and finding it virtually unchanged. Except her name was no longer on the mailbox. She was welcome to visit for as long as she liked, but sooner or later she’d have to go. The thought brought a pang of loss. She wished now that she hadn’t stepped through the door. In the end, it would only make her leave-taking that much harder.

Remembering her promise to call him, she considered putting it off until tomorrow. Wanting Charlie from a distance, she thought ruefully, was a whole lot easier than resisting him in person. An hour and a half later, as she was turning into the exit for Burns Lake, Mary nonetheless found herself reaching for her phone. She tried the cabin first, and when there was no answer punched in his work number.

The line was picked up at once. A voice barked, ‘Newsroom.’

She recognized it as Charlie’s, though its gruffness took her by surprise. This was a side of him she’d never seen, and she was secretly intrigued. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I took a chance you’d still be at your desk. I hope you didn’t think I forgot.’

‘What time
is
it anyway?’ He sounded hoarse. She pictured him glancing at the clock on his wall, then scrubbing his face with an open hand—an old habit.

‘Crazy day?’

‘I’ll tell you about it over dinner. You haven’t eaten, have you?’

Mary hesitated before replying. Still full from her tastings, she’d planned to skip dinner. But an hour at the Curlycue Café wouldn’t kill her, she thought. And frankly a strategy session was in order. As far as Corinne was concerned, she’d run out of leads. If Charlie had any ideas, she needed to hear them.

‘I’m just now heading into town,’ she told him. ‘Meet you at the Curlycue in fifteen minutes?’

There was a pause. Then Charlie answered guardedly, ‘Let’s make it somewhere more private. Something’s come up, and I wouldn’t want us to be overheard.’

She felt her heart quicken. ‘Anything important?’

‘Meet me at the cabin, okay? We can talk there.’

Mary was suddenly aware of how close she’d crept to the brown Escort in front of her; their bumpers were practically touching. Immediately she eased her foot off the accelerator. ‘What about Bronwyn?’

‘She’s staying over at a friend’s.’ Mary heard a desk drawer slam, followed by the jingle of keys. ‘I’ll pick up something at the Curlycue on my way home. You like shepherd’s pie?’

She groaned inwardly at the thought. ‘A salad will do me just fine.’

‘You got it.’ There was a short intake of breath at the other end. ‘Listen, Mary, I’m glad you called. Last night
…
’ Charlie let the sentence trail off. Clearing his throat, he finished lightly, ‘I’ll keep the pie in the oven. You might change your mind.’

She thumbed the end button and let out a sigh. She’d been thinking about last night, too. Bumping into Charlie after the meeting, she hadn’t been prepared for the rush of emotion it brought, a strange and heady mix of longing and regret.

Their interlude at the lake … dear God, had they really believed they could get away with it? Fall in love a little, but not too much. They were playing with fire, just like when they were teenagers. If they didn’t watch out, they’d get burned.

Mary was so caught up in her thoughts she scarcely noticed how far she’d driven until she was turning onto the narrow tree-lined road where Charlie lived. Moments later she was pulling up in front of his cabin and making her way up the path of cedar rounds that meandered through the dense shrubbery of the yard—flower beds wouldn’t have survived the deer, Charlie had told her. She was mounting the steps to the front door when it opened, spilling yellow light onto the porch. Her ex-husband stepped out to greet her, his big yellow dog at his heels.

Silhouetted in the amber glow, the two figures might have been a commercial for the joys of country life. Charlie, barefoot, in off-white chinos and blue-checked shirt rolled up over his elbows. The golden retriever with its plumed tail fanning back and forth. When Charlie bent to lightly kiss her cheek, she caught the faint menthol scent of his shaving cream. Resisting the urge to run her hand along his jaw, Mary bent to pat Rufus instead.

‘You made good time,’ he commented.

‘The last half hour was easy. It was the first two I could’ve done without.’ Mary laughed, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

Why did he have to get better-looking with age?
she cursed inwardly.
Why couldn’t he have had the decency to go fat and bald like other men?

‘Luckily the perils of commuting is one thing I’ve never had to deal with.’ He flashed her a wry smile as he held the door open for her. ‘On the other hand, I doubt I’ll ever be awarded the Pulitzer Prize.’

Mary stepped inside, once again admiring the cabin’s rustic charm that somehow managed to avoid crossing the line into homespun kitsch. The hooked rugs and scuffed leather sofa, the comfortable chairs grouped about the large stone fireplace. On its mantel stood a silver-framed photo of Charlie’s second wife, a pretty dark-haired woman with delicate features and a smile that lit up her whole face. The photo had been taken out on the dock, with the lake shimmering at her back. Her short hair was blowing up around her face. She looked happy.

Mary felt something twist inside her chest. She thought of Charlie and his wife sleeping together, snuggled under the covers of their big rough-hewn bed. Joking with each other across the table in their sunny kitchen. It was wrong of her to feel this way, she knew, wrong and petty and meanspirited. But she couldn’t seem to help it. She was jealous of Vicky. Jealous enough to want to snatch that photo off the mantel and hurl it to the floor.

As quickly as it had come over her, the impulse passed. Shaken, Mary sank down in a chair, heavy with more than just weariness.
Dear God,
she thought,
have I really sunk so low? To be resentful of a dead woman? If Charlie only knew …

Charlie must have seen how rattled she was. He shot her a curious glance and immediately fetched her a cold beer from the kitchen. Mary, sunk to her armpits in the huge old Papa Bear chair, sipped it gratefully. He even remembered that she liked Heineken.
You’re not making this any easier, you know,
she wanted to cry in protest.

‘It must be rough, all this running back and forth.’ Charlie sank down on the sofa, leaning toward her with his elbows resting on his knees and his beer bottle loosely clasped in his hands.

‘I’m managing,’ she said with a little shrug.