The Second Silence (36 page)

Bronwyn looked down at their shadows stretching over the worn paving stones, linked like the cut-out figures Noelle used to fashion for her with scissors when she was little. Hesitantly, she began, ‘Well, you see, the thing is, Dante sort of works for Robert.’ She glanced up sharply. ‘It’s not what you think. Just odd jobs and deliveries, that kind of thing. But he, like,
knows
stuff, stuff you’d pick up from just hanging around.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Nothing concrete. All I know is that he’s scared of Robert.’ Bronwyn had her hair twisted so tightly about her finger its tip had begun to swell and redden. ‘If
he’s
scared, then you should be, too. Scared for your
life.’

Noelle wanted to take her sister seriously. God knew she had reason enough to believe the worst of Robert. But this… well, it was simply too much. Her husband was a monster, all right. He’d drugged her. He’d stolen her child. But murder? No, she didn’t think even Robert would go that far.

‘Bron, don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away here?’ Noelle spoke gently. She was thinking of the time she’d taken Bronwyn camping. She’d been in her early twenties, her sister just nine or ten, the age when spooky stories about one-armed escaped convicts and serial murderers on the loose were trotted out at every slumber party. Bronwyn, though, had taken it a step further, spinning an elaborate fantasy about the ranger—an admittedly spooky-looking fellow—being a vampire that roamed the woods at night. When the time came to turn in, her sister was so frightened she couldn’t sleep.

‘El, I’m not kidding.’ A desperate note crept into Bronwyn’s voice. ‘I know you think I exaggerate sometimes, and maybe I do. But this isn’t one of those times.’

‘Okay, let say you’re right. What am I supposed to do about it?’

‘Don’t go off alone with him or anything.’

Noelle gave a short dry laugh. ‘There’s about as much chance of that as there is of my getting kidnapped by terrorists.’

‘Well, then don’t go anywhere alone
period.’

‘I promise, Scout’s honor.’ She held up two fingers. ‘No dark alleys, and no blind dates. Maybe I should get myself a Doberman pinscher, just to be on the safe side. What do you think?’ When Bronwyn didn’t crack a smile, Noelle slipped an arm about her shoulders. ‘Look, Bron, I appreciate your concern, really I do. And I
will
be careful.’

She remembered when Bronwyn was born. She’d been fourteen and had secretly resented her stepmother. Yet the moment she laid eyes on her tiny sister, wrapped in a fuzzy yellow blanket, everything changed. She forgave Vicky on the spot. Dad had done the right thing marrying her, she’d thought, for how else could he have given her this wonderful gift?

‘Not to change the subject, or anything,’ Noelle said, ‘but just how serious is it with you and this Dante character?’

Bronwyn shrugged nonchalantly, perhaps a bit
too
nonchalantly. ‘We hang out, that’s all. No big deal.’

‘Are you sleeping with him?’

Her sister gave a startled laugh, a dark flush rising in her cheeks. ‘What makes you ask
that
?’

‘Your expression just now.’

‘Oh, God—is it that obvious?’

‘Only to someone who knows you as well as I do.’ Noelle gave her sister’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘I just hope you’re using birth control.’

‘Actually, we’ve only done it once,’ she confessed.

‘Once is enough, believe me. I should know. That’s how
I
was conceived.’

The fact that her parents had been only a year older than Bronwyn hit home with new impact. She’d known they were young; she just hadn’t been able to picture
how
young. Suddenly, she felt a new appreciation for what her mother had to have gone through.

‘Don’t worry, we were careful,’ Bronwyn assured her.

Noelle thought of Hank and of how careful they would have to be. Tonight, she was having dinner with him at his apartment. And why not? They were friends, weren’t they? As long as they didn’t take it any further than that kiss up on the ridge, what was the harm? Still, she couldn’t help feeling more than a little apprehensive.

‘Was it as good as you hoped it would be?’ she asked.

Bronwyn ducked her head, the color in her cheeks deepening. ‘Let’s just say there are some things you don’t learn from books.’

‘My first time was with Robert,’ Noelle confided.

‘Was it awful?’

‘No, not at all. It was—’ she’d blocked out the memory so effectively she now had to struggle to recall what it had been like—‘efficient. That’s how I remember it. As if he were performing some kind of magic trick.’

‘Did it get better the more times you did it?’

‘I suppose so, in a way. The trouble was, as I fell more and more out of love, I grew less and less interested. So, you see, the real trick was the one I played on myself.’

‘I don’t know if I love Dante,’ Bronwyn said. ‘I’m crazy about him, of course, but that isn’t the same thing, is it?’

‘No, not quite.’ Noelle smiled to herself, once more thinking of Hank.

Was she falling in love with him? Maybe, but given her present state of mind, she wouldn’t have trusted her heart to know the difference between love and simple gratitude for Hank’s kindness. She
was
looking forward to this evening, though; that much she knew.

She wouldn’t think about the way he’d kissed her, or where it might lead. Nor would she think about her legal woes. She owed herself, and Hank, an evening free of
sturm und drang.
That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?

‘I’m actually a pretty decent cook.’ Hank spoke with the air of a novice marveling over the fact. ‘You like pasta, I hope?’

They stood elbow to elbow in his tiny but surprisingly well-equipped bachelor’s kitchen—Noelle at the counter chopping cucumbers for the salad and Hank at the stove tending a boiling pot with enough spaghetti in it to feed a small army. She turned to smile at him.

‘Love it.’

‘Good, because it’s the only thing I know how to make.’

‘Just pasta?’

‘Pasta with marinara sauce. Pasta with pesto. Pasta with mushrooms and garlic. Pasta with—’

‘I get the picture.’ Noelle laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed magical somehow, not at all wrong—like water springing up from cracked dry ground.

Hank regarded her with tender amusement. His face was ruddy from the rising steam, his light brown hair curled about his temples. He wore a butcher’s apron over khakis and a blue oxford shirt, making her think of a chef on TV. Someone putting on a show. She felt unexpectedly touched by his desire to impress her.

‘Everyone likes pasta,’ he went on, ‘so it’s a safe bet when you’re having company, not to mention a necessary survival skill.’

‘There’s always Murphy’s Diner,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh, I’ve been that route, believe me.’ He fished a strand of spaghetti from the pot and nibbled on the end, pronouncing, ‘Not quite. Another minute or two.’ He turned to give her a rueful look. ‘A single guy, eating alone at Murphy’s every night. I might as well have taken out an ad in the paper.’

Noelle caught his meaning. ‘Let me guess. Every unmarried woman in Burns Lake between the ages of twenty-five and fifty suddenly had an overwhelming urge to cook for you.’

Hank rolled his eyes. ‘My first year they were leaving casseroles on the doorstep. I ran out of room in my freezer. After a while it started to seem morbid, like someone had died.’

‘Maybe they were just being neighborly,’ she said teasingly.

‘Either way, it was giving me a complex. I began to wonder if there was something about me in particular. You know, like was I unconsciously sending out signals that I was looking for a wife?’ Hank hoisted the pot from the stove and poured its contents in a great roiling gush into the colander in the sink.

‘Those poor women. I hope you let them down easy at least.’

‘I didn’t have to. I just stopped eating out every night and started grocery shopping,’ he said. ‘Eventually they got the message and the casseroles stopped coming.’ He cranked on the tap, running cold water over the steaming colander.

‘What a relief.’ Noelle carried the salad to the table, thinking,
Is he trying to tell me something?

Certainly there was nothing about this apartment, the converted parlor floor of a white elephant Victorian, to suggest a floundering bachelor existence. Though sparsely furnished, the parlor that served as both living and dining room—with an open kitchen off to one side—was warmly inviting. Handsome oriental rugs were scattered over polished floorboards. An oak sideboard stacked with papers and books faced the matching oak table at which she stood. There was even a fireplace, with a cane-back rocking chair in front of it.

Hank clearly wasn’t shopping for a wife, unconsciously or otherwise. The only question was why it should matter to her.
She
certainly wasn’t in any position to apply for the position. Noelle caught her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard: a woman who’d taken the time to pin her hair up and put on a nice dress; a woman with flushed cheeks holding a wooden salad bowl with the same air of eager self-consciousness as had, she imagined, the bearers of all those unwanted casseroles.

It’s just dinner,
she told herself.
Nothing more.

At the table she kept the conversation light. Hank told her about the difficulties of taking over from a figure as beloved as old Doc Matthews. Noelle confided that she’d begun writing again. It had started with her journal, but lately, to take her mind off things, she’d even written a few short stories. Hank said he’d be interested in reading one, and she promised to show him the story she was working on now.

They’d nearly finished eating when Hank cleared his throat and said, ‘I don’t mean to bring up an unpleasant subject. On the other hand, it seems rude
not
to ask. Anything new with your case?’

‘Not really. We’re sort of at a stalemate, thanks to my husband. He sets up a date to meet with the psychologist, then reschedules at the last minute. Meanwhile, my lawyer can’t make a move until we get our hands on that report.’ She made an effort not to sound gloomy. Hadn’t she cried on Hank’s shoulder enough? ‘This is delicious, by the way. You weren’t kidding—you really
are
a good cook.’

‘Thanks. The zucchini is courtesy of my landlady. There’s enough of it in her garden out back to end world hunger.’ Hank poured himself another glass of wine and thoughtfully remembered to replenish her tumbler of Perrier. ‘Speaking of Lacey, I saw her just the other day. She stopped in to get her prescription renewed.’

Noelle remembered that Lacey suffered from hayfever. ‘You didn’t tell her about us, did you?’ The question popped out unbidden, like a spring from an overwound clock. Heat rose in her cheeks.
For heaven’s sake,
she thought,
what is there to tell?

But Hank didn’t seem put off. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t,’ he said mildly. ‘It would have been unprofessional, don’t you think?’

She carefully folded her napkin and set it alongside her plate. ‘Hank, there’s something you should know. In case you … well, if things should reach a point when we—’ She stopped, bringing a hand to her painfully warm face. ‘This is so embarrassing. You probably have no idea what I’m trying to say.’

‘I think I get the picture,’ he told her. His face was aglow in the candlelight, his gaze steady and calm. ‘You’re worried about our getting too deeply involved. You’re thinking it wouldn’t be wise. Not while you’re still technically married; it might look bad in court.’ He reached across the table to take her hand. ‘How am I doing so far?’

She nodded, lacing her fingers through his, taking in their nurturing warmth as she would have a medicine he’d prescribed. ‘Oh, Hank, I wish we could have met five years from now.’

‘In my opinion, there’s never a wrong time for meeting the right person.’

He brought her hand to his mouth, turning it to kiss her palm. A kiss tender and courtly, yet with the promise of passion. No words could have reassured her more. Noelle felt something tightly knotted inside her suddenly loosen. It was going to be okay. He would wait.

Reluctantly Hank let go of her hand and got up to clear the table. ‘How about dessert? I’m afraid my culinary skills don’t extend to baking, but on my way home I picked up a quart of peach ice cream from Scoops.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ she said, relieved that he knew when to let go of a sensitive subject.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to make love to Hank, now, this instant… to feel his arms about her, his naked body pressing up against hers; to know the kind of intimacy that hadn’t been possible with Robert. But this was nice, too: a rest from all that surging emotion, a chance to catch her breath and simply
be.

In the meantime, Noelle would keep her eyes open, not just for the real and potential dangers ahead but for the possibility of something or someone good in her life. Someone very much like the man in chinos and blue oxford shirt standing before her now.

CHAPTER 13

‘WHAT MAKES YOU THINK
they arrested the wrong guy?’

Mary glanced at Charlie, hunched over the wheel of his Blazer as he negotiated the twisting mountain road in the pouring rain.

‘God knows I’d like nothing more than to pin the blame on that punk.’ Charlie frowned as he struggled to peer through the rain sheeting across the windshield. ‘But whatever his crimes—and I have a feeling Bronwyn knows more on
that
subject than she’s letting on—Dante Lo Presti wasn’t the one who trashed my building.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘His shoe size, for one thing. Lo Presti wears a ten—I checked with his boss—and the boot prints in the dirt outside had to be twelve or thirteen, at least.’

‘I thought you said the police didn’t find any evidence.’

‘Not by the time they finished trampling all over it.’ Charlie flicked on the radio and dialed it to a local station that gave a twice-hourly update on road conditions.