Woman in Black (21 page)

Abigail smiled and touched her arm. “I'm sure it won't. And please, call me Abigail.”

The girl looked as if she'd been handed a door prize. “Between you and me, they're not my favorite flowers, either,” she confided. “My grandma always gets those huge ones in tubs, and her cats use them as litter boxes. The whole house stinks to high heaven.”

“In that case, I have an excellent recipe for potpourri. It makes a nice gift, and it'll mask the odor,” Abigail said, leaning in slightly, as if in confidence. “It's in my holiday craft book. Why don't you e-mail me your address, and I'll send you a copy?”

The girl was glowing as Abigail swept off down the hall, as if she'd received a papal blessing instead of the promise of a book she could have easily purchased in any store.

A short while
later, Abigail was heading across town in a chauffeured Town Car, on her way to see Vaughn. It was still early, so there was a good chance of her catching him at home. Even so, she felt strange about showing up unannounced. Would he be happy to see her … or would she only be intruding? Would he even recognize her as the girl he'd known all those years ago? And Vaughn—he had to have changed, too. Would the forty-one-year-old man bear any resemblance to the boy she remembered with such affection? Would they have anything in common other than their shared past?

The car pulled up in front of a converted loft building on West 22nd, between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas, and Abigail climbed out. She found the correct button on the intercom by the front entrance, where the name “Rinaldi” was penned on a strip of curling adhesive tape, and was about to press it when a man came barreling through the door. Abigail seized the opportunity to slip in after him.

She took the ancient, creaking elevator to the fourth floor, where she knocked on the door to 4B. “Coming!” cried a female voice from within. Seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a thirty-something woman, so petite that Abigail might have mistaken her for a kid if not for her spiky hair that stood up like the feathers on a baby duck—platinum blond with crimson tips—and her green eyes that, in contrast, appeared world-weary. Eyes that looked Abigail up and down, taking in her sheared mink coat and Christian Louboutin heels before instantly dismissing her as someone who had no business being there.

“What can I do for you?” she asked none too politely. Her voice was unexpectedly throaty, with a Demi Moore—like rasp.

“I'm looking for Vaughn Meriwhether,” Abigail told her.

“He expecting you?” She squinted at Abigail suspiciously, as if she already knew the answer. She couldn't have been much younger than Abigail, even if she dressed like someone closer to Phoebe's age—barefoot, with her jeans so full of holes they were like some intricate denim web and her baby-doll top made of some flimsy fabric through which her small breasts were faintly visible.

“Just tell him an old friend from Greenhaven is here to see him.” Abigail was used to being recognized by strangers when she was out and about, but clearly this woman didn't know her from Adam.

The old Armstrong charisma didn't seem to be working, either, for the woman deliberated a moment before replying, “Wait here.” She turned and padded off down the hallway, reappearing after a minute or so to usher Abigail in, somewhat grudgingly, it seemed.

Abigail stepped into a huge, light-filled space with exposed brick walls and plank flooring so marred and unevenly worn that it had to date back to the days when the building had been a factory. It was so roomy, what little furniture there was looked marooned almost, like that of someone just moving in or in the process of moving out. What saved it from looking too spare were the large, abstract sculptures positioned throughout. One in particular caught her eye, a sort of totem pole constructed out of what looked like knotted towels.

Seated on the sofa by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, an open book facedown on one knee, was a lanky, blond-haired man. A man who was a stranger to her but at the same time brought a shock of recognition.

Vaughn was so lean that he seemed stripped of all but muscle and bone. Other than that, she wouldn't have known he was ill. His blue eyes were as vivid as ever, even more so against the deeply tanned contours of his face, in which the lines carved into it formed a kind of rugged topography. Even if she hadn't known what he did for a living, she'd have pegged him as an adventurer. He had the look of someone not content to stay put for any length of time. Yet unlike his self-appointed bodyguard, he didn't appear world-weary. The lively expression he wore was that of someone, sick or not, who was deeply engaged in the business of living.

Vaughn seemed to be trying to get a fix on her as well. It wasn't until she drew nearer that he broke into a grin, leaping to his feet so abruptly that his book was knocked to the floor.

“Abby? Is that you?” He enfolded her in a quick, hard embrace—a fleeting impression of hard muscle and bone—that left her struggling to catch her breath. He stepped back to grin at her. “I can't believe it. How did you even know where to find me? Lila, right?”

Abigail nodded. “I hope you don't mind my barging in on you like this, but you never answered any of my messages.…”

She watched him glance in confusion at his friend, who gave a shrug. “I must have erased them by mistake,” she said.

Abigail had her doubts. From the possessive way Vaughn's friend was hovering at his elbow, it seemed more likely that she'd erased the messages on purpose.

Vaughn must have come to the same conclusion, for he gave his friend—or was it girlfriend?—a wry look bordering on reproach, saying, “Abigail, meet Gillian, my unofficial nurse. She insists on treating me like a dying man, even though I keep telling her I feel perfectly fine.”

“A good thing, too.” Gillian turned to Abigail, saying without a hint of apology, “If it weren't for me, he'd spend his days hanging out with his friends or roaming the streets like some nomad instead of getting the rest he needs.”

“Well, you're obviously doing a good job because he looks to be in excellent shape. But I'm sure you could use a break, so why don't you let me take over for a bit?” Abigail proposed, hoping for some time alone with Vaughn.

Gillian got the hint. She flashed Abigail a veiled look before announcing to Vaughn, “I'll be in my studio if you need me.” With that, she sauntered off, her twelve-year-old's behind twitching in her torn jeans, her shock of platinum hair bristling like the fur of a small but feisty dog whose turf was being threatened.

“Gillian's a sculptor,” Vaughn explained.

Abigail nodded, glancing around at the artwork, each piece more bizarrely arresting than the next. “So how do you two know each other?” she asked.

“We used to date,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “A long time ago. We're just friends now.” Something told her he'd been the one to break it off.

Typical of a man
, Abigail thought. They always imagined it was a mutual decision when they ended a relationship, and that as long as the woman didn't cry or make a scene, there was no reason they couldn't remain friends. But from what Abigail had seen, it was a moot point whether or not he and Gillian were sleeping together. She was obviously still in love with him.

The thought brought a small dart of jealousy. Though why she should feel even remotely jealous of Gillian was beyond her. It wasn't as though she and Vaughn were or had ever been romantically involved, not counting that one night out at the quarry, which over time had come to seem more like something she'd dreamed.

“Do you plan on staying here for the time being, or will you be getting your own place?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I haven't made any long-range plans. My life isn't my own at the moment—it's in my doctor's hands.” He made a face. “Don't get me wrong, I trust the guy. But it's a weird feeling, I can tell you. Like being a little kid again, having your parents deciding everything for you.”

“How's that going?” She was fearful for some reason of saying the dreaded word:
cancer
.

“Not bad. I seem to be weathering the chemo okay. I'm told it gets worse, but so far the only side effect has been some nausea. That, and I'm tired all the time, even though mostly all I do is lie around and read.” He bent to retrieve the book that had fallen onto the floor—a battered copy of Jack Kerouac's
On the Road
—and placed it on the coffee table.

“You don't look it,” she commented. “In fact, overall, I'd say you look amazingly well.”

“For someone with a life-threatening illness, you mean?” he replied with an ironic twist of his lips.

“That's not what I meant.”

“No, but it's the truth.”

“People recover from cancer all the time.”

“So I'm told.” He must have seen that he was making her uncomfortable, for he was quick to move on. “Listen, can I get you something to drink? There's coffee and tea, and some juice I think, though I'm never sure what's in the fridge. Gillian does all the shopping.”

“No, thanks. I can't stay long,” she told him.

“Well, make yourself comfortable, at least. You can stay a few minutes, can't you?” He helped her off with her coat. When she was seated on the sofa, he sank down beside her. “So, how have you been, Abby?” He looked deeply into her eyes, as if he truly wanted to know.

“Compared to what you're going through, I have no complaints.” He didn't need to know that she'd been a wreck ever since finding out about the fire in Las Cruces.

“I've known worse than this,” he said with a laugh. “Try spending two weeks in a cave, knee-deep in bat dung, with bugs crawling all over you.”

She made a face. “Is all your work that … interesting?”

“I've had my share of adventures.” His tone was that of someone for whom adventuring was second nature. “Most of what I film is wildlife, so I've been to some pretty remote places. Last year around this time, I was shooting in the Congo basin for a National Geographic special on the ivory poaching that's wiping out the elephant population there.”

“Ever been attacked by a wild animal?” She felt a low, uneasy thrill at the thought.

“I was once charged by a gorilla—an eastern lowland gorilla, to be exact.
Not
the gentle creatures of
Gorillas in the Mist
. These guys, their only experience with man is getting shot at, so they don't take kindly to anyone invading their turf. Fortunately, I knew what to do to get him to back off.”

“What was that?”

“Crouch down and act submissive.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Somehow, I can't picture you being submissive.”

He shrugged. “You do what you have to in order to survive. Though I don't know if that makes me smarter than the next guy, or if I'm just plain lucky.”

“Maybe a little of both?”

“The truth is, the threat of attack from wild animals is vastly overrated,” he went on. “You're more apt to meet your maker trying to get around in Third World countries where the roads are dicey and the native drivers even dicier. I can't tell you how many times I've seen my life flash before my eyes taking a hairpin turn on a steep mountain road. Choppers, too—it's easy to fly in too low and have the blades nearly get tangled up in a treetop.”

“Sounds risky.”

“Not as risky as run-ins with poachers. They won't hesitate to take a shot at you if they catch you sniffing around. Sometimes it's just to chase you off, but if they think you're going to end up cutting into their action, they won't think twice about putting a bullet in you.”

“Have you ever been shot at?” She leaned toward him in fascination. This was the Vaughn she remembered, only even bolder and more colorful—an
Indiana Jones
movie come to life.

In answer, Vaughn hiked his right leg up onto the coffee table and lifted the cuff of his jeans to reveal a faded purplish scar on his calf, like a small puckered mouth. “A little souvenir from an armed guerrilla in Darfur, where we were filming the migration of the wildebeest. He took a potshot at our helicopter while we were flying in low. Luckily, it was only a flesh wound or I probably would've bled to death.” He paused to shake his head, as if at the irony of it. “Funny, I always figured that when my time came, it'd be something like that—a bullet, or a plunge off a mountain road. I never imagined I'd go out with a whimper.”

“This,” she reached over to lightly brush her fingertips over the puckered scar tissue, a sensation that sent a low-voltage charge up her arm and down to the pit of her stomach, “is proof that someone up there likes you. So I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. You'll beat this, too.” She spoke with an assurance she didn't feel, and prayed that it would be true.

He sat back to regard her thoughtfully. “And you, Miss Abby. Look at you, all grown up and with everything you've ever dreamed of. I just hope it's made you happy.”

She frowned slightly. Was he mocking her? “You say that like it's all for show.”

“Not at all. I was just wondering why a woman who has the world on a string would feel she has something to prove.”

His tone seemed to carry a faint note of reproach, which instantly put her on the defensive. “What makes you say that? Was it Lila? Did she say something to you?”

“No, but since you brought it up, what's with you and my sister? Did you hire her to make a point, or is this your backassward way of burying the hatchet?” His blue eyes cut through her like a blowtorch. She saw no accusation in them, not yet, just a wish to understand. She wished she fully understood it herself so she could offer an explanation.

“No one forced her to come work for me,” she said.

“According to her, she didn't feel she had a choice. As I recall, she was pretty desperate at the time.”