You belong to me (14 page)

And that, Susan thought with a pang of bitterness, was the beginning of the end for Jack and me. Could history be repeating itself? she wondered.

41

Tiffany had not slept well. She had been too excited about the prospect of sending a message to her ex-boyfriend through the Ask Dr. Susan program. At eight o'clock on Wednesday morning, she finally sat up in bed and plumped the pillows behind her.

"Dr. Susan," she said aloud, rehearsing the call she would make, "I've really missed my boyfriend, Matt. That's why I was so mean when I talked about the ring yesterday. But I've been thinking about it, and, I'm sorry, I can't send the ring to you after all. The truth is, I really love it, because it reminds me of him."

She hoped Dr. Susan wouldn't be mad at her for changing her mind.

Tiffany held up her left hand and looked wistfully at the turquoise band that was now on her ring finger. She sighed. When you think about it, she decided, the ring actually hadn't brought her any luck at all. Matt had started worrying immediately about how much she had made of the inscription, "You belong to me." That had led to the fight that broke them up only a couple of days later.

I did tease him about it a lot, Tiffany recalled, with a rare flash of insight, but we did have fun together. Maybe he'll remember that and want to get back together if he hears about my mentioning him on the program.

She began to rethink what she would say to Dr. Susan, revising her comments to put more about Matt in them. "Dr. Susan, I want to apologize for what I said yesterday and explain why I can't send the ring to you like I said I would. My ex-boyfriend, Matt, gave it to me as a souvenir of the nice day we had together in Manhattan. We'd just had a wonderful lunch in a sushi bar."

Tiffany shuddered at the memory of the slimy fish that he had eaten; she had insisted that hers be cooked.

"Then we went to a wonderful foreign movie-"

Boring, Tiffany thought, remembering the way she had tried not to squirm too much during the endless scenes where people did nothing, and then, when they finally said something, she couldn't watch them because she was so busy trying to read the stupid subtitles. Dumb movie.

But it had been in the theater when Matt had linked his fingers in hers, and his lips had brushed her ear, and he had whispered, "Isn't this great?"

"Anyhow, Dr. Susan, the ring may be just a little souvenir, but it reminds me of all the fun Matt and I had together. And not just that day, but all the others too."

Tiffany got out of bed and reluctantly began to do some sit-ups. That was something else she had to do something about. She had put on a few pounds in the last year. Now she wanted to get rid of them, just in case Matt phoned and asked her out.

By the time she had completed what seemed to her like her hundredth sit-up, Tiffany had mentally polished her speech to Dr. Susan and was very pleased with it She had decided to add one more thing. She was going to say that she worked as a waitress at The Grotto in Yonkers. Tony Sepeddi, her boss, would love it

And if Matt gets word that I'm holding on to the ring because I see it as a cute souvenir of our relationship, and if he thinks about the good times we had together, then he's bound to decide to give us another try, Tiffany thought happily. It was just as her mother always had told her: "Tiffany, follow and they flee. Flee and they follow."

42

The tension at the architectural firm of Benner, Pierce and Wells, located on East Fifty-eighth Street, was the kind that you could actually feel, Susan thought as she stood in the paneled entrance area and waited while a nervous young receptionist, whose nameplate read BARBARA GINGRAS, hesitantly informed Justin Wells of her presence.

She was not surprised when the young woman said, "Dr. Susan, I mean Dr. Chandler, Mr. Wells wasn't expecting you and can't see you now, I'm afraid."

Realizing the girl had recognized her name from the radio program, Susan decided to take a chance: "Mr. Wells phoned my producer and asked for a copy of Monday's Ask Dr. Susan program. I really just wanted to give it to him personally, Barbara."

"So he did believe me?" Barbara Gingras said, beaming. "I told him that Carolyn-that's his wife-had phoned you Monday. I always try to catch your program and was listening when she called in. I know her voice, for heaven's sake. But Mr. Wells acted real annoyed when I told him about it, so I didn't say another word. Then his wife was in an awful accident, so the poor guy's been too upset for me to even have a chance to talk to him."

"I understand that," Susan said. She already had the tape ready to play Monday call from "Karen." Turning the cassette player on, she placed it on the receptionist's desk. "Barbara, could you please listen for just a moment"

She kept the volume low as the troubled voice of the woman who had called herself Karen began to play.

As Susan watched, the receptionist bobbed her head excitedly. "Sure, that's Carolyn Wells," she confirmed. "And even what she's talking about makes sense. I started work here just about the time she and Mr. Wells were separated. I remember, because he was a basket case. Then, when he made up with her, it was like day and night You never saw a guy so happy. Clearly he's crazy about her. Now, since the accident, he's been a basket case again. I heard him tell one of his partners that the doctor told him that her condition wasn't likely to change for a while, and they didn't want him getting sick too."

The outer door opened, and two men entered. They looked at Susan curiously as they passed the reception area. Barbara Gingras seemed suddenly nervous. "Dr. Susan, I'd better not talk to you anymore. Those are my other two bosses, and I don't want to get into trouble. And if Mr. Wells comes out and catches us talking, he might get mad at me."

"I understand." Susan put away the tape recorder. Her suspicions had been confirmed; now she needed to figure out what to do next. "Just one more thing, Barbara. The Wellses have a friend named Pamela. Have you ever met her?"

Barbara frowned in concentration; then her face cleared. "Oh, you mean Dr. Pamela Hastings. She teaches at Columbia. She and Mrs. Wells are great buddies. I know she's been at the hospital a lot with Mr. Wells."

Now Susan had learned everything she needed to know. "Thank you, Barbara."

"I really enjoy your program, Dr. Susan." Susan smiled. "That's very nice of you." She waved and opened the door to the corridor. There she immediately pulled out her cellular phone and dialed information. "Columbia University, general directory, please," she said.

43

At precisely nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, Dr. Donald Richards had appeared at the reception desk on the fifteenth floor of 1440 Broadway. "I was a guest on the Ask Dr. Susan program yesterday and Monday," he explained to the sleepy-looking woman seated at the desk. "I asked to have tapes made of the programs, but then I left without getting them. I wonder if Mr. Geany is in yet?"

"I think I saw him," the receptionist replied. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Jed, Susan's guest from yesterday is here." She looked up at Dr. Richards. "What did you say your name was?" I didn't, Don thought. "Donald Richards." The receptionist muttered the name into the phone, then added that he said he had forgotten some tapes he asked for yesterday. After listening a moment, she snapped the receiver back on the hook. "He'll be right out. Take a seat."

I wonder which charm school she went to, Richards thought as he selected a chair near a coffee table on which lay copies of the morning newspapers.

Jed came out a moment later, a package in his hand. "Sorry I forgot to remind you yesterday, Doc. I was just about to send these down to the mailroom. At least you still want them and didn't change your mind like what's his name."

"Justin Wells?" Richards responded.

"Exactly. But he's going to get a surprise; he's getting what he asked for anyway. Susan is dropping the tape from Monday show at his office this morning."

Interesting, Richards thought, very interesting. It can't be too often that the host of a popular radio show plays errand girl, he mused. After thanking Jed Geany, he put the small package in his briefcase, and fifteen minutes later was getting out of a cab at the garage around the corner from his apartment.

Donald Richards was driving north on the Palisades Parkway, toward Bear Mountain. He turned on the radio and tuned in Ask Dr. Susan. It was a program he had no intention of missing.

When he reached his destination, he remained in his car until the program was over. Then he sat quietly for several minutes longer before getting out of the car and opening the trunk. He took a narrow box from inside and walked to the water's edge.

The mountain air was cold and still. The lake surface shimmered under the autumn sun, but even so, there were dark areas that hinted at the water's depth. The trees surrounding the lake had begun to change color and were far more vivid in their yellow and orange and cardinal red shades than the ones he had seen in the city and suburbs closer in.

For a long time he sat on the ground at the lakeside, his hands clasped over his knees. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he ignored them. Finally he opened the box and removed the dewy fresh, long-stemmed roses that were nestled inside. One by one, he tossed them on the water, until all two dozen were floating there, undulating and separating as the slight breeze touched them.

"Good-bye, Kathryn." He spoke aloud, his tone somber; then he turned and went back to the car.

An hour later he was at the gatehouse at Tuxedo Park, the luxurious mountain hamlet that had at one time been the summer vacation retreat of New York City's very rich and very social. Now many, like his mother, Elizabeth Richards, were year-round residents. The security guard waved him by. "Good to see you, Dr. Richards," he shouted.

He found his mother in her studio. At age sixty she had taken up painting, and in twelve years of serious application, her natural talent had developed into a genuine gift. She was seated at the easel, her back to him, every inch of her slight, slender body totally absorbed in her work. A shimmering evening gown was hanging next to the canvas.

"Mother."

He could see her begin to smile even before she had turned fully to face him. "Donald, I was beginning to give up on you," she said.

A momentary flashback hit him, the memory of a game they had played in his childhood. Coming home from school to his family's penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, knowing that his mother probably would be in her study on the northeast corner, rushing to it, deliberately making noise as he clattered on the wooden floor that bordered the carpet, calling out to her-"Mother, Mother"-because even as a child he loved the sound of the word, wanted to hear her voice as she replied, "Is that Donald Wallace Richards, the nicest little boy in Manhattan?"

Today she rose and came to him, her arms extended, but instead of an embrace, she grazed his shoulders with her fingertips and then brushed his cheek with her lips. "I don't want to get paint on you," she said, stepping back and looking her son full in the face. "I was just beginning to worry that you might not be able to make it."

"You know I would have called." He realized he sounded curt, but his mother didn't seem to notice. He had no intention of telling her where he had spent the last few hours.

"So what do you think of the latest effort?" Her arm linked in his, she brought him over to the canvas. "Do you approve?"

He recognized the subject-the wife of the current governor. "The First Lady of New York! I'm impressed. The name Elizabeth Wallace Richards on a portrait is getting to be hot stuff."

His mother touched the sleeve of the dress that hung next to the canvas. "That's her inaugural ball gown. It's lovely, but dear God, I'm going blind painting all that intricate beading."

Still arm in arm, they walked down the wide staircase and through the foyer to the family dining room, which overlooked the patio and gardens.

"I really think the old-timers knew what they were doing when they closed these places on Labor Day," Elizabeth Richards observed. "Do you know we had a flurry of snow the other night, and here it is only October?"

"There's an obvious solution to that," Don said dryly as he held the chair for her.

She shrugged. "Don't try being a psychiatrist with me. Sure I miss the apartment-and the city-sometimes, but staying here is the reason I'm getting so much work done. I hope you're hungry."

"Not really," he said with some hesitation.

"Well, you'd better pick up that knife and fork. As usual, Carmen has been fussing for you."

Whenever he visited Tuxedo Park, his mother's housekeeper always outdid herself to prepare one of his favorite meals. Today it was her special chili, made hot and spicy. While his mother nibbled on chicken salad, Don ate enthusiastically. When Carmen refilled his water glass, he sensed that she was observing him, anticipating a reaction.

"It's great," he pronounced. "Rena is a terrific cook, but your chili is unique."

Carmen, a thinner version of her sister, his own housekeeper, beamed. "Dr. Donald, I know my sister takes good care of you in the city, but I tell you, I taught her to cook, and she's not up to me yet"

"Well, she's getting close," Don warned, remembering that Carmen and Rena were in constant touch. The last thing he needed was for Rena's feelings to be hurt because Carmen repeated some compliment he had given her. He decided to get off that subject fast. "All right, Carmen, now what kind of report has Rena been giving you about me?"

"I'll answer that," his mother said. "She says you're working too hard, which is the usual. That you looked dead tired when you came back from doing publicity for your book last week, and that you seem worried about something."

Don had not expected the last comment. "Worried? Not really. Sure, I have things on my mind. I've got some very troubled patients. But I don't know any living person who doesn't have some concerns."

Elizabeth Richards shrugged. "Let's not fret over semantics. Where were you this morning?"

"I had to go by a radio studio," Don hedged.