Kiss Her Goodbye (25 page)

“Are you sure you're all right, Stella?” Sissy asks, watching her anxiously.

“I'm fine,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and stalking toward the master bedroom.

 

 

“Oh my God.” Erin gasps, staring at Jen in disbelief. “Your father's dead? But how—when . . . ?”

“Not
him.
My
real
father.”

“What?”

Reluctantly, Jen spills the whole tragic tale, with Erin hanging on her every word. By the time she reaches the part where she found out Quint Matteson died a few months ago of a drug overdose, Erin has wrapped an arm around her shoulders and is patting her sympathetically.

“That's so, so awful, Jen. I'm really sorry.”

“Thanks. I just . . . I don't know what to do.”

“Well, what did your mom say when you told her?”

Jen flinches, hesitating before confessing, “I didn't tell her.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, because I promised her I wouldn't try to find him.”

For another, because telling her mother would somehow make it true.

There's a part—a tiny, ridiculously hopeful part—of Jen that refuses to accept that Quint Matteson is dead. She has no proof, only his downstairs neighbor's casual news bulletin. For all Jen knows, that girl could have been kidding around, or she could have had him mixed up with somebody else.

Okay, that might not be very likely, but there's a chance, isn't there? Especially since Jen did a search on the Internet for his obituary or a mention in the newspaper of a fatal drug overdose, and found nothing.

Which isn't proof that he's still alive . . .

But without proof, Jen can almost convince herself that he might be.

“You're not going to tell your mom about this, Erin, are you?” she asks belatedly.

After all, it's not as though they're friends, like they used to be. What would stop Erin from telling not just her mother, but the whole world, that Jen's father isn't Matt Carmody, but some druggie who OD'd?

In fact, after what Jen did to Erin, stealing Robby away, she wouldn't really blame Erin for doing something deliberately mean to get back at her.

But Erin is shaking her head. “Are you kidding? Why would I tell my mom? She'd just run and tell
your
mom.”

“So you won't tell her?”

“No way. Oh my God, my mother's the worst when it comes to gossiping. I never tell her anything anymore.”

Relieved, Jen chooses to believe her.

She even dares to think that maybe now that Robby's gone . . .

Well, maybe there's a chance she and Erin can be friends again.

Will Erin forgive her for choosing Robby over their friendship?

Only one way to find out. Jen takes a deep breath and looks her in the eye. “Hey, Erin, do you think—”

Erin speaks simultaneously. “Hey, Jen, if you're not—”

They break off, look at each other, and laugh.

“What were you going to say?” Erin asks.

“You first.”

“I was just going to say that if you're not busy tonight, I'm around. Maybe we can go to the mall for a while or something.”

“I can't,” Jen says. “I'm . . .”

Grounded, for one thing. But Erin doesn't need to know that.

“Babysitting,” Jen says instead. “I'm babysitting for the Gattinskis. But can you do me a favor and not mention that to your mother, either?”

“Yeah. Not that I would, but why not?”

“My parents don't want me babysitting anymore. You know, because . . .”

“Because Mr. Gattinski is so gross?”

“Huh?”

“Don't tell me you don't know he totally cheats on his wife?”

Jen's jaw drops. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Oh, come on, Jen. You haven't heard it?”

Actually, she has. She's heard it a few times. It isn't hard to believe, either. There's something creepy about Mr. Gattinski. Lately whenever she catches him looking at her, she feels like she wants to go change into something totally unflattering. Ugh. She dreads having him pick her up and drop her off whenever she babysits there.

Still. . . . Wow. She didn't realize that rumor was all over the neighborhood. Poor Mrs. Gattinski is so, so nice. For her sake, not wanting to fuel the rumors, Jen merely shrugs and tells Erin, “No, I never heard that. Maybe it's not true.”

Erin snorts. “Yeah, sure. You know, Jen, for all this crazy stuff you've been through lately, you're still pretty naive. But I mean that in a good way,” she adds quickly, touching Jen's hand. “Hey, want me to come over and keep you company while you're babysitting?”

“Would you really?”

“Sure. Like I said, I'm just hanging out tonight and my mother's going out. I don't really feel like being alone after this whole thing with Robby. It's kind of creeping me out.”

“Me, too.” Jen shakes her head. “I can't believe he's dead.”

“I know. Do you think he really was murdered?”

Jen tries, and fails, to imagine that. Who would want to hurt Robby? He was a dealer, yeah . . . but it's not like he was some shady character like in the movies.

“I don't know,” she tells Erin. “But I hope not. I hope it was some kind of accident.”

“Either way, he's still dead.”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other in somber silence for a minute.

Then Erin asks what time she should come over to the Gattinskis' tonight.

“Around eight. Just don't tell your mother where you're going,” Jen warns, “because my mother would kill me if she finds out I'm babysitting. I'm still grounded.”

“How are you going to go if your parents don't know about it?”

“Easy. I'll just sneak out. I'm in my room every night with the door closed anyway. They'll never know,” she assures Erin with far more confidence than she feels.

“What if they find out you're gone?”

“Whatever. I'll deal with it then. I mean, it's not like things can get much worse between me and them.”

 

 

“Stella, it's me. I'm going straight from the office to the banquet tonight. I won't be home till late. Kiss the girls for me. Bye.”

The face-off will have to wait until tomorrow, Stella concludes, pressing the erase button on the answering machine. At least that will give her a chance to figure out exactly what she wants to say, and how she wants to say it. It isn't as though she has absolute proof that he's having an affair. But considering the way the evidence keeps mounting, there's just no way that he isn't, as far as she's concerned.

Stella turns her attention away from the phone.

The master bedroom is neat as a hotel room and smells of lemon furniture polish. She glances at the clock. Does she have time to take a quick shower before she picks up the girls?

No. She barely has time to pull on a pair of jeans and run a comb through her hair. And there will be no taking a shower once the girls are home, running wild under her feet, clamoring for juice, for snacks, for attention.

Stella closes her eyes wearily, longing for a few minutes to herself, resenting the hell out of her husband. Why isn't Kurt ever here to help her?

Because he's at work. He isn't even supposed to be home at this hour of the day, remember?

Damn him. He's apparently capable of finding the time to sneak around the house during the day, when he's not supposed to be available. How ironic that he isn't ever here when she needs him, say, to tuck the girls into bed so that Stella wouldn't have to pay for a babysitter tonight?

Supposedly, he has a so-called banquet.

A banquet?

Is there really a banquet?

How tempting it is to check up on him.

Jen is coming in a few hours, so it's not like Stella can't go out. No, she's actually
supposed
to go out.

To the dance,
she reminds herself.
You're supposed to be chaperoning a dance.

But what if she forgot all about the dance, and instead went over to the restaurant where Kurt's supposed to be? Just to make sure he's really there. On business.
Alone.

If he is, he'll never even have to know she was there. She'll forget about confronting him tomorrow, and chalk up the footsteps and slamming doors—yes, and tire treads in the garage—to her own overly active imagination, and Sissy's, too.

But if Kurt isn't where he's supposed to be, with whom he's supposed to be . . .

Well, then, all bets are off, she concludes, catching sight of her grim-faced reflection and clenched fists in the mirror across the room. There's just no telling what she might do.

 

 

“Jen?” Kathleen knocks on her daughter's closed bedroom door.

No answer.

She frowns. Jen has been in here ever since this afternoon when she got home from school. Not that there's anything unusual about that. Not lately, anyway. When it's absolutely necessary for her to emerge from her room, Jen sullenly goes about her business, then retreats from view as soon as she can.

“Jen!” Kathleen knocks again, reaching for the knob.

It's already turning, though, and her daughter opens the door, scowling. “What?”

“Daddy called from work and said he's taking us all out to dinner at the Como.”

“Why?”

“Because it's Friday night and he doesn't want me to have to cook.” Kathleen peers at her daughter. Jen's eyes are red. “Jen, have you been crying?”

“No.”

She's lying. Pushing aside her worry, Kathleen reminds herself that her daughter is fourteen. When she was fourteen, she spent hours alone in her room, crying. It's hormones, along with everything else Jen has been through.

“Daddy will be home in fifteen minutes,” she tells her daughter. “Do you want to get changed before we go?”

“I thought I was grounded.”

“Well you have to eat, and since we're eating out, I'm assuming Dad wants you to go along.”

“I doubt it. And anyway, that's all right. I'll stay here.”

Kathleen frowns. The Como, which is a half hour away in Niagara Falls, is Jen's all-time favorite Italian restaurant. In fact, Kathleen suspects Matt chose that particular place for dinner out of guilt for not having made a bigger deal about Jen's birthday earlier in the week.

“I think you need to come with us, Jen.”

“I can't. Mom, I feel nauseous. I've been feeling sick all day, like I'm coming down with something. Maybe I'm getting that flu everyone's had.”

Kathleen reaches out to lay a hand against her daughter's forehead. “You do feel a little warm.”

“Yeah, my head hurts, too. I just want to go to sleep.”

“I'll stay home with you and Daddy can take the boys, then.”

“No! Mom, please don't do that. I would feel terrible if you missed dinner out, and so would everyone else. I'll be fine. I'm just going to get into bed anyway.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Take your cell phone. I'll call you if I need you.”

“I don't like the idea of leaving you here alone if you're sick.”

“You're treating me like a baby again. Please, Mom, you have to stop. You used to let me stay alone all the time when I was thirteen. Now suddenly you think I need you here to hold my hand?”

“It isn't that, Jen. It's just . . .”

Just what? The locks have been changed. And there probably isn't a safer neighborhood around.

“We'll see,” Kathleen tells her daughter. “I'll talk to Daddy when he gets home.”

“Whatever.” Jen shrugs and closes her door.

She's right,
Kathleen tells herself, retreating down the hall to change into something suitable for dinner out.
I am treating her like a baby.

Jen's been staying alone for a few years now; she's been watching her brothers and babysitting other people's kids, for heaven's sake. How can Kathleen justify the sudden need to supervise a fourteen year old to Jen or Matt or anybody else?

The pink bootee.

For all she knows, Jen wasn't even telling the truth about where it came from. Maybe she found it somewhere herself, and made up the whole story about it being a birthday present.

But where could she have found it?

And how could she have known its significance?

Round and round and round Kathleen's thoughts spin, the whole time she's changing into black jeans and a sweater, combing her hair, putting on lipstick and blusher so that she won't look quite so pale. By the time Matt pulls into the driveway, she's ready to insist on calling off the whole dinner.

She meets him down in the kitchen just as he's walking through the door, clutching a large bouquet of red, orange, and yellow dahlias.

“Hey,” he says, and pulls her close. “These are for you.”

“They are?” Matt never brings her flowers, unless it's their anniversary, or Valentine's Day . . . and sometimes, not even then. “What's the occasion?”

“No occasion.”

A thought flits into her mind—something Maeve said about how she knew Gregory was cheating when he started bringing her flowers for no reason.