Live to Tell (6 page)

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Garvey studiously keeps his gaze fastened on her lashless eyes beneath a brow-less forehead, fighting the urge to look beyond her toward the closed businesses lining Main Street. Amid plate-glass windows covered with brown paper and “For Lease” signs, all that remains open are an OTB, a rent-to-own center, a tanning salon, and a chicken wing joint.

There are plenty of problems in Barbara Ann’s world these days. Of that, Garvey Quinn is certain.

But there are problems in his own world as well—including a potential crisis that churns his stomach if he allows himself to consider it.

“That’s why we need you to win this nomination.” Barbara Ann squeezes his hand harder. “You have good old-fashioned values and you stand behind your word. You care about the people. You care about our health. Really, that’s what caught my eye when I was reading about your campaign. Your interest in health care issues.”

Ah, health care.

Yes, he’s interested.

“You and I are cut from the same cloth. I may have cancer, but I’m a churchgoing woman, Congressman. I don’t believe stem cell research is the answer and I’m glad you don’t, either.”

Garvey shakes his head thoughtfully. “Let’s just hope things go our way in the primaries next month, Barbara Ann.”

“They will if I have anything to say about it.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the support.”

“You’re welcome. And if there’s anything you can do to get the press or the government to look into what’s going on here…”

He nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” She sighs heavily. “I’m just so afraid I won’t live to tell what I know about that chemical waste dump.”

Her words strike a chord with him.

Somewhere, someone is probably hoping that you won’t, Barbara Ann.

But who knows if that’s true in her case?

Just because it’s true in his own…

He needs to get his hands on that file before the truth comes out and ruins him.

“It was very good to meet you, Barbara Ann,” he says, with practiced patience, as if he has all the time in the world for her. For anything.

“You too, Congressman.” At last, she loosens her grip on his hand. “And thank you. God will bless you for what you do.”

Let’s hope so
, he thinks grimly.

But at this point, Garvey Quinn needs more than blessings.

“One more stop,” a campaign assistant tells him as they stride toward the waiting black sedan. “On the way, we need to go over the speech for—”

“Would you give me a minute, please?” BlackBerry in hand, Garvey scrolls through his new text messages.

The first is from Caroline.

Daddy. I miss u. When r u coming home?

He smiles briefly, then scrolls past it and one from Annie, not bothering to read that just yet.

Ah, there it is.

All good. Expect news tonight.

With a crisp nod of satisfaction, Garvey deletes the text, then tucks his BlackBerry back into his pocket.

Tonight.

He just hopes it’s not too late to keep the file from falling into the wrong hands and jeopardizing everything he’s ever worked for, wants…
deserves
.

“That reminds me—the lawn needs cutting,” Elsa tells Brett across the table for two at the Bayview Chowder House. They meet here every Friday night: same time, same table, same servers, same crowd, same menu, same wardrobe, even: a polo shirt and chinos for him, a summer dress for Elsa.

Funny that a woman who once considered herself an adventurer could take such comfort in predictability.

Brett looks up inquisitively from the crab claw he was about to tackle. “We were talking about whether we’ll get home in time to catch the beginning of the Yankees–Red Sox game. How does that remind you that the lawn needs cutting?”

She backtracks through her thought process—which, as usual, was partly on the conversation, and partly on Jeremy, who is perpetually alive in the back of her mind.

Now isn’t a good time to bring up their lost son.

Is there ever a good time?

Not as far as Brett is concerned. It isn’t that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he doesn’t like to dwell on their tragic past—not, she suspects, as much for his own peace of mind as for Elsa’s. Ever protective of her, Brett treads warily around the topic of Jeremy, and only when forced.

“I don’t know what made me think of it,” she tells her husband with a shrug. “It just popped into my head.”

Brett shrugs, too. “I’ll get to it over the weekend.”

She nods, but she doubts he will. Mowing the lawn isn’t his thing—part of the reason he wasn’t crazy about buying a house when they moved back to Connecticut.

Until now, they’ve always lived in rentals. Someone else took care of the maintenance, inside and out.

Brett is ready to put down roots here, but not literally. He wants nothing to do with yard or garden tending at this stage in their lives.

But Elsa really, really wanted a house. A real house—not a condo or an apartment.

She wasn’t sure why, at the time. But Joan, the new therapist, has since helped her figure it out.

“Somewhere in the back of your mind, Elsa, do you feel the need to maintain your lifestyle the same as it was when Jeremy lived with you? Just in case?”

She could only nod.

“Yet you’ve said you have a strong feeling that your son is gone forever.”

“I… I guess I just can’t let myself completely give up hope. Even if there’s one chance in a billion that I’m wrong, that he’s alive and might find his way back to us again…”

“But if that were the case, Elsa, you must be aware that Jeremy’s no longer a little boy,” Joan pointed out gently. “He’s old enough to live on his own. He wouldn’t need to have a room in your house, or a yard to play in…”

Elsa nodded. She got it. Really, she did.

But a mother doesn’t give up, no matter what she senses in her heart.

So now they own a circa 1950 ranch with a perpetually overgrown lawn. It’s less than a mile from the golf course—a huge selling point for Brett, whose handsome face is ruddy, tonight, from playing eighteen holes before meeting her here for dinner.

Ordinarily, he’d have waited until Saturday morning to hit the links, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. And God forbid he begin a summer weekend without golf.

There had been a time, Elsa recalls, when he’d wanted Jeremy to learn, too. Brett used to fantasize about the father-son rounds they’d play in years to come. He even signed him up for junior lessons at the club when Jeremy was old enough, with encouragement from Elsa and whatever doctor they were seeing at the time.

It seemed like such a good idea to everyone, until…

Remembering the incident that had put an end to that venture, Elsa toys with her fork, poking at the wedge of salmon on her plate.

I should have known that wouldn’t work out. Maybe I did know. But it was so nice to see Brett enthusiastic about spending time with Jeremy…

Across the table, her husband crushes a crab knuckle with a crustacean mallet.

Jeremy…the golf club…those horrible screams…

Elsa sets down her fork, her stomach churning with the memory.

“What’s wrong?” Brett asks, but she can’t bear to meet his eyes.

He remembers that day, too, she knows, though they haven’t spoken of it since Jeremy disappeared.

The last straw
, Brett had said at the time. But of course, it wasn’t.

“Elsa?”

She forces herself to look up. “The…the salmon. It’s overcooked, I think.”

“Send it back.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Want some of this crab?”

“No, thanks,” she says, and tries not to wince as he brings down the mallet with another sickening crunch.

“Long walks on the beach.”

Nick glances up at Beth, who stands by the king-size bed holding a pair of flip-flops. “What?”

“Long walks on the beach,” she repeats, a smile playing at her lips as she tucks the flip-flops into her open suitcase. “That’s what people say in all those personal ads—people who are looking for love.”

“Oh. Right.”

But he’s not following her train of thought.

A moment ago, they were surveying the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and discussing whether to throw a couple of loads into the washer, or just pack their bags with dirty clothes for the trip home tomorrow.

Now, out of nowhere, Beth has shifted to walks on the beach and personal ads. She has a habit of doing that—jumping from one topic to another—and he has a devil of a time keeping up.

With Lauren, Nick always pretty much knew what she was talking about—sometimes, even what she was going to say before she said it—and why. After all those years together, you learn to read a person.

That’s not necessarily a good thing. Or a bad thing.

It is what it is
, as Beth would say. She’s fond of little catchphrases like that.

“I just think it’s interesting”—she stoops to pick up a damp beach towel—“that some people go to such lengths to find the perfect partner, and other people who are perfect for each other just kind of stumble across each other. Like we did. Is this yours, or did it come with the house?”

He blinks.

Oh, the towel.

He peers at it. “I’m not sure. Just leave it here.”

She nods agreeably and tosses it aside.

Lauren would have asked him how he could not be sure whether something belongs to him, and how he could so carelessly discard something that might be his without at least taking a closer look.

But then, Lauren would know whether the towel was his or not, because she always keeps—
kept
—track of things like that.

Not just household items, but his clothes, too. With his wife—
ex-wife
—around, he never would have managed to show up at a beach house for a week with only one pair of swim trunks because he had no idea what he’d done with the others and didn’t have time to hunt them down. Lauren would have packed his bag along with hers and the kids’, a few days in advance, the way she always did when they were going somewhere.

Sometimes, he misses that.

Misses
her
.

Sometimes.

But there’s Beth, self-assured and sexy in a short, flirty coral-colored sundress and a beaded ankle bracelet, bare skin golden brown from their week at the beach, blond hair long and loose. Even her feet are pretty—tanned, toenails polished to match the dress.

He can’t help but compare her to Lauren, the sunscreen queen, who freaked out a few years ago when the doctor removed a tiny precancerous speck from her shoulder. It wasn’t even the dangerous kind of skin cancer, but she’s doused herself and the kids in sunblock ever since.

“We can take another long walk on the beach tonight,” Beth tells him, “and maybe one more in the morning, before the ferry.”

“That would have to be pretty early. We’re a long way from the dock and we’re on the 6:30 ferry.”

Beth sighs. “I don’t want to go back to the real world. I don’t want to get back out there with my résumé. Nobody’s even thinking about hiring until September.”

She was, until she got laid off last spring, a graphic designer at a prominent fashion magazine. That drew him to her—the blend of corporate and creative. She would ride the train in suits and heels that were sexy yet businesslike, not easy to pull off. He noticed her long before they ever met; admired her looks in a detached, married-man sort of way. It never occurred to him that he could have her, that he even wanted her. Not until that restless, magical December night, when out of nowhere, forbidden need came roaring to the surface.

Had he even realized, before then, that he was frustrated or unsatisfied by his life?

Does it matter?

Once he understood that he wanted Beth, could have her—
had
to have her—there was no turning back.

Now, he puts his arms around her from behind and buries his face in her neck. She smells like shampoo and soap and suntan lotion. Not the protective, dermatologist-recommended, triple-digit-SPF kind. No, she smells like coconut oil, a scent that evokes the tropics and bikinis and wanton sex.

“I don’t want to go back, either.”

“So let’s stay.”

“Another night?” Nick lifts his head in surprise. “
Can
you?”

If she can, he can maybe call in sick to work. No, wait, they have to vacate the rental house for someone else. But maybe there’s an inn, or—

“Not another night. Forever. Let’s just run away.”

He laughs and goes back to nuzzling her neck. “I thought you were serious.”

“I was, for a split second.” She sighs and turns to face him. “Why does life have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t we have met twenty years ago, when we were free?”

“We’re free now,” he reminds her. “Your divorce is final, and mine will be—”

“We’re not really free. We have to deal with exes, and kids, and finances…”

“At our age, who doesn’t?”

But her ex is remarried and left her well-off, her kids are in college, and anyway, Beth isn’t Nick’s age—she’s older.

So much for the theory that men only leave their wives for younger women.

“Reality does bite, doesn’t it?” Beth shakes her head. “It’s a nice fantasy, though. Running away together.”

It’s what his mother had done—just took off with another man.

He never imagined in a million years that he’d be able to forgive her for that, but maybe he has, now. Maybe he’ll find her and tell her.

Maybe not.

After all, he’s done just fine without her, all these years. Was probably better off. His father did a great job raising him. His mother had never been the maternal type.

“Where would we go?” he asks Beth.

“I don’t know…the South Pacific?”

“Or Europe. Tuscany. Think of the views. And the food—organic, fresh…”

“I’ve never been, have you?”