Getting no answer, her thoughts drifted away from her customer to her grandson, David, who would soon turn four. Handsomest kid around. She'd bought him the red pedal car he'd asked Santa for, and could hardly wait to see his face when he opened the box. David was such a joy to her. She wished Jim was here to enjoy him, but her husband had died of a sudden heart attack six years ago, and never had the chance to know his grandson. But in her heart she knew he was looking down on all of them.
She couldn't have been happier that Gloria and David were spending Christmas with her, but secretly wished Eric was with them, that they weren't going through this painful divorce. She'd like to say she didn't like Eric, never had, but it wouldn't be true. He'd been like a son to her. How could he do this? His secretary for God's sake. How cliché. Well, it happens. Gloria will just have to get on with her life. She's still young and attractive with many good years ahead of her. Someone else would come into her life. But right now she was in pain and needed all her support. In the meantime, Natalie determined that the three of them would have a good Christmas. She'd finish up this sale and get on home.
"I'm Natalie Breen, owner of Natalie's Boutique," she said, holding her finger taut on the ribbon as she knotted it, then proceeding to fashion a perfect silver bow. "If you'll give me your name and address, I'd be happy to send you notices of spec…"
At the sound of the lock clicking into place, her head shot up, her words severed. A cold draft brushed her heart as if it already knew something her brain was too frightened to take in. The man was standing at the door, his back to her.
"What are you…?" Her voice caught in her throat as slowly he turned and smiled at her.
"You wanted my name?" His voice was low and friendly, deadly.
"No, uh, it's not necess…"
"Buddy," he said. "I'm Buddy."
Thirty-Eight
When her mother didn't arrive home by eight o'clock, Gloria Breen-Clark called the store to see what was keeping her. The phone rang and rang but no one answered. Fifteen minutes later, she tried again thinking her mother might have been in the washroom when she called the first time, but there was still no answer. She was starting to worry now. Where could she be? Mom said she'd try to lock up a few minutes early so she could be home before David's bedtime.
"When's Nanna coming home, mommy?" David asked sleepily from the sofa, where Gloria had let him curl up to wait for her. "Is she coming home soon?"
"I'm sure she is, honey," Gloria answered, still staring at the phone, wondering what could be keeping her. She closed up at seven and it was only a ten minute drive. She should be here by now. She was pacing back and forth across her mother's cream-colored carpeting. She stopped and looked out the window, hoping to see the glow of headlights that would announce her arrival.
David had crawled up on the sofa earlier in front of the Christmas tree and had now fallen back to sleep. Poor David. He was trying so hard to stay awake for his Nanna. So much excitement. Right now, he looked pretty zonked out to her. Taking the multi-colored afghan off the back of the sofa, she covered him with it. Then proceeded to pace some more and gnaw on her already bitten-to-the-quick fingernails.
By eight-thirty she was in a full-blown panic and phoned the police to report her mother missing.
"Well, ma'am, if you say she closed up at seven on Christmas Eve, then I'd have to say you're jumping the gun a little." The officer at the other end of the line had a smile in his voice as he said, "It's only been an hour and a half since she locked up. She probably met some friends and went out for a little Christmas cheer. Or maybe she's doing some last minute shopping. Lots of stores are open till ten tonight."
"No, you don't understand. She wouldn't do that. I phoned her earlier and she said she was going to close up early so she could get home for David, my son. Her grandson. They're very close."
"So there you are. She's out buying something extra for David."
His patronizing tone brought a flare of frustration. She was just one more hysterical female he had to contend with in his job as an officer of the law. She tried again, forcing a calmness into her voice she didn't feel. "No, she knows we're waiting for her." She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Officer, please, you have to listen…"
"Got another phone ringing," he cut in. "Sorry, ma'am. Look, if your mom's not home in an hour give us a call back, okay? Merry Christmas now, and to David too."
She opened her mouth to argue but he had already hung up.
"Was that Nanna?" David asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
"No, sweetie. Go to sleep. I'll wake you when Nanna gets here." Gazing at her son lying there curled up in his colorful cocoon, blond head peeking out, her heart ached, knowing how hard it was on David not having his daddy around. He adored Eric.
Please God, don't let anything happen to David's Nanna. To my mother
.
"Honey, I'm going to call Mrs. Abrams to come over and keep an eye on you for a little bit. Nanna's car might have broken down."
Mrs. Abrams was a widowed neighbor and a good friend of her mother's. She dialed the number and five minutes later Mrs. Abrams, a woman of ample girth and a cheery face was ringing the doorbell.
"I won't be long," Gloria told her, already into her coat and scarf. "An hour at most. I'm sorry for bothering you on Christmas Eve, but I'm worried. Her car might have broken down," she repeated for Mrs. Abrams, and prayed that's all it was.
"No problem at all, dear. I'm a little concerned myself. She sure wouldn't miss Christmas eve with her favorite boy if she had anything to say about it." Mrs. Abrams turned a smile in David's direction. He was awake again, and she tousled his hair playfully. "Bet you can't wait for Santa to get here, eh, David? Were you a good boy all year?"
"Hi, Mrs. Abrams," he said shyly. "I was good." Then, "Mom, is Nanna lost?"
"No, honey. Well, maybe."
The phone rang and Gloria snapped up the receiver. "Mom?"
"It's me, Gloria. Eric." The sound of her soon-to-be ex-husband's voice brought a rush of longing, of pain, of anger. Hearing it never failed to send a myriad of conflicting emotions through her. Most of all hurt, that after ten years of marriage he'd stopped loving her. Had found someone younger, prettier, and sexier. More interesting. Eric was a lawyer, Leslie his secretary. But for once, she was more focused on her mother's whereabouts than on her shattered marriage.
"Eric, Hi. Mom's not home yet. I thought it was her on the phone."
"Oh. Well…Gloria. I know it's past his bedtime but I, uh, wondered if I might talk to David, wish him a Merry Christmas. Uh, Merry Christmas to you too. And your mom. I have some gifts for David. I'll drop them off in the morning, if that's okay. Am I calling at a bad time? Is he asleep?" She heard the guilt in his voice, and thought with a flare of anger, Good, you bastard, you should feel guilty.
"Dad?" Behind her, David stood in his pajamas, barefoot, eyes wide with excitement.
"Yes, it's your dad, Sweetie." The anger died. "Of course it's okay, Eric. David's right here. One sec."
Leaving a happily distracted David talking on the phone to his father, she rushed out into the night to look for her mother, Mrs. Abrams' words ringing like a death knoll in her mind: 'She wouldn't miss Christmas Eve with her favorite boy if she had anything to say about it'.
If
she had anything to say about it.
Thirty-Nine
Caroline sipped from her second glass of red wine and smiled at the man who sat across from her. She had little experience with wine, but this one tasted very nice to her. Neither too sweet nor too dry, and tingled on her lips.
"Thank you for bringing me here. Natalie Breen said you might bring me to a piano bar."
"Natalie…?"
"She owns Natalie's Boutique. She's a very nice lady. I brought this dress there. Do you like it?"
"I do. Very much. You look amazing, Caroline." He smiled and sipped his wine.
"Thank you." She paused. "I shouldn't have asked that, should I? It was inappropriate. Are you laughing at me?"
His expression turned serious and he set the glass down, laid a hand over hers, his touch warm as the candle-flame reflected in his amber eyes.
"Please, don't ever think that, Caroline. I would never laugh at you. Never. I love your frankness, your honesty. There's nothing coy about you. So many women play games; you're just never sure what's true. Meeting you, well, it's the best Christmas present I could ask for."
When she opened the door to his light rap tonight, she'd been ready with her coat on, and then fretted she might seem too eager. He was late, but only by a few minutes. He had said she looked lovely. But he hadn't seen the dress yet. So maybe it was okay to ask.
The little bar was nice, softly lit, a chimneyed red candle on every table. A big Christmas tree glittered in the corner of the room. It was so cozy here.
The elderly piano player, with his cottony white hair and shiny blue dinner jacket was up on the dais, playing Christmas carols, one following the other, all her favorites. He had nodded at Jeffrey when they walked in. Jeffrey gave him a small salute and a smile. So they knew each other.
Sitting at their table, the flickering candle cast shadows over the planes of Jeffrey's face and she thought how handsome he looked in a soft blue sweater and gray slacks.
There were only a few other couples in the room. Most people would be at home with their families on Christmas Eve, but she was happy to be here with Jeffrey.
"Did you grow up in St. Simeon?" he asked her.
She told him she did, that they'd lived on Gleneton Street, near the bay. "What about you?" she asked, eager to turn the conversation away from herself. "Were you born here?"
Three women came in just then, middle-aged, nicely dressed in their holiday finery, smelling of expensive perfume and the cold night air. They sat at a table across from them, talking, laughing merrily. A waitress came and took their order. Martinis, she guessed from the shapes of the glasses, which she'd seen on one of the soaps, and the olives that floated near the bottoms.
"No, we moved here when I was twelve," Jeffrey said. "I'm an army brat. My dad was in the service and we moved around a lot. But you're deliberately changing the subject," he said, grinning in mock chastisement, and poured more of the wine into her glass, then into his own. "I know a little about your past, where you've been, so you mustn't feel uncomfortable about it."
"Oh. Mrs. Bannister."
"She's a good person, our landlady, but she does like to talk. Not that it matters. My mother suffers from depression. She's been on antidepressant pills ever since my dad died seven years ago. Christmas is especially tough on her. I try to be there, as much as I can. It's why I was a little late tonight. I was on the phone with her."
She wished he didn't know about her being at Bayshore, but then supposed he'd have to know sooner or later. You couldn't keep something like that a secret, even without Mrs. Bannister. She was glad it hadn't changed his mind about her.
"Christmas wasn't always the best time of year at the hospital either," she confided. "Not for many of them. But let's not talk about that now."
"Of course. I'm sorry."
She fell silent for a moment, then looked into his eyes, solemn. "It's okay. I don't know how much Mrs. Bannister told you, but I've been in Bayshore for the last nine years. I wouldn't be very good at games."
It seemed important to get that out, to say the words aloud, and dispense with the matter, because it had crossed her mind that he might be amusing himself with her. She hoped that wasn't so.
The silence between them seemed to go on forever. Then he said, "She didn't say how long you were in the hospital. Nine years. Did you kill someone?"
He'd spoken in such earnestness, she had to smile. She told him what she had told Mr. Goldman. "No. I didn't kill anyone."
"Oh, good. Well, I'm not good at games either. I hope we'll be good friends, Caroline. Very good friends."
She stared into her wine as if looking into a crystal ball and hoping to see her future there. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the way he was looking at her or from the effects of the wine, she wasn't sure. To break the tension of the moment, she asked him if he enjoyed teaching piano, and he talked about that for a few minutes, the mood lightening.
"The most rewarding thing is not necessarily that you've discovered the next Floyd Cramer," he said, warming to his subject, "but that your student has mastered some difficulty he or she has been struggling with. Taking pleasure in their own musical expression. Maybe just learning to play a piece all the way through and feeling good about it. That's the best."
She liked him. Liked the way he cared about his students." It's really nice here. I'm glad you asked me—to come out with you."