Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Suzie wondered if bridesmaids could wear black—at least it would be useful afterwards.
After she had eaten, she called her mother, as she did every Friday at this time unless work prevented it. They always had a nice chat about the weekly events and this time about Terry’s wedding.
“You will be able to come to the party next week, Suzie?” her mother asked hopefully.
“I wouldn’t miss it. I even bought a new dress,” she promised. “In fact, I’m seeing Terry tomorrow, but I’ll call now and tell her.”
Terry wasn’t home, so she left a message on her machine saying she would call back later. Then she hurried into the bathroom to shower. She hadn’t noticed how the time was flying, and now she would have to rush or she would be late.
The bathroom was at the side of the house, right in his line of vision. He had the binoculars trained on the window the instant the light came on. The glass was frosted, but tonight she had opened it a crack because it was so warm, and given him an unexpected treat.
A stream of obscenities spat from his mouth as he caught a fleeting glimpse of her stripping off her clothes.
She stood there in her bra and panties, glanced doubtfully at the window, then stepped across and closed it firmly.
“Cunt,” he muttered, “bitch, whore, cunt …” The words tumbled over each other in a vicious litany of hate.
Suzie dressed quickly in her white uniform, then picked up her purse and checked for her keys, thankful they had been returned to her.
The headache was still pressing behind her eyes and she thought it was a good thing she had the weekend off. It had been a hectic few days at the hospital, and she had put in long hours—she could use the break. She planned on spending a lot of it in bed, just catching up on sleep, as well as doing some studying because she had exams very soon. She had arranged to see Terry later in the afternoon, and they would talk about weddings and dresses. And then Sunday she had a date with a young intern from Beth Israel Hospital, but he’d probably be exhausted—interns always were—so it would be another early night.
She checked her appearance in the mirror before she left: smoothing her skirt, straightening her collar, tucking back her hair. Noting the shadows under her eyes, she thought longingly of sleeping in the following day. She smiled at her reflection and told herself encouragingly, “This time tomorrow you will look like a different woman, Suzie Walker.”
She had gotten as far as the door before she remembered that she had not closed the windows, and she rushed around hastily latching them. She checked the back door while she was at it and pushed the bolt into place. Then she walked outside and locked the front door, testing it to make sure it was secure.
Her neighbor, Alec Klosowski, who worked at a bar on Newbury Street, was leaving for work at the same time. He called hello and waved. “You can never be too sure,” he said, locking his own door firmly. “There’s too many crazies around to be careless about locks.”
Suzie looked doubtfully at him. “I lost my keys the other day. I dropped them in the parking lot. They were found and handed in, but I wonder who had them that night.”
He looked seriously at her. “You should get the locks changed, Suzie. You never know.”
“I guess so.”
They waved good-bye, and she got into her little Neon and dumped her bag on the seat next to her. She edged the car out, thinking worriedly about what Alec had said. But she told herself that whoever had found the keys didn’t know they belonged to her, and besides it was so expensive to get locks changed. On her nurse’s salary she just about made it through the month—there was never anything left over for extras.
Anyhow, it was the least of her problems. She rubbed her eyes wearily as she drove off down the street. Right now she still had the headache, and she had exams coming up next month and a bridesmaid’s dress to worry about.
He watched her go, her face and her flame-red hair a quick blur as she drove too fast down the street, late as usual. He shook his head, deriding her tardiness. He was never late for anything. His daily schedule was timed as precisely as if he’d worked out every blink of it with a metronome. He could tell you exactly where he might be at any given time on any day or night. Except on nights like this, of course. These were his special nights. Other people went to the movies, he preferred reality.
He glanced at his expensive steel and gold watch. The dial had little red and blue enameled flags instead of numbers. It was the sort of trophy a rich yachtsman owned. Although he was not a sailing man, he liked to give the impression of being an outdoors, sporty person. Whenever he was asked what he was doing on a weekend, he would say casually, “Oh, I guess a little sailing out at the
Cape, if the wind’s good. Maybe some kayaking, we’ll see.”
It was all a lie, of course. The only times he went to Cape Cod were when he was hunting—selecting future media stars. He figured they should thank him for giving them a moment of glory in their otherwise mundane lives.
It was still too early for action—lights were on in other houses, and the odd person was hurrying down the street. Safe behind his dark-tinted windows, he took the silver flask of good brandy from his pocket and poured some into the little cup. He settled down to wait, sipping it thoughtfully, anticipating the pleasure to come.
A
T THE PARTY
, the last time Harry had seen Mal his uncle, Jack Jordan, had had his arm around her waist and was whispering in her ear. And Mal had been laughing. That was half an hour ago.
Jack Jordan was a notorious ladies’ man, with four marriages and a string of mistresses to prove it. He still had an eye for a pretty woman plus he was tall, silver-haired, and handsome with a little mustache, and he still had a great line in flattery, which seemed to get him everywhere.
“The old boy’s gone off with my date,” Harry complained to Miffy.
They were in the tent, checking that the arrangements were as perfect as she expected.
“Don’t worry, Harry. He’ll have to return her for dinner. She’s sitting here, next to you.” She plucked Jack’s place card and deftly switched it to a nearby table. “And now Jack is sitting next to old Biddy Belmont, who is even older than he is and deaf to boot. He’ll have to repeat every word he says twice. That’ll take the fizz out of his champagne.”
They laughed, and he gave her a hug. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pretty special woman?” he demanded, his arm still around her.
“Your father, the day he asked me to marry him. Come to think of it, I don’t remember him ever mentioning it
again after I said yes. I’m sure there’s a moral in that, somewhere,” she added vaguely.
The butler pounded on a brass gong, announcing that dinner was about to be served and guests thronged into the gorgeous tent, assailed by the scent of roses and good food.
“There you are,” Harry said as Mal appeared, her arm threaded through Uncle Jack’s.
The old boy raised a wicked eyebrow. “I was seeing that Mallory had a good time, Harry. Couldn’t let her loose in this lusty mob of Peascotts and Jordans, could I?” He patted Mal’s hand possessively, and she beamed up at him. “I hope I’m sitting next to you, my dear.”
“No, you’re not,” Harry said firmly. “You’re sitting next to Biddy Belmont.”
Jack groaned, “Your mother’s punishing me again.”
“She expects every man to do his duty. It’s her party, after all.”
“See you later, Jack,” Mal called after him, as he made his way to the neighboring table with a deep sigh of regret.
“I’m jealous,” Harry said, looking at her.
She laughed. “He looks like a central casting version of a benevolent rich uncle.”
“And I can assure you, he’s played that role with quite a succession of young ‘nieces.’”
“More power to him. He’s adorable.”
“Remember me? The guy you came in with?”
“My date, I believe.”
“Same fella.” They took their seats at the table, and he leaned across and whispered in her ear, “Besides, I missed you.”
She slid him a sideways glance, and he saw laughter in her eyes. “Never thought I’d hear you admit that, detective.”
“I’m human.”
She looked mockingly at him, then turned to her neighbor on her right. And then the caviar was served, three different kinds over lightly scrambled eggs, and the celebration dinner was under way.
Mal knew she was enjoying herself because she didn’t even think about it. She never asked herself, as she so often had at parties, “Is this really fun? What am I doing here?”
She had never been to a grand family party like this one, where everyone had known everyone else all their lives. They had seen one another through births, marriages, and deaths and shown up loyally for the funerals as well as the celebrations. They probably never even thought twice about it. In their circle it was just what you did—that was the way life was. But she would have traded all her success just to have belonged to it from birth.
She glanced at Harry, who was listening with interest to a discussion on the merits of retrievers versus pointers as gun dogs. He turned and met her eyes, then gave her an encouraging smile. “You okay?” he murmured in her ear.
“Couldn’t be better.”
He glanced at his inexpensive but practical digital watch. “The dancing should be starting soon. If you had a dance card like in the old days, I’d write my name in every one.”
“Even the waltzes?”
“You think I don’t know how to waltz?”
“It’s not exactly a required credit for a homicide cop.”
“Ah, but remember I was a legal man before that. And before that, I was an obnoxious little prep-school boy whose mother sent him to dance classes, so he could escort young ladies to cotillions.”
She shook her head, marveling. “Is there no end to your achievements?”
“It just goes on and on,” he agreed immodestly, as the music started up.
His mother took to the floor first, circling in the arms of her brother to the strains of Jerome Kern’s “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” while everyone applauded.
“It was their song,” Harry told Mal as he took her hand and led her to the floor. “Hers and Dad’s. She always dances this one first, for him.”
How lovely, Mal thought a touch enviously. And then she was in Harry’s arms, his hand was pressing firmly into the small of her back, and the other was holding her fingers, curled lightly in his. They danced silently. Her eyes were half-closed, and there was a dreamy look on her face.
“You dance well,” he whispered.
She looked at him. “I promise you I didn’t learn at prep school.”
“Where did you?”
“I took lessons. Later. I took lessons in everything.”
He said astonished. “Lessons in how to live?”
She nodded. “No one taught me the rules when I was a kid, the social niceties. I might have been brought up with wolves in the forest for all I understood.”
He held her closer—her hair tickled his nose, and he thought it was like spun golden silk. Her skin had the faint elusive scent of flowers and did wild things to his nerve endings. The tune ended, but he held on to her hand. “Care to take a stroll around the garden with me, Malone?” She nodded, and they walked hand-in-hand from the tent.
Miffy and Uncle Jack watched them go. “What do you think of her?” she asked.
“Fine young woman. Top class. You can always tell.”
“Stay away from her, you wicked old man,” she warned. “I have high hopes for her, if Harry can tear himself away from the job for more than half a minute.”
“He’ll be a fool if he doesn’t,” Jack said. “A darned fool, I’d say,” he added admiringly.
Harry led Mal through the gardens his mother cultivated
with such loving care. The trees were strung with little white lights, and pretty Chinese paper lanterns dotted the banks of the stream. As they wandered through the rose garden, Mal checked every name on the tags, even though the roses were still just buds.
“Old-fashioned roses are my favorite,” she said. “I grow some myself, on my terrace, but the wind and the pollution wreak havoc with them.”
“You must tell my mother. She’ll be thrilled to know you’re a gardener too. Among your other talents.”
The sound of the band playing “Moon River” drifted on the warm breeze. He stared at her. She was still looking at the roses, and he had a sudden overwhelming urge to take her in his arms. “Maybe it’s the romantic lighting, or maybe the music, but I was wondering whether ‘no strings’ included a kiss? Just between old friends, of course.”
She took a step closer. “Technically, we’re not old friends. And a verbal contract is binding.”
“You obviously haven’t read the small print.” He slid his hands around her waist, pulling her gently to him. “Tell me, have I kissed you before?”
Her eyes linked with his, and she felt that interesting little catch in her heart. “I believe so. A friendly kiss, naturally. Before the verbal contract and ‘no strings’ clause.”
“I think I’ve met my legal equal,” Harry murmured, bending his face to hers.
She slid her arms around his neck, wanting to be held closer, feeling the warmth of his hands on her naked back.
They heard voices over the music, coming closer, and stepped hastily apart as a group of guests wandered by. “There’s no privacy in the countryside,” Harry whispered, disgruntled. “Anyhow, this contract would never hold up in court.”
“Why not?” She could see he was smiling.
“Because I’m my father’s son, and I’d plea-bargain with you and make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Extra kisses on demand.”
She threw back her head and laughed, but he stopped her mouth with a lingering kiss that sent little silken quivers through her belly. It was just as well she was protected by the “no strings” clause, she thought, because she liked it a lot when Harry kissed her like that. But more people were coming. He took her hand, and they walked back to the house.
“I grew up in this house,” he said as they strolled through the beamed living room to the pine-paneled library. Mal looked around with interest. The shelves bulged with an ancient collection of classics and best sellers. Parchment-shaded lamps cast a pleasant glow, and comfortable sofas covered in plain yellow linen flanked the fireplace, where an enormous bouquet of garden flowers bloomed instead of a fire. A painting of a horse, a big bay mare, hung over the mantel, and other paintings, mostly of horses and dogs, were interspersed between the shelves of books.