Pretend You Don't See Her (16 page)

 
          
That’s
the kind of thinking that gets me in trouble, she reminded herself as she
reached for the long black wool skirt and evening sweater she had bought at an
end-of-season closeout sale at Saks Fifth Avenue last spring, neither of which
she’d had a chance to wear in New York.

 
          
“You
look okay, Alice,” she said aloud when she studied herself in the mirror a few
minutes later. Even on sale the skirt and sweater had been an extravagance. But
it was worth it, she decided. The effect of understated elegance gave a lift to
her spirits.

 
          
And
I certainly need a lift, Lacey thought as she fished in her jewelry box for
earrings and her grandmother’s pearls.

 
          
Promptly
at six-thirty, Tom Lynch called on the intercom from the lobby. She was waiting
with the apartment door open when he stepped out of the elevator and walked
down the hall.

 
          
The
obvious admiration in his face as he approached was flattering. “Alice, you
look lovely,” he said.

 
          
“Thanks.
You’re pretty fancy yourself. Come—”

 
          
She
never finished saying come in. The door to the elevator was opening again. Had
someone followed Tom up? Grabbing his arm, she propelled him into the apartment
and bolted the door.

 
          
“Alice,
is anything wrong?”

 
          
She
tried to laugh, but knew the effort sounded false and shrill. “I’m so foolish,”
she stammered. “There was a … a deliveryman who rang the bell a couple of hours
ago. He honestly was on the wrong floor, but my apartment was burglarized last
year … in Hartford,” she added hastily. “Then the elevator door opened again
behind you … and … and I guess I’m just still jumpy,” she finished lamely.

 
          
There
was no deliveryman, she thought. And my apartment was burglarized, but it
wasn’t in Hartford. I’m not just jumpy. I’m terrified that whenever an elevator
door opens I’ll see Caldwell standing there.

 
          
“I
can understand why you’d be nervous,” Tom
said,
his
tone serious. “I went to Amherst and used to visit friends in Hartford
occasionally. Where did you live, Alice?”

 
          
“On Lakewood Drive.”
Lacey conjured up the pictures of a
large apartment complex she had studied as part of her preparation in the safe
site, praying that Tom Lynch wouldn’t say his friends lived there too.

 
          
“Don’t
know it,” he said, slowly shaking his head. Then, as he looked around the room,
he added, “I like what you’ve done here.”

 
          
The
apartment had taken on a mellow, comfortable look, she had to admit. Lacey had
painted the walls a soft ivory and then painstakingly ragged them to give them
texture. The rug she had picked up at a garage sale was a machine-made copy of
a Chelsea carpet, and it was old enough to have acquired a soft patina. The
dark blue velvet couch and matching love seat were well worn, but still handsome
and comfortable. The coffee table, which had cost her twenty dollars, had
a scarred leather top and Regency legs
. It was a duplicate
of the one she had grown up with, and it gave her a sense of comfort. The
shelves next to the television were filled with books and knickknacks, all
things she had bought at garage sales.

 
          
Lacey
started to comment on how much she enjoyed shopping at garage sales, but
stopped herself. Most people wouldn’t be completely furnishing an apartment
with garage-sale items. No, she thought, most people who relocate move their
furniture as well. She settled for thanking Tom for his compliment and was glad
when he suggested they get started.

 
          
He’s
different tonight, she thought as an hour later they sat companionably sipping
wine and eating pizza. In the gym he had been cordial but reserved whenever
they passed each other, and she assumed it had been a last-minute impulse that
made him invite her to go with him to the opening tonight.

 
          
But
now, being with him had taken on the feeling of an enjoyable and interesting
date. For the first time since the night Isabelle died, Lacey realized, she was
actually enjoying herself. Tom Lynch responded freely to the questions she
asked him. “I was raised in North Dakota,” he said. “I told you that. But I
never lived there again after I went to college. When I graduated, I moved to
New York, fully expecting to set the broadcast industry on fire. It didn’t
happen, of course, and a very wise man told me that the best way to make it was
to start out in a smaller broadcast area, make a name for yourself there, then
gradually work your way up to larger markets. So in the last nine years I’ve
been in Des Moines, Seattle, St. Louis, and now here.”

 
          
“Always radio?”
Lacey asked.

 
          
Lynch
smiled.
“The eternal question.
Why not go for
television? I wanted to do my own thing, develop a program format,
have
the chance to see what works and what doesn’t work. I
know I’ve learned a lot, and recently I’ve had some inquiries from a good cable
station in New York, but I think it’s too soon to make that kind of move.”

 
          
“Larry
King went from radio to television,” Lacey said. “He certainly made the
transition fine.”

 
          
“Hey,
that’s me, the next Larry King.” They had shared one small pizza. Lynch eyed
the last piece then started to put it on her plate.

 
          
“You
take it,” Lacey protested.

 
          
“I
don’t really want—”

 
          
“You’re
salivating for it.”

 
          
They
laughed together and a few minutes later when they left the restaurant and
crossed the street to the theater, he put his hand under her elbow.

 
          
“You
have to be careful,” he said. “There are patches of black ice everywhere around
here.”

 
          
If
only you knew, Lacey thought. My life is a sheet of black ice.

 
          
It
was the third time she had seen a production of The King and I. The last time had
been when she was a freshman in college. That had been on Broadway, and her
father had been in the orchestra pit. Wish you were playing in this one
tonight, Jack Farrell, she thought. As the overture began, she felt tears
welling in her eyes and forced them back.

 
          
“You
okay, Alice?” Tom asked quietly.

 
          
“I’m
fine.” How did Tom sense that she was distressed?
she
wondered. Maybe he’s psychic, she thought. I hope not.

 
          
Tom’s
cousin, Kate Knowles, was playing the role of
Tuptim
,
the slave girl who tries to escape from the king’s palace. She was a good
actress with an exceptional voice. About my age, Lacey thought, maybe a little
younger. She praised her enthusiastically to Tom during intermission,
then
asked, “Will she be riding with us to the party?”

 
          
“No.
She’s going over with the cast. She’ll meet us there.”

 
          
I’ll
be lucky to get any time with her, Lacey worried.

 
          
Kate
and the other leads in the play were not the only “stars” at the party, Lacey
realized. Tom Lynch was constantly surrounded by people. She slipped away from
him to trade her wine for a Perrier, but then did not rejoin him when she saw
he was with an attractive young woman from the cast. Obviously impressed by
him, she was talking animatedly.

 
          
I
don’t blame her, Lacey thought. He’s good-looking, he’s smart, and he’s nice.
Heather Landi apparently had been attracted to him, although the second time
she wrote about him in her journal there was the suggestion that one of them
was involved with someone else.

 
          
Sipping
the Perrier, she walked over to a window. The party was in a mansion in
Wayzata, a decidedly upscale suburb twenty minutes from downtown Minneapolis.
The well-lighted property bordered on Lake Minnetonka, and standing at the
window, Lacey could see that beyond the snow-covered lawn the lake was frozen
solid.

 
          
She
realized that the real estate agent in her was absorbing the details of the
place—the fabulous location, the fine appointments in the eighty-year-old
house. There were details in the design and construction you just don’t come by
anymore—at any price—in new homes, she thought as she turned to study the
living room, where nearly one hundred people were gathered without even making
the room seem crowded.

 
          
For
a moment she thought longingly of her office in New York, of getting new
listings, matching buyer to property, the thrill of closing a sale. I want to
go home, she thought.

 
          
Wendell
Woods, the host of the party, came over to her. “It’s Miss Carroll, isn’t it?”

 
          
He
was an imposing man of about sixty with steel gray hair.

 
          
He’s
going to ask me where I’m from, Lacey thought.

 
          
He
did, and she hoped she sounded credible when she gave the well-rehearsed
version of her background in Hartford. “And now I’m settled in and ready to
start job hunting,” she told him.

 
          
“What
kind of job?” he asked.

 
          
“Well,
I don’t want to go back to work in a doctor’s office,” she said. “I’ve always
had an idea I’d like to try my hand at real estate.”

 
          
“That’s
mostly commission income, you know. Plus you’d have to learn the area,” he
said.

 
          
“I
understand that, Mr. Woods,” Lacey said. Then she smiled. “I’m a quick study.”

 
          
He’s
going to put me in touch with someone, she thought. I know he is.

 
          
Woods
took out a pen and his own business card. “Give me your phone number,” he said.
“I’m going to pass it on to one of my depositors. Millicent Royce has a small
agency in Edina; her assistant just left to have a baby. Maybe you two can get
together.”

 
          
Lacey
gladly gave the number to him. I’m being recommended by the president of a bank
and I’m supposedly new to the real estate field, she thought. If Millicent
Royce is interested in meeting me, she may not bother to check references.

 
          
When
Woods turned to speak to another guest, Lacey glanced about the room. Seeing
that Kate Knowles was momentarily alone, she quickly made her way to her. “You
were wonderful,” she said. “I’ve seen three different productions of The King
and I, and your interpretation of
Tuptim
was great.”

 
          
“I
see you two have gotten together.”

 
          
Tom
Lynch had joined them. “Alice, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I got waylaid. I
didn’t mean to leave you on your own so long.”

 
          
“Don’t
worry, it worked out fine,” she told him. You don’t know how fine, she thought.

 
          
“Tom,
I wanted a chance to visit with you,” his cousin said. “I’ve had enough of this
party. Let’s take off and have a cup of coffee somewhere.” Kate Knowles smiled
at Lacey. “Your friend was just telling me how good I was. I want to hear
more.”

 
          
Lacey
glanced at her watch. It was one-thirty. Not wanting to stay up all night, she
suggested having coffee at her place. On the drive back into Minneapolis, she
insisted that Kate sit in the front seat with Tom. She was sure they wouldn’t
stay long in the apartment, and at least they were getting some of the family
gossip out of the way.