Sleeping Alone (8 page)

“Actually John called me this morning and told me Eddie invited you.”

“I thought I was going to their house,” she said. “I never would have said yes if I’d known.”

“Now, I’m real hard to offend, honey, but you’re coming close.”

“I don’t go where I’m not wanted,” Alex said simply. “And I don’t go where I’m not invited. Eddie should have told me.”

“And he should stop wandering around town in his pajamas.” Dee shrugged. “He meant well.”

“I hope I’m not putting you out.”

“The way I look at it, you’re helping me even the odds. The testosterone level around here can get pretty overwhelming.”

She thought about the boy with John Gallagher’s eyes but said nothing. It was, after all, none of her business.

* * *

“So how’d you manage it, Johnny?” Vince Troisi tossed a peanut in his direction. “She’s in town two days, and you’ve got her coming over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said with studied blandness.

“The princess,” Vince elaborated. “Last person I thought I’d see here at Dee’s.”

“You’re giving the younger generation too damn much credit,” Eddie said, draining his bottle of beer. “I’m the one who asked Alex.”

The room erupted in laughter.

“Tell them, Johnny.” Eddie nudged his son with his foot. “You were gonna let her spend the day by herself, weren’t you?”

“Yep,” said John. A Big Mac beneath the Golden Arches was starting to sound good. “That’s exactly what I was going to do.”

“I’m telling you, youth is wasted on the young,” Davey said with a shake of his graying head. “In my day, I’d never let a pretty girl spend a holiday alone.”

“She’s not a girl,” John said before he had a chance to stop himself. “She’s a woman.”

Vince let out a long, low whistle. “So that’s how it is,” he said with a knowing wink. “Looks like Johnny’s finally found someone he likes.”

John looked over at Dee’s son Mark. “Don’t get old, kid. It rots the brain cells.”

Mark snorted with laughter. “I already figured that out.”

“What the hell’s his problem?” Vince said to Eddie. He gestured toward John. “It’s not like he’s married or anything.”

John unfolded himself from the recliner. “Don’t you bozos have anything better to do?”

“No,” said Vince. “If we didn’t have you to talk about, we’d have to start watching
Oprah
.”

Mark leaned over and gave John a conspiratorial look that would have had more impact if he were old enough to shave. “I think she’s a babe.”

“You’re all pathetic,” John said. “Why aren’t you home with your wives?”

“Because they won’t let us watch football,” Vince and Davey said in unison.

Everyone laughed but John.

“They’ll be here in time for dinner,” Rich explained, not taking his gaze away from the TV screen. “The women’s club is helping out over at St. John’s.” St. John’s was the local hospital that served Sea Gate and the adjacent town.

“Johnny’s forgotten everything he ever knew about being married,” Vince said, popping a handful of salted nuts in his mouth.

“Hell, he wasn’t married long enough to get it all figured out,” Davey said. “Takes a good twenty or—” Davey stopped mid-sentence. The rest of the men in the room were looking down at the floor. “Jesus, Johnny. I’m sorry.”

John nodded. There was nothing he could say to make Davey feel better, nothing he wanted to say. Libby and the boys had only been dead three years. Three Thanksgivings. A man couldn’t forget his family in just three Thanksgivings.

“Where you going?” Vince called out. “Dallas is about to score.”

“Let him go,” he heard Eddie say as he bolted from the room. “You goddamn fools, just let him go.”

* * *

“What an idiot,” Dee said with a groan. “I left the sweet potatoes in the trunk of the car.”

Alex placed the last biscuit on the baking sheet and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Why don’t I go out to the car and get them?”

“What about the biscuits?” Dee asked.

“Finished,” Alex said. “All you’ll have to do is pop them into the oven.” She was trying to make it clear that she wouldn’t be joining them for dinner, but Dee didn’t seem to notice.

Dee tossed another peeled shrimp onto the pile. “You twisted my arm. The car keys are hanging on the peg by the door. Go get the sweet potatoes.”

Alex slipped into her coat. “Back in a second.” She popped out the back door, then walked around the side of the house toward the driveway. Dee’s chocolate brown Toyota was parked in front of the garage door. It was old, Alex noticed, but not nearly as old as her VW. She took perverse satisfaction from that fact.

As it turned out, Dee had left not only the sweet potatoes in the trunk, but two cans of cranberry sauce and a huge turkey baster. The turkey baster had wedged itself under the spare tire, and it took Alex a minute to pry it loose.

She put the baster in the grocery bag and was about to dash back into the house when she heard a sound. She stilled her breath for a moment and listened harder. There it was again. Curious, she put the grocery bag down on top of the trunk, and looked around. A gull swooped low, then darted upward again, emitting a keening cry as it rose into the sky.

Mystery solved, she thought. Was there anything as mournful as the cry of a gull? But then her eye was drawn to the cars in the driveway, and from there to John’s truck... and from there to John. His arms were braced on the steering wheel, forehead resting against his hands. She heard the sound again, a low, guttural sound of loss that seemed to pierce her chest like a knife as she made her way down the muddy driveway.

He was a stranger, she told herself. His problems were no concern of hers. She had more than enough problems of her own to keep her occupied for a long time to come. Still she kept moving toward him. Was he crying?
Please God don’t let him be crying.
She couldn’t imagine what terrible event could bring so powerful a man to tears.

He drew his right arm across his eyes, then looked up, and she froze. For one crazy second she considered ducking behind the old blue Chevy next to her, but she couldn’t move. Not while he was looking at her like that, as if a world of understanding suddenly existed between them.

* * *

How long had she been standing there, watching him with those sad dark eyes?

She was looking at him as if she knew what he was feeling, as if she felt it herself. He knew it was impossible, that they were strangers and nothing more, but the sense of connection seemed to pulse between them just the same.

“You’re not leaving?” he asked. “You haven’t had dinner yet.”

She shook her head. “Dee left the sweet potatoes in the trunk of her car.”

“We’re lucky she didn’t leave the turkey in the trunk.”

She smiled, but the look of concern lingered. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“No problem. I came out for a smoke.”

If they gave awards for asshole remarks, he’d win hands down with that one. The family room was so smoky it looked like an opium den. You could set your lungs back five years without even lighting up. They wouldn’t have noticed if he’d smoked an entire carton inside.’

“Well, I won’t bother you,” she said, edging away. Her face was wet with rain. Droplets beaded the tips of her lashes and shimmered across her cheekbones.
Beautiful,
he thought. So goddamn beautiful she made him ache with loneliness.

“You didn’t,” he said.

Her expression grew shadowed. “Didn’t what?”

“Bother me,” he said.

“I’m glad.” She backed away. “I’d better get those sweet potatoes inside.”

“Wait,” he said, opening the truck door. “I’ll give you a hand.”

She picked up the grocery bag. “I can manage.”

“That looks heavy.”

“It isn’t.”

“I insist.” He reached for the bag, but she clutched it against her chest.

“I’m not helpless.” There was an edge to her voice, a sharpness he might not have noticed another time.

“Nobody said you were.”

“In fact, I’m a great deal more capable than you might think.”

Where the hell had that come from? “Nobody’s going to argue that, Alex. You’re the one who paid cash for your house. The rest of us have mortgages.”

She softened visibly, as if just thinking about the rundown Winslow house was enough to make her happy.

“Humor me,” he said. “Sister Mary Bernadette used to rap my knuckles if I didn’t carry Mitzy Donohue’s book bag.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

He placed a hand over his heart and stared at her in mock indignation. “Eight years at St. Aloysius leaves its mark on a man.”

“Here.” She handed him the grocery bag. “Since it means that much to you.” She smiled when she said it, and this time the smile reached her eyes.

Thanks,” he said, tucking it under his right arm. “You can relax now. You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She had the most amazing face he’d ever seen, filled with enough shadow and light to keep a man interested for the rest of his life. “I’ve been neglecting my good deeds lately.”

“And thanks for not asking.”

She inclined her head. “We’re all entitled to our secrets.”

“Yeah,” he said, thinking about Libby and the boys and how quickly your life can fade to black, “but sometimes I can’t remember why.”

“Great turkey, Dee Dee,” Rich Ippolito called from his seat at the far end of the table. “Even if you forgot to save a drumstick for me.”

“Will you look at that?” His wife, Jen, shot him a fierce look. “Seventy-two years old, and he still talks with his mouth full. Don’t they ever learn?”

“At least he keeps his teeth in.” Sally Whitton looked up from her mountain of candied sweet potatoes. “Last year’s boyfriend only popped his choppers in when he wanted to kiss me.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Sal,” Dee said as she put a big bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. That made three bowls of mashed potatoes, two of candied sweets, and more biscuits than she could count. “At least you have a boyfriend.”

“Hey, Dee.” Eddie nudged her with his elbow. “You know I’m available.”

Dee grinned and kissed him on his bald spot. “You’d be the death of me, Eddie, and we both know it.” Everyone laughed, just the way she’d meant for them to do. She’d done the right thing, not asking Sam Weitz to join them. The crowd at the table would have read more into the gesture than was actually there, and poor Sam would have faced a level of good-natured teasing that could make a grown man weep. But she missed him. That had to be a good sign.

She reclaimed her seat at the head of the table, feeling more pleased with herself than she had in ages. Every now and then she managed to get it right, and this was one of those wonderful times. The table was set with her best linen and china. Her mother’s silverware gleamed in the candlelight. The house was filled will the wonderful aromas of roasted turkey and tangy cranberries and the sounds of friendship and laughter.

“More creamed onions?” Alex Curry asked. She even managed to sound sophisticated as she passed vegetables around the table.

Dee sighed. “My stomach says yes, my hips say no.”

“Listen to your stomach. You can’t be more than a size eight.”

“God bless your failing eyesight,” Dee said. “I’m into double digits.”

Alex lowered her voice, “Your secret will die with me.”

I like you,
Dee thought as she sipped her wine. Who would have figured it? She was glad she’d forced the issue and ordered Alex to stay for dinner. When Ale had walked into the diner the other day, Dee had been ready to write her off as a rich bitch, the kind she wouldn’t give two cents for. Her mother used to say that Dee had been born with a sixth sense about people, and when she took a dislike to someone, there was a good reason.

She supposed jealousy was a pretty good reason. Alex was younger and prettier, and half the men at the dinner table were already more than a little bit in love with her, the other half were head over heels. She smiled her thanks as John refilled her wineglass.
Even you, old friend.
Oh, he thought he was being discreet, but anyone with eyes could see he was smitten with the new kid in school.

New kid in school.
When was the last time she’d heard that expression? If only things could be as simple as they had been in the old days. Back then all you needed was the right outfit and a working knowledge of teen slang, and romantic happiness was guaranteed. Nobody told you that happy endings happened only in books or that Prince Charming didn’t always live up to his press.

Of course, she probably wouldn’t have believed them if they had.

And she wouldn’t have Mark.

Her son was seated between Sally and Theresa Ippolito, Rich and Jen’s daughter. He was slumped in his chair, shoulders rounded, head bowed, the poster boy for teen angst. She actually felt sorry for the poor kid, but not sorry enough to grant him a reprieve. It was Thanksgiving, and part of the Thanksgiving ritual was making those near and dear to you totally miserable.

Besides, how many more Thanksgivings would they have together? In two years Mark would go off to college, and once he got a taste of freedom, who knew how often he’d come back home.

“Are you okay?” Alex leaned close so only Dee could hear the question.

“Just feeling old,” Dee said with a sigh. “He’s growing up, and I can’t seem to figure out a way to stop him.”

Alex looked down the table at Mark, and an odd expression drifted across her face.

“Do you have any kids?” Dee asked.

Alex shook her head. “No kids.”

Dee wanted to ask if she’d ever been married, but woman’s intuition told her not to go there. Besides, all she had to do was glance at the ring finger of Alex’s left hand to know the story. That white band of skin was a dead giveaway. She’d had one of those herself thirteen years ago. “Nobody ever tells you how hard it’s going to be,” she said as much to herself as to Alex.

“Would you have believed them if they had?”

She chuckled softly. “Probably not. Back then thought I knew all the answers.” She took a sip of wine and forced a wide smile. “Maybe I didn’t know all the answers, but at least I knew what was important.”

Which was more than she could say for Mark’s father.

* * *

“Another beer?”

Brian Gallagher looked up at the bartender. “No,” he said, tossing down a ten-dollar bill. “I’m fine.” Two Coors were enough. Beer was one of those things he’d left behind when he moved to Manhattan years ago. Beer and flashy clothes and bad haircuts that marked you as Jersey Shore before you opened your mouth.

“If the Shore’s good enough for that Bruce Springsteen guy, it’s good enough for you.” His old man was New Jersey—born-and-bred and proud of it. Which was great if you were a rocker with an attitude and a truck-load of black leather, but it wouldn’t wash in the world Brian was part of, the homogenized world of old money and WASP connections where kids were enrolled at tony preschools in utero. Over the years he’d managed to air-brush away the crucifixes and rosary beads dangling from the rearview mirror, the stink of fish and beer and salt air, but his past was always there in the background waiting to trip him up.

So what the hell was he doing here, not five miles from his father’s house? There was nothing for him here. His mother was dead. His brother was a loser. He was the only one in the fucking family who’d managed to make something of his life. So what if it was Thanksgiving and his wife and kids had fled to Aspen? All he had to do was get back in the Porsche and point it north, and two hours later he could be nursing a single malt Scotch while the city lights twinkled beyond his window.

But the minutes passed, and he continued to sit there in South Jersey, thinking of all the reasons why he shouldn’t bother and the one reason why he had no choice.

* * *

One of the things Alex had learned during her marriage to Griffin was that you could learn a great deal about people simply by listening. She chatted a little with Dee and John but mostly she sipped her wine and listened to the conversations as they ebbed and flowed around her. She quickly learned which of the marriages were thriving, which were on hiatus, which were nothing more than a forty-year-old habit. She also learned that Eddie was a widower, Sally had never married, and Dee had been divorced since 1984.

The one person she’d learned absolutely nothing about was John Gallagher, which was quite a feat considering the fact that he was part of every conversation at the table. She found herself studying his face and then Mark’s, trying to determine if the resemblance was only in her mind. When she first saw Mark she’d been certain that the name “Gallagher” was stamped across his forehead. Now she wasn’t so sure. Mark’s actions certainly didn’t give her anything to go on. He ignored John the same way he ignored everyone else at the table. No, she had to look elsewhere for clues.

The unmistakable affection between John and Dee might be a good place to start.

The two of them were laughing about something Eddie had said, some remark about Vince’s boat,
The Lady Gee.
Laughing together in a way that was foreign to her. She’d been married to Griffin for almost eleven years, and they’d never once laughed like that. They’d had their private jokes, same as most married couples, but they’d never been able to go any deeper. Looking back, she wasn’t sure they’d wanted to.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that John and Dee had grown up together. They’d shared the same experiences, had the same frame of reference. They spoke to each other in a verbal shorthand that seemed more intimate to Alex than a kiss or caress. The moment of understanding she’d shared with John this afternoon paled by comparison. A vivid image of Dee Murray in John Gallagher’s arms exploded behind her eyes, and she tried to blink it away. Dee’s fiery red hair... John’s brooding good looks—

If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was jealous. To her surprise, that notion held some appeal. She’d spent so much of her life swallowing her emotions in favor of maintaining the status quo that white-hot jealousy might feel good. At least then she’d know she was finally plugged into the real world.

A car roared down the quiet street, all engine and radio.

“Where’s the fire?” Eddie grumbled. “Don’t those damn kids know this is a residential neighborhood? You don’t go driving around like a bat out of hell.”

“How do you know it’s kids?” John asked, a half-smile on his face. “You had your share of speeding tickets before they took your license away.”

“Looks like he’s making a U-turn out there,” Rich said as a flash of headlights danced past the windows. The faintest hint of exhaust fumes tickled Alex’s nostrils.

“Will you listen to that engine?” Vince asked. “That ain’t your average V-6.”

Dee and John exchanged looks, and Alex watched as a deep red flush rose up the woman’s throat and stained her cheeks. A moment later the doorbell rang.

“Someone’s at the door, Dee,” Sally called from the other end of the table.

Dee frowned and caught her son’s eye. “You’re not going out with Todd Franklin, are you?”

“No way,” he said through a mouthful of candied sweet potatoes. “Todd’s a loser.”

The doorbell sounded again.

“You want me to answer it?” Sally asked. “I’m closest.”

Dee shook her head. “Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,” she said. “They’ll go away.”

It rang a third time.

“You’ve got to answer it,” John said. “There are ten cars in the driveway, Dee. It’s pretty obvious someone’s home.”

Dee didn’t say anything. She also didn’t get up from her chair.
She’s afraid of something,
Alex thought.
Or someone.

“I’ve got my hunting rifle in the car,” Vince said sotto voce.

His wife socked him in the arm. “You idiot. What good’s that going to do when—”

“Greetings, everyone.” A handsome dark-haired man strode confidently into the dining room like the baronial master in a historical romance novel. The phrase “droit du seigneur” sprang to mind. “Glad I didn’t miss dinner.”

“Brian!” Eddie leaped to his feet and embraced the newcomer. “You’re a sight for these sore eyes.”

John’s brother?

“Good to see you, Pop.” Brian Gallagher said the right thing, but Alex noticed that he didn’t return his father’s hug. He broke away from Eddie and aimed his klieg-light smile at the table. He worked the room as if he were at a Shriners convention, kissing the women, shaking hands with the men. He had something special to say to every one of them. “Look at you,” he said to Mark. “You must be pushing six-one by now.”

The boy grunted something, but Alex couldn’t make out the words. His mother, however, had no trouble.

“Mark.” Dee’s voice held a warning.

“He’s a teenager, Dee Dee,” Brian said with a false laugh. “He doesn’t want to waste time talking to us old folks.”

Dee turned toward Brian Gallagher. “You take care of your kids,” she snapped, “and I’ll take care of mine.”

Mark pushed back his chair. “I’m outta here,” he said, then took off for the front door.

“You want me to get him?” John asked. His voice was low, pitched for Dee’s ears only, but Alex’s hearing was almost as acute as her curiosity.

Dee shook her head. “Let him go. I don’t blame him. If I weren’t the adult, I’d run, too.”

Brian was either oblivious to the undercurrents at the table, or he just didn’t give a damn. He flattered Sally outrageously on her bright red hair and matching blouse, then kissed her hand. In many ways his studied charm reminded Alex of Griffin, and she found herself shrinking down into her chair, praying he’d overlook her.

“We know each other, don’t we?” He towered over her and knew how to press the advantage.

She settled her expression into studied lines of composure. “I don’t believe so,” She offered him her hand. “I’m Alex Curry.”

His grip was just shy of familiarity. “Brian Gallagher.”

“John’s brother?”

His smile widened. “Eddie’s son.”

She slid a quick glance in John’s direction. The anger in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?”

“Positive,” she said.

John stood up and faced his brother. “What are you doing here?”

“No ‘Happy Thanksgiving,’ little brother?”

He ignored the gibe. “Where are Margo and the kids?”

Brian met Alex’s eyes, and she could see the wheels turning inside his head. “Aspen,” he said, his attentions clearly divided. “With her parents.”