The Consequences (19 page)

CHAPTER 33

R
obert was astonished by the number of people who turned up at the small funeral parlor near the harbor. A lot of the entertainment industry was there, familiar faces from the world of TV and movies, theater and radio. Even Angela attended, arriving on the arm of a retired game show host. She kissed Robert on both cheeks and thanked him for all that he'd done. Neither of them mentioned their last conversation when he'd called from the hospital. There was no sign of Frances.

Jimmy was laid out in his black suit, in the coffin Robert had chosen. The skin on his face had tightened, highlighting his cheek and chin bones, and he seemed almost shriveled. Robert leaned in and gently kissed his icy forehead, not caring who saw him. “Good-bye, old friend. No worries now, eh?” Then he walked away quickly, feeling the back of his throat burning fiercely. He knew if he caught anyone's eye, he was going to weep, so he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the checkerboard pattern on the floor.

Prayers in the funeral parlor were brief, and then the coffin lid was screwed down. Robert was one of the six pallbearers who carried the coffin out to the car. He knew all the others—senior figures in the Boston entertainment business, including Angela's companion—and when they stepped out into the crystalline morning air, there were a series of camera flashes as reporters and photographers grabbed interviews and images for the Sunday papers. When the back of the hearse slammed shut, he stood, suddenly unsure what to do, until Kathy caught his arm and urged him toward the car.

“Jimmy would have been pleased,” she said.

Robert tucked his Audi in behind the mourning car and the hearse and glanced in the rearview mirror. As far back as he could see, a long line of cars was strung out along Commercial Street. “He would,” he agreed.

“He knew a lot of people,” Kathy said.

“Some came up through the business with him; and there were others—like me, I suppose—who he gave a start to in the business. I suppose there'll be more at the church, and even more at the funeral on Monday.”

“I'm glad Angela came,” Kathy remarked.

“She just thanked me for taking care of things. She didn't seem too upset.” He was more than surprised—though not a little relieved—that Frances hadn't turned up with her and Jimmy's son. To the best of Robert's knowledge, Angela and Frances had never met, though they'd been featured alongside one another on TMZ often enough, and the last thing he wanted was a dramatic catfight over the coffin. Maybe that was why the photographers were there. Ironically, Jimmy, who had lived so much of his life in the public eye, had always attempted to keep his private life private. Without success.

“He knew everyone,” Robert remarked. “I'd even thought about asking him to partner with me in the business,” he added, and immediately knew that he'd made a mistake.

“Without asking me?” Kathy said, more surprised than angry.

“Well, I was going to talk to you about it first of course,” he lied.

“One of the things we need to get clear is my position in the business. I do own half of it,” she reminded him.

And I own half the house, he thought, but said nothing.

“Well, it's all academic now,” he said.

“We're going to make some changes, Robert,” she said firmly.

“Yes, we are,” Robert muttered. There was something in her tone that bothered him, though he couldn't put his finger on it.

 

Kathy nudged Robert. “Is that your phone?” Robert looked blankly at Kathy. They were slowly making their way out of the church after the brief service in which the remains were received and welcomed by a severe-looking Jesuit, an old college friend of Jimmy's. “Something's buzzing,” she insisted.

Robert patted his inside pocket and felt the vibrations through the cloth. “Oh, it's me.” Gripping his left glove between his teeth, he pulled it off, then fumbled with the buttons of his overcoat before he got to his jacket pocket and pulled out the phone . . . just as the call finished.

One Missed Call.

He hit the menu and scrolled to Records, looking for his Missed Call log: Burroughs, Stephanie.

Robert felt a pulse begin beating along his jawline. Not now; he didn't need to deal with her just now. He just needed to get through this day without any more drama.

“Who was it?” Kathy asked.

“Friend of Jimmy's,” he said quickly. “Probably asking about the arrangements for Monday.” He was slipping the phone back into his pocket when it buzzed again. Nervously, he glanced at the screen: Private Number. Moving away from Kathy and the throng, he hit the Answer button and said very softly, “Yes?”

Stephanie Burroughs's voice was icy. “Why didn't you answer my previous call?” she snapped.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “The phone was in my inside pocket, and I had to pull my gloves off to unbutton my coat. By the time I got it, you'd gone. I was just putting it back in my pocket when you called again. Sorry.” He was aware that he was babbling, and conscious too that Kathy had stopped and was looking back at him, looking vaguely annoyed that he had taken the call, even though they were now outside the body of the church and making their way around the courtyard toward the exit into the parking lot.

“Did you get my e-mail, telling you I was coming home?” He could hear background noise behind Stephanie's voice, as if she was in a car.

“No, no, I haven't checked my messages.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped.

“Honestly.” He sighed. “Things have been crazy. Look, I can't talk now. I'll call back later.”

“You'd better!”

“I'll talk to you later,” he said firmly. “I've got to go. I'm at Jimmy Moran's removal,” he said finally, desperately, as Kathy began to make her way back toward him.

“What? I can't hear you. What did you say?”

Robert's voice hardened. “I said I'm at Jimmy Moran's removal of remains. Jimmy's dead. He died on Christmas Day,” he added, just to make it absolutely clear, and then he hung up.

“Who was that?” Kathy asked.

“Someone who hadn't heard the news.”

“How did they take it?”

“I don't know,” he said truthfully. “I didn't wait for a response.”

 

It was close to noon by the time they got back to Brookline. Robert pulled into the driveway, but didn't turn off the engine.

“Aren't you coming in?”

“I want to head into the office, check up on things. Maybe do a little work, distract myself.”

Kathy looked as if she were about to respond, but instead all she said was, “You could come in and catch up on your sleep. You look like shit. You've barely eaten or slept.”

“No, let me do this. I meant to get in to the office yesterday, but events caught up with me. I'll get home as early as I can. I'm exhausted.” It was true; a combination of the emotional trauma of the last week, coupled with the physical exertions and too little sleep, had left him feeling physically ill, with every muscle aching and a solid bar of tension sitting across his shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was to face Stephanie's wrath, but it was preferable to her calling the house again or—worse still—turning up on the doorstep. “I won't be long,” he promised.

When Kathy climbed out of the car, Robert turned around and began the trip to Stephanie's condo. He cracked the window open to allow a little of the chill air to blow onto his face to keep him awake, and desperately began to rehearse the words he would use with Stephanie. All he had to do was to make her see sense, and he didn't think that was going to be too difficult.

Once they'd made some plans, it would take a little pressure off of him.

CHAPTER 34

“H
i, Stef.”

Even in his exhausted state, Robert recognized that the woman standing in the doorway before him looked stunning. She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse over black trousers with her usual discreet jewelry that he knew, from having bought some of it, was platinum. She was simply and elegantly made-up, lips bright with a shade of lipstick that he hadn't seen before, eyes sparkling.

She stepped back and allowed him into the building. He forced a smile and went through number 8, the door to her condo, and walked up the flight of stairs into her living room. Was it only three nights ago he had stood in this same room, wondering if he was going to find a body waiting for him upstairs? Only the wilting flowers were missing; the balloon still lay deflated over the back of the chair. He heard her come into the room behind him, and he turned to look at her. He saw what might have been concern dart across her face.

“It's good to see you again,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless.

Stephanie nodded. She looked cool and distant, completely confident, self-assured, and relaxed, and he found himself wondering, yet again, if she really had flown home for Christmas. She certainly showed no signs of it. “Would you like some tea or coffee or something stronger?” she asked.

“Tea would be great, thank you.”

He waited until she had disappeared into the kitchen and then took up his usual position, leaning against the entrance, arms folded across his chest. There were tiny black spots spinning before his eyes, and it took a monumental effort of will to keep his eyes open. He watched Stephanie fill the kettle with water from the Brita pitcher and slowly came to the realization that the only question she'd asked him since he had stepped into the house was what he wanted to drink.

“You got back this morning?” he said finally, when it was clear that she wasn't going to break the silence.

“A couple of hours ago,” she said shortly.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you.” He felt like he needed to justify himself, although he wasn't sure she'd believe him. “Believe it or not, I didn't check my e-mails.”

“I believe it.”

“Flight was okay?”

“Fine. I booked a last-minute ticket and came in via Detroit, so I had to stay overnight, but I checked into the Westin and treated myself to a massage so I was able to relax a bit.”

“Good. Good.”

He watched as she took out a cup for herself and a mug for him—he preferred mugs to cups—and he smiled, strangely pleased that she'd take the care to make the distinction.

“How was the removal? Were there many people there?”

“Yes. I was surprised by how many. Shocked. I think Jimmy would have been too. He made a lot of enemies over the years, but far more friends it seems. They all came out today.” His voice broke, catching him unaware, and then suddenly, surprisingly, for the first time since he had cried by his friend's hospital bed, there were tears on his face. He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and quickly patted his eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this. Then the kettle started to boil and she busied herself with that, and he was sure she wasn't aware of his breakdown.

“Tea's ready.” But when she turned to hand across the mug of tea, he saw the expression on her face—a cross between pity, embarrassment, and concern—and he knew she'd heard him cry. He was glad she hadn't discomfited him further by turning around to look at him. “I've added two sugars.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Been an intense few days; I haven't had much sleep.”

He followed her into the living room and sat down on the couch, facing her. He glanced to the opposite end of the couch; only a couple of days ago, Kathy had sat on this couch with him.

Stephanie cradled a tiny porcelain cup in the palms of her hands and sipped what he recognized from its distinctive odor as licorice tea. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

What had happened? Events had moved so quickly, he'd been acting and reacting without pausing to think, and it took him a few moments to put his thoughts in order.

“I got a call on Christmas Day . . . not long after yours,” he added, not looking at her. “Jimmy Moran had been taken to the hospital with a suspected heart attack. I immediately went in to see him. Oh, Stef, he looked terrible. . . .” He breathed deeply and took a mouthful of tea, remembering the sight of Jimmy lying in the hospital bed. “He was awake. He said that at first he was trying to make light of it, thinking it was nothing more than indigestion. He had been cooking his own Christmas dinner and had sampled the turkey. When he got the pains, he thought that maybe the bird hadn't been cooked through. It was when he felt the pain move into his left arm that he realized it was serious and dialed 911. But it was Christmas Day, and it took the ambulance forever to arrive.” He sipped a little more of the hot tea. This was the first time he had put the sequence of events into words. “They'd put him in a private room. He looked old, so old and frail . . . and the moment I saw him, I knew he wasn't going to make it. It was almost as if he'd given up. The spark had gone. Turned out he'd tried calling Angela, but she wasn't taking his calls, nor was Frances. He asked me to contact Angela. She spoke to me, but she wouldn't come in to see him. She was finished with him, she said. He'd broken her heart with his lies and his affairs, and she was afraid that this was just another one of his tricks.” He fell silent; he found it hard to forgive Angela for not coming in to see Jimmy. He knew she had any number of reasons, but she should have been there. There were tears in his eyes now, but he was unaware of them. “I called Frances,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “She wouldn't come either. They'd had a fight, and she'd thrown him out. I think she thought it was a trick too. She told me that he was incredibly manipulative, and that this was just an act to get sympathy.”

“So you stayed with him?” Stephanie asked.

“I stayed with him throughout the day and into the night until . . . until he died,” he finished simply. “He died.” There were tears on his face now, rolling down his cheeks. “He squeezed my hand and then . . .” He drew in a deep, sobbing breath. It was a moment he would carry with him to his grave. That, and Jimmy's last words:
Don't walk away from a woman who loves you
.

“I'm sorry, Robert. So sorry,” Stephanie said coolly. “I know you and Jimmy were very close.”

“He died alone, Stephanie,” Robert said very softly.

“Not alone. You were there.”

“But his wife . . . his mist . . . his girlfriend should have been there. Someone more . . . more significant than me. Someone who loved him.”

“You loved him, Robert,” Stephanie said firmly. “In the same way that he was very significant to you, then you too must have played a significant part in his life. Why else would he call you when he went into the hospital?”

Robert nodded automatically. “Yes, yes, you're right. Thank you for reminding me.” Kathy had said the same thing to him, but he hadn't believed her either. Finishing his tea in one quick swallow, he put the mug on the floor. “I'm sorry, I guess I'm all over the place. Since everything that happened here on Tuesday”—he waved his hand around the room—“then frantically looking for you, then your call on Wednesday, and then Jimmy's death, it's just been an incredibly emotional time.”

“Yes, I can see that. And Christmas is the most stressful time of the year too.”

He smiled grimly. “There were times I thought I was having a heart attack myself.” Then he pressed the palm of his right hand against his chest. “I think it was just stress.”

“You should get it checked out, just in case,” she said immediately.

“Jimmy was fifty-two—only three years older than I am.” First thing after the holiday, he was going to book an appointment with a cardiologist. Jimmy's death frightened him more than he cared to admit.

“He lived a completely different lifestyle,” Stephanie remarked.

“Not that different,” he said quickly.

“He smoked.”

“He did. And he liked rich food,” Robert added.

“And he drank,” Stephanie reminded him, “a lot more than you.”

“Yes, Jimmy did that too. I'm only sorry now that we didn't get a chance to have that meal at Top of the Hub before Christmas. We had drinks around the corner in the Union Oyster House instead—You suggested that, remember? That was the last time I saw him until . . . until I saw him in the hospital on Christmas Day.”

“At least you had the chance to see him.”

Robert nodded. “Yes. I'm glad I did.” But dead at fifty-two was simply wrong; he was determined it was not going to happen to him. Next year would be different, he promised himself. He'd already determined to make changes at work; well, he was going to make them in every area of his life. He was going to start eating healthier, drinking less. . . .

“Would you like some more tea?” Stephanie asked, breaking into his reverie.

“Yes. Thank you.” He picked his mug up off the floor, handed it across, then sank back onto the sofa, resting his head on the back of the cushion and closing his eyes as Stephanie moved into the kitchen.

He was going to start exercising. Maybe he'd start biking around the Arboretum or jog along the Charles River. . . .

As if from a great distance, he heard Stephanie's voice. “Jimmy's life was also incredibly stressful, and I can guarantee you he never exercised.”

He tried to respond, but all that came out was an indeterminate grunt.

“Plus, the whole situation with Angela and Frances must have taken its toll on him, and I'm sure the prospect of the looming divorce just added to the stress level.”

 

His phone woke him with a start. There was a moment of complete disorientation when he didn't know where he was, and then he saw Stephanie's face, staring at him, and for an instant he imagined that it had all been a dream, a shockingly vivid nightmare. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, regretting now having taken it off vibrate earlier. “Hello . . . ,” he began, then licked dry lips and tried again, “Hello . . .”

He heard Kathy's voice, and in that instant it all came flooding back: This was no dream, though it was still a nightmare. “Kathy . . . Yes, I'm fine. I'm at the office. . . .” He was aware that Stephanie was watching him, her eyes hard and cold in her face. “Yes, I'll be home soon,” he said quickly and hung up.

“Why did you lie?” Stephanie asked what he considered to be a very stupid question.

“Well, I could hardly tell her the truth, now could I?”

“You could have said we had some unfinished business.”

“I promised Kathy I would never see you again.”

“And yet you're breaking that promise,” she said evenly.

“Well, I made that promise before . . . before I knew about . . . about you and . . . and . . .”

“About my being pregnant?”

“Yes. That.” It was over sixteen years ago that Kathy had last told him she was pregnant, and it wasn't something he thought he'd ever be hearing again.

Stephanie stood. “I'm going to make that tea now. Why don't you go grab a shower,” she said briskly. “I need you awake and alert when we talk, and right now you're barely conscious. You've got some clothes in the closet, and there's a toothbrush and a razor of yours in the bathroom cabinet. Shower and change; you'll feel much better.”

He was about to refuse, but suddenly the thought of a shower was incredibly inviting. “Yes, I will, thank you.” He stood up and caught a hint of his own stale sweat. “Gosh, I stink,” he said in disgust.

“Yes, you do,” Stephanie said, and turned away quickly. He wasn't sure if she was talking about him as a person or his bodily odor.

It took an effort to lift one foot in front of the other as he made his way into the bathroom. He'd been running on adrenaline for the past couple of days and was beginning to pay the price. He'd grab a quick shower, then talk to Stephanie about the pregnancy, then head home. He glanced at his watch. He could be home before five . . . six at the latest. Then he was crawling into bed and not getting up until Monday morning.