Who Do I Talk To? (24 page)

Might as well get up. What time was it . . . five o'clock? If I could find my Bible, maybe I'd go out on the back porch, sit in the porch swing one last time, and get back to the Bible reading I'd started during my trip to North Dakota—before my life unraveled. Hadn't Jodi and the other Yada Yada sisters prayed that I'd begin to see God's purpose in my life? Prayed for wisdom to meet the challenges? That I'd have strength to face tomorrow?

Well, tomorrow was here, and I definitely needed some of that wisdom and strength. I'd already found some of it in the Matthew chapters I'd been reading a couple of weeks ago. Maybe there was more . . .

“Hey, Gabby! Wait!”

I turned to see Estelle waving at me from the upstairs porch midmorning just as we were loading up the Baxters' Dodge Caravan. The fifty-something black woman came schlepping down the outside stairs, her loose, multicolored caftan billowing in the stiff breeze off the lake, as I let Denny and Jodi walk my mother and Dandy into the garage to get them settled in the minivan.

“I'm not
leaving
leaving,” I teased, setting down our suitcases. “See you Monday. Staff meeting at ten, right?”

She ignored me, gathering her pepper-and-salt, loose, kinky hair into a knot on top of her head, as if she'd been interrupted. “Humph. Harry just called. Said to tell you that your
husband
”— she dragged out the word with thinly disguised contempt—“left your sewing machine at the front desk of Richmond Towers. I say hallelujah!” She fluttered a hand at me. “You go on now. Might as well pick it up on your way. That'll come in real handy on Monday when I do my sewing class.” Estelle turned away, muttering to herself as she hauled herself back up the steps. “
Mm-mm
. Maybe Mama sewed clothes by hand, but I ain't goin' back
there
. Uh-uh.”

“Come on, Gabby!” Jodi yelled. “I'm teaching a typing class at eleven, remember?”

I looked at my watch. Only ten o'clock. We had plenty of time. But it was a good thing we'd left then, because traffic was heavy on Sheridan Road. “Taste of Chicago going on this weekend.” Denny glanced in the mirror at me. “You ever been, Gabby?”

Jodi backhanded his arm from the passenger seat. “Don't you go getting any ideas, Denny Baxter. Last time we went, we lost a kid in that crowd, remember? And I said
never
. . .”

I was only half listening. Philip left the sewing machine as agreed. That was good. But the idea of picking up the machine
today
left a knot in the pit of my stomach. Philip said he was moving out by the end of June. Which was yesterday—Friday—but maybe he was moving out today since it was Saturday, even if it was July first. I didn't want to stop by there and risk running into him. Or maybe I did. I had Denny and Jodi Baxter and my mother with me . . . Wouldn't Philip feel like a rotten heel if we all walked in there while he was loading
our
stuff into a moving van?

“Denny, would you mind stopping by Richmond Towers a minute? There's a frontage road just off Sheridan. I need to pick up my sewing machine, and it'll be easier with a car.”

I saw Jodi and Denny in the front seats glance at each other. But Denny said, “Sure. No problem.”

Dandy was sitting on the floor behind the driver's seat, putting his paw in my mother's lap, trying to see out the window. As we turned onto the frontage road, I peered out the front windshield. No moving truck that I could see. Intent on the dog, my mother seemed oblivious to where we were until Denny pulled up in front of the luxury tower along the frontage road. She looked past me at the revolving door and stiffened. “This isn't Manna House.” She shook her head vigorously. “No, no, won't go . . .”

“Mom, Mom. It's all right. Stay in the car. I just need to pick up something. Uh, Denny, would you mind going in with me?”

Jodi's husband turned on the hazards, got out, and we pushed through the revolving door into the lobby. Sure enough, Mr. Bentley was behind the desk, reading the newspaper, traffic through the lobby being lighter on a Saturday morning. I looked left and right. So far so good.

“Hey, Mr. B,” I said. “What are you doing working the weekend?”

The doorman quickly folded the paper and jumped up, grabbing his uniform cap. “Mrs. Fairbanks! Denny, my man.” He shook hands with Denny Baxter in a familiar way and grinned at me. “Oh, you know, we got a problem keepin' a weekend man on this job. So I end up with extra hours.” He winked. “Don't mind the extra pay. Oh . . . here's the sewing machine Mr. Fairbanks left down here this mornin'.”

Denny took the heavy case over the top of the counter. “Where's that grandson of yours today?”

Mr. Bentley chuckled. “Oh, my mama thinks she's takin' care of him, but it's actually the other way around. Just till I get off work. Then we're goin' down to the Taste. Mm-mm, can't wait to get some of Sweet Baby Ray's barbeque!” He laughed and gave Denny a high five.

Mr. B and Denny certainly seemed buddy-buddy. “You two know each other?” I wagged a finger from one to the other.

Denny grinned. “Harry's been coming to our men's group, meets on Tuesday nights. Small world.” The two men laughed.

I shifted nervously, keeping an eye on the security door leading to the elevators. “Uh, Mr. B, my husband said he was moving out this weekend. Have you seen a moving truck or anything?”

Mr. Bentley shrugged. “Don't know anything about that, Mrs. Fairbanks. In fact, I'd be surprised if he's movin' out this weekend. When he brought that sewing machine down this morning, he had one of those overnight cases on wheels with him, and he headed for the parking garage. That was about . . .oh, I'd say, maybe an hour ago.”

I stared.
Not moving out?
What did that mean? And if he wasn't moving out, where did he go? Had he gone to Virginia to visit the boys?

Mr. Bentley glanced about and then leaned close, as if wanting to be sure no one else heard him. “Thought you might be wantin' to go upstairs since management made him replace the original locks. I think they told him it was that or be sued for breach of contract.” He straightened. “You didn't hear that from me, though. Understand?”

This news ricocheted in my head like a pinball trying to find the right hole to drop into. The locks had been changed
back
? As in, the key in my purse would actually open the door to the penthouse? I could go up the elevator, unlock the door, and—“Denny. I—I'd like to go upstairs to our apartment for just a few minutes. Can you wait?” Was I out of my mind? What if Philip came back?

“I'll go with you.” It wasn't a question. “Harry, we'll pick this up on our way out.” Denny handed the sewing machine back over the counter and followed me through the security door.

Neither of us spoke as the elevator whirred its way to the thirty-second floor. The door
ping
ed open, and I stepped into the cool foyer with the beautiful ceramic floor tiles. The last time I'd been here, my clothes and personal things had been piled in a jumble of suitcases, boxes, and bags. Today the floor glistened.

Was Camila Sanchez still cleaning the penthouse on Fridays?

Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I stuck my house key into the lock and turned. The door opened noiselessly. I stepped into the cool dimness of the entryway—the “gallery,” they called it—my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my chest.

The
tick-tock, tick-tock
of the old Fairbanks grandfather clock pulled me into the high-ceilinged living room with the floor-to-ceiling glass windows sweeping in a curve all along the far side. Across Lake Shore Drive, Lake Michigan sparkled under a cloudless blue sky. I felt lightheaded. I looked away.

“Wow,” Denny said. Then, “Are you sure you want to be doing this, Gabby?”

I didn't answer, just started walking from room to room. Philip's den, his desk still cluttered, nothing packed . . . past the powder room on the way to the kitchen—everything fairly neat, except for a few dirty dishes in the sink . . . the dining room with its long, polished wood table, able to seat ten people . . . our Lenox wedding china—the Spring Vista pattern Marlene Fairbanks had picked out for us—still in the buffet . . .

Not a packing box in sight.

I stopped at the boys' bedrooms, side by side in the hallway leading toward the master bedroom, doors closed. Trembling, I reached out a hand and opened the door to Paul's room. The bunk bed was made up neat, but the desk and storage cubes held a jumble of CDs, action figures, games, the clothes in the closet askew . . .

The tightness in my chest squeezed so hard, I could hardly breathe. The last time I saw my sons, they'd been staying in this room together so my mother could sleep in P. J.'s room next door. When I left the house that day, I had no idea they'd be gone when I got home . . .

My breath started coming in big gulps, pain and anger rising from their hidden places like steel tendrils winding themselves around my heart. I was vaguely aware that Denny disappeared from my side, but the next minute he reappeared with a glass of water. “Gabby. Drink this. You need to sit down.”

I took a couple of swallows. Then he led me to the breakfast nook in the kitchen and I sat down, my head in my hands. Jodi's husband sat opposite me. As my breath slowed, he said, “Gabby, you have every right to be here. In fact, if you want me to, I'll go get your mother and Dandy and you can move back in. But I think I should go . . . and Jodi's supposed to teach that class, remember?”

I heard the nervousness in his voice. Wasn't about Jodi's typing class either. Didn't blame him. If Philip came back right now, Denny's presence would be sorely misunderstood. Might even get ugly.

Stay?
Oh, I was so tempted. I'd love for Philip to come back and find me and my mother and Dandy back in the penthouse, making ourselves at home, watching TV, soaking in the Jacuzzi, baking brownies . . .

Or would I be asking for the ugliness to start all over again? I couldn't do that to my mother—not to mention she'd flat-out refuse to come back to this house. My sweet mother could be as stubborn as a two-year-old.

Did I have the strength to face Philip alone? Mom and Dandy could stay at the shelter, and I could hunker down at the penthouse, demand my rights, lay claim to the furniture, the china, the family pictures—

“Gabby?” Denny's voice was gentle. “Your mom and Dandy are waiting in the car, and it's hot out there.”

I stood up. I didn't have to make this decision right this second. I had the key. It opened the door.

But I left the water glass on the kitchen counter with my lipstick smudge.

chapter 25

Harry Bentley handed over the sewing machine on our way out of Richmond Towers but gave me a puzzled look. “What? No contraband?”

I offered a dry smile. “Not this time. But I left my calling card. Thanks, Mr. B.”

When we came out of the revolving doors, we saw the minivan had been moved to a visitor parking space. And the van was empty. “Jodi!” Denny yelled after loading the sewing machine in the back with our suitcases.

“Over here!” Jodi's voice shot back from somewhere in the park that lay between the frontage road and Lake Shore Drive in the distance, and a few moments later we saw Jodi, my mother, and Dandy making their way toward us along the jogging path—except that Jodi was having a hard time getting Dandy to cooperate. The dog kept pulling in the opposite direction, sometimes spinning her around. Denny belly laughed as the trio jerked their way toward us in stops and starts.

But we finally got my mom and Dandy in the car as Jodi collapsed in the front seat. “I don't know what happened!” she groaned. “The car was hot, so we got out and went looking for a bench . . . when all of a sudden Dandy went nuts! He darted off, and I had to run catch him; then he didn't want to come with me.”

“It was Lucy,” my mother announced.

I buckled her seat belt. “Uh-huh. Did you see her?”

My mother shook her head. “But it was Lucy.”

“I don't know.” Jodi shrugged as Denny pulled back out onto Sheridan Road. “
I
didn't see anybody.”

I dropped it. Traffic was still heavy, but we finally drove under the Sheridan Road El station that crossed over the street a few blocks from Manna House. I glanced at my watch. “You're gonna make it, Jodi!” I sang out. “With a whole minute to spare!”

Denny rounded the corner by the Laundromat and slowed. “Uh-oh.”

That pesky female reporter was hanging around the front steps of Manna House.

“Denny!” I hissed. “Back up and go around to the alley.”

“Good idea—but if we back up now, she's going to guess we're the prey and run after us. I think it'd be best to just get it over with.”

I was starting to panic. “But I don't want that reporter going after my mom. They don't know Dandy is her dog! But if they did, they'd start poking around and asking questions about why
she's
at the shelter—which could get messy for me real quick.”