A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (9 page)

“You didn’t notice the fishing rods on the back porch? Yes, he moved in.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

I eyed her, reading deeper into my friend’s thoughts than she intended. “Is there something on your mind?”

“Is there something on yours?”

I blinked, surprised. “Like what?”

Lexie busied her hands by closing the pizza box, but gave up trying to keep her concern to herself. “Sweetie, you know I love you like a sister.”

“Lex—”

“And I like Michael, I really do. He’s been wonderful for you. We were all so worried after Todd died.”

The months after my husband’s death had been a very dark time. I didn’t respond to Lexie, just remembered how terrible I had felt—as if I’d failed Todd, failed saving him from the drugs and the life that got him killed in the end.

Lexie sat forward. “You fought Todd’s addiction every way you knew how, and I know his death nearly killed you, too. And when you moved out of the city to this—to the farm, we were even more terrified that you—well, that we couldn’t help you out of your depression. But Michael came along, and I give him credit—he really brought you back to life.”

Quietly, I said, “You’re probably right.”

“Now, though, I wonder if maybe he’s the—what is it called? The Pilot Light Lover? The one who lights your fire again so you can try other men?”

“Lex—”

“Nora, you’re my dearest friend, and I respect your intelligence. If he’s the man of your dreams, I’ll shut up and never say another word against him. But you’ve only known him a few months—”

“A year,” I corrected.

“A year, then,” Lexie acknowledged. “Is that enough time? To figure out if you’re still in that romantic-infatuation, lusty stage? Or have you had the time to progress into a truly mature relationship?”

“This? From you?”

She flushed. “Just because I choose not to dive into the pool doesn’t mean I don’t know how to swim. Is Michael really the one? Nora, do you have the same—well, family values? Or are the two of you still trying to make each other into what you need most?”

“What do you think I need from Michael?”

“He can protect you,” Lexie said. “Your father is an idiot, and Todd was the loosest cannon on the pirate ship, but Michael is strong—stronger than you really need, perhaps. He thinks like a man in another century. Whatever it takes, he’s going to protect you and—listen, I’m not saying he wants to control you exactly, but maybe it will come to that someday.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Have you had enough time to figure out who you really are, sweetie? What you truly want your life to be? You just started an interesting career, but you haven’t had a chance to explore what your work is all about or where it can take you.”

“It takes time.”

Lexie nodded and considered me for another moment. “I know. But this mystery about Penny Devine. Have you wondered why it intrigues you so much?”

“I’m curious,” I said. Then, “But maybe I’m putting off thinking about my own situation.”

Lexie reached for my hand. “Maybe so.”

I put my wineglass down.

She squeezed me. “Darling, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But I know you’re vulnerable right now. Losing the baby must have been awful. I’m glad I could help a little by letting you get away for a while, but that wasn’t nearly enough. Maybe it’s time to slow down. To pull yourself together before you take the next big leap.”

“Thanks, Lex,” I said. “I appreciate how much you care.”

“But?”

I shook my head. “No buts.”

“What does Michael say?”

“We—I haven’t been able to talk about it. He’s—I love him, Lex. I really do. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“He’s strong. And he’s smart. He’ll listen.”

There was more, of course. And I could talk about Raphael Braga with Lexie.

But we heard a noise in the hall, and suddenly Michael was there in the doorway. Still in his coat, his car keys in one hand, a pizza box balanced in the other. “Who’ll listen?” he asked. “To what?”

Lexie got to her feet in a flash and crossed the room to him. “Sweetie!” she cried. “How nice to see you looking so tanned. Did you have a lovely cruise?”

She kissed him on the cheek, and helped him out of his jacket. Michael thanked her for arranging our vacation for us.

“What happened to your chin?” Lexie asked.

“Little accident,” Michael replied, looking rueful. “Nothing to worry about.”

I kissed him gently on the mouth and took the warm pizza box and put it on top of Lexie’s offering. He and Lexie talked, and I poured him a glass of wine, wondering how much he’d heard. He betrayed nothing, just relaxed, ate some pizza and laughed while Lexie told stories of cruising on her mother’s yacht.

I listened with only half an ear. The rest of my attention strayed back to what Lexie had said. That perhaps our family values were different. That I was using anything that came along to divert my thoughts from exactly the questions I should be carefully thinking over. That solving the puzzle of Penny Devine’s disappearance might be more savory to me than the conundrum my own life had become.

And I found myself thinking about Raphael, too.

L
ater when Lexie had gone home, I stowed all the leftover pizza in the fridge and put away the groceries Michael had brought—staples and toothpaste and a lot of food obviously meant to keep the twins happy. He was the one who braved the basement to make sure Harcourt and Hilton planned on taking a break from their experiments. When he came up again, he reported the twins were sleeping in their dungeon.

Then, when we were alone upstairs, Michael tried to talk. “Nora,” he began.

I knew the tone of his voice. But I locked the bedroom door and turned off the lights. I took off my clothes and pushed him down on the bed. He resisted for about ten seconds, then gave in and let me unfasten the buttons on his shirt.

We didn’t speak at all. We didn’t even kiss. I trailed my lips down his chest until he caught my hair in his hands to stop me. But I unsnapped his jeans and slipped my hand inside first and followed with my mouth, and he surrendered with a noise that never quite made it out of his throat.

After that, we wrestled. Feverish, we were quick at first, writhing and pushing until finally he was six fathoms deep inside me and we both lost our heads.

We had been to many dark places before, but that was perhaps the darkest of all. Only this time it wasn’t Michael who took charge, but a woman I didn’t know. A woman who seemed to want to use my body—and his—to avoid thinking about anything else.

In the end, exhausted and maybe a little frightened by what we’d done, we said nothing, but slept pressed back-to-back against each other. In the darkness, I listened to Michael breathe for a long time. I knew I should have opened up to him, tried to figure out what I was feeling. But part of me was afraid of what I might discover once the sex was over and we had to find out what lay beneath it.

In the morning, I woke in the tangled bedclothes and listened to Michael in the shower. Usually he sang, but this morning he was quiet.

I slipped on my bathrobe and went downstairs to make coffee, not eager to start this particular day without benefit of caffeine. Or breakfast. I was starving.

Intent on cinnamon toast, I went into the kitchen and stifled a scream.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Libby cried, spinning around as if menaced by a psychopathic killer. “Oh, I thought you were the twins.”

“Libby, what the hell are you doing here? At this hour?”

My sister heaved an enormous bulletin board up onto the kitchen counter. She wore a lime green velour exercise ensemble that concealed the fact that she never exercised. She had pulled her hair up in a clip with little stars poking out of her head, making her look as perky as a cheerleader.

“I’ve started the wedding plans! I need peace and quiet to kick-start my creative process!”

“Why does it have to be my peace and quiet?” I demanded.

“Nora, your nuptial bliss is my fervent desire. I need to concentrate, to focus all my energy on making you happy.”

“You can’t concentrate at home?”

“It’s bedlam at my house. Rawlins spent the night playing poker with his friends and making a mess of everything. Lucy’s in one of her moods. So I fed Maximus and rushed over here to get started. See? This bulletin board will soon become the centerpiece of your life.”

I didn’t look at the blank bulletin board. “The twins are downstairs, in case you were wondering. Have you checked on them yet?”

“No.” She stole an uneasy glance at the basement door. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

I could see she wasn’t eager to find out what atrocities her homicidal offspring were contemplating. Neither was I. Without further discussion, I pulled out the toaster and found the loaf of raisin swirl bread Michael had brought home last night.

“If the truth be told,” Libby said, coming clean, “I have a houseguest.”

“Who?”

“My mother-in-law.”

“Which one?” I plunked two slices of bread into the toaster and pushed the lever.

“Mary Marie. My second. The twins’ grandmother. Which might explain a few things.”

I reached for the coffeepot and tried to recall which of Libby’s three mothers-in-law was Mary Marie. “Is she the golfing one? Or the one who likes vodka gimlets?”

“Neither. She’s the clean one.”

“The one with the braid around her head like a Swedish masseuse?”

“Exactly.” Libby sent me a dark look. “As soon as she arrived last night, she started climbing around on chairs and taking down all my draperies. Today she’s delivering them to the dry cleaner, and then she’s going to wash all my windows.”

“Well, that’s rather nice, don’t you think?”

“Nora, the last time she visited, she refinished all my hardwood floors—on her hands and knees! I nearly broke my ankle when I slipped on the fresh coat of polyurethane she put down in the dining room!”

“Libby, it’s really very generous of her to—”

“It isn’t generous. It’s obsessive-compulsive! She’s a neat freak! And she’s making me feel like a positive slob!”

“She won’t stay forever,” I soothed. “And when she leaves, your windows will sparkle.”

“It’s not like I haven’t washed my own windows, you know.” She glowered at me. “I do them every spring. Well, every other spring, maybe. So why should I be made to feel like I live in a pigsty by Mrs. Tidy?”

Libby wasn’t the best housekeeper on the planet. But pointing that out might cause a sisterly meltdown. As the aroma of toasting raisin bread wafted up from the toaster, I filled the coffeepot with water from the tap. “Maybe a day or two of cleaning is a good thing.”

“Day or two? She’s going to stay for a week! So you can understand why I came over here this morning, can’t you? Oh, get that look off your face. I won’t stay overnight. This place is getting too crowded, anyway.”

“Too crowded?”

“That’s Emma’s truck parked outside, right?”

I rushed to the door and yanked it open. Sure enough, Emma’s pickup sat on the grass outside, one front tire leaning against the porch steps as if she’d cruised in and jumped out in a hurry. I closed the door with a bang I hoped was loud enough to be heard on the second floor. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs, I presume.”

“Is she alone?”

Libby and I shared a glance. Of course Emma wasn’t alone.

My toast popped.

I grabbed both slices and slapped them on separate plates. “I wonder what time she got in.”

“You didn’t hear her?”

“Uhm, no.”

“She had an appointment at midnight, remember? You heard her on the phone.”

Whatever Emma was up to this time, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear about it. And I was equally sure Libby wanted all the details.

Libby opened her handbag and pulled out a package of multicolored pushpins. “Well, you can be sure I’m staying until she shows her face downstairs. I want to know who the cat dragged in last night. Meanwhile, we can start our plan!”

“Plan?”

“For your
wedding
, of course! Where is your mind these days?”

I refrained from screaming.

Libby said, “I might object to your choice of spouses, but I’m a firm believer in allowing people to make their own mistakes. Meanwhile, we might as well make your wedding picture perfect!”

The thought of Libby at the helm of my nuptials gave me the sensation of being strapped to the railing of the
Titanic.

Full of enthusiasm, she went on. “As far as I’m concerned, the worst-case scenario is the traditional New Jersey Mafia wedding. And considering That Man’s family, we run the risk of the full gamut of horrors—tight satin bridesmaids’ gowns, big hair, and fistfights in the parking lot.”

“But—”

“So, Nora, if we don’t get cracking, you’re liable to end up with a reception at one of those tacky Atlantic City banquet halls with a Frank Sinatra look-alike for a doorman.”

“I don’t think Michael wants—”

“Your last wedding was a disappointment, I must say. Hardly more than a blip on the social scene. Lovely, of course, but too small. This time, you can invite all our friends and family!” She had grabbed a stick of butter from the refrigerator and was lavishing a large smear of it on her slice of toast. “It could be the event of the year!”

I swallowed hard.

“First things first,” Libby said firmly, pointing the stick of butter at me. “Vera Wang. The three of us should go to New York next week to scout out the dress possibilities. It’s going to take some real effort to find a bridesmaid gown that will look good on Emma and stunning on me. What date have you set?”

“Actually—”

“It’s best to be flexible about venues, of course. I’ll call all the best reception sites and find out what’s available. There’s an inn in New Hope that would be perfect—they have two darling pet monkeys that wear little tuxedos for special occasions. Doesn’t that sound adorable? But I’m not sure how many guests they can accommodate.”

“We really haven’t discussed—”

“Of course,” she said, bustling around my kitchen, “if That Man of Yours is going to foot the bill, maybe I should find out if the Du Pont estate is available?”

“We’re not getting married at the Du Pont estate.”

Libby had found a bag of chocolate chips in the pantry and opened it. She sprinkled a dozen on top of her toast, then popped a few extra into her mouth. “We need to brainstorm! What about a destination wedding? That’s really the cutting edge, you know. Hawaii? No, no, Bermuda! Oh, but you can’t beat Paris. Maybe we should go to France to check out a few—”

“Libby,” I said sharply enough to get her attention at last. “Stop right there.”

I would rather endure Chinese water torture than allow my sister to plan my wedding.

She paused, the slice of toast halfway to her lips. “What?”

Faced with explaining that I wasn’t ready to contemplate a marriage, let alone a huge ceremony and reception, I chickened out.

“What’s the matter?” Libby came over and seized my hand, her brow squinched in sympathy. “Darling, he’s not insisting on something ghastly, is he? Not—heaven, help us—not menu control?”

“Calm down,” I said. “We haven’t discussed anything yet.”

“What a relief!” Libby heaved a sigh and clutched her heart. “For a moment, I had visions of rigatoni and pigs in a blanket! Surely you’d rather have trout, maybe with a nice champagne reduction? So classic!”

I rubbed my forehead. “It’s too soon to be making these decisions.”

“Oh, darling, I agree completely! We can’t rush into anything. Decide in haste, repent in—well, later. What we need is a timeline! And that’s why I brought the bulletin board—to create a schedule for planning the whole thing so we don’t miss a single detail. General Schwarzkopf used this method during Desert Storm or something.”

“You don’t get it, Lib. I’m not ready to think about this yet. The wedding might be a long way off. And anyway, it’s definitely going to be small.”

She looked dismayed. “How small?”

“Very small. I think it’s going to be very, very private.”

“Why? Are you afraid your friends will be judgmental?”

“N-no. We’re just the quiet types.”

She stewed for a moment. “Maybe we should have some prewedding parties to get everyone accustomed to the idea of you married to a mob boss.” Despite my choke, Libby cried, “That’s it—I’ll throw you a wedding shower!”

“Libby—”

Emma shuffled into the kitchen in riding breeches and a dirty sweatshirt, with socks on her feet and a yawn on her face. “What the hell is all the noise about? Libby, I could hear you all the way upstairs.”

“Good morning!” Libby trilled. “You’re just in time to help plan a wedding shower for Nora.”

Emma scratched her stomach and blinked at me. With her hair standing out on her head, she looked like an electrocuted woodpecker.

I said, “Is that a love bite on your neck?”

She rubbed the spot and grinned. “You should see the one on my butt. Is there any coffee?”

“In a minute,” Libby promised around a mouthful of toast. “Meanwhile, you can tell us who’s upstairs in your bed. The man who telephoned for the midnight appointment?”

“Nah. Somebody else.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Oh, Em,” I said. “You didn’t.”

“Polo players make the best lovers,” Emma replied. “They play hard and walk away with a smile.”

My heart began to pound. “Please tell me you didn’t bring Raphael Braga into my home.”

“What’s it to you who I sleep with?” Emma threw herself into a chair, legs splayed. “At least I don’t make the kind of noise you two were making last night. Jeez, Nora.”

“What kind of noise?” Libby asked.

“Big noise,” Emma reported.

“Vocal expression can be an exciting part of lovemaking, you know. I once knew a Nepalese gentleman who chanted—”

“You have to get Raphael out of here,” I said. “I can’t have him in the house, Em.”

“Raphael Braga?” Libby used her forefinger to wipe a dribble of chocolate from her lower lip. “Isn’t he that handsome one from Brazil?”