Beyond the Quiet: Romantic Thriller (10 page)

“Were you happy?”

“Happy?” He shrugged. “I didn’t allow myself to think about it, not until recently. If I felt something was missing, I ignored it. Too many things I wanted to do. I worked, got my education, saved money so we could travel. So many places I wanted to see in thi
s world. Just not enough time.”

“You keep saying things like that. Why? What did you mean when you said you didn’t have much time?”

“That, as they say, is another story. Right now I want to talk about you.”

Having been so totally immersed in what he was saying, I found it difficult to break away, to return to my world. He’d managed to make me feel the loneliness he didn’t talk about, and the lack of courage or strong enough desire to make a change.

The flash of headlights outside the restaurant caught my eye and I realized it had grown dark. Glancing at my watch, I was astonished to see how late it was. We had, it seemed, spent hours together, hours that had passed like minutes.

“I h
ave to go, Terry. So much is going on in my life right now that I don’t know if I can handle anything else.”

On the ride back to my car we didn’t talk, but I felt totally comfortable. Terry played a CD of instrumental New Age music I hadn’t heard, and while it was soothing, the haunting sound of the flutes brought tears. I had
a hard time keeping them back.

When we pulled beside my car at the old house, the neighborhood appeared nor
mal. No police tape, no crowds.

Terry turned off the engine. He didn’t try to kiss me; instead, he ran one finger down my arm and took my hand in his. I didn’t resist. How could I? There was something special about him that made me fee
l as if I were someone special.

Sitting quietly in the car, our hands clasped together, I realized Terry had touched me more today than anyone had in a very long time. Oh sure, there had been the customary pecks on the cheek from Shanna, the brief hugs from Stan and Maggie or from friends after the funeral, but nothing else in too long a time. I couldn’t even remember the last time Mac and I had made love. It had to be long before his illness progressed and took away his drive. While I hadn’t missed the sex, many times I desperately wanted someone who cared enough simply to put
his arms around me and hold me.

“What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?” Terry asked. “Breakfast would be nice, although if I
must, I can wait until lunch.”

Even though I was surprised at how much I’d enjoyed this evening, I couldn’t afford to spend time with him. Not only did I have to get my life in control as far as my finances were concerned, but there was no way I could live with myself if I started a new relationship with someone this soon after my husband’s death. Yet I didn’t want the evening to end. What kind of a woman was I?

I opened the car door. “I appreciate what you did for me today, but I don’t have time for a relationship now. I don’t even want one.”

“You can’t do this, Lisa. We have so much to talk about, a lifetime to catch up on. A future to share. Besides, you want to hear the rest of my story, don’t you? And I wan
t to know everything about you—”

And so, instead of getting out of the car like I should have done, I sat wishing...what? That things were different? That I could’ve been different? But I couldn’t wish a lifetime away. After all, I’d been blessed with a beautiful daughter and grandson. So what did I wish for? The tragedy was that I didn’t
know.

“What is it, Lisa?
Tell me. I’ll help. I’ll do anything for you, you know that.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Sliding out of the seat, I hurried to my car before I could change my mind.

***

When I entered my home, I stopped abruptly. A sudden, chilling feeling washed over me that something was different. The atmosphere felt different I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, so I stood by the door and snapped on all the lights. Nothing appeared out of place. The wing chair stood next to Mac’s sofa, and nothing looked disturbed.

Cautiously, my heart thumping in an unknown fear, I made my way through the lower level, flipping on lights as I went, but again, everything looked normal. I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom. Hesitating by the door, I snapped on the lights, aware that my heart was thumping so loud that I felt sure anyone near me could hear it. I took a deep breath and slowly stepped into the room. Everything looked okay. I checked the corners, the closet, and even looked under the bed like an old woman. I found nothing. I opened my jewelry box, but everything was in its place, even the one good diamond ring Mac had given me on our twentieth anniversary. Nothing was missing, so I breathed a little easier. Just to make sure, I checked the rest of the upstairs and found nothing amiss.

Getting ready for bed, I opened my underwear drawer for a clean pair of pajamas, but when I was changing, something nigged at me. I wasn’t sure what it was, so I went back to the drawer and inspected the contents: several stacks of pjs, bras, and panties, all neatly folded as usual. I kept looking them over and couldn’t figure out what bothered me. Then I noticed the top pair of panties. They looked just slightly out of place, the fold just a little different from the rest. I pulled them out and realized it was a pair I’d worn yesterday. How did they get into my clean drawer? Had I unthinkingly put them back with the clean underwear? But I was a creature of habit and I didn’t think I’d do such a thing.

Had someone broken in and gone through my personal things? Suddenly I felt sick. Checking both the front and back doors, I saw they were secure with no signs of a break-in. I picked up the phone to call the police, but just as I began to punch 9-1-1, I thought about what they’d ask:
Has your home been burglarized?
No.
Is anyone in the house now?
No.
Is anything missing?
No.
So, lady, why are you calling?
I found a pair of dirty panties in my drawer.

Feeling ridiculous, I replaced the phone, dropped the panties into the hamper and slid into bed. I’d been so unnerved the past few days that I could have put the panties back into the drawer without realizing what I was doing. One time when I was watching TV after an argument with Mac, I got up to get something from the fridge. Later, when I wanted to change channels, I couldn’t find the remote, and after tearing the house upside down, Mac found it in the fridge. So of course, that’s all it was. I turned out the light and settled down to get some rest.

But I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. With every creak of the house, my eyes popped open. Finally, when the dawn threw a pale light into the room, I slept.

Chapter Eleven

The next day Maggie called with an invitation. Stan had a sudden delay in a court date and they decided to take a trip to Lake Tahoe. Although she pretended that inviting me to join them had nothing to do with being hesitant to
leave me alone, I knew better.

“Take your vacation and e
njoy every moment,” I told her. “You and Stan have stayed close ever since Mac first received his diagnosis and you deserve some time to yourselves. I’m fine.” Maybe that wasn’t quite true, but I needed to work out things on my own.

I hadn’t told them about Terry, partly because I felt ashamed that I was even thinking about another man so soon after Mac’s death. And, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him. I only knew I couldn’
t allow myself to get involved.

But I didn’t understand why I kept thinking of him. At the oddest times, I’d picture the way his mouth curved in that wry smile of his, or I saw that little tummy he kept trying to hold in. Most of all, I’d remember the expression in his eyes when he looked at me, and I felt more alive, more wanted, than any time I’d spent in twenty-five years of lovemaking with Mac. I was horrified at that thought, but I couldn’t deny it. Perh
aps one day I’d figure out why.

But not now. Now I had
too much to do just to survive.

Over the next few days Terry called several times, sometimes twice a day, but this wasn’t the time for either of us. I had to get some money coming in, so I begged him to stop calling. Then, when he persisted, I let the machine pick up, and after about six times of not reachi
ng me, he finally quit calling.

Feeling a restlessness that nothing seemed to ease, I explored most of the homes on the foreclosure list west of Yucaipa into Redlands and San Bernardino an
d east to Beaumont and Banning.

A former stagecoach stop, Banning had been a tiny desert community, a quick place for gas and fast food while on the way to Palm Springs or other desert communities further inland. Then, just past Banning, the Morongo Casino had undergone a major remodeling; now, their twenty-seven-story hotel and spa was a lighted monolith in the desert valley. Soaring real estate prices in the coastal cities forced commuters further inland and seniors flocked into the area. Upscale golf course retirement villages with floodlit palm trees and bubbling fountains opened, a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart sprang up se
emingly overnight, and Banning’s forgotten downtown was dusted off and small Mom and Pop businesses moved into vacant storefronts. The town was alive and growing, but like everywhere else in the country, people spent more than they made. Foreclosures could be found almost everywhere. I held three impromptu open houses and wrote several contracts.

Most agents rank hosting an open house on the same level as a trip to the proctologist, but I had always enjoyed the entire process. I especially loved matching a home I’d toured to a client’s needs and often took prospective buyers to other listings after the open house. Keeping photos and descriptions helped and I kept my notebook within reach.

So far I’d written four contracts, and if even only one closed, I’d have some money coming in. Of course, most of it would go right back out, but at least some of the squeezing sensation around my chest had started to ease and I could take a deep breath.

Driving home on I-10, I passed Desert Lawn Cemetery and remembered an article in our local paper. A few years ago, a Yucaipa housewife heard about a duffel bag tossed from a car on a freeway. Inside was the body of a newborn baby boy. Horrified, the Yucaipa woman couldn’t forget the image of that abandoned baby’s body all alone in a coroner’s office, so
she made inquiries, collected the body, and with her family’s approval, used her own savings to buy a plot at Desert Lawn. After learning about the discovery of two more dead infants, she contacted a local senator, and the
Safe Arms for Newborns
law was drawn up and passed, legislation that allowed mothers to turn over their newborns without recrimination within three days of birth.

And, with help from donations and volunteers, the special
Garden of Angels
section of the cemetery held several abandoned babies whose bodies could otherwise have remained in storage for several years.

It was a good thing freeway traffic was light because tears blurred my vision. I managed to blink most of them away, but a couple escaped to roll down my cheeks. Most of my life I’d been able to control my emotions, and I’d never been so threatened with tears. Why this sudden tendency to cry? I didn’t know if I felt for the babies who were denied a chance at life or I was selfishly concerned about my own fate. I’d had a chance at life and had worked hard to build a secure home and family, yet here I was, abandoned in my forties, my home threatened, my finances non-existent. Not all of it had gone for Mac’s medical bills. If he hadn’t taken everything, I would’ve had enough to make the move to Minnesota. Sure, I’d have to work, but I wouldn’t be frightened every minute, un
sure of where I’d live. Or how.

Why had Mac taken the money? And what had he done with it? I asked those questions over and over again until they became a sort of mantra and I wished he were here so I coul
d shake the answers out of him.

What was so damned important that he wo
uld have betrayed me like this?

I glanced at the time. The banks were still open, so, pressing down on the accelerator, I shot down the freeway. I was going to get
some answers.

***

Walking across the lobby, I headed for the first desk and spoke to a Latino woman in her thirties. Lacy Figueras, the nameplate said. Her brown eyes reflected sympathy as she listened patiently to my story, but she ultimately told me she couldn’t help.

“I
don’t understand. My husband and I had accounts here for at least twenty years. I’m just asking if he, before his death, opened a different account under his name.” I dug in my handbag, thankful I kept copies of his death certificate. I handed one to her. “This proves he passed away, and, here’s my driver’s license. I’m his widow, and I have a right know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we can’t give out that information. It’s protected by the Privacy Act.”

“But we were married and it’s my money, too. It’s not like I’m a stranger off the streets trying to commit grand theft.” My voice started to rise. “My husband didn’t spend that money on luxury vacations or sports cars; he was ill. He had to put it somewhere and I need it.”

“I’m sorry.”

I took a deep breath trying to stem the exasperation. “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

“Certainly,” Ms Figueras said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

Teeth clinched so tightly my temples began to throb, I waited alone on that hard chair in the bank lobby, fighting the urge to jump up and scream. Why were they so intent on protecting his rights and not mine? I was getting the shaft by everyone and I was damned tired of it.

Ms Figueras returned with a tall thin woman whose blonde French twist was streaked with gray. She looked crisp and efficient in her brown linen suit, but her eyes radiated warmth. I hadn’t expected someone like that, and for a moment it threw me. Mouth drawn in sympat
hy, the woman offered her hand.

“Mrs. Montgomery, I’m Carol Serquinia. So sorry to hear of your loss.”

Reluctantly, I took her hand. I didn’t want polite chit-chat; I wanted to hold onto my anger.

“Thank you,” I told her, “Mrs. uh...
” Good God, did everyone’s name in that bank have five syllables?

“Carol, please.” The woman smiled. “Everyone has trouble with that name.”

Automatically, I smiled back. Then, realizing what I had done, I straighten myself—my posture, my face. I used to pride myself on my courtesy to other people, but what did that ever get me? If I played all nicey-nice, we’d smile politely at each other and I’d still walk out of here with no more information that I’d had walking in. Maybe, even if I held firm, I still wouldn’t get what I needed, but at least I was going to fight. After all, I wasn’t trying to get anything that didn’t belong to me.

“Carol, while I appr
eciate your sympathy, what I need is information.” I told her the story. “The fact is, my husband left me almost penniless and I don’t know what he did with the money. Surely you can tell me if he opened another account here. Or a safety deposit box.”

“I truly wish I could help you, but even if I’d known him and had personally opened a different account in his name, I still couldn’t tell you.”

The anger bubbled to the surface. “Why not?”

“Under the Privacy Policy Act, we’re not allowed to reveal information about anyone’s account to anyone not listed on the account.”

“His privacy doesn’t matter any more,” I told her through gritted teeth. “Don’t you understand? My husband is dead.”

“After no activity
for two and a half years—”

“Two and a half years?” I almost screeched. “Are you serious?”

“After that time,” Carol continued, her voice calm and reasonable, “the contents are turned over to the state. Perhaps if you had an account number?”

“If I had an account number, I wouldn’t be having this problem.”

“Have you searched through all his papers? Even a crumpled deposit slip or evidence of a wire transfer would be helpful.”

“Of course I’ve been through his things. I’
ve found nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Carol shook her head. “I wish I could help, but it doesn’t appear as if there’s anything I can do.”

“You mean,” I said, “that this bank will sell my name to the highest bidder, but you won’t tell a widow if her husband had an account here?” I rose, too angry to stay seated.

“Mrs. Montgomery, we don’t—”

“Skip it.” I cut her off and stormed out the door.

Two and a half years. Now what was I going to do?

***

When I pulled onto my street, I spotted a beige Lexus sitting in my driveway. Terry? But that couldn’t be. I’d been very careful to never give him my address. And it was Ben’s company policy to keep his employee’s personal information confidential, so he couldn’t have gotten the information from the office.

As I cruised closer, I saw Terry standing by the driver’s door, arms folded, his face raised to the clear spring sky. I couldn’t deny that a secret place in my heart, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to acknowledge, was happy to see him.

But he was a complication, and I felt so tired, so defeated, that I just couldn’t handle an
other one in my life right now.

I pulled alongside and rolled down the window.

“How did you find out where I live?”

“Beautiful view you have here,” he said smiling, his expression pure innocence. “I could enjoy living next to the mountains.”

“Live here? You’re out of your mind. You have to leave right now, you could be dangerous.” I pushed the accelerator and the car shot into the garage. Slamming on the brakes, I stopped within three inches of the back wall. For some strange reason, my equilibrium seemed to disappear when Terry was around. I clicked the button to lower the garage door, fully intending to leave him outside. But he was too fast. He managed to duck under the garage door before it closed.

“Now what kind
of greeting is that? How about, ‘I’m so glad to see you, Terry.’ Anything like that would be nice, you know.”

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, my voice rising. “It’s not polite just to show up
unannounced at someone’s home.”

“Now that I’m here, you wouldn’t refuse to talk to me, would you? Not after all the trouble I had finding you.”

“How did you find me? If it was Nina at the office, I’ll—”

“Relax,” he said. “Trying to pry information out of her was worse than talking to a government agent.”

“Well?”

“You know, waiting for you dried me out. I’d be willing to trade information for a cup of coffee. How about it?” He held up a white paper bag. “I even brought the donuts.”

Part of me wondered why I didn’t march inside and slam the door in his smug face. The other was damn glad to see him.

I smiled. I honestly tried not to, but I couldn’t seem to stop. So I invited him in.

It was the donuts, of course.