Do You Promise Not to Tell? (9 page)

“I don’t know much about him, except that his mother is Nadine Paradise. From the looks of him, that’s his only claim to fame.”

“And her?” Farrell asked.

Pat shook her head in disgust. “Stacey Spinner. She plays her role as a Saddle River interior decorator a little too much for my taste. She forgets I remember her from years ago—we actually met at an evening seminar at Churchill’s auction house. She was working as a department-store salesgirl at the time, but smart enough to know that there was a big world out there that she wanted a part of.”

Pat stopped to consider a moment.

“I’ve got to give Stacey credit, though. She’s really
built a solid business for herself and, from what I’ve seen and heard, she does have a certain flair. She knew what she wanted and she went for it. I admire that.”

Olga struggled to lift the heavy carton of Epsom salts and place it in the small wire shopping cart. It would feel good later to fill the old porcelain bathtub with the salts and hot water and sit in the soothing pool. Her arthritis was really aching today.

Slowly she finished her shopping in the aisles of CVS. A box of tissues, some soap powder, a package of butterscotch. She made her way to the cash register at the front of the store.

She waited quietly in line, waiting for her turn to pay. She watched a child cry to his mother for a Milky Way. The mother gave in.

Olga turned her head away from the spoiled child and his weak mother.

And then she saw it. Featured on the counter for the world to see.

On the cover of an American magazine, the Moon Egg glared.

The teenaged girl at the checkout counter watched as the old lady pointed in the direction of the magazines and crumpled to the floor. Instant hubbub ensued as the other customers on line and browsing near the front of the store, gawked and gasped. A strong-looking man bent over the fainted woman, rubbing her hand and talking to her.

For a few minutes, the white-haired woman lay
motionless on the pharmacy floor. Then, as she began to come to, she was mumbling.

“
Ma ijtso, ma ijtso
.”

“What’s she saying?” a blond-haired woman asked, as her four-year-old tugged at her arm.

“I hope she hasn’t broken a hip,” another woman said with some alarm.

“
Ma ijtso
.”

Olga’s eyes opened and began to dart around, frightened.

“It’s all right,” said the man who bent over her. “It’s all right. You just had a fainting spell.”

Olga struggled to get up on her feet. She held tight to the man’s arm as she tried to regain her equilibrium.

“Thank you, mister. Thank you.”

“Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked.

“No. No one. I am all right in a little while.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“Just a few blocks.”

“Then, please, let me take you home. You shouldn’t walk home by yourself.”

Before closing for the evening, Charlie took the pink ham from the shiny glass display case and shaved off a generous portion. He filled three plastic containers, spooning in creamy potato salad, pickled beets, and rice pudding. He packed everything up in a brown paper bag, along with a couple of seeded rolls.

He switched off the store lights and locked up. Standing out on the sidewalk in front of the delicatessen, Charlie didn’t have much to look forward to in the night ahead. Maybe he’d stop on the way home and rent a video.

As he walked in the chilly evening air toward the garden apartments, he realized how much it bothered him that Pat had a date tonight. . . a date
not
with him. He’d be home, sitting in front of the television, and she’d be out with someone else.

Well, it was his own fault, wasn’t it? He never got up the courage to ask her out for dinner and a movie. He’d watched her for years, admired her, dreamed about her. But he did nothing about it. Nothing to move his dream toward reality.

So here he was, good old Charlie. Dropping off some food to the elderly on Saturday night.

He knocked on Olga’s apartment door and waited. He could hear the faint sound of her slow, shuffling progress to the front door.

“Who is there?”

“It’s Charlie, Olga.”

He heard the lock slide open as Olga unbolted the door. The diminutive woman’s old face smiled with pleasure and anticipation at the sight of Charlie and his package.

“Ah, Charlie. I not know you coming tonight. You good man. So kind to think of Olga all the time.”

As Charlie reached out to hand the paper bag to Olga, he looked over her head into the apartment. Before Olga closed the door, Charlie caught a glimpse of something gleaming on the table behind her.

Pat noticed that she was taking too much time trying to decide what to wear.

Six dresses were strewn across the gaily-flowered quilt on her antique iron-and-brass bed, and five pair of shoes were arrayed on the floor.

It
’
s just dinner, for God’s sake. What’s the big deal
?

When Tim Kavanagh called asking if she’d like to have dinner, she’d only hesitated a moment before saying yes. It had surprised her how much she’d been anticipating the evening all week. Most times she found herself dreading new dates.

Not that there really had been that many of them. She knew that she didn’t give out the signals that said “approachable” and “available.” Truth to tell, she usually didn’t want to get involved. It was simpler that way, which translated into “safer that way.”

But it felt different this time. Pat laughed to herself.
You idiot! What makes you think you are exempt from the natural human desire for the companionship of the opposite sex? Admit it. You’ve missed it for a long time. Too long
.

She’d narrowed the selection down to her black wool long-sleeved dress or her blue velvet cocktail dress. The black was always safe. She could dress it up with her pearl earrings and necklace.

But the velvet was more sensuous and, frankly, sexier. It hugged her well-exercised figure. When she wore it, she felt decidedly more feminine.

Go for it.

On went the velvet. She fastened on rhinestone earrings but chose to wear nothing at the open neckline. She slipped on black suede high-heeled pumps over her sheer dark hose. As Pat turned before the full length mirror, she felt confident about her appearance.

Farrell and Peter applauded when she came out of her bedroom.

“What a bod, Pat! You look fabulous,” exclaimed Farrell. “You make me want to get right to the gym.”

“Okay, you two. Thanks for the compliments to this nervous mother going out on a date for the first time in a long while. Farrell, you’re sure this is okay?”

“Of course it is.
You
’
re
the one doing me a favor, having me out for the weekend after I invited myself. I’d feel terrible if you canceled your date. Go, have a good time. Peter and I will have a little dinner and then I’ll let him get back to Seton Hall where he should be on a Saturday night.”

Pat went out into the cold March night and slid into the front seat of her eight-year-old Volvo. Tim had wanted to pick her up, but she’d insisted on meeting him at the restaurant. She always felt safer when she had her own car.

She drove the thirty miles into Manhattan and miraculously found a parking spot on West 58th Street, a half-block from her destination.

Tiny, twinkling white lights glittered, framing the
entrance to Petrossian. Even in the dark, Pat could see the architectural ornateness of the building that housed the renowned restaurant. Amid the limestone gingerbread and scrollwork, bizarre little gargoyles perched on the walls, smiling or grimacing upon the people on the sidewalk below.

You guys look like you’re daring me to come inside
, Pat thought as she went up the steps, where an imposing doorman awaited her. She drew a deep breath as she entered.

Inside, a small shop offered the delicacies for which Petrossian was known. Jars and tins of caviar, foie gras, and pâtés lined glass shelves, while packages of smoked salmon, sturgeon, and eel rested in glistening display cases. Truffles, Russian caramels, and vodka- and cognac-filled chocolates beckoned temptingly.

Pat looked to the right, into the restaurant, and spotted Tim Kavanagh waiting at the art deco-style bar. She saw his eyes sweep over her and she could tell by his expression as she walked toward him that he was pleased. She was glad she’d opted for the midnight-blue velvet dress.

Tim rose to greet her.

“You look wonderful,” he whispered.

“Thank you.” Pat felt the old tingling sensation, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

A navy-blazered gentleman guided them to their table for two. As Pat took her seat, she noticed that most of the other tables were meant for two as well. The restaurant was smaller and more intimate than she had imagined it would be.

“Pat, would you like some champagne?”

“Mmm. Perfect.”

As the waiter, also attired in a navy blazer with the Petrossian insignia on his breast pocket, went to fetch the Charles Heidsieck 1985, Pat enjoyed the loveliness of the surroundings and the allure of her dinner companion. How delicious to be sitting there with a man she was drawn to. God, how she had missed it—the chemistry, the attraction.

“How did you come to love all things Russian?” she asked.

Tim thought a moment before answering. “I guess it was when I read
Nicholas and Alexandra
in high school. The whole thing about the Imperial family and the czarevitch’s hemophilia and Rasputin and the overthrow and murder of the Romanovs intrigued me. Also, about the same time, I saw the old Ingrid Bergman and Yul Brynner movie
Anastasia
, about the woman who claimed she was the youngest daughter of the czar and had escaped her executioners. After that, I was hooked.”

Pat smiled. “You remind me of Peter. Once he started hearing stories from Olga, an elderly Russian woman who has become a surrogate grandmother for him, he couldn’t get enough.”

The couple sampled Sevruga, Ossetra, and Beluga caviar, as Tim explained the differences between the Caspian Sea sturgeons that produced the tiny eggs. Pat selected a salmon with lobster sauce as her main course, while Tim chose a sea-scallop soufflé served with truffles and a pressed-caviar sauce. They sampled
each other’s dishes, both declaring that dinner was fabulous.

Over coffee, Tim reached for Pat’s hand.

“I really enjoyed myself tonight, Pat.”

“I did, too. The food, the surroundings. . .” She paused. “The company.”

Tim smiled. “I hope there will be more evenings like this.”

“Me, too.”

Farrell and Peter both ordered the juicy cheeseburgers for which the Iron Horse was famous, and sat back with their drinks.

“I watched you and your mother today, Peter, and I admired you. I guess I should admit it, I’m envious.”

“You—envious of
us
?” Peter laughed incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s true. You guys have a solid life. Your mom makes a living doing something she likes to do and she does it well. She’s raised a good son, and on her own, too. That’s a lot to be proud of.”

Peter took a drink of his Coke.

“Well, what about you, Farrell? You’ve accomplished a lot—you’re a television news producer.”

Farrell looked at the train prints that were scattered along the wall over their table, trying to decide if she felt comfortable taking in so young a confidant. What would it hurt for the kid to hear a little about how the real world worked? “Peter, I think it
sounds
more impressive than it really is. It’s a job—or, at least, it has become a job. I don’t seem to have the enthusiasm I once did for it. Besides, it doesn’t look like I’m going to have a place at KEY News for much longer.”

Peter listened intently while Farrell told him the story of what had been going on with her career.

“The Fabergé story was just the final straw. It had
been coming for a long time. I just hate to go out on such a defeated note.” Farrell finished off her wine and then turned philosophical. “Hey, look at the bright side. At least I ran into you and your mother again at that auction. It was worth going for that.”

The burgers arrived. As Peter poured ketchup over his railroad fries, he decided to tell Farrell about the story of Olga’s Moon Egg. He’d known that something had to be done with the information. Maybe it was meant to be, that he entrust Farrell with the story. KEY News could investigate as well as the police. That way he didn’t have to drag his mother into it.

Farrell listened to the story Peter told. Could she actually be getting a lead to a fascinating story from this college kid? She knew that news often came from unexpected sources, but the tale Peter was spinning for her now was so fabulous that Farrell was extremely skeptical—skeptical that the story would turn out to be true, and skeptical that she would have the good luck to have it fall right into her lap like this.