Elevator, The (3 page)

Gina turns to the investigator’s report and runs her finger over the notation about Bern’s. How could Sonny think he had the right to take that woman to their favorite place? And how could Francis, the maître d’, seat Sonny with an imposter hanging on his arm?

Maybe Francis didn’t know about the affair…. Then again, it’s more likely that Sonny bought Francis’s silence with generous tips and sly smiles. Despite the camaraderie Gina and Francis have shared within the walls of the restaurant, the man is a servant, not a friend.

Only a close friend would be honest and courageous enough to reveal that your husband has a mistress, a sad truth that underscores an unexpected revelation: Gina has no close friends. No one told her about Sonny’s affair; no one at the office, the country club or the church they faithfully attend at Christmas and Easter.

Surely someone has seen him with that woman. Gina can’t shop at any mall for more than an hour without encountering someone she knows through the business or the club. Sonny is far more extroverted than she is, so people have to have seen him with his little chit.

Perhaps people
have
seen him…and traded knowing looks, clucking in sympathy for the deceived wife and the poor children. Maybe they’ve wondered aloud how long the marriage will last…and what she’s done to make Sonny wander.

What has she done? Nothing but give him the best years of her life, raise his children, decorate his house and stand by his side through dozens of boring conventions, holiday parties and client dinners. She’s reined in her instincts and bitten her tongue so many times it’s a wonder she can still speak, and for what? A man who would betray her and squander his children’s future on a tramp.

Sonny hasn’t mentioned a divorce, but his girlfriend won’t wait forever. She’ll press for marriage one of these days, but before he hits Gina with the news, he’ll make sure his assets are hidden and his business protected…just as he’s already doing.

Gina will be ambushed.

Her children are being bankrupted.

She places the bankbook back in the safe and returns the jewelry to the drawer. She folds the investigator’s report and slides it back into the manila envelope. The man has written a note on his business card—
If you’d like me to spend a few more hours on the case, I could identify the woman in question.

Gina snorts softly. She’s not spending another penny on Sonny. He can exchange his fortysomething wife for two twenties, for all she cares. But he cannot steal from his children.

Ending this marriage will crush the kids, of course. They will be loyal to her, but they love their father and won’t want to hurt him. She could tell them everything, let them see the proof of his infidelity, but teenagers don’t always accept the truth. Most of the time they end up resenting the messenger who brings bad news.

She won’t let them resent her because she’s done nothing wrong. Sonny is the guilty party, he’s the gangrene. And like an infected limb, he deserves to be chopped off.

Being teenagers, the kids have been so wrapped up in their individual worlds they haven’t noticed Sonny’s absences, his odd lapses into silence or his indifference on the rare occasions he’s come home for dinner. He has already impoverished them emotionally; he will not ruin them financially, too.

If Gina says nothing and keeps Sonny’s failings private, the kids will split their loyalties and try to make the best of a bad situation. They might even accept the other woman, whomever she is. Like characters in one of those Lifetime movies, every weekend they’ll kiss Gina goodbye and head off for picnics and football games with Sonny’s replacement wife.

That would be altogether unacceptable.

Michelle crouches on the tile floor and opens the cabinet beneath the sink, searching among bottles of hair spray, lotion and nail polish remover until she spies the blue box. How many years has it been sitting there—one or two? Has it expired?

She pushes aside a bag of cotton balls, then pulls out the box and searches for the expiration date—the kit is still good, so she skims the instructions. The test kit promises quick results and ninety-nine percent accuracy. After five seconds in the urine stream, the stick will turn pink; after two more minutes the result window will reveal an easy-to-read plus or minus.

Pregnant or not?

She sinks to the cold tile as the significance of the question hits home. She’s tried to be responsible, but life is like a baseball game; you can’t score every time you step up to the plate. Some homes aren’t happy, some girls don’t go to the prom, and sometimes your birth control fails.

But nobody should have to strike out on all three counts.

Pregnant. Or not.

She presses her hand to her forehead and tries to picture herself as a parent. Parker already has three kids, so she doesn’t have to worry about his ability to cope with children. Matt, Amanda and Sam are practically grown, but their father adores them. He’ll adore this new baby, too—if her nausea isn’t the result of a virus or pasta gone bad.

On the other hand—she swallows as the gall of envy burns the back of her throat—Parker has been surprisingly protective of his children. Though she’s boldly hinted that she’d like to get to know them, she’s never met his sons and daughter. She’s shopped for their birthday presents, dispensed advice about Christmas gifts and helped him understand the emotional complexities of teenage girlhood. But when she mentions meeting his kids, he insists they are not ready to accept another woman in his life. They’re still torn up about losing their mother….

After five years, shouldn’t those children be ready to move on?

She straightens to relieve the ache in her shoulders, then shakes her head. Technically, Parker’s opinion doesn’t matter. She could have a baby and raise it alone. But a child deserves a father’s love, and Parker would want to know if he has created a new life.

He’d be surprised, of course, maybe even stunned, but she’d assure him she didn’t intend to get pregnant. Their relationship has been stable for over a year and until now she’s felt no need to change things. She hasn’t pressed for marriage and isn’t even sure she believes in it. Matrimony might be fine for women who need to belong to a man, but Michelle has always valued her independence too much to surrender it.

Yet perhaps it’s time to reconsider. Greg Owens’s name keeps slipping through her thoughts, reminding her that investigation is only days away. If she can’t convince Owens that her agency fulfills its promises, he may start digging into her past.

How nice it would be to surrender her responsibilities and walk away. To wake up in the morning and have no appointments. How liberating, to trade the support of a dozen employees for the care of one child. Parker wouldn’t need her income. And he’s so protective of his kids—if she had a baby, he’d probably want her to stay home and spoil the kid rotten.

She’s never visualized herself as a parent, but she could learn to appreciate motherhood. Hard not to think about having a child when her employees are reproducing like rabbits and every other month some celebrity is showing off an infant Apple, Coco or Kumquat….

Since her thirtieth birthday she’s become increasingly aware that every menstrual cycle represents an irreversible loss of fertility. She’s thirty-three, old enough to know herself and settled enough to sacrifice for a child.

Michelle stands on wobbly legs and opens the test kit. Inside the box, a sheaf of printed instructions and a white plastic stick nestle in a molded shell. She plucks the stick from its resting place and holds it up to the light. This little gadget will tell her if she’s pregnant or not. If today will be just another day or the start of a new life. If her next strong emotion will be alarm or relief.

No…not relief. Maybe happiness.

Staring at the stick, for the first time Michelle realizes how much she’d like to be pregnant. If not now, then next month or next year.

She wants a baby…a cooing bundle of hope for which she could correct life’s mistakes and build the home she’s always wanted. Most people do live in happy homes; most girls do go to the prom; most women do want to be mothers.

She’s tired of pretending otherwise.

Pregnant or not, she’s going to tell Parker she wants a family. If he won’t let her be part of his, she will create a family of her own.

W
ith her hair still wet from the shower, Michelle wraps her robe more closely about her, then sits on the edge of her bed and picks up the phone. Though she is determined to reach Parker, she hesitates before dialing his number.

Odd. Though she has no trouble telling people at her office what to do, she wouldn’t dare try to order Parker’s day. Strength and independence are two of his most attractive qualities, and he is one of the few men she has never been able to intimidate.

Still…she needs to talk to him.

She dials his office number, punches in the extension for the executive suite and holds her breath until he picks up. As always, her heart does a double-beat when his voice rumbles over the line.

“It’s me, Parker.” She lowers her head and plucks a dark thread from her white cotton robe. “Am I interrupting anything important?”

His voice, which had been toneless when he answered, warms with huskiness. “You are a delightful surprise. I almost didn’t pick up—I’ve heard from too many clients who would like to fry my hide for their mistakes.”

She chuckles. “That’d be a terrible waste of a perfectly good hide.”

“Listen to you—you always know how to make me feel better.” He laughs. “What are you doing up so early? I thought you’d sleep in.”

“You’re not the only one with responsibilities. I have things to do, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well…I have to close the storm shutters, fill the bathtub with water and back up all my computer files. You know, the usual prehurricane preparations.”

“Didn’t you buy bottled water?”

“Sure.”

“Then why are you filling the tub?”

She smiles at the teasing note in his voice. “Because Lauren told me to, okay? She’s a native. She knows about these things.”

Silence rolls over the line, then he says, “I loved last night.”

“I loved the rose you left for me.”

“My pleasure.”

Michelle wraps the telephone cord around her wrist. “Parker…”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing now?”

He laughs again. “I’m cleaning up. Thought I’d take a shower and shave this stubble before I frighten someone.”

“I like your stubble. I’ve always thought a salt-and-pepper beard is attractive.”

In the background she can hear the sound of running water, so he must be talking on the extension in his private bathroom. Closing her eyes, she can almost see him, phone in one hand, razor in the other.

“Have you heard the latest on the weather?” he asks.

“Yeah. Felix’s still on a northwestern track.”

“Coming straight for us?”

“Looks like it.”

“Then you need to lock those shutters. Make sure—”

“Listen,” she interrupts, unable to wait a moment more, “I was thinking about driving in. I need to pick up a file at the office.”

“Can’t it wait? They issued an evacuation order for all of the downtown area. They’ll be closing the interstates soon.”

“But you’re downtown.”

“Well…I have connections. But you should stay put. It could get dangerous out there.”

“Not for a while. They say we have at least twelve hours before Felix arrives.”

“Things can get wicked in a hurry if tornadoes form in front of the storm. You ought to stay put.”

“Lauren says there’s nothing to worry about. Something about the Native Americans killing a chicken and making predictions—”

“What?”

“Never mind. Please, Parker, will you wait for me? I can get my file and we can leave together. We could even evacuate, maybe drive someplace north of here.”

He lets out a long, audible breath, then speaks in a voice heavy with apology. “I’ll wait if you promise to come right away. I don’t want to hang around much longer because I need to get home. The kids, you know.”

She draws a breath, about to ask why they don’t pick up his kids and drive to Ocala or Gainesville, but Parker is no fool. If he wanted to knit her into his family life, this would be the perfect opportunity.

Obviously, he’s not ready. Yet.

She swipes at a tear with the sleeve of her robe. “I suppose—” she steadies her voice “—you need to stay in the area for your clients. If Felix comes ashore here—”

“I’ll be as busy as a dentist in Hershey, Pennsylvania. That’s why I can’t leave, sweetheart. I need to stick around. For my business and my kids.”

She lowers her gaze, grateful he can’t see the hurt welling in her eyes. Any man might have said the same thing, but she has a feeling his refusal has more to do with his children than his client list. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Be careful. And, by the way, your timing’s perfect. I ordered something special for you and it arrived late yesterday. I was going to save it for your birthday—”

“Good grief, Parker, that’s two months from now.”

“—then I thought maybe you could wear the surprise when I take you out for dinner next week. I mean, why wait?”

Michelle smiles as a blush heats her cheeks. Is he really ready to commit?

“Parker,” she breathes, “what have you done?”

“You’ll have to see, love. Come on up, I’ll be waiting.”

As Donna Summer continues to warble from the CD player, Isabel raps on the inner-office door, then uses her master key to enter. A quick glance assures her the space is empty, but she hesitates at the sight of a burning lamp. Though the computer behind the desk whirrs continually, the lamp is usually dark when she cleans this suite.

She shakes her head. More waste. Americans are always complaining about the high cost of gasoline, but still they burn lamps in empty rooms and run their computers all night and keep their air-conditioning so low she has to wear a sweater while she works. Maybe Americans just like to complain.

She blows a stray hank of hair from her forehead, then walks over to the executive’s waste can. Wadded papers and soda cans spill from the edge of the container, so she tamps down the trash before carrying it to the cart outside the door. No candy wrappers lie at the bottom of this bin; no cigarette butts, either. This boss, whoever he is, has few obvious bad habits.

She frowns as she returns the trash can to the side of the desk. An unusual amount of clutter covers the work area, so perhaps she shouldn’t try to dust. A pile of papers litters the blotter, an uncapped fountain pen atop the stack as if the man—Mr. Rossman, according to an envelope on the desk—has just stepped out of the office.

But no one comes here on Saturday, and no one would come with a hurricane spinning in the Gulf of Mexico…would they?

Maybe she shouldn’t have come downtown. Carlos did not want her to come to work. When she insisted they needed the money, he told her to hurry home because Rafael will want his
mamá
if the weather gets ugly. So she promised to work quickly, even though her paycheck will be short if she doesn’t put in her full eight hours. There will be little money for groceries in the week ahead, but Carlos will put in extra hours at the gas station if he has to. If the storm doesn’t come and the gas station stays open.

Somehow, they will—how does Carlos say it? Make the nickels stretch.

She smiles as she runs her feather duster over the edge of the credenza and skims the letters on the computer keyboard. When the monitor flashes to life after she touches the egg-shaped thing they call a mouse, she backs away.

She has been warned about American
tecnología.
The government here has hidden wires in the walls to listen to phone calls and read e-mail messages. Cameras sit atop traffic lights and snap
fotografías
of passing cars; computers at the grocery know what she buys and when she buys it.

Computers make Isabel nervous. So many Americans depend on them, especially the people in this building. Sometimes she feels as if the sleeping computers watch her as she dusts, ready to spill her secrets if she touches them in the wrong way.

Florida’s attorney general has offices in this building—six floors of desks with computers—and his office terrifies her more than the others. She doesn’t know who the attorney general is or exactly what he does, but with such a title and so many employees, he must know everything about everyone in the state. Which means he might know about her…but doesn’t yet know he knows.

She must never give him a reason to search for any of her names on his computers.

She runs her duster over the back of Rossman’s chair, then peers out the wide window behind his desk. More color has filled the sky since her last look, but the sun is glowering behind a cloud. After giving the glass a quick spritz of cleaner, she swipes at nonexistent fingerprints. Apparently Mr. Rossman never stands at this window, never touches the glass out of appreciation for the view. Perhaps he takes the scene for granted.

She pauses as she looks toward the west. A series of darker clouds hovers in the distance, swallowing up the horizon’s light. The street lamps far below remain lit, but few vehicles move over the roads. Here and there, police cars hold a vigil at intersections, their lights flashing blue and red. Tampa appears quiet, almost deserted.

Donna Summer is singing “Any Way at All” when Isabel crosses the office. She is about to haul in the vacuum cleaner when she spies a large gold box resting on the arms of one of the visitor’s chairs. An extravagant bow adorns the lid, but the top of the box is askew and merely resting on the bottom. Someone has examined whatever lies inside and left the box open…almost.

What could be inside a box so beautiful?

She stands by the chair, wavering, then tosses her feather duster onto the cleaning cart outside the door. What would it matter if she takes a peek? She will not hurt a thing. She only wants to see what kind of present a rich American boss buys his
esposa
or
novia.

She dislodges the fancy lid with a fingertip, then pushes it out of the way. A white softness lies inside the box, and on closer examination Isabel discovers a gloriously lush fur jacket.

“¡Está maravillosa!”

Oh, what she would give to have such a
chaqueta.
A man buys a coat like this only if his woman needs nothing else, for why would any woman need a fur coat in Florida? Owning a coat like this would mean the bills were paid, the baby had clothes and they owned a home of their own. No one in her hometown ever owned such a jacket, but on television she’s seen snowy landscapes populated by beautiful red-cheeked ladies in furs as white and lush as the snow surrounding them.

Isabel runs her hand over the garment, its softness like air beneath her palm. After glancing toward the door, she lifts the jacket out of the box and holds it up. The sleeves might be too long and the buttons a little tight, but what does that matter?

She turns to the mirror on the wall, then presses the jacket against her shoulders. The light color complements her dark hair and eyes, and the belt might make her look slender. She bites her lip, suffering a momentary jealousy of the woman who will claim this—why should she be so
afortunada?

Isabel lowers her gaze as a wave of guilt slaps at her. What is she thinking? She has Carlos and Rafael and she is safe in wide, anonymous America. She might never own a fur like this, but she will never need one.

Still…maybe she could wear it for a minute?

Through the earbuds, Donna Summer urges her to follow her dreams.

Ingrained caution falls away as Isabel slips her arms into the coat. The silk lining, dyed to resemble a leopard pelt, feels glorious against her skin, and the fur collar softly tickles her throat. She wraps herself in the luxurious creation and ties the belt at her waist, then moves to the mirror to see if the
chaqueta
lives up to its unspoken promises.

A pale oval of apprehension stares out from the glass, then eases into a smile. Isabel relaxes with the stranger in the mirror, recognizing the fur-clad lady as a woman who could walk into any store in the country and not feel anxious. In this coat Isabel could shop at Nordstrom or Lord & Taylor; she could examine a fancy dress without some clerk rushing over to suggest that she would be better off looking…somewhere else.

She presses her hand to the soft collar and lifts her chin, determined to enjoy the moment. Even if by some miracle Carlos earns a raise and a promotion, they will always need money for Rafael’s food and clothes and medicine and school. One day her son will go to college; later he will become a doctor. He is an American, so he will speak good English and feel free to shop in any store. His wife might own a coat like this, and she will wear it with pride.

Isabel slips her hand into the pockets and flashes a movie-star smile at the mirror, then realizes one pocket is not empty. It contains a thin blue box, hinged on one side.

She gasps when she lifts the lid. On a bed of midnight velvet, dozens of diamonds have been strung together, more than she can count. It’s a
pulsera,
a bracelet, but unlike any bracelet Isabel has ever seen.