Heartstopper (11 page)

“Boys around this age,” Rita continued, “you have to be so careful.”

Sandy nodded, thinking of her own son. At sixteen, Tim was still the painfully shy boy he’d been for as long as she could remember. Slow to smile, slower to laugh, even slower to make friends, he was the classic outsider: sensitive, introverted, artistic. He preferred classical music to pop, live theater to movies, and books to basketball. Which made him a natural target for boys like Greg Watt and Joey Balfour. Luckily, because he was the teacher’s son, and because his sister was as pretty and popular as she was smart and outgoing, the bullies had seen fit to leave him alone.

For now.

“They say that if you can keep them alive until they reach thirty, you’ve got a chance,” Rita said.

“He’ll be fine,” Sandy told her, in an effort to reassure them both. She stretched for a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed gently at Rita’s eyes.

“Anyway, enough of that. I really think you should come out with me tonight. I have a date, and I’m a little nervous.”

“You have a date?”

“A blind one. Ever done that?”

“Just once. When I was fifteen. It was a disaster.”

“Then you understand why I’m so nervous, and you’ll come with me,” Rita said.

“I can’t go with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s
your
date. It would be too weird.”

“So I’ll call him and ask if he has a friend….”

“No.”

“Ah, come on—”

“I remind you I’m a married woman.”

“In name only.”

“It’s only been a few weeks since Ian moved out.”

“Seven weeks,” Rita corrected.

“Seven, yes.” Sandy was beginning to regret stopping by. “Anyway, there’s been no talk of divorce. We’re not even legally separated.”

“What do you mean? You still haven’t seen a lawyer?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, what’s keeping you? I gave you the name of that guy in Miami, the one who handled my cousin’s divorce. She said he was excellent.”

“When do I have time to go to Miami?”

“Make time.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“When I have time,” Sandy snapped.

“Sorry,” Rita apologized. “I think I just crossed a line.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern….”

“It’s just that you’d like me to mind my own business.”

Sandy shrugged. “Ian’s coming over tonight to take the kids out to dinner.”

“All the more reason for you not to be there.”

“I can’t.” After all, it was possible that Ian’s real reason for coming over wasn’t just to see the kids. It was possible he wanted to see her as well, that Liana Martin’s disappearance had made him realize what a complete idiot he’d been these last few months, and that he now realized how important his family was to him. There was no way he could be happy with his inflatable human doll. He’d been
having one of those midlife crises he used to belittle in others. He’d gone temporarily insane. Yes, that was as good a description as any, Sandy decided. But now he’d come back to his senses, and all five of those senses were telling him that you didn’t just walk out on a marriage of almost twenty years, you didn’t leave the woman you’d married when she was all of nineteen, a woman who’d borne you two children when she was little more than a child herself, while at the same time earning her teaching degree and putting you through medical school. You didn’t desert a woman like that. You didn’t leave a woman of substance for a woman of silicone.

Except, of course, that’s exactly what he’d done.

“So, who arranged this blind date?” Sandy asked, hoping to change the subject.

“I’d rather not say.”

“What do you mean, you’d rather not say?”

“You’ll get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?”

“Because I’ve already used up all your goodwill.”

“Tell me.”

“I met him on the Internet.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“I told you you’d get mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m dumbfounded. I’m speechless.”

“Would that it were so.”

“How could you agree to go out with a man you met in a chat room? Especially now, when a young girl is missing.”

“It wasn’t in a chat room. I swear. It was one of those online dating services. I signed up a couple of weeks ago.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s been three years since Brian died. Because I’m lonely. Because I’m forty-three, and five feet no inches tall and weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, and I live in Torrance, where I’ve already slept with all the eligible
men, and even a few who weren’t so eligible, and I just thought it would be nice to meet someone who can talk about something other than tractors and grapefruits. And you should see, Sandy, since I signed up, I’ve had e-mails from men all over the country, and some of them sound pretty great.”

“If they’re so great, what are they doing looking for women online? Forget I asked that,” Sandy said, recalling how handsome Ian had looked the morning he’d announced he was leaving her for Kerri Franklin. “Okay. So, this guy you’re going out with tonight …”

“His name is Jack Whittaker, he’s fifty-five, his wife died last year of leukemia, and he has his own business selling widgets, or something like that. Anyway, he’s from Palm Beach, and he’s stopping in Torrance on his way to visit friends in Naples, and he suggested having a drink and getting to know each other.”

“So why would you want me hanging around?”

“Well, because of Liana Martin.” Rita smiled her sweetest smile, the one that brought dimples to her cheeks. “In case this guy turns out to be a psycho killer or something.”

Sandy laughed. She and Rita had clicked from the moment they’d met in the staff room at the start of the school year, and she’d quickly become Sandy’s closest friend in Torrance, the only good thing that had happened to her since leaving Rochester.

“Actually, what I was thinking was that we could already be having drinks when he shows up. And then, if I decide I like him, I could give you some signal, you know, like I could wink or toss my head.” Rita tossed her head back, then grabbed her neck in pain. “No, I can’t do that. He’ll think I’m having a spasm. But, anyway,” she continued over Sandy’s laughter. “How about I’ll scratch the side of my nose, and you’ll beat a hasty retreat?”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Maybe next time.”

“How about next week? I’m meeting this guy in Fort Lauderdale.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I told you, this service is terrific. What do you say? If he has a friend …”

“Maybe.”

“Great.”

“I said, maybe.” Sandy shook her head, half in amazement, half in admiration. “Do I not make myself clear?”

“‘It’s a new world, Goldie,’” Rita said.

“What?”

“It’s a line from
Fiddler on the Roof.”

“You’re quoting
Fiddler on the Roof
?”

“The drama department did a production of it last year. It was fabulous. You wouldn’t believe what good voices some of these kids have. Count Dracula, for instance. He played the tailor, and he was fabulous.”

Sandy tried picturing Victor Drummond as a poor Russian tailor. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much of a stretch. “Can I use your phone?”

Rita pulled the old-fashioned, black telephone across the tall counter, almost knocking over several bottles full of cotton balls and tongue depressors. “I can’t believe you don’t have a cell phone.”

“I hate the damn things.”

“You need one. What if there’s an emergency?”

“Someone can always find me.”

“What if
you’re
the one having the emergency?”

Sandy ignored the question. “You have a home number for the Drummonds?”

Rita crossed to the small desk wedged into the corner under the window overlooking a side alleyway. She pulled the school directory out of the top drawer and quickly
located the Drummonds’ phone number. “What are you going to say to them?”

“First of all, are they aware their son hasn’t been in class since Tuesday?” Sandy said as she dialed. “And that he has a rather nasty cut on his arm? And that I think someone should have a look at it.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“That would be my recommendation.”

“Which I’m sure will be welcomed with open arms,” Rita said.

The phone rang five times before the Drummonds’ answering service clicked on, and Sandy left a short message asking them to contact her as soon as possible. “Nobody’s ever home for these kids. No wonder they’re so lost.”

“You’re saying we should all give up our jobs and be stay-at-home moms?”

Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Kerri Franklin is a stay-at-home mom.”

Sandy rolled her eyes toward the recessed ceiling. “Obviously there are no easy answers.”

“Sure I can’t change your mind about going out with me later?”

“My cue to leave.” Sandy got off her chair, opened the door, and stepped into the hall. “Be careful tonight.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. If you have even a twinge that something’s not right with this guy, you get out of there immediately.”

“Yes, Mother.” Rita stuck her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her fingers.

Sandy laughed and closed the door. Seconds later, she was marching down the wide corridor of the main building toward the exit, inhaling the smells inherent to all high school corridors: perspiration, dirty socks, and cloying cologne, mouthwash, and disinfectant. The concrete walls were painted a dull yellow and covered with framed
photographs of students who’d attended classes over the twelve years the school had been in operation. There were pictures of the football, baseball, and basketball teams, as well as a glass cabinet devoted to their trophies. There were also photographs of the short-lived chess club, the shorter-lived debating club, and a whole section devoted to the drama department’s various productions. Sandy scanned the pictures for one of Victor Drummond, but the only photos from
Fiddler on the Roof
were of Tanya McGovern, Amber Weber, and Liana Martin as the milkman’s three marriageable daughters, and one of Greg Watt as their beleaguered father, Tevye. Truly, the Fiddler from Hell, Sandy thought, her eyes returning to the picture of Liana Martin.

Where was she anyway? What had happened to her?

“So what do you think?” a voice asked from somewhere behind her, and Sandy jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sandy spun around to find Gordon Lipsman, the school drama teacher, watching her through disconcertingly crossed brown eyes, a grin spreading from one side of his big, square head to the other. “Gordon. I didn’t hear you.”

“Sneakers.” He indicated his shoes with a lowering of his eyes. “Very sneaky.”

Sandy forced a smile onto her lips. Gordon Lipsman was one of those people whose eagerness to be liked made it almost impossible to comply, the kind of person who gave stereotypes a bad name. He spoke with an ersatz British accent that was more annoying than authentic, because as far as anyone knew, he’d been born right here in Torrance. Now forty, he’d never married and, until recently, had been living with his widowed mother and more than a dozen cats in a house on the outskirts of town. His mother had died in February, resulting in a mild emotional meltdown and the postponement of this year’s musical offering, reputed to be
Kiss Me, Kate.

“I see you’ve been admiring our Drama Hall of Fame.”

“It’s very impressive.” Sandy began a silent count of the cat hairs covering Gordon Lipsman’s blue-and-white-striped seersucker jacket. And was that ketchup on his sleeve? “I had no idea Greg Watt could sing.”

“Oh, he’s full of surprises, that one. He was an absolutely splendid Tevye, although his father didn’t take too kindly to the idea of his son wasting valuable time onstage when he thought he should be out working. He made it quite clear that Greg was not to partake in any more such flights of fancy. Although I don’t think those were his exact words.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’ve been hoping to change his mind. He’d make a wonderful Petruchio, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t realize the drama department was doing a show this year.”

“Oh, yes. My mother, may she rest in peace, would have wanted it that way. And
Kiss Me, Kate
was one of her favorite shows.” Tears filled his eyes, only to vanish in the very next breath. “I was thinking of your daughter for the lead. She’s such a pretty girl. Do you think she might be interested in trying out?”

“I guess you’d have to ask her.”

“I was hoping you might intercede on my behalf.”

“I’ll mention it to Megan,” Sandy offered. Then: “What about Tim?” Getting involved with the drama club might be just the ticket for drawing Tim out of his shell, she was thinking. He liked the theater, and maybe getting a part in the school play would help boost his confidence. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

“Tim?”

“My son.”

“Oh, yes. Tim. Quiet chap. Doesn’t say much. Well, I’m afraid he’s all wrong for Petruchio, of course, especially if Megan agrees to play Kate. It wouldn’t do for a brother and
sister to play lovers, after all. No, that would never do. But there are lots of smaller roles. He’s certainly welcome to audition on Monday.” Surprisingly strong hands fluttered nervously to his face, landing at the tip of his bulbous nose.

Sandy thought of the caricature that Greg had drawn of the man, the way it had captured his essence in a few crude strokes. “Is that blood?” she asked suddenly.

The color immediately drained from the drama teacher’s face. “Blood? Where?”

“On your sleeve.”

Gordon stared at the stain on his cuff, then slowly raised it to his nose, sniffing at the offending blotch as if he were an animal. “Spaghetti sauce,” he pronounced after a moment’s pause. He held out his arm, as if offering her a chance to confirm his assessment.

“I should get going.” Sandy turned to leave, tripping over her feet in an effort to avoid Gordon Lipsman’s outstretched hand, and collapsing into him. They stumbled toward the wall in a kind of free-floating, spastic tango. “I’m so sorry,” she said when she was finally able to extricate herself from his clammy grasp. She turned, surreptitiously brushing away several stray cat hairs that had jumped from his jacket to her pink cotton blouse. Joey Balfour was standing about twenty feet away, a cell phone in his hand, extended toward her.