Iced (15 page)

“And we’re not even in love,” Eben commented.

“Very funny.”

“I hope you don’t think this is my idea of a good time, Missy.”

“My name is Bessie.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Bessie harrumphed. “I believe we’ve met before. I wish we never had—then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“It was our destiny,” Eben philosophized. “Are you so grouchy just because I had muddy boots last year? You should have had a welcome mat out for Santa to wipe his feet. Be a little considerate of my feelings. I’m getting the blame for everything.”

Bessie grunted. “Chain of events. Our lives are subject to the stupidest little twists of fate. How was I supposed to know that doing my job, checking Santa’s boots for mud, would lead me to this?” After Judd and Willeen had gone back into town, Bessie had briefly explained to Eben, in caustic terms, her run-in with them in the bar. “We’re in deep trouble.”

The hours passed and they talked little. Judd and Willeen had turned off the television when they were getting Bessie tied to the bed and forgot to turn it back on before they left. No lights were left on in the whole house. The bedroom was pitch-dark.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Bessie said futilely. “I don’t know what they’re going to do with us.”

“Why don’t we get some rest?” Eben suggested. “There’s an old saying that things always look better in the morning. Or something like that. Perhaps we’ll be struck with inspiration and hatch an escape plan.”

Bessie sighed and tried to get her head into a comfortable position. With her severe hairdo, it wasn’t easy. The mounds of hair anchored to her scalp with numerous pins prevented her from sinking into the pillow. It reminded her of the days when women had to wear curlers to bed if they wanted to look half-decent. If she were home now, she would have removed every pin and brushed out her hair. At least one hundred strokes. The thought that she wasn’t in her own comfortable bed with her few earthly possessions surrounding her made her miserable. “I hope you don’t talk in your sleep,” she said to the instigator of her misfortune.

“Sweet dreams,” Eben replied and closed his eyes.

A half hour later they both snapped awake when they heard the back door open. A moment later Willeen opened the bedroom door and looked in on them. The bare light bulb in the hallway cast an annoying glare that shone right into their eyes.

“Hope we didn’t wake you up,” Willeen said.

She sounds a little tipsy, Bessie thought, blinking her eyes.

“You two must have to go to the potty, because I certainly do. Judd beat me to it, so I have to wait. We had the most wunnerful time...”

I wonder how many she belted down, Eben thought.

“. . . and we had the most unbelievable stroke of luck. We got the business card of some guy who’s the dentist to the stars.” Willeen hiccuped. “Ah, excuse me. Anyway, I asked him what stars and he tells me Nora Regan Reilly. I say yeah, that name is so familiar. And he says she’s a writer. I look at Judd and say out loud, ‘Regan Reilly.’ The dentist blurts out, ‘She’s here too! The daughter! Do you want to meet her?’ ”Willeen started laughing hysterically. “So we met Regan Reilly! Guess what, guys? She wasn’t worrying about you. She was out partying. With some very handsome fellow at her side, I might add.”

Judd joined Willeen in the doorway. She put her hand up to his face. “Not as handsome as you, of course, Juddie.”

“Let’s go to bed, Willeen. You’ve said enough.”

“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse, baby,” she giggled.

Oh my God, Eben thought. Was Regan Reilly in danger now? Bessie and her big mouth.

30

F
OR HOURS GERALDINE had sat in the rocker, her shawl wrapped around her, engrossed in the attempt to decipher Pop-Pop’s life story. She was having the worst time. Small writing, faded ink, terrible spelling, crossed-out words that nearly bore holes in the dried-up, brittle pages that felt like parchment—all made for slow going and called for frequent breaks to rest her eyes. The stream-of-consciousness writing—jumping from one subject to the next without any rhyme or reason—was really getting on her nerves.

“Who did he think he was?” she mumbled to herself as she delicately turned a page and positioned her magnifying glass. “James Joyce?”

Her momentary lapse into irritation was followed by a feeling of shame for herself and admiration for Pop-Pop as she read about him harvesting turnips on a farm in upstate New York when he was only twelve. Geraldine’s lips moved as she mouthed what she was reading. “I was a skinny little thing in patched pants, trying to make a living. Even after I’d had my saloon for many years, the sight of a turnip would still make me cry.”

Geraldine looked up from the book, a little misty-eyed herself. He was so good to me, she thought. So understanding. Who but Pop-Pop would have had the talent to become one of the most successful men in Aspen? He’d really made the most out of his year and a half of grade school. And such a storyteller! Silver Tongue was his nickname when he was asked to speak at the annual Fourth-of-July picnic.

He had so much to tell, and so much to write down, his mind must have been a jumble. No wonder he skipped around so much. One minute the saloon, the next his trip out west at age fifteen, the next something happening at the mine. Did he write about
it
or not? Geraldine was dying to know.

She looked up at his portrait. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. But it might take me days to find out if you wrote about that time or not. I’ve found someone who I think can help me, but she’s only going to be here for the week. Otherwise, Pop-Pop, I could happily while away the hours drinking in every last detail of every day of your life that all seem to be included in this here diary.”

When did he write this? Geraldine wondered as she turned back to his memoirs. It must have been late at night. When she had gone on that six-month trip with him, she realized that he was a first-class insomniac. He must have used those quiet hours in the middle of the night to pour out his heart on paper. Me, there’s nothing that burns me up more than when I wake up at three o’clock in the morning and can’t get back to sleep, she thought. I get too aggravated to get anything done.

At nearly midnight, using the magnifying glass as a bookmark, she closed the cover and carried the heavy volume into the bedroom. She placed it on the night table next to her bed. I hope it’s in there, she thought. I hope I hope I hope.

As she drifted off to sleep she reassured herself that from what she had read so far, Pop-Pop had written about everything. So surely he had written about
that
.

31

I
’M SO TIRED I may just pass out with my clothes on,” Kit said as Regan unlocked the door to their room. “I thought your escort for the evening would have left you starry-eyed,” Regan said.

“Mr. Search and Retrieve,” Kit answered as she walked in the room and flopped down on the cot that had been left for her. “I don’t think so. It figures you got the guy who had something to offer. Like a drop-dead face.”

“I didn’t get him, Kit,” Regan protested. “He’s nice, that’s it. If you ask me, he’s a little too pretentious. And too much of a pretty boy. He’s the type you can’t trust in the long run.”

“The short run works just fine for me,” Kit said. She unzipped her jacket and pulled off her boots. “What do you want, you’re only here for a week. Doesn’t he want to go skiing with you tomorrow?”

“With us. Doesn’t Derwood want to ski with you too?”

“It’s a blur,” Kit said. “When he got into computers of the future I started dissociating. In layman’s terms, day dreaming.”

“Trust me, I think he’ll be with us.”

“He told me he was a great skier,” Kit said. “I just dread that ride up in the gondola. It can seem like a lot longer than fifteen minutes when you’re trapped listening to the history of the microchip. Can you imagine the people who get stuck in the gondola with us? Halfway up they’ll want to jump out.”

“He’s not that bad. Actually he was kind of cute,” Regan said. “Stewart filled me in on his boarding school and kept asking me if I knew this one or if I knew that one. When I’d said no for the ninety-ninth time I was sure he would leave. But it didn’t seem to bother him.”

“He liked you,” Kit said. “I could tell. When I was dissociating I was staring at him and drooling.”

“Is dissociating your new word?”

“Huh?”

Regan shook her head, went into the bathroom and took her robe off the back of the door. She slipped it on and tied the belt around her waist.

“Get up, Kit. Don’t fall asleep in your clothes,” she called.

“I learned it from you. The one whose new pajamas were still in the wrapper after four years of college.”

Regan laughed. “I’ve got a new term for you. Baloneyizing.” She shut the door of the bathroom. In the next three minutes she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and took her calcium pills because she’d read so many articles about the urgent need to take preventive measures to fend off osteoporosis. When she finally came out of the bathroom, Kit’s eyes were shut. She hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Kit. Get up.”

“Thank God I’m so tired,” Kit said. “Otherwise I’d never get any sleep. This cot is a piece of—”

“It does remind me of the beds at Saint Polycarp’s,” Regan said. The furnishings and plumbing in the antiquated dormitories had left something to be desired. “I’ll sleep on it tomorrow night.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage. I have an appointment to see my chiropractor next week,” Kit said as she dragged herself up and into the bathroom.

Regan got into bed and pulled the covers around her. I feel guilty, she thought as she looked over at Kit’s sleeping area. Oh well. Not that guilty. Tomorrow I’ll have to see if Louis can do better than that.

It had been a fun evening. They’d all gone to dinner together and then went dancing. Larry had introduced them to everyone in sight. He had definitely missed his calling. He was a great dentist but he should have been a traveling social director. It seemed as if there was no one he didn’t know.

When she and Kit had gotten back, there had been no messages for them. Regan picked up the pad next to the bed and jotted down a few notes. Call Yvonne. She hadn’t heard from her tonight and Regan did want to try and call Bessie. She hoped Yvonne had found her cousin’s number. Another thought had occurred to Regan tonight when she was dancing. Get in touch with the reporter who wrote the newspaper article on Geraldine. Regan didn’t know why but she just thought that it might help. He was doing a series on people from the town. He’d recognized
The Homecoming
as a Beasley. Maybe he had some insight into the robbery in Vail. It couldn’t hurt. And maybe he could shed a little light on Geraldine. He might even know Eben. Whatever. Regan made a notation and put down the pen.

Kit came barreling out of the bathroom. “I bet your mother would love Stewart. To think that he could provide all those cutesy little outfits for her future grandchildren.”

“Don’t tell her,” Regan said. They were having dinner at Kendra’s the next night. “No use getting her hopes up.”

“Thank God my brother has three kids,” Kit said. “Or my mother would be all over my case to keep the lineage going. She should know what a nerd magnet I am. Would she want nerdy genes in the family?”

Kit and Regan looked at each other. “Yes,” they said in unison.

“Whatever it takes to get grandchildren,” Regan commented.

Kit lifted up the blanket and eased herself into the narrow metallic berth. “My own little piece of heaven,” she muttered. “I’ll just curl up next to this safety bar and pretend it’s Mr. Wonderful.”

Regan turned out the light.

“The more I think about it,” Kit said in the dark, “the more convinced I am that this guy is right for you. Third-generation family business. He lives in New York, and your mother would love to have you back there. He’s from an old Massachusetts family . . .”

“And in the Social Register,” Regan said wryly. “Don’t forget that. He certainly won’t let you. If he had mentioned that in passing one more time, I would have hit him.”

“Delete. Erase. Do not save. Overwritten,” Kit said.

Regan felt herself drifting off to sleep. From across the room she heard her best friend ask, “Regan, did you know that the new laptop computers have the capacity to...”

“Shut up, Kit,” Regan said and fell fast asleep.

32

Tuesday, December 27

E
BEN LEANED OVER toward Bessie. “Up and at ’em!”

“I wish I could kick you out of bed,” Bessie hissed sleepily. “You were snoring so loud last night, I thought your mouth was a jackhammer in overdrive.”

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” Eben said. “There were a few decidedly unladylike noises emanating from your side of the bed and you don’t hear me complaining.”

“No lady should have to put up with you.”

There was a long pause. They both lay still, their limbs aching for freedom of movement. Finally, Eben said, “You know, we only have each other. We should try to make the best of it.”

Bessie turned away from him as far as she could. She could feel her hairdo slowly disintegrating. “Nobody knows I’m gone. They think I’m at my cousin’s in Vail. I don’t even know if she’s home yet. I just left her a message. If she doesn’t get back for a few days, no one will ever miss me.”

Eben puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, Bessie. I understand your feelings, but I’ve been here a couple days longer than you. You start to get philosophical about things.”

“Who would have guessed that I’d end up in the sack with Socrates?” Bessie mumbled to herself.

“Go ahead, make fun,” Eben whispered, “but your stress levels will go way up if you don’t work toward some acceptance.”

“I’m not about to accept.” Bessie’s voice rose and Eben shushed her.

“Don’t let them hear you getting upset,” he warned. “It’s not a good idea, believe me.”