Read Kiss Her Goodbye Online

Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub

Kiss Her Goodbye (26 page)

BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
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Kathleen eyes her husband, unable to muster the slightest shred of suspicion. Matt isn't the type to have an affair.
“They're beautiful,” she murmurs, lifting the bouquet to her nose, absently noting that they're unscented, but she sniffs the distinct aroma of the outdoors, and her husband's musky aftershave clinging to the petals.
“I've just been thinking that you look like you need something bright and cheerful.” Matt kisses her head gently.
Suddenly, she's overwhelmed by emotion. She leans against his shoulder and closes her eyes, wishing she could tell him everything.
Maybe she can.
Maybe she should.
Maybe—
“Daddy!” Riley bursts into the kitchen, Curran on his heels.
“You're home! Can we go now?” Curran asks, grabbing his navy fleece pullover from the hook by the door. “I want spaghetti and meatballs.”
Matt grins. “Just give me five minutes to change out of this suit, and we'll go. You two need to go find warmer jackets, though. It's cold out there tonight.”
“I'm never cold,” Riley protests, reaching for his fleece that hangs beside Curran's.
“Come on, let's do what Dad says.” Curran hangs both jackets on the hooks again and leads his little brother out of the room.
“Did you hear that?” Matt asks incredulously. “Kath, the boys just did exactly what I told them to do. What's up with that?”
Too distracted to bother responding to the question, she informs him in a low voice, “Jen doesn't want to come to dinner.”
Her husband's cheerful expression vanishes. “Big surprise. So let her stay home.”
“But . . . do you think we should?”
“Why not? You want to force her to come with us so that she can sit and stare off into space all night, and make everyone else miserable?”
“I don't know . . . I just hate to leave her home alone.”
“She's a big girl, remember?”
“She said she doesn't feel good. Maybe I should stay here with—”
“No,” Matt cuts in firmly. “You are not going to stay here with her. I made a reservation for eight o'clock. I want to take you out for a nice dinner.”
“You wanted to take the whole family out. She's part of the family, whether she believes she is or not.”
“Do you think I don't know that? Of course she's part of the family. But until we can get her into therapy, it's doing more harm than good for all of us to be together, as far as I'm concerned. Did you call that family therapist you were going to try?”
“I left a message,” she lies. “The, um, office is closed on Fridays.”
“Okay.” He heaves a sigh. Kathleen notices that he looks almost as weary as she feels.
All thoughts of telling him the truth have vanished from her mind. She can't tell him. Not now. Not yet.
If only there were someone who could advise her when to tell her husband, and how to tell him, and what to tell him.
Father Joseph.
Where are you? Why haven't you called me back?
The aging priest isn't the only person who can provide comfort, advice, forgiveness. But he's the only one she trusts, despite all the years that have passed, despite losing touch with him after . . .
Well, after it happened.
Matt is gripping her upper arms. “Listen, Kathleen, I really think it'll be good for us to get some time away from Jen. There's been nothing but tension in this house lately. It's not healthy, and it's not fair to anyone, especially the boys.”
“But I thought you picked the Como because Jen loves it.”
“We
all
love it.” His shrug belies the disappointment in his eyes. “And she doesn't want to come, so . . .”
“Maybe if you ask her—”
“No. You told her we were going, right? And she said no.”
“Maybe you can just tell her she has to go and that's that. Tell her you made a reservation for five and you're not changing it.”
“I'm not going to force her.” He thrusts the flowers into her hand. “Do you want to put these in water? I'm going up to take off this suit.”
“Oh . . . sure.” She takes the bouquet, listening to his footsteps climbing up the stairs, heading down the hall.
As she reaches into a high cupboard for a vase, she hears the footsteps pause abruptly and realizes Matt's standing in front of Jen's door.
Kathleen holds her breath, listening for a knock, for Matt's voice, for a door creaking open.
Nothing.
Nothing but her husband's footsteps as he retreats down the hall into the master bedroom, where the door slams loudly behind him.
With a sigh, Kathleen turns on the tap and fills the vase with water. She unwraps the bouquet and begins to place the stems in the vase, one by one, glad they aren't roses.
Roses would only remind her of that strange day at her mother's grave, when she found the thirteenth rose.
Again, she wonders who put it there.
Again, she finds her thoughts wandering back to Father Joseph.
He used to visit the cemetery with Kathleen when she was a little girl. Dad couldn't bring himself to take her; he left that up to the kindly priest.
Perhaps Father Joseph was the one who left the rose there on Tuesday.
The only thing that doesn't make sense is why he—or anybody else—would do it on that particular day.
November second.
A chill steals down Kathleen's spine.
THIRTEEN
“One more game of Uno?” MacKenzie Gattinski begs charmingly. “Please, Jen?”
Jen looks at Erin, who throws up her hands and shakes her head. “I'm so over this card game thing,” she says, pushing her chair back from the kitchen table. “Anyway, aren't they supposed to be in bed by now?”
“Half an hour ago,” Jen tells her, looking at the clock on the stove. “Okay, guys, let's clean up the cards and get ready for bed.”
“But you promised we could play another game of Uno!” Michaela protests.
“That
was
the other game,” Jen points out. “We played four times. You guys aren't even supposed to be up. It's getting really late. Let's go.”
The twins hold their ground, sitting side by side in their pink pajamas, arms folded in identical stubborn refusal.
“What about our story?” Michaela asks.
Mackenzie pounces on that, chiming in, “We want a story!”
Jen sighs. “I'll read to you in bed if you both get upstairs now and brush your teeth. Okay?”
“Two stories?” Mackenzie negotiates.
“Two short ones. But only if you move it! Go!”
The girls run up the stairs, leaving Jen to stack the Uno cards while Erin wanders over to the television set in the living room.
“You think there's anything good on Pay Per View?”
“We can't order Pay Per View,” Jen informs her, slipping the cards into the game box.
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have Erin over here while she's babysitting. She was so spooked by the idea of being alone tonight after finding out about what happened to Robby, but she probably should have checked with Mrs. Gattinski, first.
She actually meant to do just that, but Mrs. Gattinski seemed like she was in such a hurry to leave. And anyway, Jen wasn't sure Erin would really show up.
“Oh, look, Jen, that Colin Farrell movie is starting. Why can't we order it?”
“Erin, come on. We can't.”
“I bet they won't even notice it's on the bill. He probably does it all the time.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Gattinski. You know, he probably orders all those disgusting porn movies.”
“Erin! Shhh!” Jen turns toward the front hall, half-expecting to see the girls.
“What? They can't hear me. They went up.”
“Are you sure? I thought I just heard something.” Jen tosses the cards into a drawer and walks into the hall.
The stairway is deserted. She can hear the twins in the hall bathroom above, running water and giggling.
Whatever she heard—and she isn't even sure what it was, just a faint sound that made her think somebody was there—must have been the house settling, or whatever it is that houses do.
Or is that just old houses?
Well, then, maybe it was just her imagination. No wonder she's paranoid, between Robby's death and now Erin talking about Mr. Gattinski in his own house. It's not as if the walls have ears, but Jen can't help feeling uncomfortable with that particular topic of conversation.
Back in the kitchen, she finds Erin looking inside the refrigerator.
“Erin! What are you doing?”
“Looking for something to eat. My mother polished off all the good stuff at home. I swear, it's like she's suddenly a bulimic or something. All she's been doing is cramming junk food down her throat.”
“You're kidding.” Jen has never seen Mrs. Hudson eat anything other than lettuce.
“Nope. And she's smoking again, too. Plus, I think she has a new boyfriend but when I asked her she wouldn't admit it.”
“Why not?”
“Who knows? Maybe it's some married guy. Hey, maybe it's Mr. Gattinski.”
“Ew.”
“Oh, come on, he's cute. He's just kind of—what was that?”
“What was what?” Jen frowns at Erin, who's poised with her hand on the door of the fridge, looking toward the front of the house.
“That sound. You didn't hear anything?”
“Nope,” Erin says calmly, but her expression is uncertain.
“Did you find out yet what happened to Robby?” Jen asks, now that the kids are out of earshot. It's the first chance she's had since Erin got here.
“No, nobody knows anything. And I checked to see if it was on the news at six but it wasn't.”
“Did you tell your mother?”
“Are you kidding? She'd just say I told you so.”
“She told you he was going to die?”
“God, no! She told me he was trouble. And so did you. But then you went and started seeing him.”
“Yeah.” Jen shifts her weight uncomfortably. “I know.”
“Why, Jen? Was it just because I liked him and you were pissed off at me, or what?”
“No, it wasn't that,” Jen tells her, feeling defensive. “It was just . . . I mean, he was the one who initiated it. And I don't know . . . I guess there was just something about him . . .”
“Yeah. There was.” Erin shrugs and goes back to the fridge, pulling out a plastic carton of supermarket-style caramel apples with orange and yellow sprinkles. “You think these are any good?”
Relieved the subject of Robby has been dropped, at least for now, Jen says, “You'd better not eat them. They're probably for the kids.”
“So? There are only two kids, and there are three apples in here.”
“Yeah, but Erin . . .” Jen shakes her head. She sighs and stares absently at the calendar on the fridge door, where Mrs. Gattinski's neat printing on today's date reads,
Chaperone dance/Pick up Jen @ 7:30.
“Don't eat the candy apples, okay Erin? Have a regular apple. There's a bunch of those in the crisper. Mrs. Gattinski told me to help myself to as many as I want.”
“Fruit? That's boring.”
“It's not boring. It's healthy. Here.” Jen takes a couple of apples from the crisper and puts them on the cutting board, along with Mrs. Gattinski's red-handled corer and a long paring knife.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Cut up an apple. That's how I do it for the girls.”
“What am I, three years old? If I want an apple, I can eat it the regular way.”
“Yeah, but for some reason they taste better cut up.”
“You're a nut,” Erin says, but not in a nasty way. “Anyway, I don't want an apple unless it's a candy apple.”
“Well, those are for the kids.”
“Who's going to notice?”
“Erin, no.”
“Please–please–please?”
“No–no–no.”
“Meanie.”
Grinning and rolling her eyes, Jen goes back into the front hall. She double checks to make sure the door is locked, just in case. After what happened a few weeks ago, when she thought she saw a Peeping Tom out there . . .
Well, she isn't taking any chances.
It's not like she can call her Dad to come running over here this time if she gets spooked. Her parents are way up in Niagara Falls with her brothers, eating dinner at the Como.
In fact, with any luck, the restaurant will be jammed on a Friday night, and it'll take them forever to get a table. Then after they eat, maybe they'll stay to walk around the falls for a while, since it's such a nice night. Riley always begs to do that when they go to the Como.
If things go as planned, one of the Gattinskis will probably be home before Jen's family is, and they'll never know she went out.
If not, she just has to pray that her mother won't look into her room to check on her. She never should have said that about being sick. Knowing Mom, she'll be all worried and want to hurry home and get the thermometer.
As it is, Jen figured she'd probably be calling to check up on her. Good thing she had the foresight to take the phone off the hook so the line will ring busy. For once, she's glad her parents weren't willing to spring for the call waiting service.
She almost left a pillow propped in her bed beneath the blankets, too, the way people do on lame TV shows when they want to make it look like somebody's sleeping. But Jen figured she'd probably get into even more trouble if her parents found that.
This way, if they beat her home and find her room empty, she can make something up about how Mrs. Gattinski called for a sitter after they left. She can say Mrs. Gattinski was in a bind and that she felt really bad not helping her out.
Oh, who is Jen kidding?
That won't work. Not when she's supposed to be grounded. And sick.
The bottom line: if her parents get home before she does, she's in trouble.
But who cares? She's in trouble anyway.
“I'm going to go get the kids to bed,” she calls to Erin. “Don't eat anything till I get back. And don't order Pay Per View.”
“You know, you really need to lighten up, Jen. You're totally no fun,” Erin grumbles, and it sounds like she means it.
So they're back to this?
Maybe Jen was better off when Erin wasn't speaking to her. At least then she didn't feel like such a straitlaced loser.
Jen heads upstairs, wishing things would just go back to the way they were, before . . .
Before she found out Robby is dead?
Before she found out Quint Matteson is dead?
Before she found out her father isn't her father?
Before they ever moved to Woodsbridge?
Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of nostalgia sweeps over her and she longs to be back in her old life in Indiana. She wants it so badly she has to stop near the top of the stairs and grip the railing to steady herself. Closing her eyes, she pictures her old friends, her old house, her old . . .
Family.
Mom, Dad, Curran, Riley, the way they used to be.
Her old self. Happy-go-lucky Jen, not a care in the world.
But that girl is gone forever, and so is the rest of it.
She's stuck here, stuck with a life that feels more peculiar with every passing day . . . almost as though it was meant to belong to somebody else.
 
 
It's almost time.
Jen has disappeared into the bathroom upstairs with the two children. They're whining again, this time about toothpaste flavors. Good Lord, their mother has spoiled them rotten. It's almost tempting to shut them up once and for all . . . but that would be too messy.
The plan has already become complicated, thanks to Erin showing up here tonight. At first, it almost seemed prudent to wait, to search for another opportunity to get to Jen when she's alone and vulnerable.
But that's starting to become more and more difficult. Especially now that they've gone and changed the locks at 9 Sarah Crescent.
Very clever of Kathleen to do that—or so she believed. Has it given her a false sense of security? Does she think that simply by changing the locks she can keep at bay any threat to her cozy little world?
And did Jen assume, when she checked the front door lock just now, that she's safe because she's on this side of it?
Did it never occur to her that the danger she's instinctively bent on evading might have slipped into the house when nobody was looking?
She thought she heard something a short time ago.
Then, a few minutes later, so did Erin.
Funny . . . they both said that at times when I hadn't made a sound.
Are their ears playing tricks on them? Is hyper-vigilant paranoia conjuring footsteps and creaking floorboards where there are none?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps some primitive intuition has kicked in: the same intuition that alerts a helpless creature to a nearby predator.
What a useless instinct it is, for the unfortunate prey tends to sense its vulnerability only when it's too late.
Listen to Jen up there, singing a silly song to the girls. The water runs, stops, runs, stops. Giggling children and their unsuspecting babysitter retreat down the hall. The door is left ajar; voices float down the stairs. She's reading a story.
Good night, Moon.
Most of the words are muffled, but their lulling rhythm is recognizable even from down here.
Who would have thought I'd hear that story again? Who would have thought I had it memorized?
Even after all these years, it comes right back: the great green room, the red balloon, the quiet old lady whispering hush.
And Mother, and Father . . . snuggling on the sofa between the two of them. All was right with the world back in the days of
Good night, Moon.
Damn Jen for choosing that book to read tonight.
Damn her for dredging up memories better left where they belong: buried beneath decades worth of bitter resentment . . . and blood lust.
Damn her to hell.
It's time to do just that.
Time to step out of the shadows.
Good night, Moon.
Goodbye, Jen.
 
 
“Excuse me, Ma'am, can I help you?”
Stella turns to see that the restaurant hostess has left her post in the reception area and is hurrying after her.
Reluctantly pausing her stride toward the sign marked Banquet Room, Stella tells her, “I'm sorry, my husband has a meeting in there.” Her icy hands clench into fists inside the pockets of her long trench coat. “He just . . . he forgot something at home and he asked me to drop it off for him.”
“He's at a meeting in
there?”
Stella nods, already knowing, just from the woman's dubious expression, that this just isn't going to happen. She's not going to open that door and walk into that banquet room and find Kurt in a meeting.
BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
6.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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