Looking for Laura (26 page)

“I've got something for you, Rosie,” Todd said, rising to his feet as she did.

Sally opened her mouth to protest that he shouldn't have brought Rosie anything. She still owed him for the rice necklace; she didn't want to be even more deeply indebted to him. And just because he'd behaved foolishly at the café that morning didn't mean he could exonerate himself by showering gifts upon her daughter.

But he was already on his way through the kitchen door. “It's in my car. I'll be right back.”

“What did you get me?” Rosie singsonged, chasing him out of the room. “Is it a toy?”

Swallowing her misgivings, Sally cleared the dishes from the table. Todd had cleaned his plate and drained the beer bottle. As troubled as she was by her pleasure in feeding him, she was even more troubled by how naturally he'd fit into their kitchen, their evening meal, how easily he'd made himself at home. Just that morning she'd have been the first to label him with the word he'd used to describe himself.

But now she could almost convince herself she liked him. Which was…well, troubling.

Hearing his voice and Rosie's, she abandoned the sink and crossed to the doorway. They stood in the hall, Todd handing Rosie a stack of computer diskettes. “These are your dad's games, remember? DragonKeeper and Dark Thunder, and I don't know, some other games.”

“Cool!” Rosie's eyes widened.

“I thought you'd enjoy them more than me. And they were your dad's, so…”

“Cool!” Rosie took them from Todd's outstretched hand. “Can I play them now, Mommy? Can I?”

“Um…I don't—”

Rosie swung back to Todd. “Thank you!” she said, then peered up at her mother hopefully. “Can I play them, Mommy?”

Sally caught Todd's eye. He nodded slightly. He wanted Rosie to play the games. Sally couldn't say no. “Sure. But turn the sound down. I don't want to hear all that booming and banging.”

“Okay! Thanks! Thanks, Daddy's—I mean, Todd!” Rosie scampered off to the den, the laces in her sneakers glittering in the light from the ceiling fixture.

Todd gazed after Rosie until she was out of sight, then turned to Sally with a smile. “If you offered me another beer, I'd say yes.”

“Help yourself. I've got dishes to do.”

He trailed her into the kitchen. “I thought it would be better to talk about Laura Ryershank if Rosie wasn't around,” he explained, swinging open the refrigerator and pulling another bottle from the door shelf. Wrenching off the cap, he planted himself right by the sink so he could confer with Sally while she filled the basin with soapy water.

She squirted a little extra soap, inhaled the lemon-scented steam rising from the water and shut off the faucet. “What did your resources come up with?” she asked.

He slouched against the counter, beer in hand, hair mussed. A faint shadow of beard darkened his jaw. He had extraordinarily dark, thick eyelashes. She'd never noticed that before. “This Laura has published three books of poetry, and they're all for sale at the college bookstore. None of them had her photo on the inside of the cover, so I didn't bother to buy them.”

“Of course not,” Sally said with a chuckle. “Why buy them for the poetry?”

“I don't like poetry, okay? If my mother quotes ‘The Road Not Taken' one more time I'm going to muzzle her.”

“That's a nice poem. ‘Two roads diverged in a wood…'”

“I'll muzzle you, too,” he threatened.

“Okay.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Is your mother a Robert Frost fan?”

“No. She's just quoting the poem because she likes watching me destroying four years' worth of expensive orthodonture by gnashing my teeth.” He put down his bottle, pushed away from the counter and unhooked the dish towel from the cabinet doorknob on which it hung. “How come you don't have a dishwasher?” he asked, taking the plate she'd just finished rinsing and wiping it with the towel.

“It's an old house. There was no dishwasher in it when we bought it.”

“You could put a dishwasher in.”

“I suppose.” She scrubbed the tines of a fork until
they glinted. “I don't mind washing dishes. I've always found it kind of soothing.”

He took the fork from her and spent more time than warranted drying it off. “So, this Ryershank woman lives in Great Barrington, which would put her less than an hour away from Winfield. Easy for Paul to see her, but far enough away that she might choose to write him letters.”

“I wonder how he would have met her,” Sally said.

“Maybe he attended one of her poetry readings.”

She shot him a telling look. “You knew Paul longer than I did. Do you think he'd ever attend a poetry reading?”

“If he knew the poet was beautiful and charismatic?” He arched one eyebrow.

Sally felt the dishcloth slip from her fingers. “Are you saying he went out of his way to find beautiful, charismatic women?”

“Well…” He realized he'd divulged more than he should have. Then he shrugged. “Every healthy male does.”

“Do you? Do you go to poetry readings just to ogle the poet?”

“If I heard she was beautiful and charismatic?” He shrugged again. “Nah. I prefer to ogle beautiful, charismatic women at the Chelsea.” The Chelsea was a pool hall and bar a few blocks south of the
Valley News
headquarters, near the train tracks. “All heterosexual men go out of their way to ogle beautiful, charismatic women. If they don't, nine times out of ten it's because they're dead.”

“And the tenth time?”

“They're with their wives.” He held out his hand as if waiting for her to pass him something to dry.

She rinsed a bowl and delivered it into his towel-draped hands. “All right. Maybe he attended a poetry reading and went berserk over Laura Ryershank. So berserk he had an affair with her—the only affair of his that you know about,” she added, testing him. If he thought Paul had been within the realm of normal male behavior in sitting through a poetry reading, he might know of other instances when Paul had ogled women.

He didn't take her bait but simply dried the bowl.

“And he went berserk enough to give her my pocketknife.”

“
His
pocketknife. You gave it to him.”

“Whatever. Do you know exactly where in Great Barrington she lives? We could drive out there—”

“She's not there now. She's on the board of directors of a writers' colony in upstate New York. It's closed during the winter, but she helps to open it up in the spring.”

“Where in upstate New York?” Sally didn't remember ever hearing about any writers' colonies when she'd been growing up—but then, she didn't hear about lots of things when she'd been growing up.

“In the Adirondacks. Somewhere west of Lake George.”

“West of the town or west of the lake?”

He looked stumped. “I didn't know there was more than one Lake George. I've got the name of the town written down, though. We could figure it out.”

We
. We could figure it out, he'd said. He was standing in her kitchen, drying her dishes and referring to her and himself as
we
.

“Are we going to make a trip there?” she asked cautiously.

His gaze narrowed on her, and she was once more
distracted by his lush black eyelashes. They made the whites of his eyes look whiter, the irises darker. She felt a pulse flutter in her throat and had to swallow several times to keep from coughing.

“I was thinking, we could go this weekend. It's a bit of a trek, though. I don't think we could do it in one day.”

“All right.” She could probably tolerate two days in a car with him. They'd stay overnight in a motel. It would be an adventure. Maybe they could even spend a little time at the town of Lake George, playing miniature golf and eating cotton candy. They could take a boat ride on the lake, too. It would be a whole lot different from the Swan Boat ride they'd taken in Boston….

“But you're not dragging Rosie along,” he warned.

The flutter disappeared, and resentment slashed through her, stiffening her spine. He'd been so nice to Rosie, listening to her boring monologue over dinner and then rewarding her with those computer-game disks. How dare he exclude her from their outing? “Of course I'm dragging her along.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“It's a long trip, Sally. I'm not going to spend all that time in a car listening to ‘Animal Sweet.'”

“You could listen to Nirvana,” she said coldly. “I'm sure Rosie would be thrilled.” She yanked the stopper out of the drain, and the bubbly water made obscene gurgling and sucking noises as it seeped out of the basin. She wished her anger would drain away, too, but it wouldn't. She was doubly exasperated—not just because he didn't want Rosie to accompany him, but also because she'd been feeling…affectionate toward him.
Fond. She'd been responding to his bedroom eyes, his sweet self-deprecation, his use of the word
we
.

Damn it. She'd started to like him, and now he was handing down orders like a control freak.

“Either Rosie comes with us,” she threatened, “or…”

“Or you won't come? I can live with that.” He took a long drink of beer, and she wanted to tear the bottle out of his hands and smack him on the head with it. The nerve of him, enjoying her beer while he dictated the terms of their expedition.

Yet she didn't want him going off to see Laura Ryershank without her. This Laura could really be the right one.

No way was she going off to upstate New York without Rosie, though. Especially on an overnight trip. What did he think, she could leave her daughter with strangers? Hire a nanny? Sure, Rosie had spent the night at Trevor's house now and then, but that wasn't the same as spending the night somewhere while Sally was in another state.

She hated him for snubbing Rosie—and worse, for snubbing her, implying that whether or not she came made no difference to him, implying that he'd be just as happy if she didn't come at all. She hated him because his hair was so dark and his jaw so sharp, and his hands were so goddamn masculine.

Paul's best friend. Two peas in a pod. Two birds of a feather. Two of a kind.

Two assholes.

And Todd was the prime asshole because he was the live one, standing in her kitchen and drinking her beer.

“I
'll watch Rosie,” Helen said.

“No.” Sally topped off the insulated silver pitcher with cream and returned the container to the refrigerator under the counter. “Really, it's sweet of you to offer, but no.”

Helen fussed with the waist sash of her apron. She'd donned it over her blazer and it looked ridiculous, but Sally didn't have the heart to tell her to take the blazer off. It was part of a slate-gray pinstripe pantsuit, and she obviously felt her grooming was extremely professional. It was—for another profession. Sally didn't know Helen well enough to give her sartorial advice, though. If she got confectioner's sugar on her perfectly tailored lapel, or some coffee splattered on her crisp two-button sleeve, maybe she'd rethink her work attire.

“I don't know why Todd wants to go to Lake George,” Helen said. She toyed with the stack of napkins, pretending to tidy what didn't need tidying. “All I know is, it's got something to do with your husband. His being the executor of Paul's will and all, he's got to take care of this thing in Lake George that I guess has to do with the estate.” She concluded by presenting Sally with a questioning gaze.

“Right,” Sally muttered. Helen was fishing for information, but Sally wasn't going to eat the worm. That
her husband had cheated on her was humiliating. That she had made it her mission to find Paul's sweetheart so she could retrieve a cheesy pocketknife was laughable. Bad enough that Todd knew. Sally would just as soon no one else did.

After a long pause, Helen must have assumed that Sally wasn't going to explain the purpose of the trip. “Well, since it involves your husband, you've got to be there.”

“It involves my daughter's father,” Sally pointed out. “Why shouldn't
she
be there?”

“Because she's a little girl and it's a long trip.”

“She can handle a long trip.” Sally had taken Rosie to see her mother a couple of times—and to Boston last weekend. The child was a wonderful traveling companion.

“You want to make her sit in a car for, what, five or six hours? And then sit through some boring meeting concerning Paul's estate or what have you. And then get back into the car for another five-hour drive. No five-year-old girl should have to go through that.”

When Helen described it that way, it did sound pretty grim.

“Rosie and I could have fun together,” Helen persevered. “A lot more fun than she'd have traveling all the way to some godforsaken place to do something with Paul's estate. Of course he was her father—but do you really think dragging her along with you is going to bring her closer to him, or help her adjust to his death?”

No, Sally didn't really think that. What she really thought was that traveling all the way to some godforsaken place alone with Todd would be disastrous. They'd bicker. They'd fight. She'd resent him because, without any effort, he made her far too aware of the lack
of a man in her life—a lack that caused her to think about him in inappropriate ways, ways he didn't think about her.

And then they'd be stuck somewhere overnight. She'd be forced to have dinner with him—or she'd have to refuse to have dinner with him, which would be awkward and would make her look like a ninny. She'd have to spend the night all by herself in a dreary motel room, instead of sharing the experience with Rosie. Rosie's presence could brighten up even the dreariest motel room. Rosie would sing badly and talk incessantly and demand food. She'd make the trip fun.

“What's with that guy?” Helen whispered, nudging Sally and pointing to the man in black, who was seated at his usual table, sipping an espresso and attacking his notebook with a pen. “Is he a spy?”

“I think he's writing a novel,” Sally whispered back.

“Really? A novel?”

“He's a regular. He comes here for coffee every morning, and he writes in his notebook.”

“He looks very angry.”

“Intense more than angry,” Sally suggested. “I think he's just caught up in the passion of his story.”

“Good for him, then. Everyone should get caught up in a passion every now and then.” Helen gave a loving pat to the stack of napkins and smiled at Sally. Her smile was strained, as if her lips were rubber bands stretched taut. “So, you'll let me stay with Rosie while you and Todd take care of this business.”

“No!” Sally wanted to laugh, or maybe to pluck Helen's lips to hear if they twanged. “Why are you so eager to send me and Todd off alone? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were…” She faltered, unwilling to
give voice to the possibility that Helen was playing matchmaker.

“You and Todd? Don't be silly,” Helen insisted so emphatically, Sally didn't believe her. “Todd's not a romantic. And you're in mourning. Poor Paul.
I'm
still in mourning over him, and I wasn't even married to him. Such a sweet boy. God, I miss him. You must miss him even more.”

Sally figured that mentioning what a jerk Paul had been would be about as tactful as telling Helen her apron looked wrong with her outfit. Instead, she murmured, “You learn to keep going.”

“Yes, well, you've done a fine job of that. I mean it, Sally. You've got more backbone than I'd ever realized when all I knew of you was you were Paul's wife. A lot of backbone. He'd be proud of you.”

He'd be pissed at her—if not for the fact that she was surviving just fine without him, then for the fact that her opinion of him was currently off the scale at the low end. He'd be furious because she no longer thought he was Mr. Wonderful. He'd be defensive because she would never let him forget that he'd given away her knife.

“Then it's decided,” Helen announced brightly. “You'll go with Todd. I can either bring Rosie home to stay with Walter and me, or I could stay at your house with her. Whichever you think would be easier on her.”

“Are you sure you really want to baby-sit for her? She can be a handful.”

Helen gave Sally a steady gaze. “You want to know why?”

“Yes.”

“I like her.”

Sally tried not to gape. “You like her?”

“She's spunky and mouthy. She's got more backbone than you and me combined.”

Sally wasn't sure how to respond. Of course Helen liked Rosie—anyone with half a brain or half a heart couldn't help loving the child—but that didn't seem like enough of a reason for Helen to be forcing her baby-sitting services on Sally.

It had to be that Helen was trying to match her up with Todd. The idea was preposterous. They weren't the least bit right for each other. Sally and Paul hadn't been the least bit right for each other, either, but that was no reason for her to get into a relationship with another not-the-least-bit-right-for-her man.

Maybe Helen thought that if Todd and Sally hooked up, he'd be distracted enough to let her resume running the newspaper. Or maybe she thought that if he found a new lady, he'd give her some more grandchildren, who would live close by, unlike her other grandchildren in New Haven.

Maybe she knew the real purpose for Todd's trip, and she wanted Sally to be with him when he confronted Laura Ryershank. Maybe all her blather about what a fine young man Paul had been was so much bull. Maybe she wanted Sally present for the big showdown.

Of course, it was always possible that she liked Rosie that much.

“I'll think about it,” Sally muttered, then headed for the kitchen, determined not to think about it at all.

 

Sally insisted on phoning home from Albany. Todd offered her his cell phone, but she said she'd prefer to use a pay phone—which Todd understood to mean she'd prefer to call Rosie from someplace he wouldn't be able
to listen in on the conversation, the way he would have if she'd called from the car.

Stopping wasn't a bad idea, anyway. He could use the break to take a leak and buy a soda. He found an all-purpose pit stop on the highway, watched her vanish into an alcove where the pay phones were located, then made use of the men's room, emptying his bladder so he could get to work filling it again.

She was still on the phone when he emerged from the rest room and headed for the snack area. He pulled a chilled Coke from the refrigerator case and carried it over to the alcove, using sign and body language to ask whether she wanted him to buy one for her. She shook her head and turned her back to him.

She sure was chatting up a storm with Rosie. Todd wondered what they could be talking about for such a long time. It wasn't as if they'd been separated for months.

Maybe Sally just wanted to talk, period. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet during the first stretch of the drive. He felt bad about that. He'd thought maybe they could become friends on this trip.

The notion was so bizarre it made him smile. He and Sally had nothing in common other than Paul, whom they both used to love and now loathed. Yet Todd had tried, really tried, to make this excursion something more than an ordeal.

He hadn't said a word when she'd trudged out of her house lugging a suitcase that looked like a cross between Mary Poppins's carpetbag and a marine duffel. Todd knew Paul had owned a neatly matched set of leather luggage, but apparently Sally didn't care to make use of it. Perhaps Paul had brainwashed her into thinking she must never touch it. He could be very territorial about
his things, a trait Todd had learned about firsthand during their freshman year of college, when he'd borrowed volume one of Paul's
Oxford English Dictionary
without asking. Paul had made it quite clear, in a lecture that had lasted a good twenty minutes, that the OED was
his
, not
theirs
, and that if Todd wanted to share something, he ought to ask first, and if he asked, Paul reserved the right to say no. Todd had thought he'd been doing Paul a favor by not asking, because Paul had had his nose buried in Alexis de Tocqueville's
Democracy in America
and he'd hated being interrupted when he was reading de Tocqueville. But he'd learned that Paul could be very prickly about other people using his things.

So Sally wasn't using Paul's luggage. In the interest of forging a friendship with her, Todd had suppressed the urge to make a snide remark about her moth-eaten valise. He'd stocked his glove compartment with CDs he thought she might like—no Nirvana, no Led Zeppelin, but instead the softer-edged stuff: Bonnie Raitt, the Gin Blossoms, that Eric Clapton disc with all the sappy songs on it.

He'd done a lot of thinking, and he'd realized that while antagonizing Sally came as naturally to him as singing in the shower, there was no point in encouraging hostility between them. He and Sally could do better. They could get along, and if they did, the trip would be a hell of a lot more pleasant.

Actually, he'd thought about more than that. As he pocketed his change and twisted off the cap of his soda bottle, he spotted Sally emerging from the telephone alcove, her denim jumper floating down past her knees and her hair a spill of curls. The sight of her reminded him that there were other reasons he didn't want to stay her enemy.

And the most important reason wasn't
that
. His sexual response to her was an interesting and totally unexpected phenomenon, but it wasn't why he'd wanted to achieve a détente with her.

The most important reason was Paul. Everything Todd had known about Sally he'd learned through the filter of Paul's perspective. Everything he'd ever thought of her he'd thought of in terms set by Paul. When he and Paul used to meet for drinks after work—never at the Chelsea, which Paul had considered too downscale for Winfield's most able lawyer to patronize, but instead at Grover's, with its pretentious wood paneling and Tiffany lamps and its proximity to the college campus—Paul would tell Todd things about Sally that Todd had believed. She was a slob. She was flakier than dandruff. She was dizzy, daffy and dim. Paul would regale Todd with Sally stories—about how she talked to the flowers in her garden, going so far as to christen some of them with names, how she thought she was safer driving an old car than a new one because anything that was going to go wrong with an old car had already gone wrong with it, how she fervently believed that the best way to potty-train Rosie was to let her run around the house bare assed so if she had to go pee-pee she wouldn't have to waste time dropping her drawers, how she thought tofu would prevent cancer and if you saw a rainbow you were supposed to close your eyes, spin in a circle on one foot and chant, “Light and color, color and light, now my wish is burning bright.”

Paul would relate tale after tale, and Todd would roar with laughter at Sally's goofy antics and half-baked theories, never questioning whether Paul was being fair in talking about her that way.

Or loyal.

Paul hadn't been loyal, and that bothered Todd. He felt guilty for having laughed, guilty and a little ashamed. Especially now that he understood how deeply Paul's disloyalty ran.

He didn't speak until they were back in the car, the gas needle pointing at full and Bonnie Raitt crooning from the speakers. “How's everything with Rosie?” he asked as he cruised up the ramp and onto the highway.