Someone's Watching (7 page)

She pulled out the stack of “Missing” flyers from her satchel and put several down on each corner of the bar. Maybe she’d get lucky and one of the guests would recognize her sister.

She sensed that someone was watching her and turned. Her eyes connected with Mister M’s watery ones. Maybe he didn’t like her putting flyers around at one of his events. Brett’s boss’s tight, unnatural face showed no emotion as he walked toward her.

He picked up one of the flyers and studied the photo. “Call Robbie?” He glanced up at her. “Robbie you?”

“Yup. Hope you don’t mind me leaving them out here.”

“She looks like you. A relative?”

“Kind of.”

He twirled his thin orange ponytail around his fingers as he waited for her to say more. She didn’t. She didn’t want Brett hearing about Kate from Mike.

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Mike folded the flyer and put it in his pocket. “By the way—it’s probably not a good idea for you to give out your phone number like that. Creeps can call you and bother you.”

“Thanks, but that’s the advantage of having a boy’s name.”

He walked away without saying anything else.

Talk about creeps. Robbie wondered why Brett was so enthusiastic about working for someone like Mike.

She left the bar and wandered over to an indoor atrium filled with exotic plants. There was a noticeable change in the affluence and sophistication of the crowd as it got later. The arriving women became taller, skinnier, younger; the men, by contrast, got shorter, stockier, and older.

The room was filled almost to capacity, the noise level deafening. Gorgeous young women in short skirts and hot guys flexing their biceps beneath tight T-shirts moved through the crowd with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. One of the waitresses had long black hair and blue eyes. There was something familiar in the way she moved. Robbie got closer.

The girl held out a platter of what looked like biscotti. She said something to Robbie.

“What?” Robbie shouted.

“It’s Indian Fry bread,” the girl repeated, louder this time. She was skinny, pale. Her eyes were wrong for Kate—too close together, no sparkle. Robbie took a piece of bread and a napkin. “Thank you.”

There was no sign of Brett in the sea of black. Robbie sipped her drink. It was too sweet and a mint leaf had sunk to the bottom of the glass. She wiped the grease from her fingers on her napkin, left the half-eaten bread and her drink on a tray, then made her way outside.

She stood on the hotel steps blinking against the strong sunlight. The heat made her sunburn hurt. It was after six p.m. but felt like midday. Tourists walked by in wrinkled shorts, snapping pictures of the hotels and South Beach scene. A black sedan with tinted windows pulled up in front of the hotel and a slender, graceful woman got of the car. There was something odd about the woman that made Robbie do a double take. Although neatly dressed in a black sheath with a white cardigan over her shoulders, the look was wrong for South Beach. In fact, the outmoded style was completely inconsistent with the woman, who was quite attractive. Her dress was too
long and her hair—ash brown and streaked with blonde—was in an upswept hairdo that was popular back in the ’60s.

The woman’s driver was a young guy with a blond buzz cut, bloated face, and small eyes. He wore a dark suit that pulled under his arms, white shirt, and a tie that was loosened, probably to accommodate his thick neck.

The guy took a ticket from the valet, then escorted the woman up the steps, passing close to Robbie on their way to the hotel lobby. The woman looked distracted as she adjusted a gold clasp holding the front of her cardigan sweater together.

Strange pair, Robbie thought.

She took her cell phone out of her bag and checked it. No missed calls. It would be another hour before Brett was free to leave. She took a deep breath of humid air and returned through the lobby into the dark, bustling ant pile.

After pushing through the crowd, she found Brett in front of a podium, holding a microphone up to his mouth. An adjacent table was stacked with books—
In Search of Self
by Gina Tyler Fieldstone.

“Good evening,” Brett said to the crowded room. “And welcome.”

None of the ants paid any attention to him.

A shrill whistle came from the bar. People stopped what they were doing and looked. Mike—Mister M—had two fingers in front of his big, white grin. He winked at Brett.

“Hello, everyone,” Brett said, this time with the crowd’s attention. “I’d like to introduce our remarkable guest, who has a lot to say about how women can learn to take control of their lives. She’s the author of
In Search of Self
. And yeah, sure, maybe her husband’s always mentioned in the editorial columns as the great crusader who will clean up America, but our guest is the real force to be reckoned with. Please join me in welcoming Ms. Gina Tyler Fieldstone.”

The applause was tepid as the attractive woman in the white cardigan came through a door behind the podium. She surveyed the room, a muscle in her neck twitching. And then she smiled. A lovely, radiant smile. “Thank you, Brett. And thank you all for joining me this evening.”

Robbie stepped closer in order to see her better. She had never heard of Gina Fieldstone or her husband before Brett mentioned them earlier. But if Mrs. Fieldstone was using her book to help her husband’s political career, she had definitely misjudged this hip audience.

She was probably in her late thirties, the age Robbie’s mother had been when she was last healthy and vibrant. And for a moment, Robbie was back with her mother, holding her hand, her mother smiling at her.

Robbie snapped back to the present and tried to focus on Gina. She was talking about taking control of your future. She had a crisp, low voice with a flat accent that Robbie couldn’t quite place. Midwest? Northwest? The crowd listened for a few minutes and then people started chatting and wandering away. This group believed they had already figured their futures out, thank you very much. They certainly didn’t need some lady dressed for a church supper to be telling them what to do.

The din rose. Gina spoke louder into the microphone, reminding Robbie of a missionary, so focused on her message she didn’t seem to care that no one was listening. “My own experiences,” Gina said. “I was only fifteen. What did I know? My mother told me I couldn’t keep my baby. And although I cried and argued with her, I suppose on some level I knew she was right. I was barely able to take care of myself; how could I take on the responsibility of raising a child?”

Robbie stepped closer to the podium. Gina was clutching the mike with a sense of urgency. She had the bone structure of a
model—high cheekbones, straight nose, broad forehead. Her eyes were large and an unusual color, almost like amethysts.

Gina told about giving up her daughter, then years later searching to find her and never succeeding. It was a heartbreaking story, and one that struck Robbie hard. Especially after the visit from her own father. Here this woman had spent years looking for the child she had been forced to give up, while her father had willingly let Robbie go and made not the least effort to get in touch with her.

Gina took a deep breath. “Thank you again.” She stepped down from the podium to lukewarm applause, but kept her head high.

Many attendees had wandered over to the bar. Brett was back up at the podium announcing that Gina’s books were for sale and Gina would be happy to personally sign them, but only two people went to purchase a book.

Robbie reached into her satchel for money to buy a book herself. No one came behind her on line.

The heavyset escort stood beside Gina as she sat at a small table signing the books. He kept glancing at Robbie, but maybe that was his job. He leaned over and said something in Gina’s ear, then backed away, hands in his pants pockets, scowl on his face.

Robbie stepped up to the table with her book.

Gina smiled. Her front teeth overlapped slightly and a strand of streaked brown hair had fallen loose from her otherwise perfect coiffeur. She pushed it away from her eyes and behind her ear. She wore small pearl earrings. “Phew,” she said. “Glad that’s over with.”

The fervor and intensity were gone, but Robbie felt a powerful connection. Gina had lost her daughter. Robbie had lost her mother.

“I enjoyed your talk very much,” Robbie said.

“Thank you. I appreciate your saying that.” Gina held up a thin silver pen. Her fingers were long and delicate and she wore a plain gold wedding band. “How would you like me to inscribe the book?”

“To Robbie, would be fine. R-O-B-B-I-E.”

“Robbie,” Gina repeated and wrote.

Robbie took the book back and held it against her chest, reluctant to leave without saying what was on her mind. But the bulky escort had taken a step closer to Gina. His eyes were the color of dirty lavender.

Gina looked at Robbie expectantly, then glanced over her shoulder at her escort. She let out a short laugh. It was melodious and lingering like the low notes on a xylophone. “Aidan,” she said, “I’m parched. Would you mind bringing me a glass of water with a slice of lemon?”

Her escort grunted and headed toward the bar.

“Aidan’s pretty scary,” Gina said. “My husband’s idea. Stanford’s with the U.S. Department of Justice, and he seems to think I need protection from his political enemies. But I worry that Aidan’s frightening off my book audience because he looks like such a thug.”

“He is a little intense,” Robbie said.

Gina threw her head back and laughed her beautiful laugh. “I can tell you’re big on understatement.” She folded her hands and rested them on the table beside the pen. “But you looked like you wanted to say something to me.”

Robbie nodded. “Your talk really touched me. I understand your need to find your child. To make sure she’s okay.” Why was she telling a stranger this? But Gina seemed like anything but a stranger. The resemblance to Robbie’s mother and to Rachel, Robbie’s mentor, was profound. “I just found out that I have a sister I never knew about. But she’s missing.”

Gina’s hand went to her throat. “Missing?”

“She and a friend disappeared a few days ago on South Beach. They were on spring break.” Robbie reached into her satchel and took out the flyers of Kate and Joanne.

Gina studied the photos. “May I keep these? I come in contact
with a lot of people during my tour. Maybe I’ll recognize your sister.”

“Please,” Robbie said. “I’d be very grateful.”

Aidan returned with the glass of water and put it down on the table, but Robbie noticed that Gina didn’t even take a sip.

Robbie felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. Brett’s.

“Hope everything worked out to your satisfaction,” Brett said to Gina.

“Yes. Thank you very much.” Gina stood up and pulled her cardigan tighter around her.

“If there’s anything else I can do for you, feel free to call me anytime. Me or Mike. We’re always at your service.”

“Thank you. I will.” Gina nodded at Robbie, then went toward the door with Aidan. She walked without any wasted movement as though she’d been trained as a model or in cotillion classes. Aidan trailed after her like a lumbering gorilla.

Brett pulled off his red tie and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

“I’m sorry the event didn’t go very well,” Robbie said.

“Are you kidding? It went great.”

“It did? It didn’t look like Gina sold many books.”

“Right. But that wasn’t the point. She got great exposure. Over two hundred people showed up.”

“What good is exposure if no one bought the book?”

“Because that’s two hundred people who now know the name Fieldstone.”

“I must be dense. Why does that matter?”

“You know,” Brett said, as though she was supposed to. “For her husband.” He surveyed the emptying room. “I’ll just check with Mike, then we’re out of here. There’s a new restaurant I want to take you to.”

Robbie sat down on a sofa near the atrium to wait for him and
opened the book. A lot of work had gone into it. She doubted that Gina had gone to all this trouble just to advance her husband’s career.

She flipped through the pages. The book contained stories about women who had also been forced to give their children up for adoption. In many cases, there were photos of the mother happily reunited with her child after many years. But the photo of Gina at the end of the book was of herself alone. She had never found her own daughter.

Robbie noticed the skinny server with long black hair and blue eyes standing behind an areca palm, stuffing hors d’oeuvres into her mouth.

She closed the book. She wondered what Kate was doing at this moment. She checked her cell phone for messages.

There were none.

After the Fieldstone event, it turned out Brett couldn’t go for dinner after all. Something unexpected had come up, Brett explained to Robbie, and Mike needed him. He offered to drive Robbie home, but she preferred walking alone, relieved to be away from the South Beach tumult.

She went to bed early, but her mind was caught up in memories. Her childhood house on the St. Johns River, Spanish moss hanging from towering oak trees, frogs croaking in the stillness. Her dad returning home from the hospital after a late night emergency call. How he stood on the flagstone patio that smelled like magnolias, staring at nothing.

What’s wrong, Daddy?

A smile that she knew he’d faked for her.
I didn’t know you were there, princess. Come give your old man a hug
.

And she had. She’d hugged him as tight as she could, but she knew it wasn’t enough to make his sadness go away. Then later that night, she overheard him talking to her mother.
There’s nothing I can do
, he told her.
Absolutely nothing
.

Robbie finally got out of bed around eight in the morning and changed into her running shorts and tank top. Her route took her across the north end of Lummus Park and up the stamped-concrete path that ran alongside the ocean. Seagulls squawked above her and the sound of waves breaking helped clear her head. She passed the
condo that housed the health club where Jeremy sometimes worked, and glanced over at the beach hoping to see his lean, tanned body doing pushups or running a client in the sand. But there were only a couple of sunbathers stretched out on towels.