Still Life (13 page)

“I think you’d think he’s really cute.

“And he’s really nice, Casey. I know you’d like him. He has this way of leaning forward on his elbows when he’s listening to you, like you’re the only person in the room. But it’s not a con. He’s genuinely interested. And I find I can tell him things, things I haven’t told anyone other than you, you know, stuff about Mike, and he understands, because his wife died so young, too, so we have that sadness in common. Does that sound maudlin? Because it isn’t. It’s not like we sit around crying and commiserating all the time, because we don’t. In fact, we laugh constantly. Does that make me sound callous? I hope not.”

You could never sound callous.

“At first I felt really guilty. You know, in the beginning. It was like I felt I was being disloyal to Mike, even after all this time. You know I’ve only dated a few times since Mike died, and even then, it was only guys I never felt any real attraction to. So I never felt guilty. But with Stan, it’s different. Did I tell you how we met?”

Tell me.

“It was at Rittenhouse Square, by that sculpture of the lion crushing a serpent. It was the end of last month, lunchtime. I was finishing this tuna sandwich I’d brought from home, trying not to make too much of a mess, and this guy—Stan—he comes over, studies the sculpture for a few minutes, then sits down on the bench beside me. And he asks if I know what it’s supposed to represent. So I tell him: It was made by this French guy over a hundred years ago, and it symbolizes the triumph of monarchy over the rabble of democracy. Which sounds like a line straight out of
Middlemarch
, when you think about it. Anyway, we start having this long conversation about art, and he asks me if I’d like to go to the new exhibit at the Art Institute, and I hear myself saying yes.

“I still can’t believe it. I let this total stranger pick me up. In a public square, of all places. I mean, I never do things like that.

“So, a few nights later, we go to the exhibit—it was on the German Expressionists, and it was really good—and then he takes me to this Mexican restaurant over on Lancaster. Warren’s gym is on Lancaster, right?

“Anyway, we ended up talking all night. Or at least until eleven o’clock, because that’s the time his babysitter had to leave. But before he says good-bye—and he doesn’t try to kiss me or anything—he asks me out again, and I hear myself saying yes. And before I know it, he’s calling every day, and we’re going out again, and on the third date, he finally kissed me good night. And it was great. Casey, it was so great. Just the right amount of tongue. Oh God, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this out loud. Do I sound really pathetic?”

You sound like a woman falling in love.

“But now he’s talking about maybe going away for the weekend, which means he’s probably expecting me to sleep with him. I mean, I don’t imagine he’s thinking of separate bedrooms, do you? Not that I don’t want to sleep with him. Don’t get me wrong. I do. I think about almost nothing else. But it’s been years since I’ve been with a man. Since Mike, for God’s sake. And even though they say it’s like riding a bicycle, I was never very good at riding bicycles. Remember when we were kids, how I was forever losing my balance and falling off? And the thought of taking my clothes off in front of this man, well, I just don’t know if I can do it. What if he takes one look at me naked and jumps into the Schuylkill River?

“So I need you, my best friend on earth, to tell me what to do, because I really don’t know. And I can’t believe I’m sitting here going on and on about this, because I know it’s all so trivial compared to what you’re going through. And I feel kind of like I did with Mike. I keep thinking, how can I go out and have a good time while you’re lying here in a coma? How can I laugh? How can I allow myself the luxury of a good time?”

Because you deserve it. Because life goes on. Because we only get one chance, and we never know what fate holds in store for us.

“Just know that I love you, and I need you, and I miss you more than words can ever say.”

Oh, Gail. I love you, too.

“Please come back to us, Casey. Please come back.”

The sounds of sniffling.

“Everything all right in here?” a voice asked from the doorway.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Are you Casey’s doctor?”

“No. I’m Jeremy, her physical therapist.”

“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. I’m Gail, her friend.”

“Nice to meet you, Gail.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Getting a little stronger every day.”

“That’s great. Did you hear that, Casey? You’re getting stronger every day.”

I’m getting stronger.

“We’ll just keep working on getting those muscles active again.”

“I guess I should go,” Gail said. “Let you get busy.”

“I can give you another couple of minutes, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” A slight pause, a shy giggle. “Now, that is one handsome man. You’ve really got to wake up soon, Casey. He’s definitely worth a look. Kind of a cross between Denzel and Brad. Almost as perfect as Warren.” She leaned forward, kissed Casey on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you,” Casey repeated silently, the words echoing in the cavern of her mind until they became a prayer.

THIRTEEN

“L
ester Whitmore, come on down!” the announcer brayed. “You’re the next contestant on
The Price Is Right
.”

“Oh, God, would you just look at that guy,” Drew squealed from beside Casey’s head. “Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting you can’t see. Shit, I smeared my nails.”

The pungent smell of fresh polish told Casey her sister was likely giving herself a manicure. She wondered how long Drew had been in the room.

“You should see this guy,” Drew continued. “He looks like he’s going to have a heart attack, he’s so excited. He’s sweating right through this ugly Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing, and jumping up and down like a lunatic, and hugging the other contestants, none of whom look exactly thrilled to be on the receiving end.”

The Price Is Right
, Casey thought. She’d grown up with that show. That it was still on the air was strangely—and immensely—comforting to her.

“Oh, look. They have to guess the price of a set of golf clubs, including the bag.”

“Four hundred dollars,” the first contestant offered.

“Four hundred dollars?” Drew echoed. “Are you crazy? Even I know they’re worth way more than that.”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars,” came the second bid.

“One thousand,” came the third.

“A thousand and one,” said Lester Whitmore.

“What do you say, Casey? I bet you know the answer.”

Assuming they’re good clubs and it’s a half-decent bag, I’d guess sixteen hundred dollars.

“The answer is one thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars!” the host announced. “Lester Whitmore, you’re the winner on
The Price Is Right
.”

“So how close were you?” Drew asked. “Pretty damn close, I bet. There’s just no beating you when it comes to anything golf, is there?”

“Wow, that’s some shot,” Casey heard Warren marvel from a distant recess of her brain, his voice full of unbridled admiration. She watched him emerge from the darkness in her head and step into the bright sun of a brilliant spring day. “Where’d you learn to hit a golf ball like that?”

“My father taught me,” Casey said, assuming her place in the sun beside him.

“Who’s your father—Arnold Palmer?”

Casey laughed and started walking up the fairway, pulling her golf cart after her.

“I think you might actually have outdriven me,” Warren said as they approached the two dimpled white balls, sitting only inches from each other, approximately two hundred yards from the tee box.

Casey had, in fact, outdriven her handsome date.

“What—you aren’t even going to tell me it was just a lucky shot? Soothe my wounded male ego?”

“Does it need soothing?”

“Perhaps a few kind words.”

“You’re so cute when you’re insecure,” Casey said in response, and was relieved when Warren laughed. She didn’t want to come off as either mean-spirited or smug. When Warren had called several days earlier to ask her out, and inquired timidly whether she played golf, she’d refrained from telling him she belonged to the toniest course in the city, and that she had a nine handicap. She’d said simply that she’d love to play. As early as that morning, she’d been debating with herself whether to perform at well below her natural level, thereby allowing Warren to feel appropriately masculine and superior.

She’d decided against it.

Casey watched as Warren prepared for his next shot with a series of laborious half swings and waggles, then watched him slice the ball into the pretty creek that wound its way through the front nine of Cobb’s Creek, the public golf course that
Golfweek
magazine had recently named the sixth best municipal course in the country. She thought of her father. “Always kick ass when you’ve got the chance,” he used to say. Still, she had no desire to kick ass, at least where Warren’s lovely backside was concerned. What would be the harm in letting him win? It would be so easy to sway, collapse her left elbow, or take her eye off the ball, thereby joining him in the water. Instead, she assumed her proper stance over the ball, made sure she was lined up correctly, banished her father’s voice along with all other conscious thought, and swung at the ball. Seconds later, she watched as it flew effortlessly across the creek to land in the middle of the green, approximately ten feet from the pin.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” Warren asked, his third shot landing just outside hers.

“Actually I’m a pretty good golfer,” she admitted, putting in for birdie.

“No kidding.”

“I turned down a golf scholarship at Duke,” she told him two holes—and two pars—later.

“Because …?”

“Because I think sports should be fun, not work.”

“So, let me see if I have this straight: instead of spending your days golfing in the glorious outdoors, you’d rather spend them inside, finding jobs for disgruntled lawyers.”

“I’d rather be decorating their offices,” Casey replied.

“Then why aren’t you?”

Casey retrieved her ball from the cup and dropped it into her pocket, then walked briskly toward the next hole, Warren struggling to catch up. “My father considered things like interior decorating to be frivolous and unworthy of my time. He insisted that if I wasn’t going to accept the scholarship at Duke, then the least I could do was get a more rounded education, which is how I ended up majoring in psychology and English at Brown, despite the fact I understand zilch about human behavior, and George Eliot literally makes me want to tear my hair out at the roots.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you ended up running a lawyer placement service.”

“To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure how that happened myself. You’d have to ask Janine. It was her idea.”

“Janine?”

“My partner, Janine Pegabo. The woman you were supposed to be seeing the morning we met.”

“The one who broke her tooth on a bagel,” Warren said, remembering.

“That’s the one.”

“How is she?”

“She needs a new crown.”

“Ouch.”

“She’s not happy.”

“What about you?” Warren asked.

“I don’t need a new crown.”

“Are you happy?”

Casey gave the question a moment’s thought. “Reasonably, I guess.”

“Just reasonably, or beyond a reasonable doubt?”

“Is there such a thing?” Casey waited for the foursome in front of them to leave the green of the tricky par three before teeing up. Warren’s question was still echoing in her ears as she swung, and as a result, her swing was a touch too quick, and the ball sailed low and to the left, winding up in the sand trap at the back of the green.

“Aha. Now’s my chance.” Warren grabbed his seven-iron and swung, his ball shooting high into the air and landing delicately on the green. “Yes!” he shouted, only to watch the ball trickle off to the right and bury itself in a clump of leaves. “Damn. That hardly seems fair.”

“A lawyer who expects life to be fair. Interesting,” Casey said as they walked down the center of the narrow fairway. “Actually I’ve been taking a number of night courses in interior design for the last few years. I hope to get my diploma in the very near future.”

“And what does your father think about that?”

“My father’s dead.” Was it possible he didn’t know who her father was?

“I’m sorry.”

“He and my mother were killed in a private-plane crash five years ago.” Surely that was hint enough.

“I’m sorry,” Warren said again, as if he still had no idea. “That must have been awful for you.”

“It was hard. Especially with the press hounding us the way they did.”

“Why would the press hound you?”

“Because my father was Ronald Lerner,” Casey said, watching for Warren’s reaction. There was none. “You never heard of Ronald Lerner?”

“Should I have?”

Casey made a face that said he probably should have.

“I grew up in New Jersey and went to law school in New York,” he reminded her. “I just moved to Philly when I joined Miller, Sheridan. Maybe you could fill me in on what I missed.”

“Maybe later,” Casey said, stepping into the vaguely heart-shaped sand trap as Warren crossed to the other side of the green. She burrowed her heels into the soft sand and secured her footing before looking up to check her line. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Warren waiting to hit his ball, which was sitting nicely on top of a small pile of leaves. Had it always been so visible? she wondered, replaying his tee shot in her mind. “Damn,” she heard him say as the ball disappeared from sight. “That’s hardly fair.” Clearly his ball hadn’t sunk as deeply into the leaves as they’d first thought. She was seeing it from a different angle after all. “Worry about your own game,” she scolded herself, talking into her chin as she swung at the ball and missed completely, something she hadn’t done since she was a child first learning the game.

She ended up shooting 85, very respectable, but still four shots higher than her handicap would indicate. Warren shot 92, although according to Casey’s silent calculations, it was actually 93. (She hadn’t deliberately been keeping track of his score; it was just something she did automatically.) Still, she could have been wrong. Or it could have been an honest mistake on Warren’s part. There’d been an awful lot of chatter, and it would have been easy to forget a stroke. Or maybe he just wanted to impress her.

“He cheats at golf,” she heard her sister say.

“Be quiet, Drew,” Casey muttered.

“Sorry,” Warren said. “Did you say something?”

“I said, do you know why they call it golf?”

“No. Why?”

Casey smiled at the old joke she was sure Warren must have heard at least a dozen times but was too polite to admit. “Because all the other four-letter words were taken.”

“Shit,” Drew swore again, snapping Casey from her reveries. “This is what happens when you have to resort to doing your own nails. Normally, Amy does them for me. You remember Amy—the one with the diamond stud in the middle of her tongue? She works in that place over on Pine Street—You’ve Got Nails! Anyway, she’s the best manicurist in the city, bar none, and I’ve been going there once a week since forever, until of course, you ended up in here, and it seems I can no longer afford to spend twenty-five dollars a week, a measly
twenty-five fucking dollars a week
,” Drew repeated for emphasis, “on keeping my hands presentable. Anyway, no more manicures for me, unless I want my daughter to go hungry, which wouldn’t be such a horrible thing, if you ask me, because little Lola is starting to get a little lardy. And yes, I know she’s only five, and there’s plenty of time for her to start worrying about diets and stuff, but a girl can’t be too careful.” Drew made a snort of derision. “Guess I don’t have to tell you that. If only you’d looked both ways, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Angela Campbell, come on down! You’re the next contestant on
The Price Is Right
!”

Drew continued prattling on, her voice competing with the shrieks of the latest lucky contestant, and after a few minutes, Casey found herself tuning out. She was exhausted from the steady stream of chatter that had been pressing against her ears, like a hot iron, ever since the doctors had announced she could hear, and that it would be beneficial if everyone talked to her as much as possible. Since then, voices had been coming at her nonstop, in a well-intentioned, if unnecessary, effort to stimulate her brain into further activity. The noise started first thing in the morning, when the interns arrived for morning rounds, continued all day, with the arrival of doctors and nurses, then family and friends, and even extended into the wee hours of the night, when the orderlies came in to mop up. If they weren’t talking
at
her, they were reading
to
her: the nurses read the front page of the morning paper; her niece proudly recited the story of Little Red Riding Hood; Janine continued her excruciating trek through the nineteenth-century streets of
Middlemarch
.

And then there was the television, with its parade of moronic morning talk shows, hysteria-filled game shows, and sex-crazed afternoon soaps. Then came Montel and Dr. Phil and Oprah and Ellen, followed by the forensic experts at
CSI
or the libidinous doctors of
Grey’s Anatomy
or the bizarre lawyers of
Boston Legal
. Everybody vying for her full, undivided attention.

And, of course, there was Warren.

He came every day. Always, he’d kiss her forehead and stroke her hand. Then he’d pull up the chair next to her bed and sit down, talking softly to her, telling her about his day, reporting his conversations with her various doctors. He said he was hoping there were other tests they could perform, tests that could tell them how much, if anything, she understood of what she was hearing. Surely there was a way of gauging her brain capacity, she’d heard him arguing with Dr. Zarb. How long before she regained the use of her arms and legs? he’d questioned Jeremy. How long before he could take her home?

She imagined him staring longingly into her open, unseeing eyes. Anyone watching would likely turn away, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. Anyone except Janine, that is, who thought nothing of barging in on them regularly, or Drew, who was oblivious to everything that didn’t directly concern her.

Was it possible that Drew was less oblivious than she let on?

Was it possible her sister had tried to kill her, in order to lay claim to the fortune she believed was rightfully hers?

“ ‘I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place,’”
Janine had read.
“ ‘You always see what nobody else sees; yet you never see what is quite plain.’ ”

Had she missed the obvious where her sister was concerned? Had she been treading in the wrong place, refusing to acknowledge what was quite plain?

This much was plain, Casey was forced to acknowledge: Drew had had both motive and opportunity to kill her.

No, I won’t do this. I won’t allow Detective Spinetti’s suspicions to poison my mind. Warren is still convinced it was an accident. Trust his instincts. Concentrate on something more pleasant. Listen to the damn TV. Find out how much that king-size tube of toothpaste is really worth.