The Winter Lodge (29 page)

“Then make room,” Rourke said simply. “I’m not withdrawing them.”

“Fine. I’ll withdraw them myself.”

Rourke reminded himself not to get riled up. Alger tended to argue over every item, line by line, and to make much of this habit to the taxpayers. “Don’t,” Rourke said simply, a note of warning in his voice.

“The money’s not there.” Alger had a deceptively mild delivery, behind which was a steely resolve. “We’re not going into reserve spending.”

“Did you read the requisition?” Rourke asked, his delivery anything but mild. “We’re driving cars that should have been replaced five years ago. One sedan was just judged unsafe at any speed. I’m not backing down on this, Matthew.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Alger took another document down from a shelf behind the desk—the city code manual. “Capital expenditures are subject to the final approval of the city administrator. And I don’t approve.”

“Then you’re an ass, and I’ll make sure people know you don’t give a shit about public safety.”

“Sure, send your bleeding-heart friend Nina to whine about it in her next speech. People drive old cars all the time, Chief—”

“And someone’s life could depend on a cruiser being in perfect condition.”

“That’s a long shot and you know it.”

Rourke felt the fire of his temper crackling just beneath the surface, ready to burst forth.

Without taking his eyes off Alger, he opened a desk drawer and took out a document of his own.

“I did the math,” he stated. “The budget can cover it.”

“Doing the math is my job, and the revenue isn’t there.”

“Tell you what,” Rourke said. “There’s an independent audit coming up next month—”

“That has to be rescheduled,” Alger said.

“Look it up in your damn city code. It can’t be changed.” As he strode out of the office, Rourke reminded himself that there was no point in getting pissed. They simply needed to fix the problem. This wasn’t supposed to be his issue, but since a hefty percentage of the city’s budget went to public safety, he had to justify every penny his department spent. City revenues were down and no one could understand why. Something didn’t add up, and Nina was scared, because she was up for reelection this year. With city finances in such bad shape, she was a sitting duck for her opponent. Matthew Alger would ride in like a white knight, promising to take control.

Rourke headed into Nina’s office, his annoyance unabated. Even the decor of her office irritated him. Everything was just so damn friendly, from the sunny-yellow walls to the cheerful pictures of special Avalon citizens and Nina’s personal heroes—Gloria Steinem and Madonna—

to the framed photos of Nina’s daughter, Sonnet. Not for the first time, Rourke felt a twinge of envy. Nina had a kid who was pure joy, a huge extended family she adored. Rourke had none of those things, and it didn’t usually bother him, but today it did.

If she noticed, she didn’t let on as she opened a file of spreadsheets. “We need to go through your departmental budget again,” she said. “We’re going to have another shortfall this quarter.”

“Oh, no,” he said, holding up his hand, palm out. “You’re not revising the budget again.

Jesus, Nina, our cars are ten years old. I’m not cutting another dime, so don’t even bother asking.”

“I’m not asking for cuts,” she assured him. “I know there’s nothing left in your department to trim away.”

“Thank you.” He was still suspicious of her. She wouldn’t have asked for a meeting if she didn’t have something up her sleeve.

“What I’d like is to apply for a state grant for the digital video cameras you requested for the cars.”

Okay, now he saw where this is going. “My father is chairman of the state law enforcement division.”

“That’s right. Rourke—”

“We’re not doing it. Find another way to fund the project.”

“Like what?”

“Like how about you figure out why the budget’s in such trouble, Madam Mayor?”

“Quit being a wise guy. I’ve been trying to figure this out for months.” She swallowed hard, pressed her palms on the blotter on her desk. Something was making her nervous. “I think it’s time we had a forensic accountant go over our books. And yes, I know how paranoid that makes me look.”

“And it costs money.”

“If we find the bleeding artery, then maybe we can stop the flow.”

“Have you talked to Matthew Alger? Seems to me you’d start with the city administrator.”

“He was no help at all. His books are in perfect, squeaky-clean order.” She scowled. “Of course they are.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He wants to look perfect because he’s going to run against me in the next election.”

She looked so completely stressed out that Rourke nearly forgot his own troubles.

“Listen, what about ordering an independent audit instead of the forensics at this point? Then you don’t look paranoid and maybe you’ll figure out what’s going on.”

“And the funding for an independent audit comes from, what, your department?” she asked.

He slapped his hand down on the desk. “I’m trying to be helpful.”

Unlike most people he worked with, Nina ignored his temper. “What is with you, McKnight?”

He glared at her. “Nothing’s with me, unless you want to count trying to run this department on a budget the size of an egg roll.”

“Liar. You’ve never let yourself get rattled over a budget shortfall.” She folded her arms on her desk and studied him.

He refused to let her scrutiny affect him. Nina Romano was beautiful. She was single and everyone loved her. For years, people in town had wanted them to fall in love and live happily ever after. The city mayor and the chief of police. It was just too cute to resist.

The only problem was, they weren’t a match. They both knew it. Yet they respected each other. When she demanded to know what was eating him, he wasn’t going to pull any punches.

“I’ve been all pissed off lately,” he said.

“Oh.” She gave a sage nod. “PJSD.”

“What’s that?”

“Post-Jenny Stress Disorder.”

Very funny, he thought. “She drove me nuts when she was staying with me. I figured I’d be glad to see the back of her.”

Nina laughed. “McKnight, you are one hell of a piece of work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve carried a torch for that girl ever since we were kids.”

“I, um, kind of told her so before she left.”

“And she still left?” Nina looked amazed.

“Yes.”

“Then you must not have told her.”

“I just said I did.”

“All right, how did you tell her?”

He thought for a moment. “I told her the reason I date so many girls is that none of them is her.”

It took Nina several minutes to stop laughing and pull herself together. Then she flipped a pencil at him, hitting him in the chest. “Good job, genius.”

“What?”

“If I have to explain why that was so completely inappropriate, then you’ll never get it.”

“Listen, can we move on? It’s pretty clear she’s better off heading to the city—”

“God, McKnight, you always do this,” Nina said.

“Do what?”

“You always try to find all the reasons you shouldn’t be with Jenny, or with anyone decent. Why is that?”

“I don’t need you to analyze my personal life, Nina,” he said.

“Right. You’re doing so well on your own.” She showed him a banker’s box overflowing with photographs and papers. “This might cheer her up.”

“What is it?”

“The call I put out in the paper? Things have been flooding in.”

Shortly after the fire, Nina had written an open letter to the citizens of Avalon, explaining Jenny’s loss and asking for copies of any photos or memorabilia people might have of the Majesky family or bakery. To no one’s surprise, items came flooding in—old photos, Sky River Bakery calendars dating back to the ’60s, cards with heartfelt memories handwritten on them, a startling number of pictures of Mariska Majesky. The school district had donated copies of the high-school yearbook from each year Jenny had been a student there. He shuffled through a few items and was struck anew by the feelings she roused in him. She was so damn beautiful in picture after picture, smiling out at the camera. He tried to imagine what it was like to lose everything. At one point in his life, he had walked away from everything with only the clothes on his back, but that wasn’t quite the same. He had been glad to leave his old life and all its trappings behind.

He came across a clipping from the paper, dated August 30, 1995. There was a photo of Jenny and Joey, their faces filled with happiness. “Mrs. Helen Majesky announces the engagement of her granddaughter, Jennifer Anne Majesky, to Corporal Joseph Santini…a summer wedding is planned.”

Memories burned inside him, still painful even now. He replaced the lid on the box. “Does she know about this stuff?” he asked Nina.

“No, things are still coming in. I thought maybe you could be in charge of it.”

“Nope. No way.” One thing was clear to Rourke. He was still haunted by the emotions that had engulfed him during the fire. There was a moment when he thought he’d lost her, and the one searing thought that wouldn’t leave him alone was that he’d never told Jenny how he felt about her.

Twenty-Two

J
enny felt like an impostor as she emerged from the subway station at Rockefeller Center. She tried to join the flow of hurrying, sharply dressed professionals heading off for appointments, but she felt like a phony. She was a stranger here. Sure, she’d visited the city before, but she’d been a tourist. Her grandparents had brought her to visit museums or to see a ballet, and on two blessed, cherished occasions, they had taken her to see a Broadway play.
Beauty and the Beast
had made Gram weep with joy while Grandpa had struggled to stay awake. Another time, they’d seen a drama called
Da
about an Irish family, which was terribly sad but beautiful to watch.

Other times, they had gone to the Frick, the Met, Wall Street. By far the most memorable visit had been to Ellis Island. There was something haunting about the place where so many millions had taken their first breath of air in America. Gram and Grandpa had said little as they regarded the pictures of crowded waiting rooms and dormitories, a rooftop where children used to play. They had spent a long time studying the display cases of random objects—a cracked leather satchel, a child’s stray shoe, a printed ticket, a stamped certificate of immigration. With a feeling of hushed awe, they had found their names among the engraved brass lists that marked the perimeter of the park. They’d traced the letters of their names with their fingertips, and Jenny would never forget the way they embraced each other, standing before the plaque with the wind blowing their hair and the Statue of Liberty in the background. It was such a mingling of sadness, regret and gratitude that she could finally see, in that moment, a glimpse of what it had been like for them, teenagers and newlyweds, fleeing to a new land, knowing full well that they would never see their families again.

Jenny had been thirteen years old. She was full of love for her grandparents and, she discovered, full of anger at her mother. That year, they’d also gone to the Cloisters, a medieval museum clear at the other end of Manhattan. To get there, they’d ridden a bus, and when it went through the Upper East Side, she’d known she was in Rourke McKnight’s neighborhood because he and Joey had once explained where it was. She’d looked out in wonder at the beautiful Gilded Age buildings and parks, nannies in their crisp aprons pushing prams, manicured parks and shiny limos transporting their precious cargos here and there.

She remembered thinking, This is his world. She’d felt like an alien then, and she did now.

Everyone in the city seemed intense and full of purpose—the food vendors on the street corners, the black-clad young execs chattering into cell phones as they rushed along the crowded sidewalk. Even the smokers clustered around their sand-filled ashtrays seemed busy and important.

Maybe in time she would feel a part of this rushing scene, but for now, she was simply going through the motions. She turned down Forty-Seventh Street, bustling with shoppers, diamond merchants and brokers, many of them Hasidic Jews in traditional long black coats and brimmed hats, earlocks and beards framing their faces. Diamond jewelry glittered in the windows of shop after shop. On one corner, she noticed a peculiar smell—the hot reek of exhaust and the smoky-sweet aroma of roasting nuts. She spotted a little girl with a woman, hailing a taxi. The woman was hurrying; the child stumbled as the mother half dragged along.

Watching them, Jenny had the most extraordinary sensation of déjà vu. She could hear, as clearly as a voice spoken in her ear, a clipped command: “Come along, Jenny. You have to keep up. We have a flight to catch.”

“I don’t want to fly away.”

“Fine, I’ll leave you at home.”

Jenny felt, for a moment, as though she’d become detached from her own life. Though the memory was dim, like a half-remembered dream, she had the eeriest notion that she had been here before.

In the next block, she watched the numbers on the buildings decrease, and found the address where she was to meet Philip Bellamy and Martin Greer, a man Philip had known since college, who was now a successful literary agent with his own firm.

As Jenny surrendered her coat, hat and gloves to the cloakroom of the restaurant, she felt the unpleasant tickle of panic. Oh, come on, she thought. Not now. Talk about your lousy timing.

She contemplated taking a pill for it but dismissed the idea. For the next hour, she would simply ignore the symptoms.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, pasted a smile on her face and approached the podium. “Has Mr. Bellamy arrived yet?” she asked.

“I’ve just seated him.” The Eastern European hostess, as slender as a pencil in a sleek skirt and blouse, led Jenny to the table where Philip and Martin awaited.

Both men stood to greet her, Philip with a brief kiss on her cheek and Martin with a handshake. She prayed he didn’t notice the sweat.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, taking a seat.

“It’s my pleasure,” Martin said. He had the pleasant and resonant voice of a radio announcer.