Two of a Kind (29 page)

“You had no warning or clue that he would disappear?” he asked.

“None at all.” They were seated in her office and she could see him looking around.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He invited me to dinner shortly after the Haversticks hired him.” Christina did not want to answer that question. But Sister Bernadette's lessons were too deeply etched inside her to lie.

“Dinner? When?” He perked up.

She reached for her date book and found the entry, showing the page to the detective.

“Okay, so he takes you to dinner; was it a date?”

“I didn't think so,” she said. “But he did.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

Christina told him the whole story then—the wine, the visit to the loft, the kiss followed by the weeping. “I don't really think that had anything to do with his disappearance,” she said. “Do you?”

“It's my job to explore
all
the possibilities,” said the detective. “This is just one more to add to the mix.”

“Apart from that night, we've always gotten along well. He sent business my way and I did the same for him.”

“Like the Haversticks.”

“Exactly. I thought he would be able to appraise the painting for them and do any light cleaning that it needed.”
Was
she in some obscure way responsible for what had happened? She didn't think so, but she couldn't be sure.

“Ian Haverstick claims that you were trying to influence his wife against selling.”

“If that's true, is it a crime?”

“No, it isn't. But let me rephrase that. Mr. Haverstick believes that you tried to influence his wife for your own gain—you would steer the painting to Blascoe, who would then disappear with it.”

“Mrs. Haverstick didn't want to sell it,” Christina said. “I had nothing to do with that. The argument was between those two—not with me. I was just doing what I was asked.”

“Which was?”

“Getting the painting authenticated and appraised. That was the first step no matter what they decided. They needed to know if it was authentic, and if so, what it was worth.”

“You thought it was authentic, didn't you?”

“I did.” She was surprised by the question.

“Why?”

“I can't really say,” she said. “Just a hunch. But I'm not a pro, the way Derrick is. He's got a good track record.”

“Or he did,” said the detective drily.

Christina had to concede that point. Then she let him look around. He found nothing incriminating—naturally. There was nothing to find. “I'm going to want phone records, e-mails, things like that,” he said as he was leaving.

“Fine,” she told him. “You can have anything you need.”

When he left, she realized she had been shaking. But he was not the one who had made her feel so afraid. It was Ian Haverstick; the memory of their last conversation was still lacerating. She thought of her father then, lurching around the house, his voice thunderous, his breath heavy with whiskey, his hands careless and potentially hurtful.

When the letter came two days later, Christina assumed it was from the detective. She opened it and at first, the words did not make any sense:

It has come to our attention that you have been operating a prohibited business out of your residence, which is in direct violation of code . . .

The letter was not from the detective; it was from the local zoning board. She felt the alarm bleeding outward, like a stain, as she continued reading:

You are required to attend a zoning board hearing on . . . and if found in violation of this code, you will be required to shut down above-referenced business immediately or face a maximum penalty of . . .

Christina clutched the letter tightly. She knew that operating a decorating business out of her home was illegal. But she had always been discreet, never putting a sign up on her door or window. Why, after all this time, were they coming after her? The answer was obvious: Ian Haverstick. It must have been him. And a call to Mimi Farnsworth confirmed it. “Oh yes, he's been tight with all those zoning people in the Slope for years,” Mimi said. “But I had no idea he'd do anything like this. I feel terrible—I recommended you for the job to do you a good turn and now look.”

“It's not your fault,” Christina said. No. It was Ian's.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” asked Mimi. “I would be glad to do it if you think it will help.”

Christina thought of Ian's dark eyes, two hot coals in the pale expanse of his fleshy face, and of the insinuating snarl of his voice on the phone. “No,” she said. “It wouldn't. But thank you for offering.”

She said good-bye to Mimi and reread the letter. The hearing was not for another three weeks. Depending on the findings, she'd have to either move her business or close it up entirely. But she knew what they would find—she had been operating out of her home and even if she'd wanted to, there was no way to pretend otherwise. And then there were the fines—she had no idea how much they would be.

Christina sank down into her zebra-striped chair. She didn't have the money to pay rent on another space and continue to live here. If she had to assume the cost of an office, she'd have to move out and rent the garden apartment. Just the thought of someone else sitting amid the rosebushes or inhaling the lilac that was so lush in May made her heart constrict; she didn't think she could stand it. The only thing worse was the thought of actually selling the place. But right now, it looked like she didn't have a choice.

T
he first thing Jordan did
when she got home from ballet class was to peer into the kitchen garbage pail. Way down, underneath the crumpled paper towels and some other yucky stuff, she found two empty cookie boxes, the wrapper from a chocolate bar, and an empty container of Ben & Jerry's Heath Bar Crunch. Her mom was really powering through the sweets. And she was trying to hide it too—Jordan had never actually caught her in the act. Still, Jordan was an expert in eating espionage. She knew all about hiding what you'd eaten—and what you hadn't.

But it wasn't just the secret gorging that was bothering Jordan; it was her mom's
other
secret—her pregnancy. Even though she'd overheard her talking about it, she was having a hard time believing it. How could her
mom
be
pregnant
? The more evidence of her mother's bingeing she found, though, the more real it became.

She
so
did not want to deal with this and she went around and around in her mind, trying to figure out what to do. Today, while she was at the barre in ballet class, the answer came to her. Oliver. She waited until she got home and then texted him; she was in the kitchen now, waiting for his reply. And when her phone made its anticipatory noise letting her know a text had come in, she raced up the stairs to her room and closed the door so she could read it in private.

R u kidding? Good 1. LOL.
Jordan stared at the screen and started typing furiously.
NOT kidding. This is 4 real. Do u think he knows?
She waited and there was the reply.
NO!
While she was figuring out what to say next, her phone buzzed.

“I don't believe it,” Oliver said.

“Believe it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“She was talking to a
doctor
.”

“A baby!” Oliver said after a pause. “Cool!”

“It's not a baby yet.” She resisted adding,
you jerk
.
“She never said she's actually going to have it.”

“You mean, you, like,
talked
to her about it?”

“No, but they were talking about an abortion.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Well, not disappointed exactly, even though a baby might be, like, fun.”

“It's a
baby
, Oliver. Not a puppy. Anyway, if she's not telling your dad, someone has to.”

“He's away.”

“Where'd he go?”

“On a vacation. It's this male bonding sort of thing he does with his best buds from college. He asked if I wanted to come along. Yeah, right. He's going to be gone for another two days. Maybe three. I forget.”

“Can you call him and tell him?”

“Me? Are you crazy? I would
never
talk to my dad about something like this.” He was quiet for a moment, but Jordan could hear him breathing. “But I know who would.”

“Who's that?”

“My grandmother.”

“You think so?”

“I
know
so.”

“Oliver, you
have
to tell her.”

“I will.”

“Promise?” Why was this so important to her anyway?

“Promise.”

“Okay, then. I'm
depending
on you.”

They got off the phone. What if her mom went ahead and had this baby? What
if
? Jordan couldn't even begin to imagine it.

•   •   •

Oliver
had not been anywhere near Morningside Grammar and Prep since his expulsion last fall. So when he rounded the corner and saw the familiar structure looming in front of him, he felt the dread rising like noxious little bubbles that seemed to swirl and burst above his head. A few days ago, for no reason that he could pinpoint, he'd decided to “borrow” his dad's Ray-Bans. And now he was so anxious about running into someone he knew—which was, like, practically the entire junior and senior class—that he'd worn them in an admittedly pathetic attempt at a disguise. But fortunately he didn't see anyone in front of the school. Ms. Konkel had said she would meet him at the side entrance, and look, there she was, waiting for him just like she'd promised. She was okay, she really was. The dread subsided just slightly.

“Oliver, it's good to see you,” she said. “Let's go somewhere we can talk privately.”

“Fine by me,” he said, falling into step beside her. They walked to a café on Columbus Avenue, sat down, and ordered an extra-large iced latte—for her—and a vanilla chai for him.

“So these pieces that you've been sending me, Oliver,” she said, tearing open a package of sugar and pouring it into her froth-topped glass. “How many have there been?”

“Maybe, like, ten? Twelve? I haven't been keeping track.”

“Seventeen. You sent me seventeen essays about what you've been doing since you left school. The volunteer work at the church. Preparing food, cleaning the church kitchen, working in the garden. The ‘crazy dude' who shows up and how the community deals with him. Your new friendship with Liam. Summer.” She stirred in the sugar, took a sip of her coffee, and tore open another packet. “I have to tell you I was impressed by what I read. Very impressed. Not just with the writing—which is excellent by the way—but with the thinking behind the writing. Some of your observations—about people, and about yourself—are so sophisticated. I kept forgetting you were just a kid.”

“Thanks. I, like, figured you'd understand.” He looked down into his chai, not wanting her to see just how much her praise mattered.

“And I always did like
you
,” she said, sucking the latte in through a straw. “I was so sorry when you were expelled. I even felt a little guilty.”

“Guilty?” He looked up at her.
“Why?”

“I just wished I had been more . . . attentive. Maybe if I had, I'd have seen that you were heading down a bad path. And I would have tried to do something to stop you.”

“Hey, it wasn't your fault,” he said. He sipped his chai, which was so hot it scalded his tongue. “I can't blame you—or anyone—for the stupid shit I did. And I can see now it was stupid.”

“In the essay about Liam, you went into all that,” she said eagerly. “I thought you handled it quite well.”

“He told me that his school is so crowded that he has to carry his coat with him everywhere he goes because he doesn't have a locker. Lunch is at nine thirty in the morning. His Spanish teacher didn't remember his name; his trig teacher didn't even know he was in her class. And here I went to this school where, like, so much was done for me. But I blew it off. I just blew it off.”

“Are you sorry?”

“Not exactly . . . Well, maybe, like, a little.” He tried the chai again. Better now. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

She grinned as if he'd given her the answer she'd been waiting for. “That's what I thought. So that's why I took the liberty of showing your essays to Mr. Cunningham.”

“You did?” Oliver was surprised. “What did he say?”

“He was . . . impressed. So when I urged him to give you another chance, he said yes. With certain conditions, of course.”

“Another chance? What do you mean?”

She leaned across the table. “A chance to come back to school in September,” she said gently. “But no more cutting classes, failing tests, or even
thinking
about getting high. It wasn't easy to persuade Mr. Cunningham; don't blow it again.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes, Oliver,” she told him. “Just say yes.”

He leaned back in his chair. Had this been what he was angling for when he'd sent her his writing? Secretly and deep down? He wasn't sure. But he was flooded with an incredible sense of accomplishment. Andy hadn't pulled any strings or used his position to impress, cajole, or intimidate anyone. He'd done this, for himself and by himself. His big-shot dad had nothing to do with it. “All right,” he said. “I'm saying yes.” He grinned at her, but really, in his mind, he saw his father's astonished, delighted expression when he told him the news.

Oliver just about floated up the street to the subway. Never mind that he'd hated Morningside when he had been a student there before. And never mind about what Konkel had said about basically being put on probation; he knew Cunningham would be, like, watching him, but he didn't care. He'd changed in these past months. Changed for the better. He wished he could tell his mom about it; he was sure that, like Ms. Konkel, she would understand. Well, he couldn't tell her; he didn't believe she was up in heaven or anywhere else watching him. That was a stupid-ass story for little kids. And morons.

Right now, he had no time to tell anyone, though. He had to head uptown to see his grandmother. When he got there, she wasn't home, so he parked himself on a bench near her apartment building and waited. It was a nice day—blue sky, hardly any clouds, plenty of sun. He saw three people walk by with dogs and thought, hey, he'd like to have dog too—a big dog he could take to Central Park and let run off the leash. He didn't know how his dad would feel about this but sensed that when he told him about Cunningham's offer, he'd have a bit of leverage. He'd go to, like, an animal shelter and—

“Oliver!”

He looked up. There was his grandmother in this wacky straw hat and big black sunglasses. He realized he was still wearing his dad's Ray-Bans and wondered whether Andy had missed them by now. “Hey, Grandma.”

“I wish I'd known you were coming. Have you been waiting long? At least it's a nice day; I'd hate to think of you sitting out here in the rain. Did you have lunch? Let's go upstairs and I'll make you lunch.” She delivered all this without waiting for him to reply. But he followed her up to her apartment, where she parked him at the kitchen table while she busied herself with making the grilled cheese. Then she set his sandwich—a celery stalk and pickle slices arranged neatly on the side—on the place mat. Oliver picked up one of the triangular halves. “Like last time,” he said. He hadn't realized just how hungry he'd been until he took a bite.

“Last time?” She bit into a celery stick with a crunch.

“The last time I came up here by myself. Remember?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I remember.” She chewed her celery thoughtfully. “You were in trouble back then. Are you in trouble now?”

“No,” he said, thinking of Ms. Konkel, of Cunningham, and how the news would go down with his father. “I'm actually not. But my dad is. Only he doesn't know it yet.”

“What,” she said, putting down the celery stick, “are you talking about?”