Where Do I Go? (4 page)

Thankfully, the taxi was waiting when we got downstairs to the lobby. I handed Mr. Bentley a ten for the cabbie and let him take over, getting the muttering old woman and her cart into the Yellow Cab, giving the driver the address of the shelter, and waving good riddance.

A quick shower, a long simple dress in royal blue, a quick blow-dry to my damp curls, a touch of mascara and blush, and I finally felt able to present myself to our guests. Philip looked me up and down with a hint of approval. I relaxed. “I apologize for that little snafu.”

Philip's new partner threw back his head and guffawed. “Haven't heard that one in a while.”

Philip grinned, as if they shared a private joke.

Whatever.
I extended my hand to his wife, who looked like the prototype for white female actors on all the cop shows: blonde hair to the shoulder, “pretty” features, business suit with short skirt, willowy legs, high, pointy heels. “Guess I need to start at the beginning. I'm Gabrielle. Most people call me Gabby. And you are—?”

The woman laid long, limp fingers in my hand, her eyes drifting somewhere past my ear. “Mona. Mona Fenchel,” she mur­­­mured. The manicured fingernails fluttered in the air. “Lovely penthouse. Really. Lovely.”

Yeah, and your husband's going to get an earful on the way home.
“Who do they think they are, these Fairbanks? Buying a penthouse
along Lake Shore Drive! And they've been in Chicago all of one minute.
Did you see her when she came in? And what kind of name is Gabby?
She's nothing but a hillbilly from—”

“Well, I'm delighted,” boomed a voice, cutting off my imaginary rant. Mona's husband, tie loosened, shirt collar unbuttoned, shook my hand firmly. He looked about Philip's age—forty-one—a little fleshy about the face. “Henry Fenchel. Don't you worry about your little, heh-heh,
snafu.
” A wink in Philip's direction. “These things happen. Homeless people all over the city these days. But they don't do too bad now that the weather's warming up. Downright industrious, some of them, selling the
Streetwise
newspaper on every corner downtown. But others . . .” He shook his head. “You can take them off the street, but you can't take the street out of them.”

I did my best to smile brightly and be the perfect hostess, whisking the cold salads Camila had prepared to the buffet and rescuing the hot food from the warming oven. I lit candles on the teakwood dining room table, Philip poured wine, and the men chatted. I tried to engage Mona Fenchel in conversation—
How
long had they been in Chicago? Did they have family here? Would she
like more of the beef tips and rice?
—but not once did she look me in the eye.

I was relieved when they left. The grandfather clock solemnly bonged out ten chimes as the door closed behind them. The apartment was suddenly silent. I turned and saw Philip standing in the middle of the marble-tiled gallery, hands in his trouser pockets, jacket open, looking at me. “Let's talk, Gabrielle.”

Uh-oh.
Now I was going to get it. I sat on a hassock in the living room and tried once more to explain that I'd thought I had plenty of time, I didn't know it was about to rain, the old woman seemed sick and had no shelter . . .

But Philip couldn't get past his bottom line. “You
knew
I was bringing my new partner and his wife home to dinner. You
knew
this was important to me!”

I nodded meekly. “You're right. I'm sorry, Philip.”

But my apology only seemed to trigger a long list of my sins. Did I know how long he'd had to keep them in the den, refreshing their wine glasses while I did my little goody-two-shoes thing? . . . He was lucky Henry Fenchel had a sense of humor, thought the whole thing was amusing . . . But I had certainly offended the wife—something you just don't do in business partnerships . . .

Again I said I was sorry. And I was. The whole thing was in­­considerate of me, and my good intentions had certainly backfired. I assured Philip I wanted his new business venture to succeed, and I would make it up to him somehow.

But we still went to bed with our backs turned to each other.

As Philip's steady breathing turned into soft snores, I lay awake staring into the unfriendly darkness, trying not to think about the fact that we were lying prone, thirty-two floors above terra firma, like being levitated by an unseen magician. Instead, I tried to count the days until P.J. and Paul could join us here in Chicago. Mid-April now . . . middle school graduation at the academy near the end of May . . .

But in the darkness, a wrinkled face with alert, darting eyes kept appearing in my mind's eye.

Lucy.

Did she get to the shelter all right? Was she safe in a bed with actual sheets and blankets? What would happen to her tomorrow? She still needed to see a doctor for that awful cough. Would she go? Would someone take her? Or would she end up back out in the park under the bushes?

I felt a surge of anticipation. Once Philip went to work, I'd get on the phone and try to call the shelter.
No.
Even better. I'd take a taxi, go to the shelter, and find out for myself.

chapter 3

Daylight filled the muted Vienna shades like a bar of white chocolate.
Mmm. Chocolate.
My stomach rumbled. Must be time to get up. I flung out an arm . . . and realized Philip's side of the bed was empty.

What time was it, anyway? I squinted at the red digital numbers on our bedside clock.
Eight twenty?!
I tumbled out of the king-size bed and into the bathroom. I never slept this late! In fact, I was usually up before Philip, trying to make a decent break-fast and eat together before he left for work—though more often than not, he just took a couple of bites of scrambled eggs, grabbed his coffee and bagel, and dashed out the door after a peck on my cheek.

Gargling a shot of mouthwash and running a brush through my snarly hair, I grabbed my bathrobe from the back of the door and headed down the hall, hoping to find Philip before he was off for the day. But the house—
apartment? condo? flat? What in the
world did one call this oversize tree house?
—was eerily silent. Padding into the living room, I pulled the cord on the floor-to-ceiling drapes. Drat. Cloudy and gray. But up here in the stratosphere, I couldn't even hear the traffic below. No treetops interrupted the sky. Only other tall, glitzy residential buildings and hotels to my right and left, standing at attention along Lake Shore Drive while life scurried along down below.

In the kitchen, a note was propped on the coffeemaker. “Gabrielle, remember we've got a theater date tonight, 7:00. And no bag ladies!” Then he'd added a PS: “Forgot to tell you the maid comes to clean on Fridays, 9 a.m.”

What maid? Every Friday? Good grief, what else did I have to do except clean the house? The stove digital said 8:40.
Oh, great.
So much for a leisurely cup of coffee. I hopped into the shower and then pulled on a clean pair of white capris and a rose-colored cotton sweater. With an eye on the clock, I made the bed and plumped the shams. No way did I want some girl from Maids R Us thinking I couldn't even make my own bed.

The intercom chimed while I was drying my hair. I buzzed the security door downstairs, feeling smug that I'd accomplished so much in just twenty minutes. Two minutes later, the doorbell rang. I pulled open the door. “Oh! Camila!”

The round-faced Latina who had prepared our buffet dinner so expertly the night before stood beaming in the hallway, a snug gray cardigan her only wrap. “
Buenos días
, Señora Fairbanks.” She held a bucket full of cleaning supplies in one hand and a mop in the other.

For some reason I felt like throwing my arms around her and giving her a hug. A familiar face! But I just grinned and let her in. “Please, just call me Gabby. We . . . I . . . uh, I'm not sure what to tell you to do. We only moved in last weekend. There are a lot of boxes still in the spare bedrooms.” I laughed self-consciously. “We haven't been here long enough to get it dirty yet, but—”

“No problem, Señora Fairbanks. I cleaned for the people who owned the penthouse before you. And”—she hefted the bucket, chuckling—“I brought my own cleaning supplies today. In case yours are still packed. Where would you like me to start?”

“Uh . . .” My mind scrambled. “The kitchen, I guess . . . oh, no, uh, I still need to eat breakfast.” For some reason, I felt my face flush. Camila had probably gotten up at six, eaten breakfast already, and traveled to Richmond Towers from who knows how far away, while the spoiled rich lady barely had her eyes open.

I felt like screaming at my husband.
Don't embarrass me like
this!

Camila started in the living room and the den, courteously giving me time to finish in the bathroom and make a fresh pot of coffee. As I perched on a kitchen stool, munching a toasted bagel at the marble counter, she bustled past me toward the bedroom. A moment later I heard her call out, “Oh, no, no, señora, you don't have to make the bed. I need to wash the sheets on Friday.” I heard the muffled sounds of the bed being stripped.

So much for making the bed. So much for first names, too, I guessed.

I finished my coffee, put my dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped the counter, listening with frustration to Camila's happy humming coming from the other room. What in the world was I supposed to do with myself while she cleaned? I couldn't unpack boxes—that would get in her way.

At least back in Virginia, I'd been raising the boys, driving them to school and sports, helping them with homework, and volunteering at the League of Women Voters. And, oh yes, the Petersburg Garden Club, thanks to a membership from my mother-in-law. A weekly cleaning lady seemed justified then . . . especially when I went back to school to complete my credits as a certified therapeutic recreational specialist—much to Philip's amusement, who thought a CTRS was a fancy name for fun and games.

But it stood me in good stead landing the job as a recreational therapist at the Briarwood Senior Center. Especially when Philip registered Philip Junior at boarding school two years ago. He'd only been eleven, going into sixth grade. And last fall, Paul had joined him, emptying the house of my heart.

At least I'd had my job, something that made me feel useful. Needed. Filled the long days and hours.

Hot tears rose up unbidden, thinking of P.J. and Paul.
Oh God,
I miss them so much.
I grabbed a napkin, dabbed my eyes, and blew my nose. Good grief, they were still just
boys
, only thirteen and eleven. So what if the Fairbanks males “always” attended George Washington Preparatory Academy? They had Shepherd in them, too, and Shepherds went to school half a mile from home, like everyone else, wearing jeans with holes in the knee, and sporting a tie only at weddings and funerals, if then.

I slid off the stool. I had to get out of here. But go where? Do what? And then I remembered.

Lucy.

That's it! I was going to find that homeless women's shelter and see if they'd taken her in. Just inquire how the old lady's cough was doing. Tell the staff how we'd met in the rain. Laugh about it. Say hello and good-bye.

Grabbing my purse from the coat closet in the gallery, I ran down the hall and poked my head into the master bath, where Camila was scrubbing the shower. “Camila? I'm leaving now. Do you know how long you'll be? If I'm not back, can you just lock the front door behind you?”

She waved a hand ensconced in a yellow rubber glove. “No problem, Señora Fairbanks!
Sí,
you go. Everything will be fine.”

Thankfully, Mr. Bentley was on duty again, though he pursed his lips and frowned when I asked if he would call a cab for me and find the address again for that same homeless shelter where he'd sent the bag lady last night.

“Now, what you want to go there for, Mrs. Fairbanks? Have you been to State Street yet? Or”—he glanced outside—“well, guess it's not the best day to go up the Sears Tower. Clouds too low. But how about North Michigan Avenue? Lots of shopping there.”

I tried to keep impatience out of my voice. “Please, just call a cab, Mr. Bentley. And get that same address, if you would.”

The cab pulled up in front of a brick church squeezed between other two- and three-story buildings. I peered out the window. “Is this it? Where—?”

“This is the address, lady.” The cab driver pointed at the church. “Building burned down a couple of years ago. That one you see there is brand-new. Don't know why they put in that stained-glass window an' stuff. The old building hadn't been used as a church for years, much less this one. You want me to wait?”

I looked at the meter.
$7.85.
I handed him a ten. “No, thanks.” I got out and stood on the sidewalk. Seemed like it had taken barely five minutes to get here. Must not be that far from Richmond Towers. Maybe I could walk back.