Whispers and Lies (8 page)

“Caroline’s wallet is missing from her purse,” Margot said.

I came around to the inside of the nurses’ station, began my own head sweep. “You’re sure? It’s not in a pocket somewhere?”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” Caroline moaned, brushing chin-length, brown hair away from her long face, emptying the contents of her purse onto the floor. At the best of times, Caroline looked vaguely depressed. Now she looked positively distraught.

“Maybe you left it in another purse. I did that once,” I offered gamely, although I’d never done any such thing.

“No, I had it with me this morning. I know, because I bought a cup of coffee and a Danish downstairs.”

“Maybe you left it on the counter after you paid.”

Caroline shook her head. “I’m sure I put it back in my purse.” She looked up and down the corridor, tears filling her dejected brown eyes. “Damn it. I had over a hundred dollars in there.”

I thought of Alison. She’d been here when the fire alarm had sounded and the nursing station had been left temporarily unattended. And she’d been gone by the time everything had settled down. Was it possible she’d helped herself to Caroline’s wallet?

Why would I think that?

Surely it was much more logical to assume that Caroline had left her wallet in the cafeteria. “I think you should call downstairs,” I advised, opening and closing drawers, checking each small compartment behind the desk, then peeking into my own purse to make sure nothing was missing.

“I’ll call the cafeteria,” Caroline agreed grudgingly, “but I know it’s not there. Somebody took it. Somebody took it.”

S
aturday night, the phone rang just as I was stepping out of the shower. I wrapped one large white towel around my body, threw another one across my shoulders, and padded across my bedroom floor toward the phone, wondering if Alison was calling to cancel our dinner. I lifted the phone to my ear and pushed my wet hair away from my cheek. “Hello?”

“I’d like to speak to Erica Hollander,” the male voice announced without further preamble.

It took half a second for the name to register on my brain. “Erica Hollander is no longer my tenant,” I said coolly, my eyes following several wayward trickles of water as they ran down my legs to the ivory carpet. Anxiety simultaneously trickled through my insides.

“Do you know where I can reach her?” The voice carried traces of a soft Southern twang. I didn’t think I’d heard it before.

“I’m afraid I have no idea where she is.”

“When did she leave?”

I thought back to the last time I’d seen Erica. “It was the end of August.”

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

“She didn’t leave a thing, and that includes the two months’ rent she owed me. Who’s calling?”

The answer to my question was a resounding click in my ear.

I dropped the receiver into its carriage, then plopped down on my bed, taking a series of long, deep breaths, trying to push unpleasant memories of Erica Hollander out of my head. But she was as stubborn in her absence as she’d been in her presence, and she refused to be so easily dismissed.

Erica Hollander was young, like Alison, and like Alison, willowy and tall, though not quite as tall, not quite as willowy. Her hair was a luxurious dark brown and hung straight to her shoulders, and she was continually tossing it from side to side, the way you see them do in those annoying television commercials that equate a good shampoo with a good orgasm. But her face, while pretty enough in a certain light, hovered perilously close to plain. Only her nose, a nose that was long and thin and veered suddenly to the left, gave her any character at all. It was her one distinguishing feature. Of course, she hated it. “I’m saving up to have it done,” she’d told me on more than one occasion.

“Your nose is beautiful,” I’d assured her, ever the mother hen.

“It’s awful. I’m saving up to have it done.”

I’d listened to her whine about her nose; I’d listened to her brag about her boyfriend—“Charlie’s so handsome, Charlie’s so smart”—who was spending a year working in Tokyo; I’d listened when she stopped bragging and started whining—“Charlie didn’t call this week, Charlie better watch his step”—and I’d reserved judgment when she got involved with some guy she’d met at Elwood’s, a well-known biker hangout on Atlantic Avenue. I’d even lent her money to buy a used portable computer. All because I thought we were friends. It never occurred to me that she’d skip out in the middle of the night, still owing me for the computer, not to mention several months in back rent.

Smart, handsome Charlie in Tokyo couldn’t accept that his girlfriend had dumped him as unceremoniously as she’d dumped me and had plagued me with increasingly unpleasant phone calls from Japan, demanding to know her whereabouts. He’d even notified the police, who basically corroborated my story, but even that wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He’d continued harassing me longdistance until I’d threatened to call his employer. And then suddenly, the phone calls stopped.

Until tonight.

I shook my head, amazed that though Erica Hollander had been gone for almost three months, she was still causing me grief. She’d been my first tenant and, I’d vowed after she’d taken off, my last.

What had happened to change my mind?

Truth be told, I missed having someone around. I don’t have a lot of friends. There are my co-workers, women like Margot and Caroline, but we rarely socialize
away from the hospital. Caroline has a demanding husband, and Margot has four kids to look after. And I’ve always been a little reserved. This shyness, coupled with my tendency to throw myself into my work, has made it hard for me to meet new people. Plus, my mother was sick for so long before she died, and between caring for my patients at the hospital and caring for her at home, well, there are only so many hours in a day.

Besides, something insidious happens to women in our society when they turn forty, especially if they’re not married. We get lost in a heavy, free-floating haze. It becomes difficult to see us. People know we’re there; it’s just that we’ve become a little fuzzy, so blurred around the edges we’ve begun blending into the surrounding scenery. It’s not that we’re invisible exactly—people actually step around us to avoid confronting us—but the truth is we are no longer
seen
. And if you aren’t seen, you aren’t heard.

That’s what happens to women over forty.

We lose our voice.

Maybe that’s why we seem so angry. Maybe it’s not hormones after all. Maybe we just want someone to pay attention.

Anyway, I started thinking about how nice it had been when Erica Hollander had first moved in, how much fun it had been having someone around, even if we didn’t see each other all that much. I don’t know. Somehow, just the fact that someone was sharing my space had made me feel less alone. So I decided to try it again. What is it they say about second marriages? That they’re a triumph of hope over experience?

At any rate, I was determined not to make the same
mistakes the second time around. That’s why I’d decided against advertising for a tenant in the newspaper, choosing instead to post a number of discreet notices around the hospital. I reasoned that, this way, I was more likely to attract someone older, more responsible. Maybe a professional, perhaps even a woman like myself.

Instead I got Alison.

The phone rang, bringing me back to the present. I became aware of the air conditioner blowing against the back of my neck, like a lover’s cool breath. I shuddered with the chill.

“Hi, it’s me,” Alison chirped as I lifted the receiver to my ear. “Didn’t you hear me knock?”

The towel at my breast came loose and fell to the floor as I rose to my feet. “What? No. Where are you?”

“At your kitchen door. I’m on my cell. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. I’m just running a little late. Can I pick you up in ten minutes?”

“No problem.”

Securing my towel around me, I walked to my bedroom window and watched from behind the white lace curtain as Alison ambled back toward the cottage. She was wearing a slinky, navy dress I didn’t remember seeing in her closet, and her silver sling-back shoes, which she had no trouble walking in at all. I watched as she tucked her cell phone inside the silver purse dangling from her shoulder, only to withdraw it again almost immediately, several loose bills escaping their cramped confines and wafting toward the ground. Alison immediately scooped up the money and stuffed it back inside her small silver
bag. I quickly recalled the handful of $100 bills Alison had given me for first and last month’s rent, then found myself thinking about the $100 that had gone missing from Caroline’s purse. Was it possible Alison had taken it?

“That’s ridiculous,” I said out loud, watching Alison punch a series of numbers into her cell phone. Alison had no need to steal money from strangers. I watched her whisper something into the receiver, then laugh. Suddenly she spun around, almost as if she’d known I was watching her. I flattened myself against the wall and didn’t move again until I heard the cottage door open and close.

Fifteen minutes later, I was at her door, wearing a calf-length, pale yellow, sleeveless dress with a pronounced décolletage that I’d bought a year ago, but had never had the nerve to wear. “Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t get my hair to sit right.”

“You look fabulous.” Alison regarded me with the practiced eye of women who are used to looking in mirrors. “You just need a little trim,” she announced after a pause. “I could do it for you. Don’t forget I worked for a few months in a hairdressing salon.”

“You were a receptionist,” I reminded her.

She laughed. “Yeah, but I watched and I learned, and I’m really pretty good. You want me to give it a try after dinner?”

I thought of the improvised bob I’d given Myra Wylie earlier in the week. Was I as brave as she was? “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s this new place right across from the Lorelli Gallery. I already called them and said we’d be a bit late.”

The restaurant was called Barrington’s, and like many
restaurants in South Florida, it was much bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street. The main room was decorated like a French bistro, lots of Tiffany lamps and leaded-glass windows, along with Toulouse-Lautrec posters of dancers from the Moulin Rouge suspended from pale yellow walls that were an exact—and unfortunate—match with my dress. Were it not for my ample cleavage, I might have vanished altogether.

The waiter brought over a basket of bread, the wine list, and two large menus, before reciting by heart the list of the night’s specials. His eyes moved back and forth between Alison’s face and my chest. Together, I remember thinking, we could rule the world.

“Dolphin!” Alison wailed in horror at one of the waiter’s suggestions.

“Not Flipper,” I explained quickly. “This dolphin’s a fish, not a mammal. It’s sometimes called mahi mahi.”

“I like the sound of that much better.”

“How’s the salmon?” I asked.

“Tasty,” the waiter said, looking at Alison. “But kind of boring,” he said, looking at me.

“What about the swordfish?” Alison asked.

“Wonderful,” the waiter enthused. “They grill it in a light Dijon mustard sauce. And it comes with sautéed vegetables and little red potatoes.”

“Sounds great. I’ll have that.”

“I’ll have the salmon,” I offered, risking the young man’s scorn, daring to be dull.

“Some wine?”

Alison motioned to me with her hand, as if giving me the floor. “Some wine?” she repeated.

“I think I’ll skip the wine tonight.”

“You can’t skip the wine. This is a celebration. We have to have wine.”

“Remember what happened last time,” I cautioned.

She looked confused, as if she’d forgotten all about her recent migraine. “We’ll have white wine, not red,” she pronounced upon reflection. “That should be all right.”

The waiter pointed out the choice of wines, and Alison followed his recommendation. Something from Chile, I believe. It was good, and it was cold, and it quickly gave me a pleasant buzz. Service was slow, and I’d already finished my glass by the time the food arrived. Alison poured me another, and I didn’t object, although I noticed she’d only taken a few sips of her own drink. “Ooh, this is yummy delicious,” she enthused, biting into the swordfish. “How’s yours?”

“Yummy.” I laughed at the sound.

“So, did you see your friend this week?” Alison asked suddenly.

“My friend?”

“Josh Wylie.” Alison stole a look around the crowded restaurant, as if he might be there, as if she might recognize him if he were.

The salmon stuck in my throat. “How do you know about Josh Wylie?”

Alison swallowed one forkful of swordfish, then another. “You told me about him.”

“I did?”

“Dinner at your house. I asked if you were interested in anyone, and you said there was this guy”—she lowered her voice, her eyes doing another slow spin around the
room—“Josh Wylie, whose mother is one of your patients. Right?” She popped two small potatoes into her mouth, speared another forkful of fish.

“Right.”

“So, did you see him?”

“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, he’s taking me to lunch next Friday.”

Alison’s eyes widened with delight. “Way to go, Terry!”

I laughed. “It’s not a big deal,” I cautioned, as much to myself as to Alison. “He probably just wants to talk about his mother.”

“If he wanted to talk about his mother, he’d do it in the waiting room. Trust me, he’s interested.”

I shrugged, hoping she was right. “We’ll see.”

Alison waved my hesitation aside. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” She clapped her hands together, as if congratulating me for a job well done, then finished off the last of her swordfish in three quick swallows. “This is so exciting. I can’t wait till next Friday.”

I don’t remember much else about the meal, except that Alison insisted on ordering dessert, and that I ate more than I should have.

“Come on,” I remember her saying as she pushed the large piece of banana-cream cake toward me. “You only live once.”

After dinner, Alison was eager to show me the Lorelli Gallery. She grabbed my hand and all but pulled me across the busy street. I heard a car whiz by behind me, felt its exhaust on my bare calves. “Watch where you’re going, lady,” the driver yelled out.