White Apples (9 page)

She opened her mouth and lifted a hand at the same time. For a moment he thought she was going to pull a hair off her tongue or a bad bit of the dessert she had just eaten. Instead she reached into her mouth and took out something silver, something round and large—a bell.

"Jesus!" The object was so unexpected and odd to see that it was like a slap in Ettrich's face.

Isabelle stared at it with delight and appreciation. Her face said she was not surprised to have found a silver bell in her mouth. As she jiggled it in her hand, the thin tinny sound of the metal clittered in the air. Isabelle looked at Vincent, her eyes shy and sly at the same time. "He's here."

Ettrich leaned forward and asked carefully, "
Who's
here?"

She put the bell down on the table and tap-tap-tapped it toward him with the back of her index finger. "Your son is here; our son. This is his way of saying hello." She pushed the bell again.

Vincent Ettrich loved Isabelle Neukor more than any woman he had ever known. She was without question
the
one for him. If ever there was a person he would have died for it was she. But looking at that silly bell in front of him and then at her, he was convinced she had gone mad. For the first time in their relationship he felt repelled by her.

He remembered something: when he was a boy his mother owned a canary. She kept it in their kitchen in a blue cage. Hanging inside the cage was a bell that looked exactly like the one in front of him. Even when he was in a far corner of their house, young Vincent could still sometimes hear that bell when the bird poked it. He put his hand over this one now, as if by covering the object he could make Isabelle's lunacy disappear.

"That's how I knew you died and came back, Vincent. He told me. He talks to me." She put her hand on top of his.

Ettrich had to fight the impulse to pull away. "You're saying our unborn child
talks
to you?"

Her smile could have lit and warmed a city. "Yes, Vincent"— she nudged her chin in the direction of the bell—"and now he's talking to you too. That's his hello."

Nothing. He could not think of one thing to say or do in re•action to what she had just said. She kept smiling. "You don't believe me."

He shook his head.

"Would you like me to prove it?" He nodded.

"The name of your mother's bird, the one you were just think•ing about, was Columbus. It died on a hot summer day when you were six. You and your mom buried it in the backyard in a match-box. Two days later you dug it up again when she was out shopping. You wanted to see if it had gone to heaven yet." She picked up the bell and held it out to him. "Ask anything you want, Vincent. He wants you to be convinced this is true."

"What's on Coco Hallis's neck?"

There was no way Isabelle could know who Coco was. Unless she'd hired a private detective to follow him around for the last three months, but that was not Isabelle's style. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head slightly to one side and then opened them again. "A tattoo, a name: Bruno Mann."

"How're you folks doin' over here? Anything more I can get you?" The waitress's voice cut through that moment between them like a knife.

Ettrich's expression didn't change. He looked up at her and smiled. "Do you want to see a really great trick?"

Taken off guard by his question, the waitress didn't know how to react. Was this guy pulling her leg? She managed to say, "A trick? Sure. But is it a
wonderful
trick or just a good one?" Now she gave a real smile, letting him know that she was a good sport.

Ettrich said, "You judge for yourself, ma'am. Do you have chil•dren?" She arched an eyebrow. "Yeah sure, I got some kids. Why?"

"Watch this." He turned to the pretty woman sitting across the table from him and asked, "What are the names of her kids?"

Isabelle looked at the waitress, paused, and then said, "Ron and Debby. Ron after Ronald Reagan and—" She paused again, thinking. "Debby after your sister Deborah."

The smile fell off the waitress's face. She had never seen this woman before. How could she know those names?

Before she could ask that, the woman spoke again.

"Your husband, Dean? Those tests he took the other day? He's okay. It's not cancer." "How do you know that? How do you know about those tests?"

Isabelle said nothing. What could she say? She looked at Vincent to help.

"Huh
? How do you know those things about my family?" The distraught woman took a step forward. "Because she's psychic. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

The waitress was aghast. She had read about psychics and seen them on TV, but never had actual contact with one. This stranger knew about Dean and the frightening dark spot on his lung. But she'd also said he would be all

right! Was it true? She was so confused and distracted by possibilities that the only thing she could think to do was write their check, slam it down on the table, and walk away. When she got to the counter she needed to tell someone what had happened. Instead, she only stood there and glared at the handsome couple. Who were they? It didn't matter— She only wanted them to leave right now.

"Do you believe me, Vincent?"

"Yes, Fizz, I believe you. What's going on? What is all this?"

Hearing him use his nickname for her for the first time since she'd arrived, Isabelle's heart opened its till-then clenched fists. It was like a secret password between them—Fizz. No matter what, they could talk now.

"His name is Anjo— "The child?"

"Yes."

Unable to hold back, Ettrich jutted his head toward her stom•ach. "That unborn child told you his name is Anjo?" "Yes, Vincent, that's right." She knew she must be patient now, knew everything hinged on Ettrich's believing her

completely.

His voice was exasperated. "All right, all right. Then who is Anjo? I mean, besides our child?"

She wanted to give a blunt snap answer, but gathered herself instead, thinking of the best way to begin, the right words to say, the phrasing that would be most effective. She had to do this per•fectly—it was crucial.

"A week after we slept together and you left for America, I knew I was pregnant. There was no question in my mind.

I felt it throughout my whole being. I wanted to call and tell you—

"Why didn't you? You disappeared again after London. It was so damned unfair." The terrible feelings from those months alone were in his head and heart again—the anger, grief, and resentment. They felt as new as now. He hated them, and like flicking on a light switch, just thinking about that merciless time brought them right back to life.

Isabelle's anger flared. She was barely able to catch it before it leapt out of her throat and fastened onto him. To contain herself she looked out the window. A car's headlights touched her face. "You never knew what you wanted from me, Vincent. Did you want a life partner or only a part-time girlfriend you could meet in Europe and jump around with for a few days before going back to your real life?"

"That's bullshit! I left my wife and family, Isabelle. I gave up a
life
to be with you!" He willed her to look at him but she would not. She continued staring out the window at the street. Why wouldn't she make eye contact? If she had, she would have seen it all in his eyes, the rock-solid truth of every word he had said.

When she spoke again her voice was quiet, quieter than he would have expected. "That last night we were together in London, you said you did it for me. It was the worst thing you could have said, Vincent."

"Why? I left everything to be with you. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. But you said you left your family because I wanted you to. You made it sound like you weren't part of the decision— you only did it for me. Not for you, or
us,
only for me."

"Oh Isabelle, don't get grammatical now. You knew exactly what I meant when I said that. Cut me a little fucking slack!"

"No! Because you didn't only say it, you meant it. Your words and actions were the same. I was watching you. I've never watched someone so closely in my entire life!" Her voice had risen; the sentences came faster. "I understood your guilt, Vincent; the sacri•fices you were making. I was on my knees to you in gratitude. But I never got the feeling that you left your family because in your heart of hearts you truly believed life with me would be the best thing. That you had finally found your home and were coming to me with an open heart and an eager soul."

It was the word "eager" that KO'd him. Isabelle's English was ninety-five percent perfect, but sometimes it transcended that— sometimes she pulled words out of her hat that defined things better than someone might whose English was their native tongue. What the hell was an eager soul? He knew exactly what it was and what she meant by the phrase. In response the only thing he could manage was to repeat in a mumble, "I gave up a life for you."

She surprised Ettrich by finally looking at him and reaching for his hand. "Let's get away from that now. Can we move beyond it and talk about other things?"

Looking at their hands he said, "No, I need to talk more about this, Fizz. You tore the fucking heart out of my chest by just dis•appearing, especially that time.
Pfft.
You vanished completely from my life after I'd done the only thing I could to prove my love for you meant more than anything."

She wasn't having it. "You did it because you thought you were going to lose me if you didn't."

Eyes narrowing, he spoke between clenched teeth. "Wrong. Don't diminish what I did, Isabelle. You don't walk away from two children and a marriage of sixteen years because you're afraid of losing your mistress."

"Men do it all the time, Vincent. Don't be naïve."

How could he be this angry with her so suddenly? He wanted to pound the table, squeeze his eyes shut, and bite the day. When she spoke again it didn't register because the thunder from his anger was still filling his head. "What?"

"A few weeks after that I met a man."

As fast as it came, the anger left Ettrich when she mentioned another man. "Go on."

"We went to dinner a couple of times. He was interesting— he said things that stuck in my mind. It was clear that he wanted something to happen between us. The last time we went out he said that and was very insistent about it. Know what I said to him? 'I'm sorry, Berndt, but you're not required reading for me.'"

"Did he understand that?"

"Yes and got very angry. He wanted to hit me."

"What?"

"Yes, but nothing happened. Anjo stopped it. He protects me." "Say that again?"

"Anjo always protects me." "Tell me about this."

"I could, but you should see it for yourself." Apropos of nothing, she pointed to the bell sitting between them in the middle of the table.

"What do you mean?"

"You can see for yourself what happened. I think that would be better, Vincent. Pick up the bell."

He picked it up. And the next thing he knew, he was sitting alone at a small table in a different restaurant. It took him twelve blinks to accept that new geography and acclimate himself to where he was. As soon as he did he was angry again. Because suddenly he was in the restaurant Stella Marina in Vienna. One table away, Isabelle was deep in conversation with another man who was holding one of her hands and staring into her eyes with too goddamned much longing. Ettrich smelled fresh baked bread and frying olive oil. All around him German was being spoken, on the stereo Pav•arotti was singing "Nessun dorma," silverware clinked on plates as diners tucked into that delicious Italian food.

Ettrich watched Loverboy ply his moves on Isabelle, working through the spectrum of facial expressions and oh-so appropriate body language—earnest, sexy, ha-ha playful, pensive. In response, Isabelle let him hold her hand but it meant nothing because Ettrich knew exactly what the bemused smile she was wearing said—No. What was the guy's name, Berndt? From the look of things he was about to become
Burned.

Stella Marina is a small restaurant, one oddly shaped room, intimate and warm. Looking away from the Odd Couple, Ettrich checked out the other people in the place. Only on a second eye-sweep did he see the dog. It was so imposing that it startled him, forcing him to do a double take. He didn't recognize the breed but it was a magnificent creature.

Over five feet tall when it stood on its hind legs, the 155-pound Fila Brasileiro lay unmoving next to its owner's foot. Its anvil-sized head rested on a paw while its sad eyes watched everything with an unusual intensity. Ettrich had never seen a dog that took up so much psychic space. It was like a beast out of Greek mythology or a Persian folk tale.

Who would own such a dog? An old couple who were both eating pasta with great gusto. The dog sat by the small frail-looking man. How would the old geezer control that monster if it decided to take off after something?

Ettrich looked at Isabelle. She was staring straight at him but without a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. Didn't she recognize him? Was it possible in this setting he was invisible to her? What were the rules here? Who was she

seeing when she looked at him so indifferently? He was not disturbed by her blank stare, only cu•rious. Since the night he saw the tattoo on Coco's neck, Vincent Ettrich had been forced to accept whatever this new and untrust•worthy universe threw at him. Beamed to an Italian restaurant in Vienna where the love of his life now looked at him like he was a dinner roll? Accept it. Period. He could do nothing else other than watch and wait to see what came next.

"Isabelle?" Berndt pronounced the name "Ease-a-bail."

Her eyes slid over to her dinner partner, but Ettrich was pleased to see they didn't warm up any when they got there. "
Ja
?"

Berndt spoke a deep, beautifully enunciated
Hoch Deutsch.
He had the voice of a sexy radio disc jockey. Smiling, he looked down, as if what he was about to say was too tough for eye contact. "Ever since we met we've been talking, but so far I haven't had the cour•age to tell you what's really in my heart. I want to try now."