The Consequences, page 8
“Perfect timing.” She smiled.
“Your lucky day, lady. Where to?” the cab driver asked in a thick Southie accent.
She gave the driver the address and settled back in the seat. “Someone let me down,” she said.
Not for the first time either.
Even though she’d only been gone for a couple of days, Boston looked different. Fresher, brighter, cleaner. Living here, it was easy to forget how full of energy the city was. She remembered a recent article in the Globe about Boston residents being among the healthiest in the nation. The article came with a link to an online test that determined one’s real age: It measured if one was physiologically older, younger, or the same as his or her chronological age. Stephanie had taken the test and had been three and a half years younger than her years. The report concluded with a list of the “youngest” American cities; Boston came out on top.
“Home with the family for a few days?” the driver asked. He was a pasty-faced man wearing a wool Red Sox cap.
“How can you tell?”
“One bag, which told me you weren’t shopping. Then, I heard a Midwestern accent. But you gave the address like a local, so I knew you lived here.”
“Right on all counts,” she said.
“D’ya have fun?”
“I did,” she said, and was surprised to discover that she really meant it. “It was good to see the folks again, and my brothers and sisters.”
“Oh, I saw mine on Christmas Day. Once a year is enough for me. Got nothing in common now. As ya get older, ya create ya own family, and they’re a lot easier to deal with than blood relatives.”
“That’s true.” If she really were pregnant—and she needed to have it confirmed—who could she go to? She was surprised, and almost disappointed, when she realized just how few friends she had. Izzie Wilson certainly, but beyond that . . . ? There were colleagues of course, but they weren’t friends. So if Robert had run scared from her, then she was going to have almost no one to rely on but herself. “Excuse me,” she said, and lifted her phone out of the bag. “I’ve just got to make this call.”
“Don’t mind me.”
She hit the speed dial for Robert’s cell. The phone rang and rang before it was diverted to his voice mail.
“You’ve reached Robert Walker, R&K Productions. Please leave a message, the time you called, and the best number to reach you. Have a good day.”
“It’s me. I’m back in Boston. Maybe you didn’t get my e-mail; maybe you did. Call me.” Stephanie hung up and then, on impulse, went into the menu settings on her phone and deactivated the “Send Own Number” facility. Then she phoned the same number again.
The phone rang four times before it was picked up, and Robert’s voice, muffled, very soft, said, “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you answer my previous call?” she snapped.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “The phone was in my inside pocket, and I had to pull my gloves off to unbutton my coat. By the time I got it, you’d gone. I was just putting it back in my pocket when you called again. Sorry.”
Stephanie didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It was a plausible excuse, but Robert was a good liar: After all, he had fooled his wife for long enough. “Did you get my e-mail, telling you I was coming home?”
“No, no, I haven’t checked my messages.”
“Bullshit,” she snapped. He was permanently wired to his iPhone.
“Honestly.” He sighed. “Things have been crazy. Look, I can’t talk now. I’ll call back later.”
“You’d better!” Stephanie wondered exactly where he was. He was whispering, mumbling, and she could hear some background noise, so she knew there were people around.
“I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to go. I’m at Jimmy Moran’s removal.”
Stephanie frowned. “What? I can’t hear you. What did you say?”
“I said I’m at Jimmy Moran’s removal of remains. Jimmy’s dead.” She could hear the catch in his voice. “He died on Christmas Day.”
CHAPTER 17
She’d been gone less than four days, but the apartment smelled stale and empty. She was surprised to find that it felt pleasantly warm, however, which suggested that she had left the heat on the timer. Dropping the suitcase in the living room, she stepped into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She pulled open the fridge and checked inside: As usual, it was almost empty, a half gallon of low-fat organic milk in the tray in the door, alongside an almost empty carton of orange juice and the bottle of champagne she’d planned to open with Robert when they’d something to celebrate. It had sat there for six months now. She lifted out the milk and sniffed cautiously; it smelled fine.
She returned to the living room, deliberately averting her eyes from Robert’s Christmas presents, which were still sitting on the floor, and she checked the answering machine that sat on a tiny console table. She’d purposely not called in from Wisconsin to check her messages. The number “4” was illuminated in crude LED letters. How many were from Robert, she wondered as she hit the Play button.
“You have four new messages. New message. Message was left on Tuesday, 24th December.”
“Stephanie . . . Stephanie, are you there? It’s me. I want to talk to you; I need to talk to you. . . . Please call me back. I’m in the car.”
“New message. Message was left on Tuesday, 24th December.”
“Stephanie? It’s me. I . . . I just need to talk to you. About today. About us. About the future. I know you’re angry, but please call me, let me know you’re okay.”
“New message. Message was left on Wednesday, 25th December.” “Stephanie. I don’t know what’s happened. I don’t know where you are. It’s just after two a.m., and I’m leaving your house. There’s no sign of you. I’m leaving this message in the hope that you return, hear it, and answer me. I’m hoping you’re with your friend, Izzie. I think I remember you saying that she was supposed to be getting engaged tonight . . . no, last night. My God, I’ve just realized it’s Christmas morning.”
“New message. Message was left today, Saturday, 28th December.”
“Stef, it’s your mother. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely and to see how you were. Give me a call when you get home. It was lovely to see you, even if it was a short visit. The good news is that Joan’s husband, Eddie, is coming up for New Year’s Eve. She told me you gave her some good advice. So, you see why you should come home more often. Your father sends his love.”
“End of messages.”
The kettle whistled, and she returned to the kitchen to make tea. Well, in Robert’s defense, he had made the effort, and he did seem to be genuinely concerned for her. She rooted through her range of teas, looking for something soothing. In the end she chose a caffeine-free Egyptian Licorice. She wasn’t too fond of the taste, but she loved the smell. Cupping the teacup in both hands, breathing in the spicy aroma, she wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room and allowed herself to take in the room, which still bore all the evidence of her terrible encounter with Kathy and Robert. The Christmas presents Robert had brought lay in an unopened pile on the ground. The flowers had wilted in the heat, curled petals everywhere, and the helium balloon lay deflated over the back of the chair.
Stephanie sank into her usual chair and sipped the tea. She looked at the unopened presents he’d brought and felt not the slightest twinge of curiosity about their contents. She’d give them back to Robert the first opportunity she got.
She wondered if Robert’s wife had noticed the gold-and-silver-wrapped presents piled behind the sofa when she’d stepped into the room on Tuesday. They were gifts Stephanie had bought for Robert, and now she wondered what she was going to do with them. She certainly wasn’t going to give them to him; maybe she could return them.
She glanced at her watch, wondering what time the removal of remains would finish. Would Robert come directly to her, or would he have to drop his wife home first? And if the removal was today, did that mean the funeral would be held tomorrow or Monday?
And then a thought struck her: Would she have to go?
She detested Jimmy Moran, though she’d always moderated her real opinion when Robert was present, because she knew the two men were great friends. Jimmy Moran had built a completely undeserved reputation through a combination of extraordinary arrogance tempered with too little talent.
The last conversation she had with Robert about Jimmy had taken place a week before Christmas. Jimmy’s wife, Angela, was finally throwing him out because she’d discovered that he’d had a child by his long-term and much younger mistress, Frances. Angela had put up with a lot from Jimmy over the years—his constant drinking, none-too-discreet affairs, financial difficulties—but that had been the final straw. She was divorcing Jimmy and looking for her share of everything. Stephanie recalled that Robert had been outraged by what he saw as Angela’s vindictiveness. He’d been unable to understand Stephanie’s support for Jimmy’s wife. She’d been surprised, and just a little disappointed, with his reaction. Surely he accepted that Jimmy had treated his wife abominably, and that while he had a duty to his girlfriend and her child, he was also morally and legally obliged to provide for his wife? Stephanie sipped the sweet, aromatic tea, and she wondered how this boded for her own news.
A sudden thought struck her, and she put down her tea and picked up the phone. She dialed a number from memory as she carried her suitcase into the bedroom. The phone rang once before it was picked up, and a brusque, cultured, and very British voice said, “Flintoff.”
“Good afternoon, Charles. It’s Stephanie . . . Stephanie Burroughs.”
“Stephanie, how wonderful to hear from you!” If her boss was surprised, it certainly didn’t show in his voice.
“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” she began. She tossed the suitcase on the bed and snapped open the locks. She’d hadn’t used half of the clothes she’d packed. Except for Christmas Day when she’d dressed up, she’d worn the clothes she’d left in Wisconsin on her previous visits. She lifted the unworn little black dress and decided she needed to drop it off just up the street at Classic Cleaners before she could wear it again.
“You can call me at any time. That’s why I entrusted you with my home number.” Charles Flintoff was the man who had discovered Stephanie, and he always treated her as a special protégée, but she knew her relationship with him had been damaged when he had discovered that not only was she having an affair with Robert—a contractor—but that she had awarded R&K Productions with three lucrative contracts. It would take her a long time to rebuild his trust in her.
“Thank you. I’m literally just back—I visited my parents for Christmas,” she explained, also letting him know that she had not spent Christmas with Robert, “and I’ve just found out that Jimmy Moran died on Christmas Day. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
There was a pause. Then Charles Flintoff cleared his throat. “No, I didn’t. Thank you for telling me. Jimmy Moran—I got to know him when I first opened the Irish branch of the agency. We even worked together on a couple of campaigns, and of course I saw him all the time at various events, though I haven’t used him in a long time. Poor Jimmy. So much talent and good, creative energy. Wasted. Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?”
“The removal of the remains happened today, but I have no idea when the funeral will take place.”
“Probably not tomorrow.” She heard the sound of a page turning and guessed he was checking a calendar. “Monday or Tuesday.” He sighed. “I should go and represent the firm. The funeral will be well attended. Despite his faults, or perhaps because of them, Jimmy had a lot of friends. I’d imagine some of his enemies will turn up too—just to make sure the old reprobate is in the ground.” He paused. “If you have no other plans, perhaps you’d like to represent the firm with me?”
“Yes . . . yes, I would. Thank you.” She was surprised by the offer, pleased too.
“Call me when you have the details. Now, if you’ve just come back from visiting your family, you probably need some rest.”
“I’m going to do that now. Thank you.”
Charles Flintoff hung up, and Stephanie sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the phone, wondering what he would say when she told him that she was pregnant.
And that reminded her . . .
She needed to get to her doctor. Would anyone be open over the weekend? Probably not. Maybe Izzie could convince one of her OB friends over at Mass General to examine her. She was just about to call Izzie when the wan afternoon sunlight flashed across the windshield of a car as it approached across the courtyard and pulled up outside the building.
Stephanie darted into the living room, scooped up the dead flowers, gathered up the curled and brittle petals, carried them into the kitchen, and dumped them in the trash. Then she grinned; now, if that wasn’t a symbolic gesture, then she didn’t know what was. She wondered if he would use his key or . . .
The doorbell rang.
CHAPTER 18
“Hi, Stef.”
Robert’s appearance shocked her. He looked terrible, skin pale and lightly sheened with sweat; his hair was greasy, and there were deep bags under his bloodshot eyes. His black suit was rumpled and creased. There was a dark stain around the collar of his pale blue shirt, and the knot on his pale charcoal silk tie—one she had bought him—was dark where grubby fingers had tugged it. When he stepped past her, she caught the faintest odor of stale perspiration. And that shocked her more than anything else: Robert was, if nothing else, fastidiously clean.
Stephanie closed the door behind him, took a deep breath to calm her suddenly thundering heart, and followed him up the stairs into her apartment, into the living room. She found him standing beside the chair, looking down at the Christmas presents he’d brought last Tuesday.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless.
Stephanie nodded, unsure what to say. She finally fell back on the old reliable. “Would you like some tea or coffee or something stronger?”
“Tea would be great, thank you.”
Stephanie disappeared into the kitchen, and Robert took up his usual position, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, arms folded across his chest. It looked as if he was trying to hold himself upright. As she filled the kettle with water from the Brita pitcher, she was aware that he was watching her.
“You got back this morning?” he said finally.
“A couple of hours ago,” she said shortly.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you. . . . Believe it or not, I didn’t check my e-mails.”
“I believe it,” she said evenly.
“Flight was okay?”
“Fine. I booked a last-minute ticket and came in via Detroit, so I had to stay overnight, but I checked into the Westin and treated myself to a massage so I was able to relax a bit.”
“Good. Good.”
Stephanie found a cup for herself and a mug for Robert—he preferred mugs to cups—and hoped she had enough milk for the tea. It was low-fat, which he hated, but he would have to make do with it. Looking into the fridge, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “How was the removal? Were there many people there?”
“Yes. I was surprised by how many. Shocked. I think Jimmy would have been too. He made a lot of enemies over the years, but far more friends it seems. They all came out today.” His voice broke then, and Stephanie saw him fumble in his pockets for a handkerchief.
The water in the kettle started to boil, and Stephanie concentrated on making the tea, deliberately not turning around, not wanting to look at him with tears on his face. She had imagined this moment a dozen times since she had decided to come back to Boston; she had rehearsed her speech, first in Madison, then on the plane to Detroit, and then again at the airport hotel, and knew exactly how she would handle this encounter. She would be cool, controlled, as unemotional as she could be. There would be no recriminations. They—she and Robert—had a situation to resolve, and all they were talking about was the most practical and logical way to go about it. That was the plan. But from the moment she had seen him standing on the doorstep, looking sick with exhaustion, she’d felt her resolve start to slip away. And now, listening to him trying to compose himself and not show emotion, to do that stupid thing men did, she felt all her carefully thought-out plans begin to fragment. And she suddenly—unaccountably—felt guilty that she’d been so hard with him earlier.
“Tea’s ready.”
He’d managed to compose himself by the time she turned and passed over to him the steaming mug of tea.
“I’ve added two sugars.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Been an intense few days; I haven’t had much sleep.” He followed her into the living room, taking up his usual position on the couch facing her.
Stephanie made herself another cup of tea. She cradled the tiny porcelain cup in the palms of her hands and sipped. “Tell me what happened?” she asked. Although she really wanted to discuss her current situation, she recognized that he needed someone to talk to. She raised her cup to hide her wry smile. That was how their affair started eighteen months ago. Robert had simply needed someone to talk to.
Robert took a moment to answer. “I got a call on Christmas Day . . . not long after yours. Jimmy Moran had been taken to the hospital with a suspected heart attack. I immediately went to see him. Oh, Stef, he looked terrible. . . .” Robert breathed deeply and took a mouthful of tea. “He was awake. He said that at first he was trying to make light of it, thinking it was nothing more than indigestion. He had been cooking his own Christmas dinner and had sampled the turkey. When he got the pains, he thought that maybe the bird hadn’t been cooked through. It was when he felt the pain move into his left arm that he realized it was serious and dialed 911. But it was Christmas Day, and it took the ambulance forever to arrive.”
Robert sipped a little more of the hot tea. His eyes glazed, and Stephanie became aware that he was reliving the events of Wednesday.
