Extracurricular Activities (14 page)

I leapt from the car and onto the street, half falling, half running to the doors of the transportation hub. As soon as I was inside, I realized that I had left all of my luggage in Peter's car: my overnight bag with my clothes, my garment bag with my matron of honor dress, and all of my makeup. Fortunately, my purse was strapped crosswise over my chest and I had money and my cell phone. I turned and saw that the limo was gone, so I took a few deep breaths and collected myself. I smoothed my hair down and walked back outside onto the street, busy even for a Sunday morning.

I looked around, afraid I was making a spectacle of myself, but nobody gave me a second glance. I was just another New Yorker on the street.

My legs were like rubber as I made my way down the steep ramp to the main part of the train station. People were rushing past me, trying to make trains, and I realized I was standing still in the middle of the great room. I took a seat on one of the steps on the grand staircase in the main part of the terminal, trying to figure out what to do, when my phone rang.

I pulled it out and flipped it open, the device nearly flying out of my shaking hands. I didn't take the time to read the screen to see what number was displayed. “Hello?”

Max guffawed into the phone. “Hi!”

“Max…”

“I'm on my honeymoon!” she screamed. Technically, her honeymoon location was Bali and she was still in New York, but I wasn't one to quibble. “Did you have fun at my wedding?”

“I had a wonderful time,” I said, scanning the crowd in Grand Central. She moaned slightly in response and let out a little breath of air, audible even over the din at the train station and with the crappy cell phone reception. “Max?” It occurred to me that while technically she wasn't yet on her honeymoon, she was still in the midst of her wedding night. “Are you having sex while you're talking to me?”

She giggled. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” I asked. “How do you ‘sort of' have sex?”

All I got was another moan in reply.

“I'm hanging up,” I said.

“Wait!” she screamed.

I stayed on the line.

“I'm going to be gone for two weeks.”

“I know.”

“I'll miss you,” she said, and hung up. Max isn't one for sentimentality; hearing what I had to say in response would have made the conversation go on much longer than she could stand. I wasn't surprised to hear the phone go dead and mouthed “I'll miss you, too” into the mouthpiece.

I sat for another moment, considering whether or not to call Crawford. I decided against it. There was nothing to tell. Once again, I had been picked up by Peter Miceli, but this time, I had been dropped off at my destination. Peter had seemed pretty adamant in his denial, but then again, he was a professional criminal; he probably had honed that skill long ago. Was it easier to say that you hadn't done something when you had had someone do it for you? Or was he truly blameless in this? It was hard to tell. I had known Peter a long time ago, and even coupled with our recent close encounters, that wasn't enough to allow me to adequately judge his motivations.

Thanks to Peter's car service, I managed to make an earlier train than the one I originally planned on taking. Safely ensconced in a window seat on the river side, I leaned my head against the cool glass and dozed until I heard the conductor call my stop.

I got off the train and looked around; no limos. I breathed a sigh of relief. Without the bag that I had left in Peter's car, I was not weighed down and trudged up the hill from the train station in record time. Although I was sort of hungry, I was more tired than anything else, and decided to go home and crawl into bed for the remainder of the day.

I reached my street without incident and made the turn that would take me straight to my house. My legs felt like lead, but I kept my pace quick so that I could dive into bed sooner rather than later. As I approached the house, I spied Terri on her front lawn playing with Trixie. Trixie spied me first and took off down the street, bounding with unbridled joy at seeing me.

I braced myself for the inevitable Trixie love fest. She jumped on me and started licking my face, which, while not as lovely as being licked on the face by Crawford, was pretty damned enjoyable. I tried to keep my mouth closed because I drew the line at doggie French kisses.

Terri approached tentatively and commanded Trixie to heel, which, amazingly, she did. She sat patiently at Terri's side, watching me.

“Hi, Alison,” Terri said in her breathy voice.

“Terri,” I said, barely disguising my disgust at seeing her.

“Listen, can we talk?” she said, holding my eye.

“Do we have to?” I said, whining. I had almost made it home, I thought. And then this.

She looked disappointed and more than a little bit taken aback by my rudeness. “Well, okay, then. I guess I'll just say what I have to say out here.”

I waited.

“I just wanted to say that I may have been just a little bit, you know, teensy bit, maybe, just a bit overly…”

Yes, I get it. “Little bit” would have sufficed.

She took a deep breath and regrouped. “I may have accused Jackson of doing…Ray's…you know…prematurely and unnecessarily.”

A Dale Carnegie graduate she was not. I continued to look at her. “Got it,” I said. “Jackson didn't do it. Not that you know of.”

“Well, you know, the police came back again,” she said, a little outraged. “They questioned us once and then they questioned us again. It was very upsetting.”

Boo-hoo. I've been accused of murder, so I know it's upsetting. Something occurred to me, so I decided to ask her. “You didn't kill him, did you, Terri?” Feeling a bit peckish, I decided to push her buttons a teensy bit, as she would say.

The look on her face was one that I had never seen before. It took a few seconds before the rage that immediately registered in her eyes after my question softened into mild anger. “What?”

“You know, kill Ray. Did you do it?”

Tears appeared behind her thick, mascaraed lashes. “I'm going to forget that you ever asked me that and walk away, Alison. In case you've forgotten, I loved Ray.”

Well, that makes one of us, I thought. I wondered how long it would take her to realize that professing your love for another's husband—albeit another's
former
husband—was really not acceptable in polite society. She turned and walked away, pulling at Trixie's collar. Trixie turned back one last time to look at me sadly.

I watched them walk away and looked at the fifty feet that separated me from the interior of my house. If I can just make it up the driveway, I thought, I'll be home free. I went in through the front door—the back door, which opened up into the kitchen, was still a bit of a roadblock for me—and stood in the hallway, gazing at the hall closet door, which sat ajar.

Hanging in the closet were my garment bag and overnight bag, the two items that I had left in Peter Miceli's limousine.

I'm a big believer in napping to cure all ills. That is, when martinis are either unavailable or not appropriate, given the hour. I was out of vodka and it was just after noon, so a nap was the next best thing.

Although I was distressed that either Peter Miceli or one of his cohorts had been in my house, it was clear that they had only entered to return the stuff that I had left in the limousine. That was actually kind of polite, when you stop to think about it. If they had really wanted to cause me harm, they would have been waiting for me upon my return, right? That's what I told myself. So, after my heart stopped racing, I went straight to my bedroom, where I stripped down to my bra and underpants and dove under the covers, pulling them over my head in an attempt to block out the rest of the world.

I probably would have slept straight through to the next morning had the phone not started ringing at around five o'clock. Groggy from my five-hour nap, I picked up the receiver and held it upside down against my face. After attempting to speak to the person on the other end through the mouthpiece, I finally figured out what was wrong and turned the receiver the right way.

“Alison? It's Jack McManus.”

Oh, boy.

“Alison? Are you there?”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, yes. Hi, Jack.” I closed my eyes and lay back on the pillows.

“Kevin said it would be okay to give you a call. I'm at the Rangers' practice facility and was wondering if you might be available for an early dinner? It's not far from you.”

How much more complicated could things get? I had a sort-of-married boyfriend who was a homicide detective, of all things (I was starting to appreciate my mother's decision to marry a UPS man—regular hours and no dead bodies); I had a gangster following me around; my deli guy wanted to marry me; my neighbors were psychotic; and now I had a completely available, gorgeous man interested in me. While I should have been jumping for joy, I was dumbstruck.

“Alison?”

“Uh, yes.” I meant that response as an affirmative, that indeed, I was Alison, but Jack took it another way.

“You're free? Great!” His cell phone crackled. “I'm losing you. I'll be over in about fifteen minutes. See you then.”

He was gone before I could make up some excuse for not going. Fifteen minutes? I studied my reflection in the mirror across from my bed. I needed more like fifteen hours. My hair was a virtual rat's nest and my eyes were bloodshot from a nap that went on about four hours longer than it should have. I would never be able to recreate the Barbra Streisand hairdo in fifteen minutes. I threw my legs over the side of the bed and hung my head while I straightened out my thoughts.

“Your boyfriend is still unavailable,” I reminded myself. “You're not doing anything wrong.” I got up and stood for a moment, trying to quell the feelings of guilt and paranoia that bubbled in my gut. My internal monologist is not a very good debater and even I couldn't convince myself that going out with Jack again was the right thing, or even a good thing, to do.

But I don't have caller ID, so I couldn't call him back to tell him that I couldn't go. And when I hit *69, I was told that his number was unavailable. He probably blocked it so that Kevin couldn't bug him about Ranger tickets constantly.

After brushing away the fuzz that had taken up residence in my mouth during my nap, I decided on my outfit. What does one wear to a casual dinner with a friend? I erased the word “date” from my mind and started getting dressed. I settled on a pair of jeans that Max had bought me and which I was sure cost a few hundred dollars. They sure didn't look, or fit, like the jeans I buy at Target and a quick check revealed that my ass had never looked better. I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a suede blazer from my closet to complete the look. I decided I didn't have the strength for the
Funny Girl
coif and ran a brush through my hair enough times to flatten it down against my scalp. After a couple of swipes of mascara and some lip gloss, I looked and felt better than I had just moments before.

I sat on the bed and was pulling on my shoes when I heard the doorbell ring. I stood and confronted myself in the mirror. Channeling my inner Max, I gave myself one last look and tried to get excited about going out with a handsome, single man, but again, all I could come up with was a feeling of guilt. With a side order of guilt. Would you like some guilt with your guilt?

Jack had a bouquet of flowers at his side when I opened the front door. And yes, he was as gorgeous as I remembered him. What was wrong with this guy? Why hadn't some intrepid female Ranger fan found and lassoed him? I had never asked if he was the Chewbacca costume–wearing brother, but it didn't matter. He was a catch, and I couldn't figure out why, at close to forty years old, he hadn't been caught. He had a big smile on his face and seemed genuinely happy to see me. I opened the door wide and let him in. We embraced awkwardly and I was grateful to have the excuse to get the flowers in water to break the hug.

Jack followed me into the kitchen. “How have you been? Have things settled down?”

I found a vase in one of the cabinets and put it in the sink to fill it with water. I didn't want to go into the more sordid aspects of my life, like how a chubby mobster followed me around and made vague threats to me, so I just shrugged and smiled. “Sort of.”

“Kevin said that the wedding was nice.”

I kind of had a feeling that Jack knew more about me and my situation than he was letting on. I'm sure Kevin had filled him in on the whole thing. “It was lovely,” I said noncommittally.

When it was clear that he wasn't getting any more out of me, he turned to the subject of dinner. “Where would you like to go for dinner? You're more familiar with Westchester than I am so whatever you suggest is fine.”

It was early so I suggested that we go to a popular waterfront restaurant by the train station. When we got there, only a few tables were taken, so Jack asked for one that had a river view. After we settled in and ordered drinks, we sat and made small talk. After a few minutes of conversation ranging from “who's the next Ranger on the trading bloc?” to “how about those Devils?” Jack became a bit more candid.

“I have to be honest with you.”

Uh-oh. I hate honesty on the second date. I took a sip of my perfectly prepared martini and braced for the worst. I knew it. He was the Chewbacca costume brother.

“Kevin told me that you wouldn't go out with me again unless I just dropped in. I normally wouldn't do that…but…” He stopped, looking at me sheepishly.

So he did know more than he had let on. “It's fine, Jack. I'm happy to see you.” And that was the truth. I just knew in my heart that what we had couldn't go any further with the relationship despite my single status, his good looks, and my burgeoning attraction to him. However, if I let my hormones do the talking, all of that was bull crap and I would be making out with him by dessert. A little making out wouldn't be so bad, right?

Jack opened his menu. “What's good here?” He perused the offerings.

“The Crawford appetizer is wonderful.”

He looked up from his menu. “The what?”

Damn. Damn, damn, double damn. I looked down at the menu. “The crawfish. The crawfish appetizer. It's great. Pretty much everything is great.” I studied the list and gave some thought to the stuffed flounder.

“I presume you'll be having the rabbit?” he asked, a smile on his lips. He continued looking at the menu.

“Now, why would you say that?”

“I know a thing or two about French Canadians. And if I know one thing, they love their roadkill.”

I raised an eyebrow. “They do, do they?”

“Oh, yeah. The roadkillier the better.”

“‘Killier' isn't a word.”

“Oh, yes it is. See
Ulysses,
page four hundred and three.”

“I've read
Ulysses
several times and I don't remember the word ‘killier' being in there.”

“You've memorized the whole book?” he asked, daring me.

I shook my head. “Of course not. But I would have remembered a word like that. It's not in there.”

He put his menu down. “Wanna bet?” He held out a pinkie. “Loser has to take the winner to dinner.”

From his perspective, that was a win-win, but I didn't mention that. “You're on.” I linked pinkies with him and pulled lightly.

He took a sip of his drink. “Messier and I used to eat at some pretty wild places when we traveled.”

I dropped my menu. “
Mark
Messier?”

He nodded casually, resuming his study of the menu.

“The Messiah? The Captain?” Mark Messier was my favorite Ranger and the man responsible for the Rangers winning the Stanley Cup—the Holy Grail of hockey—after a forty-odd-year drought. Any insult I could have taken by his suggesting that all French Canadians ate roadkill was mitigated by his mention, and apparent friendship, with Mark Messier. And if Mark Messier ate roadkill, well, then by God, I would eat roadkill, too.

He looked up, giving me a sly look. “Impressed?”

“Just a bit,” I stammered.

“Next time he's in town, I'll make sure we get together.”

My heart almost stopped beating. Now he was playing hardball. “Really?”

He nodded. “Sure. We go way back.”

Okay, I admit, he was a bit cocky. But he also had a jocularity and casualness that suggested the personality of a border collie. Border cocky?

He closed his menu. “I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you. Kevin always reminds me that I'm not as funny as I think I am.”

And self-aware. The package just kept getting better and better.

I reached across the table and touched his arm. “No offense taken. If I had to be completely honest with you, I would have to admit that I ate my fair share of wild game on summer vacations in Quebec. I just didn't think I'd ever have to admit that to anyone.”

We ended up having a great time and I wondered more than a few times how I had ended up in a situation whereby I had two men interested in me at the same time. This was Max's domain and I didn't even have her around to counsel me. We arrived back at my house in his car, and I turned to tell him what a great time I had. He surprised me by leaning in and planting a long, lingering kiss on my lips.

“Make sure you look up page four hundred and three in
Ulysses,
” he whispered, his arms around me in a snug embrace.

“You know as well as I do that I'm not going to find the word ‘killier' in there,” I whispered back.

He smiled before kissing me again. “So where do you want to go to dinner next time?” he asked, admitting defeat.

I pulled back a little bit, which took every ounce of strength and will that I had. “Jack, listen. Things are a little complicated right now…I kind of have someone in my life—” My protestations were cut off by a very long and very involved kiss that incorporated tongues, lips, necks, and a few other body parts. My God, I thought. I've just gone to second base on the second date. Perish the thought of what might happen after a third, and heavens, a fourth date.

“How about we do this?” he asked, pulling away, his face still close to mine. “Why don't we give this a try while you're waiting for that other thing to sort itself out?”

Completely flustered, I swallowed hard and pulled back. “I have to take out my garbage. Tomorrow's garbage day.”

He looked at me, confused. “Is that a yes?”

That was my way of saying no, but I didn't know how to convey that without sounding like I was rejecting him. “We'll see.” I regretted saying the words the minute they were out of my mouth.

Jack's face brightened at my noncommittal response and he gave me another kiss. “Good night,” he said.

I let myself out of the car and stood in the driveway, watching him drive away. I couldn't have fouled that date up more if I had tried. What did this guy see in me? What did any guy see in me? I looked up at the sky, now dark, and wondered about the laws of attraction.

I turned to go up the driveway and was startled to see Terri standing on her driveway. “Hi, Alison.”

“Hi, Terri.” I didn't know how long she had been standing there but I had an inkling that she had been watching my make-out session with Jack. I smoothed my hair down self-consciously.

“Nice car,” she said, referring to Jack's very new, very expensive BMW. She started toward me. “A friend of yours dropped by while you were out.”

I turned toward her. “Who?”

“She didn't tell me who she was. She said that you knew her husband.” Terri raised an eyebrow while conveying that piece of information. I wanted to remind her that I know plenty of women's husbands, but the difference is, I don't sleep with them. “And she left this.” She handed me a slim, cream-colored envelope. She waited, expecting me to open it, but I thanked her, turned, and continued up the driveway. Why in God's name did that woman think that we had anything to talk about? And, more importantly, why was she always standing on her driveway?

I went into the house through the front door and sat on the stairs in the hallway. I looked at the envelope, which had my name printed on the front in a beautiful, handwritten script. The note inside was short: “Alison, I hope you enjoyed the biscotti. Gianna.”

I dropped the note on the floor as if it had caught fire. So, she knew about Peter's visit. If that was the case, she probably knew about him driving me to Grand Central that morning. Although the note held a seemingly innocuous message, it was clear to me that Gianna wanted me to know that she knew what Peter was up to.

And, I inferred, she was not happy.