Finger Prints (27 page)

“I’ll be okay. It was just the fright. Give me a minute.”

He had to give her several before she finally began to relax. Holding her, gently caressing her shoulder, his arm crossing up between her breasts, he couldn’t help but think back on the puzzle of the tags. He hadn’t asked Carly about them; one part of him was frightened of what her answer might be. Rather, he talked with her over dinner as though nothing was wrong. But something
was
wrong. In himself. Along with confusion and hurt, there was anger. He managed to push it to the back of his mind when he was with her and she seemed so loving and sincere, but it was there, emerging at times like tonight when she’d fallen asleep in his arms after they’d made love and he’d lain awake brooding long after.

Aside from the fact of the luggage tags, there wasn’t much to put his finger on. It was weird—the lack of as common an item as an address book, the absence of details of four years of her life, a haunted look, nightmares. Taken alone, no one thing would have aroused his suspicion. But together, with new things all too often joining the list, something didn’t add up. And it irked him. He was angry at her for not trusting him enough to confide in him, and angry at himself for not having the courage to confront her.

But she meant so much to him, and he was so afraid of losing her, that he didn’t dare jeopardize the status quo. And so the anger built inside him, having nowhere to go but deeper into his gut. As he lay in the dark with her, holding her quiet now, her cuddling body close to his, he wondered how long he would be able to keep it buried.

Sheila hung up the phone, shivered more in aftermath of the call than the weather, pulled her collar higher around her, then looked cautiously around. Shrinking into her coat, she opened the phone-booth door and quickly began to walk up Chestnut Street toward her car parked about half a block from her apartment.

“Bastard,” she muttered to herself. “In such a rush.” Absently she kicked at the slush underfoot, leaving a path of elongated footsteps behind. It had stormed all Wednesday night and half of Thursday, giving the metropolitan area its heaviest snowfall of the season. With more than a foot of new white stuff on the ground, everything had been closed on Thursday. It had been beautiful; she’d walked through the Common that afternoon, admiring the crisp cleanness of the scene, the muted silence, the brisk fresh air. By Friday the comings and goings of the city had resumed. Now it was Saturday. The streets were wet, the snow dirty, the sidewalks spattered with mud. Thursday’s winter wonderland was nothing but a pleasant memory, now tarnished, as was she.

With a determined thrust of her chin, she quickened her step. Reaching the car, she climbed in, started the motor and took off. Fifteen minutes, two near-skids and numerous oaths later she pulled up at Carly’s place.

Carly was waiting just inside the front door. When she saw Sheila wave, she trotted down the front path, slowing only to negotiate the snow-glazed steps with care before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Nice car, Sheila!” She looked around, admiring the elaborate dashboard, the racy floor shift, the fine leather appointments. “I’m surprised you want to take it anywhere in this weather.”

“Cars are like people. If they sit around all day, they get fat and rusty.”

“People don’t get rusty,” Carly teased.

“Well, fat then. But cars get rusty. Their batteries die. They get scratched by trucks trying to squeeze down streets that are too narrow. Besides, life’s too short. You’ve got to enjoy it while you can.” She plastered a bright smile on her face. “So, where are we going? Chestnut Hill?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Sheila gave a throaty laugh as she pulled away from the curb and executed a neat, if illegal, U-turn. “I think you’ve got that backward. You’re the one who’s doing me a favor by taking me shopping.”

“You’re taking me; I won’t
touch
my car.”

“Did it always bother you to drive in the snow?”

“It’s not the driving that bothers me,” Carly said, turning her head to follow the progress of a child in the playground trying to maneuver down the snow-covered slide in a rubber tube. “It’s the thought of losing my parking space.” The child fell sideways into the snow. “I wasn’t sure how the walking would be for school yesterday, so I drove. Let me tell you, I spent half an hour trying to find a space when I got home. Ryan warned me. He was right.”

“How is school?”

“Okay. Of course, I missed more than half the week, between Chicago and the snow. The storm was actually a blessing. I don’t think I would have been much good for teaching Thursday morning—”

“Chicago?” Sheila was racking her brain, wondering how she could have missed it. “I didn’t realize you’d gone to Chicago.” So
that
was where Sam had been. She’d wondered. Greg had simply said he’d had to take off. They really
didn’t
trust her.

Carly looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t know?”

“How would
I
know? They don’t tell me anything.” Her bitterness came through in her tone and was further emphasized by her pout. “Sam and Greg play their little games. I think they get a kick out of keeping secrets. It makes them feel important.” She stepped on the gas at a traffic light turned green. “Hey, am I going the right way?”

“I think so,” Carly said, “but this may be a case of the blind leading the blind. We could end up in Chelsea.” The road looked right, according to Ryan’s directions, but Carly’s thoughts were on what Sheila had said and she felt impelled to respond. “I think you’re too sensitive. Some secrets are necessary. And believe me, the last thing they do is to make the keeper feel important.”

Sheila cast a quick glance toward Carly. “You haven’t told him yet.” Carly shook her head. “Feeling guilty?”

“Guilty is putting it mildly. I feel like a heel in the first degree. When I had to take off like that—”

“Whoa. Stop there. I want to hear all about Chicago.” And rightly she did. She listened carefully to everything Carly told her, asking more detailed questions when Carly was prone to rush.

“What kind of time are they talking about, anyway?”

Carly frowned. “What do you mean? Wait.” She peered out the window, looked at a road sign to the left. “I think we have to go up that hill and follow the road to Newton Corner.”

Sheila did it, then got right back on the track of the conversation. “When will you know about a new trial?”

“I don’t know. The motion has to be heard before the original trial judge. According to John it could take anywhere from two to six months.”

“That long?” Sheila asked thoughtfully.

“Maybe I should be grateful. It gives me plenty of time to decide what to do about Ryan.”

“What do you
want
to do?”

Carly made a frustrated sound. “There’s one part of me that would like to throw myself into the guy’s arms, tell him how much I love him, agree to marry him and have his kids and live happily ever after. Is that Center Street? Make a right there. We follow it for a few minutes.”

“Why
don’t
you throw yourself into his arms, et cetera?”

“How can I, Sheila? He doesn’t know about who I was and what I did. How can I agree to marry him and then subject him to the anguish of all this?”

“If he loves you enough he’ll accept it. Does he?”

“I think so. Yes. But that’s the problem. He would accept it all right; whether I can live with the knowledge of what I’d be putting him through is something else.” Her voice grew more strained. “Of course, that’s taking for granted that I do tell him everything.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“I think I have to. I don’t see how we can have a trusting relationship without it.”

They lapsed into a silence then, each lost in her own thoughts. The car made its way through the streets of Newton, tree lined and brilliant with its blanket of snow. It was Sheila who spoke first, with caution.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell him.” When Carly sent her a disbelieving stare, Sheila said. “At least, not right away. I mean, if you think he’s going to be sensitive about it—”

“It’s
me
who’ll be sensitive.”

“Same difference. Why ruin things?”

Carly shook her head. “Oh, Sheila, I don’t know.”

“What have you got to lose by keeping it to yourself a little longer? If the guy loves you for who you are, it doesn’t really matter who you’ve been.” She gained momentum. “And then there’s the issue of breaking your cover. Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I trust Ryan,” Carly said.

“I know. But things slip out. If you tell Ryan, there’s always the chance he would say something to someone else.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Not intentionally. But by mistake? All it sometimes takes is a drink or two.”

“He’s not a drinker.”

“Well, I’d still think twice.” She shrugged. “But it’s your affair.”

The silence that filled the car this time was riddled with tension. Unable to believe the cynical twist in Sheila’s attitude, Carly stared at her for a minute before shifting her gaze to the window. She tried to tell herself that Sheila might be jealous of what she had going with Ryan, but it didn’t do much to ease the hurt.

“Hey, Carly.” Sheila reached over and squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. I’m sure Ryan is trustworthy. Go ahead and tell him, if that’s what you want to do.”

What Carly wanted to do was not to think about it anymore just then. “Well, I’ll see.” She sighed, then pointed. “Make a left here. It’ll take us to Beacon Street.”

“Are we almost there?”

“Another couple of minutes, I think. I’ve only been here once before, and that was with a friend from school who didn’t stop talking the entire way. She was driving; I’m not sure if I was paying attention to where we were going.” She frowned, then nodded. “This is right. At the next set of lights make a right. What’ll it be—Bloomingdale’s or one of the smaller specialty shops at the mall?”

“Smaller specialty shops?”

“They’re a little more expensive. Maybe we should stick with—”

“Let’s try them,” Sheila declared, smiling smugly.

Carly wasn’t as positive. “Are you sure? You’re talking about a formal gown. It’s bound to cost—”

“No problem. I plan to splurge. Tom Cornell might just be worth it.”

Two hours later, after having shelled out a frightening sum for a bright red silk and chiffon off-the-shoulder number at Charles Sumner, Sheila was as exuberant as ever, full of smiles as they wandered through Filene’s. “I do like that dress. Didn’t it look great?”

“It’s perfect on you, Sheila—the color, the style. You’ll look smashing at the party. Too bad you’ve got to drive all the way back here to pick it up when the alterations are done, though.”

“I don’t mind. I wasn’t about to pay someone to alter it after what I paid for the dress!”

Carly threw her a glance, amazed that after paying what she had Sheila would think twice about a negligible alteration fee. Actually, Carly was stunned she’d been able to afford the dress at all. “What the hell,” were Sheila’s exact words when, after no more than a cursory glance at the price tag, she’d given the sales-woman the nod.

Carly regarded her speculatively. “Tell me you’ve come into an inheritance or something.”

“No inheritance,” was the terse reply, but Sheila’s attention was on the nail-polish counter. She picked up one bottle, assessed its color next to her skin, shook her head and put it back. “I’ve just decided that it’s my turn to enjoy life for a change.”

“Does that mean you enjoy Tom?”

“You bet.” She picked up two more bottles, discarded one quickly, studied the other.

“You saw him last night?”

“Um-hmm.” The final bottle met the same fate as its predecessors. “Hey, I’m hungry.” She swung around and narrowed a gaze toward the interior of the mall. “How about some lunch? My feet are about to resign and my throat’s gonna close up in a minute if I don’t get something wet past it. I don’t know how all these people do it. They must have been trained to shop. I guess I missed out on that particular class. But I am starved. There has to be something good around here for—” she straightened her shoulders and lowered her voice to a drawl “—patrons of elegant specialty shops.”

Carly couldn’t help but laugh. Here was the Sheila she knew and liked, the Sheila who was lighthearted and irreverent. “There’s a Charlie’s Wildflower on the upper level.”

“Say no more.” Sheila linked her elbow with Carly’s. “Let’s go.”

Tom Cornell carried the two snifters—one with brandy, one with rum and Coke, back to the sofa, handed the latter to Sheila, then eased his long frame down next to her. “That was a super dinner, Sheila. You’re a great cook.”

“Comes from living a life without maid service,” she quipped. “Actually, I learned to cook from my Uncle Amos.”

“
Famous
Amos? I
thought
he was from the West Coast—”

“Not Famous Amos,” she chided playfully. “
Uncle
Amos. He was as much of a nanny as I ever had. He took care of us while my mother worked.”

“Didn’t
he
work?”

“Uh-huh. At keeping sober. He didn’t always make it, mind you, but when he did, he was wonderful.” She laid her head back against the sofa. “I can remember one time—it was Paulie’s birthday.”

“Paulie’s the third—”

“The fourth,” she corrected with a grin. “You’re getting there, Tom. Anyway, it was Paulie’s birthday and, so help me, there wasn’t an ounce of nourishment in the house. My mother wasn’t one to worry about little things like food.”

“What did she worry about?”

“Men. And clothes.”

“And her kids?”

Sheila tossed that one around in her mind. “I guess she did. But you’re getting me away from my story. It was Paulie’s birthday and we didn’t have any food. So Uncle Amos went to the store and brought back six bags of stuff.” A sly smile played at the corners of her lips. “To this day I don’t know where he got the money. Well, maybe I do, but his intention was good. He cooked the most delicious beef something-or-other—”