Goodnight Nobody (19 page)

Twenty-Four

It was twelve-ten when I made it to the Red Wheel Barrow. Sam and Jack were sitting side by side in the center of the red wooden bench outside the principal's office. Sophie was standing in front of them, little hands balled on her hips, her somber face drawn into a frown. "You're late again, Mommy," she said.

"I know," I said, digging into my bag for my wallet and bracing myself for yet another go-round with Mrs. Dietl.

I found her seated behind a gray metal desk. There was a painted ceramic apple in one corner, a monogrammed silver letter opener in the other, and a coffee can with a slit cut in its lid between them. "You do realize that this is the fifth time you've been late this semester," she said, when I'd smiled weakly and told her how sorry I was. "If this continues, we're going to have to have a serious talk about your arrangements."

"I'm sorry," I murmured again as I jammed my thirty-dollar fine into the coffee can and went to collect my kids.

"Please try not to let it happen again!" she called.

"Don't mess with my toot-toot," I muttered under my breath. Sophie giggled, but Mrs. Dietl, who'd overheard, was not amused. She hurried down the hall after us, beaded eyeglass chain swinging against the shelf of her bosom, gabardine skirt swishing, and sensible shoes squeaking over the linoleum.

"If you find that you are unhappy here, or that we at the Red Wheel Barrow are, as an institution, unable to meet your family's needs, there are other nursery schools, and most certainly other children who'd be happy to take your places," she said.

"I know," I said, turning back to look her in the eyes. "I'm sorry." The hell of it was, she was right. There were other parents, lots of them, who'd be tripping over each other for the privilege of paying nine thousand bucks a semester so some overbred, overeducated teacher could watch their kids fingerpaint. I slapped on a smile, swore on my life that it would never ever ever happen again, and finally got the kids out of the red clapboard building with the bright white trim and into the van.

"We're hungry," Sophie whined as I started driving home, down a street lined with maple trees whose branches arched over the road to create a shimmering canopy of crimson and gold. The whole scene was straight out of an inspirational greeting card, the kind I'd never buy and never send. It felt as foreign as the moon. Back in New York, I'd known every inch of my neighborhood: the newsstands and salad bars, the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, the guys at the dry cleaners, and the girls at the little grocery store who'd saved my ass more than once by going into the overstock room for more Pampers after Sam decided he'd only wear the ones with Elmo on them, even the homeless guy who'd called me "pretty mama" when I wheeled the babies by.

"Sit tight," I told them. Sophie groaned and clutched her belly.

"Hungry," said Sam, or possibly Jack.

"Just another minute," I said. And then, in absolute defiance of everything Upchurch in general and the Red Wheel Barrow school in particular represented, I drove to McDonald's and ordered three Happy Meals, distributed the goodies in the parking lot, and started the trip home. "Playdate," Sophie mumbled through a mouthful of chewed potato, already sounding groggy from the combination of nitrates and sodium and whatever McDonald's puts in its milkshakes.

"Huh?"

"We're supposed to go to Tristan and Isi's house for a playdate," she said.

Oops. I called Sukie Sutherland. "We're running late, but I fed them lunch!"

"No problem," she said, in her chipper, good-mommy lilt. "We're going to make Thanksgiving centerpieces and bake flaxseed muffins."

"Sounds great!" I said.

In the Sutherlands' driveway, I wiped the telltale ketchup stains off the kids' hands and faces, told them to be good, and deposited them in Sukie's pristine entryway. I drove back home, past the Chamberlains' house, then the Langdons'. As the minivan rounded the curve, I saw a man standing in front of my driveway, with his hands in his pockets and an amused look on his face. Faded blue jeans. Broad shoulders. Black hair curling past his earlobes. Evan McKenna, standing not fifty yards from my front door.

My first impulse was to hit the gas and keep going. My second impulse was to stomp on the gas and hit him. I imagined his body flying in the air like one of Sophie's dolls, and how I'd disengage the child safety locks, roll down the windows, shriek
That's what you get for breaking my heart!
and drive off into the sunset, just like Thelma and Louise, only with a minivan instead of a Thunderbird, and minus the dying.

Instead, I screeched to a halt by the curb, took a millionth of a second to be grateful that I'd combed my hair that morning and waxed my upper lip the day before, flung open the passenger's side door, and said, "Get in the van!"

Evan gave me a lazy smile. "Is this a dramatic reenactment of
Silence of the Lambs
?"

"Just get in!"

He shrugged, pulled off his cap and tucked it into his back pocket, then swung himself into the seat beside me. As soon as he'd slammed the door, I screeched away from the curb, fast enough to lay twin tracks of rubber that my husband was certain to notice when he came home. My heart was thudding in my ears and hands shook as I stomped on the brakes for the stop sign at the end of the road.

"Hi," said Evan.

I hazarded a look to the right, where I found him looking at me with the same easy sweetness I'd remembered from all those years ago. His cheeks were red from the cold, his thick eyebrows were unruly as ever, and his clever mouth curved as he smiled.

"What are you doing at my house?"

He shrugged. "I told you, I had to talk to the cops, and I figured, since I was in the neighborhood..."

I gripped the wheel as hard as I could to make my hands stop shaking. "You can't just show up at my house and hang around in the middle of the street! What about the neighbors!"

"Katie." He pulled off his sunglasses and had the nerve to smirk. "This is an innocent visit from an old friend. It's not like we were doing it in the road."

I felt my face flush and suddenly became aware of my thighs pressing against each other. They were naked underneath my skirt because I hadn't been able to find a pair of tights or pantyhose. I thought I could hear the silk lining of the skirt whisper over my skin as I moved. Worse, judging from his smile, I thought Evan could hear it too.

"And I have some information about our mutual friend."

"Tell me," I said, and started driving. Okay. This could work. He'd spill the beans and I'd dump him at the train station. The entire transaction would take fifteen minutes--twenty, tops. It wouldn't be enough time for me to fall in love with him again.

"Boy," he said, "you must think I'm easy."

"Evan..." I don't think about you at all, I wanted to say. Lie. Whatever.

"Have you had lunch yet?" he inquired. "Because I could use some lunch." He sniffed. "Smells like french fries in here."

"That's just my perfume." I spoke without looking at him. Bad things would happen if I looked at him. It would be like looking at the sun.

"Come on, Kate. I haven't seen you in years." He touched my shoulder. "I missed you, you know," he said quietly.

I turned left onto Main Street faster than I had to and said nothing. I didn't trust my voice.

Evan shrugged and turned to look out the window, taking in my new town: the white clapboard church with its spire piercing the cloudless blue sky; the old Victorians dripping with gingerbread trim that had been converted into banks or law offices; the brick-and-glass town hall; and the Olde Main Street Apothecary, where the half-deaf pharmacist would make you shout your name and your prescription across the counter until everyone in town knew that you were in there for Xanax or Rogaine or Viagra.

"Wow," he said. "It's not exactly Atlantic City, is it?"

I held myself perfectly still and said nothing.
I would have run away with you,
I thought.
If you'd ever really asked.

Evan continued to evaluate the scenery. "Two Talbots?"

I lifted my chin. "One of them is Talbot Petites."

"Ah. Well, there you go." He rubbed his head. And I could smell his clean scent of soap and laundry detergent and something else, faint and sugary, that had always reminded me of campfires and graham crackers, the memory of sweetness in my mouth underneath a black sky pricked with stars. "You like it here?"

"It's fine."

"How's Janie?"

"Great. Perfect. Never better. She's a big-shot editor at
New York Night
now." I pulled up at the town's blinking yellow light. "How's Michelle?" I snuck another glance sideways. Evan had turned back toward the window. "Did she ever marry you?"

He shrugged. "We got married. It didn't last."

His hands were in his lap, palms up. His face was grave. "I'm sorry," I made myself say.

"I tried calling you..."

"Was your phone not working, or was it your fingers?" I asked lightly.

"But first you were in London, and then--"

"And then you moved away! By the time I unpacked and got over the jet lag, you were gone."

"We didn't move," Evan said patiently. "We got kicked out. You didn't know?"

"Didn't know what?"

"Janie bought the building and evicted us."

I stomped on the brake at the traffic signal in front of the Super Shop Mart and stared at him, torn between shock, disbelief, and awe at what Janie had been able to pull off. "She did what?"

"Bought the building," Evan repeated. "Then she told us she was turning it into co-ops and gave us ten days to leave."

"Jesus. Is that legal?"

"She said if she ever saw me again or heard that I was trying to get in touch with you, she'd have both of my legs broken. And she tried to have me deported."

The car behind me gave a polite
toot-toot.
I started driving. "I know you're kidding. You're a U.S. citizen!"

"Yeah, well, you know that and I know that. Apparently the INS was a little confused on the matter. Janie found some other guy named Evan McKenna who was living illegally in Brooklyn...ah, never mind. Long story. It all worked out." His lips twitched upward. "Except for the other Evan McKenna. They packed his ass back to County Cork."

"I hope you don't expect me to feel sorry for you." My voice was tart, but my eyelids were suddenly prickly with tears. "You didn't even call me after 9/11. Everyone called everyone after 9/11. There was an article about it in the
Times."
I swiped at my eyes as the Range Rover behind me honked its horn.

"I wanted to," he said. "I wanted to call." He pulled his seat belt away from his chest, then let it snap back, thumping gently against him. "But I saw you that summer. I saw you in Central Park, at the zoo. With another guy. You looked so happy, I thought, why make trouble?"

I snorted and flicked on my turn indicator so hard that the shaft almost snapped off in my hand. I remembered the day he was talking about: a beautiful August afternoon. I'd met Ben on his lunch hour and we'd bought slices of pizza, then strolled over to eat them and watch the sea lions have their lunch. It had been a lovely day...but still, like every time Ben and I went out in New York City, there was always a part of me that couldn't help scanning the crowds, waiting for Evan to emerge, cock his eyebrow at me, hold out his arms, and say, "I made a mistake, Kate. We belong together."

"What kind..." My voice was wobbling. "What kind of trouble did you want to make?"

He didn't say anything as I swung onto the highway and merged into traffic heading north toward Hartford, and when he started talking again his voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him.

"I thought about you a lot, after that night," he said. "I still do."

I looked over to see if he was smirking. Maybe this was his idea of a good joke to play on a lonely, overwhelmed, out-of-place mother stuck in a suburb she despised. No smirk. He was looking at me, his green eyes narrowed. "Do you think about me?"

Only every day.
"Every once in a while. But what does it matter now?" I asked, hearing the despair in my voice.

He sighed. " 'If I could turn back time,' " he sang.

I stared at him in mingled amusement and horror. "You're quoting Cher?"

" 'If I could find a way,' " he continued.

"Oh, please, "I said. "How about you just buy me lunch?"

He sat back in his seat, looking pleased. "Works for me," he said.

Twenty-Five

I took Evan to the least sexual, least suggestive place I could think of, which was the Chuck E. Cheese's two towns away from Upchurch. We weren't likely to see anyone I knew, and if we did, well, who'd conduct a tryst in broad daylight at a theme restaurant that catered to six-year-olds?

"Nice," Evan said, holding the door, then touching my elbow lightly as we walked up to the hostess's stand. "Very atmospheric. Can we play whack-a-mole?"

"I'm married," I said crisply, in a tone that belied the way my knees were trembling. "The only one whacking my mole these days is my husband."

"Maybe skee-ball, then," he said, with an agreeable shrug. I risked a quick sideways glance. He'd gotten a few wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, a few silver hairs lacing the black curls near his temples, all of which only served to make him even more appealing, which was unfair on a celestial level. Lord knows my wrinkles and gray hairs had done little to improve my looks.

"Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese!" said a beaming, ponytailed girl behind a yellow and orange plastic podium. She held paper party hats in one hand and plastic leis in the other. "Are you here for Trevor's birthday party?"

Evan shook his head. "Yes, we are," I said, and helped myself. I put the party hat defiantly on my head and stared at Evan until he shrugged and put on his hat too. Now I'd be able to look at him without wanting to undo the last seven years of my life and/or haul him into the bathroom for a quickie.

We sat down on two plastic stumps in front of a kid-sized plastic table and ordered a cheese pizza and a pitcher of soda.

"So," said Evan, looking me over. The party hat wasn't working, so I tossed a plastic lei across the table and wondered if I could ask the waitress for a clown nose. Maybe that would do the trick. "How'd you wind up in Connecticut, anyhow?"

"My husband," I said simply. "He thought it was safe here."

His eyebrows lifted. His curls hung over his forehead, almost to his eyebrows and, as always, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush them away. "And you just went along with him? Left your job? Left Janie?" He shook his head. "I'm surprised she didn't just buy Connecticut to make you move back."

"I had children. Have. Have children. Here." I pulled out my little monogrammed leather folder where I kept two-year-out-of-date pictures of Sam, Jack, and Sophie. "See, these are my twins, Sam and Jack. Of course, they were newborns in this picture, they're three now, and this is Sophie..." I flipped through the pictures, then placed the folder under my left hand, like a Bible, for strength.

"They're adorable," he said. "Do you like it here?" I couldn't think of what to say, as our waitress bounced over with the soda and two cups. He poured for both of us.

"I..." I picked up my plastic cup and drank. "I miss..."

He refilled my cup. "The city?"

"The pace of it. The energy. Being able to just walk out my door in the morning and be somewhere, you know? Without having to get in a car, or set up a play date. I miss first-run movies--I mean, not like I've got time to even go to the movies anymore. I miss my job. I miss watching Mark try to throw his chair every Thursday. I miss takeout, and taxis, and sample sales, and the Cowgirl Cafe, and Magnolia Bakery, and window shopping on Fifth Avenue, and tennis in Riverside Park, and...."
You.
I shut my mouth. Then I shut my eyes. "It's a big change, living here," I said. When I opened my eyes he was staring at me, studying my face carefully.

"You know, nothing was the same after you left."

The waitress slid a steaming pizza onto the table. I pulled off a gooey slice and took a big bite, wincing as the molten cheese scalded the roof of my mouth. "You were the one who left," I pointed out, as soon as I could speak again.

"I know. What I meant was..." He shifted on his seat and handed me napkins. "When you were living down the hall, when I was hanging out with you and Janie. I think, sometimes, that was the happiest I've been."

"Why not?" I tossed my hair, puckered my lips, and blew on my pizza. "You had everything. You had the two of us to keep you fed and amused, and you had Michelle to go home to every night. What man wouldn't have loved that?"

He picked up his own slice. "You're not being fair."

I twirled mozzarella around my finger. "What, to Michelle?"

"No, to yourself. How do you know you weren't the one I would have rather gone home to every night?"

"Because I threw myself at you! I had such a crush...I did everything but staple a Welcome mat to my private area..."

Evan started laughing. "Your private area?"

I felt my face flush. "That's what Sophie calls it," I mumbled. "Her private area."

"She's a cutie," Evan said. "She looks like you."

I felt my eyes well with tears for the umpteenth time that day. I saw Madeline and Emerson Cavanaugh standing on the stage of the Upchurch Town Hall.
She was the best mother in the world.
"Yes," I said, and nodded helplessly. "My little girl." I wiped my hands, then my eyes. No more, I decided. No more of this. It's the road less traveled, and there's no point in even thinking about it again.

I sipped from my cup and got myself together. "You knew Kitty."

Evan nodded, crumpling his napkin. "From New York. She was a client. Every once in a while she'd give me a name of a man and ask me to do a background check. Basic biographical stuff--where they lived, when they'd gotten married, if they'd had kids."

"What kind of names? How many? Was this for
Content
? What was she looking for?"

"Hey, hey, easy, easy," he said. He gave me a smile, then pulled a notebook out of his back pocket. "I think I checked out maybe half a dozen men for her, starting in 1998."

"All men?"

"All men. Most of them lived in New York, one was an ophthalmologist in Maine, one was down in D.C."

"Why was she investigating them? What did she want to know?"

"Like I said, all she asked for was basic biography--stuff you can probably find out on the Internet these days. In terms of why..." He exhaled in frustration and spread his hands on the table. "I know she was doing some writing, and some of them were pretty big deals--politicians, college professors--but not all. But the thing is, with clients, with this kind of work, you don't always ask, and they don't always volunteer. Kitty didn't."

"And then she called you again?"

"Two weeks ago," he said. "We caught up for a few minutes, and then she said she was getting to the end of her investigation."

"What investigation?"

Evan gave another maddening shrug. "Like I said, don't ask, don't tell. She said she was pretty sure she'd found what she was looking for, but there were a few loose ends she needed to tie up, and was I still doing investigative work. I told her I was; she said she'd be in touch. She had another name, but not one she felt comfortable emailing or saying over the phone. So I waited." He shook his head and crumpled another napkin. "The next call I got was from the police, saying she'd been murdered." He leaned forward. "I asked her if she knew you."

The restaurant was spinning. "You knew I moved to Upchurch?"

He shrugged. "I keep up."

"How? I know Janie doesn't talk to you."

"Give me a little credit, Kate. It is my job. And your wedding announcement was in the
Times,
so I knew your new last name."

"What did..." I took a deep breath, trying to shove away the thoughts of Evan caring enough to find out my new last name and my new hometown. "What did Kitty say about me?"

"That she only knew you from the playground, but that you seemed smart. Funny. Good with your kids."

I swallowed hard. "She said that?" Of all the things I'd expected Kitty to say about me,
smart, funny,
and
good with her kids
would not have topped the list the way
incompetent, clueless,
and
in desperate need of a personal trainer
might have.

"So she never gave you the name?"

He shook his head.

"What about the men she had you look up before?"

He tore a page from the notebook and handed over a sheet of paper with four names. One of them I actually recognized--Emmett James, a literary critic and poet who taught at Yale.

"I couldn't find all of the records. Here's what I've got. This guy's the doctor in Maine," Evan said, tapping the page. "He makes instruments," he said, pointing to the name David Linde. "And this one..."

I leaned over to see the last two words on the page and felt things start to go gray again. "Bo Baird?"

"She had me check him out ten years ago," Evan said. "Before she started working for Laura Lynn. Before Laura Lynn was Laura Lynn, come to think of it."

I stared at the page. "So what's the connection?"

"I don't know. All I know for sure is that Bo Baird didn't do it--"

"But maybe Laura Lynn did," I said, wiping my sweaty palms against my skirt. "Or it had something to do with money, because Laura Lynn got a major book advance."

We paused for breath and looked at each other. I pulled my notebook out of my purse.

"Who have you talked to?" he asked.

"How do you know I've talked to anyone?"

He smiled. "Because, Katie, I know you. I know how you operate. No way could you resist this."

"Sure," I grumbled, trying hard to ignore the warm glow that hearing him say my name had ignited in the pit of my belly. "I'm the same as I ever was. Just with less sleep."

He tapped the blank page with his pen, smiling his merry smile as he looked at me. "Give it up."

I flipped to the first page of my notebook and told him everything: how I suspected that Philip Cavanaugh might have been sleeping with the sitter and God only knew how many other neighborhood ladies; how Delphine Dolan had been a friend of Kitty's prior to her move to Upchurch and how Kevin Dolan seemed to be carrying a torch for the deceased. I told him how Laura Lynn had told me that Joel Asch had gotten Kitty her job because they might have been sleeping together, and how my interview with Joel made me think that was a definite possibility. I told him all about my meeting with Tara Singh and Philip Cavanaugh's question,
Was she happy?
Then, after a minute of hesitation, I told Evan about the note on my car. His eyes got gratifyingly wide.

"Whoa." He scribbled something down, then looked at me. "So what's the plan?"

I toyed with a lock of my hair and tapped my pen against a blank page. "Nail down the infidelities. Who was Philip sleeping with? Who was Kitty sleeping with?"

"Good," he said. "Very good. We should also take another look at the gentlemen on my list."

We.
He'd said
We.
My heart soared, then sank just as quickly. There was no
we.
I was married. Married with three kids, and a house in the 'burbs. No
we.
I shouldn't even think of the letters
W
and
E
in combination.

"Let me take the men," I said. "I'll get Janie to help. You take the neighbors. The Dolans, specifically, and Philip Cavanaugh, and Joel Asch. See what you can dig up on him."

He nodded and wrote it down. "What's your plan?" he asked.

I doodled hearts along the border of the page as I thought. It took me a minute to realize I already had the perfect opportunity to ply my neighbors with drink and ask them pointed questions about Kitty Cavanaugh's life and times. "Ben and I are having a holiday open house for the people he works with on Saturday. I can invite the neighbors too."

"That'll work," said Evan. I could see--or imagined I could see--admiration in his eyes. I lifted my hair from the nape of my neck, shook out the curls, and let them tumble down my back, noting the way his eyes followed my movements.

"What should I wear?" he asked.

I pulled off my party hat and gave him my very best go-to-hell look. "You, my old friend, are not invited."