Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (26 page)

ChaCha slid the box across the bar until it came to rest against the toe of Libby's sneaker. “Take 'em.”

In the afternoon, I stopped at a mother-and-daughter tea party in Bryn Mawr to benefit a program that supplied teddy bears for firemen to give to children displaced by fires. Libby happily tagged along, bubbling with enthusiasm for Cupcakes.

“I bet those girls just dance their calories away!”

“Libby,” I said as we mingled among dozens of perfect little children—all in extravagant ruffles and bows—who squeezed around the small tables to sip their sweetened tea, “how far would you go to get something one of your kids wanted?”

My sister stopped gazing hungrily at the pretty displays of pastel petits fours. “Oh, heavens, have the twins gotten to you? I'm not buying them scalpels for their birthday, and that's final.”

“Good thinking,” I said. Harcourt and Hilton gave me the willies sometimes. They'd recently given up their obsession with making splatter films in favor of much more grisly pastimes. “They might start amputating each other's toes. No, I'm thinking about Verbena.”

“What about her?” Libby popped a finger sandwich into her mouth.

I said, “I don't think Verbena wanted Clover's job back. But there she was, begging ChaCha because she knows that's what her daughter wants most.”

“What my kids want,” Libby said, showing more spine than usual, “they don't always get. So far, it hasn't done them any harm.”

I spoke with a few mothers and a couple of nannies who had brought little girls to the party. We talked of trivialities, but I could not shake Verbena from my mind. Whatever she was up to, it seemed strangely similar to the parents who gussied up their darlings in lavish dresses for the party. Each one looked more adorable than the next. An air of competition seemed to sizzle over the elaborately coiffed hair of eight-year-olds. The children, however, were fortunately more taken with the friendly Dalmatian visiting from the local firehouse.

Money had been raised for a good cause, I told myself as I wrote up my notes in Libby's minivan.

She drove me into Center City—traveling against evening rush hour traffic—and dropped me on Walnut Street. I waved good-bye and went into the restaurant to meet Richard for dinner.

It was not my favorite dining spot. Although it was well respected and usually booked full, the fare was a somewhat outdated French menu with heavy creamy sauces, and I'd always found the host stuffy and dismissive.

I was early and thought I could slip downstairs to the bar to gather myself before Richard arrived.

Bone tired again, I really just wanted to go home.

Once, I might have called Michael to pick me up in the city. At Blackbird Farm, he might have cooked supper or joined me in the bathtub to talk lazily about our respective days. Then we'd read in bed, sharing a glass of wine before turning out the lights. For an instant I closed my eyes and longed for just such an evening, contentedly snuggled against him and absorbed in a book while anticipating a final, delicious rush of exertion before we fell deeply asleep together.

Startled, I shook myself back to reality. Not tonight. Not with Michael.

The restaurant's maître d' surprised me when he said Richard was already seated. His tone indicated how inconsiderate he thought I'd been to keep my date waiting.

I left my coat at the counter and followed the maître d' into the hushed and elegant restaurant. The crystal chandelier cast a warm luster on the room, decorated to recall a Parisian salon. Mirrors glinted on the gold silk wallpaper. The waiters swooped with silver trays. Despite the early hour, the tables were already crowded. Symphony goers had come for an early seating.

Richard had managed to reserve the best table in the house in a private corner beneath a glowing sconce.

One look at the table, and I caught my breath.

“Richard,” I said.

He stood quickly—then took care to catch his balance on his good leg—and kissed my cheek. “Hi.”

He had brought white roses—dozens of them. The table lay covered in fragrant blooms with wisps of baby's breath hovering over the flowers like delicate summer moths. A bottle of champagne stood in a silver bucket alongside the table, the ice gleaming.

His smile melted my heart. I felt guilty for dreaming of someone else.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“I hope a lot of things.” He took my hand.

Stretching up on tiptoe, I gave him a real kiss on the mouth, one intended to put the past behind us and start our relationship anew. Swiftly, he gathered me up in his arms, uncharacteristically warm and eager. “I should bring you flowers more often.”

I smiled up at him. “We're causing a commotion.”

He glanced around to see a few diners smiling in our direction. “How about some champagne?”

“This really is a celebration!”

He pulled out my chair. A moment later, we were sitting across from each other.

He reached for the champagne with one hand and my glass with the other. “Busy day?”

“Obviously not as busy as yours. What's up? Did the editors offer you the new job?”

With a grin, he poured an inch of champagne into the flute and passed it to me. “The paper wants me to become the city desk editor.”

“Richard, that's wonderful!” I could see the glow of ambition achieved in his face. He had worked hard for his accolade, and now it was time to enjoy the victory.

“I had mixed feelings at first,” he admitted, pouring for himself. “I like the street. But my leg, the time I've spent here in Philadelphia—things have added up for me. I've changed. Mellowed, I guess. It's time for something new.”

“So you'll take the new job?”

He touched his glass to mine and met my gaze. “I was hoping you'd help me decide.”

The untimely waiter appeared at my elbow and offered to put the roses in water. We allowed him to clear the table, and he promised he'd return with menus.

I drank a tiny swallow of champagne and put the flute down.

Richard drank more deeply from his glass, then watched the bubbles rise in the wine while he gathered his words. Slowly, he said, “I didn't accept the job yet, Nora. Because you're part of the equation.”

Unconsciously, my hands tightened until my knuckles turned white. I took a breath and unclenched my fingers.

“Becoming an editor means settling down, staying in one place for a few years. It's not just building a career. It's building a whole life. You know I always planned to go back to New York, and my job there is still waiting for me. But my priorities have changed. I've come to some important conclusions.”

I couldn't find any words.

“You've made a difference in me, Nora.” He put down his glass and met my gaze steadily. “I want to stay here in Philadelphia with you. In fact, I want to marry you. I know we've got things to work out, but I'm ready to do that. We'd make a hell of a team, darling.”

“Richard—”

“Will you marry me?” he asked. “I want to be with you.”

“And,” I asked softly, “my baby?”

He reached for my hand and held it on the table. “I know you're carrying someone else's child. I won't deny it bothers me. Hell, for a while I thought it was a deal breaker. I thought about convincing you to give it up for adoption or . . . something. But now I realize how important kids are to you. If I need to be the father to your children, I'm willing to do that. I don't care whose DNA is involved.”

“But—”

“It could be our baby.” He caressed my fingers. “I'd like to try, Nora.”

The waiter returned. He brought menus. I doubted I could eat a mouthful, but I accepted the leather-bound folder and felt oddly glad to get my hands on it. Unconsciously, I held the menu between Richard and me and tried to steady my heartbeat. The waiter told us the chef's specials, but I didn't hear them. Things were happening way too fast. Perhaps sensing our discomfort, the waiter promised to return later and went away.

When we were alone again, Richard reached over and pushed my menu to the table so he could see me. “I love you, Nora,” he said. “We'll keep the baby's paternity a secret. We'll make it work.”

I wanted to believe him. Richard was offering me a way out, a way to have a normal life. For an instant, I felt a warm rush for his kindness. But I said, “Michael will find out. Someday he will.”

Through pure dumb luck or some kind of alchemy, Michael was going to learn he had fathered my child. I knew it, and I dreaded it. I could imagine his reaction—part joy, part bottomless rage at being kept in the dark and denied what was his. He took nothing lightly—nothing of importance, that is. His emotions would be titanic.

Richard tried to read my expression. “Would it be easier if I did it for you? If I told him now?”

“No!”

Shaken by the suggestion, I could only imagine what Michael might do if Richard told him the truth. “Please don't do that, Richard. Promise me you won't. He'll be so upset.”

At that, Richard abruptly slugged his champagne and set the glass down sharply. He planted one forefinger on the tablecloth. “Look, Nora, I've put my heart on this table. I think I deserve something besides some misplaced concern for the feelings of a thug.”

“He's not a—”

“Goddammit, I'm trying to propose, and just like always we end up talking about him.”

“I'm sorry. I want you to understand—”

“It's you who doesn't understand.” Heads turned toward us, so Richard lowered his voice. “He's an evil son of a bitch, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”

“Richard—”

“The shit hit the fan today. And this time Abruzzo's going down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Little Carmine Pescara? Poof, he's gone! And the kid hasn't run off to join the marines, Nora. Word is, he's been whacked. Probably by your old boyfriend to cover up the cop killing. The kid knew too much or maybe he shot the cop himself—I don't know—but he's some kind of pawn in this game, and Mick Abruzzo's behind it all.”

Suddenly I couldn't catch my breath.

“Little Carmine's mother watched the kid go off to the mall yesterday. But airport security found his car in the long-term lot this afternoon with the trunk wide open and the kid's suitcase unzipped. With his cell phone on the top.”

“The police checked all flights?”

“Of course they did. If Carmine left the city, it wasn't by plane.”

“So you think Michael kidnapped him from the airport parking lot? Maybe the boy left with a friend. Maybe he's gone to Atlantic City or the beach or . . .”

“Or somebody killed him.”

“No,” I said.

“Maybe they're holding Carmine hostage.” Richard sat back to muse. “But why bother? Why keep a noisy kid around when it's easier just to pop him in the head and dump his carcass in the Atlantic? The Abruzzos aren't known for their humanitarian deeds. I'll bet his body's disintegrating in the ocean right now.”

A swarm of bees began buzzing in my head. A cloud of them rose up around me, darkening the room.

Richard got out of his chair. His napkin fell through the swarm and disappeared into the blackness that had been the carpet. Next thing I knew, he had pushed my head between my knees and was telling me to breathe.

The waiter came back, looking anxious, as I sat up.

“Sorry,” Richard said. “I guess I surprised her.”

The waiter smiled uncertainly and backed away. The diners near us returned to their own drinks, studiously pretending I hadn't just made a fool of myself. I drank another swallow of champagne, but my hand shook too much to hold the glass for more.

Richard sat down again and leaned forward on his elbows. “Nora, this is serious business now. If you know something about Carmine Pescara, you have to tell me.”

“I don't know anything.”

“Think. There's got to be something you overheard. Even something you suspected?”

“Michael's not involved in this.”

“He's involved,” Richard said. “Up to his neck. In fact, he'd better be walking around in a bulletproof vest these days, because if he hurts Carmine, some other wiseguy is going to kill him. But you can help Mick, Nora. And if Little Carmine is still alive, you could save his life, too.”

“But I don't know anything. I've never met the boy! I don't know anyone else in the family.”

“Nora, I'm here to protect you now. I'll make sure you're safe. There's no reason to lie for him anymore.”

My mind cleared very quickly. “Is this story so important that you would accuse me of lying to you?”

“I love you,” Richard said, husky and intense. “Together we can put him behind bars and out of your life.”

I put both hands over my eyes. “No.”

“Nora—”

I felt a dull ache reach upward from inside me, and I wondered fleetingly if it was the pain of a breaking heart. I dropped my hands into my lap. “I don't know what to believe,” I said. “Do you love me and want to marry me? Or do you want this story?”

“Yes to both questions. Look, you know Abruzzo isn't the right man for you. But marrying me can help us both. With you by my side, I could be the managing editor of the paper in a couple of years. And you'd be rid of him and free to do everything you want. You could be a real community leader. You want to make a difference, don't you? It's your destiny, but you can't do it chained to a mobster.”