Looking for Laura (14 page)

“This is different.”

“Why?”

Again he frowned. “Because I'm a grown-up,” he finally said.

Fortunately for him, Sally was able to change the subject. “Look—there's Mount Vernon Street.”

It was, like the rest of the Beacon Hill neighborhood, a charming road lined with redbrick town houses. Sally suspected each town house was a single dwelling, which would mean each resident was a gazillionaire. Had Paul fallen for Laura Hawkes because she was rich? That would hardly make sense. He had family wealth, and he'd earned a good living with Wittig, Mott, and really, what did anyone need all that money for? The cost of living in Winfield was not the same as on Beacon Hill in Boston.

Even more peculiar, Laura Hawkes had been a client of Paul's. Sally had gotten the woman's name and address from Patty Pleckart by asking about his clients named Laura. Why would a gazillionaire Bostonite hire a lawyer from Winfield?

If she was sleeping with him, hiring him might have made their assignations simpler. Maybe Laura Hawkes was married, too. Maybe she'd hired Paul so she would have an excuse to slip away from her husband and meet Paul somewhere. “I've got to go see my lawyer,” she would tell her husband. “I'll be home tomorrow. Try not to be nothingness without me.”

“Swank territory,” Todd murmured, his gaze sweeping over the freshly painted, paneled front doors, with their brass knockers and mail slots, the wrought-iron railings along the front steps, the neat, quaint shutters
framing each window. If affluence had an odor, Sally would have keeled over from the stench.

“This is it,” she said, halting in front of one of the houses and gazing up the stone steps to the front door.

“This is where Daddy's Friend lives?”

“That's right.” She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, trying to gather the courage that suddenly seemed to have fled from her. She recalled the collection of letters she'd found, and all they had implied. She remembered her missing pocketknife. She thought about Paul, her husband, the father of her daughter, the man she'd vowed to love, honor and cherish till death did them part. She'd been wronged, conned, bamboozled, cheated…

But actually facing the woman who'd helped Paul to wrong, con, bamboozle and cheat was a whole different thing.

Yet she didn't hate Laura Hawkes. She'd never even met her.

Todd touched her shoulder and she turned to him, expecting to see sympathy in his face. What she saw was what she wanted to feel: hard anger. He'd touched her, not to comfort her but to nudge her aside so he could scale the steps, lift that shiny brass knocker and let it smack against the door. No hesitancy in him. No doubt. No worry about what to say.

He was bitter, he was righteous and he was prepared to take on Laura Hawkes.

Sally resented him for possessing all the boldness she lacked. But she was kind of glad he was there to be bold for the both of them.

A
fter three unanswered knocks on the door, Todd discovered a doorbell, which was attached to the side of the vertical molding in such a way that it wasn't immediately visible. The only reason he could think of for someone to camouflage her doorbell was that she wanted people to use the fancy knocker.

All right. He'd used the fancy knocker. He'd admired its graceful curves and polished veneer, its oh-so-colonial attitude. But it wasn't getting the job done.

He pressed the doorbell, pressed it again, heard a series of variably pitched gongs each time he pressed it. It was as effective as the knocker had been. No response.

Turning, he gazed down the front steps at the two females who stood below, watching him. Two hatted females, one with eyes as round and penetrating as bullets and the other with eyes hidden behind her chichi sunglasses. The way the Driver women peered up at him gave him an elevated sense of himself. He was above, taking charge, taking care of business.

Or not, as it happened. Either Laura Hawkes wasn't home or she'd peeked out through an upstairs window, spotted a lady in a straw hat that resembled a flying saucer from a fifties sci-fi flick, accompanied by a kid in a purple hat the shape of which defied description altogether, and she'd decided not to answer her door.

Todd didn't care. Well, he did care—he was frustrated that he couldn't simply meet Paul's mystery lover and get the story he'd come for, like the trained journalist he was. But he was glad he'd been the one to scale the stairs, manipulate the knocker, locate the doorbell and hear the gongs resounding on the other side of the six-panel door.

So far, the day had gone all Sally's way. She'd played her god-awful CD during the drive, they'd eaten a hodgepodge picnic lunch at Quincy Market, Rosie had gotten her goofy rice necklace—but now it was his show. He was the one leading the charge. Sally had obtained Laura Hawkes's name and address, but Todd had rung the bell.

He realized Sally and Rosie were waiting to be debriefed. “No one's home,” he told them, lingering for one more moment on the top step just because he liked the altitude.

They continued to peer up at him. He strode down the stairs like a modern-day Zeus descending from Mount Olympus. Once he reached the sidewalk, he was able to see Sally's face under the brim of her hat. He could even, if he stared really hard, see her eyes, ghostlike behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. Her lips were pursed in a way that made her cheeks look hollow. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

He hadn't thought that far ahead—but when he did, he saw only one option. “I guess we'll have to go home.” An excellent option it was, too. They could drive back to Winfield, and he could return to Boston on his own, perhaps tomorrow, and visit Laura Hawkes without Sally and her kid tagging along. He could cruise down the Mass Pike—listening to rock and roll the entire way—and skip the Quincy Market detour. Now that he
knew the destination, he could park right in the neighborhood, knock on Laura Hawkes's knocker, ring her chime and find out why she and Paul had gone sneaking around behind Todd's back.

“We're not going home,” Sally said definitively. “We can wait.”

“Wait?” Like hell. He didn't want to spend another hour or two in downtown Boston, struggling through awkward chats with the kid, spending money on crap for her and having heart attacks whenever he lost sight of her. “What if Laura's out of town for the weekend?”

“What if she's on her way home right now?” Sally countered. “It would be such a waste if we drove back to Winfield without seeing her and then it turned out that if we'd waited ten minutes we would have seen her.”

“What if it turned out we waited four hours and she never showed up?”

“Well, I wasn't thinking we'd just sit here on her steps and do nothing for four hours. We could take a walk and then come back in a while and try again.”

“I don't want to take a walk. We already took a walk. We're going to have to take another walk to get back to my car. I don't even want to
think
about walking,” he said, then realized how petulant he sounded.

“Or,” Sally suggested, “we could take a ride on a Swan Boat.”

“Swan Boat?” Rosie bleated. “What's that? I wanna go on a Swan Boat!”

Todd clamped his teeth together so the blasphemy rolling across his tongue wouldn't escape. He did not want to go on a Swan Boat. He especially didn't want to go on one with Sally and Rosie. Swan Boat rides were for tourists. They were pointless. They were corny.

“All right,” Sally was saying. “Let's take a ride on
a Swan Boat, and then we can come back and see if she's returned home. That sounds like a great idea.”

It sounded like Todd's definition of the Third Circle of Hell. It also sounded like Todd's loss of his status as the commanding officer of this army. Sally was taking over once more. The next thing he knew, she was going to be singing songs about porcupines.

Or swans. Was there a song about swans on that stupid CD of hers? A swan song.

Shit.

Sally and Rosie were already bounding down the sidewalk in the direction of the Common. They were holding hands and skipping, like classmates in a schoolyard. After the Swan Boat ride, if Laura Hawkes still wasn't answering her door, the two of them would probably draw a hopscotch grid on the sidewalk and play that for a while. And when that got old, Sally probably had a set of jacks in her tote bag. Or a couple of jump ropes. Or a hula hoop.

Sally didn't look like a schoolgirl, of course. She was clearly a woman, her long hair swaying heavily under the brim of her hat, her hips shimmying with each step, the skirt of her dress swinging around her legs. She was skipping only because Rosie wanted to skip.

He realized that Rosie, not Sally, was running the show. Who was he kidding? He'd stupidly thought this trip was primarily for his benefit, secondarily for Sally's. He and Sally were the ones who wanted to eyeball Paul's mistress. Rosie had come along only because Sally had grown up in a trailer and wanted her daughter exposed to such exotica as street clowns and kitsch kiosks.

But somehow, Rosie had wound up in charge. She was the one who'd wanted to watch the damn clown and buy the damn necklace—and in both cases, she'd gotten
her way. She was the one who'd sung along with both the animal CD and Nirvana. Now she wanted a Swan Boat ride, and she was going to get that, too. Like a eunuched slave, Todd followed silently behind her and her loyal handmaiden, otherwise known as Mom. Queen Rosie's wishes were their commands.

If Rosie weren't Paul's heir, the sole creature through whom his DNA would survive into the future, Todd wouldn't put up with this. It amazed him that Paul had put up with it. But then, Paul had had Laura to help him endure.

Maybe that was what Todd needed: a woman to help him endure. He dated, he socialized, he had sex less often than he'd like, but significantly more often than most septuagenarians, high-school students and in all probability his parents—but maybe he needed someone special. A woman who would write passionate letters to him, even if that passion was about as genuine as rhinestones. A woman who dreamed of his touch. A woman who would care enough to be indignant if she learned he was attached to someone else. The women he dated in and around Winfield…Somehow, he doubted any of them would throw a fit if they found out the relationship wasn't exclusive.

The Public Garden loomed, lush with buds and early blossoms. The trees looked as if a painter had dabbed their slender branches with green, and spikes of tulip and daffodil pierced the warming soil. In the distance Todd saw the pond where the Swan Boats sailed. Rosie saw it, too. She let out a triumphant yelp and started running toward the pond. Why wasn't she tired? Didn't little girls need naps?

Accept the inevitable
, he advised himself. Rosie wanted a boat ride, and she was going to get a boat ride.
He'd ride with her, just to make sure she didn't disappear again. It was one thing for a child to vanish amid a throng of fans admiring a clown, and another thing for a child to vanish while on a boat in a lake. Todd's nerves could take only so much.

Sally announced that she wanted to ride on the boat, too—and that she would pay. Todd didn't argue. Nor did he argue, though he desperately wanted to, when the boat operator pointed out an empty section on one of the bench seats and said to Rosie, “Now, you sit nice and still between your mommy and your daddy.”

She didn't have a daddy, Todd reminded himself. She missed her father, even if her father had been an asshole. Todd could pretend to be her father for the duration of the boat ride.

Besides, if he told the boat man that he
wasn't
Rosie's father, the guy would assume Todd was Sally's boyfriend. He definitely didn't want anyone to make that assumption—even though when she removed her sunglasses, her eyes were as bright as Rosie's, sparkling with joy over a stupid paddleboat ride. Even though the afternoon sunlight got caught in her hair below the brim of her hat and made it shimmer the color of new pennies. Even though, as she adjusted herself on the seat, the neckline of her dress shifted, drawing his eyes to her generous bosom.

Which he didn't care about. He'd never been a breast man. Denise had been as slim as a supermodel, and he'd married her, hadn't he?

Also divorced her.

Why was he thinking about Sally's breasts? He was on a boat, with Rosie wedged between him and Sally and a park on the verge of exploding into spring all around them, hints of flowers everywhere, the scent of
new grass and apple blossoms obliterating the stale odor of the city beyond the Public Garden's borders. Might as well make the best of it. Might as well pretend he was Rosie's daddy, the husband of a woman with substantial breasts.

After the boat ride, they stopped to admire a row of bronze sculptures depicting the mother duck and her babies from
Make Way For Ducklings
, a book Rosie had apparently memorized, given her involved explication of the plot. “We read it in school,” she said.

“This is the same school where you hit donkeys with sticks?”

“Not real donkeys,” she reminded him solemnly. “Real donkeys would kick you if you hit them.”

“There seems to be an animal motif running through your life,” he observed as Rosie hunkered down to scrutinize each bronze duckling. “
Make Way For Ducklings
, papier-mâché donkeys, animal crackers, those animal songs on the CD and now a Swan Boat ride. You know what you need?”

Rosie fingered her rice necklace and gazed at him. “A zoo?”

“A pet.”

Sally sent him a warning look, which he blithely ignored. “A pet what?” Rosie asked.

“I don't know. Dogs are fun.”

“Do you have a dog?” she asked.

“No. But I had one growing up, and it was great. Every child needs a dog.”

Rosie turned to her mother. “I need a dog,” she said.

Sally's expression, meeting Todd's above Rosie's head, turned from mild warning to dire threat. He knew if he pursued this discussion with Rosie, Sally would hate him forever. That seemed as good a reason as any.
“A big, sloppy Saint Bernard would be fun. Or a pit bull. They're supposed to have great personalities.”

“Stop,” Sally muttered, adding to Rosie, “He's teasing you. Pit bulls can be mean.”

“Or you could get something exotic. An iguana, maybe. They're cute little lizards.”

“They grow enormous,” Sally interjected. “They're something like five feet long when they reach maturity.”

“Five feet long?” Rosie was so excited she pranced in a circle around one of the ducklings. “I want a—what's it called, Daddy's Friend?”

“An iguana.”

“An iguana. Can I have one, Mommy?”

“No.” Sally's look evolved from merely threatening to outright lethal. “We can't deal with a pet right now, honey. You're in school and I'm at work. Who'd take care of the pet when no one was home?”

“He could take care of himself. We could train him. You know what I'd like?” She addressed Todd, who was clearly much more receptive to the idea. “A chimpanzee. We could train him to cook and clean, and then he could play with me and Trevor. And he could eat bananas.”

“Chimpanzees love bananas,” Todd confirmed.

“I think we're done with this conversation,” Sally said.

“Or an ant farm,” Todd suggested. “Ants make cool pets.”

“I'll bet,” Sally grunted.

“Do they farm? What do they farm?” Rosie wanted to know. “Corn? I have a book about farm animals, but it doesn't have anything about ants in it.”

All the way from the duckling statues to Louisburg Square, Rosie questioned Todd about pets. They ana
lyzed the pluses and minuses of gerbils, parakeets, tetras and tarantulas. And cats. Rosie finally decided the best solution would be for her friend Trevor to get a cat while she got a dog, and then when the cat and the dog grew up, they could fall in love and get married.