Love Gone Mad (14 page)

Viselike pressure builds in Adrian’s head.

Megan opens her purse and grabs her cell phone. It falls to the blacktop. She picks it up and snaps it open. “I’m calling the police,” she rasps, but the phone again clatters to the asphalt.

“Adrian, do you have any paper?” She picks up her cell and snaps it shut. “I’ll take down the plate.”

He grabs a crumpled envelope from his shirt pocket and opens it. It’s the invoice for the leased Altima. He stuffs the bill back in his pocket and is about to give Megan the envelope. “Wait, Megan,” Adrian says. “Use the cell phone and take a picture of it.”

Suddenly, a tall, thin man wearing a Red Sox jacket and baseball cap ambles toward the truck. He casually opens the driver’s side door and climbs inside.

Megan closes her eyes and exhales. Adrian sees how pale she looks.

“Mom, this gum has no taste,” Marlee says.

“Well, let’s get rid of it,” Megan replies. “We’re going for lunch anyway, sweetie.”

“Pizza?”

“Yes, at Rizzuto’s in Westport.”

Marlee pulls the pink wad from her mouth.

“Not on the ground, please. Someone will step on it,” says Megan.

“Here you go, little one.” Adrian holds the envelope out. “Put it here.”

Marlee deposits the gum in the envelope. Adrian folds it and slips it into his pocket.

The pickup rumbles and pulls away. The tailpipes churn a cloud of fumes. A grayish haze lingers in the air.

Standing in the parking lot, with Megan and Marlee at his side, Adrian recalls seeing Conrad Wilson in the interrogation room. He remembers the encounter at King’s Corner—those lifeless eyes.

Oh, yes, I know you
.

I’ll be back … and I’ll see you, too, faggot
.

He looks at Megan: her face is chalky white. It’s bloodless.

I
t’s eight o’clock in the evening, seven hours since Adrian and Megan had pizza with Marlee. They’re at a black-tie cocktail party thrown by some megabucks donors to the hospital. Though Adrian hates these gatherings, he’s glad they’re there; it’s a distraction from Conrad Wilson and the dread of his nearness.

The Bainbridges—Old Guard denizens of Southport, scions of a long line of industrialists—have donated an avalanche of money to the hospital, enough to warrant an entire pavilion bearing their name. They host an annual party for the hospital honchos and its wealthy patrons; Adrian is always invited by the surgery department’s chairman. As a concession to the politics of hospital life, he attends, though he always makes an early exit. At least one hundred people are crowded into the towering Normandy-style manor overlooking the waters of the Long Island Sound.

The manse is furnished with Louis XV gilded settees, patinated chairs, and ornate sofas with chestnut trimmings. Adrian guesses the furnishings alone cost more than he earns in five years at Eastport General. Multitiered crystal chandeliers hang from gilt-coffered ceilings. Large, mullioned French doors open from the expansive living room into a massive library lined floor to ceiling with books and furnished with gilded walnut easy chairs and an inlaid mahogany Louis Philippe desk. Passing through the dining room, Megan exclaims, “This table could seat forty people.”

“Only the right
kind
of people,” Adrian adds with a laugh.

“You mean we’re not the right kind of people?”

“We’re definitely not.”

Megan sighs and nods. She grasps his hand.

Sipping from a flute of champagne, Adrian notices Renoir and Manet oil paintings on the walls. “It’s a bit ostentatious, don’t you think?” Megan says.

“This is robber baron money. It’s been around for a hundred years.”

A platoon of bow-tied waiters weaves through the crowd, offering exotic dips, French cheeses, and wild mushroom profiteroles. A string quartet plays Vivaldi and Handel while the crowd talks of politics and the economy.

Adrian presses Megan’s hand; she squeezes back, seeming relaxed; she’s definitely calmed down since seeing that black pickup earlier today. Megan looks like she’s trying to be casual as she observes the fauna—eyeballs the Versace, Fendi, and Prada evening gowns—and she’s joking
soto voce
about the jewelry-draped women. “This place is a walking advertisement for Tiffany,” she says.

“Not Zales?” he says, and they laugh. It strikes Adrian that he and Megan are the only couple holding hands. Everyone else, it seems, is busy talking politics—hospital and national politics—trying to make impressions on one another.

Adrian decides to refill his champagne flute and threads his way to the bar. He’s snared into an exchange with a bloated blue-blood type—a dewlapped board member whose neck wattle overhangs his bow tie. The guy’s half-lit; he slurps champagne like a drunken monkey and talks nonstop with a mouth full of food. His breath reeks of Camembert. Adrian tries not to inhale too deeply.

Adrian manages to extricate himself graciously, grabs another flute of champagne from a passing waiter, sips, and feels the astringent burn at the back of his throat; it warms his gullet and heats his chest. It permeates his brain’s circuits, a soothing infusion of social confidence. The taut wire in his head loosens. The string quartet now plays Bach, but Adrian wishes he could hear some Led Zeppelin or Aerosmith.
I’m just a working stiff, wandering among this crowd of country-club, old-money conservatives
. Wondering why he dragged Megan to this pompous gathering, he gazes past guests nibbling on sushi, Beluga caviar, and melon wrapped in paper-thin prosciutto and sipping Veuve Clicquot.

His eyes fix on Megan.

She’s wearing a black strapless cocktail dress with a pearl choker around her throat. Her neck looks amazing: long, elegant, creamy white, with a slight concavity at its bottom; shadows form in the hollows behind her collarbones. Her hair is in a fiery updo, and the red-orange color has a brilliant sheen. He regards the sensuous slope of Megan’s shoulders, her toned arms, and the curve of her hips and graceful flanks. A charge thrums through him as every nerve ending in his body fires. The supple curve of Megan’s bare back is exquisite—a thing of incredible beauty. He studies the porcelain whiteness of her complexion, the lush fullness of her lips, and the plump underbelly of her chin.

He notices men casting furtive glances in her direction—old and young alike—there’s nodding and whispering—
Eat your hearts out, you jealous bastards
—and Adrian finds it difficult to believe this amazingly gorgeous and intelligent woman is actually part of
his
life and will spend the night with
him
and no one else. Suddenly, amid the crowd, music, and mumbling, through the pomposity of it all, Megan turns and looks directly at him.

There, amid the mellifluous strains of a Bach sonata, Adrian sees the look in Megan’s glistening eyes; it’s a combination of tender longing and connectedness, a deeply felt sharing. It hits him with startling intensity: they’ve been together only a month, but even now Adrian wonders what life was like before Megan. Was it real before her? Was there even a life before her? Because he feels as if they’ve always been together, that inexplicably, their lives have intertwined for years.

Megan’s eyes lock on to his, and then, in a barely discernible gesture, she purses those luscious lips. Suddenly feeling weak-kneed, Adrian finds himself moving—as though dragged by a powerful undertow—and Megan, seeming to know exactly what he wants, drifts toward him.

They clasp hands and slip through the crowd.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispers. Her breath feels hot in his ear and sends a delicious tremor through him. He nods and murmurs something back as they head for an enormous set of French doors facing the Long Island Sound.

On the veranda, the blathering crowd, baroque music, and hobnobbing are muted; they’re just a backdrop to the washing sound of the sea. A pale-yellow three-quarter moon casts a golden swath on the rippling, black water. Wavelets buffet the shoreline rhythmically, gently. The night air sends a shoreward breeze redolent of brine with a vague hint of iodine. Adrian sucks in the salty air and whispers, “It feels so natural … so good.”

“I don’t need anyone else right now. Just you,” Megan whispers.

In the autumn coolness, they pull close to each other, kissing gently. Carrying their shoes, they walk onto the beach. The sand is cool and soft as their feet sink in. They stand where the water laps onto the wet, slick sand. With his arm around Megan’s shoulder, hers around his waist, they watch the incoming surf and the blinking lights of a distant freighter.

“I love being with you,” Megan murmurs, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“What’s going on in there seems so unimportant.”

“Yes, it does,” she says and raises her lips to his. He kisses her deeply and hungrily, and her mouth opens.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers.

“I want more than just a taste of you,” she murmurs.

They kiss again, urgently.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says.

They walk to the parking lot, brush sand from their feet, put on their shoes, and get into the car. He turns the ignition key and starts the car; they drive along the shoreline road. Her hand rests on his thigh. His erection threatens to erupt through his pants. He finds a secluded cove near Compo Beach, stops the car, and kills the engine. Bulrushes and water reeds rise from the shallows, all lit by the pale light of the moon.

They kiss again. “It’s like we’re eighteen-year-olds,” Megan says.

“It’s like we ducked out of the prom.”

“In a
car
,” she says with a soft laugh.

They embrace, parked amid sand and willows bending in a gentle night breeze.

She presses herself to him; he can feel her heat.

“I wish we’d met years ago,” he says.

“You probably wouldn’t have cared for me back then.”

“You’re very wrong there …”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Forget back then. It’s now that counts.”

“Oh, Adrian.”

“I think about you all the time,” he whispers, inhaling the tang of her skin.

“Same here.”

“I’m so glad you and Marlee are in my life. Before this, I was just drifting. And now … it feels so different. I have the two of you.”

“Marlee’s crazy about you. I don’t want this to end. Ever,” she whispers, looking into his eyes.

“I can’t begin to tell you how I feel,” he whispers.

“Words won’t do it, Adrian, but I’ll say it … I love you.”

“And I love you. My God, I’ve fallen so in love with you.”

“Let’s make love,” she whispers.

“Here?”

“Yes, like teenagers. We’ve snuck away from the prom, so let’s do it,” she whispers, slipping her hand beneath his shirt. His skin tingles; he trembles in anticipation. He takes her in his arms and she moans as they kiss again.

“I feel so close to you,” he whispers.

“I know, Adrian. I know. And I want it to be like this … always.”

His arms circle her waist, hers go around his neck, and she sits on his lap, pressing herself close, her breasts full and lush against him. Her mouth is hot and sweet, and they kiss deeply. She tastes faintly of champagne and vanilla. She slides her hands beneath his shirt, and a shudder of pleasure goes through him. Still kissing, they pull gently at each other’s clothes; they whisper, and moments later, she moans as he sinks into her. Still kissing, they move slowly, and Adrian is lost in the pleasure of it, and he knows there’s nowhere else on earth he would rather be.

M
egan hurries from the neonatal ICU to the elevator. She’s on her way to the temporary locker room downstairs, since the third-floor facility is being renovated. Her thoughts drift back to Compo Beach three nights ago, and a hot flush envelops her. It was the most exciting lovemaking of her life.

But right now there’s no time for fantasy. It’s six o’clock and she’s running late. Her shift ended and the day nurses are gone. She’d been held up by an emergency—a newborn in fetal distress. But that’s been resolved. Another little life saved.

She and Adrian will be taking Marlee and her cousins to the Carvel stand in Westport to celebrate Marlee’s birthday, which is tomorrow. Megan’s always been aware that birthdays—her own or anyone’s—remind her of the circumstances of her birth. They’re a big unknown, and it’s always haunted her. Doesn’t every orphan wonder about her origins, the beginnings of her life, her so-called real parents and where they might be?

Who am I and where do I come from? Those are the burning issues of my life
.

Looking back, she knows those questions were painful for Mom and Dad Haggarty. They must have felt marginalized—even rejected—when, as a kid, she asked again and again about her
real
parents.

“It’s only natural you’d ask, dear,” Mom would say. “All we know is we wanted a child for so long and then Erin came along. We loved her so much and we wanted another … and then … there you were. Just three days old and already so beautiful. You were a gift from heaven. We were the most fortunate people in the world to get you two.”

Yes, given away at birth, but taken in by the most loving people on earth
.

When Mom and Dad died, it had seemed like the end of the world. Megan was still a teenager; Erin was twenty-one.

“We began life as orphans,” she said to Erin.

“And we’re alone again.”

“No, we’re not. We have each other.”

“Let’s face it, Megan, we were dumped at birth.”

After crying and holding each other, Erin said, “Let’s sell the house and get an apartment. We’ll live together.”

We were dumped at birth. It can haunt you for a lifetime … unless you’re lucky enough to meet someone who makes you feel wanted as much as the people who took you in and nurtured you, someone like Adrian
.

These thoughts are both warming and haunting, but right now she’s in a rush. She reaches her temporary locker, spins the wheel on her combination lock, opens the door, hangs up her lab coat, and retrieves her purse. She flips open her cell phone and hits the speed dial for Erin.