Masquerade (27 page)

Tires on gravel. She turned to see a red car inching its way up the hill.

She sniffed, swiped a hand under her nose. “I better go, Joe.” Lips tight, she gathered the spade and box and pushed to her feet. “You’ll always be my first love.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth and blew a gentle kiss toward the burial plot. “My Joe.”

Pulling into her driveway, she spotted a potted plant on the stoop. Not again. In the garage, she cut the engine, shimmied from behind the steering wheel, and jogged to the back door.

A pure white lily poked its head toward the sun. On the gift card:
I am the resurrection and the life. Love, Jesus.
Who was doing this? Messing with her head—and her heart.

Ringing inside the kitchen. She lifted the pot, fumbled with her keys to unlock the door, and darted toward the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Barbara. Did you get the lily?”

She relaxed her shoulders, looked at the plant in her arm. “Yes, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“I should have called before I stopped by, but I was out running errands, saw this lovely lily and thought about you.”

Celeste set the lily on the table. “Ah, a spontaneous expression of love.”

“Something like that.” She could almost hear the smile in Barbara’s voice.

“Actually, I bought two—one for you and one for me. With Easter coming up, I thought it’d be meaningful to have a lily in the house to remind me of Jesus. By His death on the cross, He made me pure. And by His resurrection, I will live forever with Him. You know, legend has it that lilies sprang up where drops of Christ’s blood fell during His agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.”

With her Catholic background, Celeste had heard that story, but had forgotten all about it until now. She fingered the elegant trumpet-shaped blossom. Eternal life. Was it possible? Perhaps. But purity? For her? Not likely. “Well, thank you. So thoughtful.”

“You sound better.”

A   shrug.   “I   guess you   could   say my   morning provided a bit of catharsis.”
            
“
Want to tell me about it?”

“Hmm . . . just some good-byes at Joe’s gravesite.” She rubbed her temple, glanced at the wall clock.

She wanted to eat lunch and get some rest before her date with Don. Is that what it was? Better to call it a friendly outing, perhaps. “I hate to cut our conversation short, but I really need to go for now.”

“Certainly. Get some more rest. See you Monday. If you need anything in the meantime, let me know, okay?”

“I will . . . Bye.”
  

###

Don pulled the chair out for Celeste. A candle glowed on the cloth-covered table while a pianist played a rendition of “
I Will Survive.”
Maybe she would after all.

              She touched her earlobe, massaging her index finger and thumb over her pearl earring. “This is quite a place.” Over the top, actually, for a friendly outing. In her heart, she’d known it would be more. You don’t dress in your black cocktail dress with matching pumps to go down the road to a diner.

              “I’m glad you called, Celeste.”

              “Are you?”

              “Absolutely.” He leaned forward, hands folded on the table. “I was afraid I would never hear from you again.”

              “Guess I  did blow the  kitten thing way out of pro-

portion. I imagine you’re used to death, being a doctor.”

              “If one ever gets used to such a thing. I think growing up on a farm helped me face the reality of life . . . and death. I learned to emotionally-detach, you might say.”

              “Sounds so cold.”

              He rested back, his famous lopsided grin lighting up his face. “When your pet pig turns to bacon, you learn to detach in order to survive.”

              “I’m sorry.”

              He waved his hand. “Don’t be. That was a long time ago.”

              Carrying a tray the size of Texas, the waiter stopped at their table and delivered two plates of steaming lobster. Don flicked his cloth napkin from the table and placed it in his lap. Celeste followed suit. Not even on her honeymoon had she eaten in such a fine restaurant, with live music no less. Joe would be impressed, maybe a tad jealous.

              She straightened, blinked hard.
Joe’s dead. Move on, Celeste
. Taking a sip of wine, she watched Don crack his lobster tail, pull out a hunk of meat, and dip it in a small bowl of butter.

              “Tell me about your work, Celeste. Quite a noble thing to care for special needs kids.”

              She swirled a fork through her creamy potatoes. Noble. She’d not thought of her teaching as particularly illustrious. Struggling with Teddy to wash his face hardly seemed notable. Helping Lewis out of soiled underwear—

Not a distinguished task.  Certainly  not like treating an ill-

ness or saving someone’s life. But then there was Lily.

“Let’s just say being a special ed teacher has its ups and downs. Literally. Like the time Lewis grabbed me during a seizure and we both ended up on the floor.” She chuckled at the memory. “Some days all I feel like I’m doing is damage control. As far as real teaching, that’s yet to be seen. But I do have some children who can grasp the concept of numbers and letters and how to use them. Like Lily.”

              Already halfway through his lobster, Don took another bite and nodded, urging her to continue.

              “I can’t say enough about that little girl. What a darling. Golden curls, blue eyes, like—” She stopped herself before she said too much. “But beyond that, she demonstrates an understanding that many of the children lack. In fact, I’ve had some one-on-one time with Lily at my home.”

              He raised his eyebrows, swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Really? You do that sort of thing?”

              She bit into an asparagus spear, held up her index finger. Dabbing at her mouth, she said, “On occasion, particularly when a student shows promise.”

Oh, how she wanted to share her suspicion about Lily with Don. Draw the three of them together as a family. She was attracted to the man, but no, she didn’t exactly love him. Not yet. Not in that head-over-heels kinda way she’d felt for Joe. But in time she would. What wasn’t to love? He was attractive. Smart. Charismatic. Financially stable.

And  Joe  was  gone,  and  this  time,  never  coming

back.

Whoa, moving too fast. She dropped her head. She was doing it again—rebounding into Don’s arms. Hadn’t she grown up at all? Maybe Mother was right. She needed her parents to watch out for her. 

###

Celeste stood under the porch light with a man. He leaned in to kiss her, but she pushed on his chest, turned her head away.

“Good. At least she’s got that much presence of mind.” Parked across the street from his wife’s house, Joe squinted through the windshield. “Didn’t take her long to get over me, Stan Man.”

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat. How he hungered for his wife’s sweet lips, every cell within him alive with desire for his bride. A memory caressed his mind of Celeste and him on their first anniversary, relishing their favorite haunt—the lake.

“Come on, Tater Tot, race ya to the end of the dock.” He waved his hand at the gorgeous girl, his Celeste, standing on the grass, fully clothed and smiling demurely in the moonlight.

She glided toward him, holding sandals. “Let’s run together.”

“Forever and always,” he said, taking her hand.

She dropped her shoes, and they dashed down the wooden planks, laughing all the way to the end. But Joe didn’t stop there. He leaped into the sparkling, moonlit water,  yanking  Celeste  along  with  him.   They  plunged,

then resurfaced, sputtering and wiping their eyes. Her silky blouse billowed around her. She smacked his arm and giggled. “You big beluga.”

Whenever he goofed around, his wife acted like she was ticked off, but he knew better. He pulled her close and swept away the wet hair clinging to her cheeks. He kissed her forehead, then her nose, finally resting his mouth on hers with a gentle kiss that morphed into more. She leaned into him, receiving him, and together they floated as one in the silvery moonlight.

An engine revved, and he opened his eyes. A red BMW backed out of Celeste’s driveway. Joe slid down the seat, hoping the guy wouldn’t notice him. “Nice machine, whoever you are. Celeste knows how to pick’em, Stan Man.” He pushed up, laid his head back on the headrest. The neighbor’s German shepherd yapped, then whimpered when his owner opened the door and yelled at him. A light flicked on inside Celeste’s kitchen. “You know, Stan, that guy looked familiar. Can’t quite place him, but I’m sure I’ve seen him before.

“Am I crazy or what? My wife’s moving on and here I am stuck. If she knew she was still married, she’d . . . what? Be glad? Horrified that she’d gone out with the first available, good-lookin’ guy? Dream on, Joe, Randall, whoever in the world you are.”

At the sink, Celeste took a swig of water, closed the curtains.

“Whaddaya think, Stan? Should I march into my house and claim my wife? Let her know who I am? That’s what Hutchins  wants  me to do.”  He played with the door

handle. “Yeah, right. Like she’d believe me. She’d probably slam the door in my face and call the police.”

The light went out. The house now dark, Joe turned the key in the ignition and pulled from the curb. He was Randall Laverty and would be the rest of his life. Worked well, given Randall had no family. A real loner—his coworker, but he did have a decent bank account. Nothing stellar, mind you, but better than what Joe had accumulated during his brief stint on earth. Still, Celeste appeared to be doing okay on what he left her. But it might not hurt to slip her some money once in a while.

But how? He’d figure that out later. For now, he’d say good-bye to the possibility of Celeste and him getting back together. “Best let the past go, Stan Man.”

He idled the Chevy in front of the house. “Rest well, Tater Tot. I’ll always love you, but I wouldn’t want you to come back to a man like me.” He glanced at the bedroom window and imagined Celeste curled up in their bed as he drove past.

He reached for a can of beer, threw his head back, and took a long swig.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sundays were the best days for sleeping in, but too many thoughts competed for Celeste’s attention. She tensed her leg muscles, then relaxed them. Yawning, she scooted to an upright position and propped two pillows behind her back. The nightstand clock registered six-thirty a.m. as she turned on the lamp and reached for a pen and notepad.

Time to plot out her search strategy. Like children tugging on her hemline, several ideas played on her mind over the last week. She’d been too sick to get them down on paper, let alone pursue any of them. She drew her knees up, tapped the pen on the notepad.

Scribbles flowed onto the page:
Talk to Lily’s case worker, see if she knew any more about the child’s origin than what her school records revealed
. Crazy idea. Social Services wouldn’t release any information, even to Lily’s teacher. Or would they?
Go to William-Myer Women’s Clinic
. That idea sent a tremor through her, but she’d do it for Lily. But why would they release info? She’d pose a threat to them, and they might try to silence her or something. The most logical option:
Take a trip to Kinser General Hospital   and ask questions.
  She frowned   and

chewed on the end of the ballpoint pen.

What if they couldn’t give her any information? What if they
wouldn’t?
They might want to avoid some legal wrangle. And the ever nagging question: If Lily was her aborted baby, who took her to Kinser? Celeste entered William-Myer Women’s Clinic on July 7, 1976, not Kinser.

She closed her eyes, trying to picture the people in her room that day. But she could only envision white bodies coming in and out. No distinct faces, except for one nurse. Unlike the other passive expressions, hers reflected a mix of compassion and angst, as if she fought an inner battle she couldn’t resolve. One minute a weak smile grazed her lips and a warm hand caressed Celeste’s brow. The next minute a grimace tightened her facial muscles, and she turned to organize instruments on a tray.

Even in the pain of labor provoked by the saline instillation, Celeste noted the nurse’s odd hair color. A crop of curly hair the shade of Hershey’s syrup with a shock of white rested on her forehead. Through every contraction, Celeste forced herself to focus on the dark head moving about the room.

She pressed a hand to her mouth and expelled a gush of air. Sorting this all out would not be easy. But she had to begin somewhere. And she’d start with Social Services. Maybe they’d be able to release enough information to get her started on her search.