She Loves Me Not (6 page)

“Well? What are you going to name this little guy?” Leslie is asking the children.

“Cupid,” Jenna says promptly.

“No! Jenna, I want to think of a name!” Leo says.

Okay, here we go. Puppy fight number one.
Rose closes her eyes, exhausted just thinking of what lies ahead.

Leslie intervenes. “Hey, Leo, just think about it. Cupid is a pretty great name for a Valentine's puppy.”

Miraculously, Leo's ominous pout transforms to a reluctant grin. “Yeah, Cupid is okay. But I get to feed him first.”

“Then I get to walk him first,” is Jenna's response.

“Come on . . . we can walk him now. All three of us.” Leslie sets the puppy on the ground.

A sudden gust sways the bare branches overhead and tosses a tuft of Rose's long, loose hair across her eyes. Arms laden with the kids' belongings, she turns to face into the wind. As her hair blows back from her face, her gaze falls on the side yard.

She frowns. The white blanket of snow is marred by tracks of some sort.

“How are we going to walk him?” Jenna is asking. “Won't he run away?”

“Nah, I bought him a leash. We'll let Mommy go inside and get settled before we bring him in. Okay, Mommy?”

“Hmm?”

“We're going to walk the dog while you go inside. What do you say?”

Rose turns to flash her sister-in-law a tight smile. “Sounds good, Aunt Leslie.”

Leslie looks more closely at her, lowering her voice as the kids romp at her feet with the puppy. “You okay, Ro?”

“Yeah . . . it was just a long day. And Leo was up in the middle of the night.”

“Again?”

She nods. “Mr. Gregg said he was so exhausted that he fell asleep with his head on the table after snack this morning.”

“Who's Mr. Gregg?”

“The new instructor at Toddler Tyme.”

“A guy working in day care? That's unusual.”

Rose shrugs. “He's great with the kids. Especially with Leo. And he had a good suggestion for getting him to sleep through the night again.”

Leslie leans her willowy frame back against her open car door. “Yeah? What? Drug him?”

“Actually, he said I should get a sound machine. You know, the kind that creates white noise in the room. He said his mother has used one in her apartment in the city for years. It drowns out sirens and street noise.”

“Well, there's no street noise out here.” Leslie gestures at the quiet neighborhood around them.

Rose looks again at the side yard.

There appear to be footsteps in the snow there. Maybe an animal? Or kids cutting through the yard?

Or maybe it's just your imagination, because that's where Sam died. Maybe you want to think his ghost is hanging around there . . .

“Here, Ro—this is for you.” Leslie takes a gold-wrapped box of Godiva truffles from the front seat of the car, along with a leash for the puppy.

“For me? Thanks, Leslie.” Touched, Rose kisses her sister-in-law on the cheek, wishing she had thought to buy Leslie a Valentine's treat, or at least send her a card.

Sam always brought his sister flowers on Valentine's Day. His mother, too.

“They get carnations, but the roses are only for my Rose,” he would say, as though he thought she minded his gifts to the other women in his life.

Of course she didn't. She always took pleasure in seeing how bighearted Sam touched the lives of everyone around him.

“Here . . . let me put this in Jenna's backpack for you,” Leslie is saying. “You don't have a free hand.”

“Thanks.” Rose wrestles her thoughts away from Sam as his sister unzips the backpack on her shoulder.

“Oops,” Leslie says, as a calculator drops out.

“My calculator!” Jenna shrieks. “Did it break? I need it for my homework!”

“Calm down, Jenna,” Rose admonishes.

Leslie turns it on, commenting, “I can't believe you get to use a calculator for math homework these days. Back when I was a kid, you'd get into trouble if you did that. Don't worry, Jen, it works fine,” she announces, pressing some buttons and handing the calculator to her niece. “Look. What numbers are those?”

“3-1-7-5-3-7,” Jenna reads off.

“Now flip the calculator over and read it upside down.”

Jenna does, and her face breaks into a broad grin. “It's your name! Leslie!”

Rose peers over Jenna's shoulder. Sure enough, it does say
Leslie.

“Your dad taught me that when I was a little kid,” Leslie says.

“Do my name!”Jenna commands.

“I can't, but I can do Leo. See?” She punches in 0-3-7 and flips it over.

“It says Le,” Rose observes.

“Darn it. I forgot. The zero won't stick when you push it first. Oh, well. It's still pretty cool, huh, guys?” She tucks the calculator back into Jenna's backpack, zips it closed, and bends to attach the leash to the puppy's collar. “All right, let's go, everyone. We'll head down to the bay.”

“Just don't let Leo get too close to the water,” Rose calls after them as they set off down the block, pulled along by the scampering puppy.

She walks up onto the porch, unlocks the door, opens it, and deposits everything she's holding inside. Then she retreats down the steps, flinching at the sound the snow makes under her boots as she walks across the yard.

There are definitely footprints here.

Okay, this is no reason to worry. Don't let your imagination get carried away with you.

But it isn't her imagination.

Someone has been here, and it wasn't a ghost.

Judging by the prints in the snow, it was one person—and an adult, at that.

The footsteps lead from the street to a thatch of shrubs along the side of the house, just beneath the living room window.

Rose's heart begins to pound.

Has somebody been prowling around while she's gone during the day?

Or—even more unsettling—while she's here at night?

She stands on her tiptoes and examines the window for signs of a break-in. There are no pry marks. The inside latch is securely locked.

The tracks make an about-face at the window, retreating toward the street again, yet Rose slowly circles the house, checking every ground-floor window, making sure everything is secure.

Should she call the police?

And say . . . what?
I'm alone, and I'm afraid?

But she has a reason to be frightened. Someone has trespassed on her property. That's a crime . . . isn't it?

Coming full circle to the living room window again, Rose has every intention of going inside and calling the police. Maybe they can send a patrol car around to keep an eye on things when she's at work . . . and at night, too. After all, she was in such a rush this morning, the footsteps could very well have been here then, and she just didn't notice—

Oh.

Her gaze falls on the silver-gray electric meter a few feet from the window, almost obscured by a tangle of bare wisteria vines that climb the lattice against the house.

That explains it.

The meter-reader must have been here while she was out.

Case closed.

Relieved, Rose sighs and gazes skyward. Thick black storm clouds are rolling in from the east. And somewhere up there, Sam is probably laughing at her.

See, babe? Nothing to be afraid of. Everything is fine.

No, it isn't, Sam. It's Valentine's Day, and you're not here to bring me roses that cost too much, and chocolates with cream-filled centers that nobody likes.

She tries to remember last Valentine's Day, her first without him. It came only a few weeks after his death. The day, like every day in that first month without him, is a blur. Maybe Leslie was here. Probably. She does her best to cheer up Rose on difficult occasions. On what would have been Rose and Sam's eighth wedding anniversary in November, Leslie came over with four tickets to see the Rockettes at Radio City. She meant well, but she talked about Peter the whole time, telling Rose that she was sure he was The One. Caught up in her own wedding-day memories, Rose didn't pay much attention to Leslie's romantic rhapsodizing. In the decade she's known her sister-in-law, Leslie has been through at least four The Ones.

But Rose has to admit, this time it seems like the real thing. Leslie doesn't have a diamond ring yet, but she swears Peter is saving for one. And they have a deposit on a wedding hall in Great Neck.

The wind gusts again. Rose turns toward the house with a shiver. On her way toward the steps, she remembers the mail and heads to the box instead.

She can't help feeling a little uneasy as she opens it today.

And when she spots several red rectangular envelopes inside, her stomach turns over. Pulling them out gingerly, she turns one over . . .

And sees that it's addressed to Miss Jenna Larrabee, in her mother-in-law's distinctive handwriting.

The second card is for Leo.

The third, for Rose herself.

Valentines, undoubtedly.

She smiles and goes into the house at last, unaware that she is being watched by two pairs of eyes.

C
hristine watches her neighbor disappear inside, puzzling over Rose's journey around the perimeter of the house. She seemed to be looking for something.

Maybe she dropped something, or one of the kids lost a mitten, or—

Or maybe you really need to get a life.

Maybe Ben is right. Maybe she should be volunteering at a senior citizens' home or something. When the highlight of her afternoon is the next-door neighbor's return, something is obviously missing in her life.

Well, no kidding. You know something is missing . . . and you know what it is.

A baby.

Christine stares vacantly into the snowy yard, reliving the confrontation she had with Ben late last night, before he went storming out of the house. She fell asleep and never heard him come home or back to bed. She stirred only when she heard Ben leave for the train as dawn's light filtered in through a crack in the bedroom drapes.

Apparently, he isn't too sick with the flu to commute to a grueling day at the office—only too sick to cuddle with his wife.

He called to check in from work just past noon, as he often does. She didn't pick up. He left a message on the answering machine: “Christine? Christine? Are you home? Where are you?”

Let him wonder.

Let him worry a little.

But he probably won't. Ben isn't a worrier. Even in the darkest days last year, he remained steadfastedly—almost irritatingly—optimistic. He went to work and he ate three square meals and he slept soundly through each night, while Christine's world was caving in all around her.

It must be nice, she thinks, gazing out the window. It must be nice not to—

A sudden flicker of movement catches the corner of her eye.

Startled, she turns her head toward the Larrabees' yard. Something is stirring in the dense evergreen shrubbery in the far corner.

A squirrel?

A bird?

No, something larger.

Christine swears she can see the silhouette of a human figure there amidst the branches.

Her heart begins to pound.

Are her eyes playing tricks on her in the fading afternoon light?

Why on earth would anybody be lurking in the neighbors' rhododendrons?

She closes her eyes, rubs them, and looks at the spot again.

This time, it's empty.

Good,
Christine thinks, relieved—before she notices that the boughs are still swaying gently, and there's no breeze.

Chapter Three

P
ulling into the parking lot of her Patchogue apartment complex at last, Leslie searches for Peter's red truck.

There it is, parked at the far end, which means he hasn't been waiting here long. The spots closest to the building entrance fill quickly, especially in lousy weather like this.

Sunrise Highway is slick tonight; what is normally a fifteen-minute drive back from Laurel Bay took her twice as long. Eager to see Peter, Leslie had to fight the urge to step on the gas and venture out into the passing lane to sail by the slow-moving traffic on the right. There was a time, not so long ago, when her big brother teasingly called her “Maria Andretti.”

But since Sam's death, she finds herself skittish in icy weather. Especially on the highway. Especially now that her ancient blue Toyota has more than a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. She's been saving for a new car for almost a year now.

After parking beside Peter's pickup, Leslie raises the hood on her down parka and grabs the Sears shopping bag from the seat beside her.

After rushing through the mall with the puppy in tow, on a futile search for the perfect Valentine's gift for her fiancé, she settled for a Craftsman tool belt to replace his worn one. Not exactly romantic, but Peter is more the practical type, anyway.

Wet snow pelts her as she makes a dash for the door. Then, safely inside the brightly lit, locked entryway, she checks her mailbox. Junk mail, junk mail, junk mail . . . and a red rectangular envelope that bears a familiar Florida return address.

Leslie smiles. Mom and Dad never forget her on Valentine's Day—or any other minor holiday, for that matter. Over at Rose's, she watched her niece, nephew, and sister-in-law open cards from her parents and discover letters, photographs, and cash tucked inside of each one.

Leslie slits open the envelope as she heads for the stairs. Her mother has sent her twenty-five dollars and instructions to “treat yourself to something fun,” along with several pictures, most of them indistinct shots of a dark speck in a milky southern sky. Mom's handwriting on the back states that they're photographs of the most recent shuttle launch, taken from her parents' backyard a stone's throw from Cape Canaveral.

Dad bought her a good-quality camera when she retired from teaching, and she frequently sends pictures—mostly incomprehensible scenic snapshots, sometimes with a thumb blocking the lens, or out of focus. But as Sam used to say, at least Mom has a hobby to keep her out of Dad's hair—what's left of it, that is.

Stopping in front of her door at the far end of the second-floor hall, Leslie smells coffee brewing. She smiles as she turns her key in the lock. It's a homey scent, and one she has come to associate with Peter. He drinks caffeine just about every waking moment.

The knob turns just as she reaches for it The door opens, the doorway filled with Peter's broad-shouldered frame. He has on jeans and a moss-colored plaid work shirt that transforms his hazel eyes to a pale green. His dark curly hair is more unruly than usual, as though he just slept on it.

“Hey, babe.” Peter pulls her against his soft flannel shirt. “I was worried about you. I just called Rose and she said you left awhile ago.”

“The roads were icy.”

“We've got to get you a better car, Les. I worry about you driving around in—”

“How about if we go to a few dealerships to look next Monday? It's a three-day weekend.”

“That sounds good.”

They smile at each other. She tilts her face up. He pushes back her parka hood, then kisses her. His five o'clock shadow scratches her cheeks and he tastes of coffee and cigarettes.

He doesn't smoke in her apartment, but the scent lingers on his breath and in his clothes. He says he has no intention of quitting—not even for her.

“Hey, I brought you something.” Leslie holds up the shopping bag.

“For what?”

“It's a Valentine's Day present.”

His smile fades. “I didn't know we were getting each other—”

“It's no big deal.” She beams brightly to hide her disappointment. “It's just something I thought you needed.”

“I feel like a clod.”

“Don't. It's okay.”

Not really.

She was hoping . . .

No, she was certain he would have an engagement ring for her tonight.

She puts the bag into his hand.

He stands holding it. “I meant to get you a card . . . and some flowers . . . but it was a crazy day.”

A card . . .

Flowers . . .

What about a ring?
she wants to ask, yet merely says, “I know.”

“You're mad at me.”

“I'm not mad.”

Hurt, maybe.

Silently agreeing that he
is
a clod, yes.

But not mad.

He opens the bag and exclaims over the tool belt, but his forced enthusiasm robs her of any pleasure. For the first time since she met Peter, Leslie finds herself wishing she were alone in her apartment.

“I checked the knob that you said keeps falling off your dresser drawer,” he says, refilling his coffee cup in the kitchen as she takes a bottle of Poland Spring from the fridge. “The screw is stripped. I'll pick up another one at the hardware store tomorrow.”

“Thanks. That would be great.” She tries to sound grateful. And she should be. Sam was always the one she turned to when something in the apartment needed fixing.

Now Peter does it.

But I have to ask him to do things, sometimes more than once.

Not Sam. There were times when she'd come home and find him puttering around her place.

“I let myself in to fix that shower rod that keeps falling down,” he'd say.

Or, “I put a new dead bolt on the door, Les. I don't like you living alone with just that one flimsy lock.”

Back in the living room, Leslie and Peter sit on the couch talking about his latest project, a bungalow renovation in Bellport. Then he asks her how Rose and the children liked the puppy.

“The kids loved him. Rose seemed a little thrown by it, but I think it'll be good for her when she gets used to the idea. Plus, she needs a dog. It'll make her less nervous about being alone in the house with two children every night.”

He looks up from his cup of coffee. “She's nervous about—”

“She doesn't
say
it, but she must be.”

“Well, it's not like you got her a big German shepherd. You said he was a puppy.”

“Puppies grow up. And they bark at intruders.”

“Intruders? In Laurel Bay? Come on, Leslie, it's not as though she's living in some crime-ridden neighborhood in the city.”

“She's a woman alone in a house every night. She needs some kind of protection, and if she's not going to even keep bullets in Sam's gun . . .”

“Sam had a gun?”

Leslie nods. “They were always arguing about it. Rose was worried one of the kids was going to find it and get hurt. They keep it in the drawer of their bedside table, but she made him lock the bullets away in the top of their closet.”

“What good is a gun that's not loaded?”

Leslie shrugs. “That's why I think she should have the dog.”

“Why? Do you think he can convince her to keep bullets in the gun?”

Irritated with his lame joke, and knowing it stems mainly from the fact that he ignored their first Valentine's Day together and still hasn't bought her the promised engagement ring, Leslie changes the subject. “I was thinking that if my parents do decide to sell their house, Rose and the kids might want to move in there.”

“Why would she want to? Isn't her place bigger?”

“Not much bigger . . . and it's so old. You know how Victorian houses are. There's no storage. They have to hang their coats upstairs in their bedrooms. Leo's room doesn't even have a closet. And every time I see the shells of those bookshelves Sam started to build for her . . . “ She trails off, shaking her head over her brother's metaphoric unfinished project.

“Bookshelves?”

“In that teeny alcove off the living room, behind the French door. Sam used to tell Rose that when he finished, they could call it the library. And then he was going to install one of those protruding bay window-shelf things in the mud porch for her plants, and he said they could call that the conservatory.” She smiles at the memory.

Peter looks thoughtful. “I can finish the shelves, Leslie.”

“You'd do that?”

“Sure.”

“That would be . . .” She touches his muscular forearm. “I'm sure Rose would appreciate it. But do you have time?”

“I'll make time. I know she's been through a lot.”

“She has. And she gets tired so easily. I worry about her health.” Early in their relationship, she confided in Peter about the cardiomyopathy that nearly claimed Rose's life two Christmas seasons ago.

“Maybe there's other stuff I can do for her while I'm there. It sounds like she can use a man around the house,” he says gruffly, squirming a little, until she removes her hand.

Okay, so he's not the type to want a fuss over his noble gesture. But she can't help being touched by it. It's certainly not like him to volunteer for handyman jobs.

Maybe you've underestimated him,
she thinks guiltily.

After all, Peter knows she's always worrying about Rose. He obviously wants to give her some peace of mind and share the burden of looking out for her brother's widow.

Aloud, she muses, “I almost wish Rose were the type to get married again someday.”

“What, you don't think she will?”

Leslie shakes her head. “Sam was her soulmate, and there's no way she'd ever—”

“Soulmate?” He snorts a little, and Leslie is right back to being irritated by his unromantic soul.

“What, you don't believe in soulmates?”

She expects a flat-out no, but he surprises her. “I don't know . . . do you?”

“I
thought
I did.”

“Come on, Leslie . . . don't be mad at—”

“Who says I'm mad?”

“You are. I can tell. You're mad about Valentine's Day. I just didn't think about it.”

“How could you not have thought about it? You knew I was out shopping this morning. I told you I got the kids a puppy for Valentine's Day and you said it wasn't a good idea.”

He shrugs. “I didn't think it was.”

“That's not the point. The point is . . .”

The point is, he blew off Valentine's Day. Is he showing his true colors? Will he ignore their wedding anniversaries, too, in years to come? Will he never bring her flowers, or buy her birthday gifts?

She looks at him and finds herself wondering who he is. Suddenly, he seems like a total stranger.

A stranger who has infiltrated her life and commandeered her future.

Stop it! You're being overly dramatic.

“What's the point, Leslie?” Peter asks.

“Hmm?”

“The point. You said ‘the point is—' and then you stopped talking. You have this glazed look on your face.”

“I do? I guess I'm just tired.”

“Really? You should go to bed.”

And you should leave.

No. She doesn't want to ask him to do that. It would open the door to something she isn't so sure she wants to confront right now.

Maybe she
is
just tired. Maybe things will feel right again in the morning.

“I'm going to stay up and watch the Knicks game.” Peter reaches for the television remote.

She's grateful, for the first time, that all that coffee tends to keep him up long after she goes to bed. It isn't unusual for her to leave him on the couch with the television and lights on, but only after trying to lure him into bed with her—at least long enough to make love.

Tonight, that's the last thing she feels like doing. So much for the red lace teddy she planned to wear in honor of Valentine's Day.

“Hey, Les?” Peter says.

“Yeah?” Maybe he was going to apologize again. If he does—

“Let Rose know I'm going to stop by tomorrow after work and see what kind of lumber I need to get.”

“I will.” She plants a perfunctory kiss on his head and adds, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For helping Rose with the shelves.”

He shrugs. “She's family to me now, right?”

Not yet, she isn't.

Alone in her room, Leslie quickly undresses and puts on a pair of flannel pajamas. She turns out the lamp, parts the blinds, and peers out into the night.

Bare branches sway wildly in the wind. Grainy precipitation pelts the windowpane. What a miserable night.

She thinks of Rose, alone with two children in the old house by the bay.

Feeling uneasy for her sister-in-law, Leslie climbs into bed, once again glad that Peter is here with her. He may not be perfect, but at least she's not alone.

She hears an abrupt sound from the other room. Was that the apartment door closing behind Peter? Of course not. But . . .

“Peter? Are you still here?”

“Where else would I be?” he calls back. “I just dropped the remote on the floor.”

Reassured, Leslie rolls over, closes her eyes, and drifts into a sound sleep.

T
he lights flicker ominously as he unlocks the bottom desk drawer.

Hand poised on the lock, he looks up, waiting to see whether he'll need the flashlights and candles he's had ready, just in case the storm knocks the power out.

It doesn't happen. Not this time. But he fears that sooner or later, the room will be plunged into darkness.

When he was a child, his father taunted him about his phobia of the dark. Daddy said night-lights were for cowards.

One might assume that all those years of being forced to sleep in a pitch-black room had conditioned him to it in adulthood. On the contrary, he keeps both his overhead bedroom fixture and the bedside lamp burning brightly through the night.