The Cinderella Hour (29 page)

She shook her head. “Believing my husband is lying to me isn’t
my most shameful secret. But it’s the only one I have a chance of fixing. I
should talk to him, shouldn’t I? Relationship experts are always recommending
open, honest communication—as if all I’d have to do is voice my concerns and Blaine would instantly apologize . . . and explain. That’s
not
what would happen.
He would make me feel foolish. He can be a little—no, very—condescending. Dr.
Prescott knows best. I’d rather try to make sense of Blaine’s lies by talking
with you, and with Mira. That’s what I was planning to do last night. I was a
few blocks away when I heard the sirens. Mira’s going to be fine, Daniel. Just
like
you
are going to be. Blaine’s with her now. I left him with her.
But you know what? It feels wrong to me. I need to go make it right.”

She smiled. “You’re probably relieved to hear that I’m
leaving. Enough raving from this lunatic you don’t even know! But maybe it’s
been okay that I’ve told you this. A distraction, perhaps? A soap opera you
wouldn’t mind tuning into again? I wish I knew the answer. I’d like to come
back. I will. I hope that’s all right. Thank you for listening to me.”

Mira was asleep. Vivian stood
beside the police officer and beckoned to Blaine. She didn’t question her decision.
But she was apprehensive about how it would be received.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the officer, she
blurted it out. “I don’t think you should be alone with Mira.”

“You left me alone with her.”

“I know. I think it was a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . because of what you told me Sunday afternoon.
Given Mira’s feelings for you, don’t you think it might encourage her unfairly
if she found you at her bedside when she woke up?”

Vivian expected a dismissive smirk. She got an adoring smile.

“You’re absolutely right,” Blaine said. “I shouldn’t be alone
with Mira. I should have thought of that myself. Fortunately, she didn’t awaken
while you were gone.”

“So you’re okay with this?”

“More than okay, Vivian. I’m very glad you mentioned it.”

“But you look worried.”

“I have questions about her injuries.”

“What questions?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“What questions, Blaine?”

“Whether they could have been self-inflicted.”

“I can’t believe you’d even
consider
that. Putting
aside the fact that Mira’s the most mentally healthy person around, she nearly
died
.”

Blaine
absorbed the insult to his professional acumen without comment. “Did she? It
seems to me her injuries weren’t as serious as was initially thought.”

“We’re lucky the paramedics got her to the hospital so
quickly. She was unconscious at the scene. If Luke hadn’t arrived when he did,
she would have been horribly burned.”

“Why did Luke arrive when he did?”

“I don’t know, Blaine. But Luke didn’t injure Mira any more
than Mira injured herself or invented a story about an obscene caller or—”
has
an obsessional infatuation with you.
“I really don’t want to hear about
this again.”

“You don’t.”

“
No
.”

Once again, he surprised her. “Okay. You won’t. I’m sorry,
Vivi. Occupational hazard combined with wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking?”

“If Mira had done this to herself, we’d know she was safe. Yes,
she’d need therapy. But there wouldn’t be someone out there trying to hurt her.”

“The police will get him, Blaine.”

“I hope so.”

“They
will.
”

O’Hare
International Airport

Wednesday,
November
2

7
:
55
a.m.

She was the only woman glowering
at the arrivals screen, the Boston arrivals in particular, in United baggage
claim. And if one were going to conjure up the dream match for her sexy voice,
it would be this face and this body. But Patrick had envisioned an imperfect
match.

“You’re not Ellen, are you?”

“What makes you sound so skeptical, Lieutenant?”

“You might have mentioned that you’d be the attractive woman
at the arrivals screen, and that I’d conclude it couldn’t possibly be you
because you’re far too young to have a thirty-one-year-old daughter.”

“You weren’t all that forthcoming, either.”
You might have
mentioned how handsome you are.

“Not forthcoming about what?” he asked.

“You might have told me you could smile.”

“I’m getting it out of my system before we see Blaine.”

“Which is when?”

“Your call, Ellen. I’ve reserved rooms for us at the Wind
Chimes Hotel. We can check in first if you like. I
also thought you might want to get
in touch with Snow.”

“I do want to. After.”

“You’re sure?”

“I really don’t have much choice. It won’t be until this
evening, when she’s at work, that I can even try. Her home phone is unlisted
and Directory Assistance wasn’t about to give me her address.”

“Snow has a condo in the Wind Chimes Towers,” Lieutenant
Patrick Cole informed her. “I have her phone number, too.”

Ellen spent several moments studying the floor. “I guess I’d
still favor seeing Blaine before seeing Snow.” She looked up. “Call me a
coward.”

“Not likely. But tell me why.”

“Seeing Blaine is going to be far easier than seeing Snow.”

“You’re not worried about seeing him?”

“Who, Blaine? Are you kidding? I’m terrified.”
But
confronting a murderer will be nothing compared to seeing the daughter who
deserved so much better than a mother like me.

Ellen’s daughter didn’t know
whether she would see her mother again. But she hoped. Even though what she learned
online suggested that a reunion was the farthest thing from her mother’s mind.
At any time in the past seven years, the owner of I Do Weddings in Atlanta could have made a local call to
The Cinderella Hour
—and its host.

And she chose not to.

Only when communication became necessary had she broken her
silence.

Snow planned a voice-mail message as terse as Ellen’s email
had been. She would leave it at Ellen O’Neil’s residential number, she decided,
at a time when she was undoubtedly at her Peachtree Road boutique.

Snow’s plan for terseness nearly derailed when she heard her
mother’s recorded voice. Blocking a very emotional—and foolish—impulse, she
delivered the words she had planned.

“It’s Snow. Thank you for your email. I believe I understand
what you were telling me about Blaine. But I’d like to be certain. Would you
give me a call at a time that’s convenient for you? My home number is . . .”

“Good morning.”

The greeting came in stereo from Vivian and Bea. Neither had
slept. Since Bea’s return to the ICU, after Blaine went home, they alternated
keeping vigil over a sleeping Mira and talking to a comatose Daniel.

Both were in Mira’s room when she awakened at
10
:
00
a.m. Daniel was being hemodialysed, and kept company by, a
cheerful tech.

“Good morning,” Mira replied. “You two look tired.”

“Our girl is back,” Bea said fondly.

“And a little disoriented,” Mira whispered. “Hospital.
Daylight.”

“That’s right,” Vivian said. “And today is Wednesday,
November second.”

“Okay. Give me a minute. So yesterday was the first.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Yes,” Mira said softly. “I do. It was pretty eventful.”

“And last night?”

“Last night. Let me think. I remember talking to Bea. I was
near your gate, Vivian, and a van drove by. It was Bert.” Mira cast a twinkling
glance at Bea. “We talked for a while about Bert, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. Then what happened?”

“I must have driven home. But I don’t remember doing it.”

“Do you remember being at home?”

“Sort of. I remember opening the front door. This is weird. I’m
seeing myself doing it. The burglar alarm is beeping. I need to enter the code.
I’m doing that. I’ve done that. Then . . . I’m struggling. Someone’s holding
me, smothering me. I smell gasoline.
Taste
it. I’m trying to move away, to
breathe, but he’s pushing a rag into my mouth. There’s something bright. Gold.
And green. I’m falling. No, I’m being thrown. Then—have I woken up before now?
When it was dark outside? Did I say something to you, Vivian, and to Blaine?”

“You did. For about thirty seconds before falling back to
sleep.”

“There was something about my hands.”

“They didn’t want you pulling out your intravenous while you
were still groggy from the anesthetic. They tied your wrists, very gently, to
the side of the bed. The restraints were removed a couple hours ago.”

Sure enough, her arms were free. And she remembered when they
hadn’t been. But the
something
didn’t have anything to do with
restraints. Or gentleness. There had been pain, in her palms, caused by her
fingernails.

“Someone attacked me.”

“Yes.”

“Did they get him?”

“Not yet. Was it a him?”

“I don’t know. He,
it
, was taller than me. And very
strong.” Mira smiled at the fatigued faces. “You’re exhausted, both of you.
Whereas I’m well-rested
and fine
. Go home. Please. Get some sleep.”

“We will. We’ll take a cab to your house, Bea. My car’s in
Mira’s driveway. I was on my way over,” Vivian explained to her sister, “when
you were attacked.”

“Why?”

“There were some things I wanted to discuss with you.”

“There’ve been some things I’ve wanted to discuss with you,
too.”

“There’s no time like the present.” Bea stood. “I think I’ll
mosey over to the other side of the unit and check on a certain dialysis patient.
I want to do that anyway.”

“She does want to,” Vivian said after Bea left.
And so do
I
. She felt strangely calm, and remarkably useful, when she was talking to
Daniel. She felt distinctly
not
calm now. But resolute. “You said you
called Bea from in front of our gate. Why were you there?”

“Blaine asked me to be with you during his interview with
Snow. He thought you might be upset by it.”

“Did he tell you he’d told me you were coming over? And that
the three of us agreed in advance that you would?”

“No. Just the opposite. He said that if you knew I was
planning to come you’d tell me not to. Why?”

“After you were attacked, he acted surprised I hadn’t been at
home as planned.”
Acted
surprised, Vivian thought, in front of the
detective investigating the case.

“I can’t imagine why he would have said that.” Mira frowned. “But
it’s not the first time Blaine’s said something that shocked me.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you this.”

“Mira, you should. Please.”

“On the way home from the Harvest Moon Ball, he told me he
was worried you might have made the obscene phone calls I received.”

“
What
? I absolutely did not!”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Thank you. But for him to even suggest the possibility . . .
Did he have an explanation?”

“Yes, but it’s as ludicrous as the suggestion itself.”

“Please tell me.”

“He said you believed he and I had been involved before the
two of you fell in love—and that you suspected we still were.”

“That’s
not
true.”

“There’s never been anything between Blaine and me. There never
would be. Even if I was desperately in love with him.”

“He says you are.”

“It’s a lie, Vivian. When did he say that?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

“I can’t even begin to understand what he’s doing.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He did, and it’s the most ridiculous of all.” And the most
awkward to reveal. “He said you have low self-esteem. I told him that made no
sense, that you’re the most confident woman I know. With good reason, Vivian.
You’re brilliant, successful—”

“What did Blaine say then?”

“That self-esteem and self-confidence aren’t synonymous. And
that you measure your worth based on what you accomplish rather than who you
are.”

“It’s true.”

“What?”

“
Really
true. Blaine called that one exactly right.”

“Oh, Vivian. I’m so sorry.”

“Did Blaine have a theory about why my self-esteem is so low?”

“You’re the firstborn child in a high-pressure family.
Apparently that’s often enough. But you had the added pressure of not being the
firstborn son our parents wanted. It was an impossible pressure, since there
wasn’t a thing you could do to change it.”

“I tried.”

“I know you did, Vivian. Would you please start feeling good
about who you are?”

“Easier said than done. There’s not a lot to feel good about.”

“There’s
you
to feel good about. You’re kind and
compassionate and—”

“No, I’m not. Well, sometimes I am. I’d like to be.
Unfortunately something I did years ago . . . I can’t even tell you about it,
Mira. I can’t bring myself to tell you. But Luke can tell you, and when he does,
you’ll agree with him—and me—that a lifetime of kindness and compassion can’t
erase what I did. Nothing can.”

“Vivian . . .”

“Ask Luke to tell you, Mira. I want you to know.”

“Luke and I aren’t speaking.”

“Yes, you are. You will be. Bea says he feels terrible about
whatever he said to you yesterday afternoon. I was supposed to tell you that
the moment you woke up. Sorry.”

“Vivian. It’s okay!” You’re
human
, Mira thought. And
so injured, she mused, by life . . . and by the husband who pledged to love you
but has told you such lies. “What the hell is Blaine up to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do—no, wait,” Mira said. “Maybe I
do.
Maybe
this is exactly what Blaine was hoping to accomplish.”

“This, Mira?”

“Us, Vivian. You and me. The Larken sisters. Talking. Coming
to the other’s defense against his lies—and telling each other the truth.”