The Mirror and the Mask (10 page)

While they were talking, a dark-haired teenager sauntered in. She was morose, cute, wearing extralarge, round, black-rimmed glasses. She reminded Annie of Marcy in the
Peanuts
comic strip. She lifted the
wineglass out of the young man's hand and took a sip. Annie assumed they were brother and sister. The three of them continued to talk until the older woman, most likely Johnny's new wife, finished with the salad. Then they all went into the dining room and sat down at a long table. Annie shifted her position in the darkness so she could continue to watch the scene unfold.

It was possible that the table was painted black, although Annie doubted it. It looked like ebony. The interior was picture-perfect, everything polished and gleaming. It was the kind of home Annie had seen on HGTV, the kind of place only rich people could afford. So many emotions tumbled around inside her that it was hard to pick out which was primary. She was sad for those people, knowing that Johnny was part of their lives. Sure, there was some envy. Most of Annie's clothes came from used-clothing stores. She couldn't afford health insurance. She bought most everything secondhand. She lived in a tiny efficiency apartment, and even with all the scrimping, she still had trouble making ends meet. But mostly, she was overwhelmed by Johnny's betrayal. It appalled her to think she could still feel that way after so many years.

For a half hour she crouched on the cold, dark hillside, playing voyeur. The red-haired woman did most of the talking. Annie wondered where Johnny was. They weren't eating, so she assumed they were waiting for him. But right around seven thirty, the young man stood. In a matter of seconds, he was outside, climbing back into his BMW. As he sped away, Annie raced to her car. It was pure impulse. She followed him all the way back to Minneapolis, to the bar on Hennepin.

What stood out most was the funk he seemed to be in. He sat alone in a booth, making eye contact with nothing but the shot glass in front of him. Every so often he'd lift it up and call for another. He was tall and rail thin, with tiny wire-rimmed glasses, tousled brown hair streaked with blond highlights, and a dark scruff. It was a definite salon
look, which made him either vain or just a guy who wanted to appear trendy. He wore a maroon-and-gold U of M football jersey over a white T-shirt, but he hardly seemed like the athletic type. He came across as bookish and sensitive. She doubted many women found him attractive. And yet, she did. Mostly it was the lost look in his eyes that appealed to her. She'd always been drawn to lost.

It took awhile to decide how to approach the situation. Annie was a pro at using her looks to get what she wanted from just about anybody, man or woman. Sex was easy. Once upon a time, it was how she'd paid the bills. It was the only time in her life when money hadn't been a problem. But she hadn't used that route in years. She wanted to make something of herself, so she'd earned a degree. People with degrees had self-respect. They were smart, accomplished. Most, like her, were also living with crushing student debt well into their thirties, but that was part of the deal. Sometimes Annie thought it was a raw deal. The American dream—get a good education, graduate to a good job—wasn't supposed to work like this.

Lifting her beer off the counter, she walked over to the booth and slipped onto the bench across from him. He stared at her for a few seconds with a blank look on his face.

“You seem like you could use a friend,” she said, leaning in, her elbows pressed to the tabletop.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look kind of down.”

“What's it to you?”

He had a nice voice. Not too low, not too high. But gentle. And beautiful hands. Annie always noticed hands. “I'm alone. You're alone. I think we're both miserable.”

“You're miserable?”

“Pretty much.”

“Because you're by yourself?”

“No. That's normal.”

He licked salt off the edge of his shooter. “Someone as beautiful as you doesn't need to be alone.”

“Wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard that one. Listen, I'm not coming on to you, if that's what you think.”

“No?”

“Maybe I should leave.”

“Don't,” he said, reaching across the table. “I'd like someone to talk to.”

“Someone who's not part of the problem?”

He looked back down at the empty shot glass, rolled it between his fingers. “Yeah. I guess you could put it that way.”

She waited a few seconds. “A girl?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“A guy?”

His lips turned up in a slight smile. “No, not that either. How about you?”

“Nothing romantic.” She sipped her beer. “For me, it's life. Just life. I mean, things can get so tangled it's hard to figure out what the real problem is.”

“Tell me about it.” He held up his shot glass for another.

“So I see you're sending yourself to Pluto on tequila shooters.”

“That about covers it.”

“You do this a lot?”

“More than I should. You want another beer? Or something stronger?”

She shook her head. “Booze isn't my drug of choice.”

“No? Coke? Pot? I can get you anything you want.”

“Aren't you the gentleman. No thanks, I'm fine.” She nodded to his football jersey. “You in school?”

“Med school.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That's pretty cool. What branch of medicine are you interested in?”

“I want to be a heart surgeon, like my dad was.”

“Was?”

“He died just before my thirteenth birthday.”

She drew a lock of hair behind her ear. “What's your name?”

“Curt Llewelyn. Yours?”

“Annie. Annie Archer.”

“Nice to meet you, Annie.” He tried a smile. He actually looked kind of handsome when he smiled, but it was a short-lived effort.

The waitress set his fourth shooter in front of him, removed the other glass.

“Here's to you.” He tossed half of it back in one neat gulp. His eyes were starting to look glassy.

“You live around here?” she asked.

“Yeah. A condo in the Mill District. You familiar with that part of the city?”

“I'm not from around here. I'm just passing through.”

“How long you going to be in town?”

“Not sure.”

“You're here because . . .”

“I'm looking for something. My past, I guess you could say.”

“A mystery woman.”

She laughed. “That's me.”

“The condo is old. Historic. Maybe your past is lurking somewhere over there.”

“You think?”

“It's possible. Where are you staying?”

“I'm between motels.”

He smiled more broadly this time, revealing even, perfectly whitened teeth. “Look, if you need a place to crash—”

“Aren't we moving a little fast?”

“No, I don't mean that. I've got a den with a comfortable couch. Doesn't come with strings. Looking for your past can be hard work. I know, I've been there. Hell, I'm still there.”

It was a tempting offer. She and Dooley were scheduled to spend another night in the back seat of her Corolla, packed into the sleeping bag. This sounded much more comfortable. Even if they did end up in the same bed, that was fine with her.

“I've got a dog.”

“The more the merrier.”

“Are you kidding? You're really offering to let me sleep on your couch?”

“For as long as you want.”

She eyed him for a few seconds. “How drunk are you?”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Can I be honest with you?”

“No.”

“You shouldn't drive.”

He grunted, shifted in his seat.

“I'm not kidding. I could leave my car here, drive you home.”

“I don't need a mother. I've already got one, and she sucks.”

“I'm nobody's mother.”

Sliding his shot glass away with the back of his hand, he sighed, pawed at the side of his hair. “Oh, all right. I am placing my life in your hands, Annie Archer. Drive me.” He dug into his pocket and shoved the keys toward her. “As long as you promise you'll still respect me in the morning.”

 

Jack rolled away from Susan, breathing hard.

Susan had kept her eyes closed all through the lovemaking. She tried to go somewhere else inside her head—a beautiful meadow, George Clooney's bed—but with little practice at out-of-body experiences,
it hadn't worked. It hadn't been rape, but it was as close to it as she ever hoped to come. If anything had proved to her that her life with Jack had become impossible, tonight had. She couldn't live this way much longer.

Now, if he would just fall asleep as he usually did, she could slip out of bed, take a shower, and try to wash the feel of his hands off her body. She desperately wanted to talk to Kristjan, she
needed
him, but he was living through his own kind of hell at the moment. She'd see him tomorrow at the office. They could talk then.

Jack pulled a sheet over the lower half of his body. “Thanks for nothing.”

“What?”

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. “If you're not in love with me anymore, just say it. I'd prefer the truth to
that
, whatever it was. It wasn't sex. I mean, lying there like a wax statue isn't my idea of a sex partner. I might as well do it myself.”

She wanted to ask him how the girls he generally slept with treated him. Jack liked young women. The younger the better, within legal limits.

“Well?”

“I'm sorry, honey. It's all my fault. I told you this morning, it's my job. The economy. Our office sales are way down. My position could be on the chopping block if the numbers don't come up. It's got me so turned around that I can't think about anything else.”

“I've got problems, too, but I haven't turned into a block of wood.”

“I said I was sorry. You have to believe that I love you more than anything else in this world.” The words tasted bitter, but she had to lie. She had no choice.

“I don't know, Suze. Lately, I've been thinking it's not the same with us anymore. Maybe we should think long and hard about, you know, splitting. It happens. People fall out of love.”

“No,” she said, wrapping her body around his. “That's not what I want. Ever.”

This was the worst possible timing. If they were in the middle of divorce proceedings, with that prenup and the life insurance policy on the table, and something even slightly suspicious happened to Jack, it wouldn't take the police long to start looking into her life. “Listen, honey, I'm just preoccupied. And frankly, so are you. We're both a little depressed.”

“I'm not depressed. I don't get depressed, I get angry. And then I get even.”

“Well,” she said, running her fingers caressingly along his arm, “then I guess I'm going to have to learn to be more like you.”

 

 

 

A
nnie stuck her head out of her sleeping bag and looked around. It took a few seconds for her mind to focus, to remember that she was in Curt Llewelyn's condo. She'd driven him home last night, poured him into his bed with his clothes and boots still on, and covered him with a quilt. She'd nosed around the place a little, but the two beers had worked their way through her system. She was beat. After examining the bookshelves in the study and seeing that most of the volumes were medical or scientific, she spread out her sleeping bag on the wide leather couch. Dooley slept with her most of the night, but at the moment he was curled up on a brown bear rug across the room. Lord, a bear rug. It had to be fake. She hoped it was a gift. She liked Curt and didn't want to think he had such terrible taste.

“Pssst,” she said.

Dooley's eyes popped open.

“Come here,” she whispered, motioning with both hands.

He shook himself awake, then trotted over to the couch. Annie lifted him up next to her.

“Morning,” she said, cuddling him close. “I suppose you need to go outside.”

He twisted his head around and licked her nose.

As she flipped back the top of the sleeping bag and sat up, Curt's desk caught her eye. She hadn't taken much notice of it last night, but today she was appalled by the mess. Books resting on papers resting on more books sat next to empty soda cans, scattered coffee mugs, and several plates of half-eaten sandwiches. What he needed was a maid. Or a blowtorch.

“The Mississippi's right outside,” whispered Annie, kissing the top of Dooley's head. “Can you believe that? Maybe we can find a walking path.” She pulled on her cargo jeans, her socks, and her hiking boots while Dooley stood looking up at her, wagging his tail.

Tiptoeing past Curt's bedroom, Annie scooped his keys off the kitchen counter and rode the elevator down to the first floor. She was glad Dools could roll with the punches. As long as they were together, he seemed happy. She was still half asleep when they emerged into the morning light. A stiff, cold wind rolling off the river finally woke her.