The Mirror and the Mask (13 page)

She squeezed his hand. “I'm sorry. Really, so very sorry.”

He nodded. “Want something to drink?”

It seemed wrong to be thinking about themselves when his mom had just died. They both must have sensed the same awkwardness, because their conversation ceased. They sat holding hands, listening to the police and paramedics do their work, until the back door opened a few minutes later.

Annie held her breath as Johnny walked in. Tracy was right; he'd put on weight, but he still looked buff, maybe even more muscular. His expression was stern, impassive. As usual, he gave nothing away.

“You got my message,” said Curt.

He tossed his keys into a pottery bowl on the island. And then his eyes found Annie. It took him a few moments to register who she was. When he did, she could see a ripple of apprehension flash across his face.

Before he could give anything away, she was up, her hand extended. “Mr. Bowman? I'm Annie Archer, a friend of Curt's. I'm really sorry about your wife.”

He blinked, looked momentarily confused, then he played it just the way she assumed he would. “Nice to meet you,” he said, holding her hand a little too long.

The curly-haired cop walked into the room. “Are you Mr. Bowman?”

Johnny nodded. “I want to see my wife.” Turning back to Curt, he said, “You're sticking around, right?”

“I need to be here when Sunny gets home.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Switching his gaze back to Annie, he squinted at her and then left the room.

An hour later, while Annie and Curt were sitting at the island drinking reheated coffee, Sunny arrived. She breezed into the kitchen, a heavy book sack slung over one shoulder.

“What's going on?” she said, dumping the sack, unzipping her black leather jacket. “How come all those cop cars are here?”

Curt got up and faced her.

“What?” she demanded, her eyes searching his.

“It's Mom.”

“What about her?”

He held her shoulders. “She fell down the stairs. She's . . . gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

Her eyes widened. “Dead? Mom's
dead
? I don't believe you.” She glanced at Annie, then back at Curt. “This is crazy. How . . . when—”

“I don't have many answers,” he said, “but it happened sometime this afternoon. I found her. I thought I'd stop by to play some pool.”

She pushed him back. “You found her?”

“Yeah.”

Something silent and fleeting passed between them. Annie didn't know what it was, only that it was important.

“The police will want to talk to you,” said Curt.

“Me? Why?”

“It's an unattended death. Nobody was here when it happened. That means the medical examiner will need to review it. We all know it was an accident, but they have to treat it as suspicious until they can make an official determination.”

She listened, her expression becoming more and more agitated.

“They'll probably want to know where you were earlier this afternoon.”

“Where were you?”

“Over at the U. I had a meeting with my adviser. Do you have any idea where Jack was?”

“Why?” It took a few seconds, but the light finally dawned. “Oh, no you don't. I see where you're headed. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Sunny, listen to me.”

“No.” Her eyes slid to Annie. “Who's she?”

“A friend.” He grabbed her arms. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

She tried to squirm away.

“What are you going to say to the police?”

“What do you think?”

“Sunny? Are we on the same page?”

“Sure. Let go of me.”

He dropped his hands. “Sunny?”

“I'm not an idiot.” Giving him a defiant look, she stormed out of the room.

 

Later that night, after they'd been questioned by the police and told they could leave, Annie and Curt stood in the kitchen of his condo, passing a bottle of wine between them. Curt kissed her for the first time. She had so many questions she wanted to ask but understood that now might not be the best time.

“I don't think I could have made it through the day without you,” he said, smoothing back her hair.

“I'm glad I could help.”

“You didn't just help, you saved my life.”

She found the comment a little melodramatic.

“Annie?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to make love to you. How do you feel about that?”

Her answer was another kiss.

Reaching for her hand, he led her into his bedroom, drawing her down on the bed. They undressed each other, exploring each other's skin. Ever since the night they met, Annie had wondered what it would feel like to be with him.

Covered by a warm quilt, Curt kissed her again, this time more passionately, more deeply.

Annie closed her eyes as he moved over her.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you.”

He kissed her neck, her shoulders.

And then, with an abruptness that startled her, he rolled away. She turned to find him curled into a fetal position, hands covering his face.

“I can't,” he whispered.

This was hardly the first time Annie had been with a man who couldn't perform. But all of those guys had been middle-aged or old. Completely out of shape. Curt was young, vital, healthy.

“It's okay,” she said soothingly. “Today was a huge blow. Any man would be affected by it.”

He looked at her, his eyes wet. “I'm such a freakin' mess. You deserve so much better.”

“Quiet down,” she said. She turned on her side and leaned on her elbow, caressing his face, wiping away the tears.

“Something's wrong with me. Something's
always
been wrong with me.”

“Stop it. This is just a tough time in your life.”

“Will you hold me?”

It was a request she'd never heard pass a man's lips before. Women, sometimes, but never a guy. “Sure,” she said.

“All night? You'll stay here in my bed?”

“Of course I will.”

He uncoiled and laid his head next to hers. “I'll be better tomorrow, I promise.”

“You don't have to be anything but who you are,” she said. “Ever.”

“You're an angel,” he whispered, his lips close to hers. “My beautiful, unexpected angel.”

 

 

 

K
ristjan got the word that night from a coworker. When Amy Lahto, Susan's administrative assistant, called, he was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. He was on cleanup duty tonight because Barbara was resting on the couch in the family room. The children were upstairs playing video games. For the moment, his life had returned to manageable proportions.

“I just talked to one of Susan's kids,” said Amy.

Kristjan lowered himself onto a kitchen chair. “Which one?”

“The daughter. Sunny. She said it was an accident. That Susan must have been carrying a vase of flowers downstairs when she tripped. I guess it was pretty awful. Lots of blood.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“It takes your breath away, doesn't it?”

He didn't like Amy and didn't think the question required an answer.

“Anyway, I thought you of all people would want to know right away.”

“Thanks.” He caught the implication in her words and it sent a charge of electricity clear down to his toes.

“I mean, you two were so close.”

You nosy bitch
, he thought to himself. “Yes, Susan and I have been good friends for years.” The reply was stiff. False. He didn't care.

“Accidents happen so fast, you know?”

He suppressed the urge to hang up.

“That's all I've got to say, except that the medical examiner was at the house to make sure it was really an accident.”

“There's some question?”

“Apparently.” She let the word hang in the air. “Well, I guess I better call the other agents, give them the news. Unless you want to.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should call her supervisor?”

“Since you're phoning everyone else, why don't you.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

Some people got a charge out of passing along juicy news—good or bad, didn't matter. Amy was like that. Kristjan was reminded again of why he didn't like her. “Thanks again, Amy.”

“Sure thing. See you at the office.”

He sat hunched in the chair until Barbara appeared in the doorway.

“Who was that on the phone?” she asked.

Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. Without looking up, he said, “Susan Bowman's dead. She fell down the stairs at her house.” When she didn't say anything, he looked up.

“How terrible. Are you upset?”

He wrapped his arms across his stomach, forcing himself to stay calm. “Of course I'm upset. Aren't you?”

She moved into the room and sat down at the table.

He saw now that she was holding a scotch and soda. Not her first
of the evening, and definitely not her last. Once upon a time Barbara had seemed like the dark beauty in a Titian painting. Plump, sensual, earthy, with rosy cheeks and large, luminous brown eyes. She never needed makeup to cause a man's head to turn. After the twins were born, unlike many women who put on weight, she'd lost and kept losing. All her plump, youthful beauty seemed to waste away, replaced by a face that appeared haggard, older than her years. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks when the kids started sleeping through the night, but the worn-out face remained. He had to look closely now to see the woman she once was.

“No, I'm not particularly upset,” said Barbara.

“That's a cruel thing to say.”

“Is it?” She shrugged. “I guess.”

Disgusted, he got up and finished loading the dishwasher. After switching it on, he said, “I'm going out for a while.”

“You were gone all afternoon.”

“I was working.”

She lifted the scotch and soda to her lips. “Okay, leave. But before you go, maybe this is a good time to mention something.”

He turned back to her. “What?”

“I know about your affair.”

He stopped breathing. “How long—”

“Does it matter? You know, Kristjan, you're not terribly good at breaking rules. You never have been. And you're not as clever as you think you are.”

He shot her a fierce look.

Standing up, she faced him. “I am sick to death of being the cross you have to bear. Sick of being tolerated, endured. I've spent years trying to deconstruct our marriage, trying to decode your fragile feelings. Oh, I know. You think women are the fragile, emotional ones, but we're not. We're the pragmatists. We do what needs to be done. While you're off
in la-la land with your needs and your slutty girlfriend, we take care of business. We do the laundry, the dishes, take the kids to doctor's appointments, clean up the dog shit, and wait for a little thanks.”

“Barbara—”

“Shut up. What I'm trying to tell you is that, even with all your flaws, I love you and I refuse to lose you. While you're out thinking, think about
that
.”

 

 

 

O
n Thursday morning, Jane sat at the small mahogany desk in her upstairs office at the Xanadu Club, reading over a revised financial projection. The cost of building the new restaurant on the St. Croix River had risen into the stratosphere. In the next couple of weeks, she'd need to meet with her two partners—Judah Johanson, her financial partner at the Xanadu, and the executive chef for the new restaurant, Maynard Lawrence. She'd heard from Judah already and knew his feet were as cold as hers, although Lawrence was still making plans. He insisted there was significant fat that could be cut from the construction costs. Jane's response was, essentially, show me. She'd have to see it on paper and talk at length with the construction manager before she agreed to move forward. In many ways, she hoped this unexpected jump in the building cost would be the end of it, that she could bow out without too many recriminations—or legal ramifications.