The Saint (19 page)

She stood, then, shakily, and walked toward her car. She ought to go back to Kieran's house and get the key to her apartment in Richmond. She needed some time alone.

The park was in the center of downtown, and a dozen businesses looked out over it, including the hotel, the movie theater, and the Black and White Lounge. As Claire reached the long line of cars that always ringed the periphery of the park on a Saturday night, she saw a woman just up ahead who looked familiar.

It was Linda Tremel. She stood beside her own car, but she had slumped over it, her head down on the hood as if she were sick, or crying. As Claire watched, Linda raised her head slowly. Looking down, she tried to unlock her car door, but she clearly pushed the wrong button on her keyless entry pad. The car's lights flashed, and a small horn-beep sounded, indicating that she had locked it instead, but Linda, apparently unable to process the signals properly, jerked and tugged at the door.

She seemed irritated out of proportion to the situation. She let go of the door and knocked her keys against the window. Then she sank her head onto the hood again and cursed loud enough for Claire to hear it three cars back.

Clearly, Linda was very drunk.

But Linda was the last person Claire wanted to talk to tonight. So now what?

Claire's fury hadn't blinded her to the one inescapable coincidence of the whole anonymous letter farce. The medical examiner who had decided to leave the blood alcohol levels off Steve's death certificate had been Dr. Sam Tremel, father of Austin Tremel, father-in-law of Linda Tremel. Claire didn't know exactly how Linda had learned of the conspiracy, but she didn't doubt for a minute that she had.

Or that she had now decided to use her knowledge to cause trouble. Falsifying a death certificate was undoubtedly illegal, but Dr. Sam Tremel had died last year, so he wasn't her target. Maybe Linda hoped to embarrass her ex-husband, Austin—but Austin didn't even live in Heyday anymore, and he was a lawyer, not a doctor, so his father's sins couldn't really hurt him much, either.

No, it wasn't that simple. Looking at the other woman now, disheveled and tearful and uncoordinated, Claire thought she knew which bull's-eye Linda had been intending to hit. It wasn't really a person—it was a marriage. Linda, embittered by Austin's rejection, forced to turn to teenage boys for comfort, couldn't bear to see Claire make a success of her marriage to Kieran. She obviously would stop at nothing to sabotage it.

If only Linda knew how unnecessary any such campaign had been. Claire's pretense of a marriage had been destined to implode in less than thirty days anyhow, as surely as if a time bomb had been planted inside its foundation.

For one terrible second, Claire toyed with the idea
of just getting into her car and driving away, leaving the wretched woman to fend for herself.

But, in the end, she couldn't do it. Even if she had no interest in saving Linda from her own recklessness, what about the other innocent drivers who might stumble into her destructive path? Not all drunk drivers ran into trees, hurting only themselves.

She squared her shoulders and forced herself to close the distance between them. Linda's face was turned away from her, still resting on the hood of the car. Her right hand dangled limply, and from her fingers hung the car keys, swaying, apparently half-forgotten.

Claire locked her fingers around the cool metal and slipped the keys easily out of Linda's slack fingers.

“Hey!” Linda's head came up and whipped around. “What do you think you're doing?”

“You seemed to be having trouble with the lock,” Claire said. “I thought maybe I could help.”

Linda's face was streaked with tears and dust from the hood of her car, but as she realized who Claire was, she smiled anyhow. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

“Why, if it isn't Mrs. Saint. How exactly do you think you can help me, Claire? I would have thought you might have enough problems of your own to deal with today.”

If Claire had harbored any last doubts about who had sent the letters, they were gone now. But she wasn't going to tangle with a drunken woman in the middle of the street. The important thing right now was to get Linda home safely so that she could sleep it off.

“I can help by driving you home,” Claire said. “You could pick up your car tomorrow.”

“I'm not going home. Why should I go home? There's nobody there. There's never anybody there.”

“Where
are
you going?”

“I'm going to a party.” Linda's eyebrows went up in a way that she probably meant to be haughty. “You wouldn't know these people, not anymore. Now that you're Mrs. Saint, you don't visit people on the wrong side of the river anymore, do you?”

“Don't be silly, Linda. What's the address? I'll drop you off.”

Linda leaned forward, and Claire got a good whiff of the alcohol on her breath. She must have been drinking since dawn.

“I don't know the address,” Linda said belligerently. “I just know the house. It's the Snowdens. Near the high school. You take a left off…oh, yeah. You take a left off Poplar Hill.”

Although the unhealthy pleasure with which Linda had spoken those words made her feel slightly ill, Claire struggled to remain poker-faced. She must not have been successful.

“See? You can't take me to the party, little Claire. You don't have the guts to drive on Poplar Hill. Too many ghosts on Poplar Hill.”

“Linda—”

Linda stepped back, her eyes glittering in the light from the street lamp. “So why don't you stop pretending you're Miss Perfect, so damn well-balanced and
together?
Why don't you admit you're every bit as messed up as I am? And give me back my goddamn keys.”

Claire tightened her fist around the keys, in case Linda might decide to lunge for them. She didn't know quite how she was going to handle this, but
she knew she wasn't going to let the woman drive. Linda was a little bit mad tonight, both from liquor and from the exhaustion of a long-term emotional overload.

Luckily, at that moment, a taxi meandered by, the driver hopefully eyeballing the Black and White Lounge. Apparently on a Saturday night he expected to find a few wobbly customers needing to buy a safe ride home.

Claire moved into the street and waved her hand. The taxi swerved obediently to the park side of the street.

Linda stiffened. “You think I can't drive myself?”

“I just don't want you to run any risks,” Claire said. She wasn't even angry with Linda anymore. She just felt sorry for her. “You know the truth about Steve's death, obviously. Well, I don't want you to end up like Steve. You don't want that, either.”

“No, because there wouldn't be anybody who would mourn for me, the way you have for Steve.” Linda's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She lifted her beautifully manicured hand and touched Claire's cheek. The booze must have reached the maudlin stage. “No one would miss me.”

“I'd miss you,” Claire said. “We were good friends once, you know. We could be again, if you'd just—”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Linda's mouth fell. “But Austin wouldn't miss me. He wouldn't miss me one bit.”

“Maybe not.” Claire put her hand on Linda's shoulder and shook her slightly. “But Austin isn't the only man in the world, Linda. You need to move
on. There are people who will help you, if you'll let them.”

That was as close as she dared come to suggesting therapy. She hadn't forgotten how furious Linda had been the last time Claire had said such a thing.

Linda looked uncertain, and Claire took advantage of her momentary quiescence to open the cab door.

“There you go,” she said. “Tell the man where your friends live, okay?”

To her relief, Linda climbed in without protest. But when Claire shut the door, Linda rolled down the window and thrust out her hand with a sudden air of desperation.

Claire reached out and took it. Linda's eyes were glistening with tears again.

“What is it, Linda?”

“I just wanted to—” Linda frowned, and one tear fell down each of her hollow cheeks. “You said I didn't want to end up like Steve. And you're right— I don't. But listen to me, Claire, I'm serious. Get out of Heyday. Because you definitely don't want to end up like me.”

Claire put the car keys in Linda's hand, confident that the woman no longer felt the need to drive, or indeed even had the energy to argue the issue. She watched the taxi until it was out of sight. Then, realizing that her own hands were as shaky as if she, too, had been drinking, she got into her car and turned the ignition.

Was Linda right? Was this sappy, needy love she had developed for Kieran going to turn her into another Linda? Would she grow bitter and ugly and vengeful?

Surely not.

And yet, already she lay awake at night, listening for his footsteps. Already, she dreamed that he might come to her and tell her he wanted to make this a real marriage. To forget the divorce. To keep her, to love her.

To love their child.

It was more than wishful thinking. It was self-destructive lunacy. She should go back to Richmond. Just for a while. Just long enough to clear her head and think this through…

Her mind racing, she pulled out of her parking space, into the deserted street. And into a sudden jolt of screeching tires and buckling metal.

Her neck jerked sideways, her wrist twisted. Then her car skidded, and stopped just short of hitting Linda Tremel's abandoned sedan.

She heard somebody yelling. But it took her many shocked seconds to figure out what on earth had happened. The empty street hadn't been empty after all. Another car had been coming around the corner, around the edge of the park. She had pulled right out into its path, and its nose had crumpled the front left fender of her car.

“Hey! Are you all right?”

A man was rapping at her window, and, realizing that her left hand hurt too much to use, she reached across the steering wheel and rolled down the window with her right hand.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm fine. Are you?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I'm okay. My car isn't even hurt too bad. Your fender took most of the hit. I'm sorry about that.”

“No, it was my fault. I was distracted.” Claire put her hand on her stomach and said a little grateful prayer. “I'm a fool, but I'm a lucky fool. And I won't let it happen again.”

W
HEN
C
LAIRE HADN'T COME HOME
by eleven o'clock, Kieran was going crazy, no more than thirty seconds from calling the police. John Gordon, who had stopped by after the Tri-County Club meeting to have a long, let's-get-this-straight-once-and-for-all talk about that goddamn custody document, had hung around, clearly aware that something was wrong.

“You probably put your foot in it,” John said when he finally wormed it out of Kieran that Claire was overdue.

“What?” Kieran was pacing, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the dark street, where only tree shadows moved. He couldn't imagine what John was talking about.

“Yeah, you probably said some dumb little thing that upset her. Women like to pull the disappearing act when they're mad. They like to see how worried you get. It makes them feel needed. Evelyn does it at least once a month.”

Kieran didn't bother to set him straight. He didn't bother to remind him that Claire wasn't like most women, their marriage wasn't like most marriages, and he knew exactly what he'd said to upset her, and it wasn't any “dumb little thing.”

Let John continue babbling, Kieran thought. May
be the background noise would keep him from going completely insane.

But where
was
she?

He had jogged upstairs an hour ago, just to be sure she hadn't packed her clothes. She hadn't. He had even fingered through the items on her dresser—something he'd never done before—to be sure she had left behind her key to the Richmond apartment. She had.

So obviously she was coming back.

Wasn't she?

“And she is pregnant, right?” John whistled and shook his head. “Well, let me tell you, that makes them absolutely go whacko. I mean, a sane, intelligent woman will suddenly come after you with a butter knife because you didn't bring home sprinkled donuts, which, by the way, she's never wanted before in her whole entire life.”

Kieran let the curtain drop back into place. “I'm going to call the hotel. Maybe she decided to check in for the night.”

“Wait a minute here, my friend.” John put his hand over the telephone. “The
hotel?
What exactly did you say to this lady? I mean, was it really bad?
Fatal?
Do we need to worry that she's bolted, and you're going to end up with zilch custody of a kid you can't even find?”

“Damn it, John. Stop obsessing about the custody document. That doesn't matter right now.”

“The hell it doesn't. You told me this marriage was all about the kid. Well, so is the custody agreement. You think you two can agree amicably, but I've seen enough of these things to know how quickly it all goes south. Look at tonight. Already
you're having problems. Oh, yeah, it matters, believe me. It matters.”

Kieran moved John's hand firmly and picked up the cordless handset. He dialed the number for information service.

“What matters,” he said, “is making sure she's all right.”

He was jotting down the number for the hotel when he heard Claire's key in the door. He put the phone down, his heart suddenly doing a disagreeable yo-yo loop in his chest. He hadn't heard her car come into the driveway, which must mean she parked in the street.

Which must mean…

He went to the library doorway on leaden feet. He watched silently as she came in, observing that her pace was slow, too, and her head was bowed.

John was right behind him, breathing heavily.

Claire looked up at the two of them. She didn't look very surprised to see John there.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” she said in a strangely flat tone. “I just came back to pick up a few things and get the key to my apartment.”

Kieran knew then that his instincts had been right. Whether she went to a hotel or to Richmond, or simply vanished into the night—it all amounted to the same thing. It was over. Nothing they had built in these few short weeks had been strong enough to survive what had happened here this afternoon.

Even that amazing morning of lovemaking hadn't made any difference. Their relationship was as fragile as a house of cards, and, as he'd known it would, the truth had toppled it.

“You're leaving? You're going back to Richmond?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “For a little while, anyhow. I have some things to—sort out.”

John was suddenly at his shoulder, murmuring. “Kieran, if she's booking, you really should settle this issue now, before she—”

Unfortunately, his murmur was hardly subtle. Kieran saw the shuttering of Claire's face as she processed John's thoughtless words. Kieran turned his head slightly, just enough to speak over his shoulder.

“Shut up, John.”

He turned back to Claire. If he thought begging would help, he'd be on his knees. They needed more time to sort this through. But he could tell that nothing he said, even if he wrote it in blood, would make a dent in that iron composure.

“If you'll stay, just a day or two, I think maybe we can work this out—”

“No,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

John's breath was hot against his neck. “Kieran, for heaven's sake. If she leaves without signing the custody—”

Claire leveled her gaze just behind Kieran's left ear, probably at the exact spot where John was leaning in, whispering.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, John, but I'm not going to sign anything right now,” she said coldly. “When I get to Richmond, I'll be retaining my own attorney. I'll tell him to call you. The two of you can battle it out.”

John subsided, but Kieran could tell he still wasn't happy about it. Too damn bad. No one in this room
was happy about anything right now. The air practically hummed with emotional stress.

“Claire, please don't overreact.” Kieran walked into the foyer, though he didn't get close enough to touch her. She stood directly beneath the chandelier, and the light poured over her as if she were inside a protected bubble. It would have been easier to coax a compromise out of that marble lady in the corner.

“I know things look difficult right now. But we really need to talk.”

She shook her head. “We've already talked. Now I need to think.”

“If you'd let me, I really believe I could—”

She put out one hand. Her face was tight and pale.

“Don't try to make me stay, Kieran. I can't think here. This town holds too many memories for me. It holds too much pain. It doesn't leave enough room in my mind for answers.”

He looked at her. When she put it that way, when she asked for release from pain, how could he tell her no?

He tilted his head and settled for saying the only thing he could.

“Maybe the answers aren't in your mind, Claire. Maybe they're in your heart.”

“I hope not,” she said. “Because I buried my heart two years ago, under a tree on Poplar Hill.”

 

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
, Sunday night, Eddie stood in front of his bathroom mirror, holding his bottle of Armani Mania and wondering if most sophisticated grown men wore cologne. His dad didn't—he just slapped on some aftershave that smelled like fruit. But his dad had been married about fifty years. Maybe
younger men, men who were still trying to impress women, did.

Eddie compromised by wearing just a little bit. Maybe Mrs. Tremel would just assume he smelled nice. Heck, she'd probably be so glad he didn't stink of grass clippings and gasoline she wouldn't even notice the cologne.

He put on khakis and a polo shirt, the kind of thing his parents made him wear out to a family dinner. He knew he looked pretty good, because his mom smiled when he came down the stairs. She put her hand against his cheek and said, “Well, cutie pie, I hope Miss Potter knows what a lucky girl she is.”

But then his mom always thought he looked great. It made him feel bad, looking at her adoring smile and realizing how many secrets he was keeping from her. Maybe, in a way, it would have been easier to tell the truth if she didn't always think he was so perfect. Maybe then it wouldn't seem like such a shock.

But naturally he didn't tell her anything. He just shrugged and smiled and headed out to his car. He deliberately let her go on believing he was taking Binky Potter out to the movies, when actually Jeff Metzler was probably the horny moron sucking popcorn from her fingers tonight.

He'd thought the idea would really upset him. But actually, picturing Binky and Jeff together helped. It made him feel a little less squeamish about what he was going to do.

Binky Potter might think she was the sexiest little thing in Heyday, but tonight Eddie wouldn't have to settle for sucking the tips of anybody's fingers. Tonight he was going to be with a real woman.

If he didn't puke out of sheer terror first.

He got to Mrs. Tremel's house much faster than he'd expected to. He was at least ten minutes early, so he turned off his engine and waited a couple of houses down. He thought about driving around the block a few times, but that seemed just too darn lame. It was bad enough that he had to be home by one.

The night was pretty romantic looking, he thought, with all those stars and a breeze that smelled especially nice here in the expensive part of town. Maybe they would do it outdoors, by the pool….

He put his head down suddenly, banging it into the steering wheel with a groan. Who was he kidding, trying to sound all smooth and debonair? By the pool, in the bed, it didn't matter, because he wasn't up to this. He knew about women. Guys talked. They said that real women liked a guy who could last forever, because for them things took a little longer.

How much longer, he wondered? He wasn't sure he could hold off for like hours or anything. Because he was such a stupid, inexperienced kid, he was already walking around with a fire in his pants.

He should have stolen the bottle of scotch from his parents' bar. They never drank. It would be months before they'd notice it was gone. But he hadn't been sure whether liquor was a good idea or not. Some guys said it really helped, and others said it pretty much made you worthless.

He wished he could have asked his dad about some of this. It was frustrating to have to get your information from “guys,” who probably didn't know much more about it than you did. But the idea
of talking to his dad about anything this tricky was totally whacked.

Anyway, how could he have fit his questions into the three-minute commercial breaks?

At least he knew enough to buy some condoms. He had driven all the way over to Grupton to get them. He hoped Mrs. Tremel didn't think that was insulting, like he thought
she
was dirty or anything. Maybe she'd be glad. Maybe she thought he was dirty, the kind of kid who would sell fake term papers to his friends and plan secret meetings with older women.

Man, he was making himself crazy. He looked at his watch and realized he'd been out here dithering so long he was now almost ten minutes late.

He turned his car back on and slowly turned into Mrs. Tremel's driveway. She had told him to pull right into the garage, and sure enough she'd left it open. He had been glad she thought of that, because he didn't want Coach McClintock, who lived only a few houses down, to look out and see his car here.

He glanced over at the McClintock house, which seemed to be completely dark. He thought of what he'd heard today—that Mrs. McClintock and Coach had argued, and Mrs. McClintock had gone back home to Richmond. Eddie didn't believe that. If she was gone, he figured it was just because she had an appointment or something. He'd seen them holding hands at the parade, and they didn't look at all like people who were about to split up.

But then, he figured, he probably didn't look like a kid about to sneak into a divorced lady's house and, with any kind of luck, lose his long-despised virginity.

He got out of the car, and he heard her voice float out of the depths of the dank, black, chilly garage. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight.

“You're late, Eddie,” Mrs. Tremel said with that voice that was part laughter, part come-and-get-it. “Didn't you really want to come?”

He shivered and tried to see in the semidarkness. Where was she? But she must have pushed a button somewhere, because suddenly the air got even blacker. He heard the groaning descent of a large garage door, locking them in together.

“Oh, man…”

Had he said that out loud? He heard footsteps.

Oh, man. Oh, man.

And suddenly he forgot to worry about how long he would last or how good he would be. As he waited for her to come toward him in the darkness, he went back to his original question.

What were the odds he'd make it through this night without puking?