The Second Silence (6 page)

‘Bite your tongue.’ Mary clicked off and jammed the phone into her outsize Prada bag. Half a block ahead the traffic light flashed to red. Leaning forward, she shouted over the radio tuned to the Yankees game, ‘Driver, let me off at the corner. I’ll walk from here.’

Run
was more like it, but wasn’t that the story of her life? The salon was at Madison and Sixty-first—one long block and two short ones. If the lights were with her, she’d make it in less time than it would take the cabbie to find out if Mike Stanton was going to strike out Sammy Sosa in the bottom of the eighth.

She was rounding the corner onto Madison, panting hard and praying her antiperspirant would hold out, when she spotted the Channel 2 News van. Her racing heart carried her the last dozen yards in what felt like a single bound.

Ernesto Garmendia was the hottest hairstylist around and the current flavor of the month; she’d already booked him for makeover segments on
Today
and
Live with Regis and Kathie Lee.
But negative publicity on this gig could make him a pariah—for which
she
would ultimately be held responsible. It had been Mary’s bright idea, after all, to celebrate the opening of the uptown branch of his chic SoHo salon, Ne Plus Ultra, with an all-day ‘hair-a-thon’—open house to anyone willing to donate two hundred dollars for a haircut, with proceeds going to St Bartholomew’s pediatric burn unit. Mary had gotten Petrossian to supply caviar and blinis, and Sokolin & Co. the champagne. There was even a door prize: two tickets to the András Schiff concert at Carnegie Hall.

Everything was set, the date locked in on her calendar. Then two days ago an author client, on the road promoting his somewhat unflattering Elvis Presley biography, had arrived in Memphis to find scores of angry Elvis fans picketing the store at which a signing had been scheduled. Several TV stations had canceled as well. Mary had had to fly out at the last minute to smooth her client’s ruffled feathers and calm skittish producers, after which her return flight had been delayed, putting her into JFK with less than an hour to spare before Ernesto’s event. Now this …

At the red-carpeted entrance Mary pushed past the crush of press and paparazzi gathered in anticipation of the celebrities due to arrive any minute, reporters whom Mary normally had to beg and cajole into covering an event, and whom her assistant, standing guard outside the plate glass door, was at the moment fending off. Brittany stood out like a torch amid the teeming horde, her pale cheeks flushed and her red hair flaming in the harsh glare of camera flashes and handheld lights. When she spotted Mary elbowing her way through the crush, her look of intense relief said it all: The marines had landed.

Mary clapped a cheerful expression in place. Holding a hand up to the reporters, she called out brightly, ‘Be patient, guys! Just two minutes, I promise!’ Turning to her assistant, whose pretty young face wore the sheen of desperation, she whispered fiercely, ‘Hold them off a little while longer. I’ll see what’s going on.’

Inside, Mary encountered a scene that would have struck her as funny had it been in a movie. A plump middle-aged woman held center stage in the elegant Louis Quinze-outfitted salon, her wet hair dripping onto the short black kimono cinched about her ample waist. She was shrieking at the top of her lungs.

‘You call this a perm? I have third-degree burns on my scalp! I know lawyers who sue for less. You’ll be hearing from mine, don’t kid yourself.’ She waggled a crimson talon at the staff lined up motionless before a bank of baroque gilt mirrors.

Mary darted a glance at Ernesto, who was doing his best to calm the woman but who clearly had his dander up. His narrow nose was flared, and one hand rested on a slim hip that jutted in a stance bordering on insolent. ‘Senora, what you say ees …
impossible.
Never, never, never, never would such a theeng happen in my salon!’

Mary felt a fresh jolt of adrenaline kick in. If this tempest weren’t brought under control,
immediately,
the lady’s hair wouldn’t be the only thing burned. At the end of it Ernesto would be lucky to have a single client left, and as for the account, well, Mary could kiss it good-bye.

But twenty years in public relations had taught her a thing or two, all of which could be contained in a single rule of thumb: In a world where Murphy’s Law reigned, be prepared for all contingencies at all times.

She turned to the young woman tending the buffet table and ordered crisply, ‘Take some of this food to the reporters out front. Come back for seconds, if necessary.’ The girl, a waifish blonde, shot Mary a nervous look, then immediately snatched up trays of blinis and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spears and began making her way to the door.

While the ravening pack outside was being mollified, Mary sailed over to the furious client, politely but insistently pulling her aside. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ She smiled warmly, putting out her hand. ‘Mary Quinn. Quinn Communications.’

‘I, uh, Harriet Gordon.’ The woman was startled into shaking her hand. Yet her small, close-set eyes remained suspicious, and her short yellow hair sticking up like wet feathers brought to mind a timeworn expression: madder than a wet hen.

Mary guided her to a relatively quiet corner, where a gilt settee upholstered in bottle-green velvet was tucked beside an antique glass vitrine displaying hair products. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this. We’ll make it up to you, of course.’

‘Well, I don’t see
how.’
Harriet Gordon’s indignation, momentarily diverted, was once more gathering steam. ‘Money isn’t going to buy me a new head of hair, is it? Look, you can see for yourself, it’s absolutely ruined!’ Grabbing a wet tuft, she held it out for inspection.

Money won’t buy you credibility either,
Mary thought. She doubted the woman had suffered anything worse than a mild burning sensation. Harriet Gordon, her instincts told her, was causing a scene because she knew that today, of all days, she could get away with it. At some point in her unhappy life someone had done her a terrible wrong, and now the whole world was going to pay.

Mary was familiar with the score. The thought of her mother flashed through her mind. Doris would have had a field day with something like this. Only with her, there’d be no way to make it up, no pound of flesh meaty enough to satisfy.

‘You’re absolutely right to be upset.’ Mary gave the woman’s arm a sympathetic pat. ‘But I believe it’s in both our interests to keep this as quiet as possible, don’t you?’

Harriet Gordon eyed her warily. ‘I don’t see how it would benefit
me.
Those reporters outside, they ought to be told what goes on in here. People ought to be
warned.’

Mary felt her panic mount and flashed a quick smile to cover it up. ‘Harriet. May I call you Harriet? I’m in public relations. Believe me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s the press. Ernesto isn’t the only one who would look bad. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of those gung ho reporters accused you of snatching medicine from some poor sick child.’ She shook her head as if in disgust at such sleazy tactics.

The woman’s mouth fell open. ‘Why, of all the—’

‘You know how things get twisted, this being a charity event and all,’ Mary rushed to add. ‘We’ve all got a lot invested, not just in making the salon a success, but in helping those kids at St Bartholomew’s. Did you know that many of them are now homeless? It’s just so tragic. We really should do everything we can.’

Harriet’s mouth snapped shut. She blinked several times in rapid succession before peering closely at Mary as if to make certain she wasn’t being had. Evidently satisfied, she cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said with considerably less vehemence. ‘Well, when you put it that way.’

Quickly, before the woman could change her mind, Mary fished a business card from her purse. ‘Call me at my office on Monday. We’ll talk then, okay?’ Today was Saturday. That would give her the rest of the weekend to come up with some sort of compensation—free passes to a movie premiere perhaps?

Even so, it wasn’t until she was ushering Hurricane Harriet out the door, laden with free hair products, that Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as it turned out. No sooner had the obnoxious woman stepped onto the pavement than a black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb. Diverted by the promise of a celebrity sighting, the press rushed past Harriet to swarm about the limo.

Inside, the orchestra of blow dryers had struck up again. Above their furious whirring, Mary could hear Ernesto venting loudly to someone in Spanish. Two women seated before the mirrors were laughing as if the whole event had all been a skit staged for their benefit. A champagne cork popped. Beautiful young women in iridescent blue silk tops and black capri slacks began circulating trays of champagne and caviar.

Hours later, when Mary finally returned home, after treating her somewhat frazzled assistant to dinner at Jojo’s, she was so exhausted she could hardly see straight. Dropping her purse on the table by the door, she eyed her answering machine, its red light blinking, as she would a small animal that might bite. She couldn’t bear the thought of Simon’s static-riddled voice calling from some airport. Or to listen to one more client bitch about everything she should be doing that she supposedly wasn’t. Even her accountant calling to report that this year’s estimated quarterly taxes wouldn’t bankrupt her after all would have been too much to digest.

Mary drifted down the hallway and through the living room, hardly glancing at the spectacular East River view afforded by her thirty-fourth-floor penthouse. In the bedroom she stripped off her sage linen suit and cream silk blouse, her slip and panty hose, and finally her bra and panties, leaving them puddled on the carpet like stepping-stones leading to the king-size bed, on which she stretched out and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

It seemed no more than a minute or two had passed before she was jolted awake by the phone. She fumbled for it, blinking groggily at the clock on the nightstand. Six-thirty. For the love of Christ, who would have the nerve to wake her this early on Sunday? Simon? She felt a flicker of anticipation before recalling that her boyfriend was in Seattle, where it was even earlier. Besides, he wasn’t the type for such impromptu gestures. Simon was an investment adviser for blue-chip firms; that alone said it all.

She snatched up the receiver. ‘H’lo.’

‘Mary Catherine, is that you?’

No one but her mother called her by her full name anymore. Mary dragged herself upright, pulling the covers up over her bare breasts. Doris wouldn’t approve of her sleeping in the nude, she thought. Not that she’d have any way of knowing. Besides, it certainly wasn’t for show. Mary couldn’t remember the last time Simon had spent the night; he was always off in Boston … or Chicago … or San Francisco.

‘Who else would it be?’ Mary couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice. Wasn’t that just like her mother? Not calling for weeks on end, even to thank her for the roses on her birthday. Then pouncing out of the blue.
No doubt hoping to catch me in the act of condemning my immortal soul to hell.
As if she weren’t already condemned for all eternity.

‘There’s no need to get snippy. This isn’t exactly a social call,’ Doris rebuked her, but her voice lacked its usual bite. She sounded old and tired.

At once Mary felt contrite. Her mother might be a pain in the ass, but she’d been through a lot lately—two surgeries in the last six months alone, not to mention the round of chemo and radiation. Something must be wrong. Why else would she be calling at this hour? Mary was suddenly wide-awake.

‘Sorry, Mama. You woke me out of a sound sleep, that’s all. What’s up?’

Mary was aware of her heart beating very fast and the faint sighing of breath in her ear. Then her mother’s voice, thready and querulous. ‘I’m fine. It’s your
daughter.
Noelle.’ As if she needed to be reminded of her daughter’s name.

‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ Mary tensed, clutching the sheet about her. Maybe it was having been raised Catholic, but there was a part of her that lived in constant dread of her daughter’s being taken from her—as punishment for her having been such a lousy mother.

There was a brief pause. Then Doris reported dully, ‘You’d better come see for yourself. She’s passed out cold on the sofa.’

Mary drew in a sharp breath, as if the mattress had been snatched out from under her. ‘Are you saying she’s
drunk
?’

‘That’s not all.’ Doris hesitated, then said, ‘Emma’s gone. Robert took her with him last night after he dropped Noelle off.
Dumped
her off, I should say,’ she sniffed.

Mary shivered as if the air conditioner had been left on overnight. But the room was warm, sticky even, promising yet another day of temperatures in the low eighties. ‘I’m on my way … soon as I can throw some clothes on,’ she said, her feet already on the floor, rooting blindly for her slippers. It wasn’t even light out, and already the day had begun to ebb, slipping from what it might have been into what it was: something she would have to navigate with extreme care.

‘Drive safely,’ Doris cautioned. ‘We don’t need you getting into an accident on top of everything else.’

No, we wouldn’t want that,
Mary thought with a twist of old bitterness.
Haven’t I caused you enough grief as it is?
It had been thirty years, but when talking to her mother, Mary still had the sense of an eternal, unpayable debt.

Wearily she promised, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t go a mile over the limit.’ What difference would it make? Burns Lake was a good three hours north, and even if she drove like the wind, Noelle was likely to have slept it off by the time she arrived.

The question was, What then? A hangover would be the least of her daughter’s problems. Mary knew of her decision to leave Robert, and this certainly wasn’t going to make things any easier. Suppose he had no intention of giving Emma back? A hard kernel of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.