Wildwood Road (5 page)

Other than its location—Michael loved Boston Common and the State House—the job was wholly unremarkable. He answered phones and filled out paperwork; the department had half a dozen people doing the work of two. He sketched a lot, working on covers to imaginary CD's and books, and sometimes he even read, there at his desk.

But the job was not a total loss. If he hadn't made that trek into Boston all summer, if his mother hadn't made those calls, if his father hadn't been in state politics, he never would have met Jillian.

One July morning, he sat at his desk typing up a form and trying to ignore the uncomfortable closeness of the air. The air-conditioning wheezed from vents in the ceiling as though on its last gasp. His desk was nearest the window, and the glare of the sun on his back combined with the failing air conditioner to make his work space almost stifling. They were supposed to get around to fixing the a/c soon, but Michael had no faith in what “they” said. It was a government building, after all. It took two to do half the work of one, and that was on the off chance they weren't on break. He figured they'd get around to fixing the a/c just in time for the cold weather to come blustering in.

The office was filled with conversation, a steady hum of voices. Michael typed the date at the bottom of the document he was completing, then tapped the key to print it. He stood to stretch, and glanced around. Kara, the woman who headed up his department, was on the phone. Sheila was bent over her computer, doing a background search on a corporation. He had no idea where the others were. Their area was separated from a much larger room of files and computer stations where paralegals could come and do UCC searches for their firms' clients, but his missing coworkers were nowhere in sight.

“Michael?”

He turned to Sheila, who had pulled her focus away from her computer long enough to get his attention. She smiled and gestured toward the long open counter-window at the front of the office.

“You have a customer.”

The girl on the other side of the counter stood patiently, a file clutched against her chest. Michael felt a warmth kindled in his gut that had nothing to do with the faltering air-conditioning. He knew her name, of course. She came up to the Corporations division at least twice a day to do UCC searches or to get certificates of good standing for her firm's clients. There were other things he knew as well. She was Italian. From Medford. She had only just graduated from Suffolk University, and in addition to her B.A. had earned a certificate that allowed her to work as a paralegal.

As Michael strode toward the counter, Jillian Lopresti glanced up at him and her eyes lit up. He drew a sharp breath through his nostrils and held it, trying not to smile like an idiot. Jillian reached up and pushed a stray lock of chestnut hair away from her face and laid her folder down on the counter.

“I was beginning to think you had the day off,” Michael told her.

Jillian rolled her eyes. “I wish. I could use a day off. I'd rather be at the beach.”

Michael tried not to imagine her at the beach—in a bikini—for fear that his eyes would trail downward and she would catch him looking, catch him imagining.

“What've we got today?” he asked.

She opened her file and withdrew several documents. “The usual. Three separate corporations, all owned by the same client. I need to know if they're in good standing. If not, how far back do we have to file to get a certificate?”

He nodded, taking the pages from her. There were a dozen little bullshit things he could have said, just to shoot the breeze, but he was not in the mood for small talk. Michael had other things in mind.

Jillian looked at him expectantly, clearly wondering why he wasn't off to look up the corporations in question. She raised her eyebrows.

“So, what do you usually do for lunch?” he asked.

One corner of her mouth lifted in an adorable smirk. Perhaps she was only a year older than he was, but there was so much confidence in her. Michael admired that. He also found it incredibly alluring. Even more so than the images his mind had conjured of her in a bikini.

What do you usually do for lunch?
he had asked.

Jillian studied him. “Eat.”

Michael laughed politely, but he was not deterred. “When's your lunch hour?”

Her smile turned sly. “When I'm hungry.”

“Well, when you're hungry today, I'd love to take you to lunch.”

She let out a little breath and shook her head. “Sorry. I have plans.”

All the air seemed to go out of him. Those hazel eyes sparkled, and her smile remained, but apparently Jillian hadn't been nearly as interested in him as he had been in her. Michael had been taken by her the very first time he had seen her. She carried herself with the air of someone much older, and she always had a pleasant word for the others in his department. That first day she had worn a burgundy blouse and a black skirt with a slit up one leg. He could still hear the echo of her heels the way they clicked on the linoleum on the other side of the counter.

There had been no overt flirtation between them, just an exchange of pleasantries. Not very different from the way she spoke to anyone else in that office. But, still, he had hoped.

Michael forced a smile that he hoped didn't reveal how foolish he felt. He waved the documents at her as if she needed to be reminded what he was doing, and started back toward the computer at his desk.

“Isn't tomorrow your birthday?” she said to his retreating back.

He frowned as he turned to face her. How did Jillian know it was his birthday? “Yeah?”

She shifted her stance, putting all her weight on one foot, her hip outthrust beneath her skirt. It was a defiant pose, and heartbreakingly sexy. “Do you already have plans?”

“No.”

“Well, then, why don't I buy
you
lunch tomorrow? To celebrate?”

Michael stared at her a moment. Then he nodded. “I'd like that.”

She played me,
he thought.
The girl played me. She was busting my balls the whole time.

I think I'm in love.

M
ICHAEL FELT LIKE SHIT.

It had been only a few hours since their rude roadside awakening. They had come home and showered, and immediately he had retreated to the basement to avoid Jillian.

The house was only three years old. They had bought into a new development and watched excitedly over the months as the house went up. West Newbury was expensive, but not in Andover's league. With their joint salaries, they had still been overreaching, but had hoped that in a short time their income would catch up with their expenses.

With Jillian's promotion last year to paralegal manager, they at last had a little breathing room. Now it was time to do some of the things to the house on Persimmon Road that they had been holding off on. One of those was finishing the basement. Michael had begun framing for walls in July. It was the sort of thing he had to do in spurts, when he had the time and inclination.

No day like today,
he thought.

He was nearly done. A couple of hours of work remained, and then he would be able to go out and buy the insulation and the sheetrock. That would be a big job, however, and it wasn't something he was going to worry about today. Not with the thudding headache that had settled like storm clouds across his skull. Not when every quick move shot him full of so many aches that he felt a hundred years old.

The Patriots were playing Dallas today. Kickoff was at one o'clock. Once the game started, he could hide in front of the television. Jillian didn't mind football, but it held no interest for her. With the game on, she would find other things to do in the house, perhaps even go out to do errands, as she so often did on Sundays. By the time the game was over, it would be dinnertime.

By then, Michael hoped that her anger would have cooled some. Then, maybe, they would be able to talk about what had happened the previous night. Their conversation in the car had been clipped and tense. Never in his life had he been so confused, and yet the person to whom he would naturally have turned for help was in no mood to lend him comfort.

It had taken Michael several minutes just driving around before he was able to get his bearings enough to find his way home. Jillian had wanted to know what had happened, how they had ended up spending the night on the side of the road. To his shame, Michael hadn't been able to tell her. He knew he must have had some flash of insight and realized he had to pull over before he passed out behind the wheel, but he couldn't remember any of it. Images of the previous night were jumbled in his mind, many of them disturbing and some, he felt, possibly only dreams or drug-induced hallucinations.

He remembered the masquerade perfectly, including their departure. He could recall Jilly passed out in the backseat. But the drive home from the Wayside Inn was all a blur. The hum of his tires on the road, of the car engine. He had been sleepy. Drunker than he had thought.
God, how could you have driven like that?
But that was the key, wasn't it? He had not felt drunk when he had gotten behind the wheel. Then again, wasn't that what they all said?

A ripple of silver. Come find me.

Michael winced at the picture that flitted across his mind, like the lingering colors on the inside of his eyelids after a camera flash had gone off. And a voice. A little girl's voice . . .

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. He shook his head. None of it made sense. He had had only a few bottles of Guinness. Certainly not enough to induce this kind of blackout. He knew it was possible, of course. Had experienced it before, waking up in the morning to discover himself guilty of some fairly embarrassing behavior. But it had been years since he had been that intoxicated. Since college, in fact.

But to drive that way, to park on the side of the road and sleep it off and not remember how he got them there?

Michael was almost as angry with Jillian as she was with him, but most of his hostility came from guilt, and from the terror that filled him when he thought about what might have happened to them. As humiliating as it had been to be woken by the police rapping on the car windows, it was nothing compared to the worst-case scenario that had played out in his mind again and again since they had reached home that morning.

Not his own death. No, the worst thing would have been if he had gotten Jillian killed, and survived to know it.

He squeezed his eyes tightly together and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he steadied himself and drove another nail.

There were images in his mind that confused him. The last thing he remembered—really remembered—was nodding off at the wheel. But there were other things

Come find me.

Other pictures in his head. A little blond girl, a halo of light around her head. An old, rambling house on a hill, dark and abandoned. A nightmare. It had to have been. For how else to explain the feeling of unease that crept up his spine when he thought of such things? He could picture himself even now, in the midst of that nightmare, standing in an unfamiliar kitchen. He had a vague memory of a chorus of little-girl voices singing jump-rope songs.

One, two, buckle my shoe.

And something . . . some weird trick of the light that in his dream had frightened him.

Some trip. Some fucking trip.
The sleeve of his D'Artagnan jacket was torn, and there were several small cuts on his face. Little pinprick things that Jillian hadn't noticed.
Of course she hasn't noticed them. She won't look you in the face.

Some fucking trip,
he thought again. Michael was certain that's what it had been. Someone had dropped something in his beer. What other explanation could there be? Maybe there had been a house and a girl and he'd tried to keep driving afterward and couldn't make it home. Maybe. If so, they were both fortunate he had had the sense to pull over and park for the night. But he wasn't ready to talk to Jillian about it. Not when things were like this between them. It made his belly hurt to remember what it had been like driving home with her this morning. She had sat in the passenger's seat with her arms crossed, expressionless, gazing out at half-stripped trees as they drove.

Now, in the basement, Michael propped a two-by-four in place, plucked a nail from his lips, then hammered it into the wood with four solid strikes. He added a fifth unnecessarily, and it marred the wood in a strange crescent.

In his mind was an echo of the last words Jillian had said to him this morning, just as they had pulled into the driveway.

“I can't believe you let this happen.”

Michael had dropped the car into park and responded without looking at her. “You weren't exactly the picture of sobriety. I had to carry you to the car.”

He heard her swear under her breath, and knew what was going through her mind. That sort of public display was something she would have found disgusting in anyone else. The idea that she had done such a thing, that others might have witnessed it, appalled her.

Of course, he had exaggerated. He had certainly had to support her to get her to the car, but he had not carried her. Just then, however, Michael was stinging from her anger and disappointment, so he was in no rush to alleviate her concerns.

A flash of guilt went through him now as he recalled that sin of omission, but he was not prepared to correct it. Not yet.

Michael and Jillian were lucky. In one another they had found love and patience and good humor. When they fought—as all couples did—their arguments usually sprang from anxiety over money, or from disagreements over their respective families. Michael had only his mother and his older brother, both of whom lived on Cape Cod. Jillian had a large Italian family spread across half a dozen North Shore cities and towns. They did things differently, of course. Had different approaches and expectations about holidays and family events, a hundred little social differences. Such things took time for a couple to adjust to. But even these things were small. In the eight years since they had first met, they'd had only a handful of arguments that had lingered.