A Portrait of Marguerite Page 18

  I jabbed the bell several times.

  Alice, wearing the same platinum blond, crimped hairstyle and simpering facade she’d always sported, opened the door right away. At first she didn’t seem to recognize me, but then said, “Marguerite? What are you doing here?” Her lips pressed into a tight smile that didn’t mask her discomfort.

  I inhaled a dense cloud of gardenia-scented perfume. “Is my father here?”

  “No. Why would he be?”

  I brushed past her and stalked into a small living room that sparkled with neatness. I felt like a detective snooping through a crime scene. Plush furniture lined the walls. A collection of ceramic figurines sat on the fireplace mantel, before an ornate gilded mirror. A low Florentine coffee table stood on the flowery carpet. I saw no evidence of my father—not his reading glasses, wallet, or the extra change he sometimes left by his easy chair.

  “I haven’t spoken to Vern for over a week.” Alice said, remaining by the front door, one hand on her hip. “Is he missing? Maybe I can help.”

  I hurled my words like daggers. “You’re the last person on earth I’d trust. I know all about you, how you’ve been throwing yourself at my father.” As I neared the fireplace, I was tempted to sweep my arm across the mantel and crash the expensive statuettes to the floor. Let Alice experience what it was like to have an intruder destroy her home the way she wrecked Mom’s.

  Alice must have picked up my thoughts, because she lunged over, shaking her hands. She squeezed between me and the fireplace. “There are two sides to every story,” she said.

  “Shut up, you tramp.”

  Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. “Listen, I don’t care whose daughter you are. This is my home. I don’t have to put up with this.”

  “Who pays for this house anyway?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police.”

  I had no doubt she would do just that. I flung her a look of disgust, then bolted out the door. It slapped shut behind me, then I heard the clunk of a deadbolt locking. Out on the sidewalk, I rifled through my purse in search of my keys. Something sharp—maybe a pen—poked into the palm of my hand. I was so frustrated I felt like overturning my purse and strewing its contents on the sidewalk. But I figured Alice was watching me out the window. The last thing I wanted to do was give her something to laugh about.

  I dug into my purse again, found the key, and rammed it into the lock. Listening to the motor sputter to life, I glanced over my shoulder at Alice’s house and wondered what kind of a life this woman led. If she loved Dad, her world had to be a pathetically lonely one. Before my father retired, he was usually home for dinner, on the weekends, and during holidays. And now he rarely left the house. He always carved the turkey on Thanksgiving Day and handed out presents on Christmas morning. Had Alice waited for him to show up when he felt like it, like Charlie under the dinner table begging for scraps?

  Then I envisioned Mom curled on the couch in a fetal position, and my momentary pity for Alice flipped back to animosity. The woman deserved to suffer.

  I pictured my father arriving here, perhaps with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Would he buy her roses, too? He’d always seemed like such a good husband and father. Growing up, I’d practically worshipped him. But the truth was, he was a rat. Even worse than Phil.

  I released my foot from the brake pedal, and the car puttered down the street. Something flickering on the dashboard signaled a problem. The idiot light? What did that mean? I checked the gas gauge and noticed the needle resting on empty. I’d meant to fill up the tank the day before, but was so preoccupied I forgot.

  By the time I’d reached the nearest gas station, the light blazed red. I pulled in behind a Suburban and waited for the driver to pay before I could coast forward into position. A gust of soggy air billowed into the car as I stepped out. The sky opened up, whipping raindrops under the gas pump overhang. I selected the cheapest grade, pulled up the lever, and dragged the hose over to my car only to remember that the gas tank was located on the other side. Muttering words that hadn’t entered my mind since my teens, I stretched the hose over the top of the trunk and rammed the nozzle into the gas tank.

  It would be nice to have a man with me right now, I thought. Dad always pumped Mom’s gas, but maybe never again. Was it possible my parents would get a divorce? That seemed ridiculous. Yet, if I were in Mom’s shoes, I might do the same thing she’d done: kick the good-for-nothing out. Were there no decent men? Even my son had turned out to be a louse.

  The nozzle handle lurched in my hand, indicating the tank was full. As I pulled the nozzle out, an elongated dribble of gasoline spurted across my pant leg. I read the dollar amount, opened my wallet, and found just enough cash to cover it.

  Finally at home, I felt like I’d run a marathon. Charlie demanded my attention; the dog sat on his haunches, his paws crossed. I scooped him up and cuddled him, and his wiry body trembled with ecstasy.

  “You’re my best buddy, aren’t you?” I remembered the Scottish tale of a small terrier that slept on his master’s grave after the old gentleman died. The compassionate townspeople fed the dog, who refused to leave the graveside. Now that was devotion, I thought, the kind rarely found among humans.

  “You’ll never leave me, will you?” I asked him.

  His moist tongue flicked out, and I offered my cheek, then gave him another hug.

  My thoughts turned to Rob, and an encore of disappointment and sadness saturated my chest. But I couldn’t deal with Rob’s situation yet. Not while my mother sat alone, brokenhearted.

  My life had been built upon the fact that Dad was an honest man. He’d been one of the stone pillars supporting my world. I now knew he was a fake, a fraud, and my bones ached as I tried to accept the truth. He was a liar, I told myself. If he’d been dishonest with Mom, what else had he covered up? Was he living a double life? I felt lopsided, as if one leg were suddenly shorter than the other.

  I carried Charlie into the living room and sat on the couch. The weight of the dog’s warm body in my lap comforted me. I stroked his ears and felt my pulse slow down a notch. With my free hand I lifted the phone. I wanted to talk to Mom, but she’d promised to call if she heard from Dad. Had the scumbag still not bothered to call home?

  I dialed Laurie’s number and Dave answered on the second ring. When I asked for Laurie, he said, “I thought she was with you.”

  “Uh, no.” I stopped patting Charlie and sorted through my memory bank. I was sure Laurie and I hadn’t made plans for today. “Maybe she’s with Susan or Erika.”

  “No, she said you two girls were going shopping together.” He sounded perturbed. “Some big sale.”

  “Maybe we got our wires crossed. I’ve been at work, then at my parents’.” But Laurie knew my work number, and she would have tried to call me on my cell phone if I hadn’t shown up for a date.

  “If you see my wife, tell her to come home right away.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No, I have an important meeting today and can’t find a pressed shirt. Laurie was supposed to go to the dry cleaner, and is probably driving around town with my laundry in her trunk. In the meantime I’m looking like a bozo wearing the same shirt I wore yesterday.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her.” I heard the line go dead as Dave hung up. I scratched Charlie between the ears, then my fingers stiffened as I contemplated if Laurie was lying to Dave and using me for an alibi. If so, where was she? I considered calling Dave back to warn him now was the time to work on his marriage, not worry about wrinkled shirts.

  Charlie whined softly as he waited for me to continue. I tickled him under the chin. “Sorry, boy.” I closed my eyes and envisioned Laurie sifting through a rack of clothes at Chico’s, her favorite shop, spending a bundle. But was Chico’s or any other store holding a sale this week? I hadn’t received a notice in the mail or seen any ads in the newspaper.

  The phone chirped, and I stuck the receiver to my
ear, expecting to hear Laurie’s voice.

  “Marguerite?” a woman’s wire-thin voice said. “It’s Lucille Walker, Andrea’s mother.”

  When I spied Alice sitting across the restaurant table from Dad, I was furious enough to walk out of my father’s life forever.

  Alice, her lime green satin dress barely covering her knees, leaned toward him and spoke with intensity. Her hand reached to take his as though they were two lovebirds. Mom sat at home crying, I thought, while Dad was out on a date with his girlfriend.

  Finding him had been no easy chore. I’d spent an hour phoning every major hotel in town and finally located him at the Washington Athletic Club, with its fitness rooms, spa, restaurant, and overnight accommodations. Was this why he’d held onto his membership there? So he could use the club facilities for his rendezvous with Alice?

  The hostess approached me. “Would you like a table?” she asked.

  “No, I won’t be staying.” I took a step toward the door. But leaving would make things too easy for them. I should stay and confront the two lowlifes, never mind the other people in the restaurant. I would march over to Dad and Alice’s table and overturn their luncheon plates in their laps, then toss ice water in their sorry faces.

  Thinking how good that would feel, I noticed Alice shoot to her feet, then pitch her napkin down on the table. With squared shoulders and arms swinging like a soldier, she charged toward the door, almost colliding with me. We stood face-to-face for a moment. Hatred spewed out of her eyes, and I glowered right back at her, almost hoping she would give me an excuse to pop her in the nose. Her mouth flapped open, but she flounced past me without speaking.

  Dad, clad in his favorite tweed sports jacket, still sat at the table. He didn’t seem to notice me when I stalked over with my arms folded across my chest. A roast beef sandwich, looking as if it had just come out of the kitchen, sat on a plate in front of him.

  I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to sound like his when he demanded someone’s attention.

  He finally glanced up, and a half smile formed on his thin lips. “Hello, honey.”

  A whirlwind of condemnations danced on the tip of my tongue, but all I could say was, “Shut up.”

  He shot me his patriarchal look, which used to make me melt into a puddle. But not anymore. All respect for him gone, I glared down at the reprobate with disgust. He looked older: His face bore a cobweb of craggy lines, and the top of his head shined through a thinning mat of hair.

  A waitress appeared at the table, cleared Alice’s empty plate, and asked me if I wanted a menu.

  “No thanks, I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Please sit down,” Dad said, gesturing to Alice’s seat.

  I lowered myself gingerly, leaving my chair several feet from the table.

  Dad played with his spoon, flipping it over and back several times. “I take it you’ve spoken to your mother.”

  “I talked to her, all right.”

  He rotated the spoon between his thumb and forefinger. “It wasn’t my idea to leave. I told your mother I’d never speak to Alice again and begged for forgiveness, but she tossed me out.”

  “What did you expect her to do?” I said it with such ferocity that several heads turned.

  He placed the spoon parallel to his knife. “You’re right. She’s right. I deserve everything I get.”

  My mind struggled for equilibrium. I realized the best scenario was Dad’s going home and reconciling with Mom, even if he wasn’t good enough for her. That was the only conclusion that would make Mom happy.

  I tugged my chair closer to the table. “Was Alice the only one, or were there more?”

  He shook his head glumly. “No, just Alice.” His cheeks blanched gray, like worn cement. “I told Alice it’s over between us, forever.”

  I scowled. Years ago, when I’d lied about doing my homework, Dad had spouted, “A man’s only as good as his word.” How gullible I’d been to buy into his self-righteousness. Looking at him now after all those years, I saw an insignificant little man with shoulders bent forward like a vulture and a face shriveled like a prune.

  “I’ve tried to break it off with Alice before,” he said. “Many times. But I was weak. I couldn’t keep away from her.”

  I screwed up my face. “You couldn’t keep away from Alice? She’s ugly.”

  The waitress arrived at the table with the check. She glanced down at Dad’s sandwich and asked, “May I wrap that up for you, sir?” Then she carted his plate into the kitchen.

  Dad charged the meal to his room by signing his name at the bottom of the check. “I was a lot younger when I got myself into this mess,” he said. “And your mother wasn’t an easy woman to live with.”

  I recoiled, my weight lifting off the chair. I couldn’t believe he had the gall to place any guilt on Mom. “That’s your excuse?” I said. “No one’s easy to live with all the time. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

  His voice faltered. “I don’t blame you for being angry.” His features twisted down, as if he were going to cry, something I’d never seen him do. “I’m trying to make things right. I called your mother a couple of hours ago and said I’d like to come home and patch things up.” His mouth hardened when he added, “But she told me not to bother, that she hadn’t slept so well for years. She informed me she’s changing the locks today in case I get any ideas about coming back to the house.”

  He sat straighter, arms crossing. “Did she mention anything about hiring an attorney? She’d better not plan to use mine.”

  Was retaining his lawyer and protecting his finances all he could think of? His callous remark sent me to my feet and out the door.

  I reached into my cubby and picked up my telephone messages as I entered the office. I sorted through the slips of paper and read the words Bill Avery, please call ASAP.

  I turned to the receptionist, Stephanie, who was sitting behind her L-shaped desk, and asked, “Has Lois been in yet?”

  Stephanie’s exaggerated smile revealed displeasure. “She went to Palm Springs for a month. I assumed you knew. She told me you’d handle all her calls.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Stephanie, a slim blonde in her early thirties, wore dark-rimmed glasses that gave her a determined look. “In fact, she told me it was your idea.”

  “I offered to help out if she needed a vacation, but she said she couldn’t leave town.”

  Another agent strolled through the door, and Stephanie waited for the man to pass by before she said, “Welcome to the club.” She checked to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Lois is always unloading surprises like this on me.” She stood to hand me a weighty stack of manila folders, each bulging with paperwork. “Here, she said to give you these.”

  With the phone messages stashed in my pocket, I balanced the folders in my arms and just made it to my workspace before they started slipping. The papers landed with a thud on my desk, sounding like the foundations of a building giving way. I plopped down on my chair and stared at them. This scene reminded me of my recurring nightmare in which I arrived at a strange classroom to find I needed to take a final exam without preparation. I thought of Lois. That woman could probably bulldoze her way through the test and come out with an A. She was a shrewd businesswoman, one of the most organized and goal-oriented people I’d ever met—not the type to throw her house sales away on a whim. Her mother must have died.

  My hand flew for the phone, and I called Lois’s home number.

  Her husband, Walt, answered. “She’s visiting an old friend,” he said, his words hesitant. When I asked to leave a message, he stated, “She can’t be reached.”

  “Would you please ask her to call me? We’re working on some transactions together.”

  “I said, she can’t be reached.”

  I remembered talking to Walt on a number of occasions. He’d always seemed a jovial fellow and quite chatty. “Is everything all right?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I added, “Loi
s told me about her mother.”

  I heard a muffled sound, then a sniff. “It’s not her mother who’s having the problem,” he said. “It’s Lois. But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Not that keeping this a secret has helped either one of us.”

  Maybe Lois was in the hospital being treated for heart disease or cancer, I thought. I could imagine a woman like her wouldn’t want the whole office knowing she was incapacitated. “Of course,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “It’s her drinking. She’d been keeping it under control—only one glass of wine with dinner, maybe a couple on the weekends. But when I got home last night, she was talking crazy, making no sense. When I tried to smell her breath, she came unglued and said she was going to divorce me if I didn’t quit hounding her.” He sucked in a raspy breath, then his exhale hissed through the receiver. “In the bottom of the trash can under the kitchen sink I found an empty vodka bottle.”

  I swallowed an astonished gulp. I’d hardly ever seen Lois ingest alcohol—a few times at company parties, but in moderation. The woman was forever cool and collected, always in control.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Residence Twelve, a rehab for women. It’s not her first visit there.”

  I massaged my throbbing temple with my free hand. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Few people did.”

  After I hung up, I glanced down at the top folder and saw the name Basetti scrawled across the top. Had Lois found the man a home and neglected to inform me? This thought made my head spin. I was sure we had agreed to work on that sale together. I tipped opened the folder and found Mr. Basetti’s check and an earnest money agreement dated three days earlier. I recognized the seller’s name and the house I’d discussed with Mr. Basetti on the phone. The seller had yet to sign the papers, I noticed. Had Lois even presented the offer to him?

  I sorted through the stack of folders and found several unfinished house deals with missing documents. One sale was supposed to close in a week, but I couldn’t find the inspection report required by the lender. Another file contained a request from a bank for verification of a buyer’s income. A third held phone messages from a seller saying he couldn’t vacate his home until January, while the buyers stated they needed to move in by the first of December.