A Portrait of Marguerite Page 19

  It occurred to me the needed documents probably lay somewhere in Lois’s private office. I had no choice but to search for them. I gathered up the folders, moved to Lois’s desk, and sat on her ergonomically correct leather chair that made mine feel like a park bench. Pulling open the top drawer, I was surprised to find a confusion of pill bottles, nail files, and makeup. The middle drawer contained a hodgepodge of papers and files, some dating back three years. I tugged open the bottom drawer and heard something roll, hitting the back of the drawer with a clank. Digging behind a stack of Golf Digest magazines, I spied several miniature bottles of liquor, the size served by airlines.

  Shutting the drawer, I recalled how the office gang sometimes headed to the restaurant down the block after work. The same waiter always took our drink orders. He would ask Lois if she wanted “the usual,” and Lois would send him a winning look and say, “Sounds good, Harry.” While I drank diet Pepsi and some of the others drank white wine, Lois sipped her iced tea, no sugar. She never acted sloppy, never laughed uncontrollably, and always left a generous tip.

  What was really in that tea? I considered running down the street to ask the bartender if he’d doctored Lois’s drinks, but he might lie. And what good would it do? Lois obviously had a problem, or she wouldn’t be in a treatment center.

  Pacing back to my desk, I remembered the phone message from Bill Avery. At least that deal was sailing along. I relaxed into my chair and dialed Bill’s office number in Pittsburgh.

  “Bev’s pregnant,” Bill said after a brief hello.

  “That’s wonderful.” I envisioned the home they were purchasing. The small bedroom beside the master suite could be used as a nursery. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but now Bev’s decided she doesn’t want to move.”

  “What?” I must have misunderstood. Bev, a friendly young woman, had been ecstatic the day the couple wandered into the open house. “Are you sure? She loved the house. Remember how she raved about the fireplace in the family room and the fenced backyard?”

  “Not anymore. She told me if I move to Seattle, I’m going by myself.”

  My pulse pounded in my ears, sounding like a semi careening down a gravel road. “But your job. I thought you had a great promotion.” My words slurred; I sounded like a woman teetering on the edge of a ravine. “Maybe I should call Bev. Seattle’s a beautiful city. I’d be glad to help her get settled here.”

  “It’s her folks. She doesn’t want to leave them now.”

  “Oh.” I recalled the dreary afternoon Mom had invited me over on the pretense of lunch. Eight months pregnant with Rob and hauling around thirty extra pounds, I’d waddled into my parents’ home and started complaining about how miserable I was. Phil had stayed out past closing time again, we only had two hundred dollars in the bank, and my morning sickness was back with a vengeance.

  “Surprise,” Mom had said with a mischievous grin, and presented me with a white wicker bassinet with an eyelet skirt. A moment later my sister, Candy, and several other girlfriends, each carrying an elaborately wrapped baby gift, materialized from the kitchen where they’d been hiding. Of course Bev wanted to stay near her parents, I thought. And I admired Bill for supporting her decision.

  “I understand,” I said to Bill. “You’re doing the right thing.”

  Andrea’s parents lived in a three-story brick mansion standing partially hidden behind a six-foot fence and tall evergreens. I steered my car into the circular stone-paved drive and coasted up to the front door.

  Rob had never mentioned Andrea came from a wealthy household. Our home was miniscule compared to this one—about the size of the Walkers’ four-car garage. No wonder Rob liked hanging out at Andrea’s.

  Leaving the safety of my car, I dreaded facing Lucille, and wished I’d insisted we meet in a public place so she couldn’t cause a scene. Not that I was responsible for what had happened. It was Lucille’s daughter who’d called Rob in the first place. Andrea had chased after him the way girls do these days. She wore revealing clothes, a slit of seductive bare midriff often flirting out between her T-shirt and low-riding jeans. Even her ponytail swished across her back in a provocative manner.

  Of course Rob had tried things. Any boy would. It was up to the girl to put on the brakes. Not that I’d resisted Phil with much effort.

  I rang the doorbell and a gonging arpeggio chimed throughout the house. As I waited, I tried to peer through one of the tall rectangular windows flanking the door. Maybe Lucille wasn’t home, which would be a relief. After several minutes, I started back toward my car just as Lucille opened the door.

  Her face was devoid of expression, as if I’d roused her from sleep. I remembered her as tall, blonde, and robust—like one of the Nordic athletic beauties I’d seen on the ski slopes. But the woman who stood before me looked as though she were suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome. Her pale cheeks were gaunt; her frumpy hair drooped.

  “Come in,” she said, barely moving her lips.

  I tried to appear at ease as I stepped onto the black marble floor. I scanned the front hall with its graceful staircase curving up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier almost big enough to illuminate an auditorium sparkled overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of light across a floral arrangement sitting on a round table in the center of the room.

  “This way,” Lucille said, pointing me toward the living room. My eyes took in the spacious area with its baby grand piano poised in one corner. An original Andy Warhol hung above the couch, and on another wall a painting by Joan Miro. Out the window stretched an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a diving board at one end, and behind that lay Lake Washington. I felt like a kid watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous on TV.

  “Please, have a seat,” Lucille said, wringing her hands. “May I get you something?”

  I sat on the far end of the couch. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Which wasn’t the least bit true.

  Lucille perched on an armchair next to the couch. She chewed the cuticle around her thumb for a moment. “I assume you know why I asked you to come.”

  “Yes, Rob told me.” Not that he’d said much. I’d been in a daze when we spoke, and I hadn’t thought to ask some pertinent questions.

  “It’s a tragedy. My daughter’s life is ruined.”

  “I’m sorry,” I automatically said, then realized it sounded like an apology. “It’s terrible for both kids. Their lives will never be the same.”

  “But it’s a hundred times worse for the girl.”

  I agreed with her, but I said nothing. On the way over, I’d decided to let Lucille do most of the talking.

  “And what will our friends and neighbors think?” she said. “I’ll never be able to look them in the eye again.”

  I heard elephant-sized footsteps on the staircase. A moment later, Joe, clad in a black suit and red silk tie, swaggered into the room. Not much taller than Lucille, he had a wrestler’s wide shoulders and a broad belly, dark wiry hair, and a brushy moustache.

  “Do you remember my husband?” Lucille asked, her gaze lowered.

  I said, “Yes, hello.” Joe’s cold eyes stared back without a show of recognition. I offered him my right hand, but he folded his arms across his chest.

  “Joe came home early today. Unexpectedly.” She motioned for him to sit, but he remained standing with knees locked and feet spread wide.

  “Is this the boy’s mother?” He directed his words to Lucille, as though I weren’t there.

  “Yes.”

  He spewed a blast of air in my direction. “You’ve got your nerve coming here.”

  “Please, Joe,” she said. “I invited her over. We need a plan.”

  “What we need is to put that juvenile delinquent son of hers in jail.”

  Could that happen? No, Rob hadn’t done anything wrong. I shot to my feet. “My son has never been in trouble in his life.” That was a slight exaggeration, but I returned Joe’s ugly stare as if I were on the witness stand and my life depended on it.


  “He raped my daughter.” He spit out his words like rotten meat. “I’ll prosecute, stick him behind bars where he won’t hurt anyone else.”

  I was horrified. I felt like standing up to the bully and tossing the blame where half of it belonged—on Andrea. But I was unable to speak one word to a man who looked ready to punch me.

  Lucille jumped to Joe’s side. “Please, darling,” she said, touching his wrist, then retreating. “Let’s not argue.”

  He paid no attention. His face flushed purple; blood vessels coiled around his thick neck like serpents. He spun around and stomped across the floor, causing a glass-faced cabinet to shake.

  Lucille and I stood listening to him pound up the staircase, cross the landing, then slam a door. I turned to Lucille and saw fear masking her face. What a horrible brute she’d married. I felt sorry for her, but that didn’t change things. The man had threatened to press charges, and he was an attorney, used to battling it out in the courtroom. Could he do that? Rob and Andrea were the same age, but what if Andrea claimed Rob had forced himself on her?

  “I’m sorry,” Lucille said. She gnawed at her fingernail. “Joe gets a little excited sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  A key rattled in the front door, and she went to open it. Not wishing to be caught alone if Joe returned, I followed her.

  “Mom.” Andrea, one hand holding her abdomen, moved across the threshold like a woman five times her age. She looked as if she’d lost weight. Her jeans hung loosely on her hips, and her eyes were sunken.

  “Baby, are you all right?” Lucille asked.

  “Biology class.” Andrea’s voice shuddered. “We had to dissect a dead frog. The smell made me throw up.”

  Her head jerked when she saw me. “Oh, hi,” she said.

  I was unable to take my eyes off of her. Inside this young woman lay a fetus, I thought. If Andrea was telling the truth, it was my grandchild. I started calculating when the baby would be born. By next summer anyway. Would it be a boy or a girl? Which parent would it favor? What would they name it? I imagined cradling the newborn infant in my arms, and a wellspring of tender emotions almost like love swept through my heart.

  “I invited Marguerite over.” Lucille tipped her head toward the ceiling. “And your father’s upstairs.”

  Andrea’s wince told me she was accustomed to her father’s outbursts. She trudged into the living room, her hand still pressing on her abdomen.

  “Why are you walking that way?” Lucille asked. I trailed behind them like a shadow.

  Andrea kicked off her shoes and tumbled onto the couch. “I don’t feel good.” She rubbed a circle on her belly to show where it hurt.

  Was she having a miscarriage? An ectopic pregnancy? I hurried to her side, knelt on the carpet, and took her hand. I felt warm, moist skin, but didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign.

  “What does it feel like?” I asked.

  “A dull ache.”

  “Get in the car,” Lucille said. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  “No,” I said, maintaining a hold on the girl’s hand. “Call the doctor, but in the meantime Andrea should stay where she is and keep her feet elevated.”

  I’d heard that a quarter of all pregnancies ended in spontaneous miscarriages. But I wouldn’t allow myself to envision the fetus washing down a toilet.

  “Joe!” Lucille called, her voice shrill. In a flash Joe was roaring down the stairs and lumbering into the living room.

  “Andrea’s in pain,” Lucille said.

  He glanced at Andrea, then turned on me like a junkyard dog finding an intruder. “Get away from my daughter,” he yelled, stabbing his finger at me. As he advanced toward me, I shrank away, falling back on one hip.

  His voice turned savage. “Get out of my house and never come back.”

  I choked back a gasp. Using a hand to push myself up, I struggled to my feet. Joe’s face—distorted like a grotesque Halloween mask—hovered a foot away. I turned and ran to the front door, hearing his menacing footsteps behind me as I raced across the threshold.

  I was barely outside when a fist of air whisked by me as the door slammed.

  The rain pelted against my bedroom window. “Storm warnings, with gusts of wind up to forty miles an hour,” the weatherman had predicted on the eleven o’clock news the night before. “And more rain is headed our way tomorrow.”

  Squalls had pummeled the southwest corner of the house all night. With Joe Walker’s voice bellowing in my ears, I’d tossed in my sleep like a swimmer caught in an undertow. Memories of fleeing the Walkers’ home like a thief escaping with his plunder kept my adrenaline pumping, and I woke to find my legs tangled in the covers and my pillow off to the side.

  Getting up and wrapping myself in my bathrobe, I pattered down to the kitchen to find Charlie standing by the door waiting for me.

  “Are you sure you want to go out there?” I asked, knowing he had no choice. When I opened the door, a gust of chilly air funneled in, lifting the hem of my robe. I shivered as I watched him meander over to his water dish. Then I shut the door.

  My thoughts turned to Andrea, and I wondered what happened after I left. I imagined the girl lying in a hospital bed—the tiny life inside her womb forever snuffed. I was surprised at the intensity of my feelings. A miscarriage would solve everyone’s problems, but I felt numb with sadness.

  I decided to call Lucille. If Joe answered the phone, I could always hang up—before he hung up on me. I dialed the Walkers’ number, and Lucille answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Marguerite,” I said. “Is it safe to talk?”

  “No.”

  “Please tell me, how’s Andrea—and the baby?”

  She hushed her voice. “Better. Andrea’s cramping has subsided, but she’s staying home from school today. You were right, the doctor said the best thing for her is to stay off her feet.” Then she hung up without saying good-bye.

  “Thank God,” I said into the mouthpiece. In one way the crisis was over. But Andrea was still pregnant, and my son was still about to take a giant step into manhood long before he reached emotional maturity. The situation was far from settled.

  Replacing the receiver, I considered what it would be like if Rob and Andrea got married, and the Walkers became Rob’s parents-in-law. I couldn’t imagine conversing civilly with Joe after the way he’d treated me, and he would probably be equally abusive to Rob. It would be a blessing if he never spoke to either one of us again.

  As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, my thoughts progressed to my parents. I’d reached Mom on the phone the previous night and was disappointed to learn Dad hadn’t moved home. Mom had announced she was perfectly content living alone. “I think I’ll take a trip,” she’d said in a chipper voice, sounding nothing like the woman I’d spoken to the day before. “I’ve always wanted to take one of those European tours, where they do all the driving and pamper you. Travel through Italy, track down my cousins. Your father would never go anywhere unless there was a golf course.”

  I didn’t ask Mom if she’d changed the door locks for fear of reminding her. “Maybe you should call Dad,” I suggested.

  “No, I’m done being his doormat.” I heard a man’s voice talking in the background. “I need to hang up and get back to Rick Steves on PBS. He’s doing a segment on Rome.”

  I needed to get ready for work, but I felt like crawling back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and hiding for the rest of my life. But I had bills to pay and needed to spend the day trying to locate the Henricks another house. With my luck, Sherry and Wayne would decide not to move after all. I also needed to contact Mr. Basetti and Lois’s other clients to see if I could make those deals fly, as Lois would say.

  In the bathroom I threw off my robe and stepped into the shower stall before the water had thoroughly warmed. The icy droplets pricked at my skin. As I lathered myself with soap, I tried not to think about Andrea or Rob, but it didn’t work. I’d
never left them in the house alone and wondered where their romantic tryst occurred. It must have been at the Walkers’ or in Rob’s car. Either way the thought revolted me.

  The water finally heated up enough to bring my body temperature back to normal just as I was ready to get out. I blotted myself with the towel. Glancing in the mirror, I saw a leathery face that had aged in the past week.

  The cordless telephone by my bed squealed. It must be Mom, I thought. Or was it Rob? I wrapped the towel around my torso and ran to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Laurie said.

  “I’m glad you called.” I needed a friend to talk to.

  “I’ve really had it this time,” she said in a scratchy growl.

  “What happened?”

  Her voice swelled with indignation. “Dave accused me of having an affair.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Is that what you told him?”

  “Of course not, but when he said he was looking for you, I didn’t lie.” Out the window, I could see the treetops bend and shake as the wind picked up. “Where were you?”

  The line fell silent. “Okay, I was having lunch with someone—a man—in a public place.”

  “Laurie, are you crazy? Why?”

  “Because I’m lonely. Because Dave loves his work more than he loves me. If he came home to find the house had been ransacked, he’d check to see if his computer was missing before he’d worry about his wife and kids.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. And even if he did, that doesn’t justify your seeing another man.” I wished we were speaking face-to-face so she could see the full force of my disapproval. “Did Dave find out about your date?”