Leap Year (8 page)

Charlotte Wallace groaned. “Well,
I
need a drink,” she said. “Can I fix you one?”

“No thank you,” said the cop. “So let’s get this straight. Your husband left a message saying he had kidnapped your daughter?”

“Well, ‘reclaimed’ is the word he used. As I said, there’s been a little misunderstanding concerning custody. Actually, knowing Lyle, he probably had one of his thuggy friends do it.”

“So why would they kidnap Kate Parish?” the cop asked.

“Have you ever seen twelve five-year-olds in party dresses? They do look remarkably alike. Especially in the dark. They were at the planetarium, remember. And the name tags were the same.”

“Why were they wearing name tags? They can’t even read.”

“They were for Annmarie’s benefit,” said Charlotte. “The
au pair.
She took them to the planetarium.”

“Your husband resides in Los Angeles?” asked the cop.

“My ex-husband,” said Charlotte. “Let’s get that straight.”

“Is he Lyle Wallace? The actor?”

“I, myself, wouldn’t call him an actor, yet some people do.”

“He used to play for the Jets, right?”

“My, you’re quite the fan, aren’t you,” said Charlotte.

“I’m just trying to keep things straight, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s a full-time job with Lyle.”

“Do you have his address in Los Angeles?”

“Yes, although he’s probably gone to Mexico.”

“Mexico? Why do you think that?”

“Because we have a house there. Or rather,
he
has a house there. He got all the west coast real estate. I got this tomb.”

“Where in Mexico is it?”

“Oh, Lord,” said Charlotte. “I have no idea.”

“Don’t you have the address?”

“No,” said Charlotte. “I spit on the west coast! I spit on Mexico!”

“Be that as it may, it would help us if we knew where the house is. Is it in Acapulco? Mexico City? Cancún?”

“No,” said Charlotte. “It’s in some awful peasanty little town. With a Spanish name. But don’t ask me what. I don’t remember any of it very well. Mexico was pre-Betty Ford for me. I was never very attuned to my surroundings back then, if you know what I mean.”

Charlotte Wallace’s bedroom had been designed by a manic depressive. All the furniture was wrapped in burlap, and everything that wasn’t wrapped was painted black. It was like being inside a moving van.

“Maybe you should sit down,” said Mike. “Or do you want to lie down? I have to ask you some questions, but feel free to lie down.” He patted the bed, as if he were a mattress salesman.

Loren closed her eyes. I think I’m going crazy, she thought. This can’t be happening. She could feel herself rocking back and forth. She felt very tall. I am tall, she thought. She chose to concentrate on her tallness. Tall, tall, tall, she thought. She felt Mike come over and steady her, lead her to the bed. He sat her down.

“Are you okay?” she heard him ask.

She wished he wouldn’t speak. If this weren’t happening he wouldn’t be speaking. This isn’t happening, she told herself, but she must have said it out loud because Mike said, “What?”

She opened her eyes. It was happening. She had to do something. She had to find Kate. She stood up. “I’m going to the planetarium,” she said. “Kate must be at the planetarium.”

“No,” said Mike. “She isn’t.”

Loren turned to him. “How do you know?” she said. “Did you look?”

“No,” said Mike.

“She’s at the planetarium,” said Loren. “I know it.” She went out into the hall and started down the stairs. Mike followed behind her, and there at the bottom of Charlotte Wallace’s stupidly curved staircase was the other cop, coming toward her. She must have screamed, because everyone suddenly stopped.

They all stood in their places for a second, and then the cop who wasn’t Mike said, “Mrs. Parish? It’s okay. We’re getting this all figured out.”

“I’m going to the planetarium,” said Loren. “Kate is at the planetarium.”

“I don’t think she is,” said the cop. He started up the stairs again. Loren looked past him toward the front door, thinking she could run around him, dash outside, grab a cab. It wouldn’t take long to get to the planetarium. And once there, she could hold Kate, hold her hold her hold her, safe, beneath the starry, exploding vault of sky.

“Hi, Kate,” said Eileen, the flight attendant. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” said Kate.

“Would you like a coloring book?”

“No thank you,” said Kate. “I don’t like coloring books.” Kate thought coloring books were stupid. She liked to draw her own pictures. “I’m going to see my dad.”

“Are you? I thought this was your dad,” said Eileen.

“I’m just a friend,” said Jim. “Right, Kate? I’m a friend?”

Kate looked at him. She knew he wasn’t Heath, but he reminded her of Heath, so he must be a friend. And she wasn’t sure why she was taking a plane to see her dad—usually she took the subway or a taxi. She took a plane to see Nana, not Dad. Maybe Dad was at Nana’s. But this was fun. Kate had never flown first-class before. She liked it. She had already drunk three Cokes, each of them with a cherry. And they were going to see a movie later, with things in their ears!

“I’m a friend,” Jim said again, smiling at her. “Right, Kate? Aren’t I a friend?”

A
MANDA
P
AINE WAS SITTING
in the back office of the Gallery Shawangunk, safe behind the velvet rope, purging the guest list, which was her favorite activity. Margot Geiger, the new gallery assistant, was going through the mail. Margot had just graduated from Sarah Lawrence.

“Here’s a postcard for you,” she said. She handed Amanda a picture of a fountain in the middle of a traffic plaza. The fountain had a bit of everything on it: lions, cherubs, women in togas; gargoyles drooled and fish spat, and around it small European cars drove up an avenue lined with trees and cafes. Amanda turned it over and read the caption:
LA GRANDE FONTAINE, PLACE DE LA LIBERATION, AIX-EN-PROVENCE;
below that was the following message, written in Anton’s tiny indigo script:

Bonjour, Amanda—Solange and I are rediscovering southern France and, if your cynical heart can believe it, our love. All these lazy days, good food, and dappled sunlight make love easy. Not like New York. How is your cynical heart faring? We will be back July 7 for Dominique’s wedding. Perhaps you could arrange to open the Arnot show sometime that week, before we depart for Saratoga on the 15th? I leave the gallery in your capable and shapely hands. Farewell, Amanda.

It was signed with an X and O and a splotch of red currant preserve.

“The bastard,” said Amanda.

“Who?” said Margot.

“Nothing,” said Amanda. “Listen, what do you think of the Heath Jackson photographs?”

“I love them,” said Margot. “I think they project this wonderfully paranoiac quality, while raising important questions about focus and meaning.”

Perfect, thought Amanda. If some Sarah Lawrence princess liked Heath’s photographs, they must be truly awful.

“This is from Mr. Shawangunk,” Amanda said. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“What?” asked Margot.

“We’re canceling the Arnot show. We’ll replace it with Heath Jackson.”

“But I thought you did an Arnot show every summer,” said Margot. “You said that’s where you make all your money.”

The little bitch, thought Amanda. Who does she think she is? Mary Boone? “Not this year. The Japanese are the only ones buying, and they don’t like Arnot. We’ll put up the Heath Jackson. Call Arnot and tell him. Or better yet, send him a telegram. Sign it from Anton. Then get Mr. Jackson on the phone for me, and make a reservation: two, smoking, one o’clock, Barocco.”

“Is this yours?” David asked. He was looking through Loren’s bookshelves. He had been released from the hospital on Monday and had spent most of the time since then at Loren’s, waiting for news of Kate. So far there had been none.

“What?” asked Loren. She was lying on the couch, the phone on her stomach, staring at the ceiling. She was trying to will the phone to ring.

David held up
Love in the Time of Cholera.
“Gregory’s,” said Loren.

“Have you read it?” asked David.

Loren seemed to think for a moment. “No,” she said. She didn’t want to talk. Talking seemed a luxury; a decadence. How could she talk about anything with Kate gone?

Judith was scouring the bottoms of Loren’s copper pans. She had been cleaning odd things all morning. She had even cleaned the coils in the back of Loren’s refrigerator. A counter separated her from the living room.

For a few minutes no one said anything. David started reading the book, but he couldn’t pay attention to it. The words kept swimming.

The phone rang. Loren was so tense the ringing hurt her stomach. She turned the recorder on, as the police had instructed her, and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Sonia Sanchez-Wheeler. I’m with the law firm of Agon, Mix, Broadhill, and Sanchez-Wheeler here in Los Angeles. I’m representing Mr. Lyle Theodore Wallace. Could I speak with Mrs. Parish?”

“This is Mrs. Parish,” said Loren. “Where’s Kate?”

“Your daughter is fine, Mrs. Parish. I’m calling to arrange her safe return to you. That’s all my client wants.”

“Well, what’s the problem? Why hasn’t she been returned already? What’s taking so long?”

“We have just one problem,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wallace. “But it’s a small problem, and we’re sure that with your cooperation—”

“Listen,” Loren began, but her rage prevented her from continuing.

“First, I’d like to explain to you my client’s position. We don’t know what his ex-wife has told you. Were you aware, for instance, that Charlotte Wallace was denying Mr. Wallace legal custody of his child?”

“No,” said Loren. “And I don’t care. All I want is my daughter!”

“I know,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “Please just listen to me.”

But Loren couldn’t listen anymore. She threw the receiver down on the couch and started to sob. Judith went over and held her.

David picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said. “This is Mr. Parish.”

“Mr. Parish, hello. This is Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. I’m contacting you to arrange the safe return of your daughter. As I was explaining to your wife, there’s just one small problem.”

“What’s that?” David asked.

“It concerns Mr. Wallace’s culpability and your intentions therewith. Let me explain: Mr. Wallace was entitled by law to regain custody of his child on May the first. He did not. He proceeded to hire a company known to me as Children Finders, Children Keepers, Inc. to regain said custody. On Saturday afternoon, May twenty-first, members of that company, armed with a warrant, proceeded to reclaim Kate Wallace from within the Hayden Planetarium while she was watching the
Sesame Street
Muppets in space. They, as you know, made a mistake. Now my question to you is, do you hold my client responsible for their incompetence, and if so, what would you propose to do?”

“In other words, do I intend to sue the bastard?”

“That’s my client’s concern. He hopes that you, as an anguished parent, will sympathize with his plight—you are now in his shoes, so to speak—and agree not to hold him responsible for your or your child’s anguish and to direct any lawsuit toward the truly responsible party in this matter, namely, Children Finders, Children Keepers, Inc. If you are willing to sign an affidavit to this effect, your child will be released to you forthwith.”

“And what if I don’t?” David asked.

“To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Parish, I don’t know how Mr. Wallace would then proceed. I just hope you will have the good sense to conclude this matter as quickly and simply as possible.”

“I’ll have to discuss this with my wife and my lawyer,” said David.

“Of course,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “Please do that. Let me give you my number, so you can call me when you’ve made a decision.” She supplied the number.

“What about Kate?” asked David. “I want to talk to Kate.”

“I’ll arrange with Mr. Wallace for that to happen. Stay near your phone.”

When Heath arrived at Barocco, he was shown to a table occupied by a bottle of champagne stuck in a bucket of ice. This confused him—he didn’t know if it was a good or a bad omen. When Amanda had called him and demanded his presence at lunch, he had assumed she had changed her mind about his show. Heath had been expecting this, and on the subway he had tried to look on the bright side: He had worked hard the last month in preparation for this show, so his portfolio would be in better shape than ever. It was time to start schlepping it around again.

Amanda made her entrance, and Heath stood up as she approached.

“Please, please, sit down,” she said, extending her hand so that it was parallel with the floor, as if she expected him to kiss it. Heath shook it awkwardly, and they both sat.

“It’s so nice to see you again,” said Amanda. “You’re looking swell.”

“It’s nice to see you,” said Heath.

“Let me apologize for the short notice,” said Amanda. “I’m so glad you were free. But I have good news, and I believe good news should always be delivered promptly and personally. Don’t you?”

Heath smiled and shook his head. It was all he could manage.

“Well, let’s get one of these stevedores to open this bottle, and then we can toast your imminent success.” She signaled to a waiter, who did as he was bid.

“So,” Amanda continued, when they were both equipped with fizzing flutes. “News flash: There’s been a change of plans chez Shawangunk; all, I might add, to your great good favor. As you may or may not know, we usually present a Gilberto Arnot show every July. Well, for reasons too complicated—not to mention boring—to divulge, Monsieur Arnot’s work will not grace our walls this summer.” Amanda raised her glass. “Instead, we’ll be introducing a brilliant new photographer—Heath Edward Jackson.”

Heath’s combined relief and sudden joy incapacitated him. He sat there, smiling stupidly. Amanda raised her glass higher, anticipating his, which he finally supplied. “Cheers,” she said. “May this be the beginning of a richly rewarding career.”