Mad River Road (6 page)

“Charming.”

“I thought so.”

“And did you give them back?”

“Absolutely. I didn’t want the damn things anyway. Except for a pair of gold-and-pearl earrings I used to wear all the time. I really hated giving those back.” Jamie made a face of displeasure. Why was she talking about
her former husband and his mother? The bed might be king-size, but it wasn’t big enough for all of them. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re out of my life. I’ll never have to see either of them again.”

“You’re free to do whatever you want,” Brad said.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It
is
easy.”

Jamie closed her eyes, lay her head against his chest, and allowed herself to be lulled by the steadiness of his breathing.

“You ever think about just getting in your car and seeing where the road takes you?” he asked.

“All the time,” Jamie said.

S
he dreamed of her mother’s funeral.

Except that in her dream the pallbearers consisted not of her mother’s assorted friends and colleagues, but rather of her father’s subsequent wives, each wearing a bridesmaid’s dress of the palest mauve chiffon and clutching a bouquet of odoriferous white lilies. Her sister stood next to the coffin, tall and regal in a deep purple, matron-of-honor gown, occasionally glancing at her watch. She’s waiting for me, Jamie understood, trying to locate herself among the mourners.

“I’m coming,” she tried shouting from the periphery of her consciousness. “Wait for me.” Jamie saw herself racing toward the crowd just as the coffin began its measured descent into the ground. Omigod, I’m naked, she realized, trying to shield her naked flesh from her sister’s horrified eyes and tripping on a nearby stone that sent her hurtling through the air. The casket’s lid opened wide to accept her.

Inside the white, satin-lined coffin, her mother opened gold-flecked, brown eyes and stared accusingly at Jamie. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Jamie let out a cry and jolted up in bed, a trickle of perspiration trailing its way between her naked breasts, her breathing labored and unsteady. “Damn,” she muttered, pushing her hair away from her forehead and trying to reconnect with both her surroundings and reality. Her surroundings were easy: she was in her apartment, in her tiny bedroom, in her king-size bed. Her reality was harder to accept: she was a twenty-nine-year-old woman in a dead-end job, with an ex-husband in Atlanta, a married lover in the hospital, and a virtual stranger in her bed.

Except that Brad Fisher was no longer beside her, she realized, coming fully awake, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Had she dreamed the handsome stranger as well?

The throbbing between her legs quickly convinced her he’d been real, as did the dent in the pillow where Brad’s head had been. “Damn,” she said again, straining to hear sounds of him coming from another room, then burying her face in her hands, knowing he was gone. On the one hand, she was relieved he wasn’t there. At least now she wouldn’t have to contend with the moments of awkward silence, the fake promises to get together again soon, the painful kiss on the forehead as he hurried out the door. He’d spared them that. She should be grateful. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel abandoned, used, and even a bit abused. Again. “Don’t be silly,” she told herself. You were using Brad Fisher every bit as much as he was using you. What’s the old saying? The best way to get over one man is by getting under a new one? Surely she hadn’t expected a one-night stand to turn into a lifetime of devotion.

Except that, deep down, that was exactly what she’d been expecting.

Jamie wondered at what precise moment Brad had crept out of her bed and out of her life. Had he left as soon as she was safely asleep, or had he allowed himself the luxury of a few hours slumber before making his escape? He got what he came for, after all. The dearly departed indeed, she thought with an audible sigh, her dream relegated to an unpleasant blur that hovered just out of her mind’s reach. Still, it would have been nice if he’d at least hung around long enough to wish her a nice day, she decided, glancing at the clock beside the bed. 8:15. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed as the bright red numbers on the digital clock registered on her brain. “It’s eight-fifteen,” she shouted to the empty room, knowing that no matter how quickly she showered and dressed, no matter how fast she drove, no matter how many excuses she prepared, she would be late for work, and Mrs. Starkey would be furious.

“You are such an idiot,” she said, her sister’s wagging finger following her into the bathroom. “You couldn’t even remember to set the alarm clock.”

I was a little busy, Jamie thought, suppressing a smile as she stepped into the shower and turned on the tap, positioning herself directly underneath the nozzle and opening her mouth to the sudden torrent of hot water. “You are such an idiot,” she repeated, the words riding the water out of her mouth as Brad’s invisible hands slid the soap across her body, his fingers lingering on her breasts and belly before disappearing into the folds between her legs. God, did he have to be so damn good? she wondered, emerging from the shower seconds later and rubbing herself almost raw with a large yellow towel, trying to erase the memory of his touch. Too good to be
true, she reminded herself as she brushed her teeth and hair, then threw on the first things she saw in her closet, which she realized too late were the same navy skirt and powder blue blouse she’d worn to work the day before.

When something seems too good to be true, it usually is
, her sister recited as Jamie stuffed a piece of cold, leftover pizza into her mouth and rushed for the door.

No makeup?
her mother asked.

Jamie ran down the concrete steps to the parking lot behind the three-story building, surreptitiously checking the lot for Brad’s car, although she knew it wasn’t there.
How could you be such a moron?
she castigated herself again as she fumbled inside her purse for her car keys.
What were you thinking?
“That’s just it. You
weren’t
thinking,” Jamie said before either her mother or sister had a chance.

You never think until it’s too late
, they added anyway.

Jamie checked her watch. 8:40. “I’m late all right. Mrs. Starkey is going to kill me.”

But Mrs. Starkey wasn’t in her corner office when Jamie finally plopped down at her desk at almost ten minutes after nine. The four other claims adjusters who shared the sun-filled space barely acknowledged her entrance, although she thought she detected a slight shake of the head from Mary McTeer.

“Everything okay?” Karen Romanick asked without looking up from her computer. Karen was Jamie’s closest friend at Allstate, although they rarely exchanged confidences and never socialized outside the office. She was reed thin and her hair was a veritable explosion of frizzy blond curls that lent a faintly frantic air to everything she did. Being around her for any length of time made Jamie nervous.

Jamie nodded. “Mrs. Starkey not here yet?”

“Oh, she’s here all right.” Karen’s tone rendered further comment unnecessary. Mrs. Starkey was here, the tone said, and she wasn’t happy.

“Great.” Jamie turned on her computer, calling up one of the files she’d been working on the day before.

“Did you get to the hospital?” Karen asked out of the side of her mouth.

“I sure did.”

“So how’s Tim?”

“Married,” Jamie said simply, then caught the strange look on Karen’s long, triangular face. “You knew?” she asked incredulously.

“You didn’t?”

I am
such
an idiot, Jamie thought again. Was she the only person in the world who hadn’t known?

You only see what you want to see
, she heard her mother say.

The phone on Jamie’s desk rang. Maybe it’s Brad, Jamie found herself thinking. He’s sorry he had to run out so early; he wants to make it up to me. Jamie took a deep breath and answered the phone in the middle of its second ring. “Jamie Kellogg,” she announced hopefully. “How can I help you?”

But instead of Brad’s soothing voice whispering words of apology in her ear, she heard the nasal New York accent of Selma Hersh berating her for not getting back to her yesterday, as she had promised she would.

“I’m so sorry,” Jamie told the woman, trying to remember exactly who she was as she pressed the keys to locate her file. “I was having some problems with the computer yesterday, and I couldn’t access the information I needed.”

There was a snort of derision from Selma Hersh. “When can I expect my check?” she barked.

Jamie quickly scanned the woman’s file. “It appears we still don’t have all the necessary documentation, Mrs. Hersh.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We need a doctor’s letter stating the cause of your husband’s death.”

“You have a copy of the death certificate. Why do you need anything else?”

“It’s standard policy, Mrs. Hersh. We need a note from the doctor who pronounced your husband dead, stating the exact cause of death.”

“He died of pneumonia.”

“Yes, but I still need a note, on the doctor’s letterhead—”

“My husband died at JFK Memorial. How am I supposed to know what doctor pronounced him dead?”

“I’m sure the hospital can assist you in obtaining that information.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hersh. If you’ll just get us that note, we can release the check to you immediately.”

“This is absurd. I want to speak to your supervisor.”

“I’ll have her call you as soon as she gets in.” The line went dead in Jamie’s hands. “Have a nice day,” she said just before the phone rang again. Jamie took a deep breath, pushed her lips into a smile. “Jamie Kellogg.”

“Jamie. Hello.”

She recognized Tim’s voice immediately, although it lacked its usual resonance. She wondered if he was still in intensive care and if his wife was still standing guard. Hang up, she thought.

“Don’t hang up,” Tim said, as if reading her thoughts. “Please, Jamie. Just hear me out.”

“I see you’re still alive,” she said coldly.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie,” he began, a tremble in his voice that threatened tears.

Jamie shook her head, feeling her body sway, knowing she was perilously close to getting sucked back in. They’d been together for over four months after all. He’d been her lover, her confidant, occasionally even her friend. And now he was in the hospital, having barely escaped death.…

What’s the matter with me? she berated herself, slamming her fist onto the computer’s keyboard, causing the screen to go instantly blank. He was a married man, for God’s sake, and he’d lied to her. Had she no pride, no sense of self-preservation? Had her marriage taught her nothing at all? “What are you sorry about, Tim?” Jamie snapped, thinking of Selma Hersh, deciding she could use some of that old woman’s gumption right about now. “That you lied to me, or that you got caught?”

“Both,” he acknowledged after a pause.

“What did your wife tell you?”

“That I had some visitors from the office. It didn’t take a genius to figure out—”

“Are you getting a divorce?” Jamie interrupted.

Another pause, slightly longer than the first, then, “No.”

Jerk, Jamie thought. You picked a hell of a time to start telling the truth.

“That must have been some scene last night,” he said, chuckling softly.

“You bastard,” Jamie said slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

The laugh quickly degenerated into a cough. “What? No, of course not.”

“You’re flattered, you miserable son of a bitch.”

“Jamie, you’re overreacting.”

“Go to hell.” Jamie slammed down the receiver.

In the stillness that followed, Jamie gradually became aware of other sounds: the hum of her computer; the slightly grating sound of Mary McTeer’s voice as she conferred with a colleague; the clicking of Karen Romanick’s fingers across her keyboard; the rhythmic breathing of someone standing directly behind her. Jamie swiveled around in her seat, knowing who was there even before she saw the long, manicured fingers that were Mrs. Starkey’s trademark. They tapped impatiently against the sleeves of her beige silk blouse.

“What an interesting way to deal with clients,” Mrs. Starkey remarked, cool hazel eyes glaring at Jamie from behind a pair of square, tortoiseshell glasses. “No wonder you’re so popular.”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie began, not quite sure what she was apologizing for. For being such an idiot, for having an affair with a married man, for sleeping with a stranger, for taking personal calls on company time? Any or all of the above? What the hell—take your pick. She was sorry for her whole misspent, stupid life.

“My office,” Mrs. Starkey snapped, turning on her brown flats and marching off without looking back.

“Damn.” Jamie glanced at her blank computer screen. “Damn,” she said again, unable to move.

“Just go in there and listen and don’t answer back,” Karen advised out of the corner of her mouth.

“I don’t think I can deal with her right now.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

“Damn.”

“You’ll apologize, you’ll grovel, you’ll keep your job,” Karen said.

“I don’t want this job,” Jamie said loudly.

“What are you saying?”

Jamie pushed herself away from her desk, rose quickly to her feet. “I’m saying I don’t want this job.”

“What are you
doing?”

Jamie began emptying her desk of any personal items—a telephone-address book, a tube of pink lipstick, a nail clipper, a spare pair of pantyhose. “I’m quitting.”

“Without talking to Mrs. Starkey?”

“She’s a smart lady—she’ll figure it out.” Jamie bent down to give her startled colleague a hug. “I’ll call you when the dust settles.” She walked from the office in purposeful strides.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Karen called after her. “I mean, you don’t think you’re being a little rash?”

Jamie saw Mrs. Starkey watching her from her corner office and relished the quizzical look on her angular face. “Have a nice day,” she called back to no one in particular, letting the door slam shut behind her.