Promise of Safekeeping : A Novel (9781101553954) (24 page)

“Shockoe Bottom. Yesterday around ten. I was going to yoga. And I don’t know why—I just had this feeling that someone was following me.”

Will took a deep breath. “Arlen was with me yesterday at ten. We were staining an old bookshelf.”

“All right. Must have been my imagination.”

He took her arm, stopped her. They stood in the middle of the forgotten road, tangles of Virginia creeper carpeting the ground around them. Will didn’t hide his concern. Or his frustration. “If you thought someone was following you, why didn’t you call me?”

“Because it was just a feeling. I’m sure I imagined it.”

His grip tightened. “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the first rule of self-defense is to trust your instincts. You should have done something.”

“I did. I went inside.”

He realized he was holding her; he let her go.

“You’re angry,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “What was your first clue?”

“Glabella wrinkles.”

“Sounds sexy. What’s that?”

She reached up and touched the spot between his eyebrows. “Here.”

His eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them again she was looking up at him, the rust-brown of her irises glinting like tiger’s-eye.
“Glabella,”
he said. “It sounds better on you.”

She smiled.

“What else?” he asked. “What other parts have names?”

Her eyes sparkled. “The pad on your chin has a name. It’s called the
chin boss
.”

He looked at her chin; if she’d had a harder jaw, her chin would have made her face more soldierly than soft. He took a risk, reached out, and touched, pinched the nub of flesh with his thumb pressing
the middle. It was firm and soft as a peach. “Hmm,” he said quietly. “What else?”

She didn’t smile this time. She was watching him, steady. “Philtrum.”

“Where’s that?”

“The small indent from the nose to the upper lip. Some mythologies say it’s a mark left by the angel Gabriel, who touches his fingers to a baby’s lip before it’s born.”

“Why?”

“To keep them from telling the secrets of heaven.”

Philtrum.
He touched her gently, and she let him. He’d never looked at a woman’s face so closely before, and Lauren’s held up to the scrutiny. Without makeup, she wasn’t the porcelain doll she’d once appeared to be on TV. Her seemingly flawless skin actually showed freckles and lines. Beneath her beauty was her sleeplessness, her resolve and strength, all the pressure she put on herself—but also something hidden and tender. He wondered if, for all her studying the human face, she could ever put words to the way a person’s features said so much in a way that was much deeper than superficial expressions of muscles and bone.

He dipped the tip of his index finger into the valley of her philtrum, the cradle of her upper lip. He wanted her mouth, wanted to trace his index finger along her lips and, if she would let him, push for entrance. Instead, he shifted his hand to her cheek. A safer terrain, with no name that he knew of to make his heart pound. He’d committed to drawing his hand away one split second before he thought she may have leaned into it.

“
Philtrum
is Greek for
love potion
,” she said.

“Why?”

She looked up at him, eyes hazy. “They thought it was the most sensual part of the body.”

“And to think I never gave it half a thought.”

“Maybe you should.”

He stilled. He wasn’t so dense as to miss the challenge in her voice. But he had too much history with her—or at least, with the version of her that he’d found so compelling for so many years on TV and in books—to simply fall into bed with her. What did she want from him? A quick lay—a fling with a handsome redneck, like so many women he met on picks? Something that she could tell her friends about when she was back in Albany? A way to make her ex-boyfriend jealous? To up her chances of getting to Arlen? Or was it possible that she simply wanted
him
for no reason besides the wanting?

“Ho, there!”

He didn’t have to come up with an answer. Hobo Jim had stepped out of the underbrush, and he stood in the middle of the lane waving his floppy straw hat around over his head and laughing in birdlike whoops.

“I got an old mattress back here,” he said. “If you don’t mind the mice.”

Will pulled himself up straighter and he thought,
My God, I’m still fifteen years old
. He gave Lauren a nod, then held her eye long enough to tell her that he’d come back into the real world now, and that in the real world, things were different.

Hobo Jim’s smile was as big as the moon from a hundred feet away, despite his long gray beard. He stood grinning like Lauren and Will were the most exciting things that had happened to him in a year.

“Oh wow,” Lauren said under her breath. “Now,
that’s
an antique.”

“He’d probably let you buy him for a hundred bucks,” Will said.

She turned back to him, and then she was laughing, and Will was too. If she’d thought for a moment that she might like to kiss him, she thought it no more. She gave him one last glance and then trudged through the mud toward the old picker who lived out on
this property, the man who was shouting at her that she’d come to the right place if she was looking for a good time.

Nine years might as well have been an eternity. Nine years ago, Arlen had been a newlywed. He was going to night school for his nursing degree. Nine years ago, he snuck cigarettes outside when Eula wasn’t there to catch him. He liked the band Pearl Jam. He got to a couple Redskins games a year, and he went home hoarse from yelling every time. Nine years ago, he liked when they had Christmas at his mother’s house, instead of his in-laws’, because his mother made better pie. He had no idea about things like prison tattoos, or gang signs, or what they meant.

Nine years ago, he had all his hair. The hardest day of his life until his arrest was when his father had showed up, asking for money, and Arlen had told him to go away. The best day had been his tenth birthday, when his mother had surprised him with a new bike and a cake shaped like a whale. Nine years ago, Arlen shone up his bowling ball once a week to meet Will and the guys, and once, he’d nearly bowled a perfect game. Nine years ago, the future seemed friendly enough.

Nine years was a long time.

Thirty-six
hours
ago, Arlen had walked out on his job. Last night, he’d fallen asleep in his clothes, rough cotton and hard buttons, and now his bed smelled like smoke and beer. In the refrigerator, there was the breakfast Will had brought for him; there was orange juice. In the bathroom, there was running water for a much-needed shower. He had all the accommodations of a good life around him now. No more armed guards. No more schedules and rules. Will had come through for him. The trouble was, he didn’t think he could come through for Will.

He lay in bed, thinking. Was it worth it to try to explain to his
bosses why he’d walked off the job on Thursday night? Were the police going to come looking for him after the boy filled out a report—
if
the boy filed a report? Was he going crazy, or did it seem that the longer he was out, the harder things got?

He rolled over, closed his eyes against the sunlight. He had no idea what time it was. He half remembered a story from when he was a kid, about a man who had gone into the woods for a nap and who came out twenty years later. Arlen had slept a long time last night. More than ten hours. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of traffic outside the window, and then he slept more.

“So how long you known our Billy?”

Lauren sat with Will’s mother, Jacqueline, out under the tiki torches that surrounded her white-limestone patio. Dinner had ended, and now the glass-and-iron table was strewn with paper plates, blue plastic cups of beer, and condiments. They’d had an impromptu picnic: two of Will’s brothers, his sister, his mother, and his stepdad. Lauren knew Will hadn’t felt completely comfortable bringing her along to his mother’s house—his voice had betrayed his concern—but once his brother had called and found out Will was in the area, the troops had been rallied, dinner was assembled, and Will hadn’t been able to tell them no.

Now Lauren was pleasantly sleepy, her belly full of carbs, meat, and beer. She couldn’t understand why Will had been so reluctant to let her meet his family, or why he seemed so closed off to her at times. His mother and siblings were warm, funny people who obviously loved him. All evening long, they’d gone out of their way to make Lauren feel welcome—but not because they placed any great emphasis on formal manners: their affection was real. They cracked off-color and raunchy jokes, were suspicious of all politicians, and bought their potato salad from an old lady who lived
down the road. The radio blared country music, the beer was sweet and light, and Will’s brothers had made a big fuss over Lauren when Will arrived with her in tow.

Now the men had retreated to the garage to do something mysterious and manly—Jacqueline and Annabelle shooed them on their way—and Lauren sat together with Will’s mother and sister, and the brand-new baby boy on Annabelle’s lap.

“Will never said a single word about you!” Annabelle said cheerfully. “It’s like you came out of nowhere!”

“Because he wanted to keep her all to himself,” Jacqueline said.

Lauren laughed awkwardly. “I only met him on Monday. We’re working together for a little while. Then I’m headed home.”

“Where’s home?” Annabelle asked, rocking the baby as she swayed gently side to side. Will’s sister had bright, friendly eyes. Lauren guessed she’d gained some weight from her pregnancy, but she wore it well; she was healthy and glowing.

“Home is Albany,” Lauren said. “It’s at the top of the Hudson River. About three hours north of New York City.”

“Oh, well, that’s a shame,” Jacqueline said. “Because it’s been a long time since Will brought a woman to dinner—and certainly never as nice a one as you!”

“Are you an antiques dealer too?” Annabelle asked.

“No. I’m a lawyer. I don’t practice anymore but I consult.”

“You’re a
lawyer
? What’s Will need to be working with a lawyer for? He’s not in any trouble, now, is he?” Jacqueline asked.

“Not that I know of.”

Annabelle glanced up from the baby. “Are you my replacement? Helping him with the picks?”

“For a while.”

Jacqueline looked at Annabelle with a crease between her eyebrows. “She didn’t come all the way down here from New York State to go on picks.”

“Maybe she collects antiques,” Annabelle said.

“No offense,” Jacqueline said, glancing at Lauren. “But you seem more like a modern type. Something tells me you don’t collect antiques.”

“No, I don’t collect.”

“Okay, then I’m stumped.” Annabelle laughed. “You’re not here because you’re in love with Will. You don’t collect antiques. You’re a lawyer working with my brother but he’s not in any trouble with the law . . . I know. You’re Rumpelstiltskin!”

Lauren laughed. She wondered if Will was also getting the third degree about her. What she wouldn’t give to know what he was telling them. “You found me out.”

“Knew it,” Annabelle said under her breath and smiling.

Lauren let a moment pass, then told the truth. “I’m here because I was part of the team that prosecuted Arlen Fieldstone. And I wanted to apologize. Will’s been helping me get a foot in the door.”

“Well, that’s good of you,” Jacqueline said.

“Very good.” Annabelle got carefully to her feet, holding herself as if she was sore. “I always liked Arlen. How’s he doing now that he’s out?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

“But I thought . . . ” Annabelle’s voice trailed off.

“I’m working on it,” Lauren said.

Annabelle took a few steps toward her, until she was standing at Lauren’s side. “Do you mind taking the baby? I’ve got to use the little girls’ room.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to.”

And then Annabelle leaned down to put the infant with tremendous slowness and care into Lauren’s arms. “Thanks. Be right back.”

Lauren shifted the weight of the baby in the crook of her elbow. She tried to think of the last time she’d held such a small child, but
no memories came to mind. She watched him, fascinated. He had a slight rash on his cheeks, a flat nose, and fine, fine eyebrows. His eyes opened only for the briefest of moments while she settled him against her, and it seemed to her as if that small movement of his eyelids, opening them just long enough to recognize that he’d been moved, was a tremendous effort. His weight sank as she felt him relax.

“Mind if I smoke?” Jacqueline asked. She stood up from the table and made her way to the far end of the patio. Her hair was dull blond, dark at the roots but thin and fragile all around. Her face bore permanent worry lines, little horizontal ridges along her forehead. Her upper lip had the first feathery wrinkles caused by years of smoking. She lit her cigarette; it burned orange black against the dusk.

“We didn’t always live like this, you know,” Jacqueline said. She gestured with her free hand to the house, the property. The yard was worn in spots, punctuated by objects: a hot tub with a thick brown cover, a shed, a four-foot pool, a riding lawn mower, a horseshoe court, and a couple dozen concrete figurines of gnomes, geese, and bunnies.

“It’s a nice place,” Lauren said. “Comfortable.”

“I didn’t have any of this until I married my Robbie. And by then, Billy was already out of the house on his own.”

“Will’s very entrepreneurial.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying ‘desperate,’ ” Jacqueline said, laughing. “When Billy was a boy, we didn’t have nothing. I used to send him and the kids down to the Elk lodge for dinner because I couldn’t feed them. The horses in the neighbor’s barn had better shoes than them. I worked my tail off—you bet I did. But we never knew where our next meal would come from or who might get stuck in the shower when the lights went out.”

“Sounds tough,” Lauren said. In her mind, she saw Will as a
boy—the young man whose photograph was on his mother’s living room wall. He was skinny and knobby, a fishing pole over his shoulder. And he was smiling.