Superstition (24 page)

She looked up at him squarely, steeling herself not to be manipulated in this way. “You don't know what it's like, Taylor. I'm too afraid. I can't go any further.”

He leaned toward her, his hands spread wide on her desk. “I know exactly what it's like—because you're writing about it brilliantly. What I want to know now is how it feels to come through this thing and out the other side, and I won't ever know that if you quit. More importantly, nor will you, Joanna. And I think you should know. I think you
need
to see this thing through.”

She gave a brief laugh with a touch of bitterness.

“What's so funny?”

“I was just thinking how true it was, Taylor—there really are good reasons why you're where you are. It's a compliment.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I'm right about the two of you, you know. It has to be part of the story.”

He took his hands from her desk and straightened up, folding his arms.

“I mean, when you've got one of the world's leading physicists offering to stand up and cheer for your team, the least you can do is admit you're humping the coach. Otherwise it'll only come out later and make you look dishonest. And that would damage the story—which would be a pity, because I think it deserves a Pulitzer.”

He peered down at her solemnly for another calculated moment.

“Anyway, I'm sure you'd rather write about this relationship yourself than have somebody else do it.”

She didn't say anything, but she must have communicated her acquiescence by body language, or perhaps just by her silence. At any rate, Taylor nodded his approval.

“I thought so,” he said, and went out—then popped his head back around the door. “You don't have to say how big his cock is, just admit that you've seen it.”

For a while, alone, she just stared at the screen onto which she'd brought up the text. She didn't want to do this, but Freestone's blackmail left her no option. The trouble was she knew that he was right: hardened skeptics of the paranormal would seize on the revelation of this “concealed relationship” as clear evidence of fraud. If only out of respect for those three members of the group who had died, she was not going to let that happen.

An hour later she read through the changes she had made, which had proved easier than she had expected. Surprisingly, they made the whole thing more accessible, describing how on a human level she had found herself drawn into a sequence of events that she would have dismissed as impossible if they hadn't actually happened to her. The only thing she found difficult was figuring out what to say about the effect of those events on the relationship. The reason for that, of course, was that she didn't know herself. She was still pondering the question when her phone rang. It was Sam.

“We didn't get a chance to talk this morning. I need to see you, Joanna. Can we have dinner?”

“My parents are back from Europe. I'm going up for the weekend.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Maybe Sunday.”

“Meet me Sunday night…?”

She hesitated. She knew that her anger with him had been irrational the other night, and still was. It was wrong to blame him for what had happened; making him the scapegoat for her fears would solve nothing. Yet she was doing it and didn't know how to stop.

“Look,” he said, breaking the silence between them, “nothing's changed in the way I feel about you. I love you, Joanna. I'm asking you not to turn your back and just walk away. At least talk to me.”

The simplicity of his plea touched her. She realized then that she still loved him, but something made it impossible for her to say the words—something impossible to define, which only confused and unnerved her even more.

“I don't know what time I'll be back,” she said finally. “I may stay till Monday. I'll call you—okay?”

“Sure, okay. Give my best to your parents, will you? I hope they had a great time.”

“Thanks, I'll tell them. I'll talk to you. Bye.”

“Bye, Joanna.”

She hung up and stared into space. What did she want? What was she looking for?

Of course she knew what she wanted more than anything: she wanted the nightmare to end and her life to go back to what it had been before all this. But Sam had not been part of that life; he was inextricably part of “all this,” of what was happening now, and that created an incompatibility that she was powerless to resolve.

She remembered she had used that word the other night in Sam's apartment. Incompatibility. And Roger had agreed with her—that maybe, in some way that remained unclear, Adam's existence had become incompatible with theirs. It was a thought that made just enough sense to be frightening, yet not enough to be taken seriously by a sane person.

Yet she was a sane person, and she took it seriously. Was that just another incompatibility? Was she crazy, or was it the world? And anyway, where was the line between them, herself and the world? Was there any line at all?

A sudden and involuntary shudder ran through her, like one of those moments when you've unknowingly fallen asleep and suddenly tip forward in your chair. But she hadn't been asleep, just lost in the vicious circle of her thoughts. She took a deep breath, grateful for the instinct that had shaken her free, and busied herself with what she had to do. She hit a key on her computer that would send the new draft through to Taylor Freestone. Then she looked at her watch. If she left now, she realized, she had time to go to her apartment and change out of her funeral clothes and still catch a train before the rush hour started.

She hurried through the office without a backward glance or a word to anyone.

34

H
er main preoccupation on the journey was what she was going to tell her parents. Like a teenager with some guilty secret, she knew that the whole truth would be a serious mistake. There would be worry and concern and the weekend would be ruined.

Already on the phone her mother had asked about Sam: were they still seeing each other, how was the project going that they'd been working on? Joanna had managed to avoid giving any straight answers, thereby creating the impression that the relationship had entered a troubled no-man's-land and was better not talked about for the time being. This had the secondary effect of putting the experiment itself, by association, mercifully off limits, something for which Joanna was profoundly grateful.

To Joanna, this weekend was something of a lifeline. It represented the essence of what she was trying desperately to cling to, that unquestioned and indefinable sense of belonging that came only from home and family, and which was so much taken for granted until it was no longer there. Now, with the shifting perspectives that had been happening around her, Joanna was beginning to lose that sense of normality, of belonging. More than anything in the world, she wanted it back. She wanted to wrap her old life around her like a warm blanket, and if she had to lie to prevent it from being snatched away, then she would do so.

Her father met her off the train, driving her mother's station wagon, and with Skip, their crossbreed terrier, in the back. The dog had stayed with neighbors while they were away, and was overjoyed at the prospect of a full family reunion. He sat on Joanna's knee and licked her face during the short drive home through the gathering darkness. She laughed and hugged and scolded him alternately, all the while keeping up a nonstop conversation with her father about places they'd been and people they'd met and meals they'd had.

As they pulled in through the gate the car's headlights swung over the shrubberies, herbaceous borders, and plant-covered pergolas that surrounded the rambling clapboard house. The garage door swung open automatically, and closed behind them with a comforting, familiar thunk. Skip was already out of the car, turning in circles and yelping to celebrate their arrival.

Joanna hurried down the short passage to the house proper. Her mother opened the connecting door before she reached it, and they threw their arms around each other. Joanna closed her eyes and let it all flow over her—the warmth, the rich smells from the kitchen, a Mozart flute concerto coming from the radio somewhere in the distance. It was all as it should be, as she remembered it, as she always wanted it to be.

Moments later she was watching her mother check the slowly roasting chicken while her father handed her a glass of wine. The three of them drank to each other, to being together, to being who they were.

Her parents talked some more of where they'd been and what they'd seen and done. “We took some
wonderful
videos,” her mother said. “We'll show you them after dinner.”

“Come back and watch our vacation movies—we'll pay you!”

Her father shot the words out of the side of his mouth. It was an old joke in the family, and Joanna whooped with laughter—perhaps too loudly in her anxiety to embrace all that was familiar and reassuring, because her mother stole a quick glance in her direction. She didn't break the rhythm of what she was doing or change the expression on her face, but Elizabeth Cross had sensed something, and Joanna knew it.

When they sat down to dinner, candlelight flickered on silverware and the polished tabletop, and the whole dining room was reflected in the long window that looked out upon impenetrable blackness, but where tomorrow would be visible the well-kept lawn, the flower beds, and the bank of trees that dipped toward the river below.

They ate and drank with nonstop companionable chatter, enjoying being together in a way that Joanna knew few families were lucky enough to share. Despite that look of her mother's in the kitchen, there was no obvious strain, no sense of certain subjects being carefully avoided while guesses were made and conclusions discreetly drawn under cover of a blameless conversation. She knew that there would be a moment tomorrow, probably in the morning when she went shopping with her mother as she usually did, when questions would be asked and she would have to deal with them. But she was ready for that. She'd worked out a strategy. Nothing was going to spoil these precious few days.

“I'm sorry…?”

The apology came from Joanna's mother. She hadn't noticed Joanna's purse lying flat at one end of the sideboard, and had knocked it to the floor as she pushed the cheese board to make room for an empty salad bowl.

Joanna was also on her feet, clearing away plates. “I'll get it,” her father said, sliding from his chair and down on one knee. Joanna thanked him, but didn't give the incident a second thought. There was nothing breakable in the purse, nothing of value to be lost or damaged.

Then she became aware of her father holding something that he was looking at with a troubled frown. She took a step closer, and recognized the folded white card with the unmistakable black border. Her heart missed a beat. Like a fool she'd left the printed funeral service from that morning in her purse.

“Somebody you know died?” he asked. “It's today's date.” He looked up at her, concerned. “You been to a funeral, Jo?”

“Oh, Daddy!” She felt a burst of anger, banged down the plates she was carrying and snatched first the card and then her purse from him.

He was taken by surprise, a little shocked. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It just fell out.”

“I know, it's all right,” Joanna tried to sound contrite, but her manner was too brisk. She was trying to brush the incident aside, move on to other things.

It was not going to happen.

“Darling, who died?” Her mother's voice was full of sympathy, but the question was impossible to ignore.

Joanna gave her head a little shake, as though she didn't want to talk about this but was deferring to their interest.

“Drew and Barry Hearst,” she said, avoiding their eyes, “two of Sam's group that I was working with. They were killed in a car crash a few days ago.”

“How awful! And here we are chattering about our vacation…” Elizabeth Cross moved a few steps toward Joanna and took her daughter's hands in her own. “I'm so sorry, darling, I feel awful.”

“You shouldn't. That's why I didn't mention it. I didn't want to spread a cloud over the evening.”

“But were you close to them? Had they become good friends?”

“Not really. I was fond of them, of course, but I didn't really know them. I'd only been to their house one time.”

Her father stood by awkwardly. “I'm sorry, Jo. It was thoughtful of you to keep it to yourself, but you don't have to hide things from us, you know—not anything.”

Joanna felt suddenly ashamed. She should tell them the truth. She owed them that much. “I know,” she said. “I'd have mentioned it later.”

Another lie, and her mother sensed it. Behind the genuine concern in her voice Joanna detected a note of suspicion. Something didn't sound right to Elizabeth Cross and she wasn't ready to let the matter drop.

“But why didn't you say anything on the phone yesterday…?”

“You were so excited and full of your vacation, it just seemed somehow not the time.”

Her mother moved her head to one side without shifting her gaze. It was a gesture that said, “All right, what's
really
going on?”

Joanna felt a flutter of irrational panic, like a child caught in a lie. Then she thought angrily, I'm too old for this. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to answer to anybody.

“It was such a shock, especially after losing Maggie McBride, I just didn't want to talk about it.”

Why had she done that? She heard the words as though she hadn't spoken them. What strange combination of emotions had made her say that?

“Maggie McBride?” her mother echoed.

Too late now. She must go with what was happening, defy her own fears, drag them out into the open, expose them to the cold light of common sense. Her parents had made the dragons in her closets and the monsters under her bed disappear when she was a child, why shouldn't they do the same now?

“You remember—that lovely Scottish woman I told you about, I'm sure I did.”

“She's dead?”

“While you were away. Apparently she'd had a heart condition for some time.”

“When did she die?” This from her father, putting things together in his masculine, engineer's way, and looking at the bottom line.