Superstition (25 page)

Joanna glanced at him briefly, then tried to pretend she hadn't. She was caught. There was no way out now.

Her father repeated the question. “When did Maggie die?”

“Last week. Friday.”

There, it was said. It was out of her hands now.

The frown of concern deepened on her father's brow. “My God, Jo, that's three out of a group of…how many?”

“Eight.”

“Three…in one week?”

She suddenly realized it was still up to her. They weren't going to make it go away. She'd been right in the first place—she was the one who would have to protect them. The thought renewed her confidence, the way knowing that the worst has happened can give you strength because there's nothing else to be afraid of. What she had to do now was clear, simple even.

“Obviously we're not continuing it. I mean we could, but out of respect—and we're all too upset.” She spoke boldly, in charge, putting everything into a sensible perspective. “Of course, we weren't getting very far. We were about to call it quits anyway.”

The lie was growing easier and more fluent as she developed it. She hated the feeling of driving a wedge between herself and the two people in the world whose closeness and support she most wanted at this moment, but she knew she had no choice. There just wasn't any other way to handle this.

“You say you weren't getting very far…?” Her father asked, wanting more detail.

Joanna made a gesture—open, dismissive, suggesting that the whole thing had turned out to be no more than a frivolous enterprise.

“Nothing aside from a few bumps and table knockings—which are actually far more common than you'd imagine. I've got enough for an article—at least, enough to work up into something readable. But I'm afraid it won't amount to anything very spectacular.”

That was a lie that would be brutally exposed when her article was eventually published, whether it was under her own byline or somebody else's. But she would worry about that later. For now all she cared about was protecting the brief sanctuary of these few days from the madness that surrounded her.

They stood facing each other across the room, she on one side of the table, her parents opposite.

“All the same,” her mother said in a voice filled with unspoken disquiet, “three people dead…in just a few days…”

“Oh, come on, Mom…!” Joanna managed to force a kind of shocked, dismissive laugh that didn't sound too artificial. “You're not trying to make something sinister out of that, are you? I mean, a heart attack and a road accident. It's a coincidence, and tragic—but nothing more.”

Stop now, she told herself, leave it there, you've said enough, any more will simply fan suspicion.

“Why don't I go make the coffee?” she said. It was something she often did at the end of a family dinner, her inestimable contribution, as she jokingly put it, to the evening. “Then we can watch those videos. I really want to see them—and I swear you won't have to pay me!”

They sat in near silence as the bridges of the Seine, the Thames, and the Tower of London drifted before them, and the intricately woven streets of Rome opened into their sudden, unexpected vistas. Joanna gave a whoop of recognition every time one parent or the other appeared on screen, applauded every well-framed shot, recalled some anecdote or character whenever a place she had visited with her parents in the past came into view.

It was a good performance, but a performance nonetheless. And she knew that her parents, from their own subdued response to her enthusiasm, recognized it as such.

But there were no more questions, and no awkwardness. Just a moment, alone with her mother, as they kissed good night, when Elizabeth Cross looked into her daughter's eyes with the intense and loving tenderness that only a parent can feel for a grown-up child out in the world alone, independent and beyond protection.

“You are all right, darling, aren't you?”

“Of course I am, Mom. I'm fine, truly.”

“Because if anything happened to you, I don't think I could bear it.”

35

J
oanna was surprised in the morning to realize how well she had slept. She opened her eyes just after eight, and pulled her blinds to reveal a perfect late-fall day. She and her mother drove into town and parked by the farmers’ market at the end of the main street. The bare branches of the trees around the parking lot were bleached almost white against a clear blue sky.

Inside the covered market Joanna sensed something festive about the crowd that morning, although it wasn't yet the holiday season. She followed her mother through the busy shoppers and the strolling couples and the family groups on their weekly outing.

Elizabeth Cross was brisk and businesslike, darting from vegetable to cheese to fruit stall, loading the cart that Joanna pushed. They only had a light lunch to think about because that evening they were dining with friends. There had been no mention of last night's conversation by either of her parents, for which Joanna was deeply grateful. It meant that she didn't have to put on a performance anymore; the subject had been aired and gotten out of the way. She was beginning to feel that maybe she really could put these last weeks behind her and get her life back on track. Was that all it took? A change of air and some home cooking? It was hard to believe, but maybe if she tried hard enough to believe it…

“Why don't we save time?” her mother said, interrupting her thoughts. “I can finish here while you go over to Clare Sexton's and pick up a couple of cushions I've been having made up. They're paid for, you just have to ask at the desk.”

Joanna relinquished the shopping cart to her mother and they agreed to meet in the parking lot in twenty minutes. Clare Sexton's was a fabric store that had been there for as long as Joanna could remember. She walked the three blocks to it, passing several people she knew well enough to exchange a friendly smile with or wave to through a window. It was a small town, in a way just a village. Nobody famous or fashionable lived there, but it was comfortable and well cared for. It wasn't a life that Joanna wanted, but she was glad that she came from it. These were decent people who wished no one any harm—on the contrary, who would help out if they could.

Clare Sexton's was in a row that had a couple of craft shops, a bookstore, and a new place decked out to look Victorian and selling imported soaps, perfumed candles, and aromatic potpourri. The fabric store had a single bow window with fake antique glass, behind which materials of every land and conceivable color were arranged in a display of flamboyant theatrical flare.

Inside, the place was as bustling as everywhere else seemed to be that morning. The girl at the desk was busy wrapping several lengths of material for a couple who seemed thrilled with what they'd found. Clare Sexton herself, a slim, capable-looking woman with short blond hair, waved at Joanna from a corner where she was occupied with another customer. Joanna mimed back that there was no hurry, and prepared to spend a few minutes looking around.

“What do you think?” said a man's voice over her shoulder, so close that it almost made her jump. She turned to see a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing green corduroys and a stylish wool jacket. He was holding a piece of painted cardboard in one hand and a length of material in the other. “Do these match, or am I color blind?”

“I'd say,” she said, stepping back to evaluate them in a better light, “that they match very well—assuming that's the color you're painting your walls and you're looking for curtains.”

“Right first time,” he said with an amiable, slightly self-deprecating grin. He had a nice face, she thought: intelligent, like someone you could talk to.

“While we're on the subject, would you call this a yellow or an ocher?” He pointed to a stripe in the fabric. “Silly, isn't it? I know they're different, but I never know where you draw the line between them. I think it's the visual equivalent of being tone deaf.”

“Definitely ocher,” she said firmly. “Far too rich for yellow.”

“Okay,” he said, “if you've got this in something plain, no pattern, I'm going to need quite a lot. I'm not sure how much, but maybe you can figure it out if I tell you…” He broke off because he could see she was waiting to interrupt him with an amused look on her face.

“I'm afraid I don't work here,” she said. “I'd be very happy to help you, Clare's a friend of mine, but I don't know what they happen to have right now.”

Coloring slightly from an embarrassment she found oddly endearing, he stuttered an apology. “I'm sorry…silly of me…I don't know what made me think…”

“It's all right. I wish I could help.”

“Oh, you have. At least now I know what color I'm looking for.”

“Where's the house you're doing up? Somewhere out here?”

“No. I rent a place out here, just a cabin really. But I've just bought a house in Manhattan, a brownstone. Far too big, really, but it's the first place I've owned and I'm kind of enjoying myself.”

Looking past his shoulder she saw that the girl at the desk was free. Also, seeing the clock on the wall, she realized she would have to hurry if she was to meet her mother. “I have to go,” she said. “I hope you find what you're looking for.”

“Thanks, I'm sure I will. By the way, I'm Ralph Cazaubon.”

“Joanna Cross.”

They shook hands automatically.

“Cazaubon? Is that a French name?”

“Huguenot.”

He thanked her again for her advice, then she hurried to the desk before anybody else got there. Her mother's cushions were ready, and in a moment they were wrapped in tissue and slipped into dark green plastic bags. Clare came over just as Joanna turned to go. They kissed cheeks and exchanged greetings.

“It sounds like your parents had a fabulous time in Europe—how I envy them!”

“You're not the only one—but we can't all work for an airline.”

“Promise you'll call me before you come out next time—I want to arrange a dinner party.”

“I will. Got to rush now—Mom's waiting. By the way, there's a rather nice man over there, needs help with his curtains.”

“Oh, where?” Clare turned to look, bright with anticipation.

But the man Joanna had been talking to was no longer there.

“He was just…” She looked around among the shifting groups of shoppers, but there was no sign of him.

“I guess he slipped out when my back was turned. You must've seen me with him—woolen jacket with a shawl collar, dark hair.”

Clare shook her head. “Of course, on mornings like this it's all a blur.” A woman across the shop fingering a silvery brocade caught her eye. “Got to go. Don't forget—call me.”

“I will.”

As Joanna reached the car her mother finished packing things into the trunk. They drove home chatting happily about nothing in particular. In the kitchen Joanna made another pot of coffee while her mother prepared a salad. Bob Cross returned from a game of golf full of stories about old friends he hadn't seen in a while. Lunch was pleasant and relaxed, after which Elizabeth Cross disappeared to a committee meeting for a fund-raising event she was involved with. Joanna left her father puttering in the garden and went over to see Sally Bishop, whom she'd gone to school with and who'd just had her third baby.

Shortly after seven-thirty that evening she and her parents arrived for dinner at Isabel and Ned Carlisle's house, which was only a short drive down quiet lanes. Two other couples were already there, which made Joanna the odd one out, ninth in the party. The idea didn't trouble her at all, though when she glanced into the dining room she saw that the table was set for ten.

It crossed her mind that it would be an extraordinary coincidence if the tenth guest turned out to be Ralph Cazaubon. The thought had barely flashed through her consciousness before she dismissed it as absurd, and then reproached herself for entertaining the idea at all. Why had she thought of him? She didn't know him, and probably never would. And even if she did, there would almost certainly turn out to be something about him that she couldn't bear.

She remembered with an uneasy sense of déjá vu that she had thought the same way about Sam before getting involved-with him. Was it some kind of mental process she went through before admitting to herself that she found someone attractive? Had it always been like that? She thought back to previous affairs, and couldn't find a pattern.

Anyway, why was she even thinking like this? In spite of all that had happened, she knew it wasn't over with Sam. The thought of him brought a fond smile to her lips. It had done her good to get away from everything, but she realized now how much she missed him and wanted to see him again.

It was a relief when the doorbell rang and Ned showed the tenth guest into the room, a retired interior decorator called Algernon, a sweet gay man she had known for years.

All the same, she found herself asking Isabel Carlisle if she had ever met a man called Ralph Cazaubon in the neighborhood. Ned and Isabel were very sociable and knew practically everyone. Isabel frowned.

“Cazaubon? No, I'm sure I'd have remembered an unusual name like that. Are you sure he lives here?”

“He rents a place. I don't know how much time he spends here.”

Isabel thought a moment more, then shook her head. “I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell at all.”

36

S
unday morning was as crisp and bright as the previous day, but with a few tufts of white cloud drifting high across the sky.

Joanna called up her old friends Annie and Bruce Murdock, who ran the riding school, to see if they could fix her up with a horse for a couple of hours. It was no problem. She pulled on jeans and a couple of sweaters and drove over in her mother's car. Twenty minutes later, after cantering up through forest, she broke into a gallop on the long grassy ridge that led toward a dramatic outcrop of rock that seemed about to swoop out over the valley, and which was aptly named Eagle Rock.

It was there, still at full gallop, that she became aware of another rider converging at an angle. It was obvious that they were both headed for the same spot. Then, as they drew closer together, he waved. She recognized Ralph Cazaubon. They slowed to a trot and rode side by side.