The Pact (20 page)

D
inner finally ended a little after nine, with the gathered company once again declining Mrs. Furlong’s strangely insistent urgings that we all try some wedding cake. It looked like all of that angel food and buttercream frosting was going to go to waste, and I, for one, usually reluctant to pass up anything involving disproportionate quantities of sugar and cream, was perfectly happy to let this opportunity pass me by. Mrs. Furlong sighed with regret then brightened up. “There’s always lunch tomorrow,” she said.

The “children,” such as we were, with an average age among us of thirty-two, assured the Furlongs that we would take care of the cleanup. They agreed without protest and left the dinner dishes to us. Mrs. Furlong admitted to a slight headache before excusing herself and retiring to her room. Given the way she’d been hitting the bottle, I was surprised that her headache was only slight. Directly after his wife disappeared up the stairs, Mr. Furlong bid us good-night and returned to his studio as if this were the usual course of events. I wondered what kind of work he could possibly be getting done with everything that had transpired. I guessed nothing stood in the way of genius, but his powers of concentration were remarkable. Or perhaps he was actually spending long hours on the phone with Nina, whispering sweet nothings across the Atlantic.

We cleared the table and made quick work of rinsing and stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. The rest of the evening stretched before us, and while I was tired, I was also increasingly aware that my time with Peter was limited. My analytics at dinner had left me somewhat reassured—if I, with a thorough understanding of the cast of characters and the events of the previous evening, could not figure out who was responsible for Richard’s death, the police would be at an even greater loss. Surely they’d be forced to give up their investigation and chalk the entire incident up as an accident, or at least an unexplained mystery? Inevitably, I hoped, they would give us all permission to leave at some point tomorrow, and while it was nice to be feeling less anxious about one of my friends being found out as a murderer, I now had time to worry about my romantic interests. Once we were free to go, Peter would return to California and I to New York, back to my empty apartment, my overflowing briefcase, and the never-ending stream of voice mails from Stan. To let any potential romance slip through my fingers, even if the object of desire did live on the opposite end of the continent, would be nothing short of a tragedy. I would be a fool to go to bed early, regardless of how tired I was.

“So, now what?” asked Hilary, as Jane flipped the switch to run the dishwasher. “It’s really too bad that we can’t go into town and check out the nightlife. There must be at least one great dive bar nearby, with a pool table and really cheesy jukebox. I wonder how O’Donnell spends his free time up here?”

“You really do have a one-track mind,” observed Sean. He seemed surprised, after all the years he’d known her, by Hilary’s tremendous ability to latch onto an objective and pursue it, refusing to yield to either obstacles or distractions.

“It’s important to stay focused,” responded Hilary flashing him a smile. Perhaps I should take her advice, I thought. I wondered how she’d handle the Peter situation if she were in my shoes.

“Why don’t we go into the living room and light a fire?” I suggested. “We could toast marshmallows or play Scrabble or something.” Probably not how Hilary would have handled it, but at least I’d presented an option that didn’t entail everyone going immediately to sleep.

Luisa laughed. “Parlor games? Oh dear. What have we come to?”

“I think that sounds nice and normal, which should be a refreshing change,” said Jane, neatly folding a dish towel and placing it on the counter by the sink. “Besides, I’m too wound up to go to bed right away.”

“Okay,” said Hilary. “But no charades. I hate charades. And no Pictionary. Lord, but that’s a stupid game. And no chess. It’s too slow. And no…” she headed toward the living room, trailing a list of the games she wouldn’t play behind her.

Matthew begged off and went to check on Emma, but the rest of us filed into the living room, where Sean skillfully built a fire in the old stone fireplace. I opened the wooden armoire that housed various board games, some dating from the 1950s: original editions of Chinese Checkers, Parcheesi, Dominos, and Life. Hilary squealed with delight when she unearthed the battered boxes for Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders, but these were rejected unanimously by everyone else. After some debate, we also rejected Scrabble as being too difficult to play with so many people.

“How about Monopoly?” asked Peter innocently. “I’ve always liked Monopoly.”

Jane groaned. “That’s because you’ve never played it with Rachel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked indignantly.

“Are you a sore loser?” asked Peter.

“Of course not,” I said. “I never lose at Monopoly.”

“She’s more like a sore winner,” explained Luisa. “She rejoices in beating others mercilessly and then rubbing their faces in their defeat. And it’s not just Monopoly. Anything that involves dice or money or numbers turns her into a demon. There was one spring break when we had to ban Rachel from all of our card games because she was such a shark.”

“Hypercompetitive bitch would be a more accurate description,” said Hilary. They’d clearly exhausted their abilities to talk me up that afternoon on the raft.

“Well, in that case, maybe Rachel and I should be on the same team,” said Peter. Ah. A kindred spirit.

“Unless, of course, you’re all too chicken to play,” I added.

“Oh God, here we go,” said Jane, resigned. We paired off, Peter and I against Jane and Sean and Hilary and Luisa, and set the board up on the coffee table. I loved Monopoly with a passion that probably bordered on unhealthy. It was so much easier to make piles of paper money than it was to make piles of real money, and much more fun than dealing with Stan and his ilk. During the next ninety minutes, Peter proved that he could play Monopoly just as well as he could dance, which, in my book, was an even more desirable trait. Our strategies were perfectly aligned, and we acted as a seamless commando unit. Boldly, we stormed the board, buying up every property we landed on and mortgaging them all to the hilt so that we could buy yet more, then using our rents to build houses and hotels.

“This sucks,” said Hilary, after she and Luisa landed on a hotel-studded Park Place for the second time. I chortled with glee as they handed over the rest of their cash and two railroads to make payment. Jane and Sean hit it, too, on their next trip around the board, and it wiped them out. Hilary and Luisa lasted one more turn before turning over the rest of their properties.

Peter and I were happily counting our winnings when the losing teams announced, in unison, that they were going to bed.

“Winners get to clean up,” said Jane, gesturing to the debris of the game and the scattered coffee cups and glasses from after-dinner drinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play again?” Peter asked. “It’s not even midnight.” We were both energized by our stunning victory.

“I’d rather poke my eyes out with a stick,” said Hilary with a pout.

“Now who’s being a sore loser?” I asked.

“Good night, all,” said Sean with finality, steering Jane toward the door.

“Be good, you two,” called Hilary over her shoulder, unable to leave without at least one embarrassing parting shot. Luisa smiled tiredly and followed them out.

“Some people just flee from a challenge,” I said to Peter.

“Well, it must be disheartening to be so completely blitzkrieged. Maybe we can stir up a rematch in the morning once they’ve had time to recover.” He started sorting the multicolored bills and placing them back in their slots while I began gathering up the property cards.

“With those cowards? I doubt it.” I handed him the property cards and turned to rounding up the green plastic houses and the red plastic hotels. My hands felt clumsy as I fumbled with the small pieces, and I realized that my heart was starting to pound.

A moment of reckoning was drawing near. If one of us was going to make a move, the time was as ripe as it was going to get. And, except for the lingering memory of Richard’s body in the pool, I couldn’t have asked for a more romantic moment. The fire had burned down to dying embers, emitting a warm, orange glow that burnished the room with soft light. We were seated next to each other on the overstuffed sofa, and my arm still tingled from where it had brushed Peter’s as we’d moved our miniature top hat around the board.

Peter reached for the bag of houses and hotels, and I passed it to him. He took it in one hand and tossed it in the box while with the other hand he took gentle hold of my wrist. I froze, astonished by the overwhelming effect this simple action had. Trying not to blush, I slowly looked up at him.

“Hi,” he said softly. His dark gaze fastened on mine.

“Hi,” I answered back, unsure what else to say. His look was unexpectedly serious, and I felt a pang of alarm at the gravity of his expression. It suggested that he was about to deliver some very bad news. My heart began to pound yet faster.

“I know that this is—er, well, inappropriate, given the circumstances, and I have no idea what you’re thinking,” he began, while I fought the urge to jump up and flee before he could tell me why he wasn’t interested in me. I willed myself to stay calm.

“It’s just that I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I first laid eyes on you last night.”

I almost fainted with relief. And disbelief. “Really?”

“Really.” He nodded, his expression still serious.

“Me, too,” I admitted. I let my eyes linger on the smooth curve of his lips.

“Really?” He seemed surprised. Which was surprising, given the degree to which I’d done little but blush and giggle in his presence since we met.

“Really,” I confirmed, trying neither to blush nor giggle and for once succeeding.

“Good.” His eyes were still focused on mine.

I summoned up my courage. “So, are you going to?”

“Going to what?”

“Kiss me?”

He laughed and ran his free hand through my hair, tracing the line of my cheek with his index finger. “Well, since you put it like that.” He leaned forward and touched his lips to mine.

And I melted.

It had been a long while since I’d made out on a sofa with somebody’s mother sleeping upstairs. I made a mental note not to wait so long until the next time. Kissing Peter felt like coming home in a way that actually coming home didn’t even begin to replicate.

We must have spent the better part of an hour tangled up in each other’s arms. He was, hands down, the best kisser I’d ever encountered. And while my list of encounters was dwarfed by Hilary’s, a decade and a half of dating had added up.

“You’re an excellent kisser,” I told him when we came up for air. I was trying to remember what size the bed was in his room on the third floor and wondering how I could gracefully get us both into it without coming across like a complete slut.

“As are you,” he answered with a grin. I was lounging against a needlepointed throw cushion, my legs twisted up in his. He propped himself up on one arm and looked down at me, leaving his other arm nicely wrapped around the curve of my hip.

“What’s this?” he asked, reaching up to touch the locket I wore around my neck.

“It was my grandmother’s,” I explained. “My father’s mother. Look.” I opened it up to show him the tiny old-fashioned pictures, my grandmother on one side and my grandfather on the other. “I never knew them—they died before I was born. But my father was an only child, and my brothers would look funny wearing it, so it came to me.” I didn’t tell him that sometimes I studied their faces and wondered if one day my own granddaughter would wear this locket, with the pictures of my grandparents replaced by ones of me and my husband.

“Nice,” he said. He gave me a deep, searching look, and then bent his head to kiss me some more. But he stopped before his lips reached mine and picked his head back up.

“Rachel, there’s something I really should tell you.” His voice suddenly held a somber note. My heart skidded to a stop. I knew he was too good to be true. I waited for the other, very heavy shoe to drop.

“Is this the part where you tell me about your wife and three children back in San Francisco?” I asked, striving to sound lighthearted. With my luck, there were probably four children and an adorable Wheaton terrier named Rags or Bailey or something equally adorable.

He chuckled. “No, no wife. Never married. No kids. Nothing like that. I promise. I’m even straight.” As if I needed reassurance on
that
front.

“Hmmm. Then you need to tell me about your fatal disease, which also happens to be contagious?”

“Nope. Last time I checked, I was in pretty good health. A few gray hairs, but that seems to be the extent of it.”

“Okay, then,” I said, struggling up to a sitting position. “I think I know what it is. You still live with your mother.”

“You have a very active imagination.”

“You clearly have never sampled the dating scene in New York.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Don’t get me started.”

“Seriously, there is something you should know.” I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the words that would destroy any future we might have had together. Oh well, I tried to console myself, at least we’d had one nice hour of heavy necking before it all came crashing to a halt. I began pasting Peter’s picture into the mental scrapbook that housed the faces and memories of love affairs past.