The Perfect Stranger (13 page)

Her hands tighten on the wheel. She holds her breath as the lights come closer, blinding her. The truck is about to barrel into her car . . .

But then the lights swoop away as the driver cuts off someone in the left lane to get out around her.

More angry horns, more rude gestures.

This is a mistake. She’s much too exhausted, too frazzled, to be driving. She’s risking her life to go to a funeral.

She’d told BamaBelle—Landry—that it was only a couple of hours away, as if it were no big deal to get behind the wheel and hit the highway.

It’s not as if she’s never done it before. She spent all those years commuting a full hour in each direction from the western suburbs to the prison, sometimes in harsh winter blizzards or tornado weather.

The drive to Ohio was the least of her worries—at that point, anyway, when she was on the phone with Landry.

She was far more concerned with the prospect of coming face-to-face with BamaBelle and Elena, and whoever else might show up in Cincinnati. Concerned . . . but not enough to say no.

That sweet southern drawl was so convincing.

And Landry’s right: they do owe it to Meredith.

Oh, Meredith . . .

Tears sting Kay’s eyes, blurring the string of taillights through the windshield.

She wipes them away, and notices the first tints of pink sky, low above the flat horizon.

Okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s only one day. Twenty-four hours from now she’ll be heading in the opposite direction. The nightmare of Meredith’s funeral will be behind her.

She reserved a room at the same hotel where Landry and Elena are staying, about a mile away from the funeral home where Meredith’s service is being held. She prepaid the reservation on her credit card, even, because the rate was considerably cheaper that way and frugality is a hard habit to break.

Mother always said not to waste dollars or even pennies today because you might need them tomorrow. She lived that rule to her dying day. Never treated herself, let alone her daughter, to a vacation or even dinner in a nice restaurant. Never spent money on anything but cigarettes. She didn’t consider that a waste.

As for Kay . . .

God knows she can well afford to squander a couple hundred bucks if it turns out the others don’t like her in person.

But she really hopes that they do. Desperately hopes so.

That’s why you’re going, isn’t it? It’s why you said yes when you meant no. Because the thought of friends—seeing friends, friends who care . . .

For the past few days the idea of coming face-to-face with her fellow bloggers seemed a lot less threatening than she’d imagined. Maybe because she misses Meredith so much, and needs to fill the aching void.

There’s alone, and then there’s lonely. One is safe and comfortable; the other . . .

Well, it never bothered her so much before. But the last few days haven’t been easy. She keeps thinking of Meredith, remembering Meredith, knowing what Meredith would want—expect—her to do.

She was such a good person. So strong. So much stronger than she ever knew.

She was always making self-deprecating comments in her blog, masking her insecurities behind humor. She didn’t allow herself to crawl into a hole and hide, not even in the face of the worst news imaginable.

If I could just be more like her . . .

But this is a start.

She has crawled out of her hole. It’s the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, and what’s the worst that can happen?

When the doorman calls up to tell her she has a visitor, Jaycee has just thrown on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and of course her blond wig. She doesn’t wear it around the apartment when she’s home alone, but Beatrice, her cleaning lady, comes on Saturday mornings.

Usually not until later, though. Jaycee was about to sit down with her first cup of coffee and her laptop to enjoy a few moments’ peace.

“Who is it?” she asks Mike, the doorman.

“It’s Mr. Wallace.”

Cory. Of course. Always Cory.

She tells the doorman to let him up, then opens the laptop to quickly see if there were any overnight developments on Meredith’s murder.

Nothing, other than a death notice in a small suburban Ohio newspaper, with mention of today’s memorial service.

By now Jaycee knows that the others are either in Cincinnati or on their way: Landry, Elena, and A-Okay.

She got Landry’s e-mail with all the arrangements—
I’m cc’ing you just in case you can join us last minute, Jaycee!
—and knows they’re staying in a hotel out where Meredith lives.

Lived.

There’s a knock on the apartment door. Jaycee quickly deletes the browser history, closes the laptop, and goes to answer.

Cory is standing there.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping aside for the one person in this world who always knows exactly where to find her, even when she’s hiding.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be up.”

“So you came anyway? Were you going to wake me up?”

“Absolutely.”

He’s clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a polo shirt beneath a rain jacket, his reddish hair spiking up over his forehead to make him look like a boy rather than a grown man. On a good day, he reminds her of Kevin Bacon—young Kevin Bacon, from the
Footloose
days—and she adores him. On a bad day . . .

On a bad day, she doesn’t want to deal with him, period. Because she only wants to be left alone.

But most of the time Cory refuses to allow that. And once in a while she winds up grateful for his persistent presence in her solitary life.

“It’s a crappy day out there,” he announces. “Humid as hell, and it’s supposed to rain.”

Yeah, well, it’s a crappy day in here, too—this being the anniversary and all. That fact won’t have escaped Cory, she knows.

“Thanks for the weather report,” she tells him. “Is that why you’re here? Because I usually just check Accuweather online if I want—”

“I brought you a newspaper,” he says, thrusting it at her, along with a white paper bag, “and a bagel.”

“Thank you.” She opens the bag, peers inside to see that it’s sesame, toasted, plain, cut into four pieces. Just the way she likes it. “I’d say come in . . . but oh, look, you’re already in. As usual.”

“Love you, too,” he says easily on his way to the kitchen.

She closes the door behind him, locks it, and follows him.

He helps himself to a cup of coffee from the pot she just brewed. “Did you use the Costa Rican beans Adam gave you the other day?”

Adam is Cory’s longtime boyfriend. A travel agent, he’s always jetting off to exotic places and bringing back gifts for his friends. Jaycee is touched that he considers her one of them—even now, after all these years, after . . . everything.

She wonders, sometimes, whether he knows . . .
everything
. But the past never comes up. Nor does the future. Usually, they just talk about his travels, and food, books, films . . .

Things normal people discuss.

Right. Because you like to pretend you’re a normal person. It’s a nice . . . escape.

“I haven’t used the Costa Rican beans yet,” she tells Cory. “This time, I used good old American beans I bought myself.”

“Where, at Starbucks?”

“How did you guess?”

“You’re a fan.” He makes a face. “And it’s so . . .”

“Ubiquitous?” she supplies. They’ve had this conversation before. Ad nauseam.

“Exactly.”

“Some of us appreciate that.”

“Some of us don’t.” He opens the fridge to look for milk.

“So tell me . . . what’s the point of this visit?”

“Open the paper,” he says without turning around. “Page eight.”

Uh-oh.

I should have known.

She puts the paper down on the counter.

Opens it to page eight.

Scans the page, then looks up at him, shaking her head. “I thought you said we were going to get past this. It’s been—”

“I know how long it’s been. What you need to do is—”

“I know what I need to do, Cory,” she says grimly. “I’ve been trying to do it. It’s impossible, okay?”

“Nothing is impossible.”

He’s wrong about that.

If only she could go back in time and erase not just the past seven years, but the past twenty—pick up where she left off in that dreaded, dismal little town she left behind years ago . . .

It would be easy, then, to change the course of her life, become someone else.

Someone whose name had never been heard beyond a five-mile perimeter; someone no one imagined was capable of becoming a success, or making a fortune, or . . .

Or committing a murder, even when you’re only doing what has to be done . . .

The alarm goes off, jarring Elena from a sound sleep.

Lying in her bed in that split second before she opens her eyes, she knows that something is off, but what is it?

She forces her eyelids open. The room is dark—rainy day dark, though, not night dark. According to her digital alarm clock, the time is wrong. It’s an hour later than she usually gets up, which is . . .

Wait a minute. This isn’t a weekday, it’s a Saturday.

She usually sleeps in on weekends, but this morning she only gets an extra hour because she has a flight to catch because she’s going to—

Starting to roll over, Elena gasps.

That’s it. That’s what’s off. Not the time or the dreary light that’s falling across her bed, but the fact that someone is sharing it with her.

Lying absolutely still so as not to wake whoever it is, she thinks back to last night. She was at the staff party, held at a banquet hall located about halfway between the school and the town where she lives. She remembers the speeches—she even delivered one, in honor of the retiring Betty Jamison—and she remembers the dinner, but not the dessert, and . . .

Wine . . . there was a lot of wine. Too much wine.

Again.

Dammit. When will she ever learn?

The waiter kept refilling my glass . . .

Yes, sure, it’s the waiter’s fault.

She remembers thinking that he was cute and wondering whether he was straight or not. She remembers that he was looking at her sympathetically, probably keeping the wine flowing because . . .

Oh, God.

She closes her eyes again, listening to her visitor’s rhythmic snoring in time to the rain pattering on the roof.

She has a wicked headache; her mouth is dry, stomach queasy . . .

Queasy not just because of the wine, but because she just remembered the reason the waiter took pity on her.

She arrived late and got stuck at the end of the table next to the one person no one else wanted to sit near.

Now she forces herself to roll over, open her eyes, and confront the ugly truth snoozing away right here in her bed, covers thrown down to reveal his hairy chest.

Tony Kerwin.

Landry had been worried about making her relatively tight connection in Atlanta, but thanks to thunderstorms rolling across Georgia, the outbound flight is going to be delayed at least an hour.

Settled into a seat at the gate, facing a wall of plate glass so that she can watch the torrential rain, she calls home to let Rob know she made it this far.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Fine. Landing was a little bumpy because of the weather.” She tells him about the delay, then asks to talk to the kids.

“Addison went out for a run, and Tucker’s still in bed.”

“Okay. Tell them to call me if they want. I have nothing to do but sit here and wait.”

“I’ll leave a note. I’m headed out golfing.”

“Oh, right.” He goes early to beat the afternoon thunderstorms that tend to roll in at this time of year.

“I was thinking that later, after I get out of work, I’ll take them for crab claws and po’boys at Big Daddy’s.”

“Wish I could go.”

“No claws and po’boys in Cincinnati?”

“I doubt it.”

She can hear clattering plates and silverware in the background and knows he’s emptying the dishwasher. For some reason, that makes her even more homesick than the sound of his voice . . . and she’s only been gone a few hours.

After hanging up with Rob, she wonders briefly if she should text both Elena and Kay to let them know she might be arriving late, but decides against it. The memorial service doesn’t start until three o’clock. Even with the delay, she’ll be arriving with plenty of time to spare.

What now?

She has her laptop with her. She’d been thinking she might find time during the weekend to write a new blog post, something she hasn’t done all week. She hasn’t had the heart to write about the tragedy, or the interest in anything else.

I still don’t. Maybe after the funeral. But not now.

The laptop stays in her bag. She’s idly flipping through one of the celebrity gossip rags Addison gave her, trying to become absorbed in the latest tinsel town divorce scandal, when a shadow falls over the page.

She looks up, startled.

A man she recognizes as having been on her flight out from Mobile says, “Hi. Would you mind . . . I’m going to go grab a coffee and I’d rather not lug my bags.” He points to a rolling suitcase and leather messenger bag a few seats away. “Can you keep an eye on them for a few minutes?”

He has a brisk demeanor and a northern accent. Remembering that the TSA is always making announcements about untended luggage, she hesitates, then nods. “Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you. Can I bring you something? Do you drink coffee?”

“I do, but . . . no, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She watches him stride away through the boarding area, then glances at his bags again, wondering whether he’s on the same connecting flight or one that’s delayed out of a nearby gate, then wondering why she’s suddenly feeling vaguely guilty for wondering—not to mention for noticing that he’s handsome.

Not as handsome as Rob, by any means. Different handsome. Dark handsome, versus Rob’s golden boy good looks.

She’s well out of her comfort zone now, not only traveling alone, but having a strange man offer to buy her a cup of coffee.