'Til Death Do Us Part (17 page)

The buzzer rang just as I was hanging up, and knowing it was Jack, I felt a weird twinge of guilt. I reminded myself that I was calling Chris solely for research purposes and had no intention of getting into any talk involving buttery nipples—or nipples of
any
kind.

Jack seemed perfectly normal when I opened the door, and I realized that I was the only one who’d been disconcerted by our exchange on the phone. He gave me one of his big Jack smiles, his cheeks red from the cold and the wind, and then leaned down to kiss me. As our lips met, we both felt the prick of an electric shock and jerked back from each other.

“Sorry about that,” he said, touching his lip with a gloved finger.

“It must be really dry in here,” I said.

My voice sounded weird to me, an octave higher, as if my vocal cords had been mysteriously tightened. I told myself to relax, to forget about the remark made earlier and just be myself. Another clumsy moment followed when I reached for his coat and nearly jabbed him in the eye. I felt as awkward as I had the one time I was on a first date with someone my mother had set me up with.

After I found Jack a beer and refilled my seltzer glass, we sat in the living room at either side of the couch, facing each other.

“Knowing you, you probably worked today,” Jack said, stretching his arms. “How’s your piece coming, anyway? You think the husband definitely did it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, most definitely,” I said.

I launched into a long, detailed description of the guy—his upbringing, his complicated relationship with his parents, his failed career as a restaurateur, his checkered history with women. In fact, I offered enough information to fill an A&E
Biography
special on him. I knew it was the kind of stuff that interested Jack, but I also knew that I was doing my best to keep the conversation away from the sublet. By the time I finally wound down, Jack was watching me intently. He had a PhD in psychology, and he knew the early stages of panic when he saw it.

“So is he a borderline personality?” I asked finally. “Or—”

“Bailey, what’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?” I asked disingenuously.

“What’s going on? And I’m not talking about this guy who probably bludgeoned his wife to death.”

“Oh, you mean why do I seem a little tense? It’s just this whole situation I’m in right now—it’s nerve-racking.”

“Has something else happened since I saw you?”

I kicked off the pair of white, beaded moccasins I was wearing and tucked my feet under me. I knew my fidgeting was only making me look even more like a psycho chick, but I couldn’t stop myself. What I needed was one of those tranquilizer darts they use to subdue wild animals.

“No,” I said. “I did pick up a little more information today. And I made plans to go back to Greenwich tomorrow—to see if I can learn anything else.”

“Just promise me you’ll be as careful as possible. No going into empty apartments and things like that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to be cavalier about this.”

“And I want you to call me—during the day. I want to know where you are.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, and took the last sip of my seltzer. “Of course.” I was having a hard time looking him in the eye.

“It’s because of what I said on the phone, isn’t it.”

I tried to make my eyes pop out in surprise. “What do you mean?” I asked, again disingenuously.

“When I asked about the possibility of my moving in here. It made you uncomfortable.”

“N-not really
uncomfortable
,” I sputtered. “Just surprised. I—I wasn’t expecting it.” I sensed my cheeks redden, and my whole body started to feel warm, like a chicken beginning its revolution on a rotisserie.

“Surprised?”
he said, his blue eyes taking me in.

“Well, yeah. We’d never discussed living together.”

“Well, I didn’t know I was suddenly going to lose my apartment. I’m sorry that I caught you off guard.”

“Not a problem.”

“Really? I know it may be a little early for you and me to be talking about sharing space, but things seem awfully good between us, and I’ve certainly thought about the possibility of us living together one day. I almost get the feeling that we’re not on the same page. Or is this just Bailey being Bailey?”

“Bailey being Bailey? What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I asked, irritated.

“Gun-shy. Like last summer. You were nervous about jumping into a relationship with both feet.”

“Oh please, Jack,” I said, shaking my head. “We’ve been over that ground. I
was
a little gun-shy last summer, but I hadn’t been divorced all that long. Being gun-shy after a breakup is perfectly normal—and prudent. I’m sure most
shrinks
would agree.” I used the word
shrink
, Jack’s pet peeve, which was a cheap shot—but my anger was on the rise.

“If it was an isolated incident, they might say that,” Jack said, a slight edge to his voice. “But not when it’s clearly a pattern.”

“A
pattern
?” I said, totally annoyed now. “Aren’t you forgetting that I used to be married?
That’s
hardly being gun-shy. In fact, it’s a bigger commitment than
you’ve
ever made to someone.”

He started to open his mouth, then bit his tongue. I rarely saw Jack riled, but he was close to being there now.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh yes, you were. Something about my marriage. Probably some psychobabble about me going for the wrong type and knowing deep down it would never work out.”

“You said it, not me.”

I rose from the couch, livid. “That takes a lot of nerve.”

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Bailey,” he said, his voice softening. “Please sit down. I really care for you. And I know that because of everything that’s happened in your life, commitment’s not the easiest thing for you. I just don’t want to get shut out.”

I caught my breath. “What do you mean by ‘everything that’s happened’ in my life?” I asked, almost in a whisper. All I could do was pray that he wasn’t taking this where I thought he was.

“You know what I mean. Your father. His not being around much because of his job. Then dying when you were so young.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, and if I hadn’t been so furious, I might have started to cry.

“You have no right to drag that into our discussion,” I said, my fists balled at my side. “And besides that, I’m not your freakin’ patient. Is that what you’ve been doing the whole time we’ve been together, Jack—analyzing me?”

“Of course not,” he said, rising from the couch. “Bailey, try to calm down.” He moved toward me, his arms outstretched, palms up. I took a step backward, away from him.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” I said.

“We don’t have to. Why don’t we go out and get an espresso?”

“I want to be alone,” I said, shocking even myself by my declaration. “I think you should go, Jack.”

He started to protest, then bit his tongue again. As the expression on his face altered from dismayed surprise to annoyance, he turned on his heels, strode across the room, and yanked his coat from my front hall closet. In two more seconds he was out the door.

Good, I thought. Then, momentarily, I was filled with the urge to run after him. But I didn’t.

For the next two hours I just stewed in my apartment. After pouring myself a hot bath with a blob of bath gel the size of a jellyfish, I did one of those soak-and-sob marathons I hadn’t engaged in since the weeks following my divorce. I couldn’t tell for sure what was making me more miserable. That Jack wasn’t here tonight? That the thought of living with him didn’t entice me as it should have? That he’d infuriated me by using my father’ s death to explain my reluctance to embrace the idea of cohabitation?

Was Jack right? Was my father’s death dogging me even to this day? Did the idea of commitment scare the hell out of me? Had I picked my first husband because I knew it would never last? Yes, my ex
had
turned out to be a terrible excuse for a husband, but it’s not as though he’d announced on the first date, “God, you have gorgeous blue eyes, and by the way, I’m a pathological liar and compulsive gambler.” Regardless of whether or not I was a closet commitment-phobe, I resented Jack’s turning the evening into an episode of
Dr. Phil.

After drying off, I put on clean clothes just to make myself feel better and decided to eat dinner in the coffee shop in the building. It was already dark outside, but the entrance was only a few feet from where my doorman stood and I knew I’d be safe.

It was utterly freezing out, and the coffee shop was more empty than usual for a Sunday night. Clearly no one wanted to venture out on such a miserable evening. I ordered a glass of Cabernet, an English muffin, and a salad of tomatoes and onions—hardly the world’s most exciting dinner, but the thought of a hamburger dripping with grease nearly made me gag. For the first few minutes I actually felt okay. I was still flushed with self-righteous indignation, and I kept myself busy sipping my wine and flipping through a few sections of the Sunday
Times
.

But by the time I’d finished, I’d begun to feel that weird, ragged lethargy you experience about thirty minutes after you’ve sucked down a jumbo bag of M&M’s and are in rapid descent from the sugar high. I’d bitten off my nose to spite my face. I’d tossed Jack out of my apartment just to make myself feel better but now I was on my own for the evening, with no opportunity to patch things up with him. And there would be no chance to make amends tomorrow—he’d be back in Washington. Plus, I’d hardly been very fair to him.
Gloss
had a column called “Marriage Secrets Your Mother Never Taught You,” which always advised readers to conduct fights by using phrases like “I feel . . .” rather than “You asshole” and to take the time to sort everything out. But I’d made digs at Jack and then blown him off. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the urge to call him.

After only a few sips of coffee, I paid the bill and hurried home. Anxious to get to my phone, I dashed through the vestibule, offering the doorman a quick hello.

“Hold on, Bailey,” he called out to me. “Someone left something for you.” He ducked into the tiny room off the vestibule and returned, holding out a manila envelope.

“Was it Jack, the guy I go out with?” I asked, feeling a wave of relief.

“Not sure who left it. I found it on the bench after I’d helped someone with their packages.”

“Oh well, thanks,” I said.

I walked into the lobby and tore open the envelope.

Inside was a piece of white paper, 8 1/2 by 11 in size, with a single word printed in black marker. The word was
DON’T.

CHAPTER 9

W
HEN I DROVE
into Greenwich on Monday morning, bundled up in my long black down coat and an itchy black cloche, there was still a ton of snow piled on lawns and in banks along the sides of the road. It was even colder than it had been the week before. Yesterday the temperature had begun what was predicted to be a descent into the teens, and if you were outside for more than ten seconds, it felt as if someone were ripping a large Band-Aid off your face.

I planned to stop at the library before heading for the farm, and I found it easily enough. The building was huge, obviously new, and I assumed it owed its existence in part to the fortune of some mogul who’d been in need of a big charitable gift-tax deduction. I pulled my Jeep into the parking lot in the rear of the building and headed up the large set of stairs at the back.

Before opening one of the glass doors, I turned and scanned the steps and the parking lot behind me. The only people heading in my direction were senior citizens and mothers with toddlers who were practically immobilized in their fat little snowsuits. But that did little to assuage my fears. Ever since I’d stepped out of my apartment building that morning, my body had been humming so loudly with anxiety that I could almost hear it, like the steady, annoying whine of a tabletop fan. The
DON’T
note had freaked me. It meant that my attacker from Friday night had dared to walk right into my apartment building. What I didn’t understand, however, was why I was being given a warning. Had Friday been just a warning, too? Did that mean that if I took my nose out of things, I wouldn’t be shoved in front of a midtown bus one day? Had the others been warned in some way first? Surely Ashley would have told me if she’d received a threat.