Valentine (20 page)

When Victor Dimorta arrived in Buffalo on January 25, he discovered that Belinda Rosenberg no longer lived at her old address. He called every Rosenberg in the Buffalo phone book until he got her mother. He told her he was an old friend of Belinda’s from Hartley College, in town on business. The mother told him about Colorado.

Forty-eight hours later, January 27, he was in the woods near her hillside home above Boulder, watching Belinda Rosenberg Kessler through binoculars.

On January 27, Belinda came home from the ski lodge early to make a special dinner. She stopped at the supermarket downtown to get all the ingredients for her husband’s favorite meal: sirloin steak, baked potatoes, sour cream, salad, and New York cheesecake from the gourmet counter. She even remembered tortilla chips and salsa, and the blue cheese for the salad dressing.

She smiled to herself as she loaded her cart, wondering what her mother would make of Jake’s favorite meal. Leah Rosenberg, though by no means Orthodox, had kept at least loosely to the rules when it came to food. Jacob Kessler, three generations removed from the last Orthodox Kessler, was only reminded of such things at weddings and funerals. He, like both his parents, was a self-described “Jewish atheist,” and his favorite joke was his Conservative paternal grandmother’s definition of Reform Jews (“
Catholics!
”). Belinda, a Reform Jew, always laughed at that.

She went down the street to the liquor store for the two bottles she’d had the proprietor put aside, her husband’s favorite burgundy. As an afterthought, she added a bottle of Perrier-Jouët to her purchase. Yes, she thought as she loaded the back of the station wagon. A glass of champagne in lieu of cocktails. With chips and salsa, no less. Oh, well, it’s what he likes. . . .

She drove up the hill and turned into the driveway. The house was situated on a cliff that afforded a lovely view of the city, separated from its nearest clifftop neighbors by thick groves of evergreens. The stone-and-wood structure was predominantly glass: large picture windows and sliding doors leading out to the wraparound veranda. She smiled again as she took the bags from the back of the car and went
inside. She loved this house. She’d loved it from the moment she’d first seen it ten years ago.

Romeo was stretched out on the living room couch, and Juliet was asleep on the shag carpet nearby. As Belinda came in with the bags and headed for the kitchen, the male Siamese hopped down from the couch and followed her. She put the bags down on the counter and turned on the oven just as the wall phone next to the refrigerator began to ring. She wriggled out of her coat as she answered it.

It was her sister, Jessica, calling from Buffalo. Belinda’s parents had already called earlier in the day to tell her to expect a package in the mail. She accepted Jessie’s congratulations and spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on family news. As she hung up the phone and turned to unpack the grocery bags, she thought she saw something, some slight movement, in the trees outside the kitchen window. No, she decided, just the wind. Besides, it was nearly too dark to see anything out there.

She looked at the kitchen clock: quarter to six. Get a move on, she thought.

When the steak came out of the bag, Romeo leaped up onto the counter and rubbed against her arm. She laughed as she placed the meat in the fridge and turned to stroke him.

“Sorry, darling, not for you.”

With a low growl of indignation, he turned his
back on her, jumped down, and went over to the comer. A moment later, Belinda heard the small crunching sounds as he attacked his Cat Chow in frustration. Romeo and Jake, she thought: my men are addicted to steak. Juliet, like Belinda, preferred fish.

The phone rang again. It was Toni, her best friend, whom she’d just left at the lodge an hour ago. Yes, she’d gotten everything for dinner. No, Jake wasn’t home yet. Yes, she’d see Toni tomorrow. Toni congratulated her again. Belinda thanked her friend and hung up.

She quickly made the salad and the dressing, putting them in the fridge with the meat and the cheesecake and the champagne. She wrapped two potatoes in foil and placed them in the oven. She had a little trouble uncorking the burgundy, as she’d never quite gotten the hang of corkscrews. She set the open bottle on the counter to breathe, patted Romeo on the head as he ate, and went down the hall to the bedroom.

After a brief, hot shower, she stood naked before the bathroom mirror, applying fresh makeup. She regarded herself critically as she worked, thinking, not bad for thirty-five. Her dark hair looked just as it had in college, thick and glossy, and not a speck of gray. Her figure was similarly intact: her breasts and thighs were as firm as ever, and her stomach as flat, thanks to all the skiing. She winked at her own reflection,
and laughed again. Her large brown eyes had always been her best asset.

Yes, she thought as she sprayed herself with Jake’s favorite cologne. I’ll do.

The heat was on: good. She could wear Jake’s favorite dress, the midnight-blue silk with the short hemline and the low neckline. Where were the blue heels . . .? She found them, fastened a single gold strand around her neck, and went out to set the table in the dining room. They would eat there this evening, not on the veranda, which she would have preferred. It was cold outside now, but at least it probably wouldn’t snow. The darkening sky above Boulder was clear.

Back in the kitchen, she noticed that Juliet had awakened and joined her brother on the counter. A stem look from Belinda was all it took to send them both leaping to the floor. They knew better than that. She smiled as she thought this: she and Jake had decided at the outset not to have children, and Romeo and Juliet were obviously filling the void.

She was putting the salsa and chips in the functional but rather hideous Mexican ceramic bowls that had been a wedding gift from a distant cousin, when the phone rang again.

“Hello.”

“Hi, honey.”

“Jake! Darling, where are you? I was just getting—”

“Listen, I’m up to my eyeballs here, and I don’t know how late I’m going to be. We’re waiting to hear from New York about those Fremont contracts, you know, the new client I told you about? Then I have to draw up the new—”

“Whoa! Give me a bottom line here: are you coming home for dinner?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sitting here with sandwiches. Ellie just went out for more coffee for everybody. I
told
you I might be late tonight. You weren’t holding dinner for me, were you?”

Belinda stared down at the salsa. “No. I—I’m just about to throw something together for myself. You do the contracts, or whatever, and I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Okay, honey. Don’t wait up. Love—”

And he was gone.

She replaced the receiver. She stood at the counter, looking down at the food. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there when she felt one of the cats rubbing against her leg. With a little shake of her head, she took the potatoes out of the oven, put them in the refrigerator with the salsa, recorked the burgundy, and went back to her bedroom to take off the dress.

In her bathrobe, she reheated a baked potato and
ate it with a little of the salad. She took another shower, washing her hair and scrubbing the makeup from her face. She made a cup of tea, got into bed, and read for a while. At ten o’clock, she picked up the remote from the night table, clicked on the bedroom television, and watched the news. When it was over, she turned off the television, switched off the bedside lamp, and lay for a long time staring up at the ceiling.

Jake arrived home just after eleven. She could tell from the way he dropped his clothes on his way to the bathroom that he was exhausted. He climbed in beside her, kissed her on the forehead, and immediately fell asleep. She lay there, watching him sleep for a while before returning her attention to the ceiling. Her husband’s even breathing was the only sound she heard as she silently wept.

January 27: their tenth anniversary.

He wasn’t able to follow his established pattern with Belinda Rosenberg Kessler, and this was frustrating for him. He would have preferred to approach her romantically, as he had approached Sharon Williams. He also had an idea, a fantasy that had first developed in prison, of sending cards and gifts in the days leading up to it, and signing them “Valentine.” And, when he finally decided on his means, he knew the
idea of a candy box was out: there wouldn’t be any time. But at least he could use the music. . . .

The husband worked in a big law firm downtown, racking up an impressive number of billable hours six days a week. The law firm widow had turned to Colorado’s chief form of solace: skiing. She was a fanatic. Almost every day, she strapped her skis to the roof of her station wagon and took off for several hours of blissful schussing and slaloming. She was usually in the company of her best friend, another enthusiast named Toni Stanton, who happened to be a swinging single.

One look at Toni, and Victor knew he had his opportunity. She was tall and slender, athletic-looking, very pretty. She had blue-gray eyes and curly, dark blond hair. If he couldn’t romance Belinda, at least Toni would provide a roundabout way of achieving the same purpose. Whenever the two women were at the lodge, Toni spent as much time on the prowl as she did skiing.

Victor had never skied in his life, but he learned in record time. He laid down a considerable amount to engage the best pro on the premises. Three hours a day for a solid week, the former Olympic bronze medalist worked exclusively with Victor, and the result was impressive.

He called himself Leonard this time, and he gave himself an Italian last name, Vaneti, because it
sounded good: many famous skiers, like racing-car drivers, were Italian, and he figured he might as well use his own nationality. When the pro asked him why he had to become an expert so fast, he grinned and pointed at his crotch, and the two men shared a lascivious laugh.

Getting the pro to introduce him to Toni was a breeze. Getting Toni to introduce him to Belinda was inevitable.

The first thing he noticed about the second Element when he saw her up close was that her pretty nose was slightly crooked. Remembering why, he grinned as he shook her hand.

“B’lin, this is Leonard Vaneti. Len, meet my best friend, Belinda Kessler.”

“How do you do?” the tall, handsome man said. Then he grinned and shook her hand. She had just come into the lobby of the ski lodge, and she was a few minutes late. She had expected to find Toni alone and restless, looking pointedly at her watch as she usually did under the circumstances. But no; Toni was sitting near the fireplace with the handsome stranger, and they were laughing together. When Belinda came in, Toni jumped up and grabbed the man’s hand, pulling him across the room. She was wearing her tightest sweater, Belinda noticed, and more makeup than she usually bothered with at the
lodge. So, this was the mystery man Toni had been hinting about for the last three days.

“Hello, Mr. Vaneti,” Belinda said as they shook hands.

“Len,” he said.

She smiled. “Belinda.”

Toni pointed toward the dining room off the lobby. “I thought we’d have lunch before we hit the snow. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Belinda murmured. The two women always had lunch here before skiing: Toni’s announcement was by way of including Len in today’s schedule. Well, why not? she thought as the three headed for the restaurant. He looks like a nice guy, and some of Toni’s recent dates had been downright unbearable. Good old Toni, always searching. She thanked Heaven for Jake, despite his preoccupation with the law firm and his tendency to forget things like birthdays and anniversaries. At least he loved her, and he came home every night. She couldn’t imagine being on her own, looking for Mr. Right—or, as Toni was so fond of saying, Mr. Right Now.

Len held their chairs for them as they were seated at the table by the window. Belinda smiled again: this room, with its large glass wall affording a panoramic view of the slopes and the Rockies rising majestically behind them, always reminded her of the cafeteria at Hartley. For that matter, Toni had always
rather reminded her of Sharon Williams. I’m always following the leader, Belinda thought as she ordered
salade Niçoise
and coffee.

“So, Len,” she said after they’d ordered, “do you live here in Boulder?”

“No, I’m from L.A. I’m a freelance photographer. Magazine stuff, mostly. I’m getting together some shots for a piece on winter sports. Well, that’s what I’m
supposed
to be doing. . . .” He smiled, glancing over at Toni.

Toni beamed. “Can I help it if I’m a femme fatale? You should have seen him the other day, B’lin. Franz was giving him pointers on skiing, and he was wobbling all over the place with this camera around his neck. Finally, Franz suggested that maybe he’d do better to lose the camera. I, being a good neighbor, went over and offered to hold it. And you won’t
believe
what he said when he saw me!”

Belinda, who’d heard similar stories before, smiled. “Try me.”

“He said, ‘Franz, who is this gorgeous creature?’ And Franz said, ‘This is Toni Stanton, the woman you’ve been staring at for the last week!’ I mean, how’s
that
for meeting cute?”

“‘Meeting cute’?” Len asked.

“Sure,” Toni explained. “That’s what they call it in the movies. Like Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in
Charade
—who met at a ski lodge, incidentally.
With that awful little boy who kept shooting them with his water pistol. They admitted that they both wanted to murder him, and that’s what they had in common. Meeting cute.”