Woman in Black (12 page)

“That's one way of looking at it, I suppose,” he replied dubiously. “But just put yourself in Abby's shoes. You don't hear from your best friend in more than twenty years, and then suddenly she pops up out of the blue, hat in hand, to tell you how sorry she is for ruining your life. Oh, and by the way, you wouldn't happen to have a job for her?”

Vaughn, as usual, saw straight through Lila. It was one of the things she loved most about her brother: He knew her better than anyone, and he always gave it to her straight. However supportive he'd been throughout her ordeal, he'd never babied her or minced words. When it had become apparent to him that Gordon was going down, he'd cautioned her to get her ducks lined up. Advice that would have stood her in good stead if her ducks hadn't already flown south by then. But though normally she appreciated his honesty, right now it was tough to hear.

She heaved a sigh. “I see your point. But aren't you exaggerating just a little? I didn't exactly ruin Abby's life. It was Mother who fired Rosie; I was just an innocent bystander. Okay, I admit I handled it badly, but that doesn't make me a terrible person, does it? I was just a dumb kid.”

“I won't argue that,” he said with brotherly affection. “And, no, you weren't the only one to blame. Whenever I think about that whole disgusting episode, it makes me sick to my stomach. Whatever Rosie did or didn't do—and, believe me, I have my doubts about the official version—Abby shouldn't have had to suffer for it.”

“It wasn't just Mother. It was Dad, too,” Lila reminded him. “He could've done something about it.”

“The reason he didn't was because it would have been the same as admitting that Mother was too wasted to know what the fuck she was talking about,” Vaughn replied with disgust.

It wasn't just that their mother had been a hopeless drunk. Vaughn blamed their dad for being too weak to see the situation for what it had been and to grapple with it head-on. Instead, he'd simply bailed out. Worse, he'd left their mother to marry another woman—his secretary, who had been nearly twenty years his junior, and who, it turned out, had only been after him for his money. But that wasn't the only reason Vaughn was bitter. In their father's absence, the responsibility of caring for their increasingly dependent mother had fallen onto Vaughn's and Lila's shoulders. There had been no one else; none of the housekeepers hired to replace Rosie had lasted more than a few months. Once they'd taken stock of the situation, they'd hightailed it out of there. Who in their right mind wouldn't have? Even Vaughn had cut out to join the Peace Corps as soon as he'd turned eighteen, leaving Lila in charge of running the household from afar while pursuing her studies at Vanderbilt.

Looking back, she saw Rosalie's dismissal as the catalyst for her family's long, slow disintegration. And yet the real reason for it remained a mystery to this day. Even if Rosalie had stolen the necklace, which was unlikely, given that it would have been totally out of character, what use would she have had for it? It wasn't as if she'd needed the money. Lila's parents had been generous in that regard; they'd even offered to pay for Abigail's college education. But if Rosie had been innocent, how had the necklace ended up among her things? Had Lila's mother had something to do with it, as Abigail had hinted darkly at the time? And if so, why? There would have been no earthly reason for her mother to want to get rid of someone she'd depended on so heavily. None of it made any sense.

“I wish I could go back in time,” Lila said with a sigh of regret. “I'd have done it all differently, knowing what I know now.” It wasn't just the guilt that had plagued her all these years. Her recent hardships had given her a new appreciation of what it must have been like for Abigail and her mother, cast out of the only home they'd known.

“Look,” Vaughn said. “If it's money you need, I can have my bank wire some into your account. Seriously, Sis, I
want
you to have it. This is no time to go all stubborn on me.”

They'd been through this before, but though the offer was tempting, Lila remained firm. She might have sacrificed her pride, but she still had some common decency left. It simply wouldn't be fair to her brother. He might need that money for a rainy day of his own. “Thanks, but no. You've done too much already.”

“The money's just sitting there,” he insisted. “Really, it's no big deal.”

“Well, it is to
me
,” she told him. “Don't think I'm not appreciative, because I am, more than you know. But I'm a big girl. I can't be sponging off my brother the rest of my life. I have to start fending for myself at some point.” Brave words that did nothing to ease her fears.

“I wish I could offer you a place to stay, at least. But I'm sort of between places at the moment.”

Vaughn was perennially “between places.” Sometimes she thought he'd be happiest living out of a tent, and not just when he was on the road, filming in some godforsaken locale. In another life, her brother must have been a hermit crab.

“Don't worry, I'll figure something out,” she told him.

But a week later, she was no closer to a solution. She'd left several messages at Abigail's office, to no avail. Under ordinary circumstances, Lila would have let it go at that—honestly, could she blame Abigail for not returning her calls?—except that she was rapidly running out of road. Birdie and Whit Caldwell were due back from Europe in a little over two weeks. Lila would have to be out by then.

In desperation, she put another call in to Abigail. This time, she was placed on hold. It seemed an answer to her prayers when moments later, Abigail's voice came on the line—richly modulated, with just a trace of a southern accent, and so honed by years of media exposure, it was barely recognizable as that of Lila's childhood friend. “Lila. My goodness, this is a surprise.” As if it weren't Lila's fourth attempt to reach her. “It's been a long time, hasn't it?”

Lila had been braced for a cool reception, and now she felt some of the tension drain out of her. From Abigail's breezy tone, she might have been any old friend checking in after a long absence. “I've been meaning to call,” she said somewhat sheepishly. “But you know how it is, one thing after another. The years go by so quickly.”

There was a low chuckle at the other end. “Don't I know it! I've been pretty busy myself.”

“No kidding. I've seen you on TV. Congratulations, by the way. I always knew you'd be a success.” Even as a kid, Abigail had had that drive. Lila recalled the scrapbook Abigail used to keep. It had been filled with pictures cut from magazines of the fantasy life she'd dreamed of. Beautiful clothes … fancy homes … luxury cars … red-carpet events.

“And you?”

Lila hesitated before replying with chagrin, “I'm sure you've heard.” Who hadn't? Her life was an open book at this point.

Abigail murmured the requisite condolences. “Yes. I'm sorry about your husband. Such a tragedy, and so young. It must have been hard for you.”

“Thank you. Yes, it's been difficult.” Lila didn't elaborate. Her grief was still too raw. And she couldn't lose sight of her purpose, which certainly wasn't to pour her heart out to Abigail, at least not over the phone.

Moving right along, Abigail inquired, “And your parents, how are they?”

Lila felt herself start to tense up again, but she didn't detect any animosity in Abigail's voice. “Both passed away,” she replied. “Mother died of cancer about five years ago and Dad of a heart attack a couple of years after.”

“Sorry to hear it.” All at once, Abigail's tone turned businesslike. “So. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could meet for coffee,” Lila answered tentatively.

“Hmmm … let's see.” Abigail paused as if to consult her BlackBerry. “I'm afraid I'm all booked up through the end of the month.” Lila's heart sank, and she was already wracking her brain for an alternative plan, when Abigail suggested, “Why don't you come out to my place this weekend? I know it's a bit of a schlep, but I'm afraid it's the only time I have available. Say, two o'clock on Sunday?”

Relief poured through Lila. “Sounds good. Let me check my calendar.” Seated at the antique escritoire in Birdie Caldwell's study, she let a moment or two elapse while she stared emptily at Birdie's red leather address book from Smythson before chirping, “Yes, that's fine. Sunday it is.” It wouldn't do to appear too eager. Abigail might get a whiff of her desperation.

She carefully copied down the directions. By the time she hung up, she felt more hopeful than she'd felt in weeks. But she cautioned herself not to read too much into the invitation. She was far from an offer of employment.

The following Sunday, heading north along the Henry Hudson Parkway in the ten-year-old Ford Taurus she'd gotten off a used-car lot, a trade-in for her BMW, Lila wondered nervously what was in store for today. Abigail had been nice enough over the phone, sure, but the real proof would be in the reception Lila got when she arrived at the house. And something told her they weren't going to be reminiscing about old times over coffee and cake. The woman with whom she'd spoken, the sleek, successful entrepreneur seen on magazine and book covers, bore little resemblance to the funny, irreverent, unsophisticated girl Lila had known. The girl with whom she'd shared endless confidences and with whom she'd danced in her room, lip-synching the tunes of Pat Benatar and Kim Carnes, using a hairbrush as a microphone. They used to giggle themselves silly, and if one of them was blue, the other would always manage to cheer her up. Like the time, in the seventh grade when Abigail had been upset because she hadn't been asked to a party being thrown by a girl in her class. “We'll have our own, then,” Lila had said. And so they had, Lila and Vaughn inviting all of their friends and Rosalie supplying the refreshments. Abigail had declared afterward that it had been the best party ever.

Lila hoped it wasn't too late to rekindle some of that goodwill.

Inching her way toward the first of the toll booths, just beyond the George Washington Bridge, Lila observed that the trees along the parkway were nearly bare. Somehow autumn had come and gone with her scarcely noticing. Now she watched with a kind of wonder as a handful of the remaining leaves were torn loose from their branches by a gust of wind and sent scuttling through the air like a flock of scattered birds. She felt like someone emerging outdoors for the first time after a lengthy and debilitating illness.

It was late November, and even with the windows rolled up all the way, Lila could feel the chill of the approaching winter. Inside the Taurus, it was cold enough to keep a carton of ice cream from melting. Stupidly, she hadn't thought to test the heater before driving the car off the lot. She'd bought it back in May, when the weather had been warmer, and to be fair, she'd had far bigger concerns at the time. Now, without the funds to get it fixed, a functioning car heater was just another item on the long list of things she'd learned to do without.

It amazed her, the things she'd once taken for granted—designer clothes, dining at four-star restaurants, limousines to ferry her to various venues in the city. All of which belonged to another era. The collapse of Vertex might have been the fall of the Roman Empire as far as she was concerned. Her entire world had crumbled in its wake. The first wave had taken out her personal trainer, masseuse, and four-hundred-dollar haircuts, not to mention those romantic weekends she and Gordon used to enjoy at the Point and Twin Farms, where a single night cost more than an entire month's rent on the house she'd been forced to relinquish. But that had been only the first notch in tightening her belt. Hardship, she now knew, wasn't having to wear last season's fashions or riding the subway instead of taking taxis. It was wondering how you were going to survive from one day to the next. And Neal …

She couldn't think about her son without choking up. He'd been stoic about having to drop out of school, insisting it was what he wanted, but she knew it was hard for him.

How like Gordon he was! Her husband, until the very end, had always striven to care for his family, to shield them from the buffets of any ill wind—even, as it turned out, at a cost that had brought them all down. Now it was Neal assuring her, in the midst of his own grief, “It's no big deal, Mom. Seriously. I don't want you to have to go through this alone. I can always go back to school when you even out a bit. Anyway, it's not the end of the world if I take a year off.”

Lila wasn't fooled. She hadn't missed the dark circles under his eyes or the worry lines on his forehead. “Honey, I know it's hard, but it won't be this way forever.” She reached out to put a hand on his arm, to console him, but instead of the warm pliancy of flesh as familiar to her as her own, she met with stone. Neal was so tense, it might have been the arm of a statue she was touching.

She didn't need the psychologist her son had been seeing to tell her that Neal was bottled up—so bottled up, he was on the verge of imploding. Worse, there was little she could do to help. For wasn't she partly to blame? She should have recognized the warning signs with Gordon; she never should've left him alone that day. If she had, he might still be alive, and Neal … well, Neal wouldn't have had to witness what no child ever should.

With any luck, time would heal those wounds. The more immediate concern was figuring out how they were going to survive, starting with a place to live. Manhattan, with its obscene rents, was out of the question, but she might be able to find something affordable that was within commuting distance, say in Brooklyn or Queens. The only thing she knew for sure was that, if she didn't find a job soon, they'd be living out of her car.

An hour later, she was pulling into Stone Harbor. Cruising along the main drag, she was struck by how little it had changed in the eight or nine years since she'd last visited, on a weekend antiquing trip with Gordon. The quaint turn-of-the-century village lay just outside easy commuting distance to the city, which was no doubt the reason its Victorian homes and public works dating back to the WPA era hadn't been torn down years ago in the name of progress. Except for a scattering of tony boutiques and gift shops where old mom-and-pop establishments had been, it was pretty much as she remembered.