Woman in Black (27 page)

He smiled at her as he bent to fish a quarter from under the coffee station. “Happens all the time. How do you think I make all my tips?” This elicited a small smile in return. Emboldened by it, he carried her drink over to a table by the window, lingering after she'd sat down. There were no other customers in the deli at the moment—the guy with the panini had taken it to go, and traffic at the Earl of Sandwich was generally slow on Sundays, when a lot of the businesses downtown were closed—so he was in no particular rush to get back to his station. “Can I get you anything else, a napkin or a straw?”

“Are you always this helpful?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Only with people I know.”

“Oh, so you think you know me?”

She tilted her head to give him a haughty look, but he sensed that it was just an act. There was something vulnerable about her under that brittle exterior.

“I know you don't eat much,” he countered, his gaze dropping to the cup in her hand. He might have thought twice before getting so personal had they been on her turf, but this was
his
, and here the only ass he had to kiss was his boss's. “You on a diet or something?”

“None of your damn business.”

He threw his hands up in self-defense. “Don't look at me. I don't give a shit. It's my mom. She's worried that you'll starve to death or something. But that's what moms do, right? It's their job to worry.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Phoebe relaxed a bit, taking a small sip of her soda. “Not that I'd know from personal experience. In case you haven't noticed, mine isn't exactly the motherly type. She spends more time at work than she does at home.” After a moment, when he still hadn't made any move to leave, she asked pointedly, “Don't you have stuff to do?”

“Is that a hint?”

“No.”

“If you want me to leave you alone, just say so.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you always this rude?” he asked.

They stared at each other for several seconds without speaking, as if challenging each other in some way. Then her gaze cut away, and he saw from the smile flickering at the corners of her mouth that, if it had been a showdown, he'd won. “Sorry if I was rude,” she said. “Don't take it personally.”

Taking her semiapology as an invitation, he dropped into the chair opposite hers, after first darting a look over his shoulder to make sure the owner, Earl Haber—the Earl in Earl of Sandwich—was nowhere in sight. “And here I thought it was just me,” he said.

“Don't flatter yourself.”

“Believe me, there's no danger of that. You haven't spoken more than two words to me since I got here. Did I say something to offend you, or is it just that you don't socialize with the hired help?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Why would you think that?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“This has nothing to do with you, okay? So back off.” For a worrisome moment, it looked as if she might start to cry.

Neal was quick to defuse the situation. “Look, maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. Why don't we start over?” He stuck out his hand, putting on a smile designed to show how harmless he was. “Hi, I'm Neal. I'm new here. If you're not doing anything later on, maybe you'd like to hang out or, I don't know … What do kids our age do for fun around here?”

Her face relaxed, and he saw that she was actually kind of pretty. “The short answer is, not much. Unless your idea of fun is bingo night at the Elks Lodge, it's pretty dead around here after dark.”

“Is that why you're in such a bad mood?” he teased.

She looked as if she were about to get prickly again, but she must have decided that it wasn't worth the effort, for she merely said, “For your information, the reason I'm in such a sucky mood is because of this stupid dinner party my mom's throwing tomorrow night. How would you feel if you had to sit through a fake Christmas dinner, with cameras rolling, knowing that millions of people were going to be watching your every move?”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” he said. It was for some TV special—“Christmas with Abigail Armstrong” or some such—that was going to be videotaped at the house. His mom had been working overtime to help get everything set up. “It sounds like it's a pretty big deal.”

“Yeah. To my mom.” Phoebe made a face.

“Hey, I can think of worse things,” he said.
Like a holiday dinner looking at your dad's empty place at the table
. But he didn't dare let his thoughts go down that road. It was a road he'd been down too many times before, one he knew to be dark and treacherous, where each turn only took him farther off the path to some sort of understanding. He could easily get lost and never find his way back.

“Holidays are supposed to be about family, right? But with my mom, it's all about putting on a show.” She spoke with barely contained contempt. “She doesn't care about my dad and me.”

Neal felt a little uncomfortable with her telling him all this. But at least it meant that she'd decided he was an ally, rather than a member of her mother's supporting cast. Still, he felt obliged to point out, “I'm sure she does. But that doesn't mean she can't care about her job, too.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” She glowered at him.

Neal shrugged. “I didn't know there were sides. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I get it. I've put in my share of command performances at my parents' parties. It's kind of a pain, I know, but think of it like a trip to the dentist. It's just something you've gotta do.”

“At least with the dentist, they give you a shot to numb you.”

Neal could see that he was getting nowhere with this line of reasoning, so he took another approach, swallowing his earlier reluctance to mention the subject he normally sought to avoid. “At least you have a family,” he told her. “This'll be my first Christmas without my dad.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” Her expression softened. “I'm sorry. I've never met anyone before whose father …” She didn't finish the sentence.

Grief and its evil twin, anger, inched their way out of the cave where Neal kept them penned. “Yeah, well, now you know that
I
know what it's like to have your life on display in front of millions of people,” he said. “You want to know what sucks? Having your best friend call to offer his condolences after hearing about your dad on the six o'clock news.”

Phoebe eyed him with new respect. “It must've been rough.”

He shrugged.

“You don't like talking about it, do you?” she observed.

“Not especially.”

“Okay, so we won't talk about it.”

“Good.”

“Hey, I just thought of something. If you're not busy tonight, do you feel like going to a concert?” she asked, brightening somewhat. “It's a benefit for some charity thing of my dad's, over at the community center. He got some of his musician friends to perform for free.”

“Maybe you should check with your dad first,” Neal replied tentatively, uncertain about his status in the Armstrong-Whittaker household.

“It's cool, don't worry. I'll have him set aside an extra ticket.”

“Yeah, okay. Sounds like fun.” So far, Neal's nightlife had consisted of playing Scrabble or watching TV with his mom. This would be a nice change of pace.

“Your mom can come, too, if she wants.”

Neal considered the ramifications of this for a moment before replying less than honestly, “I think she has other plans.” He felt a little bad for nixing the idea without even running it by her—she might have enjoyed an evening out—but the truth was, he could use a break from his mom. He decided he wasn't going to worry about anyone but himself from now on. For all the worrying he'd done over his dad, look how much good it had done.

“It doesn't start until eight-thirty, but Dad wants to get there early, so we'll meet you out front at half past seven,” Phoebe told him. “We can all go in his car. It's just the three of us, so we should be able to fit.”

“Your mom's not coming?” It wasn't any of his business, but it struck him as odd. He and his parents had always done things as a family.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “She says she's too busy getting ready for the party tomorrow. I guess even a fake one is a lot of work.” Her gaze drifted toward the window, and for a long moment, she sat staring out at the holiday shoppers hurrying along the snowy sidewalk, bundled up in their coats, laden with shopping bags. When she finally brought her gaze back to Neal, the angry look was gone, in its place one of deep melancholy. She pushed aside her half-finished soda. “I should probably get going. I have some stuff to do,” she told him, though she appeared in no hurry to leave.

“Okay,” he said. “So I guess I'll see you back at the house?”

“You bet.” She pointed a finger at him. “Half past seven. Don't forget.”

“Don't worry, I'll be there.”

For a brief, shining instant Neal felt almost as if he were back in his old life, when hooking up with a friend on the spur of the moment and having no other responsibility in life but making decent grades had been things he'd taken for granted, like the air he breathed.

Then his boss, Mr. Haber, stuck his big, hairy gray head out from the kitchen to bellow at Neal, “What, I pay you to sit around schmoozing with the customers?”

The spell was broken.

With a sigh, Neal stood up, muttering to Phoebe, “Listen, I'd better get back to work. Later, okay?”

10

The table was set for eight, a nice, even number that struck a note of much-needed harmony in what was shaping up to be a messy situation on the home front. Even as Abigail stepped back to admire the fruits of her labor—the place settings gleaming with her Herend china and Tiffany silver, Waterford goblets and wineglasses; the starched linen napkin tucked into each of the filigreed sterling napkin rings; the braided evergreen boughs at the center studded with dried persimmons and pomegranates, with candles at either end—thoughts of Kent and Phoebe nagged at her. They'd made it clear to her how they felt about participating in tonight's event, a special that would invite millions of viewers into their home when it was televised. Kent not so jokingly referred to it as her “dog-and-pony show,” and Phoebe was on the verge of mutiny.

Abigail felt the anger that was never far below the surface gain a foothold. Damn it. Why should she need to remind them that this was what she did for a
living?
One that provided them with many of the luxuries they enjoyed. And where did Phoebe imagine the money for her college education was coming from? With all the patients Kent treated for free, his earnings weren't enough to put her through four years of a top school, not without their feeling the pinch.

Nevertheless, what had seemed like a brilliant idea when the executive producer of the Home and Garden network had first floated it—a holiday special showing Abigail and her family and a few close friends enjoying a quiet “Christmas” dinner at Rose Hill, which would not only boost her visibility but help regain some of the credibility she'd lost with Tag—now seemed like just another excuse for Abigail's husband and daughter to hate her. This whole day, preparing for the event, all she could think about was Joan Crawford after she'd become known to the world as Mommie Dearest.

Well, it was too late to back out now, even if she'd wanted to. The film crew would be here any minute. The stage was set. The champagne was chilling and the food prepped. In the living room, the Christmas tree was aglow, the logs stacked in the fireplace, and candles placed strategically. All that was missing, she thought, was Tiny Tim piping, “God bless us, every one!”

What does any of it matter
, she thought,
with my marriage on the rocks and my daughter barely speaking to me?

And what would Kent think if he knew about Vaughn? If it was all so innocent, why hadn't she told him where she'd been going on her lunch hour these days? She'd been back to see Vaughn several more times since that first visit. And she could no longer use the excuse that she was merely paying a call on a sick friend. Earlier this week, Vaughn had felt well enough to go on an outing. She suggested something indoors, a movie or a museum, but he insisted on their going to the Central Park Zoo, which she confessed she hadn't visited since Phoebe was little. She wasn't thinking about Kent then; she merely felt guilty about taking the time off work. But despite that, and despite the weather's being brisk and windy and many of the zoo animals in hiding, it was one of the most pleasant, relaxing days in recent memory. Afterward they went to the Boathouse for lunch, where they lingered until well into the afternoon, reminiscing about old times.

They were strolling through the park on their way to catch a cab, wind-driven leaves dervish-dancing at their feet, when Vaughn asked out of the blue, “What is it you want out of life, Abby?”

She was momentarily at a loss. Wasn't it obvious? She already had everything a person could possibly want. Then she realized that wasn't what he'd meant, and she smiled and tucked her arm through his. “This,” she said. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be strolling along arm in arm with Vaughn. The fact that he was walking more slowly than usual, due to his illness, only made their time together more precious. With the sun shining overhead and the air crisp as a new apple, her family and business woes seemed far away.

He smiled back at her, the light in his eyes undiminished, though the rest of him had begun to show the effects of the chemo—he was thinner, little more than skin and bones, his body like some magnificent, if fragile, rock formation sculpted by the elements. A man beset by illness, stripped to the barest essentials, with no home of his own. And yet …

He's complete
, she thought.