Woman in Black (39 page)

“She's crazy about you, for one thing.”

“If she is, I've done nothing to encourage it.”

Despite his callous tone, Lila knew a man with a guilty conscience when she saw one. She'd obviously struck a nerve. She knew that, deep down, Vaughn felt bad about any suffering he was causing Gillian, especially since she'd been so good to him. Under any other circumstances, he'd have spared her the grief by checking into a hotel … or hitting the road … but that wasn't an option. Until he beat this thing, he wasn't in any shape to be on his own.

“Even if Gillian weren't in the picture, you're still playing with fire,” she told him. “Abby's a beautiful woman. And you're like a bird with a broken wing who can't fly. It's a recipe for disaster, I'm telling you.”

Vaughn cast her a furtive look as he strolled along, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ancient leather bomber jacket that was like a second skin. “What makes you so sure?”

“You think I don't know that something was going on between you and Abby that summer?” The long-ago summer, before Rosalie and Abigail had been sent away and the sun had gone down on their household.

“You never said anything. I didn't think you'd noticed.”

“How could I not? You and me and Abby—we'd always been a threesome. When you two started sneaking off together, it was pretty obvious you had the hots for each other.” They'd come to a stop at the Plexiglas barrier overlooking the ice rink, and now she gazed down at the skaters gliding and twirling below, her voice soft with regret. “Maybe that's why I didn't try harder to keep Mother from kicking her and Rosie out. Partly it was because I was too shocked to stand up to her, but maybe …” She pulled in a breath. “Maybe deep down, there was a small part of me that wanted you all to myself again.” Lila felt ashamed to admit it, even after all these years. If Vaughn were to decide to hate her, too, she deserved it.

Her brother turned to face her. The muffler wrapped around his neck, the one she'd given him for Christmas, was covering his chin, and, with his knit cap pulled low, it made the exposed part of his face seem vulnerable somehow. Amid its rugged contours, with his tan faded to the mellow shade of an old Martin guitar he'd once owned, his eyes seemed to stand out even more. His gaze was so intense it was hard for her to meet it straight on—like looking into the sun.

“Look, nothing happened back then, and nothing's going to happen now. We fooled around a little one time, out at the quarry, that's it,” he said. “Anyway, how come you never told me any of this before?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I guess it's hard admitting something like that even to yourself.”

“Have you told Abby?”

“God, no. Not that it would make any difference at this point.”

His expression softened. “She's trying, Sis. I know it doesn't always show, but she
is
trying.”

Lila narrowed her eyes at him. “How? By accusing me of sleeping with her husband?”

“She didn't accuse you. She just can't help worrying is all. You're an attractive woman who's around all day, and her husband … well, I guess it's no secret that they're having problems.”

No one was more aware of that than Lila, with all of them living practically under the same roof. For one thing, Abigail and Kent almost never ate together. Also, in tidying up their room, she'd noticed that their bed covers seldom showed signs of anything more than peaceful slumber. When she and Gordon used to make love, it had been almost enough to turn the mattress inside out. But all she said was, “Well, if they are, it's certainly none of
my
concern.”

“Tread lightly, that's all I'm saying.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of warning?”

“No, just a piece of brotherly advice. When tensions are high, you know how things can get blown out of proportion, and I'd hate to see anything you said or did get misinterpreted.”

All the way back home on the train, Lila mulled over his words. She certainly had no designs on Kent, but what if the same wasn't true of him? It hadn't occurred to her until Vaughn had brought it up, but now the thought wormed its way in: Suppose Kent had his eye on her? Could she blame him? A husband starved for affection, even a good husband, might be tempted to stray.

That evening, standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom as she dressed for the benefit, she assessed herself for the first time since Gordon's death as she imagined a man might—Kent or Karim. She'd regained a few much-needed pounds and, along with them, her curves. The hollows in her face were no longer so pronounced, and there was color in her cheeks. Her hair, which she'd recently had styled at a salon in town, fell in shining waves about her neck and shoulders. In short, she looked alive again, after so many months of looking out at the world through dull, dead eyes. So, yes, maybe there was a reason, besides her sparkling wit and recently acquired homemaking skills, why a man would find her attractive.

With that in mind, she discarded one outfit after another, wanting to look her best without looking as if she were trying to draw attention to herself. Not that she had much to choose from—she hadn't bought anything new in a while, and her old clothes were either too large or too dated. Finally she settled on a plain black skirt and a dressy sweater in a pale shade of lilac, which showed off her neckline without baring any cleavage. She added a string of imitation pearls—her real ones had been sold off long ago—and the diamond studs that were the one piece of signature jewelry she'd kept. After slipping on a pair of high heels, she was good to go.

“You look nice, Mom.”

She turned around to find Neal poised in the doorway, wearing his favorite black jeans and a navy blazer over a button-down shirt.

“So do you,” she said, warmed by the unexpected compliment. “I'm sure Phoebe will be suitably wowed.”

His expression at once turned sullen. “It's not like that with us.”

“I didn't mean anything by it,” she told him. “It's just … well, you two
have
been seeing an awful lot of each other.”

She spoke carefully, conscious of how prickly Neal was these days. The most innocent remark could set him off.

“What of it?” Neal said. “You and that Karim guy are always hanging out together. Do I make a big deal out of
that?
”

“You don't have to. You've made it perfectly clear how you feel about it.”

Just then, a horn honked outside. Karim. They'd decided to go in his truck.

Neal drew the curtains back to peer out the window. “Looks like your
date
is here.”

Lila hastened to correct him. “He's not my date.”

“What should I call him then, your fuck buddy?”

Lila was shocked, as much by the contempt with which he'd spoken as by the coarse language coming out of her son's mouth. This was Neal,
her
Neal? But when she looked into her son's face, she saw a stranger looking back at her. An
angry
stranger. Dear God. Did he hate her that much?

She recalled Dr. Goldman's advice not to engage with Neal at his level when he was acting this way, and as soon as she'd regained her composure, she replied in a cool but nonconfrontational tone, “There's no call for you to speak to me that way. Nothing's going on with Karim and me. And even if there were, I should hope you'd respect my privacy.”

“Privacy? Is that what you call it?” Neal shook his head in disgust. “Christ, Dad hasn't even been gone a year and already you're doing some other guy.”

Lila was too stunned to be angry. She could see on his face the pain her son was in, and that hurt her more than any words he might hurl at her in an effort to dispel some of that pain. “Oh, honey. That's simply not the case. Besides, you know nothing could ever change the way I felt about your dad.” Her eyes filled with tears, but when she reached out to put a hand on Neal's arm, he jerked away, as if he couldn't bear to have her touch him.

“Yeah, I know. You hated him.”

If she'd been shocked by his earlier words, she was rendered momentarily speechless by this new revelation. “Why would you say a thing like that?” she gasped. “You know I loved your dad very much.”

“Yeah? Then why'd he kill himself?”

Before she could respond, Neal spun on his heel and disappeared into the next room. A moment later, she heard the front door slam shut.

At the party
, Lila drifted about, shaking hands and murmuring pleasantries, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't stop thinking about the argument with Neal. Had his outburst been just that of a boy blindly lashing out, or was it a sign of something more troubling? She'd assumed that Neal was still taking the antidepressants he'd been prescribed, but when was the last time she'd checked to make sure? Spying him across the crowded room, deep in conversation with Phoebe, Lila tried to draw reassurance from the fact that he appeared none the worse for their tiff, but she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that lay over her like a mushroom cloud.

Ironically, the person she most wanted to be with right now was Karim, but she'd let him know on the way over that she'd prefer it if they kept their distance from each other tonight. Respecting her wishes, he'd remained at her side only long enough to fetch a drink for her before moving off to mingle with the crowd. Now, spotting him at the other end of the yacht club's thronged dining hall, his dark, boldly ethnic features standing out amid the sea of mostly white faces, she was at once filled with regret, wishing they could have met at another time in her life. He'd said he would wait, but would he wait forever? There had to be other women who'd leap at the chance to be with him. Like Chrissy Elliot, who at the moment was hanging all over him. The elfin blond owner of the toy store on Main Street, called the Elephant's Trunk, who was always in jeans and sneakers whenever Lila saw her downtown, was tonight dressed to the nines and wearing killer heels, looking as if she wanted to jump Karim's bones. Watching her lay a hand on his arm, laughing too loudly in response to something he'd said, Lila felt a stab of jealousy. If Karim had remained unattached this long, she thought, it was only by choice. Also, unattached didn't necessarily mean celibate. After that steamy little scene in Abigail's bedroom the other day, she could well imagine him taking a lover. And if she wasn't available …

A stitch in her belly pulled taut at the thought.

As for her own popularity, she'd gone from being a social pariah in the city to something of a curiosity here in Stone Harbor. Once the buzz had died down, the townsfolk hadn't known quite what to make of her. Whenever she encountered them while out shopping or running errands, she could see the confusion in their eyes: Was this the same rich bitch who'd been so reviled by the press? Where were her furs and jewels, her fancy designer clothes? She could sense them wondering, too, why someone of her obvious pedigree would be employed as a housekeeper. And not just any housekeeper, but
Abigail Armstrong's
housekeeper. But those who had gotten to know her a bit—like Grace Stehosky from L'Epicerie and John Carmine from the fish store, both of whom had greeted her warmly when she'd arrived tonight—treated her no differently than they would anyone else. And Barb Huggins, whom she'd run into earlier, had gone out of her way to be friendly, promising to call as soon as her boss had decided what she wanted to do about filling the temporary position they'd spoken about.

Now, as Lila milled around, introducing herself to people whom she hadn't yet met and chatting with acquaintances, she felt as if she had as much right to be here as anyone. And she had to admit it felt good, flexing her near-atrophied social muscles while at the same time putting old ghosts to rest. She didn't have to pretend to be someone she wasn't … or apologize for her husband's bad behavior. She could just be herself: Take it or leave it.

It was also her first real evening out since she'd moved here, except for the occasional movie or bite to eat in town. The first time, too, that she'd been inside the yacht club. Wandering around, checking out its various public rooms, she found herself drawn to the view from the window that overlooked the harbor in one of the smaller sitting rooms off the dining hall. The club was situated on a point that jutted out into the river, so it was surrounded by water on three sides. From her vantage point, high above the snow-covered lawn that sloped to meet the marina, she could imagine that she was standing aboard a ship set to embark. Below, the marina looked deserted, the only movement that of the tall masts swaying in the breeze like so many trees in a defoliated forest. Farther out on the river, chunks of ice floated ghostlike along invisible black currents, and a tugboat chugged along, pulling its phosphorescent wake.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

She swung around at the familiar sound of Kent's voice. The room had been deserted when she'd wandered into it. He must have slipped in while she'd been admiring the view. He stood before her now, drink in hand, looking more formal, in his suit and tie, than she was used to seeing him. Handsome, too, with his tweedy, silvering hair that perfectly complemented his gray eyes. She thought back to her brother's warning earlier in the day and felt herself grow warm.

“It's a lovely spot,” she agreed.

“It's even nicer out on the water,” he said. Kent was happiest, she knew, at the helm of his sailboat, not hanging around tony clubs or hobnobbing at parties.

“You must be looking forward to when the weather warms up,” she said.

He tipped his tumbler of scotch, as if in a silent toast to the gods of good sailing weather. “I was thinking of heading south this year. Maybe sail along the Florida coast. Do some fishing.”

“I didn't know you liked to fish,” she said.