Читать книгу A Year And A Day - Inglath Cooper, Inglath Cooper - Страница 7

AUDREY COLBY HATED New Year’s Eve.

It was the one day of the year when people celebrated the old and ushered in the new, the turning of the calendar an impossible-to-deny reminder of another twelve months slipping by. One more year, and nothing had changed. Or rather, she had changed nothing.

She sat in front of the walnut vanity, the reflection in the heavy Venetian mirror barely recognizable. With one finger, she traced the now faded bruise just beneath her jaw. She opened a drawer and pulled out a tube of concealer, dotted some on and smoothed it in. The yellow-green shadow surrendered temporarily, nearly invisible.

“Audrey, are you ready?” Her husband’s voice echoed up from downstairs. Smooth. Cultured. Tainted by a hint of irritation.

The muscles in her stomach tightened. But outwardly she showed no emotion. She’d grown used to the bland stranger in the mirror. The woman who never smiled, whose eyes were flat and lifeless. She considered not finishing her makeup. Did it really matter how much she put on, anyway? She’d still hate the way she looked. She could see past the mask, after all. Even if the rest of the world couldn’t.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Jonathan appeared in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. He wore a black tuxedo, his face tan against a starched white shirt, his expression placid. “What’s taking so long?” he asked. “We’re late.”

Audrey forced herself to meet her husband’s gaze, strove for a note of reason in her voice. “Why don’t you go without me tonight? I’m not feeling well.”

He crossed the room, lifted a strand of her hair and wrapped it around his finger. Something flickered in his brown eyes. “I can’t do that,” he said. “What would people think?”

“What does it matter what people think?”

“Ross and Sylvia are expecting us,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

A sudden furnace of anger ignited inside her. “And Laura?” Amazingly enough, her voice remained even.

He went still, raised an eyebrow, a half smile touching his mouth. “I believe Ross said she’s still in from school. Since when are you so interested in seeing Laura?”

Audrey’s fury collapsed as quickly as it had erupted. “I’m not,” she said, her voice neutral. Sammy was in his room, watching a DVD. She didn’t want him to hear their raised voices.

She rose from the stool and walked to her closet, a small room in itself, the light snapping on automatically when she opened the door. She closed her eyes and fought back the hopelessness pressing down on her. Again and again, they danced the same dance, their lives stuck on this one loop. Go along to get along.

But she had a plan. A way out. And for now, that was all that mattered. A plan. It would get her through. She clung to the thought of it like a drowning woman to a single buoy.

“Audrey?” Jonathan stood at the closet entrance, an edge to his voice now.

“I should finish getting ready,” she said, flipping through the dresses, taking one from the rack without looking at it.

Jonathan yanked it from her hand, tossed it on the floor like it was garbage, then pulled her to him. He lowered his head, kissing the side of her jaw where the bruise was now disguised, then the tip of her chin, and finally, her mouth. “So beautiful,” he said, drawing back to look at her. “I keep thinking that one day, I’ll look at you and see you in a different light. So far, no.”

Bird in a cage, she thought. What pretty feathers. A snap of the fingers, and the bird sings.

“By the way,” he said, close to her ear, “I thought you’d like to know I’ve made arrangements for Samuel to begin at the Cade Country School.”

The words hit her like a brick to the chest. For a moment, she felt as if all the air in her lungs had been forced out. She couldn’t breathe. A hand to her throat, she said, “What do you mean you’ve made arrangements?”

“A boarding school in Connecticut,” he explained rationally, as if there were anything even remotely rational in what he was saying. “They’ll have a room available for him mid-February. The school is completing new housing, and they’re willing to take him in to the semester. We’ll plan to fly him up after my trip to the Dominican Republic.”

Audrey stared at him, too stunned to respond. When she finally found her voice, it didn’t sound like her own. “Sammy isn’t going anywhere. He can’t. He’s too young—”

“He’s nine years old,” Jonathan said abruptly. “Cade starts with fourth graders. I think it would do him good to have some time away from you. You’ve made him far too clingy. It’s time he stopped being such a mama’s boy.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist, as if she could somehow hold back the sudden avalanche of pain tumbling through her. She had long ago learned that arguing with Jonathan was an exercise in futility. She bit her lip now to keep from screaming at him.

He stepped forward, pushing her aside. She stumbled, righted herself with a hand on the wall. He rummaged through the clothes, impatient, pulling a black dress from a hanger and throwing it at her. “Wear this,” he said. “The other one looks cheap.”

She took the dress into the bathroom, a too-familiar and equally impotent anger rising like bile in her throat. She forced it back, refusing to waste the energy. Instead, she would focus on the immediate future, on how to make her plan happen sooner, her mind suddenly buzzing with the steps that would need to be completed.

She had the e-mail address. All she had to do was use it.

Tomorrow. She would start tomorrow. This time, it would happen. This time, there was no other choice.

THE SURPRISE PARTY wasn’t much of a surprise.

Nicholas Wakefield supposed he should be grateful his colleagues in the Atlanta District Attorney’s office had chosen to send him off with good wishes instead of rotten apples.

The apples would have been more appropriate, considering how difficult he’d been to live with the past couple of months.

All the same, he wished they had skipped the party. Leaving this place was going to be hard enough without having to put a happy face on it.

From the hall just outside his office came muffled whispers mingled with laughter. The sooner he went in, the sooner it would be over. He sighed and forced his feet to move.

“Surprise!”

The greeting exploded in front of him, followed by a few grumbles about how long it had taken him to get back from the file room.

“A man could get arthritis stooped over for that long,” Kyle Travers said, shaking his head. Kyle had a barrel-size chest and a voice to match. As district attorney, he used it whenever he needed to play the intimidation card. “Get in here, Nicholas, and cut this cake,” he boomed.

Nicholas walked over to the table and picked up the knife. “You bake this yourself?”

“From scratch.” Kyle smiled, slapping him on the back. “Amy did. And she said to make sure you actually eat some of it.”

“You’re married to one of Atlanta’s best cooks. Anything she fixes, I’ll eat.” Nicholas looked around the room at the faces he’d grown to know so well over the past nine years. For the most part, they were a good bunch. Some, he’d actually miss working with. Kyle, most of all. The two of them shared a common philosophy on how the system should work, and a mutual disgust for the fact that more often than not, it didn’t.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Nicholas said to the smiling group.

“So change your mind about leaving, and we’ll take down all the balloons, eat the cake and pretend this little surprise party never happened.” This from Eleana Elliott, Kyle’s secretary. She leaned against a file cabinet in the far corner of the office, looking out at him over a pair of the kind of sturdy black-framed glasses that made smart people look smarter.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

Kyle held up a hand. “Let’s not start that again,” he said. “Nicholas is going civilian. Quit giving him a hard time about it. This is supposed to be a party. So cut the cake, Wakefield.”

Someone cranked the volume on a boom box, Outkast rattling the ceiling tiles, the mood of the party instantly lifting. A few people started dancing.

Nicholas made his way through the crowd, thanking everyone for their congratulations on his new job, reluctant though some of them were to see him leave. Part of him appreciated that most of the people here didn’t want to see him go. Another part of him knew he had to. For his own sanity, he couldn’t stay.

An hour later, someone blared a request for more cups. Nicholas volunteered to get them, glad for the momentary escape. In the hallway, the din of music and voices lowered a decibel or two. He went in the office next door, found the cups behind the desk, then sat in the chair and leaned back, closing his eyes. They wouldn’t miss him for a few minutes. In tying up the last loose ends of his responsibilities here, he’d averaged four hours of sleep a night for the past few nights, most of them on the couch in his office. He was bone-tired.

“Hey, you know I don’t really want you to go either.”

Nicholas looked up. Kyle stood in the doorway, one beefy shoulder against the jamb. “You’ll just miss my coffeemaking skills.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Anybody can do a to-go cup from Starbucks.”

“Yeah, but I get it the way you like it.”

“True.” Kyle came in and sat down in the chair across from the desk, his hands behind his head. “So what’s your plan? Find a good woman? Settle down?”

Nicholas propped one elbow on the side of the chair. “I’m not complaining about the status quo.”

“The status quo’s fine for a Saturday-night diversion, but that bed’s got to get a little chilly the rest of the week.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

Kyle snorted. “One of these days, you’re going to.”

“I do better solo. And besides, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone except myself.”

“Sounds lonely if you ask me.”

Nicholas let that one go. He couldn’t deny that sometimes, it was.

Kyle was silent for a few moments, and then said, “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re getting out of this place. Since your first day here, you’ve taken the weight of every case that comes across your desk as if your own salvation depended on the outcome.”

“Maybe it did,” Nicholas said softly.

Kyle blew out a sigh, fatigue edging out the previous cheer in his expression. “We did everything we could for that little girl, Nick. You know that.”

The words hung between them. Since the verdict, this was the first reference either of them had made to the case. Nicholas sat up in the desk chair. “Yeah. So I keep telling myself.”

“We did.”

“I got too comfortable,” he said, his voice low. “Let myself think we had the case wrapped up tight. And because of it, that crazy bastard got off scot-free.”

“The jury didn’t buy it, man.”

“She was just a kid,” Nicholas said, suddenly weary. Fourteen. Even younger than his sister. He broke the thought off there, a batch of bad memories assaulting him.

Kyle sighed, his tone measured when he said, “You think it doesn’t kill me to see scum like Dayton slide through the cracks? I do all I can within the realm of the system, and at least that’s something.”

There it was. The implication that Nicholas was selling out. But then, wasn’t that exactly what he was doing?

Nine years ago, he had started out in the prosecutor’s office on fire with the need to make a difference. Just over a month ago, he’d finally admitted to himself that when it came right down to it, he hadn’t changed anything.

The disappointment of that clung to him, invisible, choking.

With the verdict in the Mary-Ellen Moore case, reality had hit him. He couldn’t do the job anymore. A switch inside him had been permanently shut off. He woke up every morning certain that all the old energy, the passion he’d once felt for his work would have returned.

But the more he yearned for that old fire, the more it seemed to evade him.

He couldn’t forget the girl’s face. The crime-scene photos revealing with sickening accuracy her innocence. Lips parted as if she had been shocked to discover that the world could end up so ugly. Her dress torn. One sandal missing. The last image of his little sister all those years ago flashed through his mind, sending a knife of pain through his gut. He ran a hand over his eyes.

“I promised that family,” he said. “I promised them that son of a bitch would pay.”

“Nicholas—”

“But that was my mistake, wasn’t it? Never make promises you can’t keep, right?” He grabbed the cups and stood. “We better get back out there. I’ve got another party to go to.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, slapping his hands on his knees and pushing out of his chair. “Wouldn’t want to keep your new employer waiting.”

Nicholas attempted a smile. “First impressions and all that.”

Kyle squeezed his shoulder once. “Miss us a little, will ya?”

“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.”

AUDREY AND JONATHAN arrived at the Websters’ just after nine o’clock. She could think of nothing but Jonathan’s intention to send Sammy away, and she wished simply for the evening to be over, to be alone with her thoughts long enough to reassure herself that her plan would work.

A who’s who roster of cars—Bentleys, BMWs, Ferraris—lined the driveway outside the West Paces Ferry mansion. Spotlights held the enormous house captive in their glare. Thomas stopped the car in the circular drive and opened the back door of the Mercedes limousine. Jonathan slid out, offering her a hand. She ignored it. His frown lasted only a millisecond, replaced with a pleasant smile directed at the chauffeur.

“I’ll call your cell phone when we’re ready to leave, Thomas,” he said.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Jonathan put a possessive arm around Audrey’s waist and pulled her close, forcing her to walk next to him. This was the part he’d perfected. The Colbys. Happily married couple. Adoring husband. Pampered wife.

Ross and Sylvia Webster stood in the doorway. A former weight lifter who had let the muscle go soft, Ross wore suits that were a shade tight, as if he couldn’t quite admit to needing to go up a size. A couple of inches taller than her husband, Sylvia was a study in elegance, her dark hair loosely pulled back with a diamond clip, her red silk dress fitted to every aerobicized curve.

One of the premier houses in Atlanta, the Webster home contained an indoor pool, racketball courts and a huge ballroom in which the party took place. Proof that silence was lucrative.

“Hello, Jonathan. Audrey.” Ross shook Jonathan’s hand, then reached down to brush his lips across Audrey’s cheek. His gaze caught hers, but he quickly looked away, avoiding her eyes while Jonathan greeted Sylvia.

Sylvia laughed at something Jonathan had whispered in her ear, then turned to Audrey. “Let’s get you something to drink, and I’ll tell you all about the fabulous new designer I found. I think his stuff would look great on you.”

“I’ll watch for you,” Jonathan called out, his voice low and even.

Audrey followed the other woman through the foyer. Red poinsettias lined the stairway. Garlands of magnolia leaves hung from the banister, draping the entrance to the ballroom. Bottles of Dom Perignon and crystal glasses caught the light from the chandeliers suspended overhead. A tuxedo-clad singer crooned a Sinatra tune, an orchestra set up behind him.

“Love the coat,” Sylvia said, rubbing a hand across the sleeve of Audrey’s mink.

“Thanks.” Audrey handed it to a hovering butler. She despised it. Despised herself more for wearing it when the thought of killing an animal for its fur had always repulsed her. But she mostly hated the coat because it had been one of Jonathan’s extravagant apologies. One of many.

Sylvia passed her a glass of champagne. “Missed you at the League fashion show yesterday. Some of the cruisewear was simply to die for.”

Audrey took a sip, not meeting the other woman’s eyes. “Really?”

Sylvia made a sound of disapproval. “I wish I could afford to be as unconcerned as you. But then you could put on a sack and look great in it.”

Audrey wondered what Sylvia would have said if she told her what she saw when she looked in the mirror. “Did you find anything for your trip to St. Barts?” she asked, forcing herself to make an effort at polite conversation.

Sylvia brightened. “A few things, but I’m really excited about the Martin Hospice show on the second. You’re still planning to go, right?”

Actually, she’d forgotten about it. Jonathan had brought home the invitation, suggested she go with Sylvia. It was good to be seen at such events. She would have preferred to make an anonymous donation, but that would have been wasting an opportunity for public credit. “I—yes,” she said.

“Of course, it’s a charity show, but I understand Neiman’s has held back some of their spring items to donate.”

“How nice,” Audrey said.

Sylvia went on to tell her about the Dolce & Gabbana swimsuit Carol Estings had all but ripped from her hand last week at Saks.

Audrey made the appropriate sounds of interest, all the while wishing she could fast-forward the next few hours. Get past the night’s inevitable conclusion. Even if she stood in a corner by herself, there was always a trigger. A passing waiter who smiled her way. A married man asking directions to the bathroom.

It didn’t have to make sense. It rarely did. The conclusion was inevitable.