Читать книгу Summer Of Joanna - Janice Carter - Страница 11

PARTWAY THROUGH LUNCH, Kate felt herself begin to unwind. She sipped her white wine, chosen after much deliberation by Lance. The ritual had amused Kate. She knew little about wine and was certain her own choice would have been based strictly on cost. The meal was impeccable, too. Another score for Lance, who was obviously a regular at the upscale restaurant, one Kate had read about in the papers, never imagining she might be eating in it some day.

In fact, there’d been so much deference shown to Lance as soon as they’d stepped inside that Kate began to wonder if he was a celebrity in his own right, regardless of his connection to Joanna Barnes. She pondered this throughout the salad course, racking her brain to determine where and when she’d seen or heard his name. She also scolded herself sharply for not reading the papers more carefully. Headlines were her specialty, along with a skim through the fashion and entertainment pages.

She began to think that maybe Lance Marchant was okay, after all, in spite of his smooth manner. Before ordering, they’d made small talk, discreetly skirting around the morning’s events as if none of the business of death had taken place.

As the salad plates were removed, Lance referred to Camp Limberlost and Kate thought, here we go again. But rather than renew his pitch for selling it, he’d asked what she recalled of the camp.

“I didn’t like it at the time—not until I met Joanna.”

“She was there? When was this, exactly?”

“Nineteen years ago this month. What year would that be?” She screwed up her face, mentally counting backward.

“It would have been 1982.”

Kate laughed. “That was fast. You should be teaching my grade eight math class.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “I use numbers all the time in my job. Were you there with your family?”

“No. I was with a bunch of kids from here in the city. Courtesy of a joint social-service program and the generosity of Joanna’s parents.”

Marchant frowned. “Oh. You mean like…”

“Kids with problems. Not delinquents,” she added quickly, noting the expression in his face. “But, you know, kids at risk.”

He nodded. “I don’t mean to be nosy. Just didn’t realize Joanna’s parents were into that sort of thing.”

Kate was tempted to ask, “Like charity?” but sensed he really wasn’t being insensitive. Besides, she wanted to think she’d grown out of all that stuff—the feelings of defensiveness, of apologizing for being an orphan on the social welfare register.

“Did you know Joanna then?” she asked.

He nodded. “Joanna and I go—went—a long way back. But we weren’t dating or anything. Just friends.”

“Have you ever been to Limberlost?”

“I’m a city man. My idea of a holiday is a resort on some Caribbean island, five-star and all-inclusive.”

She joined in his laughter. “You and Joanna both, I’m sure.”

His face sobered. “Yes, for sure. That’s why I can’t figure out her being there. She always talked about how she’d made the Great Escape.”

“I remember her mentioning that she was between husbands then. I thought that was such a daring thing to say—to a kid, I mean.”

Lance opened his mouth as if to add something, but the waiter arrived with their main courses and the next few moments were devoted to murmurings about the food. Kate had almost forgotten what they’d been discussing when he asked, toward the end of the meal, “Do you remember much about that summer? How old would you have been? Don’t answer if you consider that a rude question,” he said, grinning.

The way he put it, refusing to answer would seem childish. “I was turning twelve in August. That’s why we decided to meet this year.” Kate angled her fork across her plate and leaned forward. “I was on the verge of adolescence and Joanna had just turned thirty. We’d been moaning about our problems and getting older et cetera and she said, wouldn’t it be great to meet when we were both at another milestone? To compare notes on how things had turned out.”

“I guess your memory of the place wouldn’t be very vivid.”

Kate laughed. “Oh, it’s pretty vivid even now, trust me.”

“How do you mean?”

She shrugged, unsure whether she really wanted to trip down memory lane with someone she scarcely knew. “I wasn’t really having a good time there until I met Joanna. I was a typical city kid, afraid of everything with more than two legs. Plus the other kids had been there before and knew one another,” she said.

“Aah,” he murmured sympathetically.

The waiter appeared to gather the rest of the plates and asked if they’d like dessert or coffee. Lance looked questioningly at Kate.

“No thanks, Mr. Marchant. I should be going.” Kate looked at her watch, realizing she hadn’t called Carla yet. So much for setting an example.

He asked for the bill and, turning back to Kate, said, “Please call me Lance. And I insist on driving you home. My car is being brought up to the front door by the valet right now.”

Knowing she’d get home much faster than by subway, Kate agreed. She’d hoped to glean more information about Joanna over lunch, but as they left, she realized Lance Marchant had been doing most of the asking. Perhaps the ride back home would elicit something about Joanna she hadn’t yet read in a newspaper.

A blast of heat greeted their exit from the restaurant. Lance tipped the valet, who’d driven up with his red convertible sports car.

“Where are we going?” Lance’s face was smilingly inquisitive.

“I live in SoHo. On a dead-end street off Bleecker, near Sullivan.”

His tanned forehead crinkled in thought. “Near the university?”

“Past.”

“Fine. The drive’ll be longer than to the restaurant, but you don’t seem to be the type to worry about a hairdo,” Lance said. He ushered her into her seat, got behind the wheel and shifted into Drive. The car jerked forward and squealed out of the parking circle. He was laughing when he braked at the first stoplight. “Sorry again. I’ve just had it tuned prior to selling it. Joanna doesn’t—didn’t—like it, and my campaign manager advised that I drive something a little more sedate.”

“Your campaign manager?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m running for Congress in the fall election. Lance Marchant? Republican ticket?” he added, obviously trying to jolt her memory.

Kate was embarrassed at her ignorance. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t keep up much with politics.”

He stared at her thoughtfully until the light changed, then shifted gears again. The breeze and traffic noise made conversation impossible, eliminating Kate’s hope of talking more about Joanna.

But when the car slowed for a traffic halt, she managed to say, “The reason I find it hard to believe Joanna would…would commit suicide is not just because of our meeting, but I read in a gossip column that she was expected to be made editor of Vogue. That would’ve been the pinnacle of her career. I just can’t believe that…”

Lance took his hand off the gear knob and patted her arm. “I’ve tortured myself with these same doubts, Kate, believe me. Perhaps she learned that she didn’t get the job, after all. Certainly no one there has called to express sympathy. That must mean something.” He paused then, having to move with traffic. Other than shouted directions about getting to Kate’s neighborhood, all talk ceased until Lance pulled up in front of the row house where her flat was.

“Wait!” Lance said after Kate thanked him for the lunch and ride.

She turned, halfway through the opened door. His wind-tousled hair and trendy sunglasses made him seem dashing and much younger than his years, she thought. He had the kind of classic good looks that appealed to women of all ages, and Kate suddenly realized she herself wasn’t immune to his charms herself. Well-established, well-dressed, trim and self-assured. But there was more. The gallant and attentive manner, the way he’d seemed to hang on to every word she’d uttered over lunch. He certainly fit the image of a winning politician.

“There is something,” he said, glancing quickly away when he’d caught her attention.

She watched him clench and unclench his hands around the steering wheel. Finally he murmured, “The thing is, Joanna and I hadn’t really been living as, well, as man and wife—if you get my drift—for several months. And as hard as I try, I can’t pinpoint a reason for it. She was incredibly involved with her work, but that was nothing new. I had my own business to run, too. I think it all started when I decided to run for Congress. She was supportive, of course, but part of her seemed negative about the whole thing.” He shrugged, helpless. “Maybe the thought of all the limelight—”

“Joanna loved the limelight!” Kate blurted. “At least, I’m sure she did. She often sent me press clippings of herself.”

Kate could see her house reflected in his sunglasses. She wished she could see his eyes, to read what he was feeling.

“That she did,” he agreed. “But on her terms. She knew how to manipulate the media, as many celebrities do. Inside, she was an intensely private person.”

It wasn’t the picture of Joanna that Kate had in her memory, but she could see how it fit with other facts. There’d only been a single card every year, even though Joanna had spent most of the nineteen years in the same city as Kate. And the few references to a personal life in those cards had been mainly a repetition of what Kate had already gathered from the media. The week with Joanna at Camp Limberlost had revealed more about the woman than the following two decades. The impact of that realization struck Kate with physical pain. Because now it was all too late. Tears edged her eyes and she averted her face. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her index finger.

“Kate?”

When she turned his way, it was her own drawn face she was seeing now in his sunglasses.

“Give me a call about the property as soon as possible. Don’t leave it too late. Summer’s prime showing season for lake properties. And, uh, whatever you decide, I hope we can see each other again. Soon.”

There was no mistaking the suggestion. Kate was speechless. The man had just buried his wife. Her friend.

As if sensing his indiscretion, he quickly added, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Simply that I knew very few of Joanna’s colleagues, but I do know that you must have been very special to her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have included you in her will.” He paused and lowered his voice. “It would be nice to get together again and just talk. Do you know what I mean?”

Kate nodded. “Yes, of course Mr….uh, Lance. And I will call you or Mr. Collier as soon as possible. Thanks again for lunch and the ride home.” She slid out the door, closed it and waited by the curb as he drove off. When the red car zipped around the corner of her street, she turned toward her house. Matt Sinclair was leaning against the brick planter box at the foot of the steps.

HE’D BEEN FEEDING a parking meter a few yards away when Lance Marchant’s car screeched to a halt in front of Kate’s place. So he waited at the meter, watching the two of them chatting until Kate got out. Matt knew the surge in his blood pressure was from a long antipathy for Marchant, but the cozy sight rankled even more. When the red Porsche sped off, he strolled over to greet Kate.

She was in the same dress she’d worn to Joanna’s funeral, and her face looked just as red as it had that day, too. The heat or the thrill of Marchant’s company? He’d pegged her for an unassuming schoolteacher. Now he wasn’t so sure. Her chin-length hair fanned up and away from her face, whipped into a froth of knots by the car ride. As she marched toward him, he saw that, although the expression in her pinched face was most definitely schoolteacherish, her manner was no longer unassuming. For a moment he had a frightening flashback to his prep-school days, standing before his headmaster.

“You’ve been following me!” Her voice peaked in anger.

Matt forced back a smile. “Actually, I was here before you. Likewise for this morning at the elevator.” He waited a beat. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”

The lame attempt at humor failed. She hadn’t registered a single word, but came right up to him to repeat her accusation. So close that he sniffed the residue of wine and garlic on her breath. The sudden image of her and Marchant laughing over lunch chilled him.

He raised his palms in a surrendering motion. “Whoa! Doesn’t the word coincidence mean anything to you?”

“Coincidence was the meeting this morning. This is no coincidence. How did you get my address?”

“Phone book?” he countered.

She narrowed her eyes but calmed down, taking a step backward. “What is it you want, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Make it Matt, please. Could we go somewhere for a cold drink and a talk?”

“I’ve been eating and drinking for more than an hour, and frankly, I don’t see how I could possibly have anything to say to you.”

She started to move past him but he placed his hand on her arm. Looking down at the hand and then up at his face, Kate said, “You have an unpleasant habit of doing that and I’d like you to remove your hand this instant.”

Matt’s hand flew off her arm as if she’d taken a ruler to it. He tried again. “Look, after seeing you this morning I realized there were a lot of questions you must have about Joanna and, well, the things I said about her the other day.”

“Go on,” she said.

The stare made him think she must be a good teacher. Probably never had to raise her voice. Just fix those eyes—what color were they, anyway?—on an unruly kid and order would prevail.

“There’s a coffee place around the corner. Why don’t we go there? Not for long. I’ll leave whenever you tell me.”

She frowned as she considered the invitation, then nodded curtly and began walking toward the corner. He had to lope to keep up with her, in spite of the difference in their heights and leg length. She only came up to his shoulder but had no trouble keeping enough distance between them to make him feel like a pup on a leash.

The blast of frigid air as they stepped into the coffee house was nothing to the cool appraisal she gave him as he ordered iced cappuccino for them both. Her face could have been chiseled from Siena marble, he thought. Not a hint of emotion.

She got right to the point. “You wanted to tell me something about Joanna.”

He tipped an invisible hat to her. She was good. Making it look like the wanting and telling were both on his side when he could see, even under that neutral expression, that she wanted—no, needed—to hear whatever he had to say. He thought for a moment, knowing how important it was to choose his words carefully.

“My father and Joanna got married when I was seventeen, as I think I told you the other day. My mother had died just six months earlier.” He paused to stare down at the table for a long moment before raising his face back to her. “I was in Europe at some fancy boarding school my parents decided I needed at that point in my life.”

The waitress arrived with their cold drinks. When she moved away, he went on. “I got a telephone call about their marriage just the day before,” he explained. “They were in Las Vegas. It was all a last-minute thing. That’s what my father claimed, anyway.”

The bitterness in his voice just slipped out. He swallowed some of the frosty cappuccino, reminding himself to relax. It was a long time ago.

“To make a long story short, they got married and were on the verge of divorcing two years later when my father died of a heart attack. The last time I saw Joanna was at Dad’s funeral. I was nineteen and hardly knew her. We exchanged a few words and that was it.”

“You were going to tell me why you disliked her so much.”

Matt forced himself to keep his voice neutral. “To give Joanna her credit, she never tried to take anything out of the marriage that my father hadn’t actually given her. So after he died, she willingly handed over all my mother’s things—some jewellery and photographs—as well as most of Dad’s personal papers and such. But she certainly managed to go through most of his liquid assets in those two years, and they’d been substantial. Dad had been a highly paid executive at the bank. By the time taxes and lawyers were paid, there wasn’t much left, anyway.”

“And?”

He flushed with annoyance. She was cool, all right. Not a murmur or flicker of sympathy during his whole speech. Suddenly he wanted to blurt out the whole of it. See if that finely sculpted marble would crack under the heat of what he’d say.

“A while ago I learned that she hadn’t returned everything of Dad’s. I’ve been trying for several months now to get hold of some papers of his. They weren’t important to her, but they are to me. That’s why I was at Marchant’s office this morning. To ask about them.”

“What did he say?”

He wasn’t expecting the question. She was obviously more interested in Marchant’s response than in his story, and he felt a surge of irritation. Then she sat forward in her chair, folding her elbows on the tabletop. Her iced cappuccino, still untouched, was sitting in a widening puddle of condensation. Merely keeping eye contact with her blue-green and very direct gaze obliterated his rehearsed reply. Matt wet his lips and glanced down at his own empty glass.

“Mind?” he asked, indicating hers.

“Go ahead,” she mumbled.

Matt took a long swallow. “Lance told me he hadn’t found any of my father’s papers among Joanna’s things.”

Kate shrugged as if to say, what did you expect?

“But after I left his office, I thought the papers might have been stored at that camp of her parents. Can’t recall the name.”

“Limberlost,” she said. She was sitting straight as a poker now, all ears.

“Right. I wondered if you could look for them for me.”

Kate tilted her head questioningly. “Say again?”

He cursed under his breath. Well, he thought, there was no going back now. The proverbial cat was definitely not only out of the bag, but scampering across the table.

“Perhaps I’m speaking out of turn, but I heard that you’d inherited the camp from Joanna and, uh, I was wondering if you’d look for the papers for me. At the camp.”

“Where did you hear that?” she demanded. “Who told you I inherited the camp?”

She leaned across the table, the end of her nose almost touching the iced cappuccino sitting in front of him.

He made an effort not to pull his head back. In spite of the dizzying warmth of her breath enveloping his face, he managed a casual shrug. “I don’t know. I…I guess Marchant. When I saw him this morning.”

She eased back into her chair, a faint smirk on her face. “I don’t believe you. Your meeting with him was before the will had been read.”

Matt knew he’d never come up with anything convincing enough to sway that haughty, self-assured expression in her eyes, but he made a stab at it. “I’m sure he mentioned it. How else would I know?”

The rhetorical question hung over the table. After a long moment, Kate pushed her chair back and stood up. “I don’t know who you are—oh yes,” she said, holding up a palm, “you say you’re Matt Sinclair and your father was married to Joanna and so on, but we haven’t really been introduced at all, have we? I mean, you could be just anyone telling me whatever you want, and you still haven’t explained why Joanna was a target of your hate. I’ve no idea how you learned about my inheritance, but seeing as it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with you, I’m leaving.”

Color bloomed in her face again, and in spite of the frizzy hair and a bra strap drooping off her shoulder, Matt knew that she was mustering all her reserves to make a dignified exit. He remained in his seat as she marched to the door and left without a backward glance.

Strike three. So now you’ve blown all three encounters with Kate Reilly. Way to go, champ.

KATE KEYED IN HER password so hard she chipped the end of her index fingernail. With the telephone receiver clamped in one hand, she patted down her hair with the other. Then she noticed her bra strap hanging limply from under the shoulder of her sleeveless dress and swore. The safety pin must have unfastened. She should’ve taken a few extra minutes that morning to sew the damn thing. Knowing that she’d left the café disheveled as well as angry added to her conflicting emotions about Matt.

Her voice mail clicked on, repeating Carla’s message.

“Hi, Kate, it’s me, Carla. It’s already two and you haven’t called yet. Are we still on for shopping tomorrow? Can you call and let me know later, ’cause I’m going out right now. Bye.”

Kate hung up and swore again. In spite of the casual tone of Carla’s voice, she knew from experience what a broken promise meant to a troubled teen. She replayed Carla’s message. Hadn’t she been grounded? If so, why was she going out? Kate rapidly punched in Carla’s number, but the line was busy. Reluctant to play telephone tag, she hung up and headed into her bedroom.

She’d forgotten to close the blinds before leaving that morning, and the room, filled with sunlight for hours, was like a Swedish sauna in spite of the air conditioner pumping away in the kitchen. Kate rushed to the window and reached for the rod. Glancing downward, she noticed a man standing on the pavement a few feet away from the entrance to her row house. Matt Sinclair.

Kate frowned. She’d managed to put the coffee-shop scene out of her mind for five minutes and now the whole humiliating event surged back. She leaned closer to the window. He had his back to her and seemed to be swaying from side to side, his right arm raised. Kate pressed her nose against the glass to get a better look. Then she realized what he was doing. Talking on a cell phone. She almost laughed, except he chose that moment to crane around and look up at her window.

Ducking to the side so he couldn’t see her, Kate continued to watch him talk and survey her windows. Finally he tucked the phone into his suit jacket pocket and stepped off the curb to a silver-gray car. As he unlocked the car, he glanced up once more. Kate jerked her head back again and waited before chancing another peek. He was inside the car now and pulling away from the curb. She watched him drive down her street to the main intersection, then turn right.

Stepping out from her hiding nook, she yanked the blind rod and the slats swooshed noisily into place. Her fingers were still trembling as she unzipped her dress, letting it fall onto the floor. A wake of lingerie marked her path to the linen closet and bathroom.

Seconds later, a full spray from the shower nozzle cooled her body temperature to normal. A brisk scrubbing with her loofah sponge had her skin pink and glowing. If only, she thought ironically, she could eliminate all memory of Matt Sinclair and his annoying habit of dropping into her life every few days. No, not days. Make that hours.

Kate used the corner of her towel to clear a circle in the steamy mirror. She tapped her reflection lightly. Why do you care so much, anyway? Matt Sinclair is nothing to you.

By the time she’d dressed and poured herself a tall glass of ice water, she was ready to call Carla’s foster home again.

“Rita? It’s Kate Reilly calling. Is Carla there?”

A slight pause on the other end, followed by a muffled exclamation and a wail. “Shh! Hi, Kate. Sorry, just had to change arms there. I’ve been rocking the baby all afternoon and she just this second fell asleep.”

“I suppose the phone woke her. Sorry about that.”

“No, no. It’s okay. She’s gone back to sleep again. Worn out. Like me,” she whispered.

“Is she sick?”

“Teething. She was up all night, too. Look, Carla’s taken off again. I should call Kim. I…I don’t want to, Kate, but she really left me in the lurch. Promised to be home all afternoon ’cause you were calling. I’d hoped to catch a nap….”

Her voice drifted off, as if she were too exhausted to even finish the sentence.

Kate didn’t know whether to be angry at Carla or herself. If she’d called on time, would the girl have stayed? Who could tell with Carla?

“Okay, Rita. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t look good.”

Kate sighed. “Yeah. It sure doesn’t.” She said goodbye and hung up. She understood Rita’s reluctance to call Carla’s social worker. It seemed like a betrayal of loyalty, going behind Carla’s back to discuss her. That was how Kate would have interpreted it, when she’d been in Carla’s shoes. But now she could see the other angles. What worried her was the fear that she’d no longer be able to get through to Carla herself.

Kate wandered into the darkened living room and flopped onto the couch. She felt drained of energy and initiative. No wonder, she thought, considering all that had happened that day.

Lunch in the most exclusive restaurant she’d ever been in, not to mention a ride in a foreign car that probably cost more than her annual salary. Two strange encounters with Matt Sinclair. She shivered. What’s his problem, anyway?

And how did he know which flat was hers, because he’d seemed to look straight up at her windows on the second floor. She took another sip of water, set the glass down on the coffee table beside the couch and lay back. A nap would be nice, she decided, plumping the pillows behind her. If she could clear her mind of all the unpleasant thoughts—Carla, in trouble again. Matt Sinclair. She sighed and closed her eyes. A brighter picture appeared.

Camp Limberlost. Now hers.