Читать книгу Lydia Lane - Judith Bowen - Страница 8

SAM STEPPED AWAY from the shower and walked nude over to the wooden bench he and Avie shared by their lockers. He grabbed a towel and began to mop his streaming head. “Candace called yesterday, Av.”

“Yeah?” Avie Berkowitz, his pal from grade school and regular partner—perennially losing partner—at Tuesday and Thursday squash sessions, was already dressed. He examined his chin in the mirror inside the locker door. “To talk to the kid?”

“No, to me.”

“Ah. Let me guess—she’s on your case again.”

“That’s it.” Sam rubbed his face briskly. “She wants me to make some changes. New year coming up and all that. Get the house under control. She’s got a point. You know what it’s like around there.” Sam managed to squeeze out a chuckle. “Matter of fact, she’s already got someone lined up for the job. A guest she had on her show.”

“That’s our girl Candace. Why do something yourself when you can get someone else to do it? And, preferably, get our boy Sam to pay for it.”

“You’re too hard on her, Av.”

“She’s a bitch.”

“She’s Amber’s mother. She’s not a bitch—she’s just superficial. That’s allowed.”

“If you say so.” Avie ran a comb through his sandy hair. Sam stopped toweling to admire the way his friend expertly camouflaged the shiny spot on the crown of his head with a few quick strokes. Avie was only thirty-three, Sam’s age, but he was already a little soft around the middle and a little thin on top. “So, she wants you to get someone in to redo your life? We’re talking about a woman, I presume.”

“Yeah.” Sam finished drying off and reached for his jeans. “I’m definitely thinking about it. Trouble is, it’s kind of weird. You remember Steve Lane?”

“Of course I do. Graduated bottom of our class, lineman for the B.C. Lions for two years, went into real estate, last I heard. What’s he do now?”

“Stockbroker—”

“Bay Street?” Avie looked incredulous.

“No, Winnipeg. Listen, this woman is Steve Lane’s little sister, believe it or not. She runs this trendy one-person business, shopping, doing closets, cooking, basically straightening out people’s lives.”

“Doing closets? I could use someone like that,” Avie muttered. He turned to Sam. “Good-looking?”

“A babe. Major babe. I saw her on Candace’s show.” Sam stepped into his briefs and jeans and pulled them up.

“Even better. Do I detect some hesitation, pal? Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, history.” Sam grinned. “She used to have a big crush on me. Some coincidence, eh?”

“No kidding?” Avie studied him with real interest. “That a factor?”

“Well, no.” Sam sucked in his stomach to do up his button and zipper. Avie wasn’t the only one getting a little soft. Time to go back to Guido’s Gym and start punching bags again. This uptown squash stuff was great, but pumping serious iron was what he really needed. “I never went out with her. Never even talked to her that I can remember. Steve told me she had the hots for me. When I heard that, I avoided her like a bad case of the—well, you know.”

“Why?” Avie slipped on his jacket.

“She was fifteen, for crying out loud!” Sam reached for his shirt. “Sixteen, maybe. I just feel weird about it.”

“Hey, she won’t even remember. Believe me, at fifteen, they’ve got crushes on anything with an Adam’s apple. No kidding, my sisters used to go through guys like penny candy at that age.” Avie should know; he had four sisters.

Sam had two sisters himself. Why didn’t he recall stuff like that? “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Avie slapped him on the shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “Trust me, she won’t remember you. And even if she does—so what? Listen, I gotta go. Meeting somebody at five.” He winked and Sam laughed. “By the way, you got anything on for New Year’s?”

“Nope. Maybe go skating or watch the fireworks down at Ontario Place.”

Avie gave him a skeptical glance. “Really?”

“Yeah, we did it last year. It’s fun. This someone new you’re seeing?”

“Not exactly.” Avie winked again. “Brainy type from Accounting I’ve had my eye on for a while. We’re on for New Year’s Eve, too. You still seeing that pro tennis player? Delores something-or-other?”

“No.”

“Jessica? The art-school babe?”

“Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I’m going to a gallery launch with her in January, that’s all.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Good luck.”

Sam picked up the socks he’d worn to the gym, walked over to the sink area and dropped them in the garbage can. He pulled a new pair from the twelve-pack of white athletic socks he kept in the locker. Shoving aside his motorcycle helmet, he sat down on the bench to pull them on.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t washed socks for years. Or briefs. He was embarrassed to send them out to the laundry, along with everything else. He recalled a law clerk laughing hysterically as he told Sam he’d read in the paper that Sylvester Stallone, the actor, always put on brand-new briefs straight out of the package, never wore a pair twice. They had to provide him with new ones wherever he went, on location. Brand-new briefs every day! Could you beat that?

Sam had tried to work up a laugh for the clerk’s sake—but, hey, what was so funny about that?

He zipped his leather jacket and picked up his helmet by the visor. Keys? He patted his jeans pocket. He’d brought the Harley although it was cold today. Maybe he should’ve taken a bus. But he couldn’t disappoint the street kid who kept an eye on his bike for him when he came to the Y. Sam always dropped him a twenty, which made for expensive parking, but the kid needed the cash. Now he had to get Amber from the community center day camp. On the Harley. In zero-degree weather. Bad planning.

Sam sighed. Candace was right; he could use some organization in his life. A sense of order and what had Lydia Lane called it? Oh, yeah—sanctuary.

THE DAY AFTER the television show, on the way back from finishing the industrialist’s closets, Lydia peered into her mailbox at the entrance of the converted warehouse building that housed her loft. Aha! Letters.

She opened the brass wicket and pulled out three cards, two flyers and a nice fat envelope from Wolverine Productions. Finally!

She ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents. Bull’s-eye—they wanted to rent her loft for six weeks. The contract was enclosed, if she was still interested.

Was she! Her new loft was a big financial worry. And now the van’s horrible engine noises were giving her heart failure, plus it had stalled twice in the last week. It was still at the garage and she’d put off calling to find out what was wrong. She didn’t want to know. Bad news, for sure.

She’d bought the loft on impulse last summer, unable to resist the location or the price, but her finances weren’t really solid enough to take on a big mortgage. Then there were taxes and utilities and various property owners’ expenses she hadn’t really considered. She’d made all her mortgage payments so far—a thrill after so many years of pouring money into the black hole of rent—but she’d overstepped her meager decorating budget this fall and been forced to economize drastically at Christmas.

Right now, with the usual midwinter, post-Christmas slowdown, she couldn’t afford to spend much on the loft or—heaven forbid—major repairs to her vehicle. But neither could she bear to live with no closets, raw cement floors and uncurtained windows. She absolutely had to fix the van, if it was broken. She couldn’t conduct her business without it and she couldn’t afford a new one.

Two weeks before Christmas, a friend in the movie business had mentioned that Lydia’s loft was a perfect location for one of her clients, and last week someone from Wolverine Productions had come around.

Now they were offering big bucks to take over her loft for a month, possibly six weeks. With the money, Lydia could fix up the apartment the way she wanted. It was terribly tempting. Her friend had told her that any improvements the movie people made you could keep if you wanted. Like paint, carpets, drapes. Even furniture. Whatever wasn’t rented, they’d sell you for almost nothing.

Lydia hurried to the elevator. The big drawback all along had been where she’d stay while the movie was being filmed. She’d tested the waters with her mother, but the invitation had been very reluctantly extended. Marcia Lane had a new boyfriend and Lydia knew she wasn’t keen on reminding him that no matter how fun and frisky she was, she was still on the far side of fifty and had a daughter of twenty-eight to prove it.

There was the possibility of using Charlotte’s place while she and her new husband were away on their honeymoon for three weeks, but that wasn’t long enough. She’d have to find a second place if the movie people wanted her loft for the full six weeks. Zoey? Maybe. Now, with the possibility of a longer job coming through for her…

Lydia punched the elevator button again.

Sam Pereira. After all these years.

Somehow she’d known he’d end up married to am airhead. It was justice, really. Lydia stared at the big steel doors as they slowly opened. Her loft was on the third floor. She hadn’t let on to Candace Downing, of course, but Lydia knew very well who Sam T. Pereira was.

And the T standing for trouble? He wasn’t far off.

She’d met Sam Pereira when she was fifteen. Chubby, naive, painfully shy and…well, fifteen. Her brother Steve had already graduated and was working at a menswear store, a job he hated. He’d been scouted for football in high school—as had Sam, Lydia found out later—but Steve’s marks weren’t good enough and the scholarship offer had been rescinded. Instead, he’d lived at home, worked out at Guido’s Gym and dreamed of being scouted by the CFL in a trans-city league game. Mostly, Lydia knew, he wished he had the money for a big, noisy motorcycle like the one Sam Pereira had.

Sam Pereira was hot. Hot, hot, hot. There was just no other word for it. He was tough and handsome. Tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, with a sexy smile and a body hard as a rock, not that Lydia had ever felt any of it. But she could guess. He wore jeans and sunglasses and black T-shirts with the sleeves torn off. He swaggered, and women loved him. Even her mother giggled and got rosy-cheeked when Sam came to the house with Steve. He was always full of compliments for her hairdo, her taste in clothes and decor.

Like Steve, Sam was an athlete. But instead of playing football after high school, Sam worked in a garage and concentrated on boxing, of all things. Lydia and her friends didn’t know anything about boxing except that it was an icky, stinky, sweaty sport where guys wearing baggy shorts bashed away at each other until one fell down or one was declared a winner. According to Steve, the judges were all on the take. So why did they do it?

Lydia and her group sometimes used to skip school on Fridays and take the streetcar to Guido’s Gym on Fisher Street to watch the matches when Steve or Sam was fighting. They were all in love with Sam Pereira. Exhibition matches were free, and Lydia thought that was because the gym was just glad to get a few spectators. She and her friends would each buy a hot dog and a soft drink and stand on the sidelines and scream and yell like the rest of the crowd, most of them men. If Steve happened to spot them, he’d always make a big fuss, send them home and warn her he’d tell their parents if Lydia came to Guido’s again. It was no place for a girl, he insisted.

Early that spring, goaded by her best friend, Carly Dombrowski, Lydia wrote a note asking Sam if he’d escort her to a Valentine’s school dance, a fund-raiser for the graduation festivities planned in June. Lydia thought it was a good thing. She knew that lots of past graduates of Selkirk High were attending the fund-raiser. Why not Sam Pereira?

She’d written the note—on pink, scented notepaper, she recalled, to her endless embarrassment—because she couldn’t bear to speak to him in person, even though he was a regular at their house. She was too shy, and what if he turned her down? A note was easier. If he didn’t want to go with her, he could write her back. No one needed to know.

The big mistake was giving it to Steve to deliver. Steve, of course, read it. He was furious with Lydia and reamed her out for being sex-crazed. A ludicrous accusation, since she was fifteen and planned to remain a virgin until marriage. He said she was just a baby in ninth grade, way too young for his friend—who had to be all of about nineteen or twenty—and too bold and too dumb and too just-about-everything-else. She’d yelled back that this was just a stupid dance they were talking about; she wasn’t asking Sam Pereira to marry her. She’d screamed and wept and complained to their mother—who’d put her fingers in her ears, Lydia remembered—and then ran to her bedroom, slamming the door so hard it nearly popped off the hinges. She’d cried herself to sleep.

Rather suddenly, Sam had disappeared from her life. Steve told her he’d gotten a job in Montreal, at an athletic club, which, she knew, was guy-talk for another seedy gym. Lydia always wondered if Steve had told Sam about her note. Surely not. What would be the point? At the time, Lydia hadn’t understood the reason for Steve’s behavior.

Later, when rumors about Sam’s escapades in Montreal and elsewhere penetrated their neighborhood, she began to understand. Steve obviously knew his friend a lot better than Lydia did. She’d certainly never heard that Sam had cleaned up his act and gone to law school and become a responsible citizen. What she’d heard was that he was always in and out of trouble—with the law, with women, with ex-girl-friends, with the shadowy figures who frequented the clubs and boxing world. He lived on the edge, no matter where he was.

By the time she graduated herself, Lydia had much more sympathy for her brother’s reaction. No way did Steve Lane want his little sister mixed up with the likes of his best friend.

At least not when she was fifteen years old.

Lydia opened the robin’s-egg-blue door to her loft and deposited the few groceries she’d picked up on the kitchen counter. The light on her machine was blinking—Zoey, wanting to know if she could meet her for lunch on Saturday, to go over some last-minute details for Charlotte’s wedding. Yes, that would be fantastic; she’d return Zoey’s call after she’d had something to eat. No messages for Domestica.

It was so odd, thinking about Sam Pereira after all these years. Steve never mentioned him. Until yesterday morning when she’d had coffee with Candace Downing, after the show was taped, she’d even forgotten about that little crush she’d had on him thirteen years ago.

After graduation, she’d gone to the summer job at Jasper Park Lodge where she’d met Zoey and Charlotte, who were still her best friends. Sam had obviously joined the real world, had a daughter and an ex to prove it, and she was no longer a virgin. She’d held out until twenty-two, a lot longer than most of her friends, and then given herself, heart, body and soul to a park ranger she’d met while working at a kids’ summer camp in Algonquin Park. That had lasted two months, before Lydia realized he was more interested in bears than he was in her.

Since then, she’d had several boyfriends. She was currently without a man in her life, hadn’t really been serious about anyone since Joel Monday, a guitarist and part-time clerk in a music store, who’d told her after they’d been seeing each other for over a year that he’d done some soul-searching and decided he was finally ready to make the big commitment. It was embarrassing to recall. Lydia had been poised, heart racing, wondering if she’d say “yes”—and then he’d said he was committing to his career and going to Chicago to join a boy band. Boy band! He was twenty-seven!

Since then—nearly three years—she’d started Domestica and had been too busy to invest much energy in her love life. Who had been her last date casual or otherwise? Let’s see—Tag Blanshard, the circus guy. Trained trick horses or something. He’d gone off to Germany on a circus contract and she hadn’t heard from him again. He’d been fun. Weird, but fun. What was it about her that attracted such oddballs?

Lydia glanced into her living area. Charlie, her lovebird, chirped his loud “how ya doin”’ greeting. The “What’s New with Candy Lou?” tape stuck out of the VCR slot. Maybe she’d watch it again tonight, after a nice supper and a long bath. She’d plan tomorrow while she watched; there was only tomorrow’s breakfast club to get through before Charlotte’s wedding. Charlotte getting married! She almost had to pinch herself to believe it.

First things first. Lydia let Charlie out of his cage to fly around the loft, then she poured herself a glass of Australian chardonnay and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. The phone rang.

She briefly considered letting the machine take it, but after the third ring she picked up. “Hello.”

“Is this Domestica?”

“Yes, it is. Can I help you?” Good—she crossed her fingers for luck—some new business.

“Lydia Lane?” She felt it coming, like a buzz in her elbow joints…. A sexy male chuckle. “Hey, you’ll never guess who this is.”

She thought about guessing, but he didn’t give her time.

“Steve’s friend—Sam Pereira. Remember me?”