After That Night Page 3
Trent looked momentarily confused. Her father sighed, then tossed his oldest son a humor-her look. “Explain the difference to her, Chris.”
Christopher was an Atlanta police detective and could probably regale them with a dozen grim tales from the mean streets of New York. But Jenna, feeling more annoyed by the minute, wasn’t willing to listen. She raised a hand to stop him, then addressed her father.
“You know, Dad, I’m a grown woman now. I’ve been married and divorced, and I’m the mother of two children. What I am not anymore is Jenny-girl. I am not a child, and I am perfectly capable of conducting this interview and hailing cabs and riding the subway and— J.D., stop that!”
Six-year-old J.D. had been trying to start a duel with his brother using a spoon that still dripped ice cream. He jerked his head up guiltily. Jenna gave him “the look,” then went around to his side of the table to wipe at the spot he’d made on the tablecloth. She kept her head down, focused on the task at hand because her throat was suddenly clogged with frustrated, angry words unfit for the boys’ young ears.
Used to defusing potentially dangerous situations, Christopher spoke up. “Take it easy, sis. Dad didn’t mean anything by it. He just worries about you. We all do.”
She glanced up, looking at her brothers and her father in turn. They didn’t appear a bit apologetic, only surprised by her attitude. She was a little surprised by it herself. Just how long had this resentment about the way they saw her been boiling up inside?
Next to her, seven-year-old Petey finished scraping out his bowl. He smiled at her. “I think you’ll be great, Mom. You can do anything.”
Probably just a ploy to get a second helping of dessert, Jenna thought. But she couldn’t help feeling a swell of ridiculous pleasure. At least someone at the table thought she was an adult capable of more than baking a passable peach cobbler.
She leaned over, captured her son’s tousled blond head with one arm and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said as he reddened and squirmed out of her grasp. “You believe in your mom, don’t you, honey?”
“Uh-huh,” Petey replied. “You can tell him all about us. How you ran the pumpkin patch for school last year and how you got Randy’s dad to pay for Little League uniforms and the special Easter baskets you made for Gramma Resnick’s nursing-home people…”
“And how you’re a good cook,” J.D. offered.
The smile froze on Jenna’s face. Neither one of the boys had a clue what conducting an interview was all about. It was also horribly clear just where they thought her talents lay.
In being a mom. Not a real person at all. Just the family facilitator who made sure they got to school every morning with full stomachs and clean clothes. The one who carted them to soccer practice. The one who read them stories at night and cried silly tears over the pictures they drew. Just being a mom.
At the other end of the table, her father and Christopher remained judiciously silent, but Trent, never one to catch subtle changes in the air around him, couldn’t help grinning at her. “There you go, Jen,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Offer the guy some peach cobbler. He’ll spill his guts about romance faster than one of Christopher’s collars trying to beat a rap.”
This time all three men laughed. Even the boys joined in, not fully understanding the conversation, but tickled by the goofy face their uncle made.
Jenna ignored the laughter, refusing to make the discussion any more unpleasant with the boys present. She retreated to the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes while Trent helped Petey with his homework and her father flipped on his favorite television program. Perhaps sensing her irritation, Christopher made a half-hearted attempt to clear the table and help with the dishes, but she shooed him into the living room to join the others.
She usually ran the dishwasher, but tonight she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and slowly lowered the dishes into it. She wasn’t that eager to join the rest of the family. Maybe tonight she’d distance herself entirely from them. Even the boys.
It didn’t matter that some of the things they’d said were the same arguments she’d used at lunch with Vic. They should have been supportive. They shouldn’t have made fun of the idea. At the very least, they should have pretended to think she could do it. For heaven’s sake, she was a college graduate. A working mother. She wasn’t stupid.
She supposed it was her own fault if her family discounted her, tried to run her life. Growing up, she’d allowed her brothers to do most of her thinking for her. It was habit with them now. And since her mother’s death a few years ago, her father had become more protective of her, as well.
The circumstances of her failed marriage hadn’t helped. Jack Rawlins had been the sweetest-talking, handsomest man she’d ever met. He had dreams of running away from the ho-hum world of corporate accounting, living in wild, indolent grace on some tropical island. The unreliable heat of physical desire had sparked and flared between them, and over the objections of her entire family, they had eloped.
For a while, even after the boys came, they’d both worked toward that fairy-tale goal. Jack had bought a boat to fix up. He wanted to sail around the world, and Jenna could see herself on the deck, warmed by the sun, her hair tangled with salt spray as she kept a journal detailing their escapades. They would share a life bigger and grander than anything hot, humid Atlanta had to offer.
But by the fifth year of their marriage, Jenna had begun to modify that dream a little. The boys needed roots. They would be in school soon. The house they’d bought required repairs that were more crucial than the rotting, rusting boat sitting in drydock in the backyard. Could you really support yourself on a small island in the Pacific? Live on coconuts and fish? Maybe it was time to consider occasional vacations, instead of a permanent relocation.
Foolishly, she’d thought Jack had come to that conclusion, too. Passion became a missing ingredient in their comfortable, suburban lifestyle, but Jenna was certain that Jack still loved her. That whatever hopes they’d had to compromise, it would be all right. Sooner or later, didn’t everyone have to accept reality?
And then she woke up one day to discover that Jack hadn’t settled at all. That he’d emptied their bank account, run up their credit cards and booked a flight to Tahiti.
For two.
Evidently his secretary had similar dreams of an adventurous life.
The divorce had been painful, but mercifully quick. The boys had been spared the details of their father’s desertion. Jenna had sold the house, moved back in with her father and begun to rebuild her credit. Her family had closed ranks around her, and she’d been so devastated she’d gone right back to letting them take care of her.
Her one moment of spiteful retaliation? Jack’s boat, left behind because it simply wasn’t grand enough, had mysteriously burned to a crisp. She wasn’t a saint, after all.
Yet she couldn’t honestly say she missed Jack all that much. He’d been so emotionally distant for so long. The boys were finally getting used to the fact that he never called or wrote. Not even a card to them on their birthdays or at Christmas. Those were the only times Jenna thought she could really hate the man.
Perspiration beaded her forehead from the dishwasher’s steamy heat. She swiped it away with one arm. The moonless night had turned the window over the sink into a mirror. She caught her reflection in it, and her submerged hands stilled.
Who is that woman?
It had been years since she’d really evaluated her looks. Now she gave herself the most thorough once-over she could remember. And what she saw made her throat go dry with panic.
Because her mousy-brown hair lacked body, she’d always worn it short, a perky style she’d considered becoming to her long neck. But when had carefree become careless? And her eyes. It wasn’t just the unflattering overhead lighting in the kitchen. There were shadows under them that made her look downright unhealthy. In their dark depths there was no gleam, no energy. Only an unnervingly bleak, fen
ced-in look.
It was the sight of her mouth that troubled her the most. It had always been her best feature, and truthfully, she was a little vain about it. A lovely bow shape, it curved upward at the corners, the lower lip lush and mobile. In their romantic early days, Jack had told her that it just begged for a man’s kiss.
Of course, he’d probably told his secretary that, too.
But it didn’t matter. What she saw now was nothing she wanted to lay claim to. Her lips seemed thin and down-curving, as though she were the type who constantly manufactured grievances. And tight, as though her teeth were clenched on despair. When had that happened? And how could she have missed it?
She hardly noticed when the dishwater turned too cool to do much good. She kept looking at that stranger in the glass. She knew the divorce had left her pride in tatters, had left her feeling rudderless and finished, but she thought she’d finally come through all that. She was picking up the pieces, moving on with life, moving into life again.
You sure about that, Jen? If that was so, then who was this stranger who stared back at her? And how long before the years took an even greater toll? Once the boys no longer needed her… Once life was filled with more disappointment than fulfillment…
I’m not going to let that happen, she swore to the woman in the glass. I refuse. It’s not too late to change things.
She set the rest of the pots to soak and dried her hands. The family was engrossed in some sitcom blaring on the television and hardly noticed as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom.
She dialed Vic’s number before she could change her mind and was relieved when her friend picked up on the second ring.
“What are you doing?” Jenna asked.
“Packing, of course.” There were muffled sounds from the other end of the phone as Vic readjusted the receiver. “What will take hollandaise sauce out of a white cotton blouse?”
“Try some club soda mixed with baking powder.”
“I knew you’d know. So what’s the answer?”
Jenna didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.”
Vic whooped with delight. “Terrific! I told Lauren that once you got home and really thought about it, you’d come up with a dozen reasons why you should go.”
Jenna couldn’t resist smiling. “Actually I couldn’t come up with a dozen. Only six.”
“And they are?”
“Dad, Christopher, Trent, Petey and J.D.”
“That’s only five reasons. What’s number six?”
Jenna drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Me.”
CHAPTER THREE
“STOP LOOKING at me like that,” Jenna told Lauren for the third time.
“I can’t help it,” her friend replied with a silly grin. “I’m still in shock.”
They were alone in the small elevator of New York’s Belasco Hotel, headed up to the penthouse suite. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Jenna had expected someone of Mark Bishop’s wealth and position to be drawn to a place more pretentious, more dazzling. Instead, the Belasco boasted Old World charm and discreet elegance—no doubt at horribly expensive rates—but enchanting nonetheless.
Lauren, whose exposure to these kinds of places was much broader than Jenna’s, didn’t seem a bit impressed by their surroundings. Instead, her appreciative gaze roamed over Jenna again. “When did you find the time to do all this?”
This was the transformation Jenna had attempted to make in her appearance before their plane had taken off that day at noon. She’d decided that if she couldn’t actually lay claim to being a serious journalist, she ought to at least look like one. Confident. Sophisticated. Savvy. Judging from Lauren’s reaction, her efforts had been worthwhile.
“It’s amazing what you can accomplish once you decide to eliminate sleep from your life,” Jenna told her friend. “I raided the cosmetic counter at my all-night drugstore. I did my nails and gave myself a facial. Then I called Max early this morning and promised him a month’s salary as a tip if he’d do something with my hair.”
“The change is incredible,” Lauren said.
Self-consciously, Jenna touched the wispy ends of her new haircut. “You don’t think the blond highlights are too radical?”
Lauren shook her head as though she still couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I think they look fantastic.”
“It’s not helping that you’re this shocked. How bad did I look before?”
“Sorry. You just look so…”
“Professional?”
“I was going to say sexy.”
Jenna frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not the image I was going for.”
“Maybe not. But it can’t hurt.” She gave Jenna another long, sweeping glance. “And red is really your color.”
Jenna looked down at the suit she wore with its short jacket and stand-up collar. She hadn’t had time to shop for clothes, and this had been the closest thing in her wardrobe to a “power suit.” She’d faced down an IRS auditor in this suit during her brother Trent’s tax investigation the year before.
She noted that Lauren, on the other hand, looked casual and breezy in a khaki shirt and pants with about a dozen deep pockets. Her hair was swinging freely in a ponytail, and the camera bag that went with her everywhere was slung over one shoulder.
“I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” Jenna muttered.
The elevator doors opened, and they started down a short hallway where the carpet underfoot was as thick as a blanket of snow. They stopped in front of the penthouse door. As Lauren rapped on it, Jenna said softly, “Just promise me one thing. If you hear my knees knocking, you’ll start talking to cover the noise.”
Vic had provided her with a list of questions, along with a copy of Mark Bishop’s original interview. Jenna hugged it close to her chest. Some of the questions were harmless, just for fun. Some informational. Others, maybe half a dozen, made Jenna blush just to read them. She couldn’t imagine asking them. Or Mark Bishop being willing to respond.
What would Vic do if she came back without a single sizzling nugget about the man? Probably pronounce her a complete failure and never send her on this kind of assignment again. Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
For the hundredth time she ran through the interviewing tips her friend had coached her with over the phone. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t interrupt him in the middle of an answer. Look interested in what he says, never as if you disapprove. Make eye contact, lots of it. Don’t let him see that you’re nervous….
Oh, Lord, what had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this! Why did she think this suit would help? She wasn’t a journalist. She was an accountant, and power red or not, he was going to see through her in two seconds flat. She should bow out now, while she still had the chance. She should—
And then suddenly the door to the suite opened, and there was their old friend Debra Lee. She looked a little older, much more sophisticated than Jenna remembered, but her smile was the same. Warm and welcoming. She greeted them with hugs and ushered them inside.
Jenna barely had time to register that the suite was probably big enough to hold most of her father’s house before Debra Lee led them through sliding glass doors and onto a wide terrace that ran the length of the suite.
The summer air was surprisingly cool and refreshing. From the balcony, the tops of the tallest trees from the nearest park were barely visible, waving like ruffled fans in the slight breeze. Beyond them lay Manhattan, its impressive skyline caught in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Lauren, always looking for that next wonderful shot, immediately crossed to the railing. She pulled her camera up, made a few adjustments and began clicking away happily. Never fond of heights, Jenna was content to hang back closer to the sliding glass doors.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Debra Lee said, indicating a pitcher of iced tea and glasses on a patio table. “Mark and Miss Winston had an appointment this afternoon, and I’m afraid they’re not back yet.”
But on the plus side, a delayed interview would certainly allow her an easy out. “We can reschedule if necessary,” Jenna said, knowing Vic would be the one to show up next time.
Lauren stopped taking pictures and turned toward them. “No, we can’t,” she said to Debra Lee with a pointed look in Jenna’s direction. “We’ll wait.”
“Good,” Debra Lee replied. Then she suddenly looked sheepish. “I suppose I should have told Vic, but Mark never actually agreed—”
There was a sound behind them, the door to the suite opening and closing with a bang, then a strong male voice calling out, “Deb! Where are you? Get in here!”
Debra Lee gave them a quick smile. “Wait here, please,” she said, then spun around and stepped back into the living room.
Still absorbed in taking pictures, Lauren had wandered farther along the terrace. She was almost completely hidden now by an enormous ficus in an oriental tub. Jenna was standing so close to the exterior wall beside the sliding glass doors that she couldn’t be easily seen, either.
It occurred to her that she should probably move out into the center of the terrace, make sure her presence was noted by whomever had just entered the suite. Instead, she instinctively moved closer to the wall.
The man spoke again, harshly, and though she couldn’t see him any better than he could see her, Jenna felt sure it must be Mark Bishop. “I just spent two excruciating hours listening to that idiot Benchley. He claims there was a major change in top management at Castleman Press last week. Find Scott. Tell him I want to know why it wasn’t in his report. A shakeup like that should have been a red flag that a blind man couldn’t have missed.”