Blood Rubies (10 page)

“I don't know that there's a ‘supposed to' here. You can say whatever you want.”

“Sorry.” She pressed her index fingers against her eyebrows for a moment. “I'm not myself.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Have any whiskey?”

“Sure.”

Heather followed me inside. She didn't say anything to anyone. Maybe she didn't notice them. I led the way across to the warehouse door. Cara stood up, smiling, ready to offer tea or coffee. I shook my head a little, and she sat down. I could tell Heather wasn't in the mood to meet new people.

I paused with my hand on the knob to tell Cara I'd be upstairs, adding, “Send up a setup for some drinks, okay? I'll take lemonade. Add a nibble if we have anything.”

“Right away,” Cara said, standing again.

Heather and I crossed the concrete span, our heels clicking a tippita-tappita beat. We climbed the spiral staircase that led to my private office. Heather paused three steps in.

“Nice office.”

“Thanks.”

She pointed to the display case holding my rooster collection. “You collect roosters. How come?”

“I don't know. Why does anyone collect anything?”

“To show off.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. Anything I said would come off as defensive. Plus, I bet she was talking about Jason, not me.

Heather walked to one of the yellow Queen Anne wing chairs, then changed her mind and crossed to the love seat. She perched on the edge, loosened the laces on her boots, kicked them off, then sat back, crossing her legs Indian-style.

“I hope it's okay to take my boots off,” she said after the fact.

“Sure.”

Cara appeared, tray in hand. It held four cut-crystal glasses—two highballs, two rocks—a crystal and sterling silver bucket of ice with matching sterling silver tongs, individually wrapped cheese wedges, a bowl of crackers, another filled with Cara's homemade chocolate chip cookies, a little plate of preportioned clusters of champagne grapes, a small cut-crystal pitcher of lemonade, and four crisp white linen cocktail napkins. She slid the tray onto the butler's table.

“Thanks, Cara.”

She smiled and left.

Heather reached for a cookie. “Do you have any single malt?”

I pulled a bottle of Macallan from the cabinet next to my rooster collection. My dad had always kept a bottle for his friend Buddy. This one, still a third full, had been his. Now both men were dead, and the bottle was mine. “How do you take it?”

“A little water, no ice.”

I poured two inches of the honey brown whiskey into a rocks glass and placed it on a napkin in front of her. “Sparkling or still?”

“Still.”

I took a small bottle from the minifridge beside my desk and gave it to her. I poured myself a lemonade over ice.

“Not a drinking girl?” she asked, raising her glass.

“Work awaits, so as much as I'd love to, I need to stick to lemonade. I'm with you in spirit, though.”

She downed the whiskey in one gulp, winced a little, and shook her head, clearing it, or wanting it to clear.

“More?” I asked.

“Please.”

I poured another two inches, then placed the bottle on the side table nearest her. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She sipped this one, then sighed. “I needed this.”

“A lot going on?”

“It's not that. It's that I'm royally pissed off. Boot-kicking angry.”

“At what?”

“I don't know. That's the worst of it.” She tossed back the whiskey and poured herself another, a three-incher this time. “That's why I was in your woods.” She laughed mirthlessly, self-deprecatingly. “Talking to God, I guess you could say.” She shook her head as she refilled her glass again. “I went to that church to speak to the pastor, a nice enough man. Do you know him?”

“Ted Bauer, yes.”

“I keep snapping at everyone from the man at the funeral parlor while I was making arrangements to ship Jason's body home and my mother to waitresses and hotel housekeepers. It's exhausting and frustrating and embarrassing. So being a gal of action, I got a list of nearby religious institutions from the front desk and starting calling. You know it's not so easy to find a pastor interested in talking to a stranger around here?”

“Really? That surprises me.”

She shrugged. “I just said that to be mean. Do you see what I was saying? I'm acting out, and I know it, and I can't stop. I only called three places, a Jewish temple, a Catholic church, and the place next door, a Congressional church, I think it is. I went in alphabetical order. The rabbi at Beth Shalom is in Boston with a youth group. The priest from the Church of the Holy Family is at Rocky Point Hospital giving last rites to someone, then making rounds. Ted Bauer was available, so I jumped in the car and raced off to see him. He was great, actually. He didn't criticize me for being angry. He pointed out that I had a lot to be angry about, the loss of dreams, the end of hope.”

“The end of hope? That seems a little extreme.”

“Does it?” She unwrapped a cheese wedge and placed it on a soda cracker. She popped the bite in her mouth and chewed like she wanted to kill it. “Does it indeed?”

“Did he offer any advice?”

“He didn't say that thing about the end of hope. I did. Advice? Sure. Get some exercise. Fresh air. The anger will pass, he said. It's a natural stage of grieving. Which means it may not pass for years. You should see my mother. She's been a widow for a year and she's a mess.” She flipped her hand backward, pushing air over her right shoulder, communicating a dismissive “whatever.” She took a cluster of grapes and ate one. “That's why I went for a walk. The woods are pretty—but you know that. It's your woods, right? I like the shushing sound pine needles make when you walk on them.” She paused to eat another grape. “I didn't care where it went. Then the path ended and poof, here I am. Like magic. He also said to keep talking.” She shrugged again. “What is he going to say, right? ‘Snap out of it'? ‘Pull yourself together'? ‘Time heals all wounds'? It's hopeless. I'm hopeless.” She closed her eyes for a moment, the muscles along her jawline bullet hard. “Sorry. I'm not myself.”

“No need to apologize. You can say anything you want to me.”

“Really?” She opened her eyes and finished the grapes. “Now there's an offer I ought to take advantage of.” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward. “The Josie confessional.” She sighed. “I'm not religious. Isn't that funny? I'm not religious, but when I wanted to talk to someone, I didn't think of a therapist … I thought of a pastor.” She reached for her glass and finished the whiskey, then poured another portion. “I'm a mess.”

“You're not a mess. Grief is messy.”

She stared at her drink as if she were having trouble recognizing what it was, or perhaps she was hoping the amber liquid held the answer. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to mine. “I don't miss Jason at all. Not even a teeny tiny bit. Isn't that odd?”

“Maybe you're missing him so much you're angry, and all you can feel at this point is the anger. Later, you'll feel sad.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, sounding dubious.

“I don't know.”

She sighed again, heavily, then swigged the whiskey, finishing it in one gulp. She coughed, a small one, then placed the glass neatly on the tray.

“Time to go.” She unwrapped her legs and reached for a boot, nearly toppling off the couch. “Whoa. I better take it slow.”

Her motions were methodical, as if she were thinking about each step first, then doing it.
Pull the boot toward me. Straighten it so the toes face out. Put my foot in. Tighten the laces. Tie a bow.
She got her boots on, then stood and clutched the sofa's back to steady herself. She experimented with walking, and when she didn't collapse, she smiled.

“All right, then,” she said. “I'm on a roll. Thanks, Josie, for your above-and-beyond hospitality to a near stranger.”

She was having trouble with sibilants. “Hospitality” sounded more like “hoshpitality,” and “stranger” came out as “shranger.”

“How about topping off that whiskey with a coffee before you go? We can make cappuccino or espresso, if you prefer.”

“No, thanks. I have to go. My mother will be worried. I didn't tell her I was leaving the hotel. I just slammed out of the room. Chuck and Sara will be worried, too. I blew off lunch.”

“No prob. I'll drive you.”

“No need. I left my car at the church. I'll walk back and drive myself.”

“Better not. Whiskey and steering wheels don't mix.”

She glared at me. “You're so judgmental, Josie.”

“Sorry about that … but I can't let you drive.”

“It's none of your business!”

“It is, actually. Since I served you whiskey, there's a liability thing. I can't let you get behind the wheel.”

She walked toward the door, stepping carefully, trying to hide her sway, keeping her chin up. “I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are. Regardless, let's agree to let me do the driving.”

“No.”

I suspected that trying to reason with someone in her condition was a waste of time. “Please … let me drive or call you a cab.”

“Forget it.”

“I can't.”

She was not amused. She stomped down the spiral staircase. Two steps down, she slipped and flew outward, landing hard on her bottom three steps down, the backs of her calves slamming into the riser.

“Heather!” I ran to her, stepping around her and going down three more steps. I looked up at her. “Are you all right?”

Without saying a word, she stood up, grasped the iron railing and walked down the stairs one at a time, placing her feet carefully, consciously. She walked slowly across the warehouse. I trailed behind. When she reached the warehouse door, she ripped it open, sprinted across the office, and darted outside. I stayed close. She was running fast now, faster than I would have thought she could, heading for the woods. The strong midday sunlight penetrated the tall bare trees that stretched high above our heads, dappling the path, lighting the way.

When we reached the church parking lot, she was half a dozen steps ahead of me. She ran straight for her car, a Lexus. Her chest heaving from her exertion, she poked her car key at the lock, unable to fit it in, forgetting, perhaps, that all she had to do was push the unlock button on the remote.

When she spotted me coming up behind her, she spun sideways, hurled her key ring into the side garden, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “Happy now?”

“It's okay,” I said, breathing hard. I stood ten feet away from her and patted the air, hoping to reassure her, to communicate that I had no intention of attacking or trapping her.

She closed her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said so softly I had trouble hearing her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I'm sorry.” Her voice lowered further until her words were indistinguishable, a shadow of a sound, a hint of intention. “I'm sorry,” I think she said. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” She collapsed onto her car's hood, weeping, her sobs coming in big, gusty waves. A few seconds later, without warning, she began pounding the hood, the thuds echoing and reverberating in the still, dry air. She stopped as suddenly as she started and slid down the car, landing in a heap on the ground, her tears falling silently now. She slapped the pavement; then her fingers curled into fists and she pounded it.

Ted stepped out of the back door and smiled, glad to see me, unaware of the drama playing out behind the car. His hairline had receded some over the last year, and he'd gained another few pounds on his already comfortable frame. He looked cherubic.

“Josie!” he called. “What a nice surprise.”

“It's Heather.” I pointed to where she lay. “She's pretty upset.”

His expression shifted from jovial to concerned, and he hurried across the lot to join me at Heather's car. When he saw her lying on the ground, her hands in loose fists now, still softly pounding the asphalt, he stopped short and looked at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“She walked through the woods to my place. She had a few drinks, enough so I thought she shouldn't drive. One thing led to another … I don't know what to do.”

Ted made a tch-tch sound and reached for Heather's arms. “It's all right, my dear. Come inside.”

Heather didn't resist him, but she didn't assist him either. She remained a deadweight. I took one arm while Ted took the other, and together we hoisted her upright and leaned her against the hood. Rivulets of mascara crisscrossed her cheeks. The three of us walked slowly toward the church. Inside, Ted led the way to the kitchen, a cheerful old-fashioned room.

As Ted got her situated at the round oak table, I said, “I'll get her keys. She tossed them in the bushes.”

“Good idea,” Ted said, squatting beside her. “I'm glad you came back, Heather.”

“I'm sorry.”

I slipped out of the room, relieved that Ted was there, knowing I was out of my depth.

I found the keys under a hydrangea bush and scooped them up, then hurried back to the kitchen. Heather wasn't there.

“Heather wanted to clean up,” Ted explained. “I asked Pam to go with her.”

“Good. I suspect Pam is just what the doctor ordered.” Ted's secretary, Pam, was closer to seventy than sixty, a latter-day hippie. Her gray hair reached nearly to her waist, and she usually wore peasant dresses and Birkenstocks. She had a warm nonjudgmental smile. Heather couldn't be in better hands.

“I agree.” Ted shook his head sadly. “Grief is a spiteful beast with sharp teeth and long claws.”

I handed him her keys. “I'm glad she's here with you.”