“Sorry.” She sighs, for the first time looking her age. “This has me so rattled. You must think I’m an old dingbat.”
“Of course I don’t. Just take it easy. You said you didn’t know if he died or not.”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s he?”
“Why, Julie’s father,” she says, back on track again. “She tried to kill him.”
Tania Marie
Almost an hour passed, and Rikki didn’t return her call. Tania Marie’s courage passed along with the time. Why had she listened to Jay Rossi? If she told Rikki Fitzpatrick about seeing Julie Larimore, she’d have to tell the truth about herself, too.
She picked up the remote, pointed it at the open armoire containing her television. She needed to relax, channel surf, maybe watch wonderful Wolfgang Puck create some amazing dish.
She heard Marshall’s voice moments before she saw his face. Damn her luck! The bastard was ubiquitous, not to mention gorgeous, with the gray hair, the sad, wise eyes. She couldn’t get away from his image, his voice, his memory.
She’d stumbled upon some history channel showing his elder-statesman pose. His gaze, thoughtful, yet certain, he talkedabout the Wright brothers, Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Chuck Yeager, John Glenn, Sally Ride. “The wonder of flight,” he called it, then with that trademark wiseass chuckle, “and all since 1903.”
“Fly home to your skinny wife,” she shouted at the screen. “Fly back to whoever took on my job after you got me fired.”
One click, and his image disappeared as abruptly as if it hadn’t existed in the first place.
The refrigerator beckoned.
What had she heard at the meetings? Put the healthful foods in front so that they are the easiest to reach?
She opened the stainless-steel door. All of the veggies and the Laughing Cow one-point cheese were right in front, so that she couldn’t possibly ignore them. Could she? She even kept her mini-bagels in there, next to the tomato juice. She could stick one in the toaster, spread it with the Laughing Cow.
As she thought about it, she opened the freezer, digging far back, past Virginia’s care packages, finding what she needed, by touch, knowing it the moment she connected with its smooth surface. Frigging Milanos. She could taste the sweet shortbread outside, the bitter chocolate bite of filling. Her trigger food, as they called such things at the meetings. She’d put them in here months before, to save for a special occasion. Well, this was it.
Tania Marie washed down the package with icy cold milk. What was it about standing up that made one feel less guilty, as if the food eaten that way didn’t count? What made it count even less if you left the refrigerator door open when you did it?
Now, with every delicious crumb licked away, she felt stuffed and shamed, and not at all ready to talk to the reporter.
So, that of course, was the moment she chose to call.
“What took you so long?” She felt like sobbing again. Jay Rossi had deserted her, and now Rikki Fitzpatrick had, too.
“I was following a lead on Julie Larimore.”
“I might—” She swallowed hard, still tasting the Milanos. “I think I might have one, too.”
“I’m parked in front of your apartment,” Rikki Fitzpatrick said. “Come on out.”
Rikki
It’s late by the time I leave Tania Marie. I’m still trying to figure out what I should do next. I need to visit the San Diego hospital and try to confirm her story about Julie Larimore. I need to go back to Los Olivos and talk to more people who might remember Julie and the childhood scandal that sent her away from there.
The hospital is first. I call from the car that night. As I suspect, there’s no one to talk to me. I’ll have to wait until Monday and go in person. I’m still not sure I believe Tania Marie, although I know she’s convinced the person she saw was Julie Larimore. I just need to find out, and I can’t do that until Monday.
There’s something else driving me as my car moves instinctively toward the freeway, as if it already knows something I don’t. I need to talk to Pete. That’s crazy. I can just call him. A sure instinct pushes me forward all the same. He would have been my cousin’s husband. I must sit down with him face-to-face. And I must ask the questions neither of us wants to hear.
Why now? I’ve waited this long. Why not wait a little longer until the pain of loss dulls, as it must, the way all pain does? But, no. I have to ask, and I have to ask now. I can be there in under four hours, and then, once I have my answers, I can decide where to go next.
Before seeing him, though, I have to visit someone else. I’ve put it off too long.
The Interview
