***
“Kickin’ in at one thirty-six, you’re listening to cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. The CIC forecast calls for clear skies till dawn, with low temps in the twenties. By morning, warmer air will be moving into the area, bringing clouds and a chance of rain.”His voice grew more husky.“Right now it’s a frosty twenty-seven degrees outside our studios, but there’s no frost in here with me, and there’s certainly none on Kenny Rogers, who’s heatin’ the crowds with his latest tour. He’s been one of the superstars of country music since ’77 and ‘Lucille,’ singin’ up a steady stream of hits. I’ve got ‘I Prefer the Moonlight,’ comin’ up next on WCIC Providence, 95.3 FM, the home of a little country in the city.”He positively purred.“Jared Snow here, in the heart of the night. Listen up.…”
Susan Smith Gardner raised her glass in a toast to the man and his voice, then downed what remained of her scotch in a single swallow. It was a minute before the liquor settled, another before she breathed a slightly fiery, “I’m listening,” yet another before she pushed herself up from the chintz lounge chair and headed for what had once been her husband’s armoire. It was now her bar.
Dirk had been gone for a year, taking with him a colorful array of Polo jerseys, starched Armani shirts, and Perry Ellis sweaters, along with everything else he had personally brought into the marriage. Filling the closet hadn’t been a problem; Susan had transferred all the clothes she’d previously stashed in the attic so that Dirk wouldn’t know just how much she had. The armoire, though, was a monstrosity. Although she kept its doors closed, Susan had known what was behind them, and that nothingness had bothered her.
Using the piece to house liquor had been a brainstorm. Not only did it give her the convenience of a bar in the bedroom, where she needed it most, but it meant that the prying eyes that monitored the bar in the den saw little change in the liquor levels from one week to the next.
She told herself that she didn’t have a real problem; she just enjoyed a drink now and again. She believed it was her right to get drunk once in a while. She was convinced that whoever meted out the good times in life had robbed her blind.
Slipping a lone ice cube into her glass, she added a finger of water and three of scotch. Satisfied after a sample swallow, she closed the armoire doors, then began to wander around the room. Kenny Rogers was singing about his woman, but it wasn’t Kenny Rogers she wanted to hear, and she certainly didn’t want to hear about his woman. It seemed to Susan that the whole world was paired off. She was the only one alone. She, and Jared Snow.
He was alone, sitting in that studio of his. She could close her eyes and picture him there in the heart of the night, talking to her. She loved listening to him, often waited through the music just to hear his voice again. Whether she was totally alert, or tired, dazed, or groggy, if Jared Snow told her to climb the steeple of Trinity Church and jump, she’d do it in a minute. His voice was that seductive.
With one arm wrapped around her middle and the other propping the glass to her lips, Susan sluggishly stepped around the perimeter of the huge bed she had all to herself. Stopping at the night stand where her sleekly housed radio stood, she lightly caressed the buttons on top.
Jared Snow exuded confidence. She had never met him; not many people had, it seemed, yet that split second’s worth of silence that always followed the mention of his name said something to her. She was sure that Rhode Islanders stood a little in awe of him, because he was a mystery, a blank sheet of paper in an area where anyone who was anybody was a full dossier.
Rumor had it that he was from the West Coast, that he was wealthy, that he owned both this station and others. Susan couldn’t understand why in the world, if he owned the station, he would be working the night shift. For that matter, she couldn’t understand why he would be working at all. Forthatmatter, she couldn’t understand why, if he owned other stations, he’d chosen to work in Providence.
Not that she would have it any other way. She didn’t know what she would do if he were no longer a voice in her night. She relied on his being there. On weekends, when he was off, she was depressed. When substitutes filled in for him, she felt let down.
She wasn’t wild about his music. He played too many ballads about things that were too true, and the truth could be brutal at times. When he played songs about love, she felt jealous. When he played songs about love gone wrong, she despaired. But he was good, damn, he was good. So confident, so smooth, so able. She needed a man like that.
But what would a man like that, one who was rich and well known and totally together, want with a woman like her? Susan wondered. What was she, anyway?
With a disgusted grunt, she tipped the glass to her lips and let its potent contents sear a path to her stomach. Emboldened then and momentarily angry, she whirled to face the mirrored closet wall.
She was beautiful. If nothing else, she knew she was that. She was taller than Savannah, more shapely than Savannah, and the curls—which Savannah didn’t have—of the huge, auburn mass that cascaded around her shoulders had taken more than one man’s breath away. Even Savannah admitted that her sister was beautiful.
But beyond being beautiful, what was she?
Savannah was something. She was a career woman, a professional. She had made it in a man’s world. As Paul DeBarr’s golden girl, she’d become a visible presence on the Providence political scene. Her name was often in the morning papers connected with one or another of the most spectacular cases. She was known and respected. She was in an enviably prestigious position.
Although she was not beautiful the way Susan was, men looked, really looked at her. Susan had spent years trying to figure out her sister’s appeal. For lack of any better explanation, she’d decided that Savannah had some kind of aura. Even when they had been kids, Savannah had been popular. She hadn’t been the loudest or the most gregarious in their crowd, but friends flocked to her. Nothing had changed since then. Although Savannah didn’t have much free time, the moments she had were filled. Savannah had everything. Even her name was better than Susan’s. But then, Susan reasoned, Savannah had been born first. That said a lot.
“Tunin’ in to the sound of cool country,”came the grainy voice from the nightstand.
Turning toward it, Susan pressed the old-fashioned glass to her chest, heedless of its cold or the moisture that dampened the delicately embroidered bodice of her thin batiste gown. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and listened to the lazy drawl that stroked her from head to toe.
“This is Jared Snow, warmin’ you in the heart of the night. WCIC time is one forty on a cold and quiet March Monday in Providence. Keep your blanket pulled up and your dial set at 95.3 FM, for a little country in the city. WCIC Providence, kickin’ in now with K.T. Oslin and a cut from80’s Ladies…”
Perfectly timed, his voice faded as the singer began. Susan wondered how he did that. Wealthy or not, owner of the station or not, he knew what he was doing. He was competent, like Savannah. He had power, like Savannah. He was just what Susan wanted but couldn’t have.
Taking a healthy swallow from the glass, she sank lifelessly onto the chaise and brooded.
Savannah could have Jared Snow; Susan would bet on that. Savannah could have just about any man she wanted, and none of them would be losers. During the past year she had dated the dean of admissions at Brown, the city editor of the newspaper, the evening anchor at WJAR-TV, and one of the more prominent professors at RISD. The fact that she didn’t seem interested in getting involved brought them on, if anything, in droves. It wasn’t fair. The less she cared, the more they persisted. And Susan, whodidcare about having a relationship, who would give anything for just one of those dashingly prominent men, was stuck on the same old carousel of Newport society.
Up and down, round and round.
Screw old wealth, she thought, and drained her glass. Then she lay back against the pillows and waited for the liquor to numb her, or sleep to take her, or for the song to end and Jared Snow to talk her through the night.
***
Megan Vandermeer sat in the center of the huge jacuzzi with her knees drawn to her chest. The long, fleecy robe that flared around her was the only thing that had flowed in the tub in weeks. Like the elaborate ice maker on the refrigerator door and the sophisticated burglar alarm system, the jacuzzi was broken. Repairing it would cost a bundle. Will didn’t have a bundle.
Tightening her tremulous arms around her legs, Megan buried her face in the folds of the robe and rocked back and forth in gentle time to the slow ballad that hummed from the speaker on the wall. At least that still worked, she mused gratefully. How she’d loved lying in the jacuzzi late at night with the water swirling around her and Jared Snow’s voice gentling her nerves. She couldn’t use the jacuzzi now, but she could still listen to Jared Snow. He was so calm, so smooth, so reassuring. He suggested the kind of deep inner peace Megan had always searched for but never found.
