Carol reached near the head of the line, but instead of going to the entrance, she peeled to the left and found a space in the parking lot. Ellen hung back, idling the car, and the next minute, Carol got out with her quilted purse and a black Adidas bag and hurried toward the entrance. The teachers waved to her as she jogged up to them, greeting her with smiles and chatter, but Ellen couldn’t hear what they were saying.
She had to get out of the line for pickups. She took a quick right and parked at the far end of the lot, reversing into the space so she could have a clear view of the entrance, to see when Carol left with her child.
She lowered the car windows before she switched off the ignition, having learned her lesson, and waited. The dashboard clock read 2:55. It was a late dismissal for preschool, but if this school was like Will’s, the parents could pick up at any time of the day.
But this preschool isn’t like Will’s. It’s a lot nicer.
By three fifteen, she was sweltering in the parked car. The thermometer on the dash read 100°. Her shirt clung to her neck, and her legs were so hot that she wanted to tear her pants off. By three thirty, she’d rolled them up to capri length and wrapped up her hair in a messy topknot, having found a stray barrette in her purse. She waited, watching the entrance, but it seemed as if all of the kids had been picked up. By three forty-five, her sunglasses were melting onto the bridge of her nose, and she decided to take a risk.
She grabbed her bag, got out of the car, and walked through the parking lot to the entrance under a tall breezeway. There were no more teachers or children out front, and she walked to the front door and tried it, but it was locked. A VISITORS MUST REPORT TO THE OFFICE sign was taped to the glass, and she peered through. She could see the barest outline of a large entrance hall with a glistening tile floor, and colorful bulletin boards hung on the left wall, across from a glass-walled office on the right. Carol was nowhere in sight.
Ellen pressed a buzzer beside the door, and almost immediately a mechanical voice asked, “Can I help you?”
“I’m new to the area and I’d like to see the school.”
“Come right in. The office is on your right.” A loud buzz sounded, and she yanked on the door and let herself inside. A slim, attractive woman with dark, curly hair emerged from the office and strode toward her with a smile, extending a hand.
“Welcome to Bridges, I’m Janice Davis, the assistant director.” She looked pretty in a pink cotton top, white pants, and light blue flats.
Ellen shook her hand. “I’m Karen Volpe, and I thought I’d stop in to see your school.”
“Of course. Did you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Ellen was wondering if Carol was in one of the classrooms. “My husband and I haven’t moved down yet, and I wanted to see the preschools in the area.”
“I see.” Janice checked her watch, a slim gold one. “I don’t have time now for the meeting we like to give with the tour. Let’s make an appointment and you can return.”
“I’m not sure when I can get back. Can you give me the quick version of the tour? We can chat as we walk.”
“Sure, okay.” Janice smiled. “You must be from New York.”
Works for me. “How did you know?”
“Everything’s quicker. You’ll live here a week and your pace will slow down.” The softness of her tone took the sting from her words, as did a hostess wave toward the hallway. “I’ll show you our classrooms and our media center.”
“You have your own library, in a preschool?”
“We all know how important reading and libraries are, and modesty aside, Bridges is the best preschool in south Florida, if not the entire state. We draw from three different counties.” Janice went into lecture mode. “Now, when are you moving down?”
“We’re not sure.” Ellen scanned the hallway ahead, which was empty, with classrooms off to the side, five in all, their doors closed. She wondered which one contained Carol. “My son is three, and we like to be prepared, to do things in advance.”
“You’d need to, for us.” Janice stopped at the first door. “This is our classroom for two-year-olds, the ones who stay later, that is. We like to mix them with the older children, too, so they get the socialization that’s so vital, especially for our onlies.”
“Onlies?”
“Only children.”
“Of course.” Ellen looked through the window in the door, and inside was a sunny classroom with two teachers, finger-painting with toddlers in coral smocks. Carol wasn’t inside.
“Admissions are very restrictive.”
“My son is very bright.” He can trace all by himself.
Janice led her to the next door. “The three-year-olds,” she said, and inside sat a circle of children shaking tambourines, with two teachers standing in front of the room. Still no Carol. Janice showed her to the next door, where they paused. “And this is our classroom of four-year-olds. They’re learning French right now.”
“Really.” Ellen peered through the window, where the kids and their teachers looked très contents. But there was no Carol.
“We believe that language skills should be taught early, and they take to it like ducks to water. I’ll give you our literature on our postgraduate placement rates. We’re a feeder for all the best private schools.”
“Let’s see the five-year-olds.”
“What is it you do, did you say?” Janice asked, but Ellen walked ahead and peeked into the classroom full of five-year-olds in little chairs, books open in their laps. No Carol.
“Which language are they learning?” she asked, to avoid the question.
“Reading skills. We drill and drill.”
Sir, yes, sir. “Good for you.” Ellen straightened up. “And the media center?”
“This way.” Janice led her down the hall to a double door. “This is one of the special enrichment events we have each day, for after-care. Monday is story time and on Tuesday we do science . . .”
Ellen tuned her out when she saw what was going on inside. A group of children sat in a semicircle, laughing and pointing while a teacher in a Mother Goose costume read to them. But a telltale pink pom-pom stuck from beneath the hem of her hoop skirt. It wasn’t a teacher in the Mother Goose getup. It was Carol Braverman.
Janice said, “Here, you see story time, where we perform stories for the children.”
“And the teachers do this?”
“No, she’s not a teacher. She’s one of our moms, who used to be an actress.”
“An actress?”
“Yes. Her name is Carol Braverman, and she worked at Disney World. She was Snow White.”
Of course she was. “Is her child in the class?”
“No, Carol just comes to read to the children.” Janice paused. “She doesn’t have a child in the class.”
Ellen couldn’t ask a follow-up without blowing her cover. “That’s very nice of her, to do that. I guess you pay her very well.”
“Oh, she won’t take a dime for it. Carol does it because she loves children. Come with me.” Janice took Ellen by the elbow and led her back up the hall. “It’s actually a terrible tragedy. Carol’s little boy, Timothy, was kidnapped a couple of years ago and they never got him back. That first year, she was a mess. Depressed, in hell. But she pulled herself together and decided that it actually helps her healing process to be around children.”
Ellen felt a wave of guilt. “How can she do that? I would find that so painful.”
“I agree with you, but do you want to know what she said to me, when I asked her that very question?”
No. “Yes.”
“She said, ‘If I’m around children, at least I get to experience what it would be like if Timothy were still with me. I don’t miss out on everything this way, and when I get him back, I’ll be right up to speed.’ ”
Ellen felt like crying. She didn’t want to know this, any of it. She couldn’t believe she was doing this to another woman. She wished she’d never come.
r /> “I know, right? It’s so sad.”
“Think she’ll get him back?”
“I’m sure the chances are low, but we’re all pulling for her. If anybody deserves it, Carol does.” They reached the office, and Janice brightened. “If you’ll come in with me, I’ll give you that literature I mentioned.”
Ellen followed her inside the office, but her thoughts had skipped ahead.
She didn’t know if she had the heart to stalk Carol to her next stop.
Much less to get the proof she didn’t want in the first place.
Chapter Forty-nine
The late-day sun was even hotter, and Ellen was trailing Carol back through the luxurious suburbs when her BlackBerry started ringing. She plucked it from her purse and glanced at the display, which showed the newspaper’s main telephone number.
Marcelo!
“Hello?” she said, picking up, but it wasn’t him, it was Sarah.
“Marcelo told us you’re taking a few days off. Listen, I won’t keep you, but I wanted to apologize.”
“That’s okay,” Ellen said, surprised. Sarah sounded genuinely contrite.
“I’m sorry I got so hyper about the story. When you fainted, I felt awful.”
“Thanks. It’s just this bug, I feel dizzy.”
“Okay, so, we cool?”
“Sure.” Ellen took a right turn, keeping up with Carol in rush-hour traffic. They were driving back through the congested part of the city, but she switched lanes, staying with Carol.
“I assume you heard, we got bumped for the Yerkes fire.” Sarah snorted. “One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.”
“Listen, I gotta go back to bed.”
“Feel better. Take care.”
“Thanks. See you.” Ellen hung up and accelerated to make a green light as they wound left and right through traffic and finally traveled over the causeway to Surfside Lane.
Carol turned right onto Surfside, and Ellen drove down the main drag and took a U-turn, coming back to park in her position across the street, so that she could see if Carol went out again. She lowered the windows and twisted off the ignition, craning her neck to see down Surfside. If she tilted her head, she had a partial view of the Bravermans’ house and driveway. More people were walking on Coral Ridge than before, but no one seemed to notice her. A man who looked like a model jogged past, and behind him, two Rollerbladers skated toward the causeway, their thighs pumping away.
Ring Ring! Ellen reached for her BlackBerry, checking the screen. HOME. It had to be Connie. “Hey, Con, how’s it going?”
“Another day, another macaroni picture.”
“Art you can eat, right?” Ellen smiled. Her thoughts traveled back to her snug little house though her gaze remained on the Bravermans’.
“I don’t know if this matters, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I think somebody just called here. Her name was Sarah. Is that someone from the newspaper or a story?”
“The paper.” Ellen tensed. “When was this?”
“About half an hour ago. Will answered the phone and told her that you weren’t home.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. He got to the phone before I did. He thought it might be you. He talked to her and hung up. I heard him say Sarah. I didn’t even get to talk to her.”
“Will said I wasn’t there?” Ellen couldn’t process it fast enough. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He told her you went on the airplane for work.”
“Oh no!” It was exactly what Ellen had told him yesterday. She rubbed her forehead and came away with flop sweat. “This isn’t good, Connie.”
“Why doesn’t she know what you’re doing for work, anyway?”
The proverbial tangled web. “My editor wanted to keep it on the QT. We generally share our assignments, but Sarah is getting a little competitive lately, between you and me.”
“Oh. Oops.”
Ellen was trying to figure what to do. Sarah had caught her in a lie, then called her to confirm it. It was great journalistic technique, and it would get her fired for sure.
“Will wants to talk to you, okay?”
“Of course.” Ellen could hear Will calling for her, so close he was probably reaching for the phone.
“Mommy, Mommy! When are you coming home?”
“Soon, sweetie.” Ellen felt a pang at the sound of his voice, even as she slumped in the driver’s seat, keeping an eye on the Bravermans’ house. “Tell me about your macaroni picture.”
“Come home soon. I have to go.”
“Love you,” Ellen called after him, and Connie got back on the line.
“We’re about to have dinner. So how bad is it?”
“Don’t worry. Just don’t let him tell any more state secrets, okay?”
“Gotcha. Sorry.”
“See you soon.” Ellen hung up and called Marcelo for damage control, waiting nervously for the call to connect. Another runner darted by on the sidewalk, glancing back at her. His shoulder cap bore a MOM tattoo, but she was pretty sure it was a coincidence.
“How are you?” Marcelo asked, his voice unusually cool, which took Ellen aback.
“Long story short, Sarah called my house and Will told her that I went away on business.”
“I know. She just left my office. She came in to tell me that you lied to me.”
Oh no. “What did you say?”
“What could I say? I couldn’t admit that we confessed our mutual admiration in your kitchen, before we fabricated a story.”
Ellen reddened. “I’m so sorry, Marcelo.”
“I shouldn’t have told them you were sick. So, in theory, you lied to me, and I lied to the staff, and Sarah came in to let me know. If I had just said that it wasn’t their business, we’d be fine.”
Ellen had undermined Marcelo’s authority. A reporter couldn’t lie to an editor without consequences. The entire newsroom would be talking about it and waiting to see what he would do. “So what did you say to her?”
“I told her I’d talk to you about it when you got back.” Marcelo shook his head. “For an intelligent man, I act so stupid sometimes.”
“No, you don’t,” Ellen rushed to say, hearing the subtext: I never should have crossed the line with you.
“I can’t show you any favoritism, and I don’t want to have to let you go.” Regret freighted his tone, but Ellen straightened up, determined.
“There’s no reason to do that, not yet. I’m still away, and that buys us a few days. I have to get clear of this situation.”
“What situation?” Marcelo asked, a new urgency in his voice, but all of a sudden the white Jaguar was pulling out of the Bravermans’ driveway and turning left toward the main drag.
“Uh, hold on.” Ellen tucked the BlackBerry in her neck, twisted on the car’s ignition, and hit the gas. She launched herself into rush-hour traffic, an overheated lineup of blaring music, cigarette smoke, and cell-phone conversations. She couldn’t afford to let too much space get between her and Carol.
“Ellen? Are you there?”
“Marcelo, hang on a sec.”
“Please tell me what is going on. I can help you.”
“Sorry, but this isn’t the best time for me and—” She lost her train of thought because Carol took an unexpected right turn before the causeway. Ellen steered her car into the right lane but the movement dislodged her BlackBerry, which slid off her lap and fell near the gas pedal.
“Good-bye, Marcelo!” she called out, then she hit the gas and swerved around the corner, in pursuit. She had to stay on track. She couldn’t worry about her job now, or even Marcelo’s. Sooner or later she had to catch a break. She ran the light, staying on Carol’s tail.
Chapter Fifty
Ellen followed Carol through the carnation-and-canary-hued buildings of South Beach, where traffic on Collins Avenue was a sizzling stop-and-go. Between them was a white Hummer, like a giant bar of Ivory on wheels. Ahead, the Jag turned left, followed by the Hummer
and Ellen. They traveled up a skinny back street lined with delivery entrances to a cigar store, boutiques, and restaurants. Dumpsters alternated with flashy cars parked so haphazardly that they looked strewn there. Carol pulled up behind a parked convertible, and the Hummer powered ahead, leaving Ellen no choice but to keep going or risk being recognized from the grocery store.
She cruised slowly ahead and watched Carol in her rearview mirror. The driver-side door opened, and Carol emerged, stepping out in a tight-fitting tomato red dress, her long dark blond hair loose to her shoulders. She chirped the car locked and walked around to its back fender, heading for the cross street on the far side.
Go, go, go!
Ellen parked illegally, turned off the ignition, grabbed her purse, jumped out of the car, and hustled down the street. Her clogs clopped along, and she made a mental note not to wear Danskos the next time she stalked somebody, unless it was a Clydesdale.
Carol took a left at the cross street, with Ellen tailing her on foot at a safe distance. They reached a street that was closed to traffic, Lincoln Road, and Carol plunged into the crowd of gorgeous models, crazies with face paint, gay men with matching mustaches, and European tourists speaking an array of languages. Pomeranians shared the packed sidewalk with a boa constrictor worn around the neck of a woman who had forgotten the feather part of her feather boa. Kiehl’s, Banana Republic, and Victoria’s Secret stores were interspersed with boutique and gift shops, and Ellen walked along, marveling. It looked like a street party, with merchandise.
She never lost sight of Carol, helped by the bright red dress. They threaded their way past Cuban, Chinese, and Italian restaurants, their tables spilling out onto large café areas for outdoor dining. Carol paused at a sushi restaurant and talked with a camera-ready maitre d’, so Ellen slowed her step, watching them. In the next minute, a tall, dark-haired man slipped from the crowd and stopped beside Carol, kissing her on the cheek and encircling her slim waist in a proprietary way.