“I’m down here,” he calls back.
“Who was making the noise in the hall?” she asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Oh, I see. So you’d rather run around the hotel half naked than have sex with me? Okay. Fine.”
It’s classic Penley. And before you can say “horndog,” Stephen’s racing back up the stairs to her.
It’s a miracle, all right.
Praise the Pencil!
Chapter 82
“YOU’RE WHERE?” he asks.
“Outside the Fálcon Hotel,” I answer. “Where you need to be right away. Please come. . . . Yes, I want you to drop everything.”
I quickly explain why.
“I’ll be right there,” Michael tells me. “Don’t move.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
I don’t. I remain perched on a stool behind the window of a Starbucks across the street. There’s a perfect view of the Fálcon’s entrance, the red awning eclipsed only by the occasional bus or delivery truck passing by. After Stephen chased me into that stairwell, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stick around inside. Plus, there’s the matter of my history with the hotel. Poor little Kristin’s first days in New York. A horror story in itself. But definitely one for another time.
Anyway, a picture might be worth a thousand words, but having Michael see Penley’s affair in the flesh — as it were — speaks for itself.
Now he has to get here before they leave. Which means I change my mind about one thing: I hope Stephen does have sex like Sting . . . on one of his best days too.
Twenty minutes later, Michael storms through the door of Starbucks. All at once, the loitering latte drinkers glance up from their laptops.
“What the hell are you looking at?” says Michael’s expression. “Go back to writing your stupid spec screenplays that will never get made!”
He spots me and hurries over. “They still in there?” he asks, nodding at the hotel.
“Yes, thankfully,” I answer.
He frowns, and I get it immediately. Thankfully really isn’t the right word. As much as he wants to catch Penley red-handed, I have to remember this isn’t something he relishes.
In fact, he seems completely on edge and on the verge of going over the top, which is something I don’t want to experience.
That look of doubting me, of thinking that I’m “Crazy Kristin,” is entirely gone from his eyes, though. He knows I’m not mistaken or making it up. This is real.
He asks me to tell him everything again, from my first steps following Penley to when I called his office. “Give me every detail, Kris,” he says. And I do. Right down to their room number.
Of course, there is one thing I leave out, and that’s the other room and the music. Was there really no one in there? Was there even music playing?
Michael pulls back a sleeve to reveal his Rolex. “How long has it been?”
“About an hour,” I say, watching him tap his loafer impatiently. “Just so you know, they’ll probably come out separately. That’s how they arrived.”
He bristles. “She’s walking out of a hotel, for Christ’s sake. At eleven in the morning. Alone or not, what more do I need to see?”
He sees it anyway, the whole sloppy enchilada.
To my utter disbelief, Penley and Stephen emerge together seconds later. How brazen. How stupid. How very Penley.
And how enraged Michael becomes.
I’m watching him watch them, his face reddening, his nostrils flaring. Maybe a picture would’ve been better. I’m afraid he might explode right here in the coffee shop.
Then it gets even worse.
Penley and Stephen engage in one hot and heavy, no doubt about it kiss. It’s the money shot, and while I no longer need to capture it on film, I do anyway. The photographer’s instinct takes over. Don’t think, just shoot.
As for Michael, it’s as if he’s watching a spectacular car wreck. He can’t turn away from the Kiss. I don’t really blame him. It is compelling stuff, in a sick sort of way.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. “Un-fucking-believable.”
I lower my camera and look at him. It’s his voice. I’ve never heard it like this before. The tone, the register — it’s beyond anger. It’s beyond anything.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Michael? I’m sorry you had to see this.”
“I could kill the bitch” is his answer.
Chapter 83
MY MIND IS SPINNING a little, but Michael’s seems completely focused, locked in. For the first time I can see how he is at his job. “Where does she think you are right now?” he asks.
I barely hear him. “Huh?”
“Penley — does she think you’re at the apartment?”
I nod, and he immediately whips out his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Would you ever disappear from work this long without leaving a note?”
He’s right. I didn’t think that far ahead. “No,” I say. “In fact, I’m supposed to be getting the patio cleaned up for summer.”
Michael hits his speed dial. “So we need to buy you some time,” he says.
The next moment borders on surreal. So what’s new? I watch across the street as Penley breaks her lip-lock with Stephen and reaches into her purse. She checks her cell phone and immediately looks uneasily at Stephen, raising a finger to her mouth. Shhh.
She answers the phone, and I see her lips moving. This is weird but also exciting.
“Hi, honey, how are you?” says Michael, standing about a foot away from me. “You still at the gym?”
His voice is completely normal, even chipper, not a hint of stress.
This is so bizarre, I’m thinking. Of course, this is also so Michael, the same guy who threw his arm around my shoulder and introduced me to everyone at his business dinner. One cool cucumber.
I’ve got my eyes trained on Penley as my ears pick up her voice through Michael’s phone. It’s sort of like watching a foreign movie with subtitles.
“I’m leaving the gym now,” I hear her answer. “What do you want? I’m kind of busy at the moment.”
“You must be exhausted,” says Michael. He shoots me a grin. She’s not the only one with King Kong balls.
I strain to hear what Penley says next, something about why Michael is on his cell and not in his office.
“Oh, I’m just out grabbing a cup of coffee,” he replies. “You know how I hate the crap they brew at the office; it’s weak as shit. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I need a favor.”
Penley tells him to hold on for a second.
Michael and I watch through the window as she puts her hand over the phone and says something to Stephen, who appears to be losing his patience. Poor guy. Clearly she’s explaining that she can’t ditch Michael’s call easily. A few seconds later, a frustrated Stephen marches back into the hotel.
What, does he live there?
Penley gets back on. “So what’s the favor?”
“Is everything okay?” asks Michael.
“Yeah. For a second I thought I left my keys at the gym. I found them, though.”
Pretty clever, Penley.
“So, about that favor,” says Michael. “We’ve got a client coming in from Tokyo tomorrow morning, and someone told me that store in Midtown, Takashimaya, sells this amazing Japanese coffee. I was wondering if you could pick some up for me on your way home.”
Penley sighs so annoyingly loud through the phone that a few people sitting nearby turn their heads. They probably can’t believe what a bitch she is.
“You can’t send your secretary to do this?” she whines. “I have to go buy coffee for you?”
“Honey, it would take Amanda over an hour to get there and back. I figured you were only a few blocks away. Please, Pen. Could you?”
Another sigh, even louder. “So what’s this supposedly amazing coffee called?”
“I’m not s
ure, but I’ll recognize the name. Call me on my cell when you get there, okay?”
“Fine.”
Penley gives her phone the finger as she flips it closed. All Michael can do is laugh.
“I’m going to miss the little woman,” he jokes as Penley disappears from our view.
I smile, but only because I’m glad he can joke at all. I’ve never seen him as dark as he was a few minutes ago.
I shoot him a look. “Japanese coffee?”
“God is in the details, remember?”
I nod. “So, what now?”
Michael takes my hand. “You love me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“And you trust me, right?”
“Yes.” What’s this about? Why do I need to trust Michael right now?
“What you do,” he says, “is go back to work, get that patio in order, and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy on the home front.”
“That’s it?”
“For the time being, that’s it.”
“What about you?”
He doesn’t answer. He lets go of my hand and walks toward the door.
“Michael, what are you going to do?”
He glances back, flashes me his best smile. Then he winks. It’s my wink.
“You’ll see.”
12
Chapter 84
GO AFTER HIM! Find out what he’s up to. Now, Kristin.
But my feet won’t move.
I remain there in the Starbucks window. I watch Michael leave, hop into a cab, ride off. Gone.
“You’ll see,” he said.
Two little words that paralyze me and start me shaking again. Somehow I know that this is it: where everything has been going from the beginning. But how exactly will it end?
Or do I already know that too?
I look across the street at the Fálcon Hotel, the late-morning sun reflecting off its windows with a fierce glare. I can still picture the scene so clearly — the gurneys being wheeled out, the four body bags lined up on the sidewalk. Cops everywhere. Delmonico. Was the Ponytail there too?
First I dream it. Then I see it. Now it’s haunting me every minute of the day.
I know this is all connected; it has to be. But I can’t figure it out. Could anybody? I wonder.
Eventually, I move my feet. I rush back to Fifth Avenue and take care of the stupid patio in plenty of time before Penley returns home. When she does, sure enough, she’s sporting a shopping bag from Takashimaya with a pound of Japanese coffee inside.
Later, I pick up the kids from school and take them to the Ancient Playground in Central Park, where we’ve gone dozens of times before. Sean peppers me with one question after another while Dakota rolls her big blue eyes. But we have fun — under the circumstances, anyway.
It’s another typical day, all right, everything fine and dandy, just as Michael wanted it.
But for what reason?
“You’ll see,” he said.
As I head home to my apartment, I get this awful, gnawing feeling that somehow I already have.
Chapter 85
OH, GREAT, JUST WHO I want to see.
My lovely neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz is standing by the mailboxes as I walk into the lobby of my building. It’s almost as if she’s there waiting for me.
Turns out, she is.
“Have you gotten your mail yet today?” she asks, her smug tone laced with a small measure of glee.
Actually, I haven’t gotten my mail for about a week. I’ve been a little distracted.
“Why do you care?” I say.
She glares through her oversize bifocals, baiting me by saying nothing. There’s obviously something she wants me to see.
I’m tempted to keep walking toward the elevator, not give her the satisfaction, but my curiosity wins out. Maybe I need to solve a mystery, any mystery. I unlock my box and remove a pile of catalogues, bills, and other assorted junk mail.
It’s right on top.
An envelope from Priority Holdings, the management company that owns the building. Inside is a one-page letter, single-spaced.
Dear Ms. Burns:
Due to continuing complaints from other tenants regarding your conduct, we will not be offering you a rent renewal on your apartment when your current lease expires. Under New York State law you have the right to contest this decision and request an administrative hearing in accordance with the New York City Housing Authority.
There’s another paragraph about whom to contact, but my attention immediately focuses on whom to blame for this outrage. I don’t have to look far.
“This was your doing, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Rosencrantz strikes a priggish pose. “I tend to think you did it to yourself.”
“Unbelievable. You really have nothing better to do with your time, huh?” I say, shaking the letter in her face.
“It’s not like I didn’t warn you this morning.”
“This morning?”
“You were terribly rude to me at your door. You have no manners, young woman. None.”
“Mrs. Rosencrantz, for your information that wasn’t this morning; that was a week ago.”
“My information is fine, Ms. Burns. I think I know when I knocked on your apartment door.”
“Apparently you don’t. And in any event, if you think I’m going to let you get away with this, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ll fight this like you won’t believe.”
“Go ahead, make all the noise you want. Scream, if you have to. Lord knows you’re good at that.”
Oh, is she asking for it!
For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to punch an old lady. And what’s with her memory? She can’t even get her days straight.
But I keep my cool. I summon every last ounce of willpower and walk away. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Kris.
I move to the elevator and press the up button. As I wait, another letter from the building’s management catches my eye. A note, really. It’s taped to the wall.
Due to a problem with the furnace, the building was without hot water for a brief period early this morning. We apologize for any inconvenience.
Obviously, the note is from a week ago and they forgot to take it down. Boy, do I remember that cold shower!
But as I look closer, there’s just one problem.
The note’s dated today.
Chapter 86
CALM DOWN, I tell myself. There’s a simple explanation. It happened again, that’s all. The hot water was out this morning and the morning Mrs. Rosencrantz came banging on my door. Two different days. As far as what the nasty old bat claims, she’s clearly going senile.
I hop on the elevator, my head a jumbled mess. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I have a feeling that could change tonight.
Barely inside my apartment, I pour myself a Stoli. A vodka tonic minus the tonic. Then I gulp it like a shot. The only thing I want to feel right now is numb.
I wish Michael could be with me. Better yet, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t he want to tell me? I worry about that temper of his too.
I pour another Stoli and page him while I clench the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet he gave me. I bet he wouldn’t mind now if I wore it to work.
A few minutes pass. The waiting is excruciating.
I picture him in a late meeting at Baer Stevens, or on an overseas call, unable to break away. Maybe he’s with his lawyer, planning an exit strategy. There’s a lot of money at stake in divorcing Penley.
A few minutes turn into a half hour, and the anger begins to kick in. I can’t take this. Why isn’t Michael calling me back? He has to know we need to talk.
I page him again.
Only now it’s not anger driving me, it’s fear. Has he done something? What might he do?
I hit *67 and dial him at home. I know Penley never gets the phone, but maybe he will.
It rings and rings. Damn it.
The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to ha
ng up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.
“Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”
“Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”
“With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”
That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”
“No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
“When they come home later, I say you call.”
“No! Don’t — ” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”
I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.
Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.
I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?
I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.
I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.
I need my darkroom.
A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Fálcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.
Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.
But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!
Stephen’s image is transparent.
Just like Penley’s.
Just like the body bags.
But it still doesn’t make sense.