is smart—Ivy League education. Forty-six. His father was a big attorney in New York. Mother was a society girl. And he’s single.”
“Susan—”
“Not single as in bachelor-with-a-fear-of-commitment or possible-closet-gay. Single as in widower. No kids.”
“A widower? His wife died?” How dreadful. I felt awful for him. He’d said his marriage had “ended badly,” not that it had ended with his wife’s death. Probably it was too painful to talk about.
“It’s been eight years, though. He’s got to be over it—”
“Maybe not.” If he were over it, he’d have mentioned it. “What happened? An accident? Was she sick?”
“What’s the difference? She’s dead.” Her eyes dodged mine, and she paused in her search for the partner to a pink sock. “Oh, what the hell, you might as well know. She shot herself.”
She what? Oh Lord. In a flash, I understood. It made perfect sense. He’d been talking about his own marriage—his own wife. It was a domestic thing, he’d said. A woman found out her husband was going to leave her and got pissed off.
“She shot him? His wife shot him in the face?”
“You knew? He told you about it? Wow. I was told he never talks about it. Ever.”
And the husband, I’d asked. Did she kill him, too? No, he’d replied, the sonofabitch lived. He hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t told me the whole truth, either. Why would he? We barely knew each other; it wasn’t the kind of thing you told a casual acquaintance.
“I can’t believe he told you. Zoe, the man must be seriously interested in you.”
“It’s not like he gave me a detailed report. He just referred to it.” “Huh?”
“He was explaining what happened to his face.”
“Which means he wants you to know about his past. It wasn’t all business tonight. Zoe, tell me you’re going to give this guy a shot.”
“His wife already did that.” “Funny.”
“Not funny. Look where she ended up.” Susan folded her arms. “It’s where you’re going to end up that concerns me.”
I picked up Molly’s jacket, lifted a limp arm, and gently stuffed it into a sleeve. She stirred, eyes fluttering. I kissed her. “Hi, Molly.”
Susan kept talking. “Zoe. Give yourself a chance, will you? You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left.” “I have, too.”
“Like who? That amateur magician?”
I winced, remembering. His best trick had been vanishing. “I’ve been out lots of times—Dom, that insurance underwriter. And what’s his name—the one with the airplanes—he wore all that jewelry?”
“As I was saying ...You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left. Everyone you’ve gone out with has given you yet another excuse for staying in your safe, controlled little world, all on your own. Okay, you’ve proved that you can manage on your own. That you’re strong and don’t need a man to survive. You’re a great mom and a marvelous success at teaching schizophrenics how to do macrame. We get it: Zoe Hayes can do it alone. Now, move on before it’s too late. Unless, of course, you want to be alone forever. Do you?” As usual, Susan had hit a nerve. “Okay. I see your point.” “Good. So give him a chance.”
“I don’t know that he wants a. chance. The man has other things on his mind than his love life. Like, for example, catching a psycho.”
“But that’s just my point. Life is a dangerous and full of predators. No one knows what’s coming, one minute to the next. That’s exactly why we all need somebody we can trust, depend on, and cuddle up with at night. People aren’t meant to be all alone, Zoe.”
What could I say? Susan cared. I was touched. Meantime, while we were talking, Stiles had probably frozen to death. “Thanks, Susan. I mean it. I hear you. But I gotta go.”
Molly floated zombie-like and semiconscious down the hall. I guided her to the front door, where Susan waited, three spare socks hanging over her shoulder.
“Call me,” she commanded.
“Yes, Mom.” I brushed cheeks with her, smelled magnolia.
Susan tousled Molly’s hair and gave her a hug. Molly returned the hug and mumbled, “Thank you for having me,” like a polite sleepwalker. Frigid winds burst through the open door. The night howled, holding a murderer.
I lifted Molly and carried her to the car, waving good-bye as Susan closed her door. Molly snuggled, dazed, against me as Stiles, half-smiling at her, pulled away and headed into darkness.
NINETEEN
OF COURSE, I COULDN’T SLEEP. I LAY IN BED, TOSSING, FRAGmented thoughts popping in my mind. The missing nannies’ faces, old Charlie’s hacking cough,