Missing Pieces Read online

  Jo Lynn adjusted her tank top, repositioning the large pink heart so that it sat directly in the center of her large chest. “Why would I joke about something this important?”

  Stay calm, I told myself. “When exactly did this come about?”

  “Colin’s lawyer called me last night. I would have phoned you, but it was late and I know you guys are sound asleep by ten o’clock.”

  “I don’t understand,” I stammered, “where is this ‘date’ taking place?”

  “I’m not sure. Some holding room or something. They’re gonna let me know.”

  “Jo Lynn, please,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Don’t you think this has gone far enough? It’s not too late to call the whole thing off. You don’t have to go through with it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice was indignant. “Why wouldn’t I go through with it?”

  “Because the man we’re talking about is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “The evidence is overwhelming.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “You don’t agree,” I repeated.

  “No, and I don’t think the jury will either. Anyway,” she said, waving at one of the reporters in the back row, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Why do you always put a damper on everything?”

  “I’m just trying to inject a little common sense into this mess.”

  Jo Lynn looked toward the front of the courtroom. “You always had more common sense than imagination,” she said.

  He was already seated when I arrived at Charley’s Crab at twenty minutes after twelve. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, collapsing into the chair the waiter held out for me, looking slowly around the large series of adjoining rooms, studying the framed photographs of prize fish that ran along one wall, admiring the large stuffed marlin that was mounted on another, gazing at the crowded bar, tracking the busy waiters as they maneuvered between booths and tables, zeroing in on the well-heeled patrons, with their large blond bouffants and fixed tight smiles. Anywhere but at the man sitting across from me.

  “Considering that court doesn’t get out till noon,” he was saying, “you made very good time.”

  “I left early.” I signaled for the waiter. An hour and a half early, I almost said, but didn’t. I’d fled the courtroom after Jo Lynn’s unpleasant revelation, and had been driving around ever since, trying to figure out what my sister was trying to prove by throwing herself at a sexually sadistic sociopath who would most likely die in the electric chair. If she was trying to upset our mother, it wasn’t working. Our mother had ignored all Jo Lynn’s provocative pronouncements, carrying on as if there was nothing unusual or untoward about her younger daughter’s recent behavior. On the other hand, if it was me Jo Lynn was trying to upset, I had to admit she was doing a damned good job.

  The waiter appeared.

  “Could I have a glass of white wine?” I asked.

  The waiter looked confused. “You don’t like the wine the gentleman ordered?”

  For the first time, I looked at the man sitting across the table from me. Robert Crowe, looking suave, sophisticated, and generally drop-dead gorgeous, held up a bottle of California Chardonnay that had been cooling beside him.

  “Thank you,” I told the waiter, feeling like a total idiot. “This will be fine.”

  Robert said nothing, simply poured the wine into my glass, then clicked his glass against mine in a toast. “To the past,” he said.

  “The past,” I agreed. It sounded safe enough.

  “And the future.”

  I downed half the glass.

  “Someone’s either very thirsty or very uptight,” he said.

  “It wasn’t an easy morning.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “I want to talk about anything but.”

  “Talk about why you won’t look at me.”

  I laughed, one of those awful, self-conscious barks that die upon contact with the air. “I’m looking at you.”

  “You’re looking at my left ear,” he said.

  “And a very nice ear it is.” I laughed, looked directly into his rich hazel eyes. Oh God, I thought, struggling to maintain eye contact, not to be the first to blink or turn away. Was there no end to my sophomoric musings?

  I shouldn’t have come. I should have followed my instincts and headed for home after leaving the courthouse. Instead I’d driven around aimlessly for half an hour, then turned the car loose on 1-95. I was almost at Pompano when I realized it was closing in on twelve o’clock, and I turned the car around, telling myself I was going home, but knowing the car was pointed toward the ocean and Charley’s Crab.

  Charley’s Crab and Robert Crowe, I thought, and must have smiled because he picked right up on it.

  “That’s better,” Robert said. “You have a beautiful smile.”

  “It’s lopsided,” I corrected.

  “That’s what makes it beautiful.”

  I blinked, looked away.

  We ordered—grilled salmon for him, blackened sword-fish for me. “And gazpacho,” I said. Lots of garlic, I thought.

  “So, tell me about the therapy business,” he said.

  I shrugged. “What can I say? Lots of people, lots of problems.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “Problems with parents, problems with children, marital problems, extramarital …”I broke off, took another long sip of my drink.

  “And you solve these problems?”

  “I do the best I can.”

  “How long have you been practicing?”

  “Over twenty years,” I said, feeling more secure now that we were on firm professional ground. “I started out as a social worker with the Pittsburgh Board of Education, then I left and opened up a family therapy clinic with a few other women. Eventually, we moved to Florida, and I set up shop on my own.”

  “Can’t hold a job, huh?”

  I thought of my sister, who’d flitted from one dead-end job to another all her life, from one dead-end relationship to another.

  “Uh-oh,” Robert said. “Storm clouds on the horizon. What are you thinking about?”

  I really didn’t want to talk about Jo Lynn. She’d taken up enough of my day as it was. “Just about how quickly time passes,” I lied. It was easier. “What about you? How did you wind up owning a radio station?”

  “I married it,” he said simply.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “Brandi’s father owns a number of radio stations across the country.” He smiled. “Beware of women whose first names are potable.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Actually, her real name is Brenda. She was named after Brenda Marshall, who was an actress in the forties. Apparently, my father-in-law was a huge fan.”

  “She was married to William Holden,” I said.

  Robert Crowe regarded me with bemused admiration. “How did you know that?”

  I shook my head. “The mind is a strange and wondrous thing. I can barely remember my telephone number, but I know Brenda Marshall was once married to William Holden.”

  “You’re an interesting woman, Kate Latimer,” he said.

  I was about to correct him, decided not to bother. He knew what my name was. So did I. “So what does your wife do?”

  “She shops, she lunches, she goes to exercise class.”

  “And looks after the kids,” I added. “Four, I believe you said.”

  “Ages twelve through nineteen. Two boys, two girls.”

  “I’m sure she has her hands full.”

  “The oldest is away at college. The others are in school all day. We have two housekeepers. Trust me, Brandi’s not overtaxed.”

  “Problems?” I asked, despite my best efforts not to.

  “The usual, I guess.”

  “Is that why you asked me to lunch?”

  He smiled, traced the rim of his glass with his fingers. “No. If it was th
erapy I wanted, I’d come to your office. I have something else in mind for you.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll think so.”

  The waiter brought our lunch, refilled our glasses. For several minutes, we did nothing but eat and drink. “So,” I began, fortified by my second glass of wine, “just what is it you have in mind for me?”

  “Your own radio show,” he said.

  I dropped my fork. It bounced off my lap and onto the floor. A passing waiter immediately replaced it. “I don’t understand.”

  “I haven’t thought this through yet,” Robert continued. “In fact, it wasn’t until I saw you in court and you told me what you were doing that I thought about it at all.”

  “Thought about what exactly?”

  “About you doing some sort of therapy show on the radio.”

  “You mean like on Frasier? A nightly phone-in show?”

  “I’m not sure. Like I said, I haven’t thought it through yet. That’s one of the reasons I suggested lunch. I wanted your input.”

  “But I have no experience with radio.”

  “You know how to talk. You know how to give advice. And you have a great speaking voice.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time. I have a job; I have a family.”

  “It doesn’t have to be every night. It could be once or twice a week. And it doesn’t have to be at night. It could be during the day. Wednesday.” He smiled. “Your day off.”

  “But what would I do?”

  “Be yourself. Answer questions. Help people with their problems.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not you? You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You’re local. Look, I realize this is coming at you out of left field. Why don’t you toss some ideas around in your head for a while. See what you come up with. Decide what kind of show might intrigue you, the kind of format you’d feel comfortable with. In the meantime, I’ll mention the idea to a few of our producers, see if they can come up with anything. Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I heard myself say.

  “Good.” He lifted his glass in another toast. “To interesting propositions,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  Friday started out normally enough. Sara was still in bed when Larry, Michelle, and I left the house. I’d given up trying to wake her. Being on time for school was Sara’s responsibility, not mine.

  I knew to expect a phone call from the school informing me of Sara’s lateness, so I wasn’t surprised when I checked my messages during a five-minute break between sessions, and learned that the school had, indeed, called. I saw no point in calling back right away, reasoning that they weren’t about to tell me something I didn’t already know. Instead, I called home, trying to convince myself that the fact that no one answered the line was a sign that Sara was by now safely ensconced in her classroom. Or at least on her way. Or still sound asleep, a pesky voice whispered. I shushed it, as one shushes a small child, then ushered in my next clients. Outwardly, I was calm. Inside, I was screaming.

  I wasn’t the only one. Everyone who came into my office that day was hollering about something. No one spoke softly. No one struggled to maintain composure. Everybody yelled—at one another, at themselves, at me. Perhaps it was a case of simple transference, my mood into their mouths; more likely it was the literally breathtaking humidity that had descended upon the Palm Beach area over the last twenty-four hours like a giant tarpaulin, threatening instantaneous combustion to anyone who ventured outside. Or maybe it was just one of those days.

  By six o’clock that evening, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed, but I knew this was impossible. Larry had already committed us to a dinner party with “satisfied customers.” I smiled. It was nice to know that someone, somewhere, was satisfied about something.

  Before leaving my office, I again checked my voice mail for messages, and was dismayed to find that there were two more calls from Sara’s school, one just after lunch, informing me that Sara had yet to show up at school, and another at the end of the school day to inform me that Sara had skipped a whole day of classes and was risking suspension. I checked my watch, knew it was too late to return the school’s calls. Besides, what could I say? Maybe being suspended was just what Sara needed, some real consequences for her actions, but I wasn’t convinced. Sara would shrug off the suspension as she did everything else. It was my life that would be placed on hold, not hers.

  As I drove north along 1-95, weaving restlessly through the Friday night traffic, worse now that the snowbirds had started their annual winter migration, I promised myself that I was going to remain calm when I confronted Sara. I would simply inform her that the school had called repeatedly about her truancy and that an explanation from her was neither wanted nor required. The school would deal with her on Monday. In the meantime, she was grounded. I knew that Sara would scream, swear, slam doors, the usual, trying to suck me into a fight. Whatever happened, I decided, exiting the highway at PGA Boulevard and heading west, I wasn’t going to raise my voice. I was going to remain calm.

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?” I demanded loudly of my younger child not two seconds after I walked through the front door.

  “Why are you yelling at me?” Michelle asked. She was standing in the middle of the living room, to the right of the large glass-topped coffee table and between the two oversized tan-colored sofas, a cherry Popsicle at her mouth, coloring her lips blood red.

  She looked like a beautiful porcelain doll, I thought, but didn’t say. Instead I said, “Could you get off the carpet with that?” and proceeded into my bedroom. She followed me.

  “Tough day?”

  I smiled. Sara would have yelled at me; Michelle was worried about my day. “The worst.” I looked toward the closed doors of the master bathroom, suddenly cognizant of the shower running. “When did Daddy get home?”

  “A few minutes ago. He broke a hundred.”

  “A hundred what?”

  “In golf. He broke a hundred. That’s supposed to be good,” she assured me, glancing at the carpeting beneath her feet and quickly stuffing the balance of the cherry Popsicle into her mouth. A thin line of red liquid dribbled down her chin, disappearing into her neck, as if she’d cut herself shaving.

  I said, “It’s nice someone had a good day.”

  “He said it was really hot, but that he thought it helped his concentration.”

  I undid the top buttons of my white blouse, flipped off my shoes, lay back against the army of decorative pillows. “Did he say anything about Sara?”

  “Like what?”

  Like where she’s been all day, I wanted to shout, but didn’t. Calm, I repeated silently. Calm was the answer. “Has she phoned?” I asked instead.

  “What’s the big deal about Sara?” A slight pout found its way to Michelle’s mouth, further exaggerating the ruby outline of her lips. “Why are you always asking about Sara? Aren’t you interested in my day?”

  “Your day?”

  “Yes, my day. I’m a person too, just like Sara, and I have days, just like everyone else.”

  I edged my back away from the pillows, my body on instant alert. I had been prepared for a scene with Sara, not Michelle. “Of course you do.”

  “Nobody ever asks about my day,” she continued, as if she were a windup toy that someone had wound too tight and was now spinning out of control, unable to stop. “I asked Daddy how his day went, I asked you if you had a tough day, I always ask everybody, but does anybody ever ask about me?”

  “Michelle …”

  “No. You tell me to get off the carpet with my Popsicle …”

  “Michelle …”

  “You ask about Sara …”

  “Honey, please …”

  “Does anybody care that I got eighty-five percent in my math test? That I stood first in the class? No! Nobody cares!” She fled the room.

  I was instantly on m
y feet. “Michelle, wait. Of course we care.” Tripping over my shoes, a heel digging painfully into the sole of my right foot, I limped after her, watching the door to her bedroom slam shut. “Honey, please, let me in.” I tapped lightly on her door, then more insistently. “Michelle, please let me in.”

  Slowly, the door to her room fell open. Michelle stood tearfully on the other side. I swayed toward her, my arms aching to encircle her skinny frame.

  “Don’t,” she said softly, and I teetered momentarily on my toes before falling back on my heels, regaining my balance.

  “You got eighty-five on your math test?” I repeated, my eyes welling with tears. “That’s wonderful.”

  She didn’t look at me. “It was the highest mark in the class.”

  “You should be very proud.”

  She backed into her room, plopped down in the middle of her queen-size bed, stared straight ahead. Unlike Sara’s room, which was decorated in various shades of chaos, Michelle’s predominantly pink-and-ivory room was as neat as the proverbial pin. Her bed was expertly made, pale pink-and-white-flowered pillows resting comfortably atop a matching quilted spread; the top of her wicker dresser was clear, save for a pearl-encrusted jewelry box in the shape of a treasure chest; her clothes were hung in the closet and not strewn thoughtlessly on the floor. I winced. Even in the privacy of Michelle’s own bedroom, Sara had a way of taking over, pushing her younger sister aside.

  Gingerly, I approached the bed, sitting down only after I’d received the silent signal, a subtle nodding of Michelle’s head that told me it was all right. “I’m sorry.”

  The nodding became more pronounced as one bright red lip disappeared inside the other, quivering. She turned away.

  “Sometimes adults get so caught up in their own little worlds that they forget about the worlds of those around them,” I began. “Especially when those around them are as capable and well adjusted as you are.” I reached up, gently stroked the wavy brown hair that fell around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away, for which I was very grateful. “We tend to concentrate all our energy on those who give us the hardest time, and that’s not fair, because you deserve more. Lots more. And I’m sorry, honey. I’m really sorry. You’re my sweet angel, and I love you so much. Please,” I whispered, “can’t I hug you?”