Now You See Her Page 4

  A man much like Peter in so many ways, Marcy acknowledged reluctantly. Both men never knew what hit them.

  Marcy stuffed the pictures back inside their envelope, quickly returning the envelope to the safe deposit box. Then she grabbed her coat and purse and headed out the door, unexpectedly coming face-to-face with her image in the full-length mirror beside the elevators and seeing the faces of both her mother and her daughter staring back, their dark eyes filled with reproach. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as the elevator door opened.

  The elegant lobby was lined with marble columns and decorated with magnificent plasterwork. To one side was a hall whose walls were completely covered with mirrors. Marcy made her way to the reception desk, the reflections of her mother and daughter mimicking each step.

  “Where do I go to rent a car?” she asked a middle-aged woman behind the counter. The woman had sleek black hair pulled into a bun.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t advise renting a car in Dublin,” the woman, whose name tag identified her as Lynette, said cheerily in her thick Irish brogue. “It’s much easier getting around the city without one.”

  “I’m thinking of taking a drive into the countryside.”

  “Have you driven on Irish roadways before?”

  “No, but—”

  “They’re a little tricky, especially for people who are used to driving on the other side of the road.”

  Marcy smiled, trying not to feel insulted by the woman’s concern. It’s my hair, Marcy was thinking. If I had straight, manageable hair like she has, she wouldn’t be questioning my competence. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Lynette smiled indulgently as she handed Marcy a map of the city, drawing a big red circle over the area where the major car rental offices were located. “It’s a shame you didn’t think to rent a car in advance,” she said. “You’d have gotten a much better rate.”

  First Peter expected her to think about what she was saying, and now a total stranger expected her to think in advance, Marcy thought in amazement, taking the map from Lynette’s hand and deciding to walk the few blocks, to get all the paperwork taken care of tonight so she’d be ready to leave for Cork first thing in the morning.

  “Of course they’re all closed at this hour,” Lynette said.

  “Of course.” Now she’d have to waste a valuable chunk of the morning just getting organized. So much for advance thinking. Her stomach growled, as if underlining her displeasure. “Do you happen to know a nice restaurant in the area, nothing too fancy …?”

  “There’s Flannery’s over on O’Connell Street. The food’s good. Simple, but good.” Lynette took back the map from Marcy’s hand and circled the spot.

  “Thanks. I’ll give it a try.” Marcy was walking through the lobby when she heard a now-familiar voice call out her name. What was he doing here? she wondered, pretending she hadn’t heard him and continuing toward the front entrance.

  “Marcy?” he called again.

  She spun around, the suddenness of her movement obviously catching him by surprise, so that his hand, which had been reaching for her elbow, grazed the side of her breast. His touch sent a spasm of electricity charging through her body. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched her breast, however inadvertently. In the waning years of their marriage, Peter hadn’t even tried. When Devon left them, she’d taken with her whatever intimacy still existed between them.

  “Vic.” Marcy acknowledged him now, noting that he smelled of soap and shampoo and that he’d changed his clothes since she’d seen him less than an hour ago. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater that emphasized the intense blueness of his eyes. “I didn’t realize you were staying at this hotel.”

  “I’m not. I’m at the Morgan, just down the block.”

  “Why are you here?” she heard herself ask.

  He laughed. “That’s right, I almost forgot. You’re not much for small talk.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. You just surprised me.” You touched my breast, she thought, dismayed to find her flesh still tingling. “I didn’t expect to see you again. How did you know where to find me?”

  “The bus let you off at your hotel,” Vic said with a shrug. “Not exactly Sherlock Holmes.”

  Of course, Marcy thought, remembering that she’d rushed off in such a hurry, she hadn’t even said good-bye.

  He continued. “I thought I’d take a chance you might be free for dinner.”

  “You want to have dinner with me?”

  “I tried calling your room, but I got your message machine, so I thought I’d just drop by.”

  “You’re asking me out?”

  “I’m sorry if I’m not very good at it. I haven’t had a lot of practice lately.”

  “I can’t,” Marcy said.

  “You have other plans?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Oh,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  Marcy continued unprompted. “It’s just that I’m a mess. I mean, look at me. I haven’t showered or changed. My hair’s a disaster.”

  “You look gorgeous.”

  Marcy released a long, deep breath. When was the last time a man had been so nice to her? When was the last time anyone had been so nice to her? “I can’t,” she said again.

  “I understand,” he said, although he clearly didn’t.

  “I just don’t think I’d be very good company.”

  “No need to explain.”

  “I haven’t even thanked you for all your help this afternoon.”

  “No thanks necessary.” He began backing away.

  “Vic,” she said, stopping him, wondering what she was doing now.

  He stared at her expectantly, as if he was wondering the same thing.

  “I hear there’s this very nice restaurant over on O’Connell Street. Good food. Not fancy, but good.”

  “Are you asking me out?” he said with a smile.

  “I’m sorry if I’m not very good at it,” she parroted.

  “On the contrary. You’re doing just fine. It sounds wonderful.”

  “Would you give me a few minutes to shower and change my clothes?”

  “As long as you don’t change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then I’ll wait right here.”

  FOUR

  I THINK I’LL TRY THE shepherd’s pie.” Marcy handed her big, unwieldy menu back to the waiter, who was tall, bald, and wearing a large white apron over skinny black pants.

  “Sounds good,” Vic said. “I’ll have the same. And a glass of Irish whiskey to start.” He smiled at Marcy expectantly.

  “What the hell? Why not?” Marcy said, although she’d never been much of a drinker. But why not celebrate? She’d seen Devon. The daughter she’d feared dead was very much alive. Improbable as it might seem—impossible as it did seem to Peter and Judith—Devon was living less than a three-hour drive away. Tomorrow morning, Marcy would rent a car and drive back to Cork. It was a relatively small city. Once she was settled, it shouldn’t take her too long to find her daughter. Not that it mattered. She’d stay as long as necessary. Marcy had no intention of leaving Cork without her.

  “What is it they call it? The water of life?” Vic asked, answering his own question.

  “What?”

  “The Irish call their whiskey the water of life.”

  “The Irish have a nice way of looking at things.”

  “And speaking of nice ways of looking,” Vic said, “have I told you how lovely you look?”

  “Yes, I believe you did. Thank you. Again.” Marcy fingered the collar of her cotton shirt self-consciously, wondering if she should have done up the top button. She’d had to unpack her suitcase to get at her white blouse and gray pants, not to mention her heels and some fresh underwear, but the change had made her feel better. Even her hair seemed calmer.

  The waiter approached with their drinks.

  “To a holiday that gets better every day,” Vic s
aid, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Marcy took a sip, feeling the liquid burn the back of her throat. “Wow. That’s pretty strong stuff.”

  “Good, though.”

  “Getting better every sip.” She looked around the noisy, brightly lit restaurant, slightly more formal than the pubs they’d visited earlier in the day, although not much. A large bar in the very center of the room was its dominant feature. Approximately thirty people were sitting or standing around it, all of whom seemed to be talking at the same time, their hands punching at the air, punctuating whatever point they were trying to make. Around the bar were small oak tables, all of them occupied. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They’d been lucky to get in.

  “So what did you think of ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” Vic was asking.

  Had she heard him correctly? She didn’t want a repeat of the widget/midget fiasco. “The what?”

  “The Millennium Spire,” he said, then, when that didn’t seem to register, “The monument we passed on the way over? The tall, stainless steel needle in the middle of the road?” he said, clarifying further. “The one that replaced the statue of Admiral Nelson erected by the British and blown up by the IRA. It’s pretty hard to miss. You missed it,” he said.

  “I guess I was pretty focused on finding this place.”

  “You seem to have a habit of doing that. Focusing on finding things,” he said by way of explanation, although there’d been no need. Marcy understood he was referring to the events of earlier in the day.

  “You called it ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” she asked, returning to safer ground.

  “Also known simply as ‘the Spike.’ The Irish seem to get a kick out of giving rather colorful nicknames to their public monuments. You remember Molly Malone?”

  “The one who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow?”

  “That’s the one. Apparently the statue of her on the corner of Grafton and Nassau is rather well endowed, and so the natives have taken to calling her ‘the Tart with the Cart.’ ”

  “Cute.” For sure she should have done up her top button, Marcy was thinking.

  “There was also ‘the Floozy in the Jacuzzi’ right on this very street, across from the post office, but apparently she was extremely ugly, aesthetically speaking, and everybody hated her, so she got torn down.”

  “The Irish like their tarts but they’re not big on floozies.”

  Vic laughed. “And then there’s my favorite, the statue of one of Ireland’s greatest patriots, Wolfe Tone.”

  Marcy’s eyes narrowed. She’d never even heard of Wolfe Tone. So much she didn’t know, she thought.

  “Have you been to St. Stephen’s Green yet?” Vic was asking.

  Marcy shook her head, downing the remaining contents of her glass in one extended gulp. Truthfully, she didn’t know whether or not she’d been to St. Stephen’s Green. Since arriving in Dublin five days ago, she’d done little but walk around the city in a daze. Today had been her first real outing.

  “Well, on the park’s north side,” Vic said, “you’ll find a semicircle of very rough-looking columns in Tone’s honor. The locals call it ‘Tonehenge.’ ”

  It was Marcy’s turn to laugh.

  “I’d be happy to show it to you. If you’re free tomorrow …”

  “I’m not.”

  A flash of disappointment registered in his eyes, although his quick smile disguised it. “You’ve booked another tour?”

  “No. I think that’s it for me and tour groups.”

  “I’m with you. Or not, as it turns out.”

  “It’s just that I’ve already made other plans for tomorrow.” Marcy felt the need to explain.

  “Well, if you should find yourself with some extra time on your hands, feel free to give me a call.” Vic reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it across the small wood table. “Sold the business, kept the cell phone number.”

  Marcy slipped the card into her purse without looking at it. “Actually I’m leaving Dublin tomorrow.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Where are you off to?”

  “I’m meeting my sister in Paris for a few days,” she lied. Hell, it was just easier that way.

  “Paris is a beautiful city.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I started my trip there a few weeks ago. Paris, then London,” he said without prompting. “Then Scotland. Now here. Next stop, Italy.”

  “That’s quite the trip.”

  “Well, I want to see the village where my great-grandfather was born, and I figured if I wait too long, I might not make it.” He paused, as if waiting for her to ask the logical follow-up, then continued when she didn’t. “My father died of a heart attack when he was fifty-nine. My mother died of cancer at sixty-two, my first wife at fifty-three, also cancer. I just turned fifty-seven. I figure I might not have a whole lot of time left.”

  Marcy nodded, held up her empty glass. “In that case, do you think we could have another one of these?”

  “I think that could be arranged.” He signaled the waiter for another round. “And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Most people tell me I’m being foolish when I tell them my philosophy of life. Or death, as the case may be.”

  “Sounds quite logical to me.”

  “Sounds to me as if you also lost a loved one at too young an age.”

  “Actually my father was almost eighty when he died.”

  “And your mother?”

  Marcy extended her hand toward the approaching waiter, smiled when she felt the weight of the glass in her hand. “Forty-six.” She took a swallow. “You said your first wife. How many have there been?”

  Vic smiled. “Just two.”

  “What happened to the second?”

  “We divorced a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was a disaster from the word go.”

  Marcy took another sip of her drink and waited for him to continue.

  “I was married to my first wife for almost thirty-three years,” he said, obliging her. “She was my high school sweetheart. We got married right out of college. We were the quintessential all-American couple. And then we were the quintessential all-American family, with three sons, a house in Lake Forest with a four-car garage, and everything you could possibly ask for. And then one day Kathy said she was feeling kind of funny—those were her exact words, she was feeling ‘kind of funny’—and we went to the doctor, and he said she had pancreatic cancer, and three months later she was dead.”

  Marcy lowered her glass, stared at the table.

  “And I was just reeling. Worse than reeling. I was off the wall. I mean, Kathy was it for me, you know? I’d never even been with another woman. And suddenly there I was, all alone. Well, I had my sons, of course, but they had their own lives to deal with. David and Mark are married, with small children, and Tony is twenty-three and finishing up his master’s degree in music. They had enough on their plate. And I’m acting like a total lunatic. One minute I’m holed up in the house, refusing to go anywhere, and the next minute I’m out on the town, staying out all night, bedding anything that moves. I mean I’m suddenly the new guy in town, right? And I don’t have any unsightly warts and rashes, so I’ve got all these women basically throwing themselves at me.”

  “Floozies in Jacuzzis,” Marcy said, looking up, relieved when she saw Vic smile.

  “Tony called them ‘the Brisket Brigade.’ ”

  Marcy laughed.

  “Anyway, one day I decided it was time to sell the house. I mean, Kathy and I had been talking about it for years. The kids were pretty much on their own, what did we need such a big house for, the usual discussions, right? And now that Kathy was dead, it was just me and seven empty bedrooms. It was time to move on.”

  “Don’t the experts usually advise not making any big moves for at least a year afte
r the death of a spouse?”

  “If they don’t, they should. But it’s hard to listen to reason when you’re not being rational. And real estate agents aren’t exactly big on periods of reflection.”

  “So you sold your house?”

  “No. I married my realtor.”

  “What?”

  “Yup, you heard correctly. Good old reliable, once-sane Victor Sorvino up and marries a woman twenty-five years his junior, a woman he’s known for less than three months, barely six months after his beloved first wife passed away, and he flies off to Las Vegas and marries her without telling anyone, without even a prenup, and the marriage is a total fiasco from the moment he says ‘I do,’ and she basically says, ‘I don’t, at least not with you,’ and six months later, we agree to a divorce, and among other things, she gets the house, which, incidentally, she now has up for sale.”

  “What some agents won’t do to secure a listing.” Everybody has a story, Marcy was thinking, marveling at what he’d just told her.

  “Grief makes us do funny things,” he said.

  Marcy agreed silently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be glib. Are you all right?”

  “Let’s say I’m recovering. Like an alcoholic, I guess. I don’t think we ever fully get over the death of someone we love. We just learn to live with their absence.”

  “Do we?”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  Marcy turned her head, grateful to see the waiter approaching with their food.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” the waiter warned as he lowered their dishes to the table.

  “Looks good,” Vic said, inhaling the steam rising from his plate.

  Marcy immediately tore into her shepherd’s pie. “It’s delicious,” she said.

  “I think I should apologize,” Vic said.

  “For what?”

  “For monopolizing the conversation all night.”

  “It’s been fascinating.”

  Vic shrugged. “Tell me more about you.”

  “Not much to tell. My husband left me for one of the golf pros at our country club. Her handicap was lower than mine,” she added, feeling the smile she tried to muster wobble precariously on her mouth.