The Elevator. Angela Hunt
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“He’s not in a hurry…and neither am I.”
“Good grief, why are you waiting? Haven’t you been dating over a year?”
“He has kids, Lauren, and the youngest is still seeing a shrink. Parker doesn’t want to rush things.”
“So you’re going to let him keep you hanging indefinitely?” Lauren sighs. “Out of all the available men we’ve met, why’d you have to fall for a widower with teenagers?”
Michelle turns her head and spots the single red rose Parker left on the bureau. “Because I was tired of dating boys,” she whispers, “and Parker’s the most honest man I’ve ever met.”
Her comment hangs in the silence, then Lauren clicks her tongue. “Whatever you say, girlfriend. Stay dry today, okay? And don’t stand me up tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
Michelle snaps the phone shut, then sets it on the pillow that still bears the imprint of Parker’s head. She misses him already. If he doesn’t call and invite her to his house, it’s going to be a long, lonely weekend.
She rolls out of bed and plants her feet on the carpet, then hunches forward as an unexpected wave of nausea rises from somewhere near her center. Last night’s pasta primavera must not have agreed with her…but she didn’t eat that much. They slipped out of the restaurant after only a few bites because that gleam entered Parker’s eye. She has never been able to talk to him when he looks at her like a starving dog yearning for a steak.
At the thought of food, her stomach lurches again. She places her hand over her belly, where some sort of gastric disturbance is doing its best to emulate the hurricane. Deep breaths. If she can convince her gut she will never look at another calorie-laden pasta dish, she might make it to the medicine cabinet and that bottle of chalky pink stuff….
Another deep breath. When the gurgling beneath her palm subsides, she lifts her head and straightens to an almost-vertical posture. She can’t be sick today. She needs to get to the office before the weather worsens; she has to pick up the Owens file.
The third-floor window, flanked by accordion storm shutters she has not yet closed, reveals a slate-blue sky and the swaying tendrils of a tall palm. The live oak shading the rear of the condominium stands like a silent sentinel, its thick canopy too stubborn to shift for only a probing, preliminary wind.
A sudden urge catches her by surprise. Forgetting the weather, she flies into the bathroom and crouches by the toilet.
When her ravaged stomach has emptied itself, she leans against the wall and pulls a towel from the rack, then presses it to her mouth. A sheen of perspiration coats her arms and neck, but she is beginning to feel better. What lousy luck, to suffer a bout of food poisoning today—
Her breath catches in her throat as a niggling thought rises from the back of her brain. What if this nausea has nothing to do with food?
Like a child who can’t stop picking at a scab, Gina spreads the investigator’s report on the bed and reviews the list of dates and places.
8/21: Subject dines with young woman at Bern’s steak house
8/23: Subject and same woman eat dinner at the Columbia
8/25: Subject and woman have lunch at International Plaza, followed by afternoon of shopping. Subject delivers young woman to residence on Bay-shore Boulevard, departs 1:30 a.m.
9/08: Subject and young woman register as Mr. and Mrs. Rossman at the Don CeSar Hotel on St. Petersburg Beach.
The last entry sounds like a perfectly idyllic getaway, but Gina has never stayed with Sonny at the Don CeSar, and she would have remembered staying there as recently as last weekend. Sonny was supposed to be at a convention. In Orlando.
The corner of her mouth twists when she remembers a wedding reception she and Sonny attended at the Don CeSar. The place must have impressed him if he decided it was worthy of his mistress.
She shudders as a cold coil of misery tightens beneath her breastbone. Why is she torturing herself? Bad enough to learn of Sonny’s infidelity; she doesn’t need to know details.
Unless there’s a logical reason for all these meetings. The truth might lie in some arcane bit of information the investigator missed. Sonny could have purchased the diamond bracelet as an investment or a Christmas gift for his wife. The young girl on Sonny’s arm could be an overfriendly secretary; perhaps the lunches and dinners are innocent business appointments. He might have a hard time explaining the Don CeSar rendezvous, but one night does not have to destroy a marriage.
Gina moves to the heavy mahogany armoire in the corner of the room, Sonny’s private domain. Because the housekeeper folds and puts away laundry, Gina hasn’t opened these doors since they moved in three years ago.
If Sonny is saving the diamond bracelet for her, it’s likely to be hidden here.
She lifts stacks of folded underwear, rifles through a mound of socks and slides her hands beneath several cotton handkerchiefs. Nothing. She opens the lowest drawer on the right, scoops up a collection of cuff links and watches, and sets the jewelry on the edge of a shelf. After running her thumbnail along the side of the drawer, she removes the velvet-lined false bottom and exposes the digital keypad.
If she hadn’t been home alone when the deliverymen brought the armoire, she wouldn’t know about this secret safe. In an effort to be helpful—and undoubtedly to secure a bigger tip—the deliveryman had pointed out the safe’s location and given her a sealed envelope containing the combination Sonny had chosen: six, five, eighty-five. Their wedding anniversary.
She had never mentioned the safe to Sonny; she wasn’t sure if he even used it. But now her breath solidifies in her throat as she presses the appropriate keys. The keypad beeps, releasing the lock on the hinged cover. She opens the safe she hasn’t thought about in years.
No bracelet. Nothing but papers: the deed to the house, their passports, a card with bank and mutual-fund account numbers. Nothing unusual, nothing incriminating, except—
Despite the bands of tightness around her lungs, Gina snatches a breath and picks up an unfamiliar bankbook. The plastic cover is shiny, the opening date less than four months ago. The bank is located in the Cayman Islands, and the account is in Sonny’s name alone. Opening balance: one hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Her heart turns to stone within her chest. He’s already begun to bleed his family dry.
She sinks to the edge of the bed. At various moments since receiving the private investigator’s report, she’s wanted to deny everything, strangle her husband and kill herself. At one point she was certain she deserved Sonny’s betrayal because she hadn’t been a better wife.
But those were emotional responses; she should have expected them. Now she needs to put her feelings aside and think about what to do. She needs a plan…and the courage to see it through.
Her thoughts drift toward a book on her night table: Courage by Amelia Earhart. “Courage,” the aviatrix wrote, “is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.”
If Gina is to have peace, she must move forward with confidence and determination. At long last her questions have been answered, her suspicions confirmed. Now she has evidence in black, white and full color. The P.I.’s package has provided everything she needs to divorce Sonny, but no one cares much about culpability these days. No-fault divorce has simplified procedures for cheating spouses and the sheer frequency of cases has made the division of a couple’s estate a matter of routine. A judge will look over their assets, draw a line to divide his from hers and send them on their way. Of course, with the wrinkle of this other bank account, perhaps it’s not going to be that easy.
Gina turns to the investigator’s report and runs her finger over the notation about Bern’s. How could Sonny think he had the right to take that woman to their favorite place? And how could Francis, the maître d’, seat Sonny with an imposter hanging on his arm?