After yet another argument about why his six-o’clock dinner was more important than my six-o’clock news, I packed up Gramma’s heirloom china, my cassette collection, plus a whole new understanding about sharing life with someone else, and walked out. I’ve been married to my job ever since. It’s demanding, but doesn’t demand laundry or dinner.
At age twenty, it’s easy to think you know love is the real thing. And it’s easy to change when you decide it isn’t. Twenty-some years later, I’ve learned it’s difficult to know anything.
“I hope it’s changed forever.” I read the last line of Josh’s card out loud. Do I hope my life has changed?
I do.
But so far, I’m not doing a very good job. While Josh was planning a surprise evening at the theater, I was planning a trip out of town. He sent flowers. I sent a text.
My bedside clock taunts me. It’s now past three in the morning. I can’t call Josh, no matter how much I want to. He’s got classes to teach tomorrow. Today. If Penny’s there, she might wake up.
Curling up under the covers, burrowing into my pillow, I’m thinking about “our anniversary.” Savoring the words.
Then I think of Luca. He was right. My heart’s desire was indeed at the end of the journey.
Chapter Nineteen
Hiding in the hatchback of Franklin’s Passat is not the most comfortable place to spend a Monday morning. But someone has to carry a hidden camera up to the door of 325 Strathmeyer Road and try to get video of who we now suspect lives there. It should have been me with the camera, but Franklin and I decided she might recognize me from last night at the airport and in the cab. And we can’t take that chance.
So today I, too, have to stay hidden. Luckily for my backseat situation, I’m wearing my black turtleneck sweater, comfortable jeans and flat boots. I have a stash of sugar-free Swedish fish and a latte. My third. I e-mailed Josh to call me at his lunch break. So I’m set. I could camp here for a while without caffeine withdrawal or hunger pangs or missing a call from my sweetheart, but I’m thinking Franklin won’t be too long.
“Test, test.” I check my connection with Franklin. I have my phone on, and so does he. I should be able to hear everything he says. And everything she says.
“Gotcha, Roger, ten-four,” Franklin answers. He’s about halfway to the house. “You okay?”
“Not taking my eyes off you,” I answer.
I rearrange myself on the floor, peering out the side window. We parked about half a block away, across the street, and snagged a spot with a perfect view. Our first thought was to have me just sit in the front, pretending to read the paper, pretending to wait for someone. But some nosy neighborhood-watch fanatic would certainly call the cops about an unfamiliar car with a stranger at the wheel lurking in their posh neighborhood. So we practiced my backseat maneuver in a parking spot outside Channel 3. Because of the tinted windows, I can see out of my hidey-hole, but no one can see in. I can almost, but not quite, sit up. My neck is not happy. But it’s necessary.
All we need is a name, maybe two. And a photograph. Maybe two.
Franklin’s almost to the front walk.
We’d looked up the real estate ownership records on the Registry of Deeds Web site as soon as we arrived at Channel 3 this morning. And what we’d found stopped us both in our tracks.
“Simone-Marshal?” Franklin had said. He held his fingers poised over this keyboard as he read me the results of his search. “Is the owner of 325 Strathmeyer. Does that sound familiar? Bought the place in 2005, a few years ago. For 850 thou.”
I swiveled my desk chair, almost knocking over my second latte of the morning, then used my heels to wheel myself closer to his computer. “Marshal? Are you completely kidding me? Do you think someone would be that obvious?”
“Obvio-?” Franklin frowned as he looked back at his monitor. Then back at me. He tilted his head, wondering. “You think?”
“Ab-so-totally-lutely,” I said. “As Penny says, no bout adoubt it.”
Franklin waved me off. “Oh, come on. You think everything is a conspiracy.”
“That’s because lots of things are a conspiracy,” I replied. “You think we just got home from talking to purse magnate Sylvie Marachelle and now there’s a Simone Marshal involved with this whole thing? Who I followed home from Logan Airport with a stash of phony bags? And the two things aren’t connected? I beg you.”
I pursed my lips, mentally replaying our visit to Delleton-Marachelle, then pointed to Franklin with a one-finger jab. “Of course. They said there was a sister. Remember? Luca said, ‘Sylvie and her sister, something something.’ Before the conglomerate bought D-M. When was that, anyway? I bet the sister was the one in that photo on Luca’s desk. There’s a pretty darn easy way to find out.” I waggled a hand, very French. “Très facile.”
Franklin pulled up a new screen on his computer. “Brookline town list,” he said. “Getting it.”
“Perfect. If ‘Simone Marshal’ filled out a town census report, it should also list all the occupants. Let’s see if anyone else lives there. Rats,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “I can’t ever find anything in here.”
“No comment,” Franklin said over his shoulder. “Your purse is the black hole of Boston. Probably Amelia Earhart is in there.”
“You said ‘no comment.’ So don’t comment.” I scrounged through the multiple zip pockets of my purse once again, in order, down one side and up the other. Muttering.
I finally find what I’m looking for. Luca’s business card, the one from my luggage tag. And just as I remembered, Luca’s private number added in marker.
“You know, Franko? How somehow, sometimes, your instinct just kicks in? It’s as if the whole picture suddenly appears. It’s probably my extensive experience.” I stretch, pantomiming nonchalance. “Ah, yes. And this is why I get the big reporter bucks.”
“Why again?” he asked.
“Because I’m going to call Luca,” I explained as I punched in the numbers. “See what he says about-oh, here it comes. Damn. The machine.”
Franklin turned to me. “Charlotte, wait.”
I held up a hand, stopping him.
“Hi, Luca, it’s Charlie McNally. In Boston.” Like there’s another Charlie McNally. Why am I so tongue-tied by this guy? “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you could tell me…” I hesitated. Suddenly alarm bells were beginning to ring in my head. How much should I say? Who knows who might be listening to his messages? The bells got louder. What if he’s-
Franklin moved in front of me, waving both hands as if he wanted to have a turn on the phone. I gave him a look, exasperated, and a quick shake of the head. Made me lose my train of thought. I turned my focus back to my call, hoping it hadn’t disconnected. “I’m wondering if you could tell me,” I continued, “whether Sylvie’s sister? The one you told us about?”
Franklin stood, hands on hips, almost glaring at me.
“I wonder if she lives near Boston,” I continued, ignoring him. “And could you tell me her name? I’ll be on my cell. And thank you again.”
I gestured to our wall clock as I hung up the phone. “It’s just after nine, maybe they’re just not in yet,” I said, dismissing my earlier misgivings. “He’ll call me back, I guess. He has my number.”
“If he’s not the mastermind behind the whole thing, Charlotte,” Franklin answered. His entire face was a frown. “That’s why I was trying to stop you.”
I stared at him. Recalculating. Drives me crazy that he might be right. And no use to fight it.
“Yeah.” I slumped back in my chair, wrinkled my nose. Because I suddenly saw what might have happened. There’s nothing worse than being wrong. I may have just blown our whole story. Now I see the real picture.
“What if-remember Luca was married to Sylvie? And now they’re divorced. And she’s heir to all the D-M money, right? She’s the one with the big bucks. So maybe he’s getting revenge. Stealing her designs. And cashing in. Doing the worst possible thing to her he could: taking her ideas and taking the company’s good name.” I plopped my head into my hands, my remorseful words aimed at my desk.