He paused to look down at her once more. “The tears-it’s a nice touch. You’ve been through a trauma. You’d be expected to show some emotion.”
And Eve, furious, surprised herself by thinking, What about you, Mr. Jake Something-Mr. Iceman? Do you ever show emotion?
Already turning to leave her, he paused as if she’d spoken the words aloud. He looked at her for a moment, then away, as if there was something more he ought to say to her if he could only remember what it was.
What about telling me it’s going to be all right? Eve thought. What about a big ol’ thumb’s-up? A “Break a leg” and a smile for luck? Hey, Mr. FBI-are you even genetically capable of smiling?
She touched the strips of butterfly bandage that crisscrossed the bridge of her nose. “Where’re you gonna be?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be watching you. Out of sight, but I’ll be watching.” His gaze was heavy-lidded, veiled.
It occurred to Eve that his lashes were unusually long and thick, that his eyes slanted down slightly at the corners, and she wondered if that was what gave him that melancholy look. Maybe, she grudgingly thought… but only partly.
“Hey, Jake-” It had also occurred to her that she knew almost nothing about him-not even his last name. How old he was. Whether he had a wife… children. The town house he lived in was definitely a bachelor’s quarters, and probably temporary at that, the only personal items anywhere in evidence being the old-fashioned turntable, the crate of LP’s and the cardboard box she’d spotted under the coffee table, containing an assortment of paperbacks. A lonely existence, she thought. But did he have a home somewhere? A wife and a dog, a lawn waiting to be mowed?
He was waiting now, one hand on the curtain, for her to finish it. But with all she would have liked to ask him, she limited herself to a smile, lopsided and apologetic-a peace offering he wouldn’t even know she owed him-and a lightly curious “When do you sleep?”
There was no answering smile, not even one of irony. No chuckle, not even the dryest snort, heavy with sarcasm. Instead he replied, very softly, “When Sonny Cisneros is behind bars.”
Then he slipped out of the room like a shadow, leavmg her with the chilled feeling that he’d meant it literally.
Sonny… behind bars. Sonny-the man she’d planned to many, the man she’d…well, if not exactly wildly loved, at least chosen to be the father of her children-was a vicious crimmal.
There was no one to distract her now-no doctors and nurses with their needles and bandages and slightly off-color banter, no dour FBI man with his somber warnings and instructions, nothing to keep the reality of that from crashing in on her. For the first time since waking half-naked in a strange man’s bed with her soiled wedding gown on the floor beside her, she was alone, just her and her thoughts. And since there was no one to see, instead of pushing her thoughts away in instinctive, gut-level defensive panic, she gave them the okay to come and stay in her mind, and let the full horror of them seep into her soul.
Fear and loathing enveloped her, like the nightmare terrors of long-ago childhood when the miasma of nameless evil rising from under her bed, seeping in from under doors and out of closets and cupboards would send her, shivering with fear, to seek comfort in one of her sisters’ beds. What a time of sheltered innocence that had been, when terror could be banished by a warm body, the smell of baby shampoo and a sleepy “Evie’s havin’ a bad dream?”
“Eve? Oh, Evie…oh my God-”
“Mom…? Oh, Momma, I’m so sorry…” All right, so she was forty-three years old. And yes, she’d been on her own, a world traveler and successful filmmaker, for years and years. But she had just come from that childhood nightmare, had been longing for a time when all it took to banish terror was to be gathered into those familiar arms. Perhaps she could be forgiven-and was most definitely not acting-when she burst noisily into tears.
And then her mother was bending over to kiss her and oh, so carefully touching her bandages, then tenderly cupping her cheek and whispering, “Shh…it’s all right, sweetheart… you’re all right, that’s all that counts,” and enveloping her in the familiar scents of Jergens lotion and talcum powder that in a way held more comfort than either the words or the touch.
Beyond her mother’s shoulder, through a shimmer of tears, she saw her father’s face hovering, flushed red and set in a mask of grief and anger. She could only imagine the frustration he must be feeling, that he, her father and a police officer, had yet been unable to protect his little girl from harm.
“Pop?” she squeaked, reaching for him with one hand as her mother moved aside to make room, “it’s okay…I’m okay.”
And her father was squeezing her hand, brusquely kissing it and then turning away, grumbling and harrumphing in the garbled and gravelly voice he used to camouflage fierce emotions, about talking to the officer in charge, and what was being done to ensure that the low-life scum that had done this to his little girl was found and brought to justice. And all the while wiping at his eyes and furtively blowing his nose on his familiar white pocket handkerchief, as if he seriously thought no one would notice.
Her sisters were there, too, crowded into that curtained space, and so were their husbands-Riley, the newest member of the family, and Jimmy Joe, hanging back a little as if they understood their purpose was mostly to provide backup-their faces, too, wearing the dark, set look of male outrage.
Eve murmured an abashed “Hi, guys. Some wedding, huh?” and gave her sisters a wry shrug and touched her lip in a way that said she’d smile if only she could. When they didn’t say anything back, she gave a careful, whispering laugh and said, “Come on, I know what you were thinking. You were thinking, Boy, Evie’s really done it this time! Right? Am I right? You know you were…” Summer and Mirabella both laughed then, but in a funny way that had more than a little of tears in it.
And then they were moving up, one on either side of her to form a protective phalanx around her just as they had when they were children and still believed that the three of them together were invincible, impregnable to any threat from near or far, grown-ups, other children or things that go bump in the night.
There was Mirabella, white as a sheet, puffed up like a little red bird spoiling for a fight, brushing and fussing at the bedclothes as if any imperfections in them were a personal affront. And Summer, the vet, forehead furrowed, sky-blue eyes misty with compassion, her strong, long-boned hands already resting on Eve’s shoulder, gently stroking her arm, touching her hair, as if just their touch could make things better.
My family, Eve thought. And whether it was lack of sleep, the residual effects of too much champagne or simply a reaction to all the stresses and traumas of the past twenty-four hours, suddenly the love she felt for them seemed almost too much to bear. I don’t want to leave them! she thought, terrified both of dying and of the separation from those she loved so much that would be like a kind of dying.
If this charade didn’t work, if she couldn’t convince Sonny she posed no threat to him, he would kill her. It was as simple as that. Or, to prevent that certainty, the FBI could whisk her away into some sort of Witness Protection Program, cutting her off forever from all those she loved. But even then there was no guarantee Sonny wouldn’t then turn on her family as a way to force her to come back! Eve was accustomed to taking risks, but never before had she been asked to risk so much. Her life? Even that seemed insignificant. What was really at stake was all there with her in that cubicle-the love… the people… her family.