After the girl at the front desk had cheerfully connected her with room service, she ordered the only thing she could think of at that moment, even though she wasn’t particularly fond of hamburgers, and absolutely never ate French fries.
Music, she thought desperately as she cradled the phone, reaching for the TV remote. That’s what I need. Please, God, let there be something on PBS.
But PBS was showing a nature film, and the idea of watching Serengeti lions tear into a zebra wasn’t at all appealing to her right then. Neither were the talk shows, police dramas, old movies, sitcoms and infomercials offered by the other channels. The best she could find was the cable channel directory, which was playing classical music as background-Vivaldi, she thought. Or maybe it was Mozart. She turned up the volume as far as she dared, then sat restlessly fiddling with the remote control as her eyes darted around the room in search of further distraction.
She thought about the paperback romance novel she’d bought to read that evening, the map of Washington she’d meant to study, the sight-seeing plans she’d intended to make. But she didn’t feel like reading, or planning. She couldn’t think. Her mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts and impressions. She felt exhausted and wired at the same time.
What she wanted was simply to talk to someone.
She thought about calling the girls. She knew she should-they’d be expecting to hear from her, since she always checked in with them when she had to be away overnight. But of course she didn’t dare tell them about this. It would only alarm and upset them. And besides, she was the mom, she was supposed to be the strong one, the steadfast, sensible one; her children were supposed to come to her for comfort and strength, not the other way around. And if she called them and tried to act as though nothing was wrong, they’d know. They’d hear it in her voice; she’d never been any good at hiding her feelings.
She supposed she should report the incident to hotel security or the police. Doing so would certainly give her an opportunity to talk, but she had an idea it would, in the long run, bring her more headaches than solace.
What she really needed, she thought, was a friend. Just a friend, with a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder. Like Connie, who was more than likely halfway home to Cooper’s Mill by now, or blissfully asleep in some roadside motel. She thought of David, who had never listened or given her much support or solace, even when they were married. She thought of a stranger named Hawkins who had sat beside her, almost but not quite touching, just in case she needed him.
For the first time since the terrifying days leading to and then following her decision to divorce David, loneliness seemed overwhelming. It came suddenly, like a bad cramp. Doubled over with the pain of it, arms across her belly, she rocked herself back and forth, entombed in the darkness of her own desolation. She kept saying to herself, Dammit, dammit, I thought I was done with this. I thought I was stronger. I thought I’d taught myself not to need.
And so she had, until tonight, when a stranger’s touch had awakened her to her own reality, like a bright light turned on in a room where she’d grown accustomed to darkness. Once before such a thing had happened to her, and her life had been forever changed.
A knock on the door and a muffled, “Room service,” jolted her badly. Trembling, she went to eye the hotel waiter’s starched white coat through the peephole. She instructed him to leave the tray outside the door, and only after he’d gone and she’d verified that the hallway was completely deserted did she unlatch the safety bar and open the door long enough to snatch the tray and carry it inside.
She wolfed down the hamburger without tasting it, left the French fries untouched, then prepared for bed, taking meticulous care to floss and brush and cleanse as she always did; she’d always found routine reassuring. After that, she put on the peach-colored silk pajamas she only wore on those rare occasions when she slept away from home and crawled between the starched and tucked hotel sheets. With the pillows from both beds stacked high behind her shoulders and the light burning brightly over the nightstand, she channel-surfed until her eyes burned and her head ached. Then, at least, she could welcome the darkness with relief rather than dread. But she didn’t find solace in it, nor sleep, either.
Sometime in the dead of night, it came to her and she threw back the covers and sat up, clutching the edge of the bed. Clammy. Trembling. And one thought in her mind: wet wool.
That was what was wrong. She’d smelled it. She’d felt it. His coat had been wet. And yet he’d told her he’d been on his way out. Hadn’t he? Yes, she was sure he’d said so. On his way out to get something to eat, that was it. Tom Hawkins had lied to her. Why?
His story about “happening along” at just the right moment-had that been a lie, too? And if he hadn’t just “happened” to be there, it followed that he must have been there for a purpose. Was the purpose something to do with her, or her attacker?
It has to be something to do with the painting, she thought. It has to be.
Slowly, she turned to look at it, propped against the head of the other bed, the graceful figures only faint pale shapes in the almost darkness. He was there at the auction, she thought, forcing her plodding thoughts along dim and scary paths. He’d seemed so nice, so helpful. And tonight, he’d just happened to be here, out of all the hotels in the city, in time to save her painting, if not actually her life. Such an amazing coincidence.
She got up, padded barefoot around the foot of her bed and made her way to the other one, where she shoved the discarded wrappings aside and sat facing the painting with one leg drawn up on the unrumpled spread.
She thought about the man Campbell-he’d wanted the painting badly. So did the man in her room tonight.
And what about Tom Hawkins? He’d been there at the auction, where Campbell was. And he’d been here tonight, where Campbell-or whoever-was. Was it Campbell he wanted, or the painting? Was he a cop, or wasn’t he?
Not in this jurisdiction. What an odd answer that was, now that she thought about it. What kind of law enforcement officer would be tracking a man-or a painting-out of his jurisdiction? If the damn thing was stolen, why didn’t he just say so? And most of all, why would he lie about so simple a thing as whether he’d been coming or going?
She knew there wasn’t any use going back to bed, not then. She sat in the armchair, curled up and wrapped in the bedspread, gazing out the window at the floodlit Washington Monument until her eyes ached and the vision blurred.
Tomorrow, she vowed. Tomorrow I’m going to find out about that painting, once and for all.
She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of Tom Hawkins, either. Whoever he was.
Chapter 5
“Emma? Sorry to call so late…”
“Tom? Oh, my goodness. Tom, is it really you?”
With the phone pressed painfully against his ear, Hawk listened to the compassionate, gentle voice he hadn’t heard in so long and remembered so well. Jen’s voice. “It’s me, Emma. I hope I didn’t wake you.” The voice hadn’t sounded at all sleepy, but then that was Emma.
“Oh, Tom, what a lovely surprise! No-no, as a matter of fact, I was waiting up for Frank. He’s grading papers-spring break starts next week. He should be home any time. Oh, he’ll just hate that he missed you. Where are you? Are you in town?”
“I’m in town, but-”
“Oh, how wonderful. Can you come for a visit? We’d both love to see you.”
“I wish I could, but it’s business, and I’m pretty tied up. I just called…” He paused to take a breath, both because the ache in his chest needed easing, and because the fact was, he didn’t know why he’d called, “…to say hello.”