Nancy DiStephano stood him up.
He was meeting her at five-fifteen outside the real estate office where she worked as a secretary. The office was on Kirkham near 19^th Avenue and it was closed up when Hardy arrived. He double-checked the address, the time, the cross-streets. No Nancy.
After fifteen minutes he called it a day, debated with himself whether he should go by the Shamrock and apologize in person to Moses, decided not, got in his car and headed home.
"I want to meet her."
"Who?"
"You know who. I would just like to meet her." Frannie's red hair hung long and shiny, shimmering in the evening sun. They were walking along Clement Street – Hardy with Vincent on his back in a pack, Rebecca running ahead, stopping at driveways, alleys and corners the way she had been taught. Frannie caught Hardy with a sideways look. "You said she was a person, not a case, remember? It would just make me more comfortable. Rebecca!"
"Out of the street!"
Rebecca had dropped a toe over the curb. She pulled it back, turned around smiling. "Just teasing."
"That is nothing to tease about," Hardy said. "The street is dangerous. We hold hands crossing the street."
Rebecca knew this. She gave her mother a conspiratorial glance and slipped her hand inside Hardy's. "I don't think it's a good idea," he said.
"What?"
"Mommy and Daddy are talking, honey."
"We can talk about it later, Dismas."
"No, Now's fine. We ought to be able to have a small discussion without being interrupted, don't you think? And I don't think it's a good idea. I don't even know if you'd be allowed to. Or if Jennifer would want to see you."
"Who's Jennifer?"
Hardy let go of the Beck's hand. "You can run ahead now."
"But who's Jennifer? Do I know her?"
"Jennifer's one of Daddy's clients, sweetie."
"Doesn't she like you?"
"She doesn't know me. I want to meet her."
"Hey." Hardy, the referee, making hand signals. "Time out, all right? This is our discussion. Beck, enough, I mean it."
"You don't have to yell at her."
Hardy was trying to keep his voice under control. "I'm not yelling at her. I'm trying to teach her not to interrupt. This is a useful social skill." Vincent, suddenly startled, let out an anguished cry.
"Great," Hardy said. "This is just great."
Rebecca, arms outreached, mouth open, broke down. She clung to Frannie's legs, wailing.
"Here's an idea. Let's give them to Moses and Susan for two weeks." Hardy drank gin about twice a year and figured this was the night for it. Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with two olives.
They had gotten the children down to bed. It was still light outside, not yet eight o'clock, and still warm. They were sitting together on the front steps, waiting for the pizza to arrive, holding hands, the door open behind them so they could hear if anyone called. Or – more likely – cried.
"I don't think two weeks is enough." Frannie was having a glass of white wine. The children's crying jag had lasted nearly an hour. "If they rally want to get the flavor."
"Moses lives close." Hardy was running with it. "We could visit them all the time." He sipped at the cold gin, so smooth it almost wasn't there.
"Speaking of visits…"
Hardy shook his head. Jennifer again. "I don't know, Fran. I don't see what good it would do, what the point of it is."
"It would just set my mind at ease. That's doing some good."
"You don't really think she'd try to get at me, do you? I mean, we went through the same thing with Andy Fowler."
"I knew Andy, Dismas, or at least who he was. A judge, your ex-father-in-law. Plus you got him off. This woman…" she shivered, brought her glass to her lips – "all I know about her is what I've read, which is she's a money-hungry, cold-blooded, drop-dead beautiful-"
"She's not that pretty – she's nowhere near as pretty as you."
Frannie leaned into him, mocking the flattery. "Well, then, she's the most photogenic not pretty woman on earth. But what she isn't, to me, is a real person, somebody I shouldn't be afraid of, worried about."
"What if she won't see you?"
"Then she won't see me."
She was right. If Jennifer wouldn't agree to see Frannie that would be the end of it. The gin that almost wasn't there was telling Hardy's body that oh yes, it was, too – the evening had taken on a soft edge, a benign glow. He told her he'd ask, see what he could do. It was a small enough request. If it made Frannie feel better…
How could it hurt?
When he had tried to contact Nancy DiStephano earlier in the day asking her to call him back for an appointment, Hardy had not known what his schedule would be like sohe had given her his home phone number as well as the one in his office.
She called at a little after nine, her voice a whisper, hoarse, nearly inaudible. "Mr. Hardy?" She told him where she was, would he please come and see her now? There might not be another chance. When he told Frannie he was going, she did not do cartwheels.
Ulloa Street was dark.
Hardy had had his one martini, switched to cranberry juice, and the earlier glow had dissipated with the warmth. The DiStephano's house was in the 4500 block, two blocks from the cold Pacific. He pulled up in front of the number.
She was wrapped in a jacket, wearing jeans but barefoot, sitting in the dim porch light on her stoop. When Hardy got out of his car, she walked unsteadily down the cement walk that bisected the lawn, meeting him halfway. She touched Hardy's sleeve, then immediately pulled her hand away as if it were burned. "He won't hear us here. Not that he would anyway. Thank God he's passed out."
She was shaking. Hardy wondered if she were drunk. "Who's passed out?"
"Phil, of course." She laughed, low, nervously. "Who do you think? Listen, I'm sorry about tonight, our appointment." She wasn't slurring. "I thought we might… but Phil…"
Hardy waved it off. His eyes were adjusting – a sliver of moon gave a little light. There was a lot of Jennifer in her face – haunted but still attractive. It was unnerving.
She stepped in place, foot to foot, seemingly unaware of it. "But I thought it might somehow help my girl."
"It might. I don't know. Are you all right?"
She leaned again in an unnatural way, gripping her side. "Maybe we should sit down?"
Without waiting for him, she went back to the entryway. It wasn't a full porch – more a jutting, covered portico enclosed by a low stucco wall. She leaned up against one of the posts.
"Mrs. DiStephano?"
She held out her hand for him to be still, breathing her way through whatever pain she was enduring. When she could handle it, she tried to straighten herself and half-turned back to him. Her eyes were wet but seemed way beyond tears.
Summoning something – the effort was palpable – she pulled herself straight, then turned all the way to face him head-on. Raising her head, she inhaled deeply, making her decision, and pulled open the jacket she'd been wrapped in. Under it, she was naked.
Her body – her breasts, her ribs, her stomach – was bruised and welted in half a dozen places. He stood transfixed, two feet away from her, feeling his body begin to pulse in anger. Fist-sized blotches, splashes of broken capillaries, the rake of handprints over torn skin. He stepped toward her, grabbed the sides of the jacket and gently pulled it closed around her. Lightner had been right about Jennifer's abusive father…
She leaned back against the portico's post and let herself slump to the tiles, hugging her arms to herself.
"I told Phil, I told him it was for Jennifer, it might help Jennifer. I wasn't sneaking out. He said how come you didn't try to talk to him."