“Katharine,” Jane said.
Maitland took off his rumpled sport jacket, draped it across the back of his desk chair. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled back his sleeves. Once, twice. He glanced at a chunky Rolex.
He’s stalling, Jane thought. Love it.
“Who?” Maitland said.
“You know who I mean,” Jane replied. Keeping it polite. “Owen Lassiter’s first wife. Why is she never mentioned? She’s not in any of your-”
Maitland placed both palms flat on his desk, leaning toward her. His yellow-striped tie flapped forward, the ends touching a stapled pile of documents. “Where are you going with this, Jane?”
Jane put a hand up, conciliatory. “Look. It’s only that I’m doing a profile on Moira Lassiter. If there was another wife, a first wife, that means Moira-”
She stopped, midsentence, realizing exactly what it might mean. It flashed through her mind, fully formed, clear as a memory. It might mean, back then, Moira and Owen had been-having an affair. It might mean that still-married Owen cheated on his wife with Moira. It might mean Moira was now recognizing the signs of Owen’s infidelity because she had seen them firsthand. When Moira was the other woman.
Or, not.
“Excuse me,” Jane said. She pretend-scratched her head. “Lost my train of thought. Anyway. If there was another wife, I was wondering why she’s never mentioned. And where she is now.”
“Jane.” Maitland sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers. “Divorce is hardly an earthshaking event in politics these days. Times change. I mean-Ronald Reagan. Newt Gingrich. Rockefeller. Everyone gets divorced.”
Jane almost burst out laughing. Exactly what Gable had said. Politicians. “Yes, Mr. Maitland. I’m aware. So are you telling me Owen Lassiter and Katharine-what was her last name? Are divorced? And if so, when and where? And why? And where is Katharine now?”
“Mr. Maitland?” A voice from behind her. A young woman in a green turtleneck and unfortunate shoes hovered in the doorway holding a brown paper carton of precariously tipping Dunkin’ Donuts cups. “I went for your coffees, and-”
“About time, Deenie,” Maitland interrupted, waving her in. “I’ll take those. Where is everyone? Why is Kenna not at the desk downstairs?”
Kenna? At the desk downstairs? Jane’s brain blasted into hyperdrive, calculating the possibilities. Maybe she worked here? Maybe she had an appointment? Either way, Maitland knew Kenna Wilkes. Jane thought about the photos in her bag. She could- Wait, she told herself. Wait.
The woman hurried into the room, frowning at Jane. As she placed the flimsy tray on Maitland’s desk, it caught on the edge, knocking over a supersized coffee, the white plastic lid popping off, spilling a stream of steaming brown liquid. Maitland yelped, jumping back. “Jesus Christ!”
“Oh, Mr. Maitland, I’m so-” Deenie grabbed a stack of napkins from the tray, blotting and wiping and trying to stop the flow of spreading coffee. The cup had knocked over a gold-framed photograph, clattering it from the desk to the floor. It landed facedown, milky liquid dripping on the velvet-covered backing and splashing onto the carpet.
As Deenie and Maitland scrambled to clean up, Jane grabbed a wad of tissues from a box on a side table and picked up the photograph, blotting it dry. Pretty photo, Jane thought, putting it back on the desk. Umbrellas on a beach. The muffled trill of her phone came from her tote bag next to the swivel chair. Whoever was calling would have to wait. She had to find out about Katharine, then about Kenna Wilkes. Nothing could be more important than that.
By the time Deenie backed out of the room, carrying a sodden pile of documents and paperwork, Jane’s phone had rung twice more. Annoying, but she couldn’t answer it. She stood by her chair, waiting.
Maitland looked disdainfully at the blotches now scattered across his yellow silk tie and once-white shirt. “So much for this,” he said.
“Yeah,” Jane said. “Mondays.”
Maitland checked his watch. “So. Excitement over. We done here?”
Jane couldn’t help but smile. Good try. “No, actually. You were about to tell me about Katharine, Mr. Maitland. Where is Owen Lassiter’s first wife?”
47
Matt stared at the ceiling, biting his thumbnail, mind racing. Flopped on the white chenille spread of his hotel’s king-sized bed, still wearing his running shoes and the jacket he’d managed to retrieve. At two in the morning, after carding open his hotel room door, he’d slugged down the entire five-dollar bottle of fancy water on the nightstand, then filled it with tap water from the bathroom. He’d never been so thirsty. He hadn’t slept since then, not at all.
What to do? Now, the morning light through the window blinds made slashes of shadow above him. Like bars in a prison cell. The heater kicked on, humming. I have to figure out what to do.
There’d been no cops banging on his door-why should there be? No accusing phone calls from-whoever. Why should there be? Far as anyone in Boston was concerned, he was no one, with no connections. And certainly no connection with Holly Neff. Or whatever name she’d been using.
He almost dumped Holly’s little purse in the water after she’d gone in. Then worried-maybe it’d float, or wash ashore. He’d stuffed it under his jacket. Her keys, too. But like that old movie, there’d be no reason for anyone to link him to her. He was a stranger in town, and so was she.
What if the waitress in the bar remembers me? The guy selling newspapers at the post office? Are my fingerprints on her car? What if they are? No one has my fingerprints to compare them to.
His brain ached. Do they?
He’d spent the last five hours talking himself down from the ledge. It had all been an accident, right? An accident.
He flopped over, punching an oversized pillow into place, and stared out the window, unseeing. The movie of what happened kept playing in his head, over and over and over.
They had sat side by side on that molded-metal bench by the merry-go-round. He felt uncomfortable, awkward, the bench hard and cold and unyielding. Night gathered, making the wind chilly over the harbor. Seagulls squawked overhead, airplanes roaring their descent to Logan. Did anyone see the two of us there? Countless office and hotel windows overlooked the park, but who would have cared about the two figures by the water?
Holly had been clinging. Crowding him. Suffocating him. “You’re still not married,” she said. Putting her face too close to his. “And I know why. That’s why I’m here. To take care of everything. To make you happy. This is all for you. For you, Matt.”
She outlined her plans-and he listened to her explanation with escalating dismay and increasing alarm. She was completely nuts.
He had made one frigging bad choice. Back in B-school, he’d told Holly the truth. And now, this was his payback? Maybe he could talk her out of it. Convince her not to do it. Pay her off. Everyone had a price. But she kept talking and talking.
“Your father killed your ability to love.” Holly said this, solemn and sincere, her voice trembling with the strength of her belief. “He left you, deserted you, deserted your poor mother. That’s why you couldn’t love me. That’s why you can’t love.”
He couldn’t breathe. What was she, friggin’ Dr. Phil? She was-crazy. Wasn’t she?
“Your mother died because of him, and your life was taken away. Your family was taken away. Your father. And then your mother. That’s exactly what you told me that day by the river. You could have been the governor’s son,” she said. “That’s what you told me. Instead, you were the throwaway child. The child whose father destroyed everything.”