The phone had been ringing all morning. Lynn Schuster glanced up from her paper-strewn desk at the well-groomed young woman who stood in the doorway to her small, tidy office. “For you. Line one,” her secretary said, her hands buried beneath a neat stack of files. “I’m going to run these reports down the hall.”
Lynn nodded and picked up the phone, thinking that she hated Fridays. They were always the worst. People seemed to be most desperate just before the weekend, something she had never really understood until Gary left her. Until then, Friday was always a day to look forward to because it meant that—in theory anyway—the family could spend the next two days relaxing and being together. In practice, Gary was more often working than not, the kids were somewhere playing with friends or home fighting with each other, and she was struggling to finish off work which never seemed to meet its deadline. Still, the illusion was there. The possibilities existed. When Gary walked out six months ago, he had taken the possibilities with him. Lynn no longer looked forward to the weekends, which only served to underline the unhappy statistic she had become. “Lynn Schuster,” she announced into the phone.
“Marc Cameron,” came the immediate reply. “And before you hang up on me,” he continued—in fact, the thought had not occurred to her— “I’d like to apologize for my behavior the other night.”
“Apology accepted,” Lynn replied briskly. “Thank you for calling.”
“Don’t hang up,” he said again, this time as she was about to.
Lynn glanced nervously toward her office door. Her secretary was down the hall delivering files. That was good for at least a couple of minutes. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cameron?”
“For starters, you can call me Marc. Then you can have dinner with me tonight.”
Lynn took a deep breath, slowly expelling the air in her lungs and inadvertently blowing several sheets of paper off the top of her desk. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” she said, watching the papers float toward the beige carpet at her feet.
“Why not?” His voice was stubborn, provocative.
“I would think that’s obvious.”
“Because of what I said?”
“Because of what you are.”
“A writer?”
She laughed. “Suzette’s husband.”
“Can’t we just forget who we are? Correction,” he said immediately. “Who we were.”
Lynn’s fingers moved nervously to the thick gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand. “I think that might prove difficult.”
“I’m busy tonight,” she said, then continued when he said nothing. “My father and his wife are coming over for dinner. Really.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I can’t.”
“Your father again?”
“My better judgment. I’m sorry. I just don’t think it would be a very good idea.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m really sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances …”
“Sounds like something you say at a funeral.” He laughed. “Hell, I’m a writer. I’m used to rejection. Look, will you do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“Get a piece of paper,” he instructed. Lynn reached for her notebook as her secretary reappeared in the doorway. “Write this down.” He dictated a number and Lynn dutifully copied it, repeating it aloud when he asked her to. “My phone number,” he explained. “I’m renting an apartment until all this is settled. If you change your mind about seeing me again, as I sincerely hope you will, give me a call.”
“I’ll do that,” Lynn said, motioning for her secretary to come in and sit down. “Thank you for calling.”
“A pleasure, as always,” he said, and was gone. Lynn replaced the receiver, smiling perhaps a little too hard at the blonde, ponytailed young woman who sat before her.
“Something wrong?” her secretary asked, bending forward to indicate her willingness to listen. “You look like you’re in pain,” she continued, and Lynn forced her mouth to relax. Her secretary, whose name was Arlene and who was somewhere in her late twenties, lifted a slim file folder from her lap and reached it across the top of the desk toward Lynn.
“What’s this?” Lynn pushed Marc Cameron into the back corners of her mind, concentrating on the file her secretary dropped into her hands.
“It’s from McVee,” Arlene said, standing up, about to return to her own desk just outside Lynn’s office door. “Suspected child abuse. He wants it handled very carefully. All files are to be kept in his office. Strictly confidential. Apparently we might be treading on some very big toes. Check out the address.”
Lynn opened the folder and glanced at the few lines typed across the first and only page. By the time her investigation was concluded, she knew, there would be many such pages. Too many. Keith and Patty Foster, she read, not recognizing the names; daughter, Ashleigh, age seven.
Lynn’s eyes shot automatically to the framed photographs of her own two children, which were all but hidden by the stacks of paper on her desk. Impatiently, she shuffled the papers around until they afforded her a clear view of the two smiling figures which when last seen boarding their bus for day camp that morning, were glaring in barely concealed fury at each other’s recent transgressions. Megan, who had been nine years old at the time her picture was taken, looked shy and quietly beautiful, the woman already visible behind the child’s delicate features, whereas Nicholas’s photo, taken last January on his seventh birthday, was one big, toothless record of self-congratulation.
Lynn closed the file folder and rested her chin against the palms of her hands. She didn’t want to read about seven-year-old children who were the possible victims of parental abuse. In her twelve years of front-line work for the Department of Social Services in Delray Beach, this was the one aspect of her job to which she had never grown accustomed. Reluctantly, she reopened the file, checking out the address as her secretary had suggested. Harborside Villas, she read, then shook her head. Not the usual address for this sort of thing, but then she had learned long ago that money and social standing had little bearing on matters such as these, although they obviously had a great deal to do with the careful way this case was being handled.
The suspected abuse had been reported by a neighbor, she read, a Mrs. Davia Messenger, who lived in the town house next to the one owned by the Fosters. Lynn understood that she would have to drive out to the Harborside Villas to interview the woman as soon as possible. She looked around for her appointment book, and saw only the notepad with Marc Cameron’s phone number scrawled boldly across it. “Arlene, what’s my schedule like today?”
“You have a meeting at two o’clock.”
“And this morning?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
A few minutes later, Lynn was in her car heading south on Federal Highway toward the Harborside Villas, a Mrs. Davia Messenger, and a story she didn’t want to hear.
The Harborside Villas were part of a horseshoe-shaped complex situated on the Inland Waterway, boasting a private marina, two large swimming pools, and four tennis courts. Prices started at a quarter of a million dollars for a one-bedroom apartment, and went up from there, the most expensive units being the row of eight identical, white, two-story town houses that ran parallel to the main building and directly overlooked the Inland Waterway.
Davia Messenger lived in the second-to-last house next to the corner unit owned by the Fosters. Lynn walked steadily across the curving sidewalk of interlocking red bricks, her eyes casually perusing the luxury that was everywhere around her, to the Messengers’ front door. She barely had time to lift the bronze dolphin-shaped knocker before the door was opened by a tall, thin, slightly stooped woman whose sharp, irregular features had long ago cemented themselves into a look of anxiety.
“She didn’t see you come in, did she?” the woman greeted Lynn nervously in the entranceway of her designer-perfect town house. Lynn made a mental note of the woman’s age—late fifties—and flaming red, geometrically shaped hair. She said nothing as the woman shut the front door behind her and ushered her inside the spotless living room, awash in shades of glistening yellow and gray. Lynn walked carefully toward the matching pale yellow love seats situated in the middle of the large room, which afforded a most spectacular view of the Inland Waterway. She had the distinct feeling that this was not a room that was used to visitors.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I got stuck in traffic. You have a beautiful home,” Lynn remarked almost in one breath, seeing Mrs. Messenger wince as she sat down and took out her notebook and pen.
“You will be careful,” the woman stated, more than asked, “with that pen.”
“Of course,” Lynn told her, and tried to look reassuring, although she felt as she imagined her children must feel when told to get their crayons out of the living room. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Messenger?”
“Six years,” came the rapidly delivered reply. “We’re the original owners. We bought when the units were still under construction. We knew how beautiful they were going to be. We have an eye for beauty, my husband and I.” She tried to smile but the corners of her lips only twitched, and so she abandoned the attempt. “I don’t enjoy doing this, you know,” she said. “You will keep my name out of it, won’t you? The man I spoke to, he assured me that my name would be kept out of it.”
“Your identity will be kept strictly confidential, Mrs. Messenger.” Lynn watched as the woman made repeated circles around the second love seat, picking up imaginary pieces of lint from the obviously expensive material.
“They’re important people, the Fosters. He’s with Data Base International. Quite the big shot.” Davia Messenger’s eyes darted nervously around the room. She reached down and swept up a suspected speck of dirt from the pale Drury rug at Lynn’s feet. Lynn obligingly lifted her heels off the floor, lowering them only after the woman’s attention had been diverted elsewhere.
Lynn made a quick note describing the woman’s highly agitated state, which she suspected was aggravated, but not defined, by her visit. The woman was starting to make her nervous as well.
“Why don’t you tell me what prompted you to call our agency, Mrs. Messenger.”
Davia Messenger seemed surprised by the question. “Well, the little girl of course. Ashleigh. She’s why I called. So many Ashleighs these days, don’t you think?”
“You suspect her parents are abusing her?”
“Not suspect. Know.” Davia Messenger swooped hawklike toward Lynn, her long fingers outstretched and shaking. “How else do you explain why that poor little thing is always covered with bruises? Last week she had a black eye. A few weeks before that it was a broken arm.”
“Children have accidents, Mrs. Messenger.” Lynn felt Davia Messenger’s gaze shift from her face to the area just to the left of her cheek above her shoulder. Before she had time to wonder what exactly Davia Messenger was staring at, the woman reached over and snapped up a stray hair which had been dangling from the side of Lynn’s head, and which had obviously offended her strict aesthetic sense.
“No accidents. Patty Foster is abusing her daughter.”
“Have you actually witnessed this abuse?” Lynn was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. She wished Davia Messenger would sit the hell down.
“I’ve witnessed the results. I’ve heard the child crying at all hours of the day and night.”
“But you’ve never personally witnessed Patty Foster physically mistreating Ashleigh?”
“I’ve already answered that,” the woman snapped.
“What specifically prompted your phone call, Mrs. Messenger?”
“I don’t understand. I told you …”
“You indicated that this has been going on for a number of months, yet you waited until now to phone us. Did something happen last night?”
“If you’d heard that child crying, you wouldn’t have to ask. I just couldn’t take listening to it anymore.”
“Did your husband hear the crying as well?”
“Well, of course.”
“Could I speak to him?”
“Oh no, no, no,” Mrs. Messenger trilled, her hands fluttering wildly in front of her. “Leave him out of this. He doesn’t want to get involved. He told me not to call you. He said that nobody would believe me. That Mr. Foster is an important man in the community. No, no, no. Leave my husband out of this.”
Lynn lowered her pen to her lap, aware that Mrs. Messenger seemed to be holding her breath. “What makes you so sure that it’s Mrs. Foster who’s abusing her daughter, and not Mr. Foster?”
“Oh no, no, no,” the woman said again, this time with conviction rounding out the vowels. “Mr. Foster is a gentleman. He would never do anything to hurt a child. It’s his wife. She’s much younger than he is. Young enough to be his daughter. His granddaughter, even. Pretty enough, I suppose. She doesn’t do much. Sits around the pool all day in her bikini. Don’t know why she had children. They’re not allowed, you know. At least that was my impression when we bought the place, bought it while it was still under construction. We have a real eye for beauty, my husband and I. Decorated it ourselves. Please be careful with that pen.”
Lynn put the cap back on the black felt pen, closed her notebook, and returned both to her briefcase. It was obvious she had already received whatever worthwhile information she was going to get from Mrs. Davia Messenger, and she was afraid that if she stayed any longer, the woman might break into hives. “Thank you, Mrs. Messenger. I think I’ll talk to the Fosters now.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t you see? She’ll see you came from my house, and she’ll know I was the one who reported her. She’s a very vindictive person.”
Lynn Schuster stared deeply into the eyes of the woman who was squinting in her direction, watching them narrow further to emphasize her point, aware that she was not the most credible of witnesses, but aware also that each report of suspected child abuse had to be investigated fully.
“I assure you your identity will be kept confidential.”
“She’ll try to fool you, of course. She can be very persuasive. You mustn’t underestimate her,” Mrs. Messenger continued as she followed Lynn to the front door, then hid behind it as Lynn stepped outside into the hot sunshine.
Davia Messenger was an unpleasant, possibly even unbalanced woman, Lynn was thinking as she cut across the narrow strip of lawn to the house next door. She would make a most unreliable witness in court. With that in mind, Lynn knocked tentatively on the Fosters’ door, and was relieved to discover that no one was home.
A few minutes later, she was sitting in her car in the middle of a monstrous traffic jam. It was extremely hot, and already cars on the busy highway were starting to overheat. Motorists who were stranded on the side of the road, their faces polished in sweat, their mouths distorted with agitation, stood beside raised hoods, steam shooting from overheated engines. Lynn observed them dispassionately, reaching over and flicking off her own air conditioning to spare herself the same fate, lowering her window instead, feeling the immediate attack of hot air as it quickly clambered in through the open window, as if it too was looking for a place to escape. Lynn rested her elbow on the car door, withdrawing it almost instantly, feeling her flesh burn as if she had pressed it against a lit torch.
She peered out her front window, trying to make out what was causing the delay, but a large yellow van with bright flowers painted across its back window blocked her view. In the car to her right, a man and a woman were fighting. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but she could tell by the way their narrow faces were distorted that they were blaming one another for the futility of their current situation. “I told you not to come this way,” she understood the man was saying, “but no, you knew better.”
Lynn looked across the highway divider, caught the sardonic smile of a young man in a sports car as he continued unimpeded in the opposite direction. He reminded her of Marc Cameron, she realized, wondering for a minute if it had, in fact, been him. But no, Marc Cameron had a beard, she remembered. The man in the sports car had been clean-shaven. And he was at least ten years younger than the man who had visited her home earlier in the week. He didn’t look anything like Marc Cameron at all. What was the matter with her? What was she thinking about?
She heard the car behind her honk, and noticed that the van ahead of her had inched forward almost imperceptibly. Grateful for the diversion, she traveled the requisite several inches, then stopped, putting the car into neutral. She couldn’t afford to waste valuable time thinking about men like Marc Cameron. So what if she found him appealing? So what if he was the first man since Gary had walked out—the first man since Gary, period—who had stirred these kinds of feelings inside her? She hadn’t had sex in over six months. She needed these kinds of feelings like a hole in the head. Who needed feelings like these, feelings that made you squirm and fidget and lose sleep? Especially when she wasn’t prepared to act on them. Was she prepared to act on them? She had his phone number. All she had to do when she got back to the office was pick up the phone and dial. “Hello, Marc Cameron? This is Lynn Schuster. I know this great motel for dinner.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said out loud. You’re already having dinner. With your father and his charming wife, Barbara, the one he married three years ago, the one who’s given him back his youth, that new lease on life and all those other glorious clichés she never gets tired of trotting out. Life is what you make it; when God hands you a lemon, make lemonade; it’s always darkest before the dawn. The woman was a walking encyclopedia of superficial words to the wise. Lynn had never understood how her father, an intelligent, well-read man, had allowed himself to get involved with such a woman. Not that there was anything wrong with her. Barbara was attractive and well-mannered, but her reading consisted solely of self-help tomes and diet books, and her conversation began with quotes from Leo Buscaglia and ended with the words of Rollo May. In between was advice from everyone from Richard Simmons to Dr. Ruth. Lynn doubted that the woman had ever had an original thought in her life. And yet her father seemed to hang on every silly syllable. Even after three years, he continued to smile benignly at his wife’s pronouncements, adding a few well-chosen observations of his own, commenting lovingly on Barbara’s latest accomplishments. It was always “Barbara this” and “Barbara that” and “Did you see Barbara’s name in the paper the other day? She’s running that new charity drive.” “Charity begins at home,” Barbara would say. Home is where the heart is. Anywhere I hang my hat is home. Home, home on the range.
Her mother would have choked at the very idea of such a woman. Not that she would have objected to her husband marrying again—not that Lynn objected to her father marrying again—but surely he could have found someone more suitable, if not to his taste, well, then, to hers.
Was that what bothered her so much about the woman? That her father, who had relied on her so heavily in the year immediately following his wife’s death, hadn’t consulted her at all when he found a new wife? That he had presented her proudly to his only child as a fait accompli? And the woman, short, dark, and nothing at all like her mother, had pressed her hand warmly and said how delighted she was to be part of the family. You’re not losing a father, you’re gaining a friend. Anytime you need me, I’ll be there. Love is where you find it. All you need is love. She loves you, yea, yea, yea.
The list was endless. Her mother would have gagged.
Lynn arched her back and pushed her hair away from her face, feeling guilty for the meanness of her thoughts. That was one thing you could say about Barbara: the woman didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She had loved them all away with her collection of uplifting aphorisms. Mean bones didn’t stand a chance in such a relentlessly perky environment. They begged for mercy and cracked under the pressure of all that good cheer. And her father lapped it up. He hadn’t looked better in years. Probably due to the new low-fat, no-salt, no-sugar diet Barbara had him on. No fat, no salt, no sugar, no negative vibrations. It didn’t make for a very interesting dinner party. And she had passed up an evening of potentially sordid sex for dinner with Miss Congeniality?
It wouldn’t be the first time she had chosen safety and security over high risk, despite the potential of a greater return on one’s investment. The fact was that she wasn’t a gambler. She stayed where she knew she belonged. She didn’t take unnecessary chances. It was probably just as well she had decided not to accept the job she had been offered with the Palm Beach County Board of Education. Even though it was definitely a step up, even though she would have been virtually running the Social Services Department of the Board of Education for the entire county, it also meant a retreat from the front-line work she knew so well and an increase in responsibility she wasn’t sure she was capable of assuming at this time in her life. She’d had enough upheavals in the last six months. She didn’t need a new job. She didn’t need a new man. She certainly didn’t need Marc Cameron. Or sex. Or even thoughts of sex. What she needed was to get out of this traffic and back to her office. What she needed was a cup of coffee. What she needed was an idea for what to serve for dinner.
Again the car behind her sounded his horn. This time it wasn’t one honk, but several, like hiccups or a persistent cough. Lynn quickly focused on the line of traffic in front of her and realized it was moving. She threw her car into gear, glancing into her rearview mirror in time to see the man in the car behind her lift the middle finger of his right hand angrily in her direction. Just what I needed, she thought. The image of her father’s wife, Barbara, immediately appeared before her eyes. Have a nice day, it said.