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Terry wasn't back! No sign of his shiny black motorcycle flaunting Mrs. Bressler's steadfast rule that no tenant was permitted to park in her driveway. And that especially included—as she told Erica often enough—the fancy Mr. Terry Parker and his noisy, fume-polluting Harley Davidson.
Erica switched off the ignition and stared out the rain-streaked windshield. The April shower was over, leaving the sky a few shades lighter than the drab sidewalk. She was too overcome by disappointment to wonder why a late model blue Lincoln Continental was parked in front of her boarding house in this shabby though respectable neighborhood. Silly to expect Terry to have miraculously reappeared in the two hours she'd been out doing the Saturday marketing.
A blanket of despair settled about her so that she felt a part of the bleak, sunless landscape in this small town in upstate New York. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d banked on Terry’s coming home this morning in spite of the fact that he always returned after one of his long, unexplained absences at dusk or late at night.
Work had gotten her through the week. As usual, the magazine where she was senior editor was late going to press, keeping her at the office until all hours with last minute changes and problems to solve. She’d had no time to eat lunch, much less dwell on her personal worries. She came home exhausted, downed a carton of yogurt and a banana, then turned on her laptop and forced herself to work on next month’s feature article: “Fifteen Fabulous Places to Meet the Man of Your Dreams.”
Each night, she willed herself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, successfully warding off useless speculation as to where Terry could be. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d gone off during the nine months of their erratic yet passionate marriage. He told her not to worry often enough, that his sudden departures had nothing to do with their relationship.
“I've told you, it’s work,” he’d say when she pressed him for information. “My job has me traveling all over to learn about the new products, then I gotta help out with training sessions. Nothing for you to be concerned about.” And when she asked why he couldn't text or call more often, he'd roll his eyes and say he wasn't a text or calling kind of guy. Still, all sorts of disturbing ideas swarmed about in her head, ideas Terry laughed at whenever she summoned up enough nerve to voice them. “In trouble? Me? Erica, sweetheart, you have to be kidding.”
Erica hoisted the groceries, a bag in each arm, and slammed the car door shut with her hip. She was a good deal sturdier than her petite, boyish figure led one to believe. The oversized glasses and cropped blonde hair gave her a perennial schoolgirl appearance, which a penchant for baggy sweaters and long, gauzy skirts did nothing to dispel. But the staff at Today’s Woman knew her to be competent and dependable, and turned to Erica to untangle impossible situations. She’d been self-reliant, as well, until Terry had come crashing into her life.
Head bowed, Erica climbed the steps to the screened-in porch that fronted Mrs. Bressler’s rambling wooden-framed house. She was about to put the key in the lock when the door flew open. The landlady’s bulky frame filled the doorway, her ample bosom heaving with distress as she struggled to reduce her normally strident voice to a whisper.
“Erica, dear, two men are upstairs waiting for you. I had to let them in. He near knocked me down, the fat one did.”
“Who are they? What do they want? I don’t know—”
“They want Terry, of course. And when I told them he was away, they said they wanted to talk to you.” Mrs. Bressler jerked her double chin upward. “They’re most likely watching for you. Through your bedroom window.” She almost whined. “They made me unlock your door. I didn’t want to, God knows, but I thought, for your sake, it would be worse if I called the police.”
The police? Erica clutched the groceries to her chest. Her mouth was dry as she whispered, “What do they want with Terry?”
“Couldn’t tell you, I’m sure.” The landlady sniffed. “I never saw the likes of them before. They look like a couple of gangsters, if you ask me.”
Erica stood, too frozen to move. Her eyes traveled past the open door, up the staircase leading to the cozy, makeshift apartment that had been her home for three years.
Mrs. Bressler watched her. The older woman spoke, her tone softer, “Come into my kitchen, Erica. Call the police, if you think that’s the wisest thing to do.” She sighed deeply. “Truth is, sometimes I sit up nights, worrying about you and that Terry you married. Only knew him a month, you did. It’s not my place to say so, but maybe you should have waited a bit. Got to know him before you took the big step.”
But Erica wasn’t listening. She suddenly remembered the blue Continental parked a few feet away. Her Honda was no match for it. She had to get away! The two packages slipped from her grasp as she turned and raced down the block.
She headed for Old Main Street, where a few rundown stores still remained in the center of town. She crossed to the Sweet Shoppe, its faded Dolly Madison sign adorning the grimy window. The familiar, dimly lit luncheonette, with its long counter and patched red vinyl booths, was empty. She huddled into the corner booth.
What do they want? What do they want from Terry? droned on and on in her head.
Charlie, the owner and counterman, came over, his customary good-natured grin on his face. “What’s your pleasure, Erica?”
“Coffee, just coffee,” she mumbled.
Charlie nodded and went to get it. He never asked questions. Never seemed to find it odd that one evening she’d walk in, arm-in-arm with Terry, all lit up, then show up a few nights later, alone and glum. Erica found his lack of curiosity a comfort. Charlie obviously accepted that life was both happy and sad, good and bad—a pleasant respite from Mrs. Bressler, whose worrying about her seemed to have taken over where her aunts’ had left off.
She sipped, scalding her lips on the steaming coffee.
“Mrs. Parker.”
The deep, commanding voice startled Erica. The cup slipped from her hand. Coffee spilled onto the table.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
But he had, she knew. Meant to frighten her. The voice belonged to the taller of the two men. He was tanned and had the fit good looks of a professional tennis player. But his eyes were cold, his expression severe. His gray sports jacket looked expensive—camel’s hair or cashmere, Erica guessed. Without invitation, he slid into the seat opposite her. The shorter, stocky man stood glowering at the end of the table. Erica couldn’t stop staring at him. He seemed on the verge of striking her.
The seated man spoke again. “Take a load off your feet, Andy. We found her, didn’t we? She’s not going to run away. But first, be a good boy and get us some coffee.”
“Aw, Sean, I don’t—”
Sean’s frown cut short his companion’s complaint, and Andy lumbered off to do as he was ordered.
“Silly to run away, Mrs. Parker.” Sean’s tone was conversational. “We won’t harm you. As your landlady must have told you, we’re looking for your husband.”
Running had been stupid. As usual, she hadn’t stopped to think. They had obviously seen her running down the street and now supposed she had something to hide.
She did her best to keep her voice steady. “What do you want with Terry?”
“Come, now. You really have no idea?” He sounded amused.
“How could I?” she asked defensively. “I don’t know very much about my husband’s work.”
“His work?” A genuine chuckle escaped his even white teeth. “Hey, that’s very funny.”
Her cheeks heated. She should have made Terry tell her exactly how he earned his living. The truth was, after a while, she didn’t want to know. Something in Terry’s tone implied that knowing would unearth unpleasantness, and Erica shunned unpleasantness at all costs.
Charlie came over, a cup of coffee in each hand, followed by the sheepish Andy. “Anything else I can get you, gentlemen?”
“This is fine, thanks.” Sean’s voice, though soft, was somehow threatening. He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. “What we would like is some privacy.” His eyes narrowed, giving him a foxlike appearance.
Charlie remained unperturbed. “Are you going to be all right, Erica?”
The quiet voice, the steady gaze calmed her, reminding her that she was in a public place. Charlie wouldn't stand by and let anything happen to her. She took a deep breath and shed some of her fright, and understood she’d fled, not from fear for her own safety, but because these men were about to bring an end to her willful blindness. Once she learned what they had to tell her, life with Terry could never be the same.
“Thanks, Charlie,” she said softly. “I’m all right.”
It was the right thing to say. Sean’s manner became less aggressive. “Mrs. Parker, we’re looking for your husband. He owes our boss a lot of money."
The other man sipped his coffee while Sean continued to study her. He must have seen her eyes widen and fill with tears because his tone softened. He hunched closer to her across the table.
“Terry lost it gambling Sunday night. He promised to pay it back by last night. He didn’t. He took off instead. He never did that before, and frankly, Mr. B is a little bit put out.”
“Oh.” A deep sigh reverberated through her taut body as she struggled to absorb what Sean’s few sentences had revealed. So that was Terry’s “work.” He was a gambler, and God knew what else. He had lied to her, just she had suspected in the deepest recesses of her mind. She hesitated, then asked, “How much does my husband owe?” It was better to find out the worst.
“With the interest, twenty thousand dollars.”
“My God! So much? What are we going to do?”
Erica lowered her head in an attempt to hide the tears streaming down her face behind her glasses. She flinched when a tanned hand reached across and gripped her shoulder.
“Hey, Mrs. Parker. Erica. I had no idea Terry kept you in the dark. He did say...but then you don’t look...”
Erica dried her eyes with a paper napkin, noting the uncertainty in the man’s voice. What could Terry have told him about her? She, too, was puzzled.
Sean leaned back and regained control of the situation. “Tell me about the last time you saw Terry. Was it Sunday night?”
“More like Monday morning. Close to four o’clock. He came in and woke me up. He reeked of liquor. I asked what was wrong and he said he needed money.”
“Go on.”
She sighed with exhaustion, no longer afraid. She now knew the worst and, horrible as it was, it was better than the nameless, shapeless horrors that flickered through her mind whenever Terry disappeared or refused to answer her questions.
“Terry thinks I’m wealthy,” she continued, “because I receive monthly checks from my parents’ estate. But I can’t get the capital. I’ve told him so again and again. And everything I’ve saved these last three years is...gone.”
“So, he cleaned you out already,” Andy commented between slurps of coffee. “Some nice guy.”
“You don’t understand!” Erica protested shrilly, angrily. “He was good to me. The only one who cared. Cares.”
She could have bitten her tongue. Why had she used the past tense? And why was she bothering to explain to these mobsters about Terry? It was none of their business what she did with her money.
“Did he take off that night?” Sean asked.
Erica hesitated, then shrugged. Sean might not have the right to question her, but refusing to answer could only make for more trouble.
“He kept after me, as though I were hiding something from him. I told him I could borrow some money from Rob Fenley, who owns the magazine I work for, but Terry just laughed. Then he got angry. He said something about keeping an agreement. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Finally, he fell asleep. When I got home from work Monday night, he was gone. His note said he’d be away for a few days on business, and not to worry. Mrs. Bressler said he left around noon.”
“Do you have the note?” Sean persisted.
She reached into her pocketbook, feeling herself blush. How stupid to keep the note, but it had been a bitter quarrel, and it was something of Terry’s.
Lips pursed, Sean read the torn sheet of paper, then returned it to Erica.
“Where do you think he could have gone? You must have some idea.”
He sounds like a prosecuting attorney on a TV show, Erica thought. Hammering away single-mindedly at the truth. She almost giggled aloud at the absurdity of the comparison, at the absurdity of her situation. These two men had dropped a bombshell on her life, and now they expected her to help them locate Terry. Well, she wouldn’t! For once, she was glad she didn’t know where he was.
“I have nothing else to tell you.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Terry never told me anything. Never brought any of his friends around.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Sean said grimly.
He believed her, Erica realized, when he handed her a business card.
“Here’s a number where you can reach me if Terry comes back.” He ignored her wince. “Either you call me or have him call. Don’t forget. Tell him terms can be arranged.” Sean leaned across, gray eyes glinting into hers. “Because if he doesn’t, he’ll regret it. I can promise you that.”
The two men rose and left the Sweet Shoppe. Minutes later, Erica was outside, too, her mind churning so she almost forgot to pay for her coffee. She nodded automatically to Charlie when he handed her the change.
Anger, outrage, and the need to help Terry whirled about in her mind, each emotion elbowing the others in an attempt to gain dominance. Unpleasant memories thrust themselves forward for reinterpretation. The times he’d “borrowed” money for old medical bills, for motorcycle repairs. All lies. She hated the thought that he’d deceived her so he could pay off his gambling debts.
But he could be wonderful, she reminded herself. Tender and caring. Buying her roses in the middle of January. Nursing her day and night when she was bedridden with the flu. He probably didn’t tell her he was a gambler for fear she wouldn’t marry him if she knew.
And he'd wanted to marry her. The thought warmed her heart for a block, but had no power to check the realization that, though he made her feel desired and happy, Erica didn’t know her husband very well. She had no idea how he spent his days or how he earned his living. Which was why she was left in this humiliating and foolish position. It was the steep price one paid for willful ignorance. For relinquishing her responsibility to herself. She could hear Aunt Constance’s booming voice reprimanding her, “So this is the kind of mess our girl gets herself into when we’re not around.”
Still, it was her mess, damn it. Hers and Terry’s. If he didn’t raise the money, those men would hurt him. That much was clear.
The sun came out as she reached Mrs. Bressler’s house. She began climbing the stairs when a male voice asked, "Are you Erica Parker?"
She spun around as a man stepped out of a blue BMW and walked toward her.
"I am," she said, almost defiantly. She had had her fill of strange men hassling her. "And who are you?"
"My name's Doug Remsen. I'm a friend of your husband's."
"Oh." The air left her body like a deflated balloon. "I thought..." She didn't quite know what she thought, aside from being glad Terry had a friend. "I don't know where Terry is, as I explained to the two thugs who just told me he owes their boss a lot of money."
"That wouldn't be Sean and Andy, by any chance? I thought I recognized Sean's car."
Erica nodded. "They scared me half to death."
"I'm sorry. They had no business doing that." Doug's voice sounded harsh, but his gray eyes were filled with sympathy.
"Thank you." For the first time, she noticed he was rather good-looking and fit, about ten years older than her husband. "It all came as a shock. I had no idea Terry gambled. He led me to believe..." She couldn't bring herself to tell him what a fool she had been.
Doug smiled. "Don't beat yourself up. Terry is a charmer and quite adept at hiding his faults from the people he cares about."
She found herself returning his smile. "It sounds like you know him well."
"Well enough. Since Terry's not here, I'll try texting him again." Doug reached inside his jacket pocket. "It was nice meeting you, Erica. Here's my card with my number. In case you need to contact me."
Why would I need to contact you? she wondered as she watched him drive away.
Her short conversation with Doug Remsen had helped restore her equilibrium. She climbed the steps, filled with determination. Now that she’d decided to act, she knew what she had to do.
She went straight to the small bedroom under the eaves and hauled down her suitcase from the closet shelf. She emptied the drawers and closet of her skirts and sweaters, blouses, jeans, and underwear. There wasn’t very much. She’d deliberately kept her possessions to a minimum. She grabbed her lipstick, toothbrush, and hairbrush from the bathroom and left the rest. Then she closed her laptop and scribbled off a short note to her boss, which she stuffed, along with the article she’d almost finished, into an envelope. Rob was going to scream the office down for her taking off like this, but she had no time to worry about that.
The letter to Terry took more thought. She decided to be forthright and brief.
Dear Terry,
Two thugs named Sean and Andy came here today looking for you. Sean told me all about your debt. I’m driving down to Long Island to try to get the money you owe. Call Sean, please. He says terms can be worked out.
I love you,
Erica.
P.S. Doug Remsen also stopped by to see you.
She included directions to the house on Long Island, the telephone number, and the number Sean had left her. Not knowing why, she put the card with Doug’s number in the zippered compartment of her pocketbook next to Terry’s note.
Erica trudged downstairs with her belongings and dropped them in the hall as she went to find Mrs. Bressler. Her landlady was sitting in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee, and wolfing down a large Danish. With great effort, she rose to her feet.
“Erica, honey, are you all right? I’ve been worried sick about you. Almost called the cops, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted that. Did those men hurt you?”
Erica shook her arm free of Mrs. Bressler’s frantic grip. Why did she have the bad luck of finding a landlady who reminded her so much of Aunt Constance? Several times in the last three years, she’d been on the verge of moving out, but she always decided against it. The rent was cheap, and Mrs. Bressler meant well, although her occasional emotional outbursts on Erica’s behalf sent her shuddering with distaste.
It took great effort to answer civilly. “Nothing happened, Mrs. Bressler. They wanted to talk to me about Terry. That was all.”
“Thank God.” Mrs. Bressler gave a deep sigh of relief.
Erica forced some warmth into her voice. “I appreciate your concern and all that you’ve done for me. I’m going away for a few days.” She handed the older woman a slip of paper. “This is where I’ll be staying. I left a letter for Terry in the apartment.” She hesitated, hating to involve Mrs. Bressler in her private affairs, but feeling she had little choice. “Please remind him to call the phone number inside. It’s very, very important. About his, er, work.”
Mrs. Bressler grew agitated. She pulled Erica’s head to her large bosom. “Where are you going? Let me help you. I can lend you money. I know you’re a good girl and you’ll pay me back.”
Fiercely, Erica pulled away. She knew she should be touched by this kind gesture, but it only irritated her. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, Mrs. Bressler, but I don’t need anything.”
She saw the hurt look on her landlady’s face and she made herself smile. It felt like a grimace. “Good-bye, Mrs. Bressler.”
Erica carried her belongings out to her car and got behind the wheel. She sighed deeply as she turned on the ignition and the Honda came to life. A feeling of apprehension came over her at the thought of the four-hour drive before her. But it wasn’t the long ride that bothered her. I’m doing it for Terry, she told herself again and again, like a mother coaxing a reluctant child. For, as much as Erica was determined to help her husband, she dreaded reaching her destination. She was going home to Manordale, the one place she swore she’d never set eyes on again.
Erica sped down the thruway, skillfully maneuvering past the cars and trucks sharing her route southward. Now that she’d set her plan into action, fear and anxiety evaporated as naturally as a snake shedding its outgrown skin. The ominous overtones of the morning’s encounter faded, leaving only the urgent need to raise the money for Terry as soon as possible. Surely those men wouldn’t kill him! The thought made her shudder. But maybe they broke arms and legs.
Erica shook her head vigorously. No point in scaring herself silly.
Nonetheless, she couldn’t stop thinking about Terry. They were both twenty-four, but Terry had obviously seen more of the seamy side of life. His dark eyes glinted with a streetwise savvy. He was often suspicious of people, even of Mrs. Bressler. But Erica had never given that much thought. She was too taken with the catlike grace of his lean, muscular body, with his outrageous handsomeness, and—best of all—the flashes of tenderness that occasionally showed through his macho stance. Not many of those lately. This past month, he’d behaved like a teenager who had to be cajoled out of the sulks.
Doug Remsen would never behave so immaturely. Erica shivered with guilty delight as the image of Doug Remsen worked its way into her musings. Now that the unpleasantness of the encounter with the two thugs had worn off, she remembered Doug's kindness. The sympathy he'd shown when she admitted that she hadn't known Terry liked to gamble. Blushing, she felt a stab of pleasure because he'd given her his card, now secure in her pocketbook on the passenger's seat.
Erica sighed as, once again, her thoughts were focused on Terry. Bad as this morning’s revelation had been, it was a relief to finally know the worst. A sudden chill crept up her spine. Would Terry feel desperate enough to rob a bank or hold up a store? She gunned the gas pedal, not realizing how fast she was moving until she passed three cars in as many seconds. She slowed down to sixty. My God, she thought. What if Terry keeps on gambling? She was at the end of her resources.
But was she? Erica suddenly remembered the house in Manordale and the cottage out at Montauk. They were both hers. Could she give them up for Terry? A wave of nostalgia swept over her. Images of beach picnics, family gatherings, her parents’ celebrated cocktail parties, flitted through her mind. Her barriers were down. The need for expediency sent her hurtling back to her past life, uncovering the painful memories she had carefully erased from all conscious thought for so long.
Erica chuckled wryly. To think she was driving straight into the arms of Aunt Constance and Aunt Betty, the very people she’d fled three years ago. Only three years? It seemed more like twenty.
As the miles flew by, Erica allowed herself to remember the happy years with her parents. She’d just turned eleven when they were killed in a plane crash. Her own life had nearly crashed, as well. Bossy, blustery Aunt Constance, her father’s older sister, and her gentle husband came to live with Erica. To run her life, was more like it.
“We don’t need a housekeeper,” Aunt Constance had declared, and dismissed Missy, who had been with Erica since she was born. Another loss. Devastated, Erica grieved in the privacy of her bedroom, which didn’t suit Aunt Constance one bit.
“Come and watch television with your Uncle Leonard and me, Erica. We’re a family now. We have to stick together.”
You’re not my family, Erica thought, but she’d followed her aunt downstairs. There was no point in putting up a fight. Aunt Constance would keep after her until she got her way.
Uncle Leonard had died when Erica was in high school. A week later, Erica’s mother’s sister moved in. Petite and determinedly cheerful, Aunt Betty was every bit as intrusive and controlling as her good friend Constance. Aunt Betty was a high school business teacher and considered herself an expert on teenagers. She’d tried to supervise Erica’s wardrobe, her social life, and her future.
“I can’t stand it! They’re driving me crazy!” Erica would complain to her best friend, Jason Hartley. Jason was two years older than her, a gangly redhead whom the neighborhood boys alternately teased and shunned for being a loser. Erica didn’t care how badly Jason played ball. She appreciated his gentle nature, his ability to understand what she was going through.
“Relax, Ricky,” he’d told her often enough. “Just nod and smile and tune them out. You’ll be going off to college soon enough.”
“Yay! To freedom!” Erica shouted, thrusting her fist in the air. She could hardly wait.
Then, Jason’s mother had died, and it was Erica’s turn to comfort him, to listen to his tirades against his father for marrying his secretary six months later.
Erica had her own bad news to bear, as well. She’d nearly wept when her aunts had sat her down and told her she wouldn’t be going to an out-of-town college, after all.
“Sorry, Erica. I know you’ve been looking forward to going away, but we simply haven’t the money,” Aunt Constance said gruffly.
Aunt Betty patted Erica’s arm. “It won’t be so bad. We’re getting you a car.” She beamed at her niece. “And this way, we’ll all be together for four more years.”
Four more years. Erica didn’t think she could take it. Still, she’d enrolled in a local university and majored in accounting. She’d found figures and bookkeeping boring, but she was determined to get a position that would enable her to earn enough money to live on her own.
Just before her twenty-first birthday, Jason’s father, Sherman, who was also the family lawyer, had called Erica into his office. He’d informed her that she would be receiving fifteen hundred dollars each month from her parents’ estate. Erica was delighted. She’d worked hard in her senior year and secured a good job for the fall.
After graduation, she was about to set out on the cross-country vacation she’d been planning for years when her aunts tried to convince her to cancel her trip.
“It’s plain dangerous for a young woman to be traveling all over the country by herself,” Aunt Constance insisted.
Aunt Betty tittered. “Erica, dear, there are so many nice resorts where you could swim and play tennis and rest in the sun.” She gave Erica a sly look. “And you’ve a better chance of meeting young men at a resort.”
It had been the last straw. Erica drove off, determined to start a new life. She hadn’t a destination in mind, except that it be far from Long Island. When she finally settled down, she made no attempt to contact her aunts. Of course, she had to write to Sherman to tell him where to send her monthly checks. But she asked him to keep her whereabouts confidential. As far as she could judge, he had.
“And here I am again,” she said out loud as she turned off the highway and onto the four-lane road leading to Manordale.
Soon, she was on Main Street, her Main Street of twenty-two years. It looked the same except for a few changes. A boutique stood where the travel agency used to be. There was a new health food store now, and a two-story Tudor-style mini-mall. She drove past a condominium that hadn’t been there when she’d left.
Automatically, she made the necessary turns, left, right, then right again, until she reached the white brick house on Chestnut Drive. Her heartbeat accelerated as she pulled into the driveway behind a blue Toyota Camry. She noticed the lawn was overgrown and patchy. An upstairs shutter was missing.
She made her way up the walk.
Suddenly, she was trembling, her anticipation turning to terror. She fought to control the preposterous thought that the house was about to swallow her up, and she’d never see daylight again.