Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [100]
“I’m tired—it’s been a long week.”
His heart gave a single quick thump. “You want to go back to my place?”
“I think I’ll stay at Arlene’s place tonight, if you don’t mind.”
Arlene was her friend in Murray Hill who traveled constantly and was rarely home. They had gone to school together, and Kathy had keys to her apartment.
“Okay,” he said.
She bit her lip. “I just need some time.” “Sure,” he said. “Whatever.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. Shouldering her bag, she snaked her way through the tables and down the stairs to the main floor. Her watched her black curls bounce as she walked through the stacks of books, hoping she would look back at him before leaving the store, but she didn’t.
He stared out the window for a while, watching people stroll west along Eighty-second Street on their way to Riverside Park. A thin boy of about nine rode his bike next to his mother, who carried shopping bags in either hand, laughing at something her son was saying. He thought of his own mother and wondered if she had ever taken that kind of delight in him. He wished he could hear what the boy was saying, wished he had the secret to making women happy. He had no luck on the genetic front there, he thought bitterly. His father had done nothing but break his mother’s heart—all their hearts, for that matter.
He was about to get up from his table when he felt a hand touch his shoulder, and turned to see the lady with the cloth bag standing next to him.
“She loves you, you know,” she said. Her accent was British, refined and educated.
“What?” he replied, taken off guard.
“I know it’s none of my business, of course, but you can see it in every move she makes. She’s in love with you. She didn’t leave because she doesn’t care about you—she left because she cares too much.”
“Oh,” was all he could say.
“You’ll see I’m right,” the woman continued. “I know about these things. I can always read strangers. It’s a gift, I suppose—and a curse. My Henry used to say that I should be a psychologist or something like that, but it’s not something you can study.” She shrugged. “It’s—”
“A gift, I know.”
“You do?”
He hesitated. This was surely the oddest conversation he had ever had with a stranger.
“I’m just saying that I understand what you’re saying—” he said, but she interrupted him.
“I knew it!” she crowed, her face breaking into a broad smile. “You have it, too. I had a feeling about you, but I wasn’t sure.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Use it well—that’s the only advice I can give you.”
“Look—” he began, but she shook her head.
“No need to say anything more. I understand perfectly. But mark my words, will you? She loves you. She’ll come around, but you have to be patient. Don’t try to understand her reaction, because she doesn’t even understand it herself. She just has to work her way out of it over time, but it will happen.” She smiled at him fondly, like an indulgent aunt. “I hope the two of you are very happy together. I have a feeling you will be.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—” he started, but once again she cut him off.
“I know, I know—I’m being terribly pushy, and terribly forward. My dear Henry would always tell me to keep my nose out of other’s people’s affairs. ‘Beryl,’ he would say, ‘people have better things to do than to listen to you go on about your gift.’ But, you see, sometimes people need to hear these things—sometimes all that’s needed is to know someone cares about you. And I’m telling you, young man, that girl cares about you. What you do with that information is your business.”
And with that, she bent down and picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and downed the rest of her coffee in one gulp.
“Nice meeting you,” she said, with a final pat on his shoulder. “Best of luck to you.” And she lumbered out of the café, moving between the tables with surprising agility for someone of her girth.
Lee wanted to say something, but he had no idea what it might be. He was too astonished to speak, and just watched as she made her way