The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [111]
Martha stepped off her patio and crossed to Edith’s yard.
Abruptly the hair rose on Edith’s arms. The air howled around her ears. She knew without turning that the visions were back, the poor, tortured girls hovering around her patio as if there was something important they had to tell her but death had robbed them of their voices.
The tea mug trembled violently in her grasp, splashing her hands with scalding hot liquid.
“Edith,” Martha said, coming to a halt at the bottom of the steps.
Edith didn’t say anything. She just looked at her neighbor.
This close, she could see the subtle changes. Martha’s eyes were now dulled by exhaustion and strain. She moved differently too. She walked stiffly, as if her age had caught up to her suddenly and now weighed on her heavily.
“Martha,” Edith acknowledged at last.
“I apologize for intruding.”
“No need.”
Martha squared her shoulders. “I have a visitor,” she announced. Her gaze met Edith’s. It was a touch defiant.
“A visitor?” The hair still danced up Edith’s arms with wild electricity. Her chest was beginning to tighten with a familiar pain.
“My granddaughter.”
“You have a granddaughter?”
“From the boy. The salesman who travels.”
“I see.”
“I had to meet him, unexpectedly. Something came up; he needs me to watch my granddaughter.”
“Uh-huh.”
Martha looked at her again. In this dark moment before dawn, her gaze appeared flat, as if she were dead. “Will you meet her this morning?”
Edith wasn’t certain. Finally she nodded. “If you’d like.”
“If . . . if something should happen to me, will you take care of her, Edith? I would trust you with her.”
Again there was that stare. That only-half-alive gaze. There was no pleading in Martha’s voice, not even fear. It was strangely matter-of-fact, and that scared Edith more.
“Yes,” she agreed softly. “I suppose. But I’ll need the address and phone number of your son.”
Martha shrugged. She said, “Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”
TWENTY-THREE
THEY MET AT a small diner, one of those places where people bring their children because the ice cream sundaes are better than the hamburgers, and senior citizens laid claim to corner booths to enjoy the “two eggs, two strips of bacon, two pieces of toast for $2.22 special.”
Against an unlikely backdrop of a swirling sea of red and blue floral carpet, Marion perched on the edge of a brown vinyl booth and waited impatiently for her brother and Tess to arrive.
One long, slim leg was carefully crossed over the other. Her back was ramrod straight. She hadn’t dressed for her surroundings, but had donned a navy blue pants suit trimmed with gold braid around the cuffs and collar. The outfit inspired enough awe to halt a two-year-old, who stared up at her icy, perfect posture as if maybe he should salute. Even her hair was obedient, pulled back harshly into its usual French twist with not a single strand escaping to curl delicately around her cheeks.
She glanced down at the toddler, her blue eyes cold and impenetrable. With a startled squeal he bolted on stubby legs. Marion simply raised her cigarette to her pale pink lips and inhaled.
“Scaring off another admirer, I see,” J.T. drawled, walking across the restaurant to her with Tess in tow. A moment later he leaned against the booth, hip thrust out. A homemade sling decorated his arm.
She exhaled into his face. “It’s a gift.” She looked at him steadily, waiting to see who would draw first blood.
Tess positioned herself between brother and sister. Marion flicked her a cold glance. “And you’re playing ref?”
“Apparently,” Tess said, but didn’t sound happy about it. She had just started sliding into the booth, when Marion shook her head.
“Not here. Too public.”
The cool agent collected her cigarettes and led them toward the back, where the banquet rooms were open and unoccupied. She commandeered the smallest one, closing the door behind them and gesturing to the collection of empty tables.
Tess selected one in the middle of the room. J.T. sat next to her, while Marion took the seat across.
“Nice,” Marion commented, nudging her chin