The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [72]
Chapter Twelve
Fallon disembarked at LaGuardia glassy-eyed and dry-mouthed. Her head throbbed, reminding her of such things as sleep and food and water. Rachel found her at the baggage claim. There was hugging and kind words, then obedient agreements to not talk about things for a while.
In the car, watching Queens stream by the window, Fallon turned to her friend to speak for the first time in twenty minutes. “Thanks.”
“None needed,” Rachel said, smiling weakly. “Just let me know what I can do.”
“Call Donald Forrester for me and tell him I’m fucked, please.”
“You know I would, if you wanted me to.”
“I know. And I’ll be a big girl and do it myself.” Soon, Fallon thought. In a day, maybe two, when she wasn’t grieving so deeply that her body felt as though it were ripping open at the seams.
“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Rachel said and it didn’t matter which man she was referring to.
Fallon gave her a withering look.
“We can dream, can’t we?”
“You, the worst Jew I’ve ever met and me, a congenital atheist?” Fallon asked. “Like we’ve got any miracles due to us.”
Rachel nodded glumly. “I’m so sorry, Fal. I know how much she meant to you. And that house.” Rachel and Josh had gone with her to Gloria’s twice for Christmas and once for the Fourth of July. She did know. “And all the time you sacrificed, trying to make this work.”
Fallon cried silently as Rachel wove them through the traffic. What business did autumn have, looking so sunny and cheerful this morning? She grabbed her bag from the floor and dug for a tissue. Remembering her phone, she switched it off flight mode. A minute later it vibrated into life. One missed call, the screen informed her.
Rachel glanced over. “The devil himself?”
She shook her head, squinting at the area code. “Nova Scotia.”
“Oh.”
Fallon held down the check message button with shaking fingers and that voice she’d heard shrieking at her only the previous afternoon sounded as though it were speaking from a month ago, calm and cool.
“It’s Max. Don’t tell Forrester we’ve fallen out. I will fix this.” The click of the receiver being replaced. Fallon flipped her phone closed.
“Max?” Rachel asked, glancing nervously between Fallon and the road.
“Yeah.”
“Was it bad, when you two…parted ways?”
Fallon nodded. “It was ugly.”
“Was the message ugly?”
“No,” Fallon said. “But it’s the last fucking thing I need right now.”
Fallon was plied with pizza and a stiff vodka and tonic and sent to bed early. When she awoke the next morning, the sky was still blue, the world still turning. Her bedclothes from the last couple of years felt as unfamiliar as a motel’s.
Rachel had departed for work early as usual and left a pot of coffee warming in the machine. Fallon caffeinated herself and ate a half-frozen bagel and spun her phone around on the counter for five minutes before dialing.
“Donald Forrester.”
“It’s Fallon.”
His voice transformed. “Hello, Fallon! How is it on Cape Breton today?”
She paused. “It’s fine… Did Emery get in touch with you?”
“He did. I’m just thrilled! Don’t tell me the details. I do love a surprise.”
“What…what exactly did he tell you?” Fallon asked, brow knitted.
“Said he needed until the third week of December and some extra expenses. Can’t tell a living genius like that no, of course.”
“Of course,” she agreed, frightened to say too much or not enough and give away her ignorance. “I better go now. I just wanted to make sure he talked to you about it.” She ended the call before he could reply. She held on to the counter and tried to figure out what she was supposed to be doing.
She couldn’t call Max directly. She could call the bar in Pettiplaise or the market, try to get someone to leave him a message if he stopped by. She could send him a note, asking him to call and explain to her what in the hell was going on. Or she could wait. In the end, she did all three.
The following month bore no resemblance to reality. Fallon couldn’t go back to her advocacy job as the chances of Forrester finding out she was back in town were too high.