Sisters. Thank God for them.
Now it was almost noon and Angie was on the outskirts of Seattle. As always, the traffic was bumper to bumper in this city that had built its freeways too many years ago.
She took the next exit and looped into downtown. Amazingly, there was a parking spot right across the street from the Times’s office. She pulled in and parked.
And wondered what the hell she was doing here. She didn’t even know if he’d be working today. She knew nothing about his life now.
They were separate. Divorced. What had made her think he’d want to see her?
You hear that, Papa? Your Angela is afraid.
It was true. And it was no way to live.
She flipped down the mirror and checked her face. She saw every wrinkle that time and circumstance had left on her.
“Damn.”
If only there was time for a chemical peel.
Be brave, Angie.
She grabbed her purse and went inside the building.
The receptionist was new.
“I’m here to see Conlan Malone.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Mr. Malone is busy today. I’ll check—”
“I’m his wife.” She winced, corrected herself. “Ex wife.”
“Oh. Let me—”
Henry Chase, the security guard who’d worked this building for more years than anyone could count, came around the corner. “Angie,” he said grinning. “Long time no see.”
She let out a relieved breath. “Hey, Henry.”
“You here to see him?”
“I am.”
“Come on.”
She smiled back at the receptionist, who shrugged and reached for the phone.
Angie followed Henry to the bank of elevators, said good-bye, and went upstairs. On the third floor, she stepped out into the busy center of Conlan’s life.
There were desks everywhere. On this holiday weekend, many of them were empty. She was glad of that. Still, there were plenty of familiar faces. People looked up, smiled nervously, and glanced toward Conlan’s office.
The ex-wife’s visit was worry-worthy, apparently. No doubt, word of her visit would spread from desk to desk; reporters loved to hear news and pass it on.
She tilted her chin up, clutched her purse in sweaty fingers, and kept moving.
She saw him before he saw her. He stood at the window of his corner office, talking on the phone. He was putting on his coat as he talked.
In that instant, everything she’d repressed came flooding back. She remembered how he used to kiss her first thing in the morning, every day, even when he was late for work, and how she sometimes pushed him away because she had other, more important things on her mind.
She knocked on the glass door.
Conlan turned, saw her. His smile faded slowly, his eyes narrowed. In anger? Disappointment? She wasn’t sure anymore; she couldn’t read his face. Maybe the look had been one of sadness.
He waved her in.
She opened the door and went inside.
He held up one finger to her, then said into the phone, “That’s not okay, George. We’re scheduled. I have the photographer ready. He’s waiting in the van already.”
Angie looked down at his desk. It was covered with notes and letters; a stack of newspapers dominated one side.
The pictures of her were gone. Now there was nothing personal at all, no glimpse of who he was on his off hours.
She didn’t sit down, afraid that she’d start to tap her foot or squirm nervously.
“Ten minutes, George. Don’t you move.” Conlan hung up the phone, then turned to her. “Angie” was all he said. The Why are you here? was silent but unmistakable.
“I was in town. I thought we could—”
“Bad timing, Ange. That was George Stephanopoulos on the phone. I have a meeting with him in”—he looked at his watch—“seventeen minutes.”
“Oh.”
He reached down for his briefcase.
She took a step backward, feeling vulnerable now.
He looked at her.
Neither of them moved or spoke. The room felt full of ghosts and long lost sounds. Laughter. Crying. Whispering.
She wanted him to move toward her, give her some sign of encouragement, however small. Then she could launch into I’m sorry and he would know why she was here.
“I’ve gotta run. Sorry.” He started to reach for her, probably to pat her shoulder, but drew back before making contact. They stared at each other for another long moment, and then he walked out on her.
She sank down into the chair in front of his desk.
“Angie?”
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, dazed, trying to collect the pieces of herself. She looked up and saw Diane VanDerbeek.
Angie didn’t rise. She wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. “Diane. It’s good to see you again.”
And it was. Diane had worked with Conlan for a long time. She and her husband, John, had been their friends for years. Conlan had gotten custody of the friendship in the divorce. No, that wasn’t quite true. Angie had given them up without a fight. For weeks after the separation, Diane had called. Angie hadn’t called her back.