Now You See Her

TWENTY


I’M SORRY. HOW MUCH did you say?” Marcy asked the bright-eyed, dark-haired receptionist, who didn’t look a day over twelve.

“Six hundred and fifty euros,” the girl repeated with a smile that exposed her entire upper gum.

I could do something about that, Peter said from the dark recesses of Marcy’s brain.

Six hundred and fifty euros translated into around a thousand dollars, Marcy calculated silently, thinking that Peter would have a fit when he saw this month’s credit card bills, whose charges he’d agreed to cover for two years—“within reason,” he’d stressed—when she’d agreed not to contest their divorce. Silly man, she thought now. Had he really expected a crazy woman to act reasonably?

“Is that all right?” the receptionist asked, small clouds of worry disturbing the sky blue of her eyes. “It’s a deluxe room. I’m afraid there’s nothing else available at the moment.”

“It’s fine.” Marcy pushed her credit card across the black-and-gold-flecked marble counter. She could use a little deluxe treatment about now, she was thinking, wondering if the room she was getting was the same one Vic had abandoned earlier.

“Do you need help with your luggage?”

“Don’t have any.” Marcy surveyed the soft peach-and-gold-colored foyer with its marble columns and magnificent mahogany staircase. The hotel resembled an elegant, if large, manor home of the type that was common at the turn of the century, but the truth was that it had been built in 1996 and expanded to its current eighty-eight rooms in 1999. Nothing is what it seems, Marcy thought, returning her credit card to her wallet. “Is there somewhere I can buy a toothbrush and toothpaste?”

“Housekeeping can provide you with that, and we have a wonderful spa that sells all sorts of beauty and hair products,” the receptionist told her without further prompting.

Marcy’s hand went immediately to her hair, tucking it behind her ears and feeling it instantly bounce back to its former position as the receptionist handed her the key card to her room. “You’re in room 212. The elevator is straight ahead. Or you can take the stairs.” She pointed with her chin toward the elegant staircase.

Two small children suddenly came crashing against Marcy’s legs, a sweet-faced girl of about eight, followed by her more rambunctious, towheaded younger brother, triggering memories of Devon and Darren when they were little. The girl apologized immediately and profusely, her big eyes shooting toward the front door, her little face growing tense as she waited for her mother, who was struggling with a bunch of shopping bags, to catch up. Her brother, oblivious to everything but his own fevered imagination, continued running in increasingly ragged circles around them.

She’s so serious, Marcy thought, aching to reach out and stroke the young girl’s cheek, to reassure her that everything would be all right. Except how could she offer such assurances when she was sure of no such thing? Hadn’t she offered the same empty promises to Devon?

Marcy moved slowly toward the elevator. It had been an exhausting, frustrating day, full of surprises—first the trip to Youghal and the meeting with Claire and Audrey, followed by the drive back to Cork, the kiss in the car, the discovery of the ransacking of her room, and the indignity of her repeat visit to the garda station. The last eight hours had been a veritable roller-coaster ride of anticipation, disappointment, accusations, and despair. Was this how Devon had felt most of the time? Marcy wondered, feeling utterly drained both physically and emotionally. It required all her strength to push one foot in front of the other.

“Hold the lift,” a voice called out in crisp British tones. Seconds later, the woman with the shopping bags ushered her two children into the elevator, inadvertently forcing Marcy against the back wall of the tiny space. “Sorry,” the woman said. “Simon, settle down,” she instructed her son, who was still spinning around in circles like a top. “Jillian, what’s wrong, pumpkin?”

The little girl said nothing, her lower lip quivering.

“What is it? Don’t you like the new dress we bought you?”

“That’s just it. The dress is perfect,” the child said, gazing imploringly at her mother.

“I don’t understand,” the woman responded.

“Where will we ever find a pair of shoes to match it?” the young girl wailed.

Her mother laughed. She was still laughing as the elevator doors opened onto the second floor.

Had Marcy ever felt the freedom to laugh at her daughter in such a casual way? Or had she interpreted Devon’s every frown as a potential harbinger of impending doom, an intimation of coming disaster? And had she unconsciously transferred those fears onto Devon, creating doubt and turmoil where none had previously existed? Had she read too much into things … or not enough? “Excuse me.” Marcy wiggled her way around the still-spinning boy, touching the top of his blond head as she made her exit.

“Mummy,” she heard the boy exclaim as the elevator doors shut behind her, “she touched me.”

Mommy! she heard Devon cry, her voice cutting through the past like a hook to grab at Marcy’s heart. She spun around, already knowing there was no one there.

Her room was only steps from the elevator. Marcy opened the door to find a wall of leaded windows overlooking a private garden, and a beautiful marble bathroom with a large tub and separate shower stall. The bed was king size, the sheets crisp and white, the walls a pale apricot. A fluffy white bathrobe hung in the closet. “I think I’ll stay here forever,” she said, lying down on top of the bedspread and gazing up at a portrait of two young women that hung over her head. She closed her eyes, picturing Vic lying beside her, imagining his arms tight around her. Seconds later, she was asleep.

She dreamed she was in the shoe department of a large store, her feet bare, piles of discarded shoes spread out on the floor around her. “I need something to match my dress,” she told the hapless salesclerk, pulling on the sides of the emerald-green apron covering her blue, flower-print dress.

“There’s nothing here,” the clerk told her. “You should go home.”

“I’m not leaving. Not until I find my shoes.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” the clerk told her in John Sweeny’s voice.

A man came running toward her, holding out a pair of black stilettos, their leather scratched, their heels broken. “How about these?”

It was Vic Sorvino.

“Vic!” Marcy exclaimed, her arms reaching for him.

“Don’t touch him,” Liam cautioned, appearing out of nowhere to snatch the shoes from Vic’s hands. “I don’t trust him.” Liam tossed the shoes to the floor. They ricocheted off the wood and bounced toward the wall.

Marcy woke up with a start, the sound of shoes hitting the floor continuing to reverberate in the distance.

“Housekeeping,” she heard someone say from outside the door to her room, accompanied by a gentle knocking. Not shoes, she realized, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock. It was after five. She’d been asleep the better part of two hours.

The door opened and a uniformed maid entered the room. Both women gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the maid said, backing toward the door. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I knocked and knocked. I’ll come back later.”

“No, that’s all right.” Marcy jumped off the bed, crossing toward the large windows. “I must have fallen asleep. Please, go ahead. Do … whatever.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Marcy watched the young woman, whose long dark hair was twisted into a braid at the back of her head, turn down the bed and fold up its ochre-colored bedspread, then lay it across the top shelf in the closet. If the maid was surprised not to see any clothes on the hangers, she didn’t let on.

“Will there be anythin’ else I can do for you?” she asked.

Marcy shook her head. Then, “Wait!” She reached for her purse, quickly extricating the envelope containing her daughter’s pictures and holding out the most recent one. “Do you recognize this girl, by any chance?”

The maid took the photograph from Marcy’s trembling fingers, bringing it so close to her face that she was almost touching it with her short, upturned nose. “No, can’t say that I do,” she said.

Marcy pressed. “Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”

“It’s just that I can’t see so good without my glasses.”

“So you might know her?”

“No. Don’t think so,” the girl said.

“But without your glasses …”

“I squinted. That’s almost as good.” The maid smiled as she returned the picture to Marcy’s hand.

“Damn it,” Marcy muttered when she was gone. Had she really expected her to recognize the photograph? She shook her head, no longer knowing what she expected. She plopped back down on the side of the bed, understanding she was no farther ahead than she’d been when she first arrived back in Cork. If anything, she was in worse shape. She had no leads, no clothes, not even a toothbrush.

As if on cue, there was another knock on the door. “Housekeeping,” a woman’s voice announced.

Had the maid realized she was mistaken, that she recognized Devon after all? Marcy threw open the door to find a big-bosomed, gray-haired woman of around sixty holding a toothbrush in one hand and a small tube of toothpaste in the other. “I understand you’re in need of these,” she said brightly.

“Thank you,” Marcy said, the hand holding Devon’s picture reaching for the items.

“Oh, who’s this now?” the woman from housekeeping asked.

“Do you know her?” Marcy asked in return.

The woman studied the picture for several seconds. “I thought for a minute it might be Katie.”

“Katie?” Marcy could barely fit the word around the sudden pounding of her heart.

“My neighbor’s daughter.”

“Her name is Katie?”

“Yeah, but it’s not her.”

“You’re sure?”

The woman nodded. “Now that I have a good look, I can see they’re quite different around the eyes.”

“You’re sure?” Marcy asked again. “Have you known Katie long?”

“Only all her life,” the woman said, and laughed. “She’s a handful, that one. Always has been. Who’s this, then?”

“My daughter,” Marcy told her. “Also a handful.”

The woman smiled. “Yes, well. I guess they all are at that age. I better be off. Enjoy your stay. If you need anything else, just ring.”

I need my daughter, Marcy thought. “Thank you,” she said. Then, “This girl, Katie …” she began, not sure what she was going to say next.

“Yes?” The woman waited, a puzzled wrinkle disturbing the otherwise serene line of her smile.

“Do you know the sort of places she likes to go? A favorite pub or hangout? My daughter will be joining me soon,” she added when she saw the puzzled expression on the woman’s mouth spread to her eyes. “I thought it would be nice to take her to a few places where there are lots of young people.”

“Oh, there’s no shortage of those.” The woman laughed. “There’s Dingles, over on Oliver Plunkett Street. I understand it’s pretty popular. And there’s Mulcahy’s on Corn Market. It’s a bit rough, but the kids all love it.”

“Thank you.” Corn Market Street was in the flat of the city. No doubt she’d walked past Mulcahy’s many times in the last few days and failed to notice it. It might be worth another look, she thought, deciding to shower first.

Hopefully a blast of hot water will wake me up, she thought as she stepped under the shower’s oversized nozzle. Emptying the tiny bottle of shampoo the hotel provided on her head, she scrubbed her scalp until it tingled, wishing she could clean out the inside of her brain as thoroughly, free it of all the cobwebs of the past, the doubts and recriminations she carried with her everywhere. And now there were questions as well: Could Vic Sorvino really have had anything to do with the trashing of her room at the Doyle Cork Inn? Was he really capable of such a vicious act? And if so, why?

She unwrapped a small, round bar of lilac-scented soap and began vigorously rubbing it across her naked torso, grateful for the amount of lather it produced. The questions continued: Was Vic angry with her for running off? Was he jealous at seeing her drive off with another man? Was he a psychopath?

Did he know something about Devon? Something he didn’t want her to find out?

The thought shot through Marcy like an electric shock, her arms shooting into the air, the bar of soap flying from her hands. It bounced to the tile floor, slid into a corner. Marcy froze.

Was it possible?

No, she told herself, regaining her composure and equilibrium and retrieving the soap from the floor, the water from the overhead nozzle continuing to spill down her cheeks, carrying the bitter taste of lilacs into her mouth. It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.

But then, what did?

She heard her cell phone ringing as she was getting out of the shower.

“Marcy, are you all right?” Liam asked as soon as she said hello. “The gardai were just at Grogan’s, askin’ all sorts of questions. What the hell happened?”

Marcy balanced the phone against her ear as she struggled into the terry-cloth bathrobe and gathered both sides around her, throwing a towel over her wet head. “The police were there?”

“They just left. They said your room had been ransacked.…”

Marcy quickly explained everything that had happened since Liam had dropped her off in front of the Doyle Cork Inn.

He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort of disbelief. “What—I can’t leave you alone for a second?”

“Apparently not.”

“The police think it was that guy you was with. Is it true he destroyed all your things?”

“Somebody did,” Marcy said, still reluctant to conclude it was Vic. “What did the police say exactly?”

“Exactly not very much indeed. Just asked a lot of questions, mostly about you. And your daughter.”

“What sort of questions?”

“How long I’d known you, your background and stuff like that, if I thought you were unstable,” he added after a brief pause.

Marcy held her breath. “And do you?” she asked with a sad smile, hoping Liam wouldn’t take offense.

A second’s silence, then, “What I think is you’re not safe.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be safe?” Until this very minute, the thought that she might actually be in danger had never occurred to her.

“Some lunatic just trashed your room and tore up all your things,” Liam said forcefully. “He could come back, Marcy. I really think you should think about goin’ back to Toronto.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re just bein’ stubborn. All right, look. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not going anywhere until I find Devon.”

Another pause. “All right. I have to go. Grogan’s givin’ me the evil eye. Will you do me a favor and just stay put for the rest of the night?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of going over to Mulcahy’s.”

“Mulcahy’s over on Corn Market? Have you taken total leave of your senses? It’s a dive. No way you’re goin’ there alone. No, you’re goin’ to order room service and get into bed, and that’s the end of the story.”

“Okay,” she said, agreeing reluctantly.

“You promise?”

Marcy smiled. “You don’t have to worry about me, Liam.”

“Can’t seem to help it.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Marcy was still smiling as she disconnected the line and tossed the phone to the bed. She wondered idly if it was the same bed Vic had slept in and pondered again if there could be any connection between the soft-spoken, middle-aged man from Chicago and her daughter. She mulled over each encounter, replayed their previous conversations, reconstructing each one in as much detail as she could remember. Had his interest in her been more than a simple combination of attraction and opportunity? Was there something sinister behind his seemingly innocent facade? Was he really a recently divorced, retired widget salesman from Chicago, still grieving the death of his first wife, or had that all been a clever ruse, calculated to charm and disarm her? Was there even such a thing as a widget? Marcy wondered, almost laughing out loud. Had anything he’d told her been the truth?

Liam is right, she decided, drying her hair with the towel around her neck. Her head was spinning; her eye had resumed throbbing. She was in no condition to go out again tonight. She should just stay put, order room service, and get to bed early. She’d go out first thing in the morning and buy some new clothes.

At least my photographs of Devon escaped unharmed, she thought gratefully, grabbing her purse from the desk near the wall of windows and hugging it tightly to her breast. Everything valuable, everything she really needed, was in this bag—her money, her passport, her memories. She opened it and withdrew the by-now-tattered envelope containing Devon’s pictures. “My baby,” she whispered, gently laying the photographs along the desk’s smooth surface, watching as Devon grew up before her bewildered eyes. “My beautiful baby.”

My beautiful mommy, Devon whispered back.

Marcy removed the picture of her own mother from the envelope. “My beautiful mommy,” she repeated, laying her picture down beside Devon’s, breathing in their uncanny resemblance. Slowly, reluctantly, her fingers trembling, she reached back inside the envelope and removed the second, smaller envelope, the one marked “MOMMY,” carefully withdrawing the single sheet of lined paper that was folded neatly inside it. She turned the piece of paper over in her hands several times before unwrapping it, lifting it to her tear-filled eyes.

My beautiful mommy, she read, Devon’s awkward scrawl playing hide-and-seek with her tears. I don’t expect you to understand what I’m about to do.

Marcy trembled. When had she ever understood anything her daughter had tried to tell her?

Please don’t be mad, and understand that this is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I know how much pain I’ve caused you. Believe me when I say I have no desire to cause you any more. Marcy lowered her head, unable to continue. When she looked up again, her tears blinded her to everything except the letter’s last paragraph. “Please know how much I love you,” she read out loud, desperately trying to match her daughter’s voice with the words she’d never heard her say.

Her hands shaking, Marcy refolded the tearstained paper and returned it, along with the photographs, to her purse. Minutes later, her damp curls framing her head like a wreath, she crawled back into the jeans and gray sweater she’d been wearing all day and headed out the door.