The Best of Us (6 page)

“Oh,” Eva said in a small voice.

“Honey?” Allie asked. “Is there anything bothering you?”

Eva shook her head, and Allie had no idea whether to push her to talk. So she just held her little girl, whispering more stories as the sky turned from black to gray to blue. Even after Allie felt Eva’s body relax into sleep, she kept talking softly, telling of the day Eva was born, and Sasha—the best days of her life. The days that made her realize that everything else she’d experienced—college, meeting Ryan, even her wedding day—had just been dress rehearsals for the pivotal chapter of her life: motherhood.

Allie had told Eva the truth about her birth mother, Debby. Ever since Debby had reached out to her through the adoption agency after Allie turned eighteen and Allie had agreed to a meeting, they’d fallen into a casually friendly relationship. But they weren’t close, and witnessing the tumult of Debby’s life—she was constantly fighting with her third husband, and always short of money—made Allie grateful for that.

She didn’t talk to Debby often, maybe every four or five months. But a few weeks after Dwight’s invitation had been delivered, Debby had called.

“Hank died,” she’d said. No preamble, just those stark words. Allie had felt tears gathering in her eyes, even though she’d never met her biological father, who’d gotten Debby pregnant when they were both teenagers. Allie had been standing at the counter, sorting through the day’s mail while Ryan was giving the girls a bath upstairs. Her legs had suddenly felt weak, and she’d sunk into a chair.

“How?” she’d asked, the possibilities racing through her mind. She knew, through Debby, that he’d been a heavy drinker and smoker.

“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Debby had said. “It happened a couple weeks ago. I didn’t know until I saw some stuff about the funeral on the Facebook page for our old high school.”

Debby didn’t sound upset—she and Hank had broken up before Allie had even been born. Hank had been furious that Debby decided against an abortion, Debby had said, in one of her breathtakingly thoughtless remarks that made Allie all the more grateful for her true parents.

Allie had talked to Debby awhile longer, listening to her lament her current husband’s job troubles. Then, just as she’d begun to ease off the phone, Debby had said, “It happened to Hank’s father, too, you know. I remember when I went to his house once, in the tenth grade. He could barely move. It
really creeped me out. He had to blink his eyes to communicate.”

“What?”
Allie had asked.

“Yeah, he had it, too. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“So my biological father and grandfather had the same disease?” Allie had asked. “It isn’t . . . genetic, is it?”

Debby had paused to take another drag of her cigarette. “Huh. Never thought of that.”

“I’ve got to go,” Allie had blurted, unable to listen to Debby’s raspy voice for another minute. She’d hung up and raced into the living room, then back into the kitchen. Then she’d abruptly stopped, her heart thudding in her chest.

It was probably nothing, she’d told herself as she grabbed a sponge and began violently scrubbing a pan she’d left soaking in the sink. The fact that two of her relatives had the same fatal illness was a fluke. Was ALS even inherited? She’d thought it was a random disease that struck as swiftly and irrevocably as a bolt of lightning, impossible to predict where it would touch down. Besides, Debby wasn’t the most reliable source; Allie had caught her in a half dozen untruths before. Or maybe she’d gotten confused about Hank’s father’s diagnosis. He could have had a stroke, or . . . or been paralyzed in an accident.

Allie had abandoned the pan and then, despite the warning shrieking in her brain that she shouldn’t do it, that she’d forever regret it, she’d opened her laptop and begun searching the Internet.

“No,” she’d whispered a moment later, just before she slammed her laptop shut. The death notices she’d found confirmed that Hank and his father had both died of ALS, an always fatal illness that causes complete paralysis before death.

But that didn’t mean she had the same mutated gene, Allie reminded herself now, as she shifted Eva into a more comfortable position on her lap. Her birth father had never given her
anything—not his name, not a college graduation card, not a single stinking phone call. He wouldn’t give her this legacy, either. She wouldn’t let him!

She looked through the window and saw the sun begin its ascent. A beautiful day awaited them: It was a good omen. Allie leaned down to smell her daughter’s hair, remembering how small her soapy head had felt the previous night when Allie cradled it in her hands, massaging in baby shampoo. Eva was so little; she still believed in the Tooth Fairy.

A sob formed in Allie’s throat, but she forced it down.

The pendulum wouldn’t swing, not now. It couldn’t.

*   *   *

“So you’re a chef?” Savannah asked, crossing her legs and taking a gulp of her vodka tonic. She’d already forgotten the name of the guy seated across from her.

He smiled, revealing more gums than seemed normal. “No. I own a courier company. You didn’t confuse me with someone else, did you?”

“Of course not,” Savannah said, even as she thought:
You’re on Match.com, asshole. You think yours is the only picture I looked at?

And speaking of pictures, when was his taken? Probably ten years ago, when he was vaguely acquainted with the concept of a treadmill. Because the doughy-looking guy sitting on the stool across from hers bore no resemblance to that photo. She’d almost walked out of the bar after scanning it and seeing only a few losers watching TV and tossing back drinks. And then one of them had put down his draft beer and walked over to her, not hiding the fact that he was assessing her body and approving of it.

Glad I’m good enough for you,
Savannah had thought, already counting down the minutes until she could escape. One drink. That was her safety mechanism, the secret trapdoor designed to
maneuver her out of situations exactly like this one. She never agreed to a meal or a movie with a guy she hadn’t seen in person, especially not after the six dates she’d gone on in the past three weeks. She regretted every single one of them. The worst was a fix-up from a fellow real estate agent who’d sent Savannah out with an oily-looking guy who sucked the salt off his fingers after eating a handful of bar nuts and checked out every woman who walked by. As if that was the best Savannah could hope for, just because most men in her age range were married. She’d lasted half a drink before walking out, and told off her friend—make that ex-friend—the next morning. She’d never be that desperate.

“Interested in dinner after this?” the guy was asking.
What was that smell?
Savannah wondered.
Eww—was it
him? “I know a great little Italian place.”

What, Domino’s Pizza?
Savannah thought, hiding a smirk. She took another long sip of her vodka tonic before realizing he was looking at her, a question in his eyes. She mentally replayed the last bit of conversation and realized she hadn’t answered him.

“Sorry, but I’m going out of town tomorrow,” she said. “Still haven’t packed.”

“Sure,” the guy said. Savannah could see hurt flare in his dark eyes, but she didn’t care. He’d deceived her and wasted her time; he didn’t deserve kindness. His chinos were too short, revealing thick white athletic socks, and his face was moon-shaped. He kept staring at her cleavage. And that was definitely the scent of stale sweat coming off him. He was awful. Did he even own a courier company? That was probably another lie; he looked like the sort of man who lived with his mother.

Two more big sips and she’d be done. She knew she should’ve stayed home tonight and taken a bubble bath and finished packing, especially since she had an eight a.m. flight from North Carolina to D.C., but she’d thought . . . well, she’d thought it
would be easier to show up in Jamaica with the promise of a relationship back at home. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t told Allie or Tina about the separation yet. She’d meant to, but the timing was never right. Or maybe she just couldn’t figure out which words to choose. She’d told Pauline that Gary couldn’t come, but she hadn’t revealed the reason why.

She dreaded having to explain; the thought of it made Savannah itchy. She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted to move on—but first she needed to move away from this loser.

“This has been great,” she lied, not bothering to inject enthusiasm into her tone. “But I need to get going.”

“Mind if I catch a ride with you?” the guy asked. “I’m only a mile away.”

Savannah put her empty glass on the bar and turned to look at him. “You don’t have a car?” she asked. This dude just got more and more desirable.

“It’s in the shop,” he said. “I’ve been cabbing it, but it’s raining out and I’ll probably have to wait awhile . . .”

“Kind of funny that you own a courier service and don’t have a ride,” she said.

“Bike couriers,” he said, shrugging. “I can’t exactly hop on the back of one of those.”

Uh-huh.
Savannah picked up her purse. “Sorry, but I need to run a few errands and I’m heading out of town really early in the morning.”

“No worries,” he said. “I wouldn’t let a stranger in my car, either.”

So why’d you ask?
she thought, but all she said was “Bye.”

She stood up, smoothing her skirt and walking away. She stopped in the bathroom to pee and checked her watch while she was washing her hands; it was only seven-thirty. She could still take that bubble bath after all, she thought as she pulled open the heavy wooden back door, unfurled her umbrella, and
walked through the parking lot. In the backseat of her Miata were two shopping bags filled with new clothes she’d bought for the trip: a coral strapless sundress, two bikinis, cutoff jean shorts to toss on over her bathing suits, a tight white T-shirt, and a black sheath with a slit up the leg in case she felt like dressing for dinner one night. Maybe she’d make a quick stop at the bookstore to pick up a few novels for the beach, she thought as she clicked the button on her key chain to unlock the car.

Someone grabbed her arm.

She spun around, a scream rising in her throat, knowing it was him before she saw the round moon face.

“You bitch. You think you’re too good for me?”

What was wrong with her voice? She couldn’t yell, couldn’t make a sound. Her fingers searched for the panic button on her keys, but they slipped out of her grasp and clattered on the asphalt.

“You didn’t even pay for your drink,” he said. Rain streamed down, flattening his hair against his face. His eyes were so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. “You come in with your tits hanging out like a whore and I still treated you nice. And you don’t appreciate it.”

He was insane. He was so close she could feel his hot breath on her face. Why couldn’t she scream? She made herself look into his eyes and tried to smile, but her lips felt frozen.

“Wait,” she whispered. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Kick him in the balls,
she thought. But her legs refused to obey, and anyway, he was too close.

“Bitch!” he hissed again. His grip on her arm tightened, his fingers biting into her flesh. He pressed his body up against hers. She couldn’t move back; the car trapped her from behind. “Don’t try to be all fake now. You think I’m stupid?”

She’d always imagined she’d fight in a situation like this—yell
and kick and claw her attacker’s eyes. But every bit of strength seemed to have drained out of her body. Any second now, he was going to pull out a shining butcher’s knife and slide it into her, and she’d be left to die here, her blood mingling with the rain in the parking lot of this crappy little bar.

“Hey, lady, are you okay?”

Savannah looked over her attacker’s shoulder and saw the bartender, holding a full bag of trash. He dropped the bag and stepped out from under the awning, toward them.

The guy didn’t say another word; he just let go of Savannah’s arm and walked away, toward the street.

Her knees gave way, and she slid down the side of her Miata, not caring that she landed on her bottom in a muddy puddle. She couldn’t stop shaking—deep, violent shudders that felt like convulsions.

“Do you want me to call the cops?” the bartender asked. He picked up her umbrella and knelt beside her, covering her with it.

She shook her head. Her throat was so constricted that she still couldn’t speak.

“Are you sure? My cell phone is inside,” he said. He stood up again and scanned their surroundings, turning around a full 360 degrees. “He’s gone. I could run and get it.”

“I’m okay,” she croaked. “Just . . . stay here for a minute?”

She leaned her head back against her car, letting the tears finally come. What would that psycho have done to her if the bartender hadn’t appeared? Thirty seconds later and he could have had her in her car in the darkness, his hands around her throat, her skirt hiked up . . . She sobbed harder, not caring that the bartender was watching.

She’d never kidded herself that she and Gary had a perfect marriage: They fought over her sloppiness and his rigidity, and they didn’t share the kinds of inside jokes that other couples
seemed to. But they’d wanted the exact same things in life. They both liked nice cars, traveling, fine restaurants, and good wine. Savannah had remained attracted to him throughout the seven years of their marriage, probably because they led somewhat independent lives, not feeling as though they had to check in incessantly with phone calls and e-mails. When Gary was on call, he’d sleep at the hospital and she wouldn’t see him for thirty-six hours, or even longer. She’d go out for dinner with her girlfriends, get a massage, hit her favorite shops—and she thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it.

She and Gary were partners, not soul mates, and that had suited her just fine.

So why, when she’d thought she was about to be raped and killed, had one word stuck in her throat like a cork, preventing any sounds from escaping?

Gary.
When she’d desperately needed rescuing, his was the name she’d tried to yell.