Mary Clark: The Shadow of Your Smile

After a moment’s hesitation, Renée Carter said reassuringly, “No, I don’t have time for them, Doctor.” Then, with visible impatience, she listened as Monica explained the importance of watching for signs of asthma in Sally.

“I certainly understand, Doctor, and I want you to take over as Sally’s pediatrician,” she said hurriedly, when Monica asked her if she had any questions. Then she called into the cubicle, “Kristina, you about ready? I’m running late.”

She turned back to Monica. “I’ve got a car waiting outside, Doctor,” she explained. “I’ll drop Sally and Kristina at my apartment.” Then, seeing something in Monica’s face, she added, “Of course, I’ll make sure Sally is settled before I leave her.”

“I’m sure you will. I’ll call you this evening to see how Sally is doing. You will be home, won’t you?” Monica asked, not caring that the tone of her voice was icy and disapproving. She looked at the chart. “This is your correct number, isn’t it?”

Renée Carter nodded her head impatiently as Monica read off the number, then turned and hurried back into the cubicle. “For Pete’s sake, Kristina,” she snapped, “hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

He’s on the warpath, Esther Chambers thought as Greg Gannon strode through her office after lunch on Wednesday without acknowledging her presence. What’s happened since this morning? She watched as he went into his private office and picked up the file she had prepared for him. A moment later he was standing at her desk. “I haven’t had time to go through this stuff,” he snapped. “You’re sure everything is in order?”

She wanted to snap back, Tell me one time in thirty-five years it hasn’t been in order. Instead she bit her lip and said quietly, “I double-checked, sir.”

With mounting resentment, she watched as he stalked toward the double glass doors and turned down the corridor that led to the conference room of the Gannon Foundation.

He’s worried, Esther thought. What’s he got to worry about? His funds are all showing an excellent return, but half the time he’s in a rotten mood. I’m sick of it, she thought wearily, he’s getting worse and worse. With a flash of anger she remembered how Greg’s father was barely in his grave twenty-five years ago when Greg announced he was moving the offices of both the investment firm and the foundation to lavish suites on Park Avenue. That was also when he told her that for appearances’ sake, it would be better if she always addressed him as “Mr. Gannon,” not “Greg.”

Now they were in even more lavish suites in the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle. “Dad was the little man’s hero, but no more of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker clients for me,” he had said derisively.

Not that it didn’t turn out he was right to go after big clients, Esther thought, but he didn’t have to be so dismissive of his father. Maybe he’s a big success now but it sure doesn’t look to me as though he bought himself any happiness with all those mansions of his and his trophy wife. I swear the first words that woman ever uttered were “I WANT.” His sons don’t even talk to him after the way he treated their mother, and he and his brother are probably fighting at the board meeting right now.

“I’m sick of both of them.” Esther did not realize she had spoken aloud. She looked around quickly but of course there was no one in her office. Even so she felt her cheeks redden. One of these days I will say what I think, and that would not be smart, she warned herself. Why am I hanging around here? I can afford to retire, and when I sell the apartment, I’ll buy a house in Vermont instead of just renting there for a couple of weeks in the summer. The boys love to ski and snowboard. Manchester is a beautiful town and has great skiing nearby…

Her lips relaxed into an unconscious smile as she thought of her sister’s teenaged grandchildren whom she loved as if they were her own. No time like the present, she thought as she swiveled her chair to face her computer desk. Her smile widening, she opened a new file, labeled it “Bye-bye Gannons,” and started to type: “Dear Mr. Gannon, after thirty-five years I feel it is time…”

The final paragraph read, “If you wish I will be glad to screen possible replacements for my position for one month, unless of course you prefer I leave sooner.”

Esther signed the letter, and feeling as if she had lifted a weight from her shoulders, put it in an envelope and at five o’clock placed it on Greg Gannon’s desk. She knew that he might stop to check his messages after the board meeting and she wanted him to have a chance to digest the fact of her resignation overnight. He doesn’t like change unless he’s the one who makes it, she thought, and I don’t want him to persuade or bully me into staying longer than a month.

The receptionist was on the phone. Esther waved good-bye to her and went down in the elevator to the lobby floor, trying to decide if she should take time to shop in the gourmet supermarket on the lower level. I don’t need anything for tonight, she decided. I’ll go straight home.

She walked up Broadway to her apartment building opposite Lincoln Center, quietly enjoying the brisk temperature and the gusts of wind. Living in Vermont in the winter may be too much for some people, but I enjoy cold weather, she thought. I will miss the activity of the city, but that’s the way it is.

In her apartment building she stopped at the desk to get her mail. “There are two gentlemen waiting for you, Ms. Chambers,” the concierge told her.

Puzzled, Esther looked over at the seating area in the lobby. A dark-haired man, neatly dressed, was walking toward her. Speaking quietly so that the concierge could not hear him, he said, “Ms. Chambers, I’m Thomas Desmond from the Securities and Exchange Commission. My associate and I would like to have a word with you.” As he handed her his card, he said, “If possible we would prefer to talk in your apartment, where there’s no chance that we might be overheard.”

Sammy Barber had not become a successful hit man by behaving impulsively.

In the most unobtrusive way possible Sammy began to methodically study the daily pattern of Monica Farrell’s comings and goings. Within a few days he was able to establish that she never arrived at the hospital later than 8:30 A.M. and two days out of three returned there at five P.M. Twice she took the Fourteenth Street bus across town from the hospital to her office. The other day she walked in both directions.

She was a fast walker, he noticed, taking long, graceful strides in her low-heeled boots. He doubted that trying to push her in front of an oncoming bus would work. She never stood perched on the edge of the curb, or tried to beat a light as it was turning red.

On Friday morning, at eight o’clock, he was sitting in his car on the opposite side of the street from the converted brownstone where she lived. He had already canvassed the neighborhood and knew that there was a wall about four feet high and a narrow alleyway separating the backyard of her residence from the backyard of the identical brownstone directly behind it. He decided it might be possible to get into her building that way.

When Monica left her apartment at 8:10 Sammy waited until she was safely in a cab, then got out of his car and walked across the street. He was dressed in a hooded ski jacket and wearing dark glasses. Across his chest was a heavy canvas sack with empty boxes protruding from it. He knew that anyone seeing him would think he was a private service messenger.