John Saul - Faces of Fear

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He reached for the orange juice.

“Morning, Dad—” Alison began, but abruptly cut herself short when her mother reached out and clutched her father’s wrist, keeping him from the pitcher.

“What time did you roll in last night?” she demanded, a hard edge of anger in her voice.

“Late,” Michael said.

A little too smoothly? Risa wondered.

“I worked until after midnight,” he explained, “then went out for a nightcap.” Risa stared at him until he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

He was lying — she could see it in his eyes. “Alison stayed home to make you dinner, and you didn’t even bother to call until it was already on the table.” “Oh, cupcake, I’m sorry,” he said, and walked around the bar to kiss the top of his daughter’s head. “Sometimes the newsroom just doesn’t care that I have a real life.” “She was home alone until I got back from the banquet about ten,” Risa said.

“Mom, I’m fifteen!” Alison protested. “It was no big deal.”

“That’s not the point!” Risa snapped.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Michael said. “What can I say? You know the news doesn’t stop for my convenience.” “But apparently your daughter can be ignored.”

Michael sighed heavily. “Maybe we should have this conversation another time.” “Fine,” Risa said. “How about tonight? Or won’t you be home tonight, either?” Alison’s eyes glistened as she looked up at her parents. “Come on, you guys. Don’t fight.” “We’re not fighting, honey,” Michael said, his eyes pleading with his wife to let it go, at least until they were alone. “I was inconsiderate, and your mom has a right to be mad.” Risa took a deep breath, checked her watch, and decided she had neither the time, the energy, nor the stomach for whatever might happen if they kept talking right now. Without responding to Michael, she poured a fresh cup of coffee into a traveling mug, though she was certain her stomach was already far too upset for her to drink it. “I’ve got to run.” She looked directly at her husband. “You’ll be home tonight?” Michael nodded. “As usual.”

“’Bye, Mom.”

“’Bye, honey.” Risa grabbed her briefcase and hurried through the house to the garage.

A wife always knows, her mother had told her.

And Risa knew.

Michael was having an affair.

MARGOT DUNN SAT quietly in the tiny glass chapel overlooking the Pacific where she and Conrad had been married a dozen years ago. The joy of that day — when her own beauty exceeded even that of the setting she had chosen for her wedding — was only a faint memory now, but the serenity of the Wayfarer’s Chapel imbued her spirit as much today as it always had. Through all the years since she’d married Conrad, this small church had been her refuge, the single place where everything else in her world could be shut out, and today, with the bright sun of the clear morning pouring through the great glass panels and filtering through the branches of the redwoods outside, Margot knew she was at last going to be all right.

For the first time since the accident, her soul was truly at peace.

Uttering a final silent prayer, Margot rose from the pew and left the chapel, threading her way though the crowd around the front door, paying no attention to the glances and whispers of the people who recognized her.

She found her Lexus parked in the lot, drove it down the hill to the Pacific Coast Highway and turned right. After less than a mile she turned off the highway and made her way through a maze of small cul-de-sacs until she pulled up in front of a tiny park she’d discovered a few years ago when she came to look at one of the houses across the street.

She hadn’t particularly liked the house, but had fallen instantly in love with the park. She’d come back the very next day, bringing Ruffles with her, and the dog had liked it as much as she did. The best thing about it — aside from the view and the thunder from the surf that constantly crashed at the base of the cliff — was that it was almost always deserted. Now, already anticipating an hour of running loose on the lawn, the little white terrier was peering eagerly out the passenger window of the Lexus, as if struggling to get his tiny nose through the glass itself to suck in the tangy salt air beyond the confines of the car.

Margot braked to a stop, turned off the engine, and let her hands drop to her lap as her head fell back onto the headrest.

Peace.

She took a deep breath and then gazed out over the cliffs to the glistening ocean spread out in front of her. A haze lay over the sea this morning, hiding the distant form of Catalina. The horizon had all but vanished, the sea and sky blending so perfectly that there was barely a hint of where they met.

Nothing but blue for as far as she could see.

Ruffles whined to be let out of the car, but Margot only reached across to give his flank an affectionate rub. “Hush,” she whispered.

Sensing something, the little dog instantly quieted.

Again Margot gazed out at the sea, quieting her mind, concentrating on her breathing, using the yoga she had learned years before.

Then she pulled down the visor, flipped open the lighted mirror, and faced her reflected image.

The scars, uncovered by makeup today, were far worse than she had made herself believe. With neither the magic of Danielle DeLorian’s line of cosmetics nor the subdued lighting with which she had surrounded herself for the last year, the scars looked even worse to her now than on the day the bandages were removed. Clearly reflected in the mirror, fully exposed by the glare of morning light, Margot Dunn gazed silently at what other people saw whenever they looked at her: the hideous purple gouges that had ruined her face forever.

The peace she had found in the chapel and the serenity of the vast sea were abruptly shattered by the voices she’d overheard at last night’s banquet.

How could she live, looking like that?

Why hasn’t her husband fixed those dreadful scars?

If he could, he would have, wouldn’t he?

I’d never show my face in public if I looked like that.

Margot turned her eyes from the hideous vision in the mirror and gazed at the beautiful ocean before her, sparkling in the sun.

Beautiful. Beautiful and eternal: the sea would be forever enchanting.

How could she live, looking like that?

How, indeed?

She reached into the backseat and took one of the fashion magazines from the stack she’d put in the car just before she left the house. She gazed at the cover: the magazine was Elle, and that issue had been one of her best covers ever. She’d worn leather and fur for the shoot, and the camera had caught the seductive little wink she offered as she showed off not only her perfect face, but her flawless legs as well.

Perfect no more, she thought as she looked again to the mirror in the visor.

She snapped it closed, and flipped the magazine over so she could no longer see the image on its cover. But in the backseat there were at least a dozen others, each bearing testament to what she had been. She hadn’t brought them to look at — they were there as nothing more than evidence, so people would understand.

So Conrad would understand.

The ocean stretched before her, shimmering in the sun.

I’d never show my face in public if I looked like that.

The remark resounded in her memory so clearly that Margot actually jumped, startled, as if the woman who had uttered it last night were right here in the car with her.

Consciously settling her rattled nerves, she fished in her purse for her cell phone. Just as her fingers closed around it, it began to ring.