James Patterson - Honeymoon

“Patsy, this is Nora Sinclair,” said Emily. “Her mother is Olivia in eight-oh-nine.”

“Oh,” said Patsy with a slight hesitation. A rookie mistake.

Nora nodded. “Nice to meet you, Patsy.” She wished the new nurse good luck before starting down the long hallway.

Meanwhile, Patsy’s voice dropped to a solicitous whisper. “Olivia Sinclair… she’s the one who shot and killed her husband, right?”

Emily’s whisper in reply was more matter-of-fact. “So a jury said. Long time ago.”

“You don’t think she did it?”

“Oh, she did it.”

“I don’t understand. How did she end up here?”

Emily peered down the hall. She wanted to make sure Nora was definitely out of earshot.

“From what I’ve been told—and keep in mind, this goes back a long way—Olivia was fine during the first years of her life sentence. A model prisoner. But then she just went bonkers.”

“How so?”

“She basically lost touch with reality. Started to talk in a made-up language. Would only eat foods beginning with the letter b. ”

“The letter b? ”

“It could’ve been worse. She could’ve chosen x, or something. At least with b she had bread, butter, bananas….”

Patsy chimed in like a quiz-show contestant. “Bundt cake?”

Emily blinked a few times. “Uh… I suppose. Anyway, then Olivia tried to kill herself. In the wake of that, they shipped her here.” She thought for a second. “Or maybe it was the suicide attempt that happened first, and then the crazy behavior. Whatever—all I know is that twenty years later, Olivia Sinclair doesn’t even know her own name.”

“Wow, that’s so sad,” said Patsy, who, to Emily’s amazement, could register concern without ever losing her smile. “What do you think happened to her?”

“No idea. It’s like a mix of autism and Alzheimer’s. She can still talk a little, do things on her own. Except none of it makes much sense. For example, you see the bag under Nora’s arm?”

Patsy shook her head no.

“Every month Nora brings her a novel to read. But then when I see her reading it, the book is always upside down.”

“Does Nora know this?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Patsy sighed. “Well, it’s good that she can be there for her mother.”

“I’d agree, except for one thing,” said the head nurse. “Her mother doesn’t even recognize Nora.”

Chapter 28

“HELLO, MOTHER. It’s me.”

Nora walked across the small room and took her mother’s hand. She gave it a squeeze but got nothing in return. Not that she expected to. Nora was used to feeling nothing on these visits.

Olivia Sinclair was lying in bed on top of the covers. She was propped up by two thin pillows. A withering frame and glassy stare. The woman was fifty-seven, but she looked eighty.

“Have you been feeling all right?” Nora watched as her mother slowly turned to her. “It’s me, Nora.”

“You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you. I had my hair done. For a funeral, of all things.”

“I like to read, you know,” said Olivia.

“Yes, I know.” Nora reached into the bag and pulled out the latest John Grisham novel. “See, I brought you a book.”

She held it out to her mother, but Olivia didn’t take it. Nora placed it on the bedside table and sat down in a nearby chair.

“Are you eating enough?”

“Yes.”

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs and toast.”

Nora forced a smile. These were the moments that hurt the most, when it seemed that she was having an actual conversation with her mother. She knew better, though. Inevitably, almost self-destructively, she tested her mother to make sure.

“Do you know who the president is?”

“Yes, of course I do. Jimmy Carter.”

There was never any point in correcting her, Nora knew. Instead, she told her mother about her work and some of the houses she’d decorated. There were updates on her girlfriends in Manhattan. Elaine was working too hard at her law firm. Allison was still a fashion barometer at W.

“They really care about me, Mother.”

“Knock, knock,” came a voice.

The door opened and Emily appeared with a tray. “It’s time for your medication, Olivia.” The nurse moved with a crisp, almost robotic rhythm. She poured water into a glass from a pitcher on the bedside table.

“Here you go, Olivia.”

Nora’s mother took the pill and washed it down without a fuss.

“Oh, is that his latest?” asked Emily, eyeing the novel on the table.

“It just came out,” said Nora.

Her mother smiled. “I like to read, you know.”

“Of course you do,” said Emily.

Nora’s mother picked up the novel. She opened to a page and began reading. Upside down.

As she was about to leave, Emily turned to Nora, who always seemed so brave, so beautiful.

“Oh, by the way,” said Emily, “the singing group from the local high school is performing in the cafeteria. We’re taking everyone on the wing down. You’re welcome to come along, Nora.”

“No, that’s okay. I was about to head out. It’s a busy time for me.”

Emily left the room and Nora stood. She walked over to her mother and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “I love you,” she whispered. “I wish you knew that.”

Olivia Sinclair didn’t say anything. She just watched as her daughter walked out the door.

Moments later, when no one was there, Olivia removed the jacket from her new novel and flipped it around. With the pages right side up and the jacket upside down, she began to read.

Chapter 29

I’D JUST CLEANED the lens of my digicam for the third time in twenty minutes.

In between, I counted the number of stitches on the leather steering wheel (312), reprogrammed the position of my driver’s seat (up a scooch and angled a tad more forward), and learned once and for all the optimal pressure for the kind of tires I had on the BMW 330i (thirty PSI in the front, thirty-five in the back, said the manual in the glove compartment).

Boredom had officially set in.

Maybe I should’ve called her first. No, I decided. The introduction had to be in person. Face-to-face. Even at the risk of my butt falling asleep while waiting there in my car.

If I’d known this was going to turn into a stakeout, I would’ve brought doughnuts. Dunkin’s, Krispy Kreme’s, 7-Eleven’s, anybody’s.

Where is she?

Ten minutes later I watched from across Central Drive as a bright red Mercedes convertible pulled into the late Connor Brown’s circular driveway. It stopped in front, and out she came.

Nora Sinclair. And I guess that I should add, Wow.

She bent from the waist and reached into what passed for the backseat and removed a bag of groceries. By the time she was fiddling with the keys to the house, I was halfway across the lawn.

I called out. “Excuse me… Uhm, excuse me! ”

She turned around. Her all-black outfit from the funeral was now a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt. The sunglasses were the same. The hair looked great—thick, lustrous, chestnut brown. I repeat myself, but— wow.

Finally I was standing right in front of her. I cautioned myself not to overdo the accent. “Are you Nora Sinclair, by any chance?”

Sunglasses or no sunglasses, I could tell she was sizing me up. “That depends, I suppose. Who are you?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself first.” I extended my hand. “I’m Craig Reynolds.”

Nora shuffled the groceries in her arms and we shook. “Hello,” she said, her voice still guarded. “You’re Craig Reynolds—and…?”