Mary Clark: The Lost Years

At six o’clock Alvirah and Willy were listening to the same CBS broadcast. Willy watched as Alvirah’s normally cheerful countenance took on a worried frown. After speaking to Mariah earlier, Alvirah had told him that the crook who stole that jewelry might have seen someone leaving Jonathan’s house after he was shot.

“Honey, I thought you told me this was a big secret,” Willy said. “How come it’s all over the news?”

“It’s hard to keep this kind of stuff quiet,” Alvirah said with a sigh. “There’s always somebody who tips off the press.” She pushed a stray lock of hair back behind her right ear. “Thank God Dale of London will be back next week,” she said. “Otherwise my roots will be so white I’ll have to wear a hood.”

“It’s hard to believe that Labor Day is this weekend already,” Willy commented as he gazed out over Central Park, its blanket of lush green leaves still thick on the trees. “Before you can blink an eye, winter will be here and they’ll all be gone.”

Alvirah could see that he was looking down at the park. Ignoring his observation about the changing seasons, as he had ignored hers about the white roots of her hair, she asked, “Willy, if you were the one running out of the house that night, what would you be thinking now?”

Willy turned from the window to give his full attention to his wife’s question. “If I had something like that to worry about, I’d try to figure which way to play it. I could say that the crook saw my picture with Jonathan and picked me out to blame.”

He sat down in his comfortable chair, deciding not to mention that he was getting hungry and they’d gone light on lunch. “After Jonathan was murdered, there was a big picture of him in some of the newspapers with the group that was with him on his last trip to Egypt,” he pointed out. “The article said they were his closest friends. If the cops were after me, I would say that it was easy for this guy to have seen me in that picture, then try to frame me so he could help himself.”

“That’s a possibility,” Alvirah agreed. “But suppose that sketch really is of the right person and it turns out that it is one of Jonathan’s friends? They’ve all given the prosecutor a story of where they were that night. Once somebody recognizes the sketch, the prosecutor will haul that guy in for more questioning two minutes later. What I’m thinking is, if the guy who killed Jonathan is watching the news right now, he’ll be scared to death about the sketch they’re going to do. Will he be scared enough to go on the run? Or will he try to bluff it? What would you do?”

Willy stood up. “If I were him, I’d think it over while I was having dinner. Let’s go, honey.”

“Well, I want you to have a good dinner and a good night’s sleep,” Alvirah said. “Because I can tell you right now, you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

72

Greg was waiting when Mariah pulled into her driveway. He jumped out of his car and stood ready to open her door when she braked and released the lock. He put his arms around her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he said.

She laughed. “How can you tell? It’s dark out.”

“Your outside lights are pretty bright. Anyhow, even if it was pitch-dark and I couldn’t see you, I’d know you couldn’t look anything but beautiful.”

Greg is so shy, Mariah thought. He’s so sincere, but a compliment from his lips somehow sounds awkward and rehearsed.

Not spontaneous, and teasing, and fun—the way it would be if Richard said it, a sly voice whispered in her mind.

“Do you want to go inside for a few minutes?” Greg asked.

Mariah thought about how she had sat in the hospital parking lot sobbing after she left her mother and opened her compact to pat away the traces of smeared mascara under her eyes. “No, I’m fine,” she said.

She got into his car and sank back against the soft leather passenger seat. “I have to tell you this feels a lot more luxurious than the interior of my car,” she said.

“Then it’s yours,” he told her as he started the engine. “We’ll switch when we get back from dinner.”

“Oh, Greg,” she protested.

“I mean it.” His tone was intense. Then, as if he realized he was making her uncomfortable, he said, “Sorry. I’ll keep my promise not to crowd you. Tell me about Kathleen.”

He had reserved a table at Savini’s, a restaurant ten minutes away in the neighboring town of Allendale. On the way there she told him about her mother. “Greg, she didn’t even recognize me today,” she said. “It was heartbreaking. She’s getting worse. I just don’t know what will happen after she’s released to come back home.”

“You can’t be sure she will be released, Mariah. I saw the news about that so-called witness. That guy has a record, a whole bunch of other charges, and he’s looking for a deal. I think he’s probably bluffing when he says that he saw someone running out of the house the night your father was shot.”

“That was on the news?” Mariah exclaimed. “I was told to say nothing about it. After I started to tell you about him, when you called me as I was arriving at the hospital, I stopped because I realized I was supposed to keep quiet.”

“I only wish you had wanted to trust me and confide in me,” he said sadly.

They were at the entrance to Savini’s and the valet was opening the door, saving her from the need to answer. Greg had made a reservation for the cozy fireplace room of the restaurant. One more place where I’ve had so many pleasant evenings with Dad and Mom, Mariah thought.

A bottle of wine was already chilling at the table. Anxious to dispel the strain between her and Greg that was quickly becoming apparent, when the maître d’ had poured the wine, she held up her glass. “To this nightmare ending soon,” she said.

He clinked his glass with hers. “If only I could make that happen for you,” he said tenderly.

Over salmon and a salad, she tried to steer the conversation to other topics.

“It felt good to get to my office today—I swear I love being in the investment business. And getting to my apartment felt so good.”

“I’ll give you money to invest,” Greg answered. “How much do you want?”

I can’t do this, Mariah thought. I’ve got to be fair with him. He’s not going to be able to keep our friendship on an even keel. And I know I’ll never be able to give him what he wants.

They drove back to Mahwah in silence. He got out of the car and walked her to the door. “A nightcap?” he suggested.

“Not tonight, Greg. I’m awfully tired.”

“I understand.” He did not attempt to kiss her. “I understand a lot, Mariah.”

The key in her hand, she unlocked the door. “Good night, Greg,” she said. It was a relief to be inside and alone. From the living room window she watched him drive away.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. It has to be Lloyd or Lisa, she thought as she looked through the peephole. She was startled to see Richard standing there. For a moment she hesitated, but then she decided to open the door.

He stepped in and put his hands on her shoulders. “Mariah, you’ve got to understand something about that phone message you overheard. When I tried to buy that parchment from Lillian, I did it for you and your father. I was going to give it back to the Vatican. You have got to believe me!”

She looked up at him and, as she saw the tears glistening in his eyes, her intense feelings of anger and doubt evaporated. “I do believe you,” she said quietly. “Richard, I do.”