Last to Know: A Novel(4)
Rose and Wally’s “boudoir” was above the living room, a spacious sprawl with a big old brass bed. Dylan’s song “Lay Lady Lay” (across my big brass bed) used to be Wally’s favorite song: they had played it endlessly on their old hi-fi in those early days, so of course Wally had finally had to buy his big brass bed. A long white chaise stood under the window where Rose would read; there was a pretty vanity against the wall where the light fell perfectly onto the mirror; and a smallish bathroom in pale marble with a tub deep enough for soaking, and big enough for two.
Beyond that, down the hall, was the twins’ room, a girly pastel horror of dropped clothing, still-plugged-in curling irons, spilled powder and abandoned tubes of lipstick. The cat they had rescued from the side of the road as a minute kitten that had to be fed by an eyedropper slept on their beds. Now hefty, he was called Baby Noir because of his luxuriant black fur, and he scared the hell out of everybody who came near him, except, of course, Madison, whose beloved he was. There was also Peggy the Pug: beige, flat-black-nosed, soppy and snoring, and Frazer’s best friend.
Roman rarely allowed anyone into his room, which he kept in almost total darkness. He had the whole top floor to himself, accessed by a stairway leading from the kitchen, as well as from an outside flight of, by now, rather rickety wooden stairs, something Rose had always had her doubts about, especially with a teenager. When he was younger she had locked that door and pocketed the key. Now Roman was eighteen and objected to “being locked in.” His father had come out on his side and the key had been handed over, though not without misgivings on Rose’s part.
“What if he escapes at night, runs off in the dark, partying, drinking … doing lord knows what?” she’d asked Wally. But her husband had laughed her fears off with the same old same teenager get-out card.
“Look at him,” he told Rose. “He’s a quiet, well-behaved, responsible young man. He works hard, gets good grades, he’s on course for a scholarship to a good college, let him have his fun.”
It was Wally’s opinion that his son was far too quiet and could use a bit more “fun,” and should get out alone more. He stayed home too much, hung around the house, always on his phone or his tablet, always somewhere else in his head.
“That’s teens for you,” Wally emphasized to Rose. But Rose wasn’t buying in to that cliché and she worried. She wished he was more like the twins, outgoing, lovable, touchable, hugs and kisses all round. As well as “teens” she guessed “boys would be boys.” In fact all the clichés seemed to suit her son. Right now, that is.
A big house, then, though never grand. A true family house, filled with friends and people of all kinds. This was the Osborne house. Charming, calm, friendly. Until that night. When everything would change.
3
Somewhere in France
Mallory Malone, now Harry’s ex-fiancée, had thrown it all in. She’d given up her successful career as “The TV Detective”; famous for pursuing forgotten murder cases, reenacting them on her show, jogging old memories, old resentments, old feuds, and often coming up with the truth—and sometimes the killer. Beautiful, blond, cooler than any cucumber on camera, she had been a toughie to be reckoned with. Not anymore.
Now, she sat alone at a café table somewhere in France, sipping a too-expensive café crème, staring into the small cup as though the remnants of froth could foretell her future. Which of course, since she herself had no idea what her future held, was a ridiculous notion. When you simply threw away your entire life in one fell swoop—your job, your man, your heart—what was left? Paris, she had supposed.
This time, though, Paris had let her down. On that first day, alone in a tiny room in a small inexpensive Left Bank hotel, she’d leaned out her window on the rue de l’ Université, listening to small children in the school across the street singing what sounded like nursery rhymes, though since they were in French, and her grasp of French was minimal, Mal could not be sure. It only added to her despair. She was not sure of anything anymore. No job. No fiancé. Certainly no children.
After a couple of days, unable to bear being a woman alone in beautiful Paris any longer, she’d gathered up her stuff, pushed it into her single suitcase, paid her bill, collected her rental car—a dusty white Fiat Uno almost too small to fit both her and the suitcase inside, and which, naturally, since she had parked on the wrong side of the street, already had a ticket tucked under the windscreen wiper. The way things were going it was par for the course.
She tore up the ticket and scattered the remnants in the Left Bank gutter. They gave her tickets, she gave them litter. About to open the car door, she stopped in her tracks and looked aghast at what she had just done. She, Mal Malone, upholder of all that was good, destroyer of all that was bad, really bad, like thieves and pedophiles and killers, had become a litter-lout. Her head drooped. Her whole body drooped. She crouched and picked up every scrap then searched for a trash can. Nothing. Where did Parisians put their trash anyway? In their handbags, she supposed, which is exactly what she did now.
She got in the driver’s seat and checked how she looked in the rearview mirror, running a hand through her shoulder-length dark blond hair before tying it back with a scrunchie. She wore no makeup. You couldn’t hide crying eyes with shadow and mascara. It didn’t work. That was okay, nobody was looking at her anyhow, and she had been scrutinized so long on her TV show she felt anonymous without the war paint.