Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(45)

Damn him, she thinks automatically, as always—then feels guilty, remembering that she’s spent the last few hours worrying about his well-being.

“Has Dad called your cell phone, Ryan?”

“No. Why?”

“I just thought you might have heard from him.”

“You mean you haven’t?”

Seeing the worry in her son’s eyes, Lauren wishes she hadn’t brought it up. Time to change the subject. “So listen, Ry, I’m sorry you had to deal with Mrs. Wasserman.”

“I didn’t. I just ignored her.”

“Good. You have to be polite, okay? But you don’t have to tell her anything that isn’t her business.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“At least you ate well, right? Steak and shrimp? Was it good?”

“It was okay. Got any leftover macaroni and cheese?”

Lauren smiles. “In the fridge.”

She goes back to filling a carton with the old florist vases, and Ryan puts the macaroni and cheese into the microwave.

“Is someone coming to pick up all this stuff for the tag sale?” he asks, eyeing the boxes and clutter on the floor.

“No, I have to get it over to the church basement tomorrow morning.”

“By yourself?”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll help you,” Ryan tells her, and for the moment, he really is her little boy again. Sweet Ryan, always there to help her; always on her side.

“Can we do it early, though, Mom? I told the guys I’d meet them at the pool when it opens.”

Her little boy, with his own life to lead.

“Early,” she agrees. “And I’ll drop you at the pool afterward.”

Then she remembers… Beth will be back in town this week; she might be there. Should she warn Ryan that he might run into her?

No. No way. He doesn’t have reason to avoid her—not like Lauren does.

Or does she?

Maybe it’s time to stop rearranging her life for fear of crossing paths with Beth—or with the local gossips.

Yes, let them talk.

Let Beth feel guilty when she sees Lauren—if she has it in her.

If she doesn’t, well, that’s life.

Lauren squirms inside, thinking again of yesterday’s phone call from Nick, so obviously in the throes of lovemaking…

Or was he?

Of course he was, she tells herself. She’s heard him make those noises countless times. Gasping…moaning…

Then again—those sounds aren’t merely associated with passion. She supposes that a person in trouble—Nick in trouble—might sound the same way.

What if he’d had some kind of accident and was calling for help?

It happens. People drive their cars off the road and are trapped, injured, with their cell phones.

But if that were the case, she’d have been notified by now…

Unless he hasn’t been found.

“Mom, do you think five minutes is long enough?” Ryan asks, and she looks up to see him peering at the microwave.

“Five minutes? One minute would have been good, two, tops!” Lauren forgets, for the time being, about Nick as she hurries to help her son.



Looking up as Garvey exits the elevator in his running clothes, the doorman puts aside his New York Post and steps out from behind the desk. “Morning, Congressman.”

“How are you, Henry?”

“Fine,” he replies, though Garvey figures it’s a lie. Henry’s in the middle of a nasty divorce. “You?”

“Fine.” Far from it, but just as Garvey doesn’t want to hear the sordid details of the doorman’s business, he isn’t about to spill his own.

“Glad to hear it. Looks like it’s going to be another hot one today.”

“You know it. That’s why I always like to get in my exercise before the sun comes up.”

“I know you do. Have a good run.” Henry holds the door open for him.

“See you in a bit.”

Garvey jogs off down the block, still lit by streetlights. Behind him, he assumes the sky is just beginning to brighten, but he’s heading west toward Fifth Avenue and Central Park.

He waves as he passes Eddie, the Korean grocer, arranging cellophane-wrapped gladiolus bouquets on the sidewalk display.

“Good morning, good morning,” Eddie calls, same as always.

Rounding the corner, Garvey spots a pair of familiar deliverymen wheeling box-laden hand trucks from their van to a store. They, too, greet him as he passes.

He smiles—at them, and to himself. Yes, there’s something to be said for establishing a good, solid routine.

Garvey crosses Fifth, enters the park, and runs along the stone-lined transverse road and through the arched tunnel. He takes East Drive north, alongside the reservoir. There’s little automobile traffic at this time of morning, but there are plenty of joggers, along with bikers and Rollerbladers, most of whom whiz past.

He runs a steady pace, keeping his eyes peeled on the path ahead.

There.

On a bench, a helmeted figure in a bulky T-shirt and black leggings adjusts a pair of blades. From here, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s a male or a female—but Garvey knows.

As he passes, the figure rises from the bench and falls into pace near him—not right alongside, so that they appear to be together, but close enough to carry on a conversation and not be overheard. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity, and these days, most people work out wearing iPod earphones anyway.