A Lady Under Siege(47)

Daphne glanced over her father’s shoulder and met Sylvanne’s eyes. She took a sudden fright, chilled by the hostile glare that was returned to her.

“Why does she stare at me so coldly?” she whispered in her father’s ear.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear. There is someone who cares about you very much, inside her. Very much. She’s hidden from sight, but she is there.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“She sees you, and that is what matters. Trust me, darling. She is there.”





23





Betsy woke in the middle of the night to the angry wail of a car alarm. She parted the blinds to peek down at the street below and recognized Derek’s beat up old two-seat sports car, screeching back and forth to squeeze into a tight spot between two SUVs. The one in front had been bumped—aglow with blinking orange parking lights, it blared an angry cycle of blips, whoops and wails to wake the dead.

Derek’s car lurched one last time and settled in place. Betsy saw him stumble from the driver’s seat, slam the door behind him and stagger toward the still-screaming SUV. With his palms squished protectively against his ears, he kicked ineffectually at the back bumper a few times. Meanwhile from Derek’s car a woman emerged and sauntered over to him, a little unsteady on high heels. Betsy couldn’t make it out, but whatever they said to each other made them laugh. Then the woman stepped up and laid her hands on the SUV’s sun roof, and in that very instant it stopped screaming, and for a moment the dark deserted street returned to an almost spooky calm.

“You’ve got the magic touch,” Derek whooped gleefully. As she stepped to the curb, he held out a hand, and when she took it he pulled her to him, kissing her so roughly the two of them nearly tumbled.

“Careful,” she playfully scolded him. “Not out here, let’s get inside where it’s private.”

“I can’t wait to get inside,” Derek murmured, and the woman said something back Betsy couldn’t catch. She watched as Derek led her to his door, and heard it slam shut behind them. She stared at the shadows of tree branches swaying on the street for a moment before she lay back down to sleep.

AT NOON DEREK WAS sitting at his picnic table in a threadbare housecoat, the Saturday Globe and Mail spread before him, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a chipped mug. Betsy’s head appeared over the top of the fence, looking down on him like a mischievous angel.

“Is that your breakfast—coffee and a cigarette?” she asked.

“No. Coffee and a cigarette is what’s popularly known as a whore’s breakfast,” he answered irritably. “Throwing in a newspaper elevates it to an intellectual’s breakfast.”

In a singsong Betsy asked, “How was your Friday night?”

“If you want to be my friend, you need to learn something: Don’t bug me when I’m reading the morning paper.”

“I saw you with someone last night,” Betsy said teasingly. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Derek scowled.

“Is she still inside?”

“No. She turned out to be a head case and I kicked her out. Didn’t you hear the yelling?”

“You kicked her out? In the night time?”

“Screw off, little girl,” Derek muttered. “You hear me? Get lost. I’m sick of looking at you.”

Betsy’s mouth fell open, and the tiny gasp that came from it was the sound of her heart shattering. She dropped from sight behind the fence; seconds later Derek saw her scuttle up the steps to her deck and dash tearfully inside the house. He felt a pang of remorse, and almost called out to her, but in his hung-over mind the urge to apologize was trumped by a fierce desire for peace and quiet, caffeine and nicotine.

AN HOUR LATER HE was still in his housecoat, stalemated against a brutal hangover, stretched out atop the picnic table using his rolled up newspaper as a pillow, snoozing in the sun.

“Hello Derek. Are you awake?”

He opened his eyes and saw Meghan looking at him, from the exact spot Betsy had occupied earlier.

“First the daughter, now mommy dearest,” he muttered darkly, shielding his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

“She doesn’t need to be verbally abused on a Saturday morning.”

“Is that what I did?”

“From what she told me, yes you did. I have enough to worry about without you adding to it.”