True Places(20)

Suzanne had phoned ahead. Tinsley Royce answered the door and waved them inside. She looked Suzanne up and down, frowning. Suzanne was staring past her mother.

“Suzanne.” Tinsley patted her daughter’s arm. “Poor dear.”

“This is Whit Blakemore, Mother. We went to high school together.”

It was Whit’s turn to be examined. Confused about what had happened to Suzanne and also by her mother’s attitude, he fell back on his manners and smiled at her warmly. “Hello, Mrs. Royce. I was really worried about Suzanne.”

She returned his smile and nodded. “She’s had these unfortunate little episodes since returning from Africa. It’s nothing, really.” She gestured toward Suzanne, who was pale and unsteady. “You can see she’s fine now.”

Suzanne spoke in a low voice, her eyes not quite lifted to his. “Whit, thanks for bringing me home. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

Whit said, “No problem. As long as you’re all right.” He wanted to stay, do something for her. He felt responsible somehow and also protective of her, which was odd, considering that he remembered her as independent and self-contained.

Tinsley moved behind him and opened the door. “Thank you again, young man.”

He said goodbye and got into the waiting taxi.

The next morning, Whit went for a long run to clear his alcohol-fogged head, then left a message at the Royces’ saying he would stop by with the shoes and purse Suzanne had left at the club. The excuse was transparent, but he didn’t care.

Anson Royce was putting his golf clubs in the trunk of his Jaguar when Whit drove up in his old BMW. He was proud of the car—a celebration of his first solo real estate deal a few months ago. Next to the Jag, it was nothing, but everyone had to start somewhere. Except the Royces. The Blakemores weren’t hard up by any stretch; Whit’s father was an aerospace engineer whose company won fat military contracts, and his mother taught economics and psychology at the high school. But even as a child Whit had wanted good things, expensive things, and had been eager to make a name for himself.

Whit approached and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Royce. Whit Blakemore.”

Anson Royce had a firm grip and squinted sternly at him. “Mr. Blakemore. I’m sorry your evening was spoiled.”

“It wasn’t. I hope Suzanne’s better.”

“Sure she is. She’s just fine.” He shut the trunk and jangled the keys in his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with her except what’s between her ears.”

Whit winced inwardly at the remark.

Anson Royce gave Whit a knowing smile and shook his head. “Women.” He clapped Whit on the shoulder and opened the driver’s-side door. “Nice to meet you, son.”

“You, too, Mr. Royce.”

The cleaning lady showed Whit in and directed him to the den. Suzanne was curled in an overstuffed chair and put down her magazine when he entered. The shades had been lowered, and a hazy orange light spilled over her shoulder.

“Hey, Suzanne.”

“Hi. You didn’t have to bring that stuff.”

“Well, it’s not like it was out of my way.”

They both laughed, because it was.

Suzanne offered to make him breakfast. Whit took a seat at the kitchen counter while she set to work cutting up fruit, scrambling eggs, toasting bagels, chatting about the wedding and the reception. When the food was ready she handed him a plate and hoisted herself onto the counter facing him.

“I sit up here whenever my mother is out because she hates it.”

“She’s a stickler, huh?”

“You could say that.” She bit into her bagel and chewed thoughtfully. “I should explain about last night.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Thanks, but I should.” Suzanne put down her plate. “I get these attacks—panic attacks. Last night was number four. The first one was in Tanzania when I got lost in the bush.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing that would make most people panic.”

“Right. But this isn’t just being scared.” Her voice became thin. “It feels like I’m dying, like I’m dying of fear.” Whit stopped eating. Suzanne stared at her plate. “I’m not used to talking about this. Mia knows, and my parents.”

Her father had been dismissive, and her mother hadn’t exactly been overflowing with sympathy. Whit wondered about Suzanne’s relationship with her parents and realized that her aloofness as a teenager might have been something else altogether. Maybe she had been stressed. “Can you tell what triggers an attack?”

“I’m always alone outside.”

“Like last night. I’m sorry I left you.”

She shrugged. “No way you could’ve known.” She slid off the counter, tossed the rest of the bagel in the trash, and put her dishes in the sink. He watched her move as if she were behind a plate of glass, on display. That’s how she held herself, afraid to tip something over, break something. He swallowed hard. She was splintered, broken.

He pushed the stool back, placed one foot on the floor with the intention of going to her, putting his arms around her.

She spoke, her voice firm now, her huge brown eyes leveled at his. “I like you, Whit. But I’ve never been good at relationships, not even before this.” She pinched her fingers at her temples, then flicked them open. “I’ve had boyfriends and slept with guys who weren’t boyfriends, and whatever it was—good, bad, or indifferent—I dumped them all.” She paused, staring out the window over the sink. “Not much of a résumé, huh?” She offered him a crooked smile.