CHAPTER 13
Jeff retrieves me a half-hour later, summoned by Jonah Thompson, who found his number on my cell phone, which I handed to him when he asked me the name of an emergency contact person, shortly after I puked all over his shoes. I’m in the lobby ladies room when he arrives, hunched over a toilet even though my stomach feels as squeezed dry as an empty water bottle. It’s up to one of Jonah’s co-workers to fetch me from the stall. A tiny bird of a reporter named Emily who nervously calls to me from just inside the door, like I’m someone contagious, someone to be feared.
Back at the apartment, Jeff puts me to bed in spite of protests that I’m feeling much better. Apparently, I’m not, for I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I sleep fitfully for the rest of the afternoon, only vaguely aware of either Jeff or Sam popping into the bedroom to check on me. By evening, I’m wide awake and famished. Jeff brings in a tray of food fit for an invalid—chicken noodle soup, toast, and ginger ale.
“It’s not the flu, you know,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Jeff says. “It sounds like you were pretty sick.”
From a combination of lack of sleep and Wild Turkey and so many Xanax. And Him, of course. Seeing that picture of Him.
“It must have been something I ate,” I say. “I’m much better now. Honest. I’m fine.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that your mother called.”
I groan. I can’t help it.
“She said the neighbors are asking why you’re on the front page of the newspapers,” Jeff continues.
”One newspaper,” I say.
“She wants to know what to tell them.”
“Of course she does.”
Jeff snags a triangle of toast, takes a bite, puts it back on my tray. While chewing, he says, “It wouldn’t hurt to call her back.”
“And have her berate me for not being perfect?” I say. “I think I’ll pass.”
“She’s concerned about you, hon. It’s been an eventful few days. Lisa’s suicide. Being in that newspaper. Sam and I are worried about how you’re dealing with it all.”
“Does this mean the two of you actually had a conversation?”
“We did,” Jeff says.
“And it was civil?”
“Abundantly.”
“Color me surprised. What did the two of you talk about?”
Jeff reaches again for the toast but I swat his hand away. He instead kicks off his shoes and pulls his legs onto the bed. On his side now, he scoots close, his body pressing against the entire length of my own.
“You. And how it might be a good idea to have Sam stick around for a week.”
“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with the real Jefferson Richards?”
“I’m serious,” Jeff says. “I spent all day thinking about what you said last night. And you’re right. The way I got those charges against Sam dropped was wrong. She deserved a better defense. And I’m sorry.”
I hand Jeff more toast. “Apology accepted.”
“Plus,” he says between bites, “this cop-killing case is going to start taking up more of my time, and I don’t like the idea of you being home alone most of the day. Not after your picture’s been plastered all over the city.”
“So you’re suggesting that Sam becomes my babysitter?”
“Companion,” Jeff says. “And she’s actually the one who suggested it. She mentioned the two of you did some baking together yesterday. It might be nice to have some help during Baking Season. You always said you wanted an assistant.”
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “It’s a lot for you to handle.”
Jeff tilts his head at me. “You sound like you’re not sure.”
“I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t want it to affect you. Or us.”
“Listen, I’m going to be honest here and admit that Sam and I will probably never be friends. But the two of you have a connection. Or you could. I know we don’t talk much about what happened to you—”
“Because there’s no need to,” I hastily add.
“I agree,” Jeff says. “You say you’ll never get past what happened, but you already have. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Quincy Carpenter, baking goddess.”
“Whatever,” I say, although the description secretly pleases me.
“But maybe you do need some kind of support system to cope. Someone other than Coop. If Sam’s that person you need, I don’t want to stand in the way of it.”
I realize, not for the first time, how lucky I am to have landed someone like Jeff. I can’t help but think he’s the one big difference between Sam and me. Without him, I’d be just like her—wild and angry and lonesome. A tempest never reaching shore, forever tossing about.
“You’re awesome,” I say, pushing the tray aside to throw myself on top of him.
I kiss him. He kisses back, pulling me tighter against him.
The stress of the day melts into desire and I find myself undressing him without even thinking about it. Loosening the tie still knotted around his neck. Popping open the buttons of his Oxford shirt. Kissing the rosy nipples surrounded by a thicket of hair before moving lower, unzipping his Chinos, feeling his arousal.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I try to ignore it, thinking it’s a reporter. Or, worse, my mother. Yet the phone continues to rattle against the bedside lamp, insistent. I check the caller ID.
“It’s Coop,” I say.
Jeff sighs, his desire deflating. “Can’t it wait?”
“Not while my picture is still on the front page.”
Vibrating phone in hand, I spring out of bed and hurry into the master bathroom, closing the door behind me.
“Why didn’t you tell me Samantha Boyd contacted you?” Coop says by way of greeting.
“How do you find out?”
“I got a Google alert,” he says, the answer so unexpected he could have told me aliens and I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Although I would have preferred to hear it from you.”
“I was going to call you,” I say, which is the truth. I had planned to call him right after I got done confronting Jonah. “Sam showed up at my place yesterday. After Lisa’s death, she thought it would be a good idea if we met.”
I could have told Coop more than that, of course. How Sam had changed her name years ago. How she dared me into downing two Xanax too many. How I threw all three back up the moment I saw His picture.
“Is she still there?” Coop asks.
“Yes. She’s going to be staying with us.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Until she figures out some stuff.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“Why? You worried about me?”
“I always worry about you, Quincy.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. Coop’s never been this forthright before. I don’t know if it’s a good change or a bad one. Either way, it’s nice to hear him admit out loud that he cares. It’s definitely more heartwarming than a nod.
“Admit it,” I finally say. “When you saw that Google alert, you almost drove out here to check on me.”
“I got as far as the end of the driveway before stopping myself,” Coop replies.
I don’t doubt him. It’s that kind of devotion that’s made me feel safe all these years.
“What changed your mind?”
“Knowing that you can take care of yourself.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But I’m still concerned that Samantha Boyd has come out of hiding,” Coop says. “You have to admit, it’s startling.”
“You’re starting to sound like Jeff.”
“What’s she like? Is she—”
The first words I think of are the same ones Sam used this morning. Damaged goods. Instead, I say, “Normal? Considering what happened to her, she’s as normal as anyone can be.”
“But not as normal as you.”
I detect a smile in his voice. I imagine his blue eyes sparkling, which happens on the rare occasions he actually lets his guard down.
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m the queen of normalcy.”
“Well, Queen Quincy, what do you think about me coming into the city to meet Samantha? I’d like to get a read on her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust her.” Coop softens his tone slightly, as if he knows he’s starting to sound too intense. “Not until I meet her myself. I want to make sure she’s not up to something.”
“She’s not,” I say. “Jeff’s already grilled her.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“I’d hate to put you out like that.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Coop says. “I have the day off and the weather is nice. The leaves are starting to turn in the Poconos. Makes for a pretty drive.”
“Then sure,” I say. “How does noon sound?”
“Perfect.” Even though we’re on the phone, I know Coop is nodding. I can sense it. “The usual place.”
“Then it’s a date,” I say.
Coop grows serious again, his voice husky and low. “Just be careful until then. I know you think I’m being overly concerned, but I’m not. She’s a stranger, Quincy. One who experienced a whole lot of bad stuff. We don’t know if it messed her up. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, knees pressed together, suddenly cold. Jonah Thompson’s voice flashes into my thoughts. It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you. What a spineless asshole.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Coop. “I think you’ll like her.”
We say our goodbyes, Coop finishing up with his usual invitation to call or text if I need anything.
At the sink, I splash water onto my face and gargle with a hearty dose of mouthwash. I pout at my reflection, trying to look sexy, mentally preparing myself to pick up where Jeff and I left off. Despite Coop’s interruption, the desire I felt earlier is still very much intact. Perhaps even more so. I’m fully ready to jump back into bed and finish what I started with Jeff.
But when I exit the bathroom, I see that Jeff, tired of waiting and just plain tired, has fallen fast asleep.
Midnight finds my mind exhausted but my body wide awake. All that napping earlier in the afternoon has left me thrumming with energy. I shift and roll beneath the covers, too warm with them, too cold without them. Jeff has no such problem. He snores lightly beside me, lost to the world. Rather than remain in bed, I get up and change into jeans, T-shirt, and a cardigan. A little late-night baking feels in order. Old-fashioned apple dumplings. The next item on Quincy’s Sweets’ schedule, which has already been thrown off by a day.
I don’t get past the guest room. Sam’s room now, I suppose. A strip of light creeps from beneath the door, so I give it a single, tentative tap.
“It’s open,” Sam says.
I find her in the corner, rooting through the knapsack. She pulls out the earrings from Saks and tosses them onto the bed, their presence jarring my memory. I had forgotten all about them.
“I took the stuff out of your purse when you got home,” she tells me. “In case Jeff decided to look in there.”
“Thanks,” I say, staring glumly at the earrings. “I’m not sure I want them anymore.”
“I’ll take them.” Sam grabs the earrings off the bed and drops them back into the knapsack. “It’s not like we can return them. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say. “But now I can’t sleep.”
“Sleeping’s not my strong suit, either.”
“Jeff told me about your talk earlier today,” I say. “And I’m happy. We’re happy. To have you here, I mean. Just yell if you need anything. Make yourself at home.”
Which she’s already done. A couple of books sit on the nightstand. Dog-eared science fiction paperbacks and a hardcover copy of The Art of War. Although the window is open, it can’t quite erase the cigarette smoke clinging to the air. Sam’s leather purse-slash-ashtray rests on the sill.
“I’m sorry I left you alone the rest of the day,” I say. “I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“It’s cool.” Sam sits on one side of the bed, patting the mattress until I settle onto the other. “I took a walk around the neighborhood. Had that nice talk with Jeff.”
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” I tell her. “Which reminds me, we’re meeting someone tomorrow. His name is Franklin Cooper.”
“The cop that saved your life?”
I’m surprised she knows who he is. She really has been keeping tabs on me.
“Right,” I say. “He wants to meet you. Say hi.”
“And see if I’m a psycho,” Sam says. “Don’t worry. I get it. He needs to see if I can be trusted.”
I clear my throat. “Which means you can’t mention the Xanax.”
“Sure,” Sam says.
“Or the—”
“Five-fingered discount you sometimes take advantage of?”
“Yes,” I reply, grateful I don’t have to say it out loud. “That, too.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam says. “I won’t even swear.”
“After that, we’ll play tourist. The Empire State Building. Rockefeller Center. Wherever you want to go.”
“Central Park?”
I can’t tell if she’s attempting a joke about what happened the night before. “If you’d like.”
“Why wait? Why not go right now?”
Now I know she’s joking. Maybe.
“That’s so not a good idea,” I say.
“And was puking on that reporter a good idea?”
“That wasn’t intentional.”
“Did he say anything?”
Once more, Jonah Thompson’s insistent voice tiptoes into my skull. Again, I ignore it. The only thing Sam lied about was her name change, and I know all about that now. Jonah’s the one who was lying, trying to get me to spill my guts about being called a Final Girl. I spilled my guts, just not in the way he was expecting.
“Nothing important,” I say. “I wasn’t there to listen. I went there to yell.”
“Good for you.”
Another thought occurs to me, making my voice go soft. “Why didn’t you go with me? Why didn’t you even want me to go?”
“Because you need to pick your battles,” Sam says. “I learned a long time ago that fighting with the press is useless. They’ll win every time. And with guys like that Jonah Thompson punk, it only eggs him on. We’ll probably be in the paper again tomorrow.”
The thought makes my body go rigid with fear. “I’m sorry if that happens.”
“It’s no big deal,” Sam says. “I’m just happy you finally got mad about something.”
“Yes. I got very mad.”
This pleases Sam, as I knew it would. A spark ignites just behind her eyes. “How did it feel to confront him?”
I think about it for a moment, parsing through my hazy memory, trying to sort how I really felt and what the Xanax made me feel. I think I liked it. Scratch that. I know I liked it. I felt righteous and energized and strong, right up until the nausea took over.
“It felt good,” I say.
“Getting angry always does. And are you still mad?”
“No,” I say.
Sam gives me a playful shove from across the bed. “Liar.”
“Fine. Yes. I’m still mad.”
“The question then becomes, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I say. “You just said it’s useless to fight with the press.”
“I’m not talking about the press now. I’m talking about life. The world. It’s full of misfortune and unfairness and women like us getting hurt by men who should know better. And very few people actually give a shit. Even fewer of us actually get angry and take action.”
“But you’re one of them,” I say.
“Damn right. You want to join me?”
I stare across the bed at Sam and the fiery glint crackling in her eyes. My heartbeat increases a tick or two as something stirs in my chest, as light as a butterfly’s wing’s scraping the inside of its chrysalis. It’s longing, I realize. A longing to feel the same way I felt with Sam that morning. A longing to be radiant again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
Sam grabs her jacket, shoves it on, closes it with a forceful zip. “Then let’s go.”