Adelaide Confused Page 16

  No one had said anything after that, but the silence spoke volumes. Francesca might have held her tongue, but contrite she was not.

  It had been past noon by the time I got home. I was late before I even started to get ready. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I let it trail down my back as I scattered my bangs into place. Good enough for a bunch of corporate hosers.

  Chapter 28

  My car made a horrid retching noise as I put it into park. Add the door’s metallic squawking and I’d attracted quite a bit of attention from the loitering yuppies.

  Reed wasn’t waiting for me at the gate, unsurprising as I was nearly an hour late. Even if I was willing to forgive this transgression, it was still a hassle. The bouncer (for lack of a better word) held a list of all the Wallace Enterprise employees invited to the event. I was not on it.

  I heehawed until the club was called, insisting they speak with Reed Wallace himself. As it was Reed who rented the club for these events, it only took his say-so to get me inside. It would have taken less than that to put me on the list. The oversight was intentional. No doubt this was Reed’s choice of punishment for my late arrival, and it had not gone unnoticed. Soon the freshly pressed housewives would be whispering about Reed Wallace and his latest trollop. ‘Did you hear?’ one would say. ‘He left her waiting at the gate for over an hour.’ I ground my teeth at the thought. Reed had just topped my shit-list. Again.

  Eventually I was let through, and when entering the foyer the first person I saw was Tim Beckett. He wandered out of the auxiliary ballroom, hair awry and pants too big. Harried to see me, he turned on his heel, sprinting for the men’s room.

  “Wiener,” I muttered as I watched him run off. I’d made him uncomfortable from the get-go, though why, I wasn’t sure. Whatever Reed’s excuse for him, Tim Beckett was still a suspicious character.

  I went the way he had come from, entering the big room on my right. Many of the tables had been removed and only a few people, those trying to escape the heat, stood around to chat in the cavernous space. Three sets of French doors were kept open, leading to the massive half-circle balcony where Reed’s employees were holding court.

  Outside, tables were scattered in clumps. Women dressed in pastel tennis wear sat eating fruit beneath the cloister of their sun umbrellas. Men stood in golf shorts and boat shoes, laughing and bragging. People came and went using the stairway that led to the grounds below where they could reach the amenities.

  I honed in on the buffet table and wandered the long way to get there. Attitudes weren’t subdued like at the dinner event. This was a picnic and people wanted to have fun. Amusement, excitement, pleasure—they weren’t the worst to feel, but they swelled inside of me like a bomb waiting to detonate.

  I loaded a plate full of food and took a seat, turning my back to the smorgasbord of people. The illusion of being alone helped, it was better not to see them.

  One by one or in small groups, everyone eventually made their way to the buffet table. Not only could I pick the emotions off them, but it was the prime location for eavesdropping as well. Mostly I was bored, struggling to stay attentive. But I did notice a definite trend in topics. The women talked about their children’s accomplishments and various charity events they’d either attended or organized. The men talked a little about sports, boating and such, but it was mostly business. The exception to this was Eleanor Bryant.

  I heard her voice at my back, but it was the lack of emotion that I recognized. “It’s good that you caught him on the island. When he’s in the city it’s hard for him to find the time.”

  “So I’ve heard,” another female responded. Her emotions were faint, but there was an icy detachment about her that was both familiar and repugnant.

  Eleanor asked, “What’s the angle for your story?”

  “Something relevant to investors,” was the vague reply. Her disdain for Eleanor was evident to me, as was her contempt of their conversation. But these are things only an empath would pick up on as she was both polite and conversational.

  Wanting to glimpse the biotch I turned, tucking my chin to my shoulder and peeping past. She was leaning against the balcony’s stone balustrade, half blocked by Eleanor, but even so I knew her. She still looked like a school teacher, a very professional school teacher. She wore a black pencil skirt that went just past the knee and an ivory jabot blouse. She matched Eleanor’s look, the two both out of place, ready for the boardroom and not scheduled recreation. They even had matching chignons.

  As if she knew I was watching, she leaned past Eleanor to stare straight at me. We locked eyes. There was recognition in hers, but not surprise.

  Raising her voice so I knew I was being addressed, she asked, “Taking an afternoon off from the grueling hospitality business?” It was meant to sound playful, but I felt the intended stab.

  Having run out of food, I had no reason to skulk. So I stood, prepared to join their conversation and mingle a bit. “Something like that,” I said.

  Eleanor turned, her body language inviting me into their group. “Good to see you again, Adelaide. I take it you’ve already met Ms. Thompson.”

  “No, not formally,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. She took it, her gaze skating over my face and down my body. She studied me as if she could see through me, it was creepy. She was creepy. I had to forcefully ignore the impulse to wipe my hand after she released it.

  “Raina is writing a piece on Wallace Enterprise. She’s hoping for an interview with Reed,” Eleanor explained. Turning to Raina, she continued, “And Adelaide is—”

  I was curious to hear how Eleanor would explain my presence, but Reed interrupted, sidling up unexpectedly and snaking a hand around my waist. “My girlfriend,” he finished, greeting me with a kiss to the temple.

  Ignoring the elbow in his ribs, he smiled at Raina and casually reached out to shake her hand. “The journalist I presume?”

  I took perverse satisfaction from the fact that Miss Raina Thompson was not immune to Reed’s charm. She gave him a piercingly thorough examination, with looks so intense I thought she might devour him on the spot. “Yes,” she agreed, pumping his hand, “the journalist.” She actually smiled. “I was hoping for an interview. I haven’t managed to confirm an appointment yet. Your assistant, she’s cagey. But I’d be more than willing to drop by your home whenever it’s convenient. The interview shouldn’t take more than an hour or so of your time.”

  “No need,” he said easily. “I’ve been meeting with my employees at the hotel all week. I’ll just have Karen fit you in.”

  “She’s not staying at the Crowne,” I interjected.

  Raina spared me a glance. It wasn’t friendly. “The Crowne didn’t have any rooms to spare,” she agreed.

  “If you’re here on behalf of Wallace Enterprise, then you should have a room. I’ll take care of it,” he offered.

  “What’s wrong with Sterling’s?” I asked innocently enough, but I’d left him no right answer.

  He gave a roguish grin, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” he said, giving my waist a squeeze, “it’s charming.” His smile turned sincere, sharp blue eyes laughing at the pun only we would understand.

  Watching us intently, Raina was more interested with our interplay than she’d been about her own work. “Coming here to the club must be a nice treat for you,” she said with venom.

  Reed spoke before I thought up a scathing reply. “On the contrary,” he said affectionately, nuzzling my hair with his chin. “I had to beg her to come.”

  I was about to add that money had been exchanged, with blackmail involved too. But before I had the chance to say a single word the bottom of my stomach dropped out, and at the risk of sounding dramatic, my world fell apart.

  On the walkway at ground level, not ten feet from the stone railing, Lucas stood immobile. He watched me, not Reed or anyone around me, just
me. His face was an expressionless mask, and I sensed not even a hint of emotion. The moment dragged on. I felt caught, unable to move, to even breathe beneath his intense stare. And then he turned and stalked away.

  Released from the trap of that terrible moment things jumped back into motion. Sounds were seemingly louder than the seconds before, and the emotions came rushing to swamp me. I turned and ran, ducking through the throng and hurrying for the stairs. I jumped the last three and turned so sharply my feet went skidding. I didn’t see him as I ran, but figured he was heading for the parking lot out front. And when I made it to the gate I saw his tires kicking up dust as his old Ford Bronco four by four traveled down the road, and away from me.

  Chapter 29

  The situation felt surreal. It was too unlikely to be more than a dream, or a nightmare really. I mean, what was Lucas doing at a country club anyway? And what had he seen? That was the question that continued to roll through my mind. What had Lucas seen? Me in Reed’s arms? Obviously, but had he seen Reed kiss my hair, nuzzle it? Had he heard Reed claim I was his girlfriend? I replayed the conversation, picking apart the nuances, and then I imagined Lucas watching the whole thing. To say I was dismayed would be a gross understatement.

  Reed caught me getting into my car as I prepared to give chase. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Something came up,” I said breathlessly over my shoulder. “It’s important. I have to go.”

  He grabbed the door before I could pull it closed. “More important than the work you’re doing for me here?”

  I felt certain it was, but I doubted Reed would agree. “I need to take care of it now,” I answered.

  “He’ll still be around in a few hours. You can apologize to him later.”

  Bewildered, I looked up.

  “Yes,” he answered dryly, “everyone saw you running after another man. Humiliating for me really, as you’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”

  I slumped into the bucket seat and rubbed my forehead in defeat. “I won’t be good for much, my own feelings are too strong right now, they’ll overwhelm any of the useful twinges I usually pick up in a conversation.”

  “You just need a distraction,” he said, trying to extract me from the car. “Tennis, I think. Something active to alleviate the guilt.”

  Guilt was something of a conundrum. It could be overwhelming, even debilitating, or it could exist in the subconscious, so slight but perpetual that it lasted forever. Being an empath, I’d experienced both, and neither one was healthy. Healthy guilt was dictated by our conscience. It let us know when we had done something wrong, allowing us to make amends and move on. But that was a logical application for something totally illogical, and as such it was fated for disaster.

  With all my practice, I was probably one of few who could be logical about emotions. And that was what I did. I admitted I was feeling guilty, but for no good reason. I hadn’t wronged Lucas. I wasn’t leading him on, because I wasn’t really with Reed. It was just a misunderstanding, something I could easily fix with a small explanation.

  So I allowed Reed to drag me to the tennis courts, though I had no intention of playing. Karen hailed us as we walked past and Reed veered to meet her. She and another woman were waiting outside the chain-link fence watching a singles match wind down.

  “You remember Gayla, Paulson’s wife,” Karen said to Reed.

  “Yes of course,” he lied, taking her hand. “And this,” he gestured to me, “is my girlfriend Adelaide.” Apparently he wasn’t going to stop parading me around. I nearly rolled my eyes, but smiled politely instead.

  “Are you going to play?” Gayla asked, gesturing through the windscreen to the dull green court beyond.

  “No,” I said, just as Reed said, “Yes.” He continued as if I hadn’t spoken, saying, “We just need to rustle up a ball, some rackets, and an available court.”

  “Why don’t we do doubles,” Gayla suggested. She pointed to the couple that had just finished up their last set, currently mopping their foreheads and gathering up equipment. “I’m sure the Petersons will lend you their rackets.”

  “What a fine idea,” Reed said. “We’d love to.”

  Gayla beamed, which I thought was embarrassing for her as he’d led that conversation to its finish.

  “No we wouldn’t,” I countered. Turning to Reed, “Did you forget the part where I said I wasn’t playing?”

  “What’s the matter, out of practice?” Karen asked. Beneath her white sportswear she was bitchier than usual, a side effect of seeing me and Reed together.

  “No practice. I’ve never played.”

  Gayla waved a hand. “Well don’t let that stop you, we’ll help. We’re all friends here.”

  I looked at Karen who was looking back at me with a challenge in her eye.

  * * *

  So that was how I found myself preparing to play tennis, a game for which I didn’t even know the rules. Reed’s only instruction had been to hit the ball back across the net if it came to me. I figured I could manage that.

  I’d like to say I was a natural, though I would have settled for being just a little bit better than Karen, but I was neither.

  Karen stood diagonally across the court, preparing to serve. A moment or so later she threw the ball up into the air, swinging her racket to meet it. I swear she aimed for my vagina, probably hoping to put me out of commission. I jumped aside, holding the racket down to shield my crotch. The ball struck with surprising force, knocking the racket from my hand. The yellow ball then rolled harmlessly away as I watched my racket go skittering atop the asphalt. There was a long awkward silence. “Yeah,” I said slowly, “I don’t think I want to play tennis.” I walked off, and no one, not even Reed tried to stop me.

  It might not be too surprising that I went in search of Danielle Smathers after that, and when I couldn’t find her I settled for Harold Determeyer. He was one of many who had retired to the ballroom, driven inside by the heat. The men and women who shared his table were older like him, and none of them made an effort to keep up conversation as they wilted in their chairs. I recognized the ill-tempered old man from dinner, the one who despised being forced into a work retreat. He scowled at me and then looked away, gazing down into his glass.

  I moved up behind Harold’s chair and called his name. When he didn’t turn around, I half yelled, “Harold!” He jerked to look back at me, the skin of his neck trembling as it sagged lazily, coming to puddle at his collar. I forced my eyes up past his chin, feeling a bit queasy. I asked, “Do you know where Danielle is?”

  “Swimming,” he said in a frail voice.

  I nodded but stood a second longer, eavesdropping on their emotions. This group wasn’t feeling devious, they were feeling tired. But just then my skills weren’t at their best. I needed a pick me up. I needed Danielle Smathers.

  Like the sauna and fitness center, the indoor pool was located on the club’s lowest level. I walked down the stairs, the smell of chlorine growing stronger as I wandered past a few racquet ball rooms toward the sound of echoing splashes.

  The air was heavy and moist in what was labeled the aquatic room. I slipped inside, wanting to go unnoticed as I scanned the area. The pool was large, and nearly half was sectioned into lanes. Only two people were swimming, and neither looked like members of the Wallace party.

  I found Danielle. She was sprawled out and basking in the fluorescent light on the top bench of the ten tier bleachers. Propped on a bed of towels, she lay motionless in a bright pink bikini. An MP3 player rested on her stomach, the headphones trailing up to her ears while she shaded her eyes with a pair of aviators. A few empty glasses littered the benches all around and a half-opened fashion magazine lay at her feet. I wasn’t close enough to tell if she was sleeping. To be on the safe side I moved quietly, not wanting to be seen.

  I made my way along the side of the bleachers, Danielle disappearing from vie
w above my head. And when I reached the backing, set flush against the wall, I dipped beneath the metal support system, carefully stepping through the network of bars.

  I aimed for the shadowy bulk that spilled over the slender bench above me, but I didn’t make it that far. The effect of her drugs dragged me down, making me clumsy and dull. I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, feeling... relaxed. It was nice, because like I said before, I had a hard time relaxing.

  I didn’t know what drug Danielle was on. All I knew was that it made her happy, us happy, and I was more disconnected and calm than I’d ever been before. It was magic really. Francesca was mad at me, Lucas was probably mad at me, and Reed would definitely be mad at me too when he found out about this, but I just didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was constantly being haunted or that a murderer was planning to rip me to pieces. None of it mattered.

  My thoughts wandered in strange patterns, but they were of Lucas a lot. And looking back, I was unaccountably enamored with the aquatic room. It was dark under the bleachers, and the sound of lapping water combined with the blanket of humid, hot air made it feel safe and tranquil. Or maybe that was the drugs.

  Time passed slowly, yet too fast. I was brought to attention by voices, familiar voices. I looked up at the outline of Danielle, but she lay immobile. Squinting through the framework I could just make out two figures and the color of their clothing. I didn’t want to be found lurking under the bleachers, and wouldn’t have moved if not for the fact that I recognized both speakers. As I crept closer the soft whisper of their words sifted through the air.

  “Come on,” a man urged. “I know you want to, we always have fun together.

  “No,” the woman insisted, pushing him away.

  Frustrated, he asked, “Then tell me why not?”

  “I don’t want him to find out,” the woman said. I recognized her, it was Karen.

  He laughed, pressing her into the wall with his body. “He already knows, remember? You told him.” He ducked his head, leaning down to kiss Karen’s neck.

  For a moment I went into total shock, recognizing that dark head of hair. But no, it wasn’t Reed, they were talking about Reed. It was that look-alike. I struggled to remember his name. Ricky… maybe Richey.