Presidentâs Day weekend. Hell, heâd have gone down for the whole winter, but she didnât want to spend the holidays in the South. Said it wouldnât seem like Christmas without cold weather, and snow.
She loved snow.
He closes his eyes briefly, pushing aside an unwanted memory.
When he opens them again, the orange DONâT WALK sign across the street has turned to a white WALK . He crosses the intersection, careful to sidestep puddles in his black calfskin Ferragamo oxfords.
One of these days, he really should find a closer rental garage. Parking his Land Rover three blocks from home isnât practical on a day like this.
Halfway down the next block, he mounts the steps of a narrow brownstone, snaps his black umbrella closed, and turns his key in the lock.
Home.
Home again.
A new maid, whose name escapes him, scurries into the entry hall as he wipes his feet on the mat.
âGood morning, sir.â She radiates polite detachment and a bit of uncertainty.
Soon, sheâll take his frequent absences in stride, just as the others have.
He nods at her, depositing his dripping umbrella in the stand by the door and tossing his wet Burberry trench on the coat tree.
âWould you like a cup of tea?â the maid asks, as he flips through two daysâ worth of mail in its designated basket on the nearby table.
âNo, thank you.â He picks up the customary stack of bills, financial statements and credit card offers, then strides toward the double glass doors leading to his study.
Stepping across the threshold into a dim, paneled haven, he inhales the familiar scent of leather, furniture polish and lingering pipe tobacco.
Here, with the maroon draperies drawn, the silence punctuated only by the steady tick of the antique mantel clock, David is sheltered from the harsh city at his doorstep; from the harsher past with its haunting memories.
Sitting at his desk, he slips a finger beneath the flap of the first envelope on his pile of mail then curses.
Blood oozes from a paper cut. He sticks his finger in his mouth, wincing at the warm, salty taste, then opens the top drawer to find his letter opener.
He really should use the damn thing more often, if only for practical reasons. Never mind that itâs an heirloom, custom-designed, engraved with the family coat of arms and monogrammed with Davidâs initials. His grandfather gave it to him the day he returned to New York with his MBA and joined the familyâs real estate business. Well, empire would be a more accurate word, David thinks, rummaging through his drawer.
The letter opener doesnât seem to be here.
He frowns, trying to recall the last time he used it.
Truth be told, he never uses the letter opener.
Well then, when was the last time he saw it?
He has no idea. Itâs so easy to lose track of time these days, he thinks, glancing at his daily calendar.
Shaking his head, he tears off several pages: the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth.
Todayâs date stares boldly up at him.
He toys with a sharpened pencil, rolling it back and forth in his fingers.
February fourteenth.
Valentineâs Day.
So?
Itâs just another bleak day in another bleak month.
Just another holiday spent without her . . .
He clenches his jaw.
Without Angela.
As vulnerable in Davidâs strong fingers as the fragile neckbone of a hapless fowl, the pencil splinters abruptly in half.
T urning onto Shorewood Lane late that afternoon with her children strapped into the back seat, Rose glimpses a familiar blue car parked in her own driveway.
âHey, look, Aunt Leslieâs here!â Jenna exclaims. âDo you think she can stay for dinner, Mom?â
âWeâll ask her.â Rose parks at the curb, not wanting to block Leslie in and have to come out again later to move the car. According to the WLIR meteorologist on the car radio just now, the freezing rain thatâs been falling over New Jersey
She loved snow.
He closes his eyes briefly, pushing aside an unwanted memory.
When he opens them again, the orange DONâT WALK sign across the street has turned to a white WALK . He crosses the intersection, careful to sidestep puddles in his black calfskin Ferragamo oxfords.
One of these days, he really should find a closer rental garage. Parking his Land Rover three blocks from home isnât practical on a day like this.
Halfway down the next block, he mounts the steps of a narrow brownstone, snaps his black umbrella closed, and turns his key in the lock.
Home.
Home again.
A new maid, whose name escapes him, scurries into the entry hall as he wipes his feet on the mat.
âGood morning, sir.â She radiates polite detachment and a bit of uncertainty.
Soon, sheâll take his frequent absences in stride, just as the others have.
He nods at her, depositing his dripping umbrella in the stand by the door and tossing his wet Burberry trench on the coat tree.
âWould you like a cup of tea?â the maid asks, as he flips through two daysâ worth of mail in its designated basket on the nearby table.
âNo, thank you.â He picks up the customary stack of bills, financial statements and credit card offers, then strides toward the double glass doors leading to his study.
Stepping across the threshold into a dim, paneled haven, he inhales the familiar scent of leather, furniture polish and lingering pipe tobacco.
Here, with the maroon draperies drawn, the silence punctuated only by the steady tick of the antique mantel clock, David is sheltered from the harsh city at his doorstep; from the harsher past with its haunting memories.
Sitting at his desk, he slips a finger beneath the flap of the first envelope on his pile of mail then curses.
Blood oozes from a paper cut. He sticks his finger in his mouth, wincing at the warm, salty taste, then opens the top drawer to find his letter opener.
He really should use the damn thing more often, if only for practical reasons. Never mind that itâs an heirloom, custom-designed, engraved with the family coat of arms and monogrammed with Davidâs initials. His grandfather gave it to him the day he returned to New York with his MBA and joined the familyâs real estate business. Well, empire would be a more accurate word, David thinks, rummaging through his drawer.
The letter opener doesnât seem to be here.
He frowns, trying to recall the last time he used it.
Truth be told, he never uses the letter opener.
Well then, when was the last time he saw it?
He has no idea. Itâs so easy to lose track of time these days, he thinks, glancing at his daily calendar.
Shaking his head, he tears off several pages: the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth.
Todayâs date stares boldly up at him.
He toys with a sharpened pencil, rolling it back and forth in his fingers.
February fourteenth.
Valentineâs Day.
So?
Itâs just another bleak day in another bleak month.
Just another holiday spent without her . . .
He clenches his jaw.
Without Angela.
As vulnerable in Davidâs strong fingers as the fragile neckbone of a hapless fowl, the pencil splinters abruptly in half.
T urning onto Shorewood Lane late that afternoon with her children strapped into the back seat, Rose glimpses a familiar blue car parked in her own driveway.
âHey, look, Aunt Leslieâs here!â Jenna exclaims. âDo you think she can stay for dinner, Mom?â
âWeâll ask her.â Rose parks at the curb, not wanting to block Leslie in and have to come out again later to move the car. According to the WLIR meteorologist on the car radio just now, the freezing rain thatâs been falling over New Jersey
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