The nanny murders by Merry Bloch Jones Page B

behind the salt shaker, Tamara’s eyes peered over the cold-cuts counter, and old Charlie’s cryptic warnings echoed under the buzz of conversation. Stop it, I ordered myself. Focus on the here and now. The familiar and routine. But even as I scolded myself, I fantasized about running out of the place, just grabbing Molly’s hand and fleeing with Susan and the girls down the street back to our house where we could bolt the door and be safe. I even planned our escape route. I’d grab my purse and pull Molly out of the booth, lead Susan past the chair in the aisle, dodge that guy in the herringbone coat, veer past the cash register, and then—
    What was happening to me? Couldn’t I just sit quietly and have a meal with my friend? Couldn’t I take even a brief break from the craziness around me? I should be able to; I was a therapist, a mental health professional, trained to deal with emotional problems.
    But the fact was that I wasn’t dealing. I was tense, tired, and stressed. And Susan looked like I felt. Maybe even worse. She sat across the table, at once wired and haggard.
    “Mom, can you find any forks in this picture?” Molly pointed to a puzzle on her place mat. Arthur the Squirrel couldn’t eat hisdinner without dishes and utensils, and they were all hidden in the drawing.
    “I found it,” Emily bragged. She pointed to a tiny fork hidden in a tree branch. Molly leaned across the table to see, and the girls chattered, weaving a nonstop conversation.
    Susan and I, though, were quiet. Susan’s mood pendulum seemed to have swung. After her impassioned rabble-rousing at gymnastics, she’d suddenly deflated. Her black hair hung limp, framing bloodshot eyes. Her skin had a grayish tone.
    “Susan,” I asked, “you okay?”
    She sighed. “As okay as any of us.”
    “You look awful.”
    “Thanks. I love you, too.”
    “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t tell you.”
    “So who asked you to love me?” Her shoulders caved, and she let go of her menu. “You’re right, though. I’ve been a mess since Claudia. And now—Tamara? I adore those girls, Zoe.” Her eyes filled. “It’s just too much. I haven’t slept—I stay up thinking all night. About who took them. If they suffered. You know.”
    I knew. We sat, silent and hurting.
    “I didn’t know that Coach Gene asked Tamara out,” I finally said.
    “Oh, please, Zoe. He asks them all out. Coach Gene likes anything that wiggles.”
    “Coach Gene likes what, Mom?” Molly’s ears had perked up.
    “He likes wiggles,” Emily explained. “You know.” She began, of course, to wiggle. Molly joined her, erupting into squirming giggles.
    “Girls,” I rubbed my temples. “You’re shaking the booth.” “Emily,” Susan barked. “Sit still.”
    The girls quieted, stifling laughter, and Susan and I settled back into our glumness.
    “Last time I saw Tamara, she talked about you,” Susan said.
    “About me?”
    “She said she admired you. Called you a survivor.” Now I was the one blinking away tears. “A lot of single people adopt—”
    “Why do you assume it’s about that? We were talking about strong women. She used you as an example of an old soul, strong because of—I don’t know—something about knowing how to flow with life instead of fighting it. Anyhow, she thought you must have lived many lives.”
    What was she talking about? “Tamara’s always been a flake.”
    “She said I should learn from you. That I waste energy by fighting battles that can’t be won.”
    Then again, maybe not such a flake.
    “Mom—I can’t find the cup.” Molly shoved the place mat in front of me.
    “I’ll show you,” Emily offered. “Here’s a hint. Look near his tail.”
    Molly continued to search. “How come you can find everything?”
    “Cuz I’m older than you.” “When’s your birthday?”
    Their conversation went on, traveling its separate path, occasionally crossing ours. Molly opened her mouth to display her loose baby tooth,