The Woman Next Door Read online

  ***

  She had barely started making her calls when Graham came up the back steps. She met him at the door, refusing to see the bouquet of wildflowers that he had picked from what he called his “private stash” at the back of the yard.

  “I just got a call. Quinn Davis committed suicide.”

  Graham dropped his hand, the flowers forgotten. His face paled. “Killed himself?” he asked in disbelief.

  Amanda nodded, feeling the reality of it full force. “He hanged himself, Gray. In the locker room at school.”

  Graham remained disbelieving. “Quinn Davis?”

  “He was smart,” she said, listing all the reasons this should never have happened. “He was good-looking. He was athletic. He was personable. He had everything to live for. His only blemish was a single drinking offense, and the police weren’t even involved with that.”

  Graham pushed a hand through his hair and exhaled, releasing remnants of optimism and hope, much as Amanda had done when she had first learned of the death. “But it was a public thing, being banned from the team,” he said, trying to reason it out. “And the paper made such a big deal of it. They said he lived and breathed baseball. So, he killed himself for missing six games? Would six games have mattered in the overall scheme of things? Would he remember those six games when he was playing in college? Or after, if he made the pros?”

  Amanda put a hand to her stomach. Her insides were knotted. “There was more. Something deeper. If he and I had been able to connect, I might have known what it was, but it’s too late, now. He’s gone.”

  “Oh, Mandy” Graham said and took her in his arms. “You can’t blame yourself for this.”

  She didn’t say anything at first. It felt so wonderful to be held, to be the object of Graham’s warmth again, that she simply breathed it in and savored the comfort until, yes, guilt got the better of her. She let her arms drop and stepped back.

  “Quinn is—was a leader. The thing now is to make sure no one else holds him up as a hero and tries what he did.”

  “There’s no rationale for that.”

  “There’s no rationale for suicide, period.” She folded her arms. “It’s frustrating. Here we are, trying so hard to bring a child into the world, and another child takes himself out, just like that. It isn’t fair, Gray.”

  “Lots of things aren’t,” he muttered. Walking past her, he put the flowers down and stood with his hands on the counter and his back to her—and suddenly she wanted to talk about all of it. She wanted to talk about who deserved what, and what it took to be a good parent, and the fact that she and Gray would be the best parents ever. She wanted to talk about the things that could ruin relationships and how to nip them in the bud. She wanted to talk about the dreams that seemed to be going up in smoke.

  But she didn’t have time. She had more calls to make, then a meeting to attend. Attend? Conduct. How Woodley High handled this crisis was her responsibility. As the one in charge, she felt a tremendous weight.

  “I’m sorry about dinner,” she said.

  He waved the concern away but didn’t turn. “I have work to do anyway.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then you aren’t working here?”

  “No. I’ll go to the office. I concentrate better there.”

  “The periwinkles are beautiful.”

  “It was a thought. We almost had it.”

  The last phrase caught her. It had so many levels of meaning that if she dared think about them, she would be totally depressed. Easier to concentrate on the calls she had to make.

  “Later, maybe?” she said as she picked up the phone.

  “Sure,” he said. But he didn’t sound convinced.

  ***

  Even though Graham understood the crisis, he resented Amanda for leaving. She was walking out on him at a time when he needed her. Yes, he knew death was the ultimate tragedy. Yes, he knew they could talk later. Yes, he knew he was behaving badly.

  But knowing was rational. His feelings weren’t. Again, he felt rebuffed.

  Angry at that, he waited until Amanda had driven off, then walked across the street and around the yard to Gretchen Tannenwald’s back door. He didn’t see the Russian olive trees that he had planted in a sea of pachysandra, or the shag carpet of juniper, or the dogwood. He didn’t even see the rough-hewn bluestones that he had placed as a path around the house. Single-mindedly he knocked, then rang the bell, tempering his impatience only when he saw Gretchen approach.

  She didn’t smile when she saw him. “I was wondering when you’d come,” she said and opened the door.

  He entered the kitchen. “I don’t follow.”

  “Russ and Lee have both been here.”

  “Yeah, well, the question is running rampant around the circle. Me, I figure I don’t need to know. How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Anything need doing?”

  She thought for a minute, then shrugged. “No. Not now. Can I get you coffee? A Coke?”

  “No, thanks. I can’t stay. I took my chances coming here. Someone will see and talk.” He was thinking about Karen. For that matter, Lee wouldn’t hesitate to spread the word if he could benefit from it.

  “If I’m not making demands on anyone,” Gretchen asked, “why is it so important?”

  “Because trust is fragile,” he said. Bowing his head, he rubbed the back of his neck. Then, sighing, he looked up again. “Listen, I don’t know what the others said. But please yell if you need me.”

  Pressing her lips together, she nodded.

  He held her gaze for a last minute, binding her to the agreement. Then, fishing his keys from the pockets of his jeans, he trotted down the steps, retraced his path through the yard and across the circle, climbed into his truck, and headed for town.

  ***

  Karen watched Graham leave Gretchen’s. She didn’t honestly think that he was having an affair with Gretchen. She thought it was Lee. But why was Graham running over there the minute Amanda left home?

  Karen was wondering what that meant and, in any event, whether Graham had learned anything, when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver, but Jordie had answered on another extension. Someone was already speaking to him—not quite shouting, not quite crying, but certainly upset, enough so that she didn’t recognize the voice. She would have had to be dense, though, not to get the gist of the message.

  “Quinn did what?” she asked in the middle of the conversation.

  “Killed himself, Mrs. Cotter. They found him in school.”

  “What?” she cried.

  “He was unconscious,” said Rob Sprague, rationally enough now so that she could recognize the voice. Rob was on the baseball team with Jordie. And with Quinn.

  “He took pills?” she asked.

  “Tranquilizers. His father takes ’em all the time. Some of the guys were supposed to meet him at his house. They were there when the cops came. Everyone’s meeting there now, Jordie. Want me to pick you up?”

  Karen couldn’t believe it. Even in spite of the drinking incident, even in spite of the newspaper article exposing it, she wouldn’t have thought that Quinn Davis was anywhere near troubled enough to kill himself.

  “Jordie?” Rob asked.

  Karen was thinking that if a boy like Quinn had done something like that, her own son, who was much more vulnerable, might be—when she heard a small sound behind her. Jordie stood at the door, looking so lost, his face ashen and his eyes haunted, that she hung up the phone.

  “I think we ought to check this out,” she said. “It may be rumor.”

  Jordie was shaking his head even before she finished. His Adam’s apple bobbed, seeming too large for his neck, when he gave a convulsive swallow.

  “Why would Quinn kill himself?” she asked. “He was happy. He was successful.”

  Jordie shook his head again, but his eyes looked glazed now.

  She went o
ver to him, unsure of what to do. Had he been younger, she would have held him in her arms. But it had been years since he had allowed that. So she simply reached out to touch his face.

  He stepped back and looked away, frowning now, seeming to be trying to make sense of something. Then he headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  She followed him out to the garage. “Jordie, let’s make calls. Let’s find out what’s what. Let’s verify this story.”

  But he had mounted the ten-speed bicycle that he hadn’t wanted to be seen on of late because it had only two wheels instead of four, and was heading down the driveway. “What do I say if Rob calls back?” she asked. “Where will you be?”

  His voice sailed back on the warm evening breeze. “Quinn’s.”

  ***

  Georgia was behind the wheel of her rental car. She was returning from the Tampa airport, where she had picked up the two men representing her would-be buyer. One was a vice president, the other the CFO. She was driving them back to the hotel prior to a dinner meeting and, tomorrow, a full day of meetings and facility tours, when her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom.” It was Allison, sounding frightened this time. “Quinn killed himself.”

  “He did what?” Georgia asked, more alarmed by the girl’s tone than her words. Kids—teenagers—used words like “killed” to mean a dozen different things.

  “He slashed his wrists. Mr. Dubcek found him like that. It was way too late to do anything.”

  Georgia started to tremble. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. Brooke just called. She said it was a big gross mess. But he’s dead, Mom. Quinn is dead.”

  “Dear Lord,” Georgia murmured. Unable to concentrate on the road, she ignored the existence of the men she was trying to impress, and pulled over to the side. “Oh, Allie. I’m so sorry. Why ever would he do that?”

  “Brooke said it was the article in the paper.”

  “What article?” Georgia asked, feeling out of it again.

  “His suspension was the lead story in the Woodley Weekly yesterday. Brooke says he was so embarrassed that he couldn’t bear it, but Melissa says his parents were the ones who couldn’t bear it. She was on the phone with him last night, and they were walking in and out of his room talking about boarding school and lawsuits.” Her voice broke. “He’s gone. Forever.” She started to cry.

  “Shhh,” Georgia said, feeling the girl’s shaking body even over the phone. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’ll be okay.”

  “It won’t,” the girl sobbed. “I saw him this afternoon. I was talking with Kristen and Melissa in the hall when he came over. He wanted to know what time Melissa’s hair appointment was. She was having her hair cut when he did it. I guess he wanted to make sure she wasn’t around. And then he left her a love note. He said it wasn’t her fault. But if he loved her enough, he wouldn’t have done it. How can someone . . . do that, Mom?”

  How to answer, knowing that her words would be taken as gospel? “Most people can’t, honey. We don’t know why Quinn did. All we know is that he wasn’t as strong as we thought. Sweetie, is your father there with you?”

  Allison sniffed. “He went over to the Cotters’, to see what he could find out.”

  “Have you talked with Jordie?”

  “No. This is so bad. I can’t tell you how bad it is.”

  “Death is.”

  “No. For Jordie.” Her voice grew frantic. “Mom, last Tuesday? When Quinn got drunk? They were drinking vodka. Jordie was the one who gave them the bottle.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Only you can not tell anyone about that. Swear you won’t. Jordie would never talk to me again if he knew I told you. But you see how this is so bad?”

  Georgia could barely begin to imagine the guilt that Jordie had to be feeling. “I do see. Where is he now?”

  “He went over to Quinn’s. The team’s there. Mommy, what do I do?”

  For starters, Georgia wanted to cry, get your father back in the house with you. She couldn’t believe that Russ had left the child alone, even for a short time. Allie needed comfort. She needed reassurance.

  She needed her mother—that was what she needed. The horror went beyond Quinn’s death to the larger issue of mortality. Yes, Allison knew about death. She had lost two grandparents in the last few years—grandparents whom she had known and loved. But

  Quinn was her contemporary. Thinking about his death, she would think about her own. That was scary for a fourteen-year-old girl who was just on the verge of blossoming. She was looking forward to life. She had dreams.

  “The first thing you do,” Georgia said, “is to go get your dad and give him a hug. Tell him you need him there with you.”

  “I mean, do I go over to Quinn’s?”

  “Not tonight. Not unless the other girls are going. Quinn’s parents must be in shock. They don’t need a crowd.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “His parents will make funeral plans—”

  Allison shrieked at the word “funeral.”

  Much as she wanted to, there was no way Georgia could shield her from this. It would be a growing-up experience for her daughter. “The plans will include a wake. That’s when you’ll be able to pay your respects to Quinn’s parents.” Georgia angled her watch so that she could see the time. “Listen, honey, I can still catch a flight out of here tonight. You go get Daddy, while I make the arrangements. I’ll call back as soon as I know anything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And make sure your brother’s okay. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, honey. I’ll be home soon.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  Georgia had tears in her eyes when she ended the call, and for the first time in minutes remembered her passengers. Her eyes flew to the man on her right, then to the one in back. In a split second, she remembered all that was riding on their visit. They had to be impressed with the efficiency of the southeast regional office, but they also had to be impressed by her. She had to come across as a professional. Being a mommy cut into that.

  But it couldn’t be helped.

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “There’s an emergency at home. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, there’s no getting around it.”

  “One of your children lost a friend?” asked the vice president.

  “He killed himself,” Georgia said, feeling a jolt just saying the words. “She’s very upset.”

  “Isn’t your husband there?” asked the CFO.

  “Yes, but I need to be there, too.” She put the car in gear and resumed driving. “I’ll drop you at the hotel and make calls from there. I’ll have my district manager take over for me tomorrow. He’ll be able to show you everything I would have.” After checking her side-view mirror, she pulled out.

  “But we’ve come to see you, not your manager,” the vice president said. “You’re a vital part of the package.”

  Package. It was such an impersonal word. Georgia wasn’t a package. She was a parent. And, yes, she was a company president, but right now that was the least of her concerns. Not that she was telling these men that—at least, not as bluntly.

  As she drove on, she mulled over her response. Finally, she said, “This isn’t our first meeting. Even before today, you knew who I was, how I talked, what I looked like. You’ve read everything there is to read on me. You’ve done credit checks and criminal checks. Family is something else. It’s a matter of priorities. Yes, my husband’s back home with the kids, but life doesn’t get much worse than death. If I can’t be there for my kids now, I’ve blown it. So,” she said, detesting the business in that instant as she never had, “I’m sorry you’ve come this far to see me, but I do have to leave.”

  ***

  It was close to midnight when Amanda got home. Emotionally drained, she climbed into bed and backed up to Graham’s spine
.

  She sensed that he was awake, but he didn’t speak. Nor did she. She had been speaking for hours, and the next day promised to be no better. She didn’t allow herself to think about their problems. Didn’t allow herself to remember that at this time the month before, she had been gearing up to start on Clomid. Her mind closed up to all but the quiet warmth of his body.

  Even then, though, she didn’t sleep well. The next day was going to test her as a counselor in ways she had never been tested. Her stomach couldn’t forget that. It jiggled nervously every few hours.

  At five-thirty on Saturday morning, she got up. Graham was in the bathroom when she stepped out of the shower. His hair was disheveled and his eyes tired, but standing there in his boxer shorts, all broad shoulders and long, tapering body, with nothing but compassion in his stance, he was a dear sight.

  “How are you?” he asked gently.

  She began toweling herself dry. “Tired.”

  “What’s the plan for today?”

  “Teachers are coming in at nine. I want to talk with them—tell them exactly what happened and how much or little to tell the kids. Ann Kurliss, my grief specialist, will go over what the kids will be feeling and how teachers should handle it. The school doors will be open all day, and the teachers will be there on a rotating basis. We’ve told them things to look for in the kids who come by. The crisis team will be there to work with the ones who seem particularly distressed.”

  “What do you tell kids about something like this?”

  “Not much. Mostly you listen.” Setting the towel aside, she reached for her underthings. “They need to be free to air fears. We have to give them permission to do that, and to grieve. They’ll tell us what they need. We have to listen and adapt as best we can.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Monday morning. Class attendance will be voluntary for the day.” Grabbing another towel, she scrubbed at her hair.

  “I’d have thought they’d suspend classes,” Graham mused.

  “Some people wanted that,” she said from a bent-over position as she wrapped the towel around her hair, then swung up. She felt more refreshed now. Stronger. Talking with Graham—feeling that he was an ally—made the difference. “We spent a long time hashing it through. Every student at Woodley knew who Quinn was, but not everyone knew him. Those students wouldn’t necessarily go to his funeral. The fear was that if we suspend classes, we elevate him to hero status. Given how he died, we can’t do that.” She began with her makeup.