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Chapter One
“You’re looking well, Mrs. Merritt.”
“I look like hell.”
Vanessa Merritt did indeed look like hell, but Barrie was embarrassed for having been caught paying an insincere compliment. She tried to recover gracefully. “After what you’ve been through, you’re entitled to look a little frazzled. Any other woman, myself included, myself particularly, would settle for looking like you even at your worst.”
“Thank you.” She gave her cappuccino a desultory stir. If nerves conveyed sound, Vanessa Merritt’s would have clattered like her spoon when she shakily returned it to the saucer. “God. For just one cigarette, I’d let you pull out all my fingernails with pliers.”
She’d certainly never been seen smoking in public, so Barrie was surprised to learn that she was a smoker. Although a nicotine addiction might explain why she was so fidgety.
Her hands were never still. She twirled her strand of pearls, played with the discreet diamond studs in her earlobes, and repeatedly adjusted the Ray Bans that almost concealed the dark, puffy circles around her eyes.
Those spectacular eyes were largely responsible for her beauty. Until today. Today, those remarkable baby blues reflected pain and disillusionment. Today they looked like the eyes of an angel who’d just had her first, horrifying glimpse of hell.
“I’m fresh out of pliers,” Barrie said. “But I have these.” From her large leather satchel, she withdrew an unopened pack of cigarettes and slid it across the table.
It was obvious that Mrs. Merritt was tempted. Her haunted eyes nervously scanned the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Only one other table was occupied, by several men, and one obsequious waiter hovered nearby. Even so, she declined the cigarette. “I’d better not. But feel free.”
“I don’t smoke. I only carry them in case I need to relax someone I’m interviewing.”
“Before you come in for the kill.”
Barrie laughed. “I only wish I were that dangerous.”
“Actually you’re better at human interest stories.”
It came as a pleasant surprise that Mrs. Merritt was even aware of her work. “Thank you.”
“Some of your reports have been quite exceptional. Like the one on the AIDS patient. And the one you did on the homeless single mother of four.”
“That was nominated for an industry award.” Barrie saw no reason to volunteer that she had entered the piece herself.
“It made me cry,” Mrs. Merritt said.
“Me too.”
“In fact, you’re so good, I’ve often wondered why you’re not affiliated with a network.”
“I’ve had some tough breaks.”
Vanessa Merritt’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Wasn’t there an issue over Justice Green that—”
“Yes, there was that,” Barrie interrupted. This wasn’t a conversation in which she wanted her failures itemized. “Why did you contact me, Mrs. Merritt? I’m delighted, but curious.”
Vanessa Merritt’s smile gradually faded. In a low, serious tone, she said, “I made myself clear, didn’t I? This is not an interview.”
“I understand.”
She didn’t. Barrie Travis didn’t have a clue as to why Mrs. Merritt had phoned her out of the blue and invited her to have coffee. They’d been nodding acquaintances for the last few years, certainly not friends.
Even the choice of today’s meeting place was curious. The restaurant was one of several along the shore of the channel that connected the Potomac with the Tidal Basin. After dark, the clubs and eateries along Water Street were filled with people, mostly tourists. Some did a respectable lunch trade, but in the middle of the afternoon, on a workday, the restaurants were virtually deserted.
Maybe this place had been chosen precisely for its seclusion.
Barrie dropped a sugar cube into her cappuccino, then idly stirred it as she stared out over the iron railing of the terrace.
It was a gloomy, overcast day. The channel was choppy. Houseboats and sailboats moored in the marina bobbed in the gray water. The canvas umbrella above their table snapped and popped in the gusty wind that carried the scent of rain and fish. Why were they sitting outside on such a blustery day?
Mrs. Merritt stirred the foamy milk in her cappuccino and finally took a sip. “It’s cold now.”
“Would you like another?” Barrie asked. “I’ll signal the waiter.”
“No, thanks. I didn’t really want that one. Having coffee was just, you know…” She shrugged a shoulder that had once been stylishly slender but was now downright bony.
“It was just an excuse?” Barrie prodded.
Vanessa Merritt raised her head. Through the sunglasses, Barrie saw bleak honesty in the woman’s eyes. “I needed to talk to someone.”
“And you thought of me?”
“Well, yes.”
“Because a couple of my stories made you cry?”
“That, and because of the sympathy note you sent. It touched me. Deeply.”
“I’m glad it gave you some comfort.”
“I… I don’t have many close friends. You and I are about the same age. I thought you’d be a good sounding board.” She lowered her head. A mane of chestnut hair tumbled forward, partially concealing her classic cheekbones and aristocratic chin.
In a quiet voice, Barrie said, “My note couldn’t convey how very sorry I am for what happened.”
“Actually it did. Thank you.” Vanessa Merritt removed a tissue from her handbag and slipped it beneath the sunglasses to blot her eyes. “I don’t know where they come from,” she said of the tears being soaked up by the tissue. “I should be dehydrated by now.”
“Is that what you want to talk about?” Barrie asked gently. “The baby?”
“Robert Rushton Merritt,” she blurted forcefully. “Why does everyone avoid saying his name? He had a name, for heaven’s sake. For three months, he was a person and he had a name.”
“I guess—”
She didn’t give Barrie time to respond. “Rushton was my mother’s maiden name,” Mrs. Merritt explained. “She would have liked having her first grandchild named after her family.”
Staring out over the turbulent waters of the channel, she continued talking in a faraway voice. “And I’ve always fancied the name Robert. It’s a straightforward, no-bullshit name.”
The vulgarity surprised Barrie. It was such a departure from Vanessa Merritt’s southern-lady persona. In her whole life, Barrie had never felt so bereft of something to say. Under the circumstances, what would be appropriate? What could she say to a woman who had recently buried her baby? Nice funeral?
Suddenly Mrs. Merritt asked, “What do you know about it?”
