Big Boned(80)

And, just like that, it hits me. I suppose it was there all along, just simmering on the edge of my subconsciousness, like how I really felt about Tad all along. But I kept pushing it away, for whatever reason…probably because it just wasn’t convenient for me to deal with.

This time, however, I let it in.

And it stays.

And I know I have to deal with it.

Now.

I turn on my heel.

Only instead of turning left, toward Waverly and home, I turn right, toward Owen’s building, and that Ryder truck. I keep walking, straight into the building where Pam is staying. I walk right up to the doorman, and ask him to buzz Owen’s apartment.

“Whom may I say is calling?” he asks. He’s one of Rosetti’s men, trying hard to make a good impression—not easy, with a toothpick in his mouth.

“Tell her it’s Heather,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. A second later, when Pam picks up the intercom phone, he does just that. Pam, sounding surprised, tells him to let me up.

I don’t know why I do what I do next. All I know is that I’ve begun to shake. Not with fear.

With anger.

All I can think about is that stupid rag doll sweatshirt she’d been wearing…the one with the black rag doll and the white rag doll holding hands.

It’s weird what you think about when your boss’s life is flashing before your eyes.

I march toward the elevator. Owen’s building—which he happened to share with President Allington and his wife—is nothing like Fischer Hall. It’s elegant, all marble and brass and quiet—absolutely quiet—this time of the evening. There is no one else in the elevator with me. I can’t even hear the GSC rally in the car. My ride to the sixth floor, where Owen lived, is silent until the bell rings—ding!—to indicate our arrival—and the doors slide back.

Then I step out into the hallway and go to apartment 6–J. Owen’s apartment.

Pam has the door open before I even knock.

“Heather!” she says, with a smile. She’s changed out of the black suit she’d been wearing at the memorial service. And, yes, she’s back in the rag doll sweatshirt. Like some sweatshirt showing interracial rag dolls holding hands is supposed to bring harmony to the universe.

“What a surprise!” she cries. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did you stop by to check up on me? I suppose because of that fracas at the memorial service. Wasn’t that horrible? I couldn’t believe that happened. Please, won’t you come in?”

I follow her inside the apartment. Just as I had suspected, it’s gone. All of it. The china, I mean. Every last speck of the blue and white patterned china Owen had had on display in the hutch in the dining room is missing.

So is the hutch it was sitting on.

“This is just so sweet of you,” Pam goes on. “Owen always did say the nicest things about you—how thoughtful and kind you were to the students. I see it extends beyond your professional life, as well. But, please, you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or herbal tea? It’s no trouble. I was just about to make some for myself.”

I turn to face her. I see that Garfield is curled up on the couch, sleeping. Pam had clearly been sitting next to him. The television is on, and the remote lays next to the cat. She’d been watching Entertainment Tonight.

“Where is it?” I ask her. My voice is hoarse. I have no idea why.

She looks at me blankly. “Where is what, dear?”

“You know what,” I say. “Is it in that truck downstairs?”

She still looks blank—but a tinge of color appears in each of her cheeks. “I…I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Heather.”

“The china,” I say. “The wedding china Owen got in the divorce settlement. The wedding china you killed him for. Where is it?”





21




* * *



Friday’s guy’s not gonna call

Saturday’s guy’s not into girls at all

But Sunday’s guy is the worst of all

He’s glued to the set and that dang football

“Guys of the Week”

Written by Heather Wells



* * *





“Just give me the keys,” I say, holding out my hand.

For a minute Pam just looks at me with a very surprised expression on her face. Then she throws back her head and laughs.

“Oh…you!” she says, reaching out to give me a little push. “Owen always said you were a kidder. In fact, he said you spent so much time kidding around, sometimes he worried about you getting the job done.”

Now that—as opposed to the typing thing—I believe Owen actually said.