Cut And Run. Carla Neggers

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СКАЧАТЬ had offered to help her out of the taxi! She’d declined, of course, but thanked him lest he not offer his help the next time to someone who truly needed it. She supposed a face-lift would help, but although she could easily afford one, she refused even to investigate the procedure. In her opinion, people needed to see in her face, in its lines, what life had done to her. She believed that. But she kept herself well-groomed—her nails were always manicured, her hair perfectly styled—and she wore expensive, fashionable clothes. In that way, life had been good to her.

      Within thirty seconds, Catharina Fall rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a panicked, uncertain look on her face. Rachel wished she could smile to reassure her. But she couldn’t. A smile, now, would be a lie. Yet she wasn’t surprised the impulse was there; everyone had always wanted to protect Catharina.

      “My friend,” Rachel said quietly, holding on to her emotions, “you look wonderful.”

      “Rachel.” Catharina put her fist to her mouth and held back a sob. “I don’t believe it’s you.”

      She’s going to throw me out, Rachel thought. She can’t bear to see me. I’m a reminder. A shadow. As she is for me.

      Instead Catharina burst from behind the counter and threw her arms around Rachel, crying, “My God, Rachel, oh, Rachel,” and Rachel found her own eyes filling with tears and her arms going around her strong, good friend. She’d missed her. Without realizing it, she’d missed her.

      It had been more than forty years.

      Catharina was sobbing openly, and the people around them were pretending not to notice. “I can’t believe…I never thought I’d see you again.” She stood back and brushed away her tears without embarrassment; flour stuck to her nose and she tried to laugh. “Oh, Rachel.”

      Rachel’s throat was so tight it hurt. A sob would relieve the tension, but she blinked back her tears and refused to cry. She was a master at self-control. She hadn’t expected Catharina to have this kind of impact on her. “My dear friend,” she said, squeezing Catharina’s hand, then releasing it. I must be strong. “It’s so good to see you. I heard about your shop, and I thought, while I’m in New York I’ll have to stop and see you.”

      Catharina had stopped crying and was shaking her head. “You know that’s not true.”

      Rachel had to smile, and some of the tightness in her throat eased. “Achh, I never could fool you. It’s always been that way between us, hasn’t it? You always know when I’m not telling the truth. Even after all these years. But come, let’s pretend for a little while.”

      “Rachel…”

      There was fear in those deep green eyes. Rachel wished she hadn’t seen it. “Please, Catharina.”

      “All right.” Catharina nodded, but the fear didn’t go away. “We’ll have tea.”

      “Wonderful.”

      She pointed to a small table in the far corner. “There, go sit down. I’ll bring a tray.”

      Rachel quickly took her friend’s hand. “Don’t be afraid, Catharina.”

      “I’ll be all right. Now go sit down. I’ll bring the tea.”

      “As you wish. I’ll wait for you.”

      

      The big, open newsroom of the Washington Gazette was filled with the noise of bustling reporters, computers, typewriters, and telephones. Alice Feldon had been at her desk for two hours and had yet to sit down. She didn’t mind. It was a sign things were hopping. What she did mind—what irritated the hell out of her—was that she couldn’t find Matthew Stark. Again. She ignored the skinny, sorry-looking man who wanted to talk to Stark and scanned the newsroom. She had to squint her eyes because her glasses were on top of her head instead of on the bridge of her too-prominent nose. She was a large, lumpy-fleshed, big-boned woman, and she had no illusions about herself or the blue-collar tabloid she worked for. Last night, during a bout of insomnia, she’d painted her nails a shade of lavender she’d found on her daughter’s shelf in the medicine cabinet.

      “Where the hell’s Stark?” she demanded of no one in particular.

      A young reporter three desks away looked up nervously from his computer screen. A Post type if she’d ever seen one. His name was Aaron Ziegler, and he’d majored in journalism, which she considered a dumb thing for a reporter to have done. She’d hired him because he didn’t show her any of the practice obituaries he’d done in class reporting. “He went for coffee,” Ziegler said. “Promised he’d be back in five minutes.”

      “When was that, a half-hour ago?” Alice growled and glared at the skittish guy as if it was his fault she was stuck with a lazy shit like Matthew Stark. She should have fired him four years ago when she’d come in as the Gazette’s metropolitan editor. He’d been occupying space for six months and hadn’t done a damn thing that she could see. But he was a name, and the Gazette had precious few names. The boys upstairs had pressured her to give him a chance. She sighed at Ziegler. “Go find him, will you? Tell him he’s got company.”

      Ziegler was already on his feet. “Any name?”

      The skinny guy sniffled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Just tell him the Weaze is here.”

      Alice wrinkled up her nose but didn’t say a word. Ziegler hid his grin as he headed out of the newsroom. Like most everyone else at the Gazette, he was intimidated by Matthew Stark. Alice wasn’t, although she couldn’t understand why. Lazy or not, he was the scariest sonofabitch she’d ever known.

      

      Catharina’s hands shook as she poured tea from a white porcelain pot. She had prepared the tray of Darjeeling, little sandwiches, round scones, two pots of jam, and a plate of butter cookies herself. Rachel understood that her sudden appearance was a shock for Catharina. Forty years ago they’d said goodbye in Amsterdam, and Catharina, who stayed there a few more years, had cried and promised she would stay in touch. Rachel hadn’t shed a tear or made a promise, because she had already cried a lifetime of tears and no longer believed in promises.

      “Don’t be nervous,” Rachel said kindly. She added sugar to her tea. They were strangers, she and Catharina. And yet, how could they ever be? “I haven’t been to New York in so long. There’s no other city quite like it, is there?”

      “No, there isn’t,” Catharina said. She added a drop of cream to her tea but didn’t touch it.

      “But how are you, Catharina?”

      “Fine, I’m fine.”

      “That’s good.” Rachel concealed her own awkwardness as she tried some of the tea. “I can see why you opened a bakeshop. You were always a wonderful cook, and you took such pleasure in it. Nobody could make the meager rations we had in the war tolerable the way you did—and remember your beet stew?” Rachel laughed, not a happy, carefree laugh, but still a laugh. “It was ghastly, but much better than anything we’d had in weeks.” She was suddenly silent, observing Catharina’s discomfiture with a small sigh. Did her old friend never think about the war? Rachel asked softly, “Adrian’s a decent man?”

      “Yes, wonderful.” Catharina seemed relieved at the switch in subject. “He’s so kind and strong.”

      “He’s СКАЧАТЬ