Almost True Confessions by Jane O'Connor

Author:Jane O'Connor
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062236487
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-08-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

On the drive back to Manhattan, Rannie’s phone buzzed several times.

“Want me to check who?” Nate offered.

“No, sweetie. It can wait.” More to the point, remaining ignorant allowed Rannie to indulge in the hope—okay, fantasy—that Tim had immediately regretted dumping her and was now repeatedly calling, desperately calling, to say not only was life without her meaningless but that he had booked a hotel room for the night. Oh, and since this was a fantasy, Rannie decided to go whole hog . . . she and Tim would be staying somewhere très swanky. The Carlyle or, better yet, the Peninsula.

By five thirty, they had whizzed past the exits on the Saw Mill River Parkway, driven through the Riverdale section of the Bronx with its un-Bronx-like mix of gracious Tudor homes and riverfront high-rises, and now were being funneled into the Henry Hudson Parkway. The George Washington Bridge loomed ahead, twin swags of lights strung across the towers, twinkling against a pigeon-gray sky. It was a gorgeous, glamorous, always-uplifting sight that proclaimed to Rannie, “You’re home. You’re back where you belong.”

After depositing both boys in front of the Dolores Court, Rannie returned the rental and en route to the subway checked messages.

Just as her rational self had expected, nothing from Tim. Still, it was a letdown.

One call was from Ellen’s now-former assistant, Dina, with the sorrowful news that tomorrow at four there’d be a gathering at S&S to remember Ellen. “Really hoping you can make it, Rannie.” Dina sounded as if her nose was stuffed up, probably from crying.

The number for the other calls wasn’t instantly familiar nor had any message been left. Then it clicked. The number belonged to her mother’s cell phone, a device rarely used yet always kept in Harriet Bookman’s handbag in case of an emergency.

Uh-oh!

“Mother, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” Her answer sounded tentative.

“I was driving back from Connecticut,” Rannie went on. “Nate had his interview at Yale or I would have called sooner . . . you sure you’re okay?”

“I was hoping to come visit.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” Rannie could hear the false cheer in her voice and she bet that her mother, who was nobody’s fool, picked up on it too. “When were you thinking?”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Mother! Where are you?”

“The lobby of the Peninsula Hotel. It’s on Fifth Avenue and—”

“I know where it is,” Rannie answered. Her mom at the fantasy locale for her night with Tim? “What are you doing there?”

Her mother exhaled an atypical world-weary, I’ve-seen-it-all sigh. “It’s a long story.”

Rannie waited in the lobby of the Dolores Court for Harriet Bookman. In twenty minutes she emerged from a taxi, all four feet, eleven inches of her, in a sensible brown wool coat, signature salon-stiff hairdo, marshmallow-white Nikes, and sunglasses. While Rannie took the wheelie suitcase that the cabdriver hoisted from the trunk, her mother cast an anxious glance up and down the block before hurrying into the lobby.

Her mother’s wariness was not unwarranted and stemmed from her inaugural visit to the neighborhood.

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