Paul mellowed. “I always told you smoking was bad for you. You just never listened to me.”
“I know,” she said puffing out through the corner of her lips. “And I paid the price.”
“Price?” Paul asked, confused.
“Cancer,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Breast cancer and ovarian cancer. Double whammy. Survivor.”
Paul caught himself before his eyes instinctively moved downward. As if reading his thoughts Amanda spoke. “Right one. Everyone asks.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’d you do?” he asked uncomfortably.
Amanda shrugged. “Surgery, and chemo. That was six years ago though.”
Paul nodded. “What was the, ah… surgery?”
“For the breast? They removed it,” she said simply. “But don’t worry,” she added with a nervous laugh, “they built me another.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, realizing how lame he sounded. In all the years of fantasizing a meeting with Amanda Hutch he never thought that the conversation would go like this. He seemed to be trapped in the topic. Twenty-eight years and within seconds of meeting her again he was discussing her surgery.
“You already apologized,” Amanda said. “Don’t. And don’t worry; no one knows what to say or how to react.”
She reached over and stamped out her cigarette. “Look, it was all six years ago. I’m officially known as a survivor. I’m also open about it. Maybe too open. I speak to other women on a regular basis who are facing what I faced. Kaffee klatch stuff.”
She laughed again. To Paul it sounded forced.
“But you’re still smoking, I see. How can you?”
Amanda shrugged again. “Hey, they say the cancer wasn’t caused by the smoking. Who knows? But anyway, I’ve cut back tremendously. I actually kicked it for over five years. I just took it up again recently.”
Paul was desperate to change the subject. “I heard you got married too?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“How is he?”
“Good, I hear. We divorced.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul stammered.
“Married twice, actually. Yeah, well, you know me. Married to my career. Smart men stayed away.”
Paul didn’t answer.
“I did get the world’s greatest little boy out of it, though, with Will, my first husband.” She turned and fumbled through her pocketbook before pulling a picture from her wallet that she showed Paul. “Jeffrey. He’ll be fifteen next week.”
“Looks like you. Cute kid,” Paul said studying the photo. “Does he live with you?”
“No, his father’s remarried and living in Braintree, actually. It’s a good home for Jeffrey, and it’s a stable life, as opposed to traipsing around with a university vagabond. I’ve taught in Leningrad, Leipzig, Prague and Chapel Hill. It’s no life for a kid.”
“You see him, of course.”
“I do. He stays with me for much of the summer, and sees his father and step-mom on weekends. Will picks Jeffrey up for the weekend, and by the time he brings him back he’s got a list of things I’m doing wrong.” Amanda sighed. “I know I should ignore it, but sometimes it gets to me.”
“Does Jeffrey enjoy living with his father?”
“Oh, are you kidding? They go camping, sailing, Will took him off-roading in New Hampshire last week. Jeffrey loves it. I will say that for Will, he’s an awfully good dad.”
“Jeffrey’s lucky,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Amanda said. “I guess he is. His stepmother’s quite nice, too.”
“You were married twice?” Paul asked.
Amanda opened her pocketbook and pulled out her purse. She again studied the photograph of the smiling red-haired boy before stuffing it back inside.
“You know, one of those European marriages that sound great sitting around a bistro someplace,” she said as she slammed the purse back inside her bag.
“You came to MIT because Jeffrey’s in Braintree?”
“Partly,” Amanda said looking up. “Also, I heard you were here,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.
Momentarily nonplused, Paul started to speak and then stopped.
Amanda laughed and looked away. “I’m no home wrecker,” she said. “I think we can be friends, Paul.” She looked back at him. “I’d really like that.”
“So would I,” Paul said. He looked around, saw no one, took a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to Amanda. “I’ll trust your thinking is the same as it used to be. I hear it is. Do you know where this is?”
“1416 Sou —”
Paul moved quickly and clamped his hand over her mouth. Amanda’s eyes flared up for a second, then she blinked and nodded in understanding. Paul took his hand away.
Amanda studied the address and the rough directions Paul had written. “I can find it.”
“Great. It’s our bowling league, and if you’d like to join a team we’re a man short. Say, seven-thirty Thursday night?”
Amanda shrugged. “I’ll bring my bowling shoes. Well, have to get to class. I’m teaching summer school.” She stood up and took Paul’s outstretched hand. She seemed to hold it an extra moment. “Is this the sort of team I want to join?” she asked.
Paul nodded. “I think so. We may be playing for the championship soon, and we need you.”
Amanda shook her head. “Seven-thirty,” she said.
Chapter 8
“Were you followed?”
Lewis Ginter stepped inside the front door of the Beacon Street brick Victorian in Newton and collapsed his black umbrella. Rainwater ran off the fabric and dripped onto the hardwood floor. Lorrie Maddox stepped around him and glanced nervously up and down the street before closing the wooden door.
He contemplated not answering but every crease of Lorrie’s face seemed to betray real fear.
“No, of course not. I parked two blocks up on that back street and doubled past the house twice. There’s no one on the street.”
Lorrie hesitated as if considering whether to believe him. Finally, she nodded slowly.
“Everyone’s downstairs,” she said and turned toward the rear of the house. Lewis followed her through the foyer to the kitchen and past the granite topped island.
“Beautiful house,” he said.
Without looking back she nodded. From the rear of the house he saw a blue light flickering from the solarium and heard the voices of the Red Sox announcers.
“Not raining in Ohio, I see,” he offered and then added, “What’s the score?”
“Six nothing, Cleveland,” she answered without looking back.
As he passed the entryway to the solarium he saw Lorrie’s husband hunched forward staring at the screen. Lewis followed Lorrie down the cellar stairs. At the bottom he ducked under a protruding beam. He stepped onto a squishy carpet and instinctively lifted each foot. No use. Through a casement window he could see water cascading off the back roof and pooling in the window well.
In front of the window six faces turned as one to look at him as he entered.
“They still sell sump pumps, you know,” he offered. No one smiled. Lewis recognized four of them. A tall, longhaired guy dressed in denim was unknown to him. To that person’s right stood a blonde woman who Lewis estimated to be about 35, no, a bit younger, and who looked vaguely familiar.
Lorrie turned to face Lewis. “It’s only a problem when it rains,” she said simply.
“And my tires only get flat on the bottom,” he retorted. “But that’s no reason not to do something.” Lewis could see the strain on her face. Next to her stood Carlos Gonzalez from the Boston Herald and behind him a man Lewis knew only as Jimmy. To Jimmy’s left was Shauna Duffy, a schoolteacher, and another fellow Lewis knew to be a Somerville ophthalmologist. Eckleburg, Thomas J. Eckleburg, Lewis remembered, and behind them stood the jean clad guy and the blonde.