Read Online Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Kaplan
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newspaper closer, more to get it away from Grant than to look at it myself.
“None of it matters. However that girl died, Daddy doesn’t even know who she is. You can’t forget that.”
“Sure,” Grant said, but his voice was still weak.
“This is going to be over,” I said, maybe a little too loudly. “The police are going to apologize to Daddy. I hope that’ll be on the front page, too.”
Grant nodded but didn’t look at me as he stood up and went over to the sink. Instead of slipping his bowl into the dish-washer — housekeeper or not, I insisted the kids clean up — he ran the warm water for a long time, slowly running a sponge around and around his one dish. Even from the back, I could see him making a huge effort to get under control. And he did it. When he finally turned around again, his voice sounded normal. “I’m going to school, Mom. I guess Ashley’s not coming?”
“School?”
“Yeah. That’s what I do, remember?”
How quickly I forgot. Maybe you can make the transition from murder to math more easily at sixteen. “You’re done with your midterms, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Finally.”
“Then stay home. The reporters can’t chase Mikita forever. I don’t want them to reappear and swarm you with questions.”
Grant shrugged. “I’m going, Mom.”
“Let me call Chauncey and see what he thinks.”
“Chauncey should be thinking about Dad’s problems, not mine. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me I can go to school.”
Grant picked up his North Face backpack and strode toward the door. He was decisive, and once he took a stance, he remained resolute. And what could I say, anyway? The only firm position I could take right now was that I was completely and totally confounded. Arguing with Grant would be like planting a flag in Jell-O.
I stood by the window as Grant steered his shiny black Jeep down the long driveway, neatly avoiding the shrubbery hedge on one side and the carefully planted beds of white irises and pink anemones on the other. The outside border of red coleus was wildly overgrown and I half hoped he’d run it over and spare me from gardening shears. But Grant pulled carefully into the street, not using his horsepower for a hedge clipper. For now, all remained quiet — nobody was waiting to follow him.
Trudging back upstairs, I heard Dan on the phone in our bedroom. I peeked in and saw him pacing across the carpet, his head down and his hand cupped protectively around the receiver. He seemed to be listening more than talking, and after he said a gloomy good-bye, I came into the room.
“Everything okay?” I asked worriedly.
“Sure, A-OK, as the astronauts say.” Dan sounded disconsolate and he kept pacing across the carpet, arms folded, not looking at me.
“They also say, ‘Houston, we have a problem,’” I reminded him gently.
“Call it a challenge,” said Dan.
“A challenge, but not the Challenger ,” I added.
Dan gave me a halfhearted smile and I briefly felt better. Maybe if we could still banter, everything would be normal again. But only for a moment.
“That was Brandon Jackson on the phone,” Dan said, bringing us both back to earth.
I waited. Jackson was the high-profile president at Cedars Medical Center, the prestigious hospital to which Dan had dedicated his life the last ten years. I knew him from Christmas parties and charity events, but this had to be the first time he’d called our house at 8:00 A.M .
“He’d already heard the whole story and he said I have his complete support,” Dan said morosely.
“Great,” I said hopefully, since nothing in Dan’s tone suggested great, good, or even mediocre.
“One little hitch. I’m temporarily suspended from the hospital. At least until the directors’ meeting in a couple of weeks. Brandon wants to get a sense of how the board feels.”
If that’s how Brandon defined “complete support,” it was a good thing he wasn’t president of La Perla.
“I’m sure he
“None of it matters. However that girl died, Daddy doesn’t even know who she is. You can’t forget that.”
“Sure,” Grant said, but his voice was still weak.
“This is going to be over,” I said, maybe a little too loudly. “The police are going to apologize to Daddy. I hope that’ll be on the front page, too.”
Grant nodded but didn’t look at me as he stood up and went over to the sink. Instead of slipping his bowl into the dish-washer — housekeeper or not, I insisted the kids clean up — he ran the warm water for a long time, slowly running a sponge around and around his one dish. Even from the back, I could see him making a huge effort to get under control. And he did it. When he finally turned around again, his voice sounded normal. “I’m going to school, Mom. I guess Ashley’s not coming?”
“School?”
“Yeah. That’s what I do, remember?”
How quickly I forgot. Maybe you can make the transition from murder to math more easily at sixteen. “You’re done with your midterms, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Finally.”
“Then stay home. The reporters can’t chase Mikita forever. I don’t want them to reappear and swarm you with questions.”
Grant shrugged. “I’m going, Mom.”
“Let me call Chauncey and see what he thinks.”
“Chauncey should be thinking about Dad’s problems, not mine. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me I can go to school.”
Grant picked up his North Face backpack and strode toward the door. He was decisive, and once he took a stance, he remained resolute. And what could I say, anyway? The only firm position I could take right now was that I was completely and totally confounded. Arguing with Grant would be like planting a flag in Jell-O.
I stood by the window as Grant steered his shiny black Jeep down the long driveway, neatly avoiding the shrubbery hedge on one side and the carefully planted beds of white irises and pink anemones on the other. The outside border of red coleus was wildly overgrown and I half hoped he’d run it over and spare me from gardening shears. But Grant pulled carefully into the street, not using his horsepower for a hedge clipper. For now, all remained quiet — nobody was waiting to follow him.
Trudging back upstairs, I heard Dan on the phone in our bedroom. I peeked in and saw him pacing across the carpet, his head down and his hand cupped protectively around the receiver. He seemed to be listening more than talking, and after he said a gloomy good-bye, I came into the room.
“Everything okay?” I asked worriedly.
“Sure, A-OK, as the astronauts say.” Dan sounded disconsolate and he kept pacing across the carpet, arms folded, not looking at me.
“They also say, ‘Houston, we have a problem,’” I reminded him gently.
“Call it a challenge,” said Dan.
“A challenge, but not the Challenger ,” I added.
Dan gave me a halfhearted smile and I briefly felt better. Maybe if we could still banter, everything would be normal again. But only for a moment.
“That was Brandon Jackson on the phone,” Dan said, bringing us both back to earth.
I waited. Jackson was the high-profile president at Cedars Medical Center, the prestigious hospital to which Dan had dedicated his life the last ten years. I knew him from Christmas parties and charity events, but this had to be the first time he’d called our house at 8:00 A.M .
“He’d already heard the whole story and he said I have his complete support,” Dan said morosely.
“Great,” I said hopefully, since nothing in Dan’s tone suggested great, good, or even mediocre.
“One little hitch. I’m temporarily suspended from the hospital. At least until the directors’ meeting in a couple of weeks. Brandon wants to get a sense of how the board feels.”
If that’s how Brandon defined “complete support,” it was a good thing he wasn’t president of La Perla.
“I’m sure he
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