The Melody Lingers On Read Free Page A

Mrs. Bennett’s new digs. I have to be back in time to go with her to Countess de la
Marco’s duplex.”
    “Good old Glady.” Vivian shook her head. “In eight hours getting a ten-hour day out of you. But you look as though you’re handling it just fine. Love that outfit. You
look great in that shade of blue.”
    Ken had always liked to see her wear this color. A wave of sadness washed over Lane. His birthday would have been tomorrow. Thirty-six. It had been five years since a drunk driver had slammed
their car on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The car tumbled off the road, rolling over and over until it finally stopped. Ken died instantly, his neck broken. They had been married only a year and she
had been two months pregnant. Of course, the driver had no insurance.
    Over and over again, when that sadness enveloped her, she thought of her four-year-old daughter, Katie, whom she might so easily have lost that terrible day.
    These were her thoughts as she walked briskly to the parking garage.
    Ten minutes later Lane was entering the Lincoln Tunnel on her way to New Jersey. Thirty minutes later she was driving into the town house complex in Montclair that was the future home of Anne
Bennett. Pretty area, she thought as she drove through the winding streets until she turned onto Cedar Drive. Following the street numbers, she parked in front of number twenty-one. It was part of
a cluster of similar facades. The exterior was gray stone and she noticed with approval the large front window. Glady had taken one of the keys to the unit yesterday and Lane fished it out of her
pocket.
    Before she could open the door, a man suddenly stepped out of the next-door unit. “Hello,” he called as he walked rapidly past the shared driveway to where she was standing.
“Are you the new owner?” he asked. “Because if so, we’re going to be neighbors. I just bought here as well.” He extended his hand. “Anthony Russo, but better
known as Tony.”
    “Lane Harmon.” As she acknowledged the greeting, Lane took in the appearance of this next-door neighbor. About six foot two, blue-green eyes, sandy hair and a warm smile. Even though
it was November he had the deep tan of an outdoorsman. She judged him to be in his midthirties.
    “I’m not the new owner,” she told him. “I work for the interior designer who is decorating the house.”
    He smiled. “I could probably use her.”
    Not at her prices, unless you have big bucks, Lane thought.
    “I won’t keep you,” he said. “Who
is
moving in here?”
    “Our client’s name is Bennett,” Lane said. She had already turned the key in the lock. “I’d better get busy,” she said. “Nice to have met you.”
Without waiting for his reply, she pushed open the door and closed it firmly behind her. Without knowing why, she locked it.
    She had seen the virtual inside of the unit but now, being physically there, she was pleased to see that it was flooded with sunlight. Further down the entrance hall, there was a staircase to
the second floor. The entrance to the kitchen and a breakfast room was on her right. Walking into the kitchen, she noticed that she could look directly across the driveway into the breakfast room
of Tony Russo’s apartment. He was standing there unpacking boxes that were stacked on the table.
    Afraid that he might glance in her direction, she quickly looked away. The first thing we buy for this place is a shade for that window, she thought.

4

    R anger Cole sat at the bedside of his wife, Judy, holding her hand as she lay motionless, her eyes closed, oxygen tubes in her nostrils. He knew
that the second stroke would take her soon. Much too soon. Judy was sixty-six years old. They were only six months apart in age. She was older and he always joked that he had married an older woman
for her money.
    They’d been married forty-six years. Kids of twenty so in love that when they went to Florida on a bus for their weeklong honeymoon it had felt like a