Suspicion - Hardcover

Barbara Rogan

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 000225879X ISBN 13: 9780002258791

Publisher: New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999, 1999

Synopsis

Has dust cover. Ships within 48 hours.

About this title

About the Author:

Barbara Rogan is the quthor of five previous novel: Changing States, Café Nevo, Saving Grace, Rowing in Eden, and A Heartbeat Away, which is published by Pocket Books. Her books have been translated into eight languages. She lives on Long Island, New York, and is currently at work on her seventh novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

"Maggie was right about you," Emma Roth says, breaking a silence that has gone on for too long. She gazes through the windshield at the flat gray ribbon of road that unfurls before her. The city is at her back. Ahead lays territory uncharted on her internal map: the sort of wilderness designated by ancient cartographers with dragons and sea serpents. With every passing exit sign, she feels herself shrinking, curving in on herself. This, she thinks, is not agoraphobia but suburbaphobia, the fear of losing oneself in a maze of identical ticky-tacky houses and strip malls.

"What did she say?"

"That you weren't really adapted to the city. That one day you'd revert to your roots." This is the expurgated version, Emma's sister having majored in sociology and minored in mouth.

"And carry you off to the boondocks?" Roger Koenig gives the matter a moment of his formidable attention. "True but trivial. You knew when you married me you were marrying a hick."

"And you knew you were marrying a city rat."

"Rats can live anywhere. They happen to be extremely adaptable animals; not that I accept the comparison."

They lapse into silence. Roger flicks the radio on, and Charlie Parker fills the car. Another exit sign appears, but Roger keeps to the middle lane, maintaining a steady sixty-five. He likes driving and does it well, a good thing for Emma, who hates it.

"And that's another thing," she says.

"What?"

"Out here people drive everywhere."

"It's not like city driving."

"I'd have to drive. Every day."

"True."

"But not trivial," she says, and in her tone there is reproach.

Roger hears it and hardens his heart. To prevail in this matter he will need to overcome a great many reproaches, he will need to break the rules that govern their marriage. The reason Emma hates to drive belongs to the class of things not talked about, a class that has ballooned in recent years. He says carefully, "That might not be such a bad thing."

"Ha," she mutters, more or less under her breath. Roger stretches his long arm over the seat back and rubs a knuckle into the base of her skull. He feels sorry for her, for in his mind the deed is already done. Emma, mistaking his gesture, leans back into his hand and narrows her eyes. "Roger," she says, her voice cajoling.

"Can it, babe. You promised me two hours of slavish obedience, and I am calling in my marker."

"Extracted under false pretenses. I thought you had something very different in mind."

He flashes the old boyish grin, and Emma's stomach lurches. You'd think, after twelve years of marriage and all they've been through....But wanting him is an involuntary reaction, like a child's helpless laughter at being tickled -- a reflex deepened by habit.

"You hussy," he says. "I'll make it up to you."

"You wish. You had your chance and blew it, bud."

Another green exit sign appears in the distance. This time Roger glides into the right lane of the Long Island Expressway. Emma says, "And don't imagine slavish obedience extends to making any kind of offer on this house."

"All I ask is an open mind."

"Don't have one. Never claimed to. You're the scientist."

After leaving the expressway they drive north along a winding road bordered by oaks in full spring foliage. Roger leans over the wheel, taut with anticipation. He's seen the house once, for an hour, long enough for him to make up his mind. Emma has never seen it. She sits back, arms crossed; her expression aims at tolerant amusement but falls short on both counts. He glances at her, sighs, but does not speak.

At a fork in the road, he pulls over onto the shoulder of the road and unfolds a map of Nassau County. Roger can chart the course of an atom whirling through a centrifuge, he can map the path of a comet through infinite space, but to Emma's perpetual bemusement, he can't navigate his way out of a paper bag. She unrolls her window and a warm, salty breeze sweeps into the car. The kind of air people leave the city in search of, but Emma thrives on city air, dense and oily, each neighborhood with its own smell, so you can shut your eyes and know just from sniffing where you are. She tries it now. "I smell the sea."

"The Sound, actually; this is the north shore. If my calculations are correct, we should see it in a moment." He sets out again, taking the right fork. The road, which had been climbing steadily, takes a sudden twist and suddenly the Long Island Sound comes into view. A hundred feet or more below them the land curves inward to form a rocky cove. Two stone jetties jut into the water, framing a small harbor. Farther out, there's a smattering of boats, a mix of trawlers and pleasure craft. Then the road takes another turn and merges with another, and they enter the village of Morgan Peak.

An old fishing village, she thinks, tarted up for the tourist trade, straddling the hills above the cove like a harlot on a two-humped camel. The image pleases her and she files it in the section of her brain marked "For future use."

Seeing her smile, Roger allows himself a mild gloat. "It's an artists' colony. You were expecting maybe Levittown?"

"I can see why you like it," she says. "Pure chaos." In fact, the village looks like something that has grown at random out of the hills. There is no flat ground, every building occupies a different level, and if the village has a building code, it must stipulate that no structure may resemble its neighbor in size, shape, or color. On the side streets bungalows rub elbows with mansions, frilly Victorians consort with sleek contemporaries. Morgan Peak is a jumble -- though not, Emma reluctantly and silently allows, a displeasing jumble.

"Pretty," she says.

"Pretty, nothing. It's the real thing."

"I wouldn't mind spending a day or two. We could come out this summer, with Zack."

"Three bookstores." Roger speaks softly, as if trying to implant the information directly into her subconscious. "Jewish deli, Italian bakery, top-ranked public schools."

"Get thee behind me, Satan," she replies. But absently, her nose pressed to the window.

"Wait till you see the house," he says, and there is something in his voice, a muted intensity that snags her attention. Stealing a glance at her husband's face, Emma raises her hand to her mouth and gnaws a well-chewed thumbnail. Roger doesn't want many things, but he can be ruthless about getting those he does.

Gordon Bass has the key and could have waited inside the house, but he chooses to pass the time on the shady front porch. The realtor is a portly man in a beige linen suit and a red tie loosened at the throat. It's not the sad business of old lady Hysop that keeps him outside; Bass isn't the superstitious type, wouldn't pay to be in his racket. He just doesn't care for the place, grand as it is with all those gables, the octagonal tower, and arched roof. Give him a nice, vinyl-sided split any day, to live in or to sell. In a village where houses rarely last longer than one month on the market, this old Victorian has lingered eight months without attracting a single offer. Doesn't surprise him, considering it started out with two strikes against it. First strike is its reputation, which knocks out your local buyers. Second is shaky curb appeal. Too bad the old lady's heirs refused to paint the exterior -- they were quick enough to clean out the furnishings. The fish-scale shingles that cover the house would have looked charming with a fresh coat of some light-colored paint and a contrasting color for the trim. As it stands, though, even people who claim to love old houses are intimidated by this one; daunted, too, by its location, which in real-estate-speak is termed "private," though strictly between himself and the lamppost Bass would call it downright isolated. The house stands sentry on the farthe

About this edition

• Publisher: New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999
• Publication date: 1999
• ISBN 10: 000225879X
• ISBN 13: 9780002258791
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1