Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

sudden need for his own company; but had he? Was he intending to go or not? Who cared? It was an excuse to call him. There was a new message on his machine: “This is Rob Burns. I’m away for the weekend, but I’ll be back Sunday night if you’d like to leave a message when you hear the tone.” I slammed down the receiver long before I heard the tone. Snatching up my gray suede jacket, I went out and got my old gray Volvo and drove to Loehmann’s.
    Shopping wouldn’t mend a broken heart, but it could certainly take your mind off it. After a bittersweet forty-five minutes, I found a nice linen dress for summer, a steal at $125, marked down from $200. A very nice linen dress; gray, like my jacket, my car, and my mood.
    Very well then; if shopping wouldn’t work, maybe girl talk would. Actually not girl talk. Girl talk is for bawdy lunches with too many glasses of wine; I make a distinction between entertaining adolescent chitchat and having enough sense to seek support in moments of romantic stress from understanding females. Unfortunately, there was an irksome male between me and my understanding sister. Alan was on their tiny porch, having a cup of tea in the sun.
    “Hiya, boss. Come to congratulate the groom?”
    “You talked her into it?”
    “She could never resist me.”
    “You’re not kidding? She’s really going to marry you?” I could feel the blood leaving my face.
    “Hey, sister-in-law, what’s wrong? You don’t seem as happy as I thought you’d be.”
    “Sister-in-law! Oh, help.” I leaned against the wall for support.
    “Mickey! Mickey! Come out here—your sister’s sick.”
    Oh, help indeed. Two seconds to compose myself and pretend to be happy. One day I was going to murder Kruzick.
    “Rebecca!” Mickey came tearing out the door. “Rebecca, what is it?”
    I stood up, leaving the safety of the wall, summoning what I hoped would look more like a delighted smile than a horrified grimace. “I was just surprised, that’s all. But, sweetheart, I think it’s wonderful. I couldn’t be more delighted, really—” She looked absolutely baffled. “Delighted about what?”
    “I thought … I mean Alan said…”
    “I’ve got to get some milk.” Alan ran down the stairs and off around the corner.
    “What
did Alan say?” asked Mickey.
    “He kind of implied that you two had gotten married.”
    “Oh. Well, we haven’t—want to come in?”
    I came in and had a seat on her wicker sofa so that Lulu the cat wouldn’t claw it to shreds. Mickey made us some tea and sat at the other end. She was looking well, I thought. Always the leaner and slimmer of the Schwartz sisters—let’s face it, the prettier—she was particularly rosy-cheeked and healthy. Pregnancy must be agreeing with her.
    “I’m running three miles a day,” she explained. “An unmarried mother has to be ready for anything.”
    “You’re really not going to marry him?”
    “I don’t see why I should, do you? Our relationship is fine the way it is—why spoil it?”
    “Because he might want some legal rights to his own child, for one thing. Also because Mom will open her veins if you don’t.”
    “But what about me, Rebecca? What if I plain don’t want to get married?”
    “Mickey, frankly I don’t get this. You’re living with the guy. For reasons that I admit have always eluded me, you’re in love with him—correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you’re going to have his baby. So why not marry him?”
    “What’s with you? You’re the last person I’d expect to try to talk me into it—you nearly fainted when he teased you about it. I saw your face—you were as white as Lulu.”
    At that second, white and beautiful Lulu jumped into my lap. “I’m not trying to talk you into it. I’m trying to figure all this out.”
    “Okay. I guess I’m not entirely sure of him.”
    “Not sure you love him?”
    “Oh, come on—no one could possibly live with him if she didn’t love him. It’s not that exactly.”
    Suddenly I got it. “You’re not sure you love him enough.”
    “That’s it. That’s exactly it. I love him, but…”
    Alan spoke, coming in the door: “But will you still love me when I’m sixty-four? Sure you will, babe. Look at this face—who wouldn’t love it? Rebecca, don’t answer.” He walked past us, put the milk in the fridge, and walked out again. “I’m going to play basketball.”
    “He does have a certain boyish charm,” I said, scratching Lulu’s ears. “If you like