remember then, she doesn't remember now. Perhaps this impulsive little
trip of hers was a last-ditch effort to bring it all back, or more
likely, it was just a sentimental journey. There's no need to do Emma
any harm, any harm at all."
"And if she does remember?"
"It's unlikely. Listen to me now, and listen carefully. The first time
was an accident, a tragic and unforeseen accident. One that you
committed."
"It was your idea, the whole thing was your idea."
"Exactly, since of the two of us I'm the only one who's capable of an
original thought. But it was an accident. I have no intention of
committing premeditated murder." He thought of a session musician who'd
wanted pizza, but didn't remember his name. "Unless it's unavoidable.
Understood?"
"You're a cold sonofabitch."
"Yes." He smiled. "I'd advise you to remember that."
IT was SNOWING in London, wet, thick flakes that slid down collars and
melted cold on the skin. It was pretty, postcard snow, unless one was
fighting the clogged traffic along King's Road.
Emma preferred to walk. She imagined Sweeney was annoyed with her
choice, but she couldn't worry about him now. She had the address on a
slip of paper in the pocket of her thick, quilted coat. But she didn't
need that for a reminder. She'd memorized it.
It was odd to be in Chelsea, as an adult, free to walk where she chose.
She didn't remember it. Indeed, she felt a tourist in London, and
Chelsea, the grand stage for punks and Sloane Rangers, was as foreign to
her as a Venetian canal.
The streets were dotted with boutiques and antique sholps where
last-minute shoppers hurried in their fashionable coats and boots to
search out that perfect gift among the horde of offerings. Young girls
laughing, their pearls and sweatshirts tucked under their jackets. Young
boys, trying to look tough and bored and worldly.
Despite the snow, there had been a flower seller in Sloane Square. Even
in December spring could be bought for a reasonable price. She'd been
tempted by the color and the scent, but had walked on without digging in
her purse for pounds and shillings. How odd it would have been to have
walked up to the door, and offered a bouquet to her mother.
Her mother. She could neither deny nor accept Jane Palmer as her
mother. Even the name seemed distant to her-like something she had read
in a book. But the face lingered, the face that came in odd, sporadic
flashes in dreams, the face that flushed dark with annoyance
before a slap or a shove was administered. The face from articles in
People and the Enquirer and the Post.
A face from the past, Emma thought. And what did the past have to do
with today?
Then why had she come? The question drummed in her head as she walked
along the narrow, well-kept street. To resolve something that should
have been resolved years before.
Emma wondered if Jane thought it a fine joke to have moved into the posh
and prosperous area where Oscar Wilde, Whistler, and Thrner had lived.