'But the reason I'm here…' He paused uncertainly and rubbed a hand over his face. 'I'm not sure how to say this, but here goes: Don't drink anything strange.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'No tonics or laxatives or anything new you find around the house.'
Gia was not in the mood for games. 'I may have had a little too much champagne last night, but I don't go around swigging from bottles.'
'I'm serious, Gia.'
She could see that, and it made her uneasy. His gaze was steady and concerned.
'I don't understand.'
'Neither do I. But there was something bad about that laxative of Grace's. Just stay away from anything like it. If you find any more of it, lock it away and save it for me.'
'Do you think it has anything to do—?'
'I don't know. But I want to play it safe.'
He wasn't telling her everything. Her unease mounted.
'What do you know?'
'That's just it—I don't know anything. Just a gut feeling. So play it safe and stay away from anything strange.' He gave her a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. It had a 609 area code. 'Here's my father's number. Call me there if you need me or there's any word from Grace.' He glanced up the stairs and toward the rear of the house. 'Where's Vicks?'
'Still in bed. She had a hard time falling asleep last night, according to Eunice.' Gia opened the front door. 'Have a good game.'
Jack's expression turned sour. 'Sure.'
She watched him drive back to the corner and turn downtown on Sutton Place. She wondered what was going on in his mind; why the odd warning against drinking 'anything strange.' Just to be sure, Gia went up to the second floor and checked through all the bottles on Grace's vanity and in her bathroom closet. Everything had a brand name. Nothing like the unlabeled bottle Jack had found on Thursday.
She took two Advils and a long hot shower. The combination worked to ease her headache. By the time she’d dried off and dressed in plaid shorts and a blouse, Vicky was up and looking for breakfast.
'What do you feel like eating?' she asked as they passed the parlor on their way to the kitchen. She looked cute in her pink nightie and her fuzzy pink Dearfoams.
'Chocolate!'
'Vicki!'
'But it looks so good!' She pointed to where Eunice had set out a candy dish full of the Black Magic pieces.
'You know what it does to you.'
'But it would be
'All right,' Gia said. 'Have a piece. If you think a couple of bites in a couple of minutes is worth a whole day of swelling up and itching and feeling sick, go ahead and take one.'
Vicky looked up, at her, and then at the chocolates. Gia held her breath, praying Vicky would make the right choice. If she chose the chocolate, Gia would have to stop her, but there was a chance she would use her head and refuse. Gia wanted to know which it would be. Those chocolates would be sitting there for days, a constant temptation to sneak one behind her mother's back. But if Vicky could overcome the temptation now, on her own, Gia was sure she’d be able to resist for the rest of their stay.
'I think I'll have an orange, mom.'
Gia swept her up into her arms and swung her around.
'I'm so proud of you, Vicky! That was a very grown-up decision.”
'Well, what I'd really like is a chocolate-covered orange.'
Laughing, she led Vicky by the hand to the kitchen, feeling pretty good about her daughter and about herself as a mother.
3
Jack had the Lincoln Tunnel pretty much to himself. He passed the stripe that marked the border of New York and New Jersey, remembering how his brother and sister and he used to cheer whenever they crossed the line after spending a day in The City with their parents. It had always been a thrill then to be back in good 0l' New Jersey.
Those days were gone, along with the two-way toll collections. Now they charged you double to get into Manhattan and let you leave for nothing. And he didn't cheer as he crossed the line.
He cruised out of the tunnel mouth, squinting into the sudden glare of the morning sun. The ramp made a nearly circular turn up to and through Union City, then down to the meadowlands and the New Jersey Turnpike. Jack pushed his speed to 65 miles per hour and settled into the right lane. He was running a little late, but the last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a state cop.
The olfactory adventure began as the Turnpike wound its way through the swampy lowlands, past Port Newark and all the surrounding refineries and chemical plants. Smoke poured from stacks and torchlike flames roared from ten-story discharge towers. The odors encountered on the strip between Exits 16 and 12 were varied and uniformly noxious. Even on a Sunday morning.
But as the road drifted inland, the scenery gradually turned rural and hilly and sweet smelling. The farther south
