by Nancy Bush
Heather’s eyes followed mine. “You still love him?” she asked.
“Who? Murph? Love? No.” I found myself speaking in monosyllables. “It wasn’t ever like that.”
“What was it like?”
I sipped some more. Heather’s blue eyes were now watching me closely. There was a slight smile hovering around her lips. It worried me. Whatever she was thinking, I wanted to squelch it right now. “It was four years ago. Long over now. We’ve all moved on.”
“I didn’t really know him until he came back. He seems like a really great guy. Cotton just loves him. I probably should be jealous.”
I murmured something inconsequential. Murphy spotted the two of us. For a moment I thought he was going to be downright rude and ignore us, but he reluctantly made his way to our table. Our view of him was crotch level, as we were seated and he was standing. Heather wasn’t abashed in the least. She stared at his zipper and gushed, “Sit down with us! We were just catching up on old times.”
“Not really,” I said automatically, horrified.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I just stopped in for a minute between appointments.”
“Appointments?” Heather slid him a sideways look. “What kind of appointments?”
He shrugged and looked around. I could feel how anxious he was to leave. He shot me a look. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to my drink.
“A Mojito,” Heather jumped in.
“How are they?” His blue eyes were on me.
He still had the power to make my pulse leap, which pissed me off to no end. “Good.”
“Sit down and have one with us,” Heather insisted.
He gave her his full attention for the first time, smiling faintly. “I can’t, Heather. Maybe next time.”
Whatever he’d planned on doing, he changed his mind, because he strode back across the patio and out through the restaurant. Heather signaled for another Chardonnay. “I wonder what he’s up to,” she said, clearly annoyed. “I swear, everybody’s got an agenda.”
“Mmmmmm,” I said.
“Oh, God…”
Her tone was full of repugnance. I looked around to see what was up. Craig Cuddahy had just appeared. His gaze passed over the guests at the restaurant, pausing momentarily on us before moving on. Whomever he’d come to see wasn’t here, apparently, as he frowned and made his way toward us.
“What was the fight about?” I asked.
“The island, what else? Cuddahy wants it but won’t pay the price. I don’t want to sell it, but what are you gonna do? It got heated, to say the least. They were drinking and suddenly bam, bam. Stupid idiots.”
“Cotton really wants to sell?”
“Oh, you know…” She swivelled in her chair. “Hi!” she greeted Craig, looking both pissed and amused at the same time.
Craig’s bottom lip was thicker than normal. I tried not to stare.
“Sit down,” Heather invited, scooching her chair over. I turned to her in surprise but I guess she held no grudges. Craig cautiously perched across from me. I hadn’t known he was involved in real estate when we’d first met, but with additional information my perception of him had changed. He’d been a pain at the benefit, half-drunk and sticky. Sober now, I sensed in him a hunger—a money hunger, no doubt—that was ravenous and needed to be fed.
“I’m surprised you’ll even talk to me,” he said diffidently.
She slapped a hand at him. “Oh, for God’s sake. He threw the first punch. You were just automatic. They say men have better control of their emotions,” she added, leaning toward me, conspiratorially, just girl-to-girl. “Their emotions just don’t leak out of their eyes, they’re in their fists.”
Then Heather began chatting on about real estate as if nothing untoward had taken place. Cuddahy was definitely having trouble keeping up with her, as was I. But eventually Craig joined in the real estate discussion, animatedly going on about other homes on the lake, a topic Heather seemed to know a lot about.
“They tore down that cottage on Lakeview,” Craig said. “It was a piece of shit.”
“Worse than,” Heather agreed. “The foundation was crumbling. When you walked inside? It like sloped to one side. Scary! I told Cotton to buy it and redo it. You just can’t get that kind of property these days.”
“Well, you’re on the property that counts.” Craig smiled easily. I detected some covetousness there. Heather just smiled at him.
A waitress came by and took our dinner order and Jeff Foster cruised by to offer some more welcoming words to Heather, Craig and myself. I got up to find the ladies’ room and Jeff was right on my heels.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, you mean because I’m here with my dear friend, Heather?”
“Uh-huh.” Foster wanted answers. No game-playing tonight.
“I’m an urban scavenger. I go with people who feed me.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“Craig Cuddahy. Into buying property.”
“The island?” Foster was interested.
“He’s salivating over it. Got his nose pressed to the window. Cotton’s kind of drawing the curtains though.”
“So, no sale.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that much about it.”
“How’s Cotton doing?”
I wasn’t surprised Foster knew that Cotton was ill; Heather was like a sports announcer, spreading the news. “I don’t really know,” I admitted, my eye catching sight of one of the young waitresses. She was carrying a tray of drinks and something about her looked familiar. “Does that girl moonlight with a catering company?”
Foster looked around. “Who? Misty?”
Question answered. “Heather seems to think Cotton’s got a thing for her.”
Foster choked on a laugh. “Cotton likes attention. He’s a big tipper so maybe he and Misty flirt a little. I don’t know. Heather’s married to him and by her own account, she’s all he needs.”
“I’m surprised you’re leveling with me.”
“I like Cotton and Heather’s a good customer. I don’t know what you’re doing with her and I don’t want to. Just don’t screw things up, Jane.”
“Hey, I’m one of your best customers these days. Show some respect,” I called after him as Foster turned back to his managerial duties which involved directing a visibly inebriated customer to a waiting taxi.
I returned to the table to excuse myself and offer to help on the bill. This hurts me, the need to be fair and polite when it comes to money. My pecuniary side actually rolls on the ground and wails. But, cheap as I am, I cannot bear to be thought of as such.
I dug through my purse, an ancient over-the-shoulder model that had seen better days by 1985. I’d picked it up on a thrift table at one of those weekend outdoor marts. Initially I’d worried that it might come with cooties, but I made myself get over that. I’ve had the lining replaced twice. Can’t bear to give the dinosaur up, though Cynthia despairs of my fashion sense. She feels my purse is the worst, but it’s distressed black leather and I believe that makes it “today.”
“Oh, put that away,” Heather said with a wave of her hand. She fished for her credit card and slapped it down. I murmured a relieved thanks and Craig added a few appreciative words as well. Heather signed the slip with a flourish and a healthy tip that made me briefly consider asking Foster for a job as a waiter. This thought made me worry that I hadn’t gotten enough for Tess’s money. Maybe I needed to stick it out with Heather a little longer, just to log the hours. I was trying to figure out how to prolong the already torturous evening when Heather said, “Come back to the island for a nightcap. I make a mean Bailey’s and coffee.”
Craig instantly demurred. “Don’t think your husband’s ready to see me again.”
“You’ll never get the island by being coy,” Heather said.
“Coy?” Cuddahy shook his head.
“What about you?” Heather asked me.
“Love to,” I said and we
all left at once.
I didn’t quite get Heather. Sometimes I thought she’d emerged directly from the shallow end of the pool: no depth at all. But she possessed more savvy than I’d originally appreciated. She knew the score.
I was hoping to catch up with Cotton as soon as we got to the island and was disappointed to learn he was already in bed. It was nine o’clock and darkness had just settled over the lake. There were streaks of indigo and cobalt blue in the sky, vying with the stars. The water rippled beneath the faint light of a pale crescent moon as Heather, having snagged two mugs and a bottle of Bailey’s, zapping leftover coffee in the microwave, then transferring it to a thermos, led the way down the slate path past the pool to deck chairs with thick white cushions which glowed in the dark night.
We sat down and Heather poured us a couple of mugfuls. I sipped the hot liquid. I decided right then and there that I love Irish cream liquor. Yummy.
It was still hot. The summer had been one of the warmest on record. Normally, seated by the water at night or in a boat on the lake, you’re required to wear a light jacket. But not this summer. I could actually feel myself sweating a little. Or, maybe that was because I was here with Heather.
I was already writing up my report for Tess in my head. Heather had said a few notable things about the island and Cotton’s frame of mind. The fight about the potential sale of the island said a lot. Cuddahy apparently wanted to buy, but Cotton wasn’t having it. I couldn’t get a read on where Heather stood in the negotiations. She minimized the fistfight, putting it down to boys will be boys.
She sighed and closed her eyes, her thin body dark against the white cushion of the chair next to mine. “I love Cotton,” she mused. “It’s been a tough four years for all of us.”
“I don’t want to be judgmental, Heather, but I’d think after today—the fight—that you wouldn’t want to associate with Craig Cuddahy at all.”
“Oh, that was so dumb!”
“Well, maybe…but you said Cotton has a heart condition. Fighting doesn’t sound like it’s on his health regimen.”
Heather squinched down in her seat. “Cotton shouldn’t drink, but he does. What am I, his keeper? He just makes me so mad sometimes.”
“What made him swing at Craig Cuddahy? Specifically, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know. They were talking about the island and Cotton said something about Bobby, about how this was his sanctuary. And then that idiot Craig tried to say it was time Cotton stopped living in the past. It was time to move on. To sell…because Bobby was gone. He made it sound like there was no question that Bobby was dead and gone, so all of a sudden, Cotton just smacked him.”
“Do you think Bobby’s alive?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded like she was sick of thinking about it.
“You think he did it?”
“Of course he did!” she declared. “Cotton doesn’t want to believe it, and I’m sure Tess the Wicked doesn’t, but c’mon. He killed ’em. He left their bodies all over that Tillamook forest area. He probably killed himself, too, if there’s any justice in this world.”
Idly I wondered what the timing was on this thing. Why had Tess called me now? After four years? What was the driving impetus? Cotton’s illness?
“Hey…”
The male voice coming from the darkness caused a little hiccup of fear to escape my lips. Heather, her movements heavy, turned to look for the newcomer. “Hey, yourself,” she said.
Murphy materialized from the shadows. “Is this a private party, or is anyone invited?” He was looking directly at me, his eyes hooded by the darkness.
My jolt of fear now became an uncomfortable lurch of my heart. “Come one, come all,” I said lightly.
He pulled up a chair. His knee was close to the end of my lounge chair. I’d taken off my shoes and my bare toes seemed mere inches from his flesh. Goosebumps rose on my arms.
“If it isn’t the favored one,” Heather said. “Wanna share my drink? I don’t have another cup.”
“I’m okay.”
“Did you talk to Cotton?”
“Isn’t he asleep?” Murphy asked. His gaze swept over our heads toward the house.
“So, you stopped by to see little old me?”
“Actually, I stopped by to see Jane.” He turned to me. “I saw your car at the end of the bridge.”
“Ah,” I said, for lack of anything better. He stopped by to see me? I didn’t want to put too much weight on it, but…he stopped by to see me?
“We didn’t get a chance to really catch up the other day. I thought maybe we could do that.”
“We could do that, I guess.”
“Well, I guess I’m the third wheel.” Heather got up from the lounge chair. The cushion made a funky little fart sound but no one laughed as our hostess was definitely miffed.
“I really should get going anyway,” I said, to ease through the moment.
“I’ll walk you out.” Murphy got to his feet.
Silently we traipsed up the stone stairs and down the path toward the house. Heather peeled off one way, and I headed around the outbuilding side.
“Where’re you going?” Murphy asked a bit sharply.
I’d wanted to circle the garage rather than leave by the direct route—a bit of a renewed reconnaissance of the area. I wanted to give Tess something, and I had a niggling interest in the property itself engendered by all the talk about what would become of it. I guess you could say I felt proprietary, so I kept right on going.
Or, maybe I just wanted to keep Murphy at arm’s length and the prospect of walking shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, toward the front drive had forced my steps elsewhere.
“I’m going the long way,” I said, my voice disembodied in the dark. The little mushroom lights that glowed along the walkway stopped before the turn to the outbuildings. I could make out the rowboat, but my toe stumbled on one of the jumbled pieces of slate. Murphy’s hand shot out to steady me.
“You’re going to run into something. C’mon. Let’s go this way.”
There’s something really humiliating about having your ex—the one who broke up with you—wrap his hand around your upper arm and guide you as if you’re five years old. I managed about three steps before I eased myself out of his grasp. I wanted to yank my arm free and elbow him in the ribs at the same time, but I managed some restraint.
We walked in silence to my car. Trudged, more accurately. I was feeling angry and uncomfortable. I wanted to lash out, so I said, “Everyone acts like you’re the prodigal son, not Bobby. Cotton’s always liked you. Heather even wonders if she should be jealous.”
“What are you saying?” he demanded.
“Is that what you want? To be Cotton Reynolds’ favorite guy?”
“C’mon, Jane, not you, too,” he said in disgust.
“Well, are you going back to Santa Fe? Or, are you here to stay?”
A long moment passed and then he grated, “I’m here because Cotton asked me to come back. Because Bobby left his life in shambles.”
“You believe he did it, now.”
“Yes, Jane,” he stated flatly. “And then I come back here and there’s this big party going on. Everyone’s drinking and socializing and Cotton’s talking about selling the house. He thinks he’s dying. Maybe he is. That’s not what my being here’s about.”
“Cotton’s always liked you,” I said.
“Who gives a shit? I wish Bobby would never come back, but I’m not stepping into his shoes. Ever.”
Silence fell between us. I swallowed hard. Pain and anger radiated from Murphy. “I don’t think Bobby is ever coming back,” I said.
“Why?”
“He’s been gone a long time. Wouldn’t he have shown up by now? How can you disappear for four years?”
“I think it can be done.”
“Nah, you’d have to have help,” I insisted. “You have to have money. Unless…” He waited, wanting me to continue my thought. I wasn’t sure where I was going.
“Unless you go off into some wilderness area and live like a mountain man. Even then you’d have to find a way to buy some staples, I think. And Bobby wasn’t like that, anyway. He was spoiled.”
“He was spoiled,” Murphy agreed.
“He wasn’t good at independence. He relied on everyone else to keep him afloat.”
“You only met him a couple of times, Jane.”
“He wasn’t hard to read.”
“No one guessed what he was going to do.”
“Laura and her family pushed him down a path he couldn’t travel,” I struggled on, the thoughts occurring to me even as I said them. Or maybe they’d always been there, but now talking to Murphy simply crystallized them. “There was no money. Bobby wasn’t good enough to live on religion alone. He wasn’t made that way. He wasn’t raised that way. Cotton cut his lifeline and he started drowning.”
“Why are you hanging around with Heather? What are you looking for?”
“I’m not hanging around with her. It was just one night.”
“You’re a goddamn awful liar.”
“What do you want me to say, Murphy? I want to figure out what happened to Bobby? Sure, I do. We all want closure, don’t we? You do.”
“There is no closure,” he stated flatly. “Not with murder.”
My flesh prickled. He’d stopped defending Bobby at all. Four years after the fact he’d accepted that his best friend had killed his family in cold blood.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
He nodded. I had a feeling he didn’t trust himself to speak. I felt a rush of sympathy, but I gotta be honest, I was glad we’d steered away from what my interest in the Reynolds’ affairs might be. I couldn’t tell him I was getting paid to rake up the past. He would think me the lowest form of vermin, and though I hated to admit it, I care about what Murphy thinks of me.
We said some murmured good-nights. Silly me, I almost invited him back to my cottage. It really bums me out to know that I still possess stirrings of interest. Not out-and-out desire, mind you. Just little stirrings of interest where Murphy’s concerned.
