by Nancy Skopin
“Oils, mostly. I dabble in watercolor.”
“Subject matter?” I asked.
“Naked women,” he said, his eyes flashing.
I looked over at Bill to see if he was paying attention. Regrettably, he was.
“Seriously,” I said.
“Seascapes. When I get bored with them I sometimes persuade a lady-friend to pose nude for me. I keep those for my private collection.” Steve’s eyes made the unspoken suggestion that I look him up if I was ever in Maine long enough for a casual fling. I looked around the room, suddenly anxious to find Cher and our table. I spotted her waving madly from the opposite side of the dance floor.
“Great to see you again, Steve,” I said, nudging Bill in the other direction.
“Great to see you!” he responded. “Save me a dance.”
So, one of my favorite high school friends now fancied himself a ladies’ man and was no longer sensitive enough to care that I was here with someone else. I decided it was a minor offence and that I should be flattered, not to mention the fact that I found the way my body was responding to Steve’s interest a little disturbing.
Bill and I crossed the room and seated ourselves at Cher’s table. She had arranged the place cards so that I was next to her, and Bill was between me and Melissa. Clever girl. She had known that if she seated Bill next to Heather I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else all night. I admit to being the jealous type. I’m territorial and competitive, but until this reunion I’d thought I had those impulses pretty much under control. It seemed my level of maturity had temporarily regressed back to high school.
Once we were seated I noticed Cher’s Flowerbomb competing with Heather and Melissa’s equally strong and flowery fragrances, and I was glad I’d forgotten to spritz on my own signature scent, Must de Cartier, in my haste to dress for the evening. The fragrances already mingling at our table were enough to make me hurl.
I rested my hand on Bill’s thigh and scanned the room for familiar faces. I spotted Sandra Knudson near the entryway. She was talking to a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a receding hairline dressed in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. He looked familiar. I stared at him for a minute, but couldn’t quite place him. Then I looked away and it hit me. Paul Marks! Paul and I had walked to school together for more years than I could remember. He’d lived around the corner from my house and had taken piano lessons from my mom. Adorable, sweet, loyal Paul Marks. We’d been hot and heavy for a while in high school, before deciding we were better off as friends.
I waved and both Paul and Sandra waved back. Why hadn’t I stayed in touch with these people? A moment later Paul strode over to our table and knelt beside my chair as I turned to greet him.
“Nikki,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I can’t believe you finally came to one of these things. I thought I’d never see you again. You look beautiful.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek.
Paul always had intense brown eyes with long lashes and an aura of kindness, and that hadn’t changed. I felt my heart swell with affection, but I also noticed his face was thinner now, almost gaunt. I supposed it could be part of the natural aging process, but it didn’t look healthy on him. Although he was smiling, I could sense anxiety just beneath the surface.
I introduced Paul to Bill and they shook hands, maintaining eye contact long enough to tell me that Bill was feeling a little bit territorial himself tonight. The moment was slightly awkward, but not unpleasant.
“So, Paul,” I said, “What have you been up to for the last nineteen years?” That sounded lame even to me, but I was genuinely interested.
“I’m an air traffic control supervisor at SFO,” he said. “Recently promoted. I’ve been married once. No kids. We’re divorced now. What about you?”
All right, I thought, such a high-pressure job could easily account for the level of stress Paul exhibited.
I smiled and said, “I’m a private investigator. I live aboard a sailboat in Redwood City.”
That was the condensed version, but the room was too noisy for a conversation about how many times I’d been married and the career path that led me to my current occupation. I pulled a business card out of my purse and handed it to him. He studied it for a minute, frowning slightly, then fished a card out of his wallet.
“Let’s have lunch,” he said.
I nodded enthusiastically. “I’d like that.”
A moment later Paul left to find his own table.
While we’d been talking the waitstaff had begun pouring ice water and were now serving green salads liberally doused with bright orange dressing. I placed my napkin on my lap, picked up my fork, and looked around the banquet room, listening to the idle chatter at surrounding tables and the clink of silverware. The lighting in the room was dim, but I could see that there were four long tables set up against the back wall, covered with works of art, articles of clothing, and gift baskets. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what that was about.
I turned to Cher. “What’s all the merchandise for?” I asked pointing toward the back of the room.
She laughed and leaned against me saying, “It’s a silent auction. Proceeds go to the school. This isn’t just a reunion, it’s a fundraiser.”
I’d never been to a reunion and I’d never been to a silent auction, so I was totally clueless. Good thing I had a guide. I noticed Cher was ignoring her salad too, so I asked if she wanted to go take a look at the auction tables.
“Yes,” she answered quickly.
I asked Bill if he wanted to join us, but he took a pass. I kissed him on the lips and glanced across the table at Heather, who gave me a snide grin. I really wanted to slap her. Sometimes I hate being human.
Chapter 2
Cher and I strolled arm-in-arm toward the back of the room. The first table was loaded with alluring baskets of beauty products. Cher picked up an auction sheet for one of them, and I read over her shoulder. It showed a minimum bid of thirty dollars. She added her name and a bid of thirty-one dollars.
Among the items on the next table was a small oil painting of a coastline that looked like it might be in Maine. I leaned in close to the canvas and read the signature. Steve Saxon. The technique was slightly impressionistic but the painting was not lacking in detail and displayed no small amount of talent. I read the minimum bid on the auction sheet, and caught my breath. This tiny, unframed work of art was listed for a minimum of a thousand dollars. It was good, but was it that good? I guess it depends on the size of your wallet. There were already three bids on the sheet. Melissa had bid one thousand and fifty dollars, Sandra had bid a thousand seventy-five, and Heather had bid fifteen hundred. I wondered what Heather thought she was buying. I know, meow.
I looked over at Cher who was examining a handmade jacket designed by Bella’s cousin Pete. I remembered him and wasn’t surprised he’d gone into fashion. It was a black and tan wool blazer, and it was elegant. The minimum bid was a hundred dollars, which was a steal. I was tempted, but I already owned a blazer, and when you live on a boat you learn to minimize. I did add my bid for a “Super Lucky Dog” tee shirt, also designed by Pete. It was a patchwork of color with a large red “S” in the middle of a royal blue triangle on the chest. You can never have too many tee shirts, and this one was charming.
The next item on the table was a harlequin doll with porcelain face, hands, and feet. The minimum bid was forty-five dollars. Cher listed her name on that sheet as well, for forty-six. I glanced at the diamond wedding set on her left hand and wondered if her husband could afford a rock that size because she was such an adept bargain hunter.
“Tell me about your life,” I said. “I want to know everything that’s happened since I last saw you. Don’t leave anything out.”
Cher put her arm around me and gave me a s
queeze. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch. I guess I was in such a hurry to brush South City off my shoes that I left the good things behind with the bad.”
“Now you’re making me feel guilty,” I said. “I didn’t stay in touch with you either.”
“We’re even, then” she said. “I guess you know I went to Columbia as a Lit major, since that was the plan I hatched before graduation. What you don’t know is that I was only there for six months before I met Mister Right.” She grimaced as she said this. “His name was Hal Stoakes, and he was tall, dark, handsome, intelligent, sexy, and well-off. We dated for three years and when he proposed I didn’t hesitate.” She paused for a moment, gazing off into space. “Have you been married, Nikki?” She turned to look at me.
“Three times,” I cringed. “The first was during our senior year, remember?”
That got a laugh out of Cher. “Oh my God, that’s right! You always were the wild one. You’ll know what I mean then. People change when they get married. It’s like something that’s been hiding deep inside crawls out and bites you on the ass.”
She was somber. Not something I would have believed her capable of in high school.
“Is your marriage in trouble?” I asked. I couldn’t believe how quickly the bond between us had been reestablished. I hadn’t seen this woman since I was seventeen, yet I was ready to do battle to ensure her happiness. I’m really a knight in PI’s clothing. If I don’t watch it, I get myself into all kinds of trouble trying to protect the people I care about, and sometimes people I don’t even know. I attribute this to my inability to defend myself as a child when I was victimized by my cousin Aaron.
Cher reached for my hand. “I guess it has been for years. But let’s not talk about that tonight. Let’s just have fun and get reacquainted. We can get together later to discuss what’s wrong with my life and how to fix it.”
The warm feeling I’d had at seeing Cher again became melancholy as I envisioned her trapped in a loveless marriage.
After dinner we all crowded onto the dance floor for a group picture, then a disk jockey began playing music that had been popular when we were teenagers. I liked some of the old songs, but I didn’t like the memories most of them evoked. I watched Steve Saxon dancing with Sandra Knudson. They moved so well together it was impossible to imagine they had never been a couple. I hoped Steve wouldn’t approach me for a dance. No way could I keep up with his moves.
When the song ended I saw Steve glance in my direction, and I hastily dragged Bill out of his chair and toward the dance floor. Bill does not like to dance. Although he’s naturally graceful he seems to think that real men don’t dance, and it makes him feel foolish. Thankfully, the song the disk jockey had selected was a slow one. I inhaled the subtle scent of Grey Flannel as I leaned my head against Bill’s shoulder. He was a saint for coming to this reunion with me, and dancing just added more points to the roster. I hoped that if the time ever came for me to return the favor, I would be half as gracious.
My reverie was broken when I glanced across the room and saw Paul suddenly reach in his jacket and pull out his iPhone. He was too far away and there were too many people between us, for me to hear what he said, but I could see that the call disturbed him. He seemed to curl in on himself as he dropped his head before returning the phone to his pocket. Dancers moved in front of him then, and I couldn’t see him, but moments later he appeared at my side.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” Paul said, nodding to Bill, who stepped back. He looked pale, almost white, and his face was more drawn than ever. “When I said we should have lunch, Nikki, I was just happy to see you again and wanted to get together. But something has come up and I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Could we have lunch tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I said, trying not to let him see how concerned I was. “Call me at the office in the morning. I’ll rearrange my schedule if I need to.” I gave him a quick hug, which he returned before bolting from the room.
“What the hell was that about?” Bill asked.
“No idea,” I said, leaning back into his arms, now worried about both of my old friends.
When the music stopped, Bella appeared on the dance floor with one of those cordless microphones and said it was time to announce the silent auction winners. She made it sound like a contest, and I guess in a way it was. Cher won both items she had bid on and smiled contentedly as she wrote out the check. Heather won Steve’s painting for fifteen hundred dollars. There was a toxic gleam in her eyes when she gave Bella her check and received the prized work of art.
After all the auction items had been awarded Bella made a huge production of thanking the individuals who had donated them. She asked each contributor to come out on the dance floor one at a time, and the crowd applauded politely for each of them. When Steve Saxon stepped up the applause was deafening and there were a few decidedly feminine catcalls and whistles. There may not have been a bar in our banquet room, but there were several in the hotel, and some of my classmates had apparently paid them more than one visit.
The whole reunion experience was surreal for me. Apart from meeting up with Cher and Paul again, I think I could have done without it. I knew I wouldn’t rest well until I found out what was troubling Paul, but seeing the two of them made the whole thing worthwhile.
At the end of the evening Cher and I exchanged numbers and made a lunch date for the following weekend, promising to touch base before then to discuss where and when. She was living in Burlingame now, only twenty minutes away from the marina. I’d probably invite her to The Diving Pelican so I could give her a tour of my office and my boat.
As Bill and I were walking through the lobby on our way out I spotted Steve and Heather sitting next to a huge potted palm, talking intently. Heather had one hand on Steven’s leg and a cocktail in the other. They both looked up as we passed by. I waved and kept Bill moving toward the exit.
Once we were on the freeway headed home I said, “That was weird.”
“What?” Bill asked, dutifully.
“Being around all those people I haven’t seen in nineteen years.”
“You seemed to have a good time,” he offered.
“I did, I guess. It’s great to be back in touch with Cher. We had some wild times when we were teenagers. And Paul is so sweet. I’m glad I went. But I don’t think I ever want to do it again.”
“Sweet, huh?”
He was grinning, and normally isn’t the jealous type. Nevertheless, I felt the need to defend myself. “Yes, sweet. There hasn’t been anything romantic between us since high school, and there certainly isn’t now. He’s just a good person. You know, true blue, salt of the earth. Stop me before I cliché again.”
“Okay. I get the idea.”
Chapter 3
Bill and I had arrived back at the Marina and were walking down the companionway to the dock when I had an impulse to stop and knock on the door of Elizabeth’s trawler. I needed a reality check, but it was late and her lights were off. I decided I could wait until morning to bend her ear about my reunion experience.
Elizabeth is my sounding board when I can’t figure out what’s right in front of me. She’s a strawberry blonde pixie about five feet tall with a genius level IQ, and my closest female friend. I wanted to share everything that had happened tonight with her. I needed to decompress by telling her about the people I hadn’t seen for so long, but wished I’d stayed in touch with, and the people who had been assholes in high school and apparently still were. I wanted to hear what she would say about my lusting after Steve, even though I was in a ‘relationship’ with Bill. I knew Elizabeth would be able to put everything in perspective. I’d have to invite myself over tomorrow for an early morning chat.
We continued down the dock to my boat, where we shucked off our clothes and crawled into the queen-size bunk with a minim
um of conversation. Once we were in bed Bill rolled onto his side and pulled me close, copping a feel and nuzzling my neck, then promptly began snoring. This is one of his gifts. No matter what’s going on in his life, no matter how disconcerting the cases he’s working on may be, he can always sleep.
I am of the opposite variety, an almost chronic insomniac. I only sleep soundly when everything in my life is running smoothly. If anything is amiss, I’m awake. I don’t know how to disconnect. I’ve tried herbs and vitamins and the usual over-the-counter remedies, but nothing seems to work. I even went to a therapist once. Her name was Loretta Dario, and Bill had suggested I talk with her about my reaction to taking a life. He had been right. Even though I’d killed in self-defense, the psychological impact was devastating, and I’d had a lot of sleepless nights.
What I really wanted as I lay in bed next to my snoring lover, replaying every minute of the evening, was a cigarette. Because quitting had been such a difficult process for me, as long as I remembered how hard it was I probably wouldn’t smoke again. The trouble would begin when I reached the point where I no longer recalled the ordeal of quitting. Then the temptation might get the best of me.
I picked up Michael Connelly’s last Harry Bosch novel and read until my eyes would no longer focus. I finally drifted off, and dreamt that something was burning. The smell was so strong in my dream that it woke me. I sat up in bed sniffing the air like a hound who’s lost the scent of her prey. The clock said it was 5:13, and Bill was still snoring softly by my side.
A couple of my neighbors have wood stoves onboard their boats, but now that I was awake, the smell was no longer evident. Still, the dream had alarmed me enough that I didn’t trust my senses, so I climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Bill, and walked through each of my rooms, sniffing and checking electrical outlets. When I was satisfied that nothing onboard was burning, I pulled on a robe and climbed up into the pilothouse, opened the outer door, and breathed in the cool morning air. Nothing was burning outside either. I was too agitated to attempt sleep again, so I sat down in the pilothouse and waited for sunrise.
