Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  “I was very shy before that,” she said. “Kind of. . . inward.”

  “You were something of an introvert, yes. But now you deal with people all the time—at their best and their worst, I would imagine.”

  “Well,” she said, “I hope you know how much you did for me. For so many of us.”

  Somewhat shyly, possibly a little embarrassed, he said, “You’re very welcome.”

  “How are the kids?”

  He gave her a full grin now. “Chloe and Liam are great. Nine and twelve respectively. Liam is in basketball and Chloe is into science. Not a speck of drama talent in either one of ’em. That will prevent a conflict of interest one day.”

  “I’m so happy for you guys,” she said.

  Chris looked around. “I don’t see Astrid anywhere.”

  “I’m not sure she’s coming tonight. But Jessy says Astrid put in a reservation for tomorrow night. She was your star, I know.”

  “Your costar,” he said, referring to Astrid playing Cinderella in Into the Woods.

  “Well, she had the lead,” Krista said, “in every play you put on all through high school.”

  “I’m sure some of the kids resented that,” he said. “But she was so very good. Talent will out, you know.”

  “Like evil,” Tyler said.

  Krista said, “I hope to see you two tomorrow night. Like I said, I wish more of our teachers were coming.”

  “Tomorrow a number are,” Chris said, nodding. “Enough of us to reserve a table, anyway.”

  “Great!”

  Several other classmates who’d been in drama came over and kidnapped the two men to come sit with them. On her way back to the table, Krista ran into Frank Wunder and his wife, Brittany. Frank had a can of Budweiser in a fist and Brittany a glass of wine in her more delicate grasp.

  “You can arrest me anytime, Chief!” Frank said, good-natured but, as ever, a shameless flirt. Predictably he was wearing a Galena High football jersey, brand new but with his old number—69—which had been the source of much boring humor among his teammates.

  Rugged, with short brown hair, Frank had a Woody Harrelson handsomeness undercut by those nice green eyes being set even closer together than Woody’s, and a nose that had been broken a few times.

  He was bound to start off by ragging Krista about not buying her latest car from him.

  And he did: “How can the chief of police of an all-American town like Galena buy Japanese? I’ll give you a better deal on that Toyota than you deserve, just to get you into the right kind of ride.”

  “Hi, Frank. Hi, Brittany.”

  Brittany had speared a page from her rock ’n’ roll almost namesake, wearing a clinging black spandex top with the shoulders cut out, too-tight jeans with bedazzled butt pockets, and high-heeled black leather boots. This outfit would have worked better ten years and two kids ago, her long blonde hair sporting too much product, her makeup predictably heavy. But unlike many other women here, Brittany had given her entire wardrobe real thought.

  “You look nice,” Brittany said. She seemed sincere but not happy about it.

  “So do you. Any of your classmates here?”

  She nodded, sipped her wine. “A few married up like I did.”

  Brittany meant she’d been a sophomore who snagged the school’s star jock. But it was her husband who’d married up—Brittany’s daddy owned the car dealership that Frank managed.

  Drake started singing, “Best I Ever Had.”

  Frank asked, “Any sign of Astrid yet?”

  He was one of half a dozen guys who had been a boy toy of Astrid’s back in his glory days. And bringing Astrid up in front of his wife like that was thoughtless, to say the least. And he wasn’t even drunk yet.

  “No,” Krista said. “Not sure she’s coming tonight. Pretty much for sure she’ll be there out at the lodge.”

  Frank grinned, perhaps at the thought of seeing Astrid again. “Really cool of Dave Landry to roll out the red carpet like he is. Hell of a nice thing to do for his old classmates.”

  “Really is,” Krista said, nodding, meaning it.

  Some of Frank’s old jock buddies were approaching, so she smiled and nodded at the couple—Brittany seemed in petrified misery—and headed back to the table.

  But Jerry intercepted her halfway.

  Whispering, barely audible above the Black Eyed Peas, he said, “What’s the idea of leaving me alone with that homophobic fool?”

  “Josh is okay,” she said. “He’s just a little screwed up in some areas.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  She leaned close to him. “Jessy is my best friend. Go mingle with some of your own friends—this is your class, too.”

  “I thought we came together.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “That’s starting to feel like a technicality.”

  He gave her a dismissive wave, then moved away, not back to their table, rather taking her up on her suggestion to connect with some other classmates.

  When she returned to the table, Jessy was sitting with another friend of theirs, Cindi Thomas, who was also on the committee. Krista went over and got a second Farmer’s and, when she returned, Cindi was just going. Josh was across the room talking to a couple of guys from his old crowd.

  Jessy leaned in and asked, “Are you back with Jerry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would I be out of line saying, ‘Good’?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay, then. Good. He was really a jerk to Josh.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he congratulated Josh on being the most boring, backward ass in the class. Was he trying to sound like a poet? Rhyming ‘ass’ and ‘class’?”

  “Dunno.”

  And Jerry wasn’t completely wrong about Josh, but insulting him at an event like this, in front of the guy’s wife, who organized the reunion. . . well. She drank some beer.

  “Omigod, look.” Jessy’s eyes were on the entry between the party room and the outer brewpub. Sixpence None the Richer, with its girl singer, was doing “There She Goes,” the old La’s song.

  Astrid Lund.

  Pausing there as the world stopped around her. Tall, blonde. . . but then so was Krista. Attractive in her Nordic way. . . but then so was Krista.

  But not like this. Not quite platinum hair stopping at her shoulders, classic blunt bangs. Wide-set ice-blue eyes. High cheekbones. Perfectly formed nose with a slight upward tilt. Mouth on loan from Charlize Theron. Slender with a narrow waist.

  And the clothes!

  Krista may have spent most of her time in uniform, but she had always loved fashion, getting lost in the chichi magazines. She consoled herself with the notion that fashion would be bad for her law enforcement image. Not that, in real life, she could afford anything that wasn’t a knockoff or a T.J. Maxx castoff.

  Apparently Astrid could afford it.

  She was in a Burberry tan-and-black plaid shirtdress—knee-length with quarter-length sleeves and a sash belt. On her small, no doubt perfect feet were Burberry booties, the front half brown leather, the back half plaid cloth, wraparound leather strap, gold buckle. Casually from one shoulder hung a Louis Vuitton bag—brown-and-tan hobo with signature LV. Krista guessed that maybe her classmate had figured going all Burberry would have been a bit much.

  The watch riding Astrid’s wrist was an oversize Rolex. Her bare legs were bronze—product, tanning bed, or island vacation? Who could say? But all her exposed skin, face included (making that blonde hair pop), was that same bronze.

  Krista was considering going up to her, but to welcome her, since everyone else was as frozen as the kids staring at Astrid playing Stupefyin’ Jones in Mr. Hope’s sophomore-year production of Li’l Abner.

  What made Krista hesitate was thinking that if only that red sweater of hers had been cashmere, and not cotton. . .

  But before Krista could get past that, Jerry ran up to Astrid like a lost puppy catching sight of its master. Or mistress. She
took both his hands in hers and kissed him, briefly, on the mouth. And then they began to talk, Jerry fairly animatedly, and Astrid listening politely, making the occasional comment, as the rest of the party room thawed itself and got back to their conversations.

  When Astrid and Jerry moved deeper into the room, Krista found her moment. She slipped out and headed home.

  It wasn’t much of a walk.

  SEVEN

  Keith was sleeping on the couch in the den when he heard Krista come in. He didn’t remember stretching out, but at some point he obviously had—the last he remembered, he was in the middle of Two Mules for Sister Sara on the Starz western channel and now something with James Stewart and Audie Murphy was on the screen. He’d seen it before, but didn’t remember the title. The TV was muted, which he must have done before flopping on the couch.

  He sat up, quickly awake, running his tongue over his teeth in a not entirely successful effort to get rid of the sleep taste. The French doors were open and he could see Krista hanging up her fur-collared bomber jacket in the closet opposite the front door she’d just come in.

  He checked his watch—not even eleven yet. What was she doing home so early? And what was he doing falling asleep like an old man in front of the television? Had he really slept through a car pulling up just outside his window, doors closing and good-night conversation included?

  He wandered into the living room and he and his daughter met halfway.

  “Wasn’t expecting you yet, honey,” he said.

  She smiled a little. “Does that disappoint you?”

  She sat on the sofa, which was one of Karen’s favorite pieces. It had taken his wife some real convincing to get the antique leather cushions restuffed to make them as comfortable as they were now. That had been twenty years ago.

  He sat next to his daughter, somewhat sideways, studying her. She was clearly upset, though not on the verge of tears. Like any father might, he hoped her unsettled condition meant she had finally dumped that louse Jerry. Never occurred to him that a Jerry might dump a Krista.

  His daughter, in her red sweater, had looked very young before she went out tonight. Now she looked twenty-eight, and nothing wrong with that. Such a pretty thing. The Danish coloring and hair and eye color were all courtesy of his genes; the shape of her face and its beauty were her mother’s Irish doing.

  “This,” he said, “is where a more sensitive father might ask, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’”

  “. . . Nothing’s wrong, Pop.” She smiled but it was little pitiful, though not self-pitying. “It’s just. . . I finally ended it for good with Jerry.”

  “Much drama?”

  “No.” She told him how Jerry had been boorish at the brewery, and had gone running up to Astrid Lund to make a fuss over the very girl who’d come between them, a hundred years ago.

  He said, “Jerry doesn’t sound very sensitive either.”

  “No kidding.”

  She shared the way he’d treated Josh and how that had irritated Jessy.

  “The frustrating thing,” she said, “is I agree with Jerry about Josh’s stupid homophobic opinions. But Jessy’s my friend, and they saved seats for us, and. . . let’s just say I didn’t think much of Jerry’s social skills.”

  Keith knew that his daughter and her friend Jessica were on the opposite side of the political fence on some issues. Jessy was a conservative Republican and Krista was a very middle-of-the-road Democrat. He had voted straight Republican ticket all his life, till some of the choices offered him had made him sit out the last couple of national elections.

  But Keith knew that Krista steered clear of certain topics with her friend—gay marriage and reproductive rights, for example. Jessy was a devout Catholic, and her husband was, too, Catholic anyway—Keith didn’t figure Josh was devout about anything except maybe selling popcorn and fudge to tourists.

  Krista was saying, “I kind of had a rude awakening.”

  “How so, honey?”

  “Well.” She sighed. “Do you know just how long Jerry was, uh. . .”

  “Your houseguest?”

  She nodded, smiled awkwardly. “I have a feeling you think him living here was a pretty recent thing.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “He lived here six months, Pop. I put up with that self-righteous, self-centered SOB for six months!”

  That did surprise him. Almost shocked him. And hurt him a little, too, because it meant his daughter had been keeping something significant from him all this time. Not lying to him, but. . . not being honest either.

  Of course he hadn’t bothered once to drive the twenty or so minutes across the river to see his daughter during that same six months. There was plenty of mea culpa to go around.

  She reached for his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  She rarely called him that.

  He said, “You’re a big girl, honey. You can make your own decisions.”

  “Jerry was a bad decision. I can’t explain myself, really. . .”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She was still holding his hand but looking across the room. “I hadn’t dated anybody in a while, and Jerry came along, hauling so many memories, mostly good ones. He’s smart and he can be funny. We have a lot of shared interests. Do you know how hard it is to find a guy who isn’t into sports and nothing else?”

  “Probably pretty tough. Gems like me, who like sports and John Wayne movies, don’t come along often.”

  That got a smile out of her, a brief one. “Jerry and I would go to concerts and plays and movies—movies that didn’t have a single thing blowing up in them! We went to museums a couple of times. We both like the BBC-type mysteries, and would sit over in the den watching them for hours. I’d make popcorn, and. . .”

  Was she almost on the verge of tears? He really couldn’t tell. And it hit him that now he was the one sitting next to her in the den watching TV.

  “I had no idea,” he said quietly, “that you’d been in that relationship so long. That it was so serious.”

  “Pop. . .”

  He held up a hand. “I would never move in and cause a breakup. Listen, I’m fine. Everybody has a bad day now and then, and since your mom passed, that’s bound to happen. Particularly with us Nordic types. You have no responsibility, no need to babysit me, to keep me from blowing my stupid head off. I mean it!”

  “I know you do,” she said, looking right at him, her smile faint but loving. “I’m just being straight with you. You deserve that.”

  “I want that.”

  She was sitting sideways too, now. “You have to believe me, then, when I say this was coming. That Jerry was a bad idea. That the worst thing that could have happened was not coming to my senses about him. Okay? Okay?”

  “It just wasn’t my intention. . .”

  “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  “If I thought I was a burden to you—”

  “You want to do something for me?”

  “Anything, sweetie.”

  “Do your own laundry.”

  He started to laugh. “Done deal.”

  She was laughing, too. “Also, go fix me some hot chocolate. I see you bought some Danish butter cookies. That’ll be a good fit.”

  “Okay. Work me to the bone. See if I care.”

  Soon they were in the big kitchen with a little plate of the butter cookies and two mugs of hot chocolate.

  “I hope,” he said, “you got to spend some time with your high school pals, before you left Jerry in the lurch.”

  “Oh I did. Casual night was in the party room at the brewery—you know that little side room? And when I was on my way out, in the outer restaurant area, I ran into some overflow of my classmates, drinking, talking. I did some mingling before I walked home.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Oh, you know them all. Jeff, Emily, Daniel, Jake, Nicole. . .”

  He did remember them. Most still lived in the area.

  She nibbled a butter
cookie. “You know who everybody wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Me?”

  “Not hardly. Mom. She was everybody’s favorite teacher.”

  Karen had taught third grade at Galena Primary till her illness forced an early retirement.

  “She was my favorite, too,” he said. Taught him more than he could say.

  “They did ask about you, Pop. I mean, you’re well known around here. After all, you made the papers a few times.”

  “Once with you,” he reminded her.

  She sipped hot chocolate. “Emily told me she thought I was the luckiest person she knew.”

  “Oh?”

  “To have two great parents like you and Mom.”

  “Emily sounds very wise.”

  “She also has two really, really awful parents.”

  They both laughed.

  He asked her, “Did you get a chance to talk to your friend Astrid, or did Jerry’s bad conduct get in the way?”

  Her forehead frowned while her mouth smiled. “She wasn’t exactly my friend, Pop.”

  “She was for a long, long time. Going back to grade school.”

  Krista nodded, eyebrows up. “And in middle school, and through a lot of high school, too. Till she stole Jerry away from me.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  Again they both laughed. Not hard. But they laughed.

  Keith said, “I always felt a little sorry for Astrid.”

  Krista almost choked on her hot chocolate. “What? Are you kidding?”

  “No. Remember, she was pudgy and kind of homely in grade school. Took her till middle school before she blossomed.”

  Krista’s eyes popped. “And, brother, did she blossom!”

  “Yes, but a person who starts out one thing and nature or puberty or whatever turns them into another. . . that can be tough. I always felt the homely little girl was still inside there, making everybody, oh. . .”

  “Pay?”

  “Maybe in a way,” he admitted. “But some of the most confident, secure people on the outside are the opposite inside.”

  She smirked. “If you say so.”

  They talked some more. He was suddenly glad to be here in this house with her. No, not suddenly—he was already glad, but he just hadn’t thought about it that way. He and his daughter were closer now. They’d always loved each other. But something like. . . friendship? Something like that had opened up between them.