by Clea Simon
‘Talk to me,’ she says. She takes a step, reaches up. His shoulder is warm – the oven, that shirt – and she remembers the frisson of desire she felt when they’d first met again. He’s a good-looking man now. Trim and fit, but he’s also her old friend. The one who felt more like a brother than, well, than a mate.
‘You’ve got to understand.’ He’s talking to the pan, but he’s talking, and that’s something. ‘When I first met Jonah, back in the day. I hated him. I mean, he was everything I despised. The power and …’ A pause. He swallows. ‘The way he used it.’
She waits, remembering. The rumors about the bands. The boys.
Scott keeps talking. ‘He approached me, way back then. Not, you know, coming onto me. But as a friend.’
She’s glad he can’t see her recoil in surprise.
‘He said he knew. That it was hard, but that I’d be happier.’ Scott picks up a wooden spatula. Pokes at the vegetables in the pan and adjusts the heat. ‘I hated him even more for that, of course. I mean, the man was a fucking predator. I didn’t want … I mean, I’m not …’
She wants to touch him. To let him see she is his friend, but she waits. The onions are collapsing in the pan. The air is growing fragrant.
‘Anyway.’ Another sigh, as if to punctuate the thought. ‘I came out, and he was right. Life got better. And so when the Portland job ended, I got in touch.’
It could be the onions. Tara is famished by the time they eat, the smell of the dish – some stir-fry – driving her mad.
‘It’s nothing special,’ says Scott. ‘But, you know, it’s a weeknight.’
‘It’s great.’ Tara barely pauses to chew, let alone drink the wine. They’ve finished the open bottle, and by then it doesn’t matter that the one she brought isn’t as good. She’s relaxed. They’re both relaxed, and for the first time in a long time, Tara feels she’s got her old friend back. ‘Where’d you learn to cook like this?’
That’s not what she wants to ask. It doesn’t matter. Everything makes sense now. Everything about him, anyway.
‘Cookbooks. Newspapers.’ He tops off her glass. He’s put his own away. ‘My first boyfriend – first real boyfriend – was a fitness nut. That helped.’
She nods, her mouth full. The brown rice is nutty and picks up the sweetness of those onions. She’s tempted to follow up. To hear more about the transformation. How the happy, slim Scott – the one who doesn’t drink, or barely – came to be. But really she wants to talk music. Music and writing, like the old days. Now that maybe they can again.
Business, however, comes first.
‘So, Scott.’ She wipes her mouth. He has cloth napkins. ‘My piece. What’s up? I thought you had free rein?’
‘I did, too, kiddo.’ He pushes a green pepper around his plate, then leaves it be. ‘That was my agreement with Jonah when I came on.’
She waits. He’s talked a bit about Jonah, about how the older man mentored him. How Jonah was different with him. She knows he considers the former club manager to be more than a boss.
‘But …’ Time to prime the pump.
‘I gather someone up the food chain doesn’t like it.’
‘Someone up the food chain?’ She puts her wine down. She wants her head clear. ‘You mean, like an advertiser?’ She shouldn’t be surprised, not really. She knows how these big glossies work. She’s seen the four-color sell sheets, advertising their content months in advance, long before any mere scribe puts a word on paper. But, no, Scott is shaking his head.
‘No. He didn’t say – and he would’ve.’ Those eyes. A glance laden with meaning. ‘I’m thinking it’s one of the big investors. Or one of the owners.’
‘Owners?’ Maybe she’s drunk too much wine. ‘I thought City was an independent.’
He reaches for the rice. ‘Nobody’s an independent anymore,’ he says as he spoons out a mouthful. As he studies it on his plate. ‘We’re not talking a ’zine here.’
‘Scott?’ His plate is not that fascinating. She reaches across the table. Puts her hand on his. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look at her either. Instead, he turns back toward the kitchen, although she knows for a fact that he turned off the stove before they sat down. She wonders about the wine. The glass in the sink, but then he’s back, a tumbler of sparkling water in his hand. ‘It’s just business. And maybe I hear more about it, because Jonah and I …’
‘You’re not with Jonah.’ She hears the judgment in her voice. Regrets it just as quickly as it’s out. ‘Are you?’ The question comes out in a squeak.
‘Me? No.’ He laughs. He even looks at her. ‘I’m not his type. But he does talk to me. We have history – I mean, the scene – in common, among other things.’
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. Isn’t happy, either.
‘Look,’ he says, after a moment has passed, ‘you really think you have something, right?’
She nods. Against all her better instincts. ‘I don’t know what yet. But there’s something …’
He holds up a hand to stop her. ‘Let me see what I can do. I mean, I know it’s going to be a great story, and I think once he sees it, Jonah will know that too. And he can talk any investor around. I mean, shit, this is the man who sold ice cream as a February cover story. And speaking of, dessert?’
TWENTY-FIVE
Tara sleeps better than she has in ages. Wakes feeling almost hopeful about the future. The article. Scott. Two more days at Zeron and then she can hunker down. See about putting some kind of a story together.
There’s another message from Nick by the time she exits the T, and she’s glad she missed it. As she climbs Zeron’s front steps, her phone rings again and she looks at it with annoyance. But, no, it’s Mika. Tara stops halfway to the front door to answer. The young woman puts Tara’s fears to rest: Neela is fine. In fact, she continues, her mother is home and ready to talk.
‘I told her how great you were, with Henry and everything.’ The young woman sounds relaxed. ‘And I never really got a chance to thank you.’
‘It was nothing.’ It’s a reflex response. It doesn’t mean anything, although as Tara says it she feels a pang. Despite what Mika said, she still wonders if her reappearance in Neela’s life drove the widow too far. The more she learns – the more she remembers – about those years, the more difficult they sound. She looks up at the building behind her. ‘And, I mean, she doesn’t have to talk to me, if it’s too painful, or something …’
‘No, I think she should.’ Her daughter cuts through her mumbling. ‘I think it will be good for her to talk about the past. About my dad, and everything.’
Tara opens her mouth. Remembers what Min has told her. What Nick has said. And then simply thanks the younger woman, as she waits for her to put her mother on the line.
‘Tara?’ The widow sounds shaky. Her voice thin and weak.
‘Hey, Neela.’ Tara isn’t going to push. ‘How’re you doing?’
An exhalation, half laugh, half sob. They were never close, back in the day. But Tara feels they’ve shared something, even if it’s simply history. They’ve got a bond at least as deep as Scott and Jonah Wells do, don’t they? She waits.
Only the sound of breathing lets her know the other woman is still on the line. Tara is close to breaking in. To excusing the other woman and letting her go back to her mourning, undisturbed. Only it really would make the piece if she could get her to talk, and Tara wants that, she realizes. More than she thought.
Finally, Neela breaks the silence. ‘Mika says you still want to talk to me.’
It’s a statement, and it seems to cost her.
‘I do, if you’re up for it.’ Tara bites her lip. Waits.
‘Yeah.’ Another pause, and then she comes back, her voice stronger than before. ‘Yeah, I think it would be good for me,’ she says. ‘I think it would be healing.’
‘Great.’ Now it’s Tara’s voice that quavers. She clears her throat. �
��How about Saturday afternoon?’
‘Sunday would be better, if you don’t mind coming over in the morning again.’ There’s a note in her voice that Tara can’t identify. Resignation? Sadness? A touch of dark humor? Whatever, it fades as she drops her voice to the barely audible. ‘My daughter will be at church, and I could use the company.’
That’s a lie. It hits Tara. An excuse. She doesn’t know what it means. Maybe Mika won’t go off to church unless she knows someone’s with her mother. Maybe Neela wants to talk about her wild days. Tell the truth about her daughter’s paternity. It doesn’t matter any more. Mika is a grown woman, with a child of her own. Still, Tara is excited. This is what she needs – Neela’s input. An unexpurgated account of her history, her take on the music world. She thinks of Neela as she was – the golden girl, dancing on the bar – and agrees. Besides, she thinks as she waits for the elevator, she’s got all of next week to work on the piece. It will be good to get this final interview done so she can get her notes in order.
Knowing that she’s only got two days till she’s out of there makes the morning sail by. Sara’s input on the press release? Done – and she doesn’t even pause to remark that what the purchasing manager calls ‘grammar’ is really just her personal preference. The monthly newsletter? Drafted, with copies sent to everyone who contributed – and who will doubtless want to revise and enlarge their short items. The department heads get competitive about these.
With each item checked off her list, she emails Rudy. She’s still not sure what to say to him – if she says anything at all. Whatever it is, she wants it to be on her terms. To her surprise, she finds she wants him to think highly of her. To value her apart from his friendship with her ex.
It is with some annoyance, then, that she sees a text from Peter pop up, just as she’s formatting a notice. Did u call, it reads.
No, she types back and remembers: she had wanted to follow up with her ex. To ask why he’d settled on Frank as the snitch. He hadn’t told her, but she has her suspicions. If he’d gotten a lead from his cop contact, she wants to know – to hear it all. She no longer believes Peter ever had an innate sense for news. The idea that he was some kind of super reporter was just part of his image, a persona that she has finally debunked. She should have seen it years ago, of course.
The police?
The new text follows her own thoughts so closely it startles her. Then she realizes what’s happened. Peter was interrupted. He’s only now finished his query. The car, the tires – but he’s only now remembered? With a glance at the door – slightly ajar, but closed enough – she hits Peter’s number on her phone.
‘Tara, I was just texting you.’
‘I know, Peter.’ She keeps her voice low. ‘And, no, I didn’t call the police. What am I going to say? I’m talking to people about their lives more than twenty years ago, and so someone might have targeted me?’
‘Maybe.’ He sounds like himself. Which is to say cocky. Confident. ‘I mean, you’ve clearly pissed off somebody.’
‘Me?’ She can’t help it. She’s angry. ‘You’re the one who’s been manipulating my life for years. Since day one …’
‘Hey!’
She catches herself. There was a time. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. It’s been tense.’
‘I gather.’ Sullen. ‘I’m sorry too.’
‘Hey, Peter?’ She looks at the door. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the hallway, not that she can see.
‘Yeah?’ His voice is soft. Warm even.
‘Why did you think that Frank was the informer? Potential informer, I mean.’
A burst of laughter, as if it has been punched out of him. ‘That’s what you want to ask me? Shit, Tara, you’re even colder than I am.’
She doesn’t respond. What’s to say?
‘OK, I’m sorry.’ He gives it up. ‘I’m just … surprised. Let me think about that. I’m not even sure that I remember. Only a lot of the drugs seemed to be coming out of the music clubs, as you’ll recall. And he was working at that bar – the one down by the water—’
‘Wait, the Casbah?’
‘Yeah, that was it. It was the biggest place in town, at the time. And, well, it was in Southie. So you know …’
‘Southie?’ The word conjures up the townie neighborhoods. Mobbed up. Tough. ‘The Casbah was on the waterfront.’
‘Same thing, Tara.’
There had to be more. ‘And why Frank?’ There’s something she’s not seeing. ‘A lot of people worked there.’ She sees them in her memory. Brian. Jonah.
‘Yeah, but there was something. He wasn’t happy. He seemed to have a beef.’
‘Well, yeah.’ She doesn’t know what Peter remembers. What he knows. ‘His girlfriend – fiancée – was probably cheating on him. Plus, he was an alcoholic. I mean, he had a lot of reasons to be unhappy.’
She’s on the defensive, and she’s not even sure why. ‘There had to have been more to it, Peter.’ Silence. ‘Please, tell me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice is flat now. Final. ‘I really … it was just that when I spoke to him, he sounded like a man who had been pushed too far. I thought I could get something from him. I mean, he was about to break.’
‘Yeah, he was.’ Tara goes back in her mind over what was happening. Neela. Chris. ‘But he wasn’t the one who cracked.’
It’s unsatisfying, but there isn’t any more. Peter’s much vaunted reporting boiled down to one police contact and his girlfriend – her – who showed him around the scene.
‘Maybe you should have been the one investigating,’ he says. Not humble, exactly. Conciliatory.
‘It wasn’t my story.’ She responds slowly. It’s dawning on her: Min is right. He wants her back. The condo, the job. Maybe he never let go. And now, he’s ceding his turf to her. His investigation. After all these years, he still doesn’t understand. ‘All I ever wanted to do was write about the music, Peter. That’s what I cared about.’
Or maybe he does. ‘Yeah,’ he says. His voice is softer now. Sad. ‘Yeah, I know.’
She tries to shake it off. Calls Min once they hang up.
‘Hey, girl.’ Her tone sounds fake, even to herself, as she leaves the message. ‘I’m taking next week off. Want to do something?’
When she hears the soft knock on her door, she’s tempted to ignore it. Her colleagues have finally gotten around to reading her memo, and the requests have begun pouring in. Suddenly it seems like everyone has an idea for a marketing outreach. Clients who need to be soothed and coddled while she’s away. Two more days, she tells herself.
‘Come in,’ she calls. More like one and a half.
‘Steve asked me to give this to you.’ Rebecca enters. ‘He thought you could make something up.’
Tara takes the file and opens it. In the first photo, white men in dark suits are smiling and shaking hands. Her colleagues – Steve Hellman, vice president of corporate development. Rudy. Hugh. The fourth man is shorter, although his suit fits better. Familiar. ‘Thanks,’ she says, as she turns the print over. Jonah Wells, she reads, fourth on the list. ‘The Boston Vitality Summit?’
‘Some charity function,’ Rebecca says. ‘Steve likes the other photo better. The one I marked.’
Sure enough, one has a Post-it stuck to its border. Steve and the mayor, also shaking hands, flanked by the other Zeron execs.
‘Great, thanks.’ Tara closes the file to dismiss the secretary. ‘I’m sure I can do something with this.’
She’s looking at the photo – the one with Jonah in it – when the phone rings again. She picks up without thinking, and immediately regrets it. Nick, and she’s not prepared.
‘Hey, Nick.’ She closes her eyes. Tries to remember what spooked her. What she felt before. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been—’
‘Please.’ He cuts her off. ‘We’re not kids, Tara. But I did want to touch base with you. To see if there was something I said or did …’
She takes a breath. The idea that this man would have pu
nctured her tires, would have threatened her seems crazy now. She’s spent time with him. Been intimate with him. And, yet, someone did. It’s all too much to explain. ‘It’s complicated, Nick.’
A sigh, or maybe it’s a soft laugh. ‘Look, can we try again? Dinner? Someplace neutral?’
It’s a joke. She knows that, but she’s grateful anyway. ‘Sure.’ The word is out before she can stop herself.
‘Tonight?’ His voice may be soft, but he’s pushing. ‘You say where.’
She names the pizza place and instantly regrets it. ‘Look, how about lunch? Saturday?’
‘I’ve got the boys.’ His trump card. ‘But, if you really want, I mean, they’re old enough.’
‘No, it will be fine.’ They pick a time, and he rings off. Before she can change her mind, she realizes. Too late, she realizes that she should have changed the venue. If this goes badly, she won’t be able to go back there for at least a month.
Min gets back to her later that day. She’s almost forgotten she’d called her friend. Hopes she doesn’t ask about Saturday – about Nick – about Peter. Instead, Min takes her by surprise.
‘I got your message.’ She sounds – lighter. That’s the word. ‘Want to go hear some music?’
‘What?’ She doesn’t even try to hide her surprise.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ The old Min, but still with that note of cheer. ‘I know. But some of the old crowd is getting together to honor Frank. Do a set of Last Call tunes. Katie called me.’
‘Katie?’ She sounds like a parrot.
‘Don’t worry.’ Now its Min’s turn to mock. ‘It’ll be early.’
‘Tonight?’ She chokes out the word. Doesn’t want to have to explain her plans with Nick.
‘No, silly. Next week. I just got the call and had to let you know.’
‘Ah.’ That was better. ‘Yeah, sure. But, Min?’ She’s not even sure how to ask.
‘Hmm?’ The sound of a lighter. A drag.
‘You never want to go out anymore.’ It’s easier to phrase it as a statement. ‘I thought you didn’t like it.’
