Princeton, computers, money? Oh boy. “So he doesn’t need to work?”
“I told you, he doesn’t call it work, but pleasure. It’s like his boat or his golfing, his charities, just something he does for fun.”
Oh boy, big time. Louisa had screwed up before, but this was a major miscalculation. What was that about not judging those job applicants by appearances? God, she’d been about to offer Rich Man Rivera a tip for stapling up her fence! She was baking him effing cookies when he might own the bakery in town! Louisa was ready to die of embarrassment, right after she murdered him. The bastard must have been laughing at her the whole time, knowing she took him for a handyman. Handy? She’d hand him a piece of her mind, if she ever spoke to him again.
Susan was going on, oblivious to Louisa’s dismay and disgust and detestation of her former husband. “So you’d better forget about any plans you had for Dante. Of course he’s usually open to a quick tumble, if that rows your boat. The man has no heart to give, and I will not take responsibility for that. He never even wanted to be married to me, not really.”
Now that Louisa could understand.
“Anyway, that’s what I meant, about finding a man. If you were counting on Dante, you are making a mistake, and I had to warn you. And there simply is no other choice in Paumonok Harbor.”
“Of course there is. I am not a snob.” But she was, Louisa realized, the worst kind of snob, looking down on people who deserved her respect. Half of them were better people than she was—and sometimes better off.
To prove her broad-minded nature, and to prove Susan Rivera wrong, she accepted a date with the ironmonger.
Chapter Fourteen
She didn’t really want to go out with the welder. He worked at Cal’s Collision, for heaven’s sake, and had a hoop through one eyebrow. Being broad-minded was one thing. Alvin MacDonald was another. Of course, she acknowledged from her newly won wisdom, he might have a PhD in behavioral sciences from Oxford, with inherited millions in a trust fund. Or he might have a regular appearance on America’s Most Wanted. What he definitely had was tattoos.
Oh, man, did he have tattoos. Up one thick, rope-muscled forearm and down the other, past biceps bigger than Louisa’s thighs, across his massive neck, and on his broad fingers. Snakes and dragons and scorpions and a few skeletons mixed with hearts and flowers.
“Want to see the rest?” he asked with a rakish raised eyebrow, not the one with the hoop, which was likely too traumatized to twitch.
Caught staring, Louisa could not compound her rudeness by refusing his offer to go to the Albatross with him Saturday night. “They’re having a live band.”
“A live band, wow.” He was being friendly; she would not be judgmental. Nor would she let anyone in this rumor-ridden town accuse her of chasing after its own personal land baron. She did not want any man whatsoever, so she might as well show them that she did not want this man as much as she didn’t want that man. Which made sense to Louisa, anyway. So she said yes. It was all that damned Dante’s fault. If she hadn’t been so boggled by his bank account, she might have had enough wits left to make up an excuse for Alvin. No, she was having company for the weekend. No, she was invited to a friend’s art show opening in East Hampton. No, she was too stupid to be allowed out of the house. Any of them would have done as a thoroughly believable alibi.
Actually, it was all Howard’s fault, along with famine in Africa, global warming, and the price of gas. If not for her former fiancé, Louisa would not have been anywhere near Cal’s Collision, or Tattoo Al. For that matter, she would not have been in Paumonok Harbor, entertaining the locals.
After Dante’s wife left, Louisa had considered digging a hole deep enough to bury herself in. Her trowel was too small; her dog was too liable to dig her up again. Then the mail truck came. The postal delivery person, Ralph, tossed a packet of catalogs and credit card applications into her mailbox and drove off, despite the fact that Louisa was sitting two feet away from the thing. Among the junk mail and bank statements forwarded from her New York City address was a yellow slip stating that she had a registered package waiting at the post office. Ralph could have brought it and had her sign right here, rather than having to fill out the yellow form. That would be too easy and efficient for the U.S. Postal Service, though, which might be why they lost more money every year. To say nothing of packages.
Curious, Louisa drove to the post office behind the school and signed for her mail, a shoe box-sized carton that had come all the way from Austria, via her City apartment. She instantly knew what it had to be, and almost tossed the whole box, unopened, in the trash barrel next to the stamp machine. Then she remembered how much money she had paid for the darned thing, and how much money she could make back at the Internet auction sites. She slit the sealing tape with her car key and pulled off the wrapping, then opened the carton. By now two old men were standing nearby watching, bay clammers, from the hip-waders and the smell. One of them whistled when she pulled out a hand-painted, metal, scale model of Howard’s beloved red classic Porsche. She’d ordered the painstakingly reproduced replica from a small factory in Ziftsweig, Austria, as a wedding present. She’d been disappointed that it hadn’t arrived in time, before she became distraught that Howard hadn’t arrived at all.
The old men were admiring the detail, right down to the leather seats. Louisa’s asking price was going up. Then she noticed the personalization that she’d paid extra for. The tiny license plate in front read “Porsche,” but the one in the back said “Howard.” No one was going to want the little car but the little schmuck himself.
She tried to pull off the rear license plate.
“Don’t do that, lady. You’ll wreck it.”
Which was her intention. Then she had a better idea. She’d give it to Howard after all, to prove to herself that she was not going to be eaten alive by regret and rancor, that she was moving on with her life. She might never forgive Howard, and she’d certainly never respect him again, but she did not need to hate him. He was nothing to her any more, nothing but a piece of misguided metal that didn’t fit in her mailbox. She’d send the car to him, an apology for inadvertently causing the destruction of his, an acknowledgment that he’d made the right decision, if at the wrong time. Then she’d be done, once and for all, done with the memories and the misery. Of course she had to make a few changes to the car first.
She asked the old fishermen if they knew anyone who could replace the license plate she’d mangled. They’d directed her to the auto body shop that did the finest detailing on the whole East End.
Which is how Louisa ended up at Cal’s Collision, ogling Alvin’s arms.
“Man, I’d give my eyetooth for one of those babies,” Alvin, who turned out to be Calvin’s son, said when he saw the model. “The real thing, that is.”
“I think I know where you can get one, cheap. It’s in a lot of pieces, though.”
Alvin waved one grease-blackened hand at the junkyard that was his work space. “The more pieces the better.”
“I’ll ask about the wreck, then, when I hear from Howard. I’m sure he’ll call when he receives the model. But you can make the changes I want, can’t you?”
Now Alvin silently pointed out the garage door at his own car, which had so much customizing that Louisa couldn’t recognize the make or model. The gold-colored two-door had a dragon for a hood ornament and flames painted on the chassis. The front grill was in the shape of a medieval shield, and the rear-mounted tire had a painting of a knight and his sword. Ah, a classicist.
“And I design my own tattoos, too.”
Louisa was now confident he could fix the miniature car, once he understood what Louisa wanted for the new license plates. Alvin had a lot of trouble with the front one.
“If he’s a golfer, shouldn’t it be spelled PUTTS?”
Howard had balls to match the scale model, but they weren’t white with dimples. “No, it’s a term of endearment,” she told Alvin, who was obviously not from
New York City. “Spelled P-U-T-Z.” The rear license plate was easy, even for Alvin: “Love, Louisa.” She might forget about the gutless groom, but now he’d never forget her.
So it was Howard’s fault she was wearing her $500 Gian Todaro sandals and her $300 silk blouse to a two-bit gin joint. She knew she was in trouble when they pulled into the parking lot and had to walk past a gauntlet of smokers outside the front door. Shaved heads and chains—and those were the women—made her glad she was with Alvin. He’d turned out to be a weight lifter, a semiprofessional car racer, and a volunteer ambulance driver, besides being a visual artist…and an auto body man. Alas, he had no graduate degree. “Putts” was most likely the longest word he could spell. His hands had not come clean, either.
The Albatross was no more inviting inside. The band was live, but they had to be deaf, from the volume of the noise. Louisa had to shout her order twice, at the crowded bar. The dance floor was too small for three couples, much less the five who were already there. The place was filled with noise and dirt, sweat and cheap perfume…and a poolroom. Alvin tugged her in that direction.
“Sorry, I don’t play.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you.”
He put his beefy arms around her to demonstrate the proper form. Louisa accidentally drew the cue stick back and up so it poked him in the chin. “I’ll watch, thanks.”
He played for beers and shots, and kept winning. Which meant he kept drinking. Louisa sipped her spritzer, then switched to plain seltzer and lime. She talked to an improbable redhead who worked in the butcher department at the supermarket, who knew more about meat than anyone Louisa had ever known. She turned down a dance with a man with a braided beard, and another with as many neck chains as Alvin had tattoos.
Louisa tapped her so-called date on the shoulder. “Hey, Alvin, it’s getting late and I have a lot to do tomorrow. How about going home?”
“Later, baby. One more game.”
The redhead yawned. “They’ll go on ’til the place shuts down. It’s the same every Saturday night. ’Less there’s a fight and the cops close it early.”
That was another new experience to look forward to.
Louisa went back into the other room, looking for a telephone to call a taxi. Out of order, the sign read. Everyone had cell phones anyway, a very pregnant teenager told her. Louisa didn’t; Howard had dropped her from the joint plan they shared; she’d dropped the phone when she realized. Hard. She passed the ladies’ room and kept going. She couldn’t drink seltzer all night without needing to pee, though, so she turned back and went in. The room was filthy and foul and smelled of vomit and worse, with water and paper towels all over the floor. She’d been in cleaner Porta Pottis at street fairs.
She opened one stall. She’d die of uremic poisoning first.
The Board of Health was obviously sitting down on the job, but not in this john. The second stall wasn’t as revolting, so Louisa carefully laid toilet paper strips over the seat, wishing she’d learned to piss standing up. Myra at work had sworn it was possible, but Louisa never wanted to practice at home. Now she struggled to make sure no inch of her bare skin or good clothes touched any surface. Her mother would have been proud. When she was done, Louisa turned to flush the toilet, but there was no way in hell she was going to touch that side lever. Chances were, the rusty sink had only cold water and no soap, so she raised her foot to do it. That’s when the Fates sent her a message about the direction her life was taking. Louisa’s hand-sewn sandal, her honeymoon splurge, fell into the toilet.
She stared down into those murky, miasmic depths, her soul crying, “Do over. Do over.” There was no imbecility-rewind button handy, of course, nor a hanger, a broom, or anything.
Nothing. She needed Alvin’s cue stick. He wouldn’t give it up. She grabbed one from the redhead’s date, saying, “Don’t even ask.” She went back to the cesspool of a rest room, where no self-respecting rat would rest.
As she fished her sandal out of the toilet, Louisa asked herself three questions: Would she wear that shoe again, knowing where it had been? Would she carry it out in her hand? And what the hell was she doing here?
She put the sandal on the floor and hopped out, using the cue stick as a cane.
“We are going home, Alvin. Now.”
Since she’d picked his weighty key chain up from the side of the pool table where he’d put it, Alvin had no choice.
“How about if I drive?” she asked when they reached his car. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“What are you, my mother? No woman drives my wheels. But, hey, maybe I’ll let you this time, if you treat me nice.”
Alvin’s ideas of nice didn’t match Louisa’s. Her silk blouse was torn in the tussle, but Alvin’s eyebrow was bleeding, from where Louisa had pulled out the ring, without opening the hoop. She thought of using the pepper spray from her pocketbook, but Alvin seemed subdued, even contrite, and he still had Howard’s toy car.
While he was still mopping at his eye, variously swearing at her and swearing he only meant to grab a kiss and a feel, Louisa tossed his keys into the overgrown grass at the side of the parking lot. Now the dickhead, the bloody dickhead, couldn’t kill himself or someone else.
Louisa stomped off down the street. She would have stomped, that is, if she had two shoes. Now she stomped and hobbled, stomped and hobbled, out of the parking lot and onto the road back to town. She’d call a cab from the gas station. Unless the taxis stopped working this late at night. She’d worry about that problem when she got there.
The more immediate problem was that she’d forgotten how far away from the gas station they were. Alvin had driven so fast it seemed like a few blocks. She’d also for gotten that there were few street lights in Paumonok Harbor except on Main Street.
No cell phone, no flashlight, no shoe.
No tears, she told herself. She was an adult, an independent, intelligent woman, who had just bested a weight lifter with licentious intent. She was not afraid of the dark. Or drive-by demons. She had her pepper spray in her hand now and enough adrenaline pumping through her body to see her through six more skirmishes. Why, she could save the cab fare and walk all the way home.
And then she’d never, ever leave the house again.
Chapter Fifteen
Dante was on his way home after minding Teddy so Francine could go to a baby shower for one of the girls at work. Fran deserved a night out without having to pay a sitter, and Dante enjoyed his nephew’s company. Against his better judgment, but at Teddy’s urging, he’d been going to invite Louisa Waldon to come watch the Harry Potter video with them. She might have seen the movie, but there was no magic like watching wizardry with a wide-eyed kid. They were going to ask her at the beach cleanup that morning, but she hadn’t come. Dante supposed her enthusiasm for joining the community began and ended at the ball game. Teddy was disappointed. Dante was not surprised, but he was surprisingly disappointed too.
Well, he’d been disappointed before, by better-looking, better-built and brainier females. Now he wouldn’t have to chance his expectations being underwhelmed by this particular nutcase again. Not that Louisa was a typical bitchy or buffle-headed blonde, but she had enough baggage for a world cruise.
Dante could finally wash his hands of her once and for all, before things got complicated, like Teddy growing fonder of her.
He might have regrets—or he might have eaten too much sausage and peppers for lunch after the cleanup—but Dante’s conscience was clear. Louisa had her fence, her peace and quiet, and her privacy. He’d given the troublesome renters their deposit money back, so they were out of her short, silky, straight hair. It was late for a summer rental at top price, but Dante was confident his ex could find a sedate couple or a nice family for the cottage. If not, he could afford the loss of income. The loss was worth it, to cut down on the complaints.
Louisa had her job too, such as it was. Dante had put in a good word for Ms. Waldon with Bob, president of the library board,
yesterday during their golf game. The position was part-time, temporary, and paid peanuts, but it was hers if she still wanted it.
The case was closed, the book was shut, the game was over. No score, a couple of errors. So why the devil was he still thinking about a woman who gave him indigestion?
Dante shook his head as if to clear it of wayward thoughts. Then he shook it again, staring out at the dark night. He hit the brakes, thinking he’d seen something moving at the side of the road, and you never knew when a deer could jump out in front of your truck.
Cripes, as Teddy would say. That was no deer. Speak of the devil, there was Louisa Waldon, as if Dante had conjured her out of moonbeams. The she-witch was tottering down the grass verge, in the dark, in the middle of the frigging night. She must be soused again, Dante thought, feeling a pang that wasn’t heartburn this time. What a waste. And what a good thing Teddy hadn’t seen her like this. Damn, he’d recommended her to the library board!
Drunk or not, Dante couldn’t leave her out on the road. Not many cars passed, and heaven knew who was driving the ones that did. Besides, the worst she could do was throw up in his truck. Why not? Her dog already had.
He inched his truck closer, then realized she was not weaving from side to side as he’d thought; she was limping, with one shoe on and the other missing, but traveling in as straight a line as possible under the odd conditions. If she wasn’t DUI, Dumb Under the Influence, then Dante didn’t want to know what the hell she was doing out here, alone. He wasn’t going to like it, he was sure of that.
Love, Louisa Page 11
