by Smith, Julie
Well, anyway it worked. A lot better than a hot fudge sundae.
She spent the rest of the morning lounging, desultorily reading the paper, but mostly thinking about the case, about a young man murdered while trying to rescue a cat; about a young mother who might not be ready for motherhood …well, two actually. Lenore now and Marguerite twenty-odd years ago.
She was ready for Darryl, ready for his self-described “light banter,” his sunny disposition, the way he made her feel good. Was that a trick of his or was it something in her? Was it that melted caramel kind of feeling she always got when she was starting to fall in love?
Not so fast, there. It’s only lunch.
Lunch and a walk, actually. A stroll through the ’gators—pretty romantic.
Darryl was waiting for her. “How ’bout some jambalaya? They do a good one.”
“Okay. That and a root beer. My treat.”
“You crazy? I’m the man.”
I noticed.
But she didn’t say it, didn’t dare. She settled for, “I asked you.”
“Uh-uh. I asked you—left you a message, remember?”
“Okay, I won’t argue.”
“Good thing. Or you’d be ’gator bait.”
They picked up their jambalaya and sat down on a roofed deck overlooking a simulated bayou. “How’s Sheila?”
“In love with you, I think.”
He laughed. “That’s me. All the kids love me—they’re under fifteen, they want to take me home to Mama.”
“How about the big girls?”
“You mean about six feet? Well, I don’t know; I was kind of wondering that.”
Oh, God, don’t blush. Whatever you do, don’t blush. “You mean moi?”
“I mean toi.”
“You get right to the point, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I hate wasting time—I mean, not that time with your lovely self is wasted. I just hope we’re going somewhere, that’s all.”
“Somewhere like to bed? This afternoon?”
“Why, Miss Scarlett, how you do ran on. I just wondered if there was anything you needed to tell me.”
“You mean, like, whether I have a boyfriend?”
“Bingo, baby.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me it’s going to be one of those.”
“Well, I did have a boyfriend, out in California. But I hung up on him last night and—”
“And called me this morning. Damn! Had my heart set on a happy ending.” He made his face so droll she had to laugh.
“You mean you don’t have anybody? Or do you just need your harem rounded out?”
He was so electric the first seemed almost impossible. But on the other hand, she’d caught him on Sunday morning in bed alone—either that or with a masochist, to put up with that conversation.
For the first time since Sheila turned up missing, he looked troubled. “Just broke up with somebody.”
“I guess I did too. How long ago did you do it?”
“Mmmmm. ’Bout three days. No, four. Four and a half.”
“Pretty recent.”
“Well, how about you?”
“Oh, we haven’t actually talked about it yet.”
“Hmm. One of those future-type kind of things. Like space travel and stuff.”
“Hey, what happened to light banter?”
“Am I gettin’ too dark for you? You should see me with a tan. Or better yet, yo’ mama should. You thought about that?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“Not sure you are. Let’s go see some bears.”
“How ’bout the ’gators?”
“Bears are more autumnal. All that fur and stuff. Makes you think you’re warm.”
As they finished lunch and dumped their garbage, a gust of wind blasted through the swamp exhibit. “I wish something would.”
“Oh, yeah? We can arrange that.” He put an arm around her waist and drew her to him. “You ready for this?”
She smiled up at him—she liked a man she could look up to; there weren’t that many. “Ready and waiting,” she said.
As they walked to the bears’ enclosure, his arm very warm around her, she tried to get her balance back. One of the things she loved about Darryl was that openness of his—the way he was right out there, the way most men weren’t.
In her experience, they mostly liked to let things ride until a situation was so intolerable you couldn’t avoid talking about it for one more second.
Here’s a guy who’s got some balls; only I don’t, it turns out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE SOFTWARE THE TOWN used made it so cumbersome to edit that almost no one bothered. Lenore hated that, especially when she was writing to someone like Pearce, someone who might not realize her typos were really typos, might think she just couldn’t spell or punctuate.
But he had just sent her a message, not E-mail, but the real-time notes the TOWNspeople called “sends.” It said, “Sorry I haven’t called. I miss you. Busy. Damn.”
Very sweet, she thought. She kept her answer short and simple: “I miss you too.” Good. No typos.
Next came, “I hope you’re okay. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
So he didn’t correct his typos either. That gave her courage.
“I’ve been kind of down,” she wrote. “Geoff’s funeral really got tome. That’s ‘to me,’ not ‘tomb.’ Though… one wonders.”
“Sorry. So sorry,” he sent back. “Can I help?”
Yes, he could help. He could damn well help. He could come over and hold her. He was a human being—that must mean he could provide a little human warmth. Did she dare ask for it?
Without even considering, she did, too desperate to do otherwise: “Love to see you F2F—migt cheer me up.”
“On my way,” appeared on the screen. No asking when, just on his way.
Lenore smiled to herself. She liked a man who took action. And things were under control, for once. Kit had insisted on keeping Caitlin overnight. She’d said Lenore needed to rest, but in the back of her mind, Lenore was worried. What if Kit thought she’d spend another night doing drugs? Didn’t trust her with her own daughter? That was probably why she was so lonely tonight; because Caitlin was gone.
She had slept most of the afternoon, unable to get up after two nights of staying up and doing drugs and trying to do magic. She knew the two didn’t go together, but she just felt so bad she needed whatever she could find, she couldn’t get through without a little chemical help. It was as if her healthy and unhealthy sides had gone to war—or perhaps “constructive” and “destructive” was the way to put it. “Destructive” had won out.
She hadn’t told Kit it was two nights on drugs. As it was, she was deeply, deeply embarrassed at what she’d done, and embarrassed didn’t start it. Caitlin could have been hurt— could truly have been badly hurt if she really had forgotten and left her at home.
Yet she hadn’t. Her destructive side might have won out in her own life, but the good mother still operated—managed somehow to go on automatic pilot and get Caitlin to day care.
When she woke up that afternoon, she’d promised Kit no more drugs. And wonder of wonders, she felt pretty much okay right now, except for not being sleepy. It was getting late, and she had to go to work tomorrow—that is, she had to show up. If she was fired, she’d find out when she got there.
She’d have a drink with Pearce, relax a little… and she’d sleep like a baby.
The living room was strewn with Caitlin’s toys. She put them away, washed the supper dishes, and just had time to put on lipstick before he got there.
“Hello, beautiful.”
She felt better already. Uplifted by his good cheer.
“I brought us some wine,” he said, and held up a bottle.
She hadn’t even remembered she didn’t have any. How had she planned to entertain him?
“You’re so thoughtful.”
&
nbsp; “You’re nice to make time for an old man.”
She was in the kitchen, looking for a corkscrew, but his words affected her so deeply, she marched out again. “You are not an old man, Pearce. You are a very kind, decent soul. And extremely attractive.”
Having delivered her speech, she turned on her heel and marched out again. As she fiddled with the corkscrew, he came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. She wriggled away.
“I thought you said I was attractive.”
She handed him a glass of wine. “You are. That wasn’t the signal to jump my bones.”
“Oh. Would you let me know what is?”
“Oh, come on.” Following him back to the living room, she took her own glass and the bottle. When he sat on the couch, she sat beside him, to show friendliness. (Though not necessarily availability; she hadn’t yet made up her mind about Pearce as a lover, knew only that he was a good friend and she enjoyed his company.)
He touched her under the chin, a gesture she wasn’t quite sure she liked. She drew back a little.
He said, “Tell me what’s wrong, little one.”
“Nothing. I just…”
“I thought you said you were depressed.”
He held out an arm and she snuggled into it. “Oh, I am. Mrs. Julian was my music teacher. Did you see her at the funeral? Nothing happening under her hat. I mean nothing—all lights out.” She shrugged, which wasn’t easy with his arm around her. “And then she died.”
He poured them both some more wine. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“That she died?”
“She wasn’t really living, anyway.”
“It’s just so—”
“Final.”
“Exactly. How did you know I was going to say that?”
“Because I know you, my dear. You don’t really know how well, do you?”
Nervously, she drained off half her wine. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, just that I’ve been watching you. I’ve watched you, and I understand you. I know you.” He pulled her tight against him. His warmth was lovely, and his body too, so much bigger than hers yet still not fat; a good body for a man his age, a very good body. It was nice to be held by a man.
She simply lay against him, pressing her body to his, not wanting anything except what she already had, enjoying him completely.
He kissed her cheek and moved near her mouth.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
He moved away.
“Why not?” He gave her a little more wine, poured the rest of the bottle into his own glass.
“I don’t know. I guess I just don’t feel sexy tonight.”
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” How did he keep reading her mind? “Come here.”
He lay down on the couch and positioned her against him, tight against him, so she could feel every inch of him. She fit neatly into the curve he made for her, found it comforting and cavelike.
He put an arm around her and stroked her hair.
They stayed like that for a long time, until her mind started to wander, until she found herself thinking about him fuzzily. Thinking she wanted him.
But only if they could do it very, very slowly, building up, maybe touching an inch of each other’s bodies at a time, maybe for an hour before going on to the next inch.
She realized that was what they had been doing.
She was gently massaging a small patch of his thigh, folded protectively over her.
She thought he had probably been rubbing her butt a long time.
She turned toward him, thinking the back of his neck was the next place she wanted to touch.
She was wearing a short dress, with black tights. It was easy for him to insinuate a hand between her legs. She was surprised that her tights were wet.
As she felt his hand against her, something exploded inside her, something was set loose that traveled up her body and had to come out her mouth.
She already controlled the back of his neck. She touched it in such a way that his lips came to her, received her loneliness and the flow of love and lust and deep, despairing longing that she had for him.
When it was over, they were still wearing their clothes, or most of them. Her tights were on the floor, but her dress felt as if it would cut off her circulation at the neck.
Pearce’s pants were around his ankles.
He groped for them. “What did you say to me a minute ago?”
She was embarrassed. “I said something? ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘Don’t stop?’ Something like that?”
“It sounded like something else.”
He was unnerved. So unnerved she had a good idea what it was she’d said. It was something she had thought, but hadn’t meant to say.
“‘Oh, God, baby, that feels great’?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He was shaking his head as if he’d just been through something awful.
What she had said was “Thou art god.” It was her religious goal never to make love with anyone she didn’t feel that way about. Witches in books said it, and their mates said, “Thou art goddess,” which was as it should be, Lenore thought. To her, it meant she celebrated his masculinity. But since she didn’t know any male witches she had to figure anyone she said it to would take her for a maniac. Would probably figure she’d stalk him.
How the hell to get out of this one? She hoped she hadn’t said it more than once.
She touched his face and gave him a kiss. “How old did you say you were? Twenty-four?”
He gave her a grin.
“Want another drink?” That was good for forgetting.
“Sure.”
She headed toward the bathroom, and when she came back found him going through her kitchen cabinets. “Uh-oh, we finished the wine. Hey, Caitlin’s not here! I just realized I can go out. You want to go somewhere and have a drink?”
She saw him hesitate. He wanted to go home. She wanted him with her a while longer. “My treat,” she said, and took his hand. “Oh, Pearce, you don’t know how much I need it. There’s a place on Magazine Street. Why don’t we walk?”
He gave her a nice-daddy smile. She could use a nice daddy right now.
“Come on,” she said, practically pulling him out the door.
She stopped on the way to pick up her purse, but she hadn’t put her tights back on, just slipped on her shoes, and her dress was thin. When they were outside, she realized she’d made a big mistake. But if she went back in, she might lose him.
She was pretty sure she had an old sweater in the trunk of her car. Too bad about her legs, but it would be something.
“Aren’t you going to be cold?” he said, and it surprised her. She wanted him with her so much right now, she somehow had the idea he’d be opposed to anything she wanted. She hadn’t imagined he’d be this thoughtful.
“I’ve got a sweater in the trunk.” She skipped forward to open it, and what she saw made her draw in her breath. “Oh, my God!”
“What is it?”
“Geoff’s backpack. I remember now—we went to a restaurant the night before he died, and he didn’t want to leave it in the car. He must have forgotten it.” She fingered it, thinking of Geoff; gentle, strange Geoff, to whom she had never said, and never thought of saying, “Thou art god.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. It’s Geoff’s. Was Geoff’s,” she forced herself to say.
Pearce grabbed for it. “Let’s open it.”
“No. It’s not mine.”
“Lenore, are you crazy? Maybe there’s a clue to the murder in there.”
Something in her resisted. “Not yet. Somehow I can’t do it yet.”
“Look. Let’s don’t go out. Let’s go over to the Winn-Dixie on Tchoupitoulas and get some beer or something. And we won’t open the backpack till we get back—we can be thinking about what’s in it.”
Why? Why don’t we just forget it for now?
But she didn’t say it because she didn’t want to lose his attention again. Maybe he’d forget about what she’d said when they made love, maybe convince himself it hadn’t happened. “Okay,” she said. “Beer for you and wine for me.”
“No, wine’s okay. Your car?”
“Sure.” She felt a little woozy from the first bottle of wine, but it seemed stupid to say so, considering that morning’s escapade.
When they returned, wine and backpack in hand, Pearce made a big show of opening the wine, pouring it, “letting the suspense build.”
What could be in there anyhow? Probably a couple of videos he forgot to return.
Finally, the moment arrived. “Here.” He handed over the backpack. “You do the honors.”
She opened it and saw that she’d guessed right. The Little Mermaid was lying right on top. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled out. Suddenly all the grief she felt for Geoff came welling up, tearing at her heart, making her chest hurt, her throat close.
The thought of him in his little boy’s room in his parents’ house, lying alone on his bed and watching The Little Mermaid, was somehow the saddest, sweetest thing she knew about him.
Pearce put an arm around her, but she shrugged it off. This was a grief that had to be felt alone.
“What is it?” he said.
“The movie. The Little Mermaid.”
He picked it up and stared at it. “The movie?”
Done with solitude, she threw her arms around his neck. “Ohhh, Pearce.” He drew back, possibly in bewilderment, and then gingerly held her till she wound down.
When she was able, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He stroked her head as if she were a little girl. “It’s okay, but what happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just felt sad all of a sudden.”
“Shall we see what else is in there?”
She nodded and handed him the backpack.
He pulled out a book of some sort. It was covered with what looked like Chinese silk, woven into a gorgeous blue design and bound in burgundy leather. A ribbon bookmark from its bottom.
“It looks like a journal,” said Pearce. He opened it, and Lenore saw that Geoff’s spidery handwriting covered the two pages thus revealed. Covered them completely, not even a margin left over. The first was dated June 4.
