Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)
Page 20
She nodded. “Another Porsche. Zero to sixty in some phenomenal time. That’s one reason the boys are hanging around with him this weekend.”
“What about Victor’s girlfriend? Where’s she go, when the boys sleep over?”
“I never asked.” In the words, he could clearly hear the hard edge of anger. Never would she forgive Victor Haywood for leaving her in favor of another woman—or women. Haywood was a small, fastidious man who favored blue blazers, black tasseled loafers, and sometimes ascots.
Hastings finished the chicken thigh, ate a few potatoes, rose to his feet. “I’m going to get some Shasta water. Anything?”
“No, thanks.”
When he returned to the living room and looked into Ann’s face, he could clearly see her distress. It was a pain that had been aggravated by the mere mention of her ex-husband. Sitting to face her, he drank from the Shasta bottle and began again on the potatoes. Ann was an accomplished cook, and scalloped potatoes was one of her premier recipes.
He’d almost finished the potatoes when he heard her say, “I promised myself that the next time we were together, alone, without the boys in the house, I’d—” She broke off, blinked, momentarily lowered her head. But not before he glimpsed her stricken face. He put his fork on his plate, pushed the plate aside. And waited. She sat for another long moment with head bowed, hands clasped cruelly in her lap. Finally, with great effort, she raised her eyes to meet his. Her eyes were shining, wet with tears. When she finally spoke, it was to beg him for help: “You know what I’m trying to say.”
He nodded. “Yes, I know what you’re trying to say.” He spoke slowly, gravely. For months, he’d known this moment was coming. Now he must help her, somehow ease her pain. But where were the words? If he could help her, who would help him?
“It’s so—so goddam—” Helplessly shaking his head, he broke off. Then, desperate to say something, anything, he blurted out: “It’s so complicated. So complicated and so—so sad.”
“I—I hate to ask this.” She spoke hesitantly, apologetically. “But I’ve got to know. Did the two of you ever—?”
Quickly, sharply, he shook his head, raised a hand in protest. “No. Never. We—I have to say—we talked about it. But, no, we’ve never made love. We’ve—it’s strange to say it—but we’ve only really kissed once. Just once. And we—”
“She’s a policewoman. Is that it?”
He nodded. “We worked a case together, months ago. It was an accident, really. She was filling in. But that’s how it started. She’d never seen a dead man, not in the line of duty. And so I—I tried to help.”
Suddenly bitter, she laughed. “My God, that’s a twist. I mean, usually it’s the water cooler, in an office. Where was it, that you met? A back alley?”
“It was in a bedroom—the dead man’s bedroom. We just held hands. Like—like two kids. Just like two kids.”
For a long, silent moment, each avoiding the other’s gaze, they sat silently. Then, with infinite reluctance, she said, “You have to move out. You’ve got to sleep on the couch tonight. And tomorrow, you’ve got to move out. Early. Before Victor brings the boys home.”
“I know. I—that’s what I want, too. But I don’t want to lose track of the boys. Or you, either. I don’t want to lose track of you.”
Still looking away from each other, they sat in silence. Finally he said, “How long have you known?”
“About two months, I guess. It started as a feeling—a distancing. And when we—” She broke off, began again in a whisper: “When we made love, there was a difference. I—women feel these things, more than men. The sex, I mean. The difference in the sex, how it feels.”
He watched her for a moment, waited for her to go on. But she said nothing. She was staring down at her clasped hands. Her cheeks were wet, and she cleared her throat painfully.
“Did you—do you want to know anything about her? Her name? Would you—?”
Once more, bitter laughter erupted.
“Oh, Frank. You’re so—so innocent. So goddam innocent. That’s what I’ll miss. Your innocence.”
He could think of no reply.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4727-1
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