‘Sure.’
‘He may have had some reservations, but I honestly don’t think he has any more.’ Grace paused. ‘Sam just wants Saul to be happy and safe.’
‘That’s all I want too,’ Terri said.
Grace smiled at her. ‘Terri, I truly think you should stop stressing about what Sam or anyone else thinks, and enjoy your time with Saul.’
‘You don’t get it,’ Terri said. ‘Not really.’
‘Then why don’t you tell me what I’m not getting?’ Grace was gentle. ‘I’d so much like to help if I can.’
Terri got up, walked over to the window, and Grace felt a swift dart of envy looking at the curvy little breasts under the plain white T-shirt, the narrow waist and neat behind, all accentuated by her tight blue jeans. Grace loved being pregnant but couldn’t quite imagine ever being slim again; she looked forward, once the baby was born, to feeling less clumsy and to seeing – as pregnant women were always saying – her toes again.
‘I’ve thought about saying to hell with what Saul’s family thinks about me.’ Terri tossed her dark hair a little. ‘I know my own worth, I know Saul loves me and that’s what matters most.’ She shook her head. ‘Except it’s not the only thing, is it, when you really care about someone?’
Grace smiled again. ‘Not always.’
‘I’ve never met anyone like him before.’ Terri sat down again. ‘He’s so gentle and kind, but he still manages to have this real lust for living, you know?’
‘Like his dad,’ Grace said.
‘I’m not sure his dad doesn’t have the same kind of doubts about me,’ Terri said. ‘Saul says he doesn’t, that I’m imagining problems, but—’
‘Don’t you trust Saul?’ Grace asked.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then why not believe him?’
‘You’re telling me I’m worrying unnecessarily, too.’
‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘I think I am.’
She was not at all certain, when Terri left a few minutes later, that she had managed to convince her of that.
‘I think this is where the janitor was killed.’
They had covered less than a mile, running south along the beach, were just approaching North Shore Open Space Park, when Cathy said that to Kez. Then, less than a second later, she let out a cry of pain and jolted to a halt, sending up a cloud of sand.
‘Damn,’ she said. ‘My ankle.’
Kez came quickly to her side. ‘Bad?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Cathy said, wincing. ‘I just turned it a little.’
‘Sit down.’ Kez nodded towards an Australian pine. ‘Let me help you.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I can walk.’ She tested her left ankle. ‘Just don’t think I should run on it yet. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Kez said. ‘We should get some ice on it.’
They got a makeshift ice pack and some mineral water at the 81st Street Café on Collins Avenue opposite the park gate.
‘I didn’t realize your dad was working on the janitor case,’ Kez said after she’d organized another chair for Cathy to rest her foot on.
Cathy nodded. ‘Working all hours.’
‘No suspects yet?’
‘I’d be the last to know,’ Cathy told her. ‘Sam hardly talks about work at home, and never in front of me – ’ her smile was self-conscious – ‘in case it messes with my head.’
‘Your head,’ Kez remarked, ‘seems pretty well screwed on to me.’ She paused. ‘Though I guess I can understand why your folks might prefer to keep off that kind of subject.’
Cathy was silent for a moment. ‘I presume you know about my history.’
‘Some,’ Kez replied.
‘The edited highlights.’ Cathy was wry. ‘Freak show, huh?’
‘Sad, cruel show,’ Kez said.
Cathy saw sympathy in her face and something more besides and, not being quite certain what that was, she averted her eyes and looked down at her ankle.
‘Pain?’ Kez asked.
Cathy shook her head. ‘It’s feeling better.’
‘Take care of it,’ Kez said.
‘I will.’
Kez took a minute, then said: ‘I’ve thought about what you must have gone through back then, but it’s hard to imagine. Just losing my own dad messed with my head for the longest time, and that was natural causes, or kind of.’
‘Kind of?’ Cathy felt a touch of guilt. ‘Sorry, it’s personal.’
‘I raised it,’ Kez said. ‘And yes, it is very personal, but I don’t think I’d mind sharing it with you – which is interesting, because I’ve never shared it with anyone else before.’
Cathy was silent.
‘I loved my dad a lot, and I always knew he was pretty crazy about me.’ Kez took a breath. ‘I thought he felt that way about my mom, too.’ Her mouth compressed for an instant. ‘But when it came right down to it, Joey Flanagan was no better than a lot of men.’
She was looking directly at Cathy as she spoke, but a veil of something, perhaps of self-protection, had slipped down over her eyes, and Cathy could not tell if it was pain or toughness that lay behind.
‘Fact was,’ Kez continued, ‘he had a massive heart attack in the middle of screwing Mrs Jerszinsky, our next-door neighbour, while my mother was out shopping and I was watching them through the keyhole of my parents’ bedroom door.’
‘Wow,’ Cathy said.
‘Not in the same league as your traumas,’ Kez said. ‘Like comparing a little jolt with an earthquake, I guess, but I was seven years old and like I said, it did a good job of messing with my head.’
‘I can imagine. How come—?’ Cathy stopped.
‘How come I was watching?’ Kez said. ‘It was a weekend, and my dad thought I was at a friend’s house across the street, but we had a disagreement and I came back early, heard some weird sounds and took a look.’
‘And your dad—’
‘I don’t like thinking about that,’ Kez said quickly.
‘Sure,’ Cathy said. ‘I can understand that.’
‘I guess you can.’ Kez shrugged. ‘I’ve often wondered – even if our sexual identity does come pre-packaged with our genes – if that afternoon didn’t help put me off men.’
Cathy had heard it rumoured on the Trent grapevine that Kez was gay, but she didn’t think it had really occurred to her until this instant that Kez might possibly be attracted to her.
Of course she wasn’t, she told herself swiftly, why should she be? There certainly hadn’t been too many guys lusting after her over the years – though then again, Nick aside, she hadn’t particularly wanted them either.
Slow down.
That wasn’t the point anyway, was not what was really startling her. What was throwing Cathy for a loop right now was her own reaction.
Excitement.
‘You OK?’
Kez’s voice sliced through the mess of Cathy’s thoughts, reminded her that the only reason they were here talking was that she had turned her ankle during a run, and Kez was just being kind to her.
‘Fine,’ she said quickly, taking off the ice pack and lowering her foot to the floor.
It wasn’t as if Kez Flanagan was some shrinking violet, shy about coming to the point. She was an independent woman with her own apartment in Coconut Grove; a talented runner with a string of wins under her belt who had just simply and casually confirmed her sexuality while expressing no interest in Cathy’s preferences.
‘Ready to try walking out of here?’ Kez asked.
‘Sure.’ Cathy stood up and tried out the foot.
‘How does it feel?’
Kindness, nothing more.
‘Good.’ Cathy took a step. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You should still ice it again when you get home, and elevate it. And no running for the rest of the week, OK?’
Definitely kindness.
Though the hazel eyes were still steady on her face, unwavering.
Interested.
&n
bsp; Maybe, Cathy thought – and that frisson of excitement hit her again.
She was not entirely sure how she felt about that.
Chapter Eight
With Terri working that evening and David at a friend’s house playing cards, Saul stayed home in Golden Beach, sanding down the edges of the new desk he’d been making for his room, thinking about how much he loved working with wood and how much he looked forward to having his own place someday – with Terri, if she’d have him – with a spare room or maybe a garage he could turn into a workshop.
‘Take any room you like,’ David had told him more than once.
No shortage of space here at home, they both knew that, two men rattling around in a house that had comfortably held four; but Saul didn’t want to build his workshop in his father’s house because it would feel too much like giving up hope of moving out.
Which was no insult to his dad because Saul loved him with all his heart, found him the easiest man in the world to live with. But wanting his own place was natural, and David had made it plain that he understood that, was happy to have his company for as long as it lasted, but would encourage his leaving when the time came.
‘You know I could afford to help,’ he’d offered not long ago, aware of his son’s restlessness, but Saul had said he didn’t want that either, and his father respected that.
It was Saul’s own self-respect that was a little lacking these days – or maybe it was simple disappointment in himself. He had anticipated his freshman year at the University of Miami with such relish, certain he was ready for the tough but stimulating journey to medical practice. At the end of the first year, the plan was for him to have a high enough grade point average to apply to the Medical Scholars Program, admission into which would assure him of a place, at the end of his third year of study, at UM’s School of Medicine.
That was the plan, but truth was as different as hell.
‘I don’t think I’m going to make it,’ he’d confided in Terri that spring.
‘Sure you are,’ she’d told him. ‘You’re smart and—’
‘Even if I was, it’s not just about that,’ Saul had said. ‘I walk into the Merrick Building every day and I’m surrounded by all these bright, confident people—’
‘You just think they’re confident,’ Terri had said.
‘A whole lot of them are,’ Saul had insisted. ‘Certainly far more than I am.’
That was brought home to him at every lecture, as fellow students asked and answered and made worthwhile points or offered salient arguments, while Saul’s butt stayed glued to his seat and his mouth stayed shut.
He’d always been the quiet kid at home, content to enjoy the arguments or wit or tales that the rest of his family had brought into the house; his quietness in those days stemming from tranquillity and contentment.
No more. These days there was an ever-growing heap of self-doubt piling up on his head, making it harder and harder for him to think.
Making furniture was a satisfying way to procrastinate, exchanging study for the feel and aroma of smooth wood; the exhilarating, sometimes simply mind-numbing exercise of sawing and hammering and planning. Even the noise and vibration of power tools helped block out unwelcome doubts about his other, real work.
Except this was what felt infinitely more real to Saul, and certainly more attainable: making tables, shelves and chairs, starting out real simple, then becoming slowly more confident and creative.
‘So quit medicine,’ Terri had said. ‘Make furniture.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Saul had told her.
‘Sure it is,’ she’d said. ‘One life. One chance.’
There’d been no real pressure to struggle on from his dad, but Judy Becket had badly wanted Saul to follow David’s lead, and then there were Sam’s high hopes for his kid brother, and Saul hated falling out with him over anything, which was why this problem between Sam and Terri had really been getting to him.
God, he was so crazy about Teté, but not knowing exactly where they were heading as a couple worried him, too, his anxiety that he wasn’t lively enough for her, special enough for her. And that was another thing about studying medicine; no prospect of offering her anything tangible for years, though Terri said she didn’t care about that. So long as this was what he really wanted, she said, she’d be up for the long haul, and it would all be worth it when he was finally a doctor and helping people.
So why didn’t she want him moving into her place?
‘We both need our space for now,’ she had said.
Saul didn’t need space, not when it came to Terri. If she’d allowed it, he’d happily have moved into a closet with her.
‘Anyway, your dad needs you,’ she’d said too.
But that wasn’t true, so Saul figured that no matter what she said, the truth was that he probably just wasn’t enough for her. Teté was so alive and brave, she had this amazing wild side to her, and he would do just about anything for her. Except he couldn’t do anything, could he, because he was still a student living at home with his old man, who was a great guy, but still . . .
And how long was Terri going to put up with that?
Chapter Nine
August 19
Gregory didn’t think he could take this any more, this sense of doom, feeling so bad, sleeping and waking. And he knew there was only one way to help himself feel better, he knew it, and he’d been so damned scared since it happened, had been straight and clean and feeling like shit because he was clean.
Except the truth was he wasn’t feeling shit because of not doing coke, was he? It was because of what had happened, because of what he’d seen, because he was scared half out of his mind that he or she or it was going to come back for him because he’d seen it. And maybe the only thing that was going to help him was coke, because the fact was no one else was going to be able to help: no doctor, no parents, no shrink.
What Greg needed now, more than anything – except for it not to have happened, or at least for him not to have seen it happening – was for the memory and the fear to go away.
Cocaine could do that for him.
And it wasn’t as if he even had to go looking for it, not as if he had to risk his mom and dad or even the cops finding out he was buying it, because he already had it, didn’t he?
Because last night Santa had come down his frigging chimney, metaphorically speaking.
Because when Greg had got up this Friday morning and unlocked the sliding doors to the deck outside his bedroom, he had seen it lying less than eight feet away.
Folded silver paper glinting in the sunlight.
Plastic baggie inside.
And sure, it was kind of weird, more than kind of, actually, because how in hell had it got there? And Gregory had wondered if maybe one of the guys who knew how freaked out he was feeling had left it as a gift, because otherwise how could it have got there? But bottom line, it was there.
It had come just when he needed it. So tonight, if he still didn’t feel any better . . .
Tonight.
It was late Friday when Kez called Cathy to ask if she felt like driving up to West Palm Beach for the meet the next day.
‘I could use the support if you’d like to come,’ Kez said, ‘and if your ankle’s up to it.’
‘My ankle’s fine, but I’ll bet you’ll have a zillion supporters,’ Cathy said, though she’d been longing to go up, but suppressing the urge, figuring that since Kez had not asked if she was going, that had to mean she didn’t want her there.
Not the case.
‘No one but the coach that I know of,’ Kez said. ‘And I’d like having you in the crowd.’
Excitement shot through Cathy again, warming her. Another kind of longing, she thought, still unsure. About anything.
Except that she wanted to go.
The first hundred metres of the 800 was run in lanes, but after that, as often happened in this race, the runners were bunched so close for the rest of the first lap that had it
not been for the fierce red of Kez’s hair – no sun, so she was wearing no cap – Cathy might not have been able to pick her out of the pack.
At Sarasota where Cathy had seen Kez win the 800, one of the competitors had gone off fast, driving all the runners into too high a speed in the first lap, and with the favourite laid up with a broken ankle and the other main threat, Maria Valdez, finding herself boxed in on the inside, Kez had been the athlete with the most strength and speed on the last lap. Valdez had come home first in Tampa, but Kez’s run had been both tactically near-perfect and almost – even Coach Delaney had felt – inspired, gaining her the silver.
‘Tail wind,’ Kez had answered self-deprecatingly when Cathy had asked her, at the café on Wednesday, what she thought had made that race so special.
‘Why do you do that?’ Cathy had asked. ‘Make it sound like nothing.’
‘Just one race. Greatest buzz in the world at the time, but doesn’t mean much on its own.’
Coming right after Sarasota, Cathy had wanted to argue, she’d have thought it meant a hell of a lot. But something – a kind of reluctance to overstep – had held her back, kept her silent.
Later, perhaps, when – if – they knew one another better.
If.
A lot of talent was absent today in West Palm Beach, and even as Cathy saw Kez breaking away from the pack and sprinting into the lead, she guessed that if her new friend broke the finish tape, she’d be the first to point that out.
Which didn’t stop Cathy yelling her support, shrieking as Kez crossed the line.
‘Pal of yours?’ the man next to her asked. ‘She’s not bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Cathy told him. ‘She’s amazing.’
‘Yeah.’ The man shrugged and smiled. ‘Good for her.’
There was no victory in the 1500, but Cathy was yelling just as wildly, and sure, she was used to cheering on the Tornadoes, but she knew that she’d never shouted this loudly before. Had never felt like this before. Watching Kez running in this race, the distance so much tougher than the 800, physically and psychologically; watching her giving her all and then some, observing the fiercely working muscles on those tanned legs, the intensity of her focus, the obvious pain on her face from the pounding punishment, the pace and sheer speed of the sprint. Noting her grimace, the moment when fatigue took control, mastered her, then, finally, wiped her out.
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