A Cup Full of Midnight (24 page)

“I’m a big boy,” I said. “I can wait.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .” She looked down at her lap, fiddled with the hem of her sweater.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” I said. “I’m glad you did.”

“It’s been a long time since I was with anyone. I’m not sure what the rules are anymore.”

I cupped my hand under her chin and tipped her head up. “No rules. Let’s just take it as it comes.”

“You’re sweet.” Her eyes filled. “And I’m ruining everything.”

“Not even close. It’s not a good time for me either, to tell you the truth.”

“My husband . . .” Her hands worked at the hem of her sweater, twisted, clutched. “Ex-husband. He wasn’t sweet at all.”

“I’m not him,” I said.

“Neither was he,” she said. “At first.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I
t was late when I got home, but Jay met me in the front hallway. “You have a message from a Miss Aleta.”

He followed me into the kitchen, where I replayed the voice-mail message. “Hello, Mr. McKean. You’ll be pleased to know the judge set bail for Laurel O’Brien.”

“Laurel O’Brien,” Jay said. “That’s the girl who confessed, right? What’s going on?”

I set the receiver gently in its cradle and said, “Absinthe’s out.”

She would have been safer inside.

Elisha and I, Fabulous Greg and his partner, and three gay couples I didn’t know gathered at the house for an early celebration. A contingency, in case Dylan didn’t make it until Christmas. Nothing sadder than a stack of presents that would never be opened.

I took the pup outside for a quick pee. Then Jay and I helped Dylan dress, eased him back onto the bed, and played with the controls until we found a comfortable angle for him.

“I feel like Barbie,” Dylan groused. “Where are my red pumps?”

At six, we all gathered around Dylan’s bed in the living room. Jay had set up a refreshment table and piled gifts under the tree. “Looks like Santa came early,” he said, passing out red felt stockings stuffed with Silly Putty, bubbles, Duncan yo-yo’s, and a variety of inexpensive puzzles and toys. Kid stuff. We were old enough to appreciate it.

Elisha pulled a plastic wand from a bottle of bubbles. “I haven’t done this since I was a little girl,” she said, and blew a stream of bubbles my way. One settled on my shoulder, and she poked it with a lacquered fingernail. I felt a heat, low in my belly.

It was understood that the contents of the packages were unimportant. An incense holder and a bundle of incense, three T-shirts with X-rated slogans, a wine and fruit basket with a signed photo of Divine, and a plastic singing fish mounted on a plaque that said
Billy Bob Bass
.

Dylan rested his hand on the neck of the wine bottle and looked around at the offerings. “Nothing from Straight,” he said. I hadn’t expected him to notice, but he seemed genuinely hurt. “Still haven’t learned to love me, huh?”

“I couldn’t wrap it,” I said. “It’s not that kind of gift.” I left the room and came back with a fishbowl, where a blood-red beta with a navy-streaked tail drifted above a layer of electric blue gravel.

Dylan’s eyes misted, and his sudden smile reminded me of Paulie’s. “Aw, Straight, I knew you cared.”

Jay set the bowl on the end table so Dylan could see it from the bed. “Look at this haul,” he said. “You must have been an awfully good boy this year, Dyl.”

“That’s a myth, you know,” Dylan said. “It’s all bullshit.”

“No!” Jay raised his eyebrows and covered his mouth in mock surprise. “No Santa?”

“Not that part.” Dylan’s voice was a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Not that part. The part about the good little boys and girls. Truth is . . . Santa doesn’t give a shit.”

“Truth is,” Jay said softly, “Santa only sees the good things.”

Dylan leaned back into the pillow and closed his eyes. Guilt? Regret? “Nice trick,” he said. “If you can manage it.”

“We’ll let you get some rest.” Jay motioned to the other guests, who filed out of the room, pausing only long enough to squeeze Dylan’s hand or shoulder and wish him a merry Christmas.

I sent Elisha ahead and stayed behind to place Luca on Dylan’s lap and clear the gifts off the bed. He stroked the puppy’s head, and the pup curled against his body and licked his hand. “Feels weird,” he said. “Like being at your own funeral.”

“I don’t think they meant it that way.”

“I know. It’s all right. Damn waste to wait until I’m dead, right?” His gaze went to the door, where Jay had vanished. “I should have stayed with him, shouldn’t I?”

“Twenty-twenty hindsight,” I said. “But yeah. You should have.”

He gave a rattling laugh. “That’s what I like about you, Straight. No bullshit.”

“Hey, you got a chance to make it up to him.” I poured a cup of eggnog from the refreshment table and offered him a sip. “Not everybody gets that much.”

He swallowed, coughed, and dabbed at his lips with the sleeve of his pajama shirt. “How? By letting him watch me die?”

“By letting him help you. It means a lot to him.”

“Yeah? What’s that called? Killing me with kindness?”

“It’s called forgiveness, Jackass.”

He smiled at the epithet. “So, Jay-o’s forgiven me, has he? For dumping him, or for killing him?”

“Both, I guess.”

“And you?”

“I don’t have anything to forgive you for, Dylan.”

He looked away. “Yeah. Right.”

“But for what it’s worth, if Jay’s okay with you, there’s no reason for me not to be.”

He looked away, toward the fishbowl. “Thanks, Straight. You’re a pal. Now I can die in peace, knowing you and I are on good terms.”

“Fuck you too,” I said, but we both smiled.

Later, with Dylan asleep and the others in the kitchen sipping Long Island Teas and talking politics, Elisha and I scraped the remains of strawberry crepes and vegetarian pigs-in-blankets into the disposal, piled the soiled dishes in the sink, and filled the basin with suds. She glanced around and plucked a dish towel from a hook by the sink. Tossed it to me.

“I’ll wash, you dry,” she said.

Snippets of conversation from the other room drifted into the kitchen as we worked.

“It was nice of you to do this,” Elisha said.

“I’d like to take the credit, but it was Jay’s idea.”

“Still.” She flicked suds in my direction. I dodged, snapped her rear with the towel.

We laughed, made small talk punctuated by companionable silence. Our fingers touched as she handed me the dripping plates. Pulled away. A ballet of heat and electricity, skin against skin.

As I put away the last of the dishes, she busied herself with something behind my back, came up beside me and snaked an arm around my waist. “Look what I found.” She dangled a sprig of mistletoe over her head and batted her eyes.

I kissed her, gently at first, then harder. My arms went around her and she clasped her hands at the small of my back, pulling me closer, the zipper of my jeans pressed against her belly.

“God, you smell good,” she said. She nuzzled my neck. “What
is
that?”

“Patchouli,” I mumbled. Maria had given it to me.

I pushed that thought from my mind and slid my right hand forward, stroked the curve of Elisha’s breast with my thumb. She shifted toward my touch and arched into my palm, her breath catching in her throat.

Then she broke away. “Bad idea,” she said. “On so many different levels.”

I agreed, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a pang of disappointment.

“I mean, it’s way too soon.” She toyed with the buttons of her blouse. “Don’t you think?”

I nodded. “It’s too soon.”

“You’ve heard that ‘three dates, no sex’ rule? No sex by date three, and there’s no date four?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I don’t believe in that.” She looked into my eyes. Gnawed her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I told you that before.” I stroked her cheek. Ran two fingers through her hair. Brushed her lips with mine.

From somewhere far away, I heard a shrill, relentless ringing.

“The phone,” she murmured.

“Let the machine pick up.”

She put her hands on my chest and pushed away. “No,” she said. “Jay.”

We stepped apart just as he came into the room.

“Well, well, kiddies, having fun?” he asked. Elisha blushed and smoothed her hair. Jay grinned and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” He listened for a moment, then held out the receiver. “Darlene O’Brien.”

“Absinthe’s mother,” I said. I put the phone to my ear. “Mrs. O’Brien—”

“I got your number from Miss Aleta,” she said. “Laurel’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean gone! Run away. We came back from a party and she wasn’t here. Maybe I should have taken her car keys—you know, in light of the troubles—but I thought we’d put all that behind us.”

“Was she at home alone?”

“Yes. I had a date.” She made a small hiccupping sound. “Oh, I know, maybe I shouldn’t have left her. But she’s almost seventeen. Shouldn’t she be old enough to stay home by herself for one evening?”

“You’d think so. But what makes you think she ran away? Couldn’t she just have gone off with some friends?”

“She packed a bag. Clothes. Toothbrush. Mr. Flumpy.”

“Mr. Flumpy?”

“Her stuffed rabbit. She’s had him since she was three. That’s how I knew she hadn’t gone out with friends. She wasn’t ready to give him up, but she wouldn’t have taken him to a friend’s. That would have been . . .” She paused. “Uncool.”

“Did she leave a note?”

“No.” She drew in a long, ragged breath. “Won’t you come over, Mr. McKean? I just know you can find her.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes. And they’re doing all the usual things. Amber Alert, the whole shebang. But they don’t really seem to be taking it very seriously. After all this trouble . . . well, they seem to think she’s just trying to get attention. That she’ll just turn up somewhere. Please,” she said again. “I don’t know what else to do.”

I looked at Elisha. Too soon, she’d said. Too soon for both of us. But just because we weren’t going to make love didn’t mean I was in any hurry to end the evening.

She gave me a tentative smile.

I sighed and said into the receiver, “I’ll be right over.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A
bsinthe and her mother lived in a two-story, Norman-style brick manor in Brentwood, an upscale community south of town. The average house in the area cost upwards of half a million dollars, and the O’Brien house, with its arched entryway and low-walled brick terrace, was somewhere north of average. I eased the Silverado up the drive, passed a Venetian-style fountain draped with colored lights, and parked behind a shiny black BMW that reminded me of a cockroach in a tuxedo.

According to the Parker file, the BMW belonged to Absinthe’s mother. No dad in the picture, just two stepfathers, one of whom had died almost a year ago.

I picked my way up a flagstone path slippery with frost, past a life-sized Italian-style Nativity and up the front steps to a doorbell camouflaged as Rudolph’s nose. I pressed my thumb against it, and eight tones sounded, simulated hand bells. A small dog yapped somewhere in the back of the house, followed by the click of high-heeled shoes on a hardwood floor. Then the door cracked open with a warm gust of cinnamon-scented air, and a wan face peered out.

“Mr. McKean?” A layer of makeup, expertly applied, softened but could not quite hide the worry lines around her bloodshot eyes. The top of her head was even with the center of my chest.

“Mrs. O’Brien,” I said.

“It’s Miz.” She extended a hand, ragged nails gnawed to the quick. Like mother, like daughter. “Twice divorced and couldn’t be happier. But please—call me Darlene.”

She moved aside to let me pass, and I stepped into her hallway. Every available surface, nook, and cranny was crammed with plush toys and figurines: toy mice with candy canes, polar bears on ice-skates, rosy-cheeked elves dancing polkas. The place looked and smelled like Christmas Village.

A tiny head poked from beneath the hall table. Pricked ears, tousled hair, a pair of eyes like black beads wedged into a gray dust mop. Darlene scooped up the dust mop, a cairn terrier with its tiny nails painted a glittery purple.