Brute Strength (27 page)

As if to reinforce my sense of the innocuousness of the situation, Sammy and Ulla came bounding up to me. Ulla was panting lightly.

‘Tuckered out already?' I asked. ‘Ulla, do your trick for me! Wave!'

Ulla promptly sat and raised her paw.

‘Good girl!' I exclaimed. ‘You really are a cutie.'

After the dogs had played a bit longer, I said that Sammy and I had to leave.

‘See you at dog training?'

‘Not tonight. For once, I'm playing hooky.'

‘You? A truant? I'm shocked!'

‘Steve's leaving on a fishing trip tomorrow. We're going out to dinner tonight. I need to get ready.'

‘How long is he going for?'

‘A week.'

‘Well,' said Vanessa, ‘you'll have to come and have dinner with us while he's gone.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘Thank you. I'd like that.'

I almost meant it.

THIRTY-THREE

‘
I
wish you were coming with me,' Steve said. Lady and India were already crated in his van, which was loaded with his fly rods, fishing tackle, rain gear, warm clothes, and enough bug dope to repel every black fly in the state of Maine, or so I hoped. Spring is black fly season.

‘Fishing trips are a male-bonding ritual,' I said. ‘My favorite one. What if you were going to one of those men's workshops to beat on drums and chant?'

‘What?'

‘Quinn Youngman went to one. Rita told me about it.'

‘He should've gone fishing instead.'

‘Exactly. You'll have fun. And you know that I hate being stuck in a canoe in the rain, and I hate black flies. It's a wonder that I survived my childhood without being bitten to death. I have scars.'

‘I know you do. I've seen them.' He pulled me toward him and whispered in my ear, ‘I saw them last night.'

‘You'll have to wait a whole week to see them again. Hey, bring me home some trout! Better yet, catch a salmon. Have fun. I love you.'

‘I love you, too, Holly.'

When he drove off, it was noon. As if to remind me of why I wasn't going with him, light rain was falling. My father, a dedicated fisherman, used to try to indoctrinate me by taking me out in a canoe at dawn and keeping me captive there all day with nothing to eat except a couple of squished chocolate bars and a flattened tuna sandwich. He always refused to pack anything to drink. His rationale was that since we were in God's Country, the beautiful state of Maine, all I had to do was dip a metal cup over the side of the canoe and partake of water that practically sprang from heaven itself. I could equally well have tilted my head up and held my mouth open. It always rained. If it wasn't raining when we left, rain soon started, and as if to prove that he lacked the sense to come in out of the rain, Buck always responded with enthusiastic booming about how lucky we were to have weather that made the fish bite, as it did not. Rather, it made the flies bite. My father devoted himself to issuing advice about how I could improve my casting. To boot, we never caught anything.

I love Cambridge. It has no black flies. My father lives far away.

After Steve drove off, I went into the warm, dry indoors and made a delicious ham sandwich and good coffee. Remembering those miserable fishing trips, I told the dogs, ‘I am free! Never again! Never ever!' Then I worked on my column until quarter of five, when I fed the dogs, gave them a few minutes in the yard to relieve themselves, took a shower, and got dressed to go out for dinner with Rita. Luxury! Restaurant meals two nights in a row! Steve and I had just had divine Arabic-influenced Mediterranean food at Oleana. I'd have been more than happy to go back there, but Rita had persuaded me to give another chance to a lesser Cambridge establishment for which she had an inexplicable fondness, a bistro with condescending waiters, mediocre cooking, and high prices. Cambridge being the unorthodox place that it is, you can wear anything anywhere, but since I work at home, I spend most my time in kennel clothes and enjoy the occasional opportunity to dress up. So, a few minutes before six, outfitted in a pale-rose linen suit that Rita had picked out, I was in front of the computer in my office, where I was checking my email and spending time with Tracker, when I thought I heard a car pull into the driveway. Rita's office was in easy walking distance, so she never drove there, even when she had on stiletto heels. Besides, I'd seen her car earlier, and I didn't expect her for another half hour. My best guess was that someone desperate for a parking place had ignored my threatening sign about not blocking the driveway.

After grabbing a raincoat, I ran to the back door, peered out, and saw Quinn Youngman, of all people, getting out of his car, pardon me, his Lexus, which he'd parked in back of Rita's BMW, pardon me, her car. He looked ghastly, as if he'd just learned of the death of someone he loved. His face was pale, and his eyes were red and swollen.

‘Holly,' he said hoarsely. ‘I have to talk to Rita. Is she home?'

I was less than cordial. ‘No.' Then I took pity on him. Maybe someone actually
had
died. ‘She'll be here in half an hour or so.'

As Rita had pointed out during their fight, Quinn typically affected serious-looking hiking boots for a stroll to Harvard Square. He wore them now. In other respects, he did not, however, look like himself. He had on a light-blue sweater and khakis, but the sweater was rumpled, and his hair was messy and tufted, as if he'd been running his hands through it. Standing there in the rain, he looked stricken and pitiful. Could he have been diagnosed with a terminal illness?

‘Come in,' I said.

When we reached the kitchen, he surprised me by asking whether he could sit down.

‘Of course,' I said. ‘Has something terrible happened?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Well, no. Not terrible. Not terrible at all.'

In preparation for going out, I'd crated Sammy in another room, but Rowdy and Kimi were loose. Having met Quinn many times before, they offered him none of the greetings that they typically bestowed on promising strangers, which is to say, all newcomers whom they assessed as likely to offer treats, tummy rubs, sweet talk, or admiring glances; nor did they perform the routines they'd perfected for welcoming beloved personages. Their favorite visitor was Kevin Dennehy, who not only fell all over them but slipped them sips of beer when he thought that I wasn't looking. Now, neither dog trained gorgeous brown eyes on Quinn, and neither dog issued peals of
woo-woo-woo
. Kimi didn't fall to the floor at Quinn's feet. Rowdy didn't bother to fetch his fleece dinosaur and drop it in Quinn's lap. In brief, instead of turning on the charm and radiating that irresistible you're-so-special message, Rowdy and Kimi evidently agreed that Quinn was no fun at all and acted accordingly. Rowdy went so far as to yawn (‘This guy is boring, boring, boring!') before lying down. Kimi, however, monitored Quinn or perhaps studied him almost as if she were a curious social scientist engaged in observing the behavior of a subject in a psychological experiment.

I sat at the kitchen table across from Quinn and waited.

‘I've been a total jerk,' he said. ‘Could I bother you for a tissue?'

I supplied a whole box.

He blew his nose. ‘I have a new therapist, and for the first time in my life, I'm doing deep work.' He repeated the phrase, ‘Deep work. I've just come from a therapy hour, and I have to see Rita. I have been such a jerk.'

That's therapy? Realizing what a jerk you've been? Maybe sometimes it is.

‘Rita should be home soon,' I said.

‘I owe you an apology.' He paused. ‘For making a scene.'

‘Scenes don't bother me,' I said. ‘And Willie's not my dog. But if you want to apologize to Rita, that's—'

‘He didn't even break the skin,' Quinn confessed. ‘What am I saying? He didn't—'

‘He didn't bite you. He didn't actually bite you at all.'

‘He didn't even nip me. Christ! I am such an asshole.'

‘For what it's worth, Willie probably does think about using his teeth,' I said.

‘I stepped on his foot,' Quinn admitted.

‘On purpose?'

‘By accident.'

I took a deep breath and said, ‘But you didn't take Avery Jones to dinner by accident.'

‘I should've been seeing her in my office.' He started to cry.

‘She's a patient of yours?'

‘No! No. She should be. But she isn't.'

‘She was referred to you?'

‘No! We took a cooking class together. It was a one-shot deal, Saturday afternoon, at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. Yeast breads.'

And you rose to the occasion?
I didn't say it. When I feel tense, I have a deplorable tendency to think in puns.

‘We got paired up,' Quinn continued. ‘Partners. The instructor put us together. And then after the class, we ended up going to Legal. It's right down the street.'

The Cambridge Center for Adult Education is in the Blacksmith House, as in Longfellow's poem. The spreading chestnut tree is no more, but the Blacksmith House is on Brattle Street, near the corner of Story Street, maybe a ten-minute walk from Legal Sea Foods, not far away, but not exactly right down the street, either.

‘I know where the Blacksmith House is,' I said.

‘She was looking for a therapist.'

‘Avery asked you to recommend someone?'

He shook his head. ‘That's what she was looking for in me. She's a troubled young woman. Father died recently, and she's dealing with a certain amount of guilt about that.'

‘Guilt?'

‘The parents fought all the time, and there's bound to be a sense of relief that the fights are over, so Avery's feeling guilty.'

‘She looks depressed.'

‘She is depressed. That's what I meant when I said that I should've been seeing her in my office.'

I heard the outer back door open.

‘That's Rita,' I said. It occurred to me to offer Quinn a few quick bits of advice about valuing Rita's high tolerance for difficult creatures and remembering her many virtues as a therapist and a friend, but it's probably just as well that Rita rapped on my kitchen door before I'd uttered a word. As I let her in, I said, ‘Quinn is here. He needs to talk to you.'

‘I saw his car. You and I are having dinner.'

‘Rita, come in. Quinn really needs to talk to you.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Quinn was standing up. ‘Rita,' he said.

‘Holly and I have plans,' she told him. ‘We're having dinner.'

‘Rita,' I said, ‘for the moment, let's say that we are post-feminist or third-wave feminist or—'

‘We're not.'

‘We're human beings! The two of you need to talk more than you and I need to have dinner. If you want me to take Willie out, I'll be glad to.'

‘Thanks. He should be OK. I was here between patients a couple of hours ago. But thanks.'

Rita and Quinn exchanged what I'm tempted to call a meaningful glance, but I had no idea what it meant. As he followed her, his face looked simultaneously old and young, lined and unguarded. Rita's whole body was rigid, her face expressionless. Hearing their footsteps sounding on the stairs to Rita's apartment, Kimi shook herself all over, and I, too, felt the impulse to shake myself off, as if the tension between Quinn and Rita were a sort of invisible powder that had deposited itself on me, where it didn't belong and where I didn't want it.

‘All dressed up with nowhere to go,' I told Kimi. ‘Except that for all I know, Rita will—'

The phone interrupted me. The caller was Gabrielle, who had a habit of beginning conversations as if she were continuing them. ‘Well, here I am all on my own. Your father took off with the boys.'

‘He did? Gabrielle, it's always good to hear your voice. Buck is . . .?'

‘He had an unexpected chance to go fishing, and off he's gone. Someone cancelled at the last minute, and Buck got a call this morning, and—'

The worst thing about my premonitions is that I don't believe in foreknowledge. Actually, in this case, the worst thing about my premonition was its accuracy. With a feeling of disbelief bordering on horrified nausea, I said, ‘Grant's Camps.'

As if she herself had revealed Buck's destination, Gabrielle said, ‘It's a whole group of them, and one person dropped out at the last minute, and your father jumped at the chance, so here I am, a fishing widow!'

Perhaps it was Quinn Youngman's example that inspired me, or maybe it was the scorn for spinelessness evident in Kimi's gaze. Or maybe I had no choice. For whatever reason, I told Gabrielle the truth.

She responded with apparent understanding. ‘Well,' she said, ‘of course Steve didn't mention the trip. He wouldn't have wanted your father to feel left out, would he?'

Although it was true that I always felt happy to hear Gabrielle's voice, I ended the call quickly and immediately dialed Steve's cell number. We'd been warned that the cell phone service was a little iffy, but I managed to reach him. With no preamble, I blurted out the news and said, ‘Steve, there's a lot of water there! Where he fishes, you don't. And it's not as if he'd decided to follow you. He's been there before, it's a Maine institution, and he's crazy about it, and he unexpectedly got this chance to go, and I am so sorry.'

Silence followed.

I said, ‘Rita would tell you that you are entitled to express your feelings.' I waited and then realized that by saying nothing, Steve
was
expressing his feelings. ‘I take it that you haven't run into him yet,' I said. ‘I'm not sure what time he left, so I don't know when he'll get there, but at least you're forewarned. Steve, could you at least say something? Swear? Holler?' It occurred to me that Steve wasn't the one given to hollering. ‘If you haven't heard him yet, he probably hasn't arrived.'