Shooting at Loons (13 page)

I shook my head.

“What about the Clara Barton Rest Stop on the Jersey Turnpike seven years ago near the end of August?”

His big hands toyed with the glass candleholder as he tried to make his tone light.

“Were you really there?” I asked, incredulous. “Why on earth didn’t you speak to me?”

He shrugged. “You were with some other women.”

“Three of my brothers’ wives,” I remembered. “We probably were on our way to see
Cats
.”

“I had just pulled in and you passed right in front of my car. You had on white shorts and a red shirt and your hair was still long.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Ah, what the hell?” He pushed the candle away and signalled for the bill. “Let’s walk.”

It always amazes me what walkers city people are. We’ve got the wide open spaces and farm work requires a certain amount of walking, but nothing like city life. Probably because we don’t categorize feet as a genuine form of transportation. When there are fences to mend down by the creek or if you need to take a jug of water to someone plowing new ground out behind the pasture, you jump in a pickup with four-wheel drive. City people—especially New Yorkers—think nothing of walking two country miles to go pick up a library book.

“Can’t we take a bus?” I used to whine, cabs being out of our price range.

“But it’s only thirty blocks,” Lev would say heartlessly.

Yet when we weren’t rushing to get somewhere before the doors closed or the lights went down, walking in the city could be wonderful. Beaufort was no city, of course, but we walked through the cool night air and enjoyed the old white clapboard houses, the antique store windows, the deserted sidewalks back up from the water. Tourist season was only beginning so we mostly had those side streets to ourselves even though it wasn’t yet ten o’clock.

By tacit consent, our talk was of life in Boston, life in Colleton County, how I’d come to the bench, where are they now all the people we’d known, and who do you suppose lived in this great white house with the widow’s walk?

Eventually we wound up near the Ritchie House, the only place still open and still serving drinks. But as he started to open the glass door to the lounge, Lev said, “Oh hell!” and stepped back quickly.

Through the glass I saw the Docksiders seated at one of the lounge tables with a couple of attorneys I recognized from court. Mrs. Llewellyn’s hair was a swirl of dandelion gold as she threw back her head and laughed at something one of the men had said. There was no sign of Claire Montgomery.

“You’re not in the mood for more cocktail chatter, are you?” Lev asked.

“Not really.” And certainly not with people I’d effectively ruled against in court.

We walked back along the boardwalk where all the boats were moored. A northeast breeze whipped my hair, and low music from someone’s radio mingled with the sound of lapping water. A few of the decks had people sitting outside enjoying the quiet night, but most had gone below, with only a dim glow showing behind curtained windows.

Beneath one of the security lights, I paused and checked my watch. Nearly eleven.

Lev suddenly took my hand and said, “Don’t go yet. Let’s have our nightcap on the
Rainmaker
.”

“Better give me a raincheck,” I demurred. “I’m not up to small talk with a puppet.”

“Oh Claire won’t be there. When we’re in port, they wimp out and stay ashore. Their baby—well, actually Nicky’s not really a baby any more—but it’s still easier to manage him in a hotel. It was a fluke that Claire was even here the day that bike was taken. No, they have a suite at the Ritchie House. Linville’s a friend of the owners.”

No doubt. Barbara Jean said that handling the Ritchie House had been her first big coup a few years back.

“No strings,” he promised as I hesitated.

“Not a good idea,” said the preacher.

“The books are closed on this,” agreed the pragmatist. “You sure you want to open them again?”

I ignored both warnings and followed Lev down the pier to the
Rainmaker’s
slip. I told myself it was only because I’d never been below on a private boat this size before. It would be interesting to see the fittings.

“Yah, we know what fittings you’re interested in,” leered the pragmatist.

Well, and so what? I argued back. We had been good together once upon a time, and like that old Ray Price song says, what was wrong with one more time for all the good times?

Except that it trailed a small dinghy instead of a Ford and sported a keel instead of wheels, the outside of the
Rainmaker
was really not much more than a fancier version of the RV that my Aunt Sister and Uncle Rufus drive back and forth to Florida. That resemblance was the real reason I’d even noticed it in the first place. That and the name, of course, which suggested a corporate attorney.

Inside, the similarities were even more pronounced. The interior was bigger than Aunt Sister’s Winnebago—she could only sleep four, the
Rainmaker
six, Lev told me—but if it weren’t for the gentle motion, you’d be hard pressed to tell much difference. Every inch used, no wasted space, yet it didn’t seem cramped because the main cabin felt like a small lounge. The recessed wall lights were dimmed way down. A wide upholstered bench became a sofa berth when the table was flipped back out of the way, and cushions softened the angles.

I slipped one of those cushions under my head and watched lazily as Lev pulled ice cubes from the tiny refrigerator and glasses from a shallow cupboard.

“Still bourbon and—was it Coke?” he asked.

“Pepsi, but Coke’s fine. Easy on the bourbon.”

The preacher approved, but the pragmatist wasn’t fooled. He knew I still hadn’t decided whether or not I’d be driving later.

Lev brought our drinks over and sat down beside me. He touched his glass to mine and his dark eyes were unreadable in the soft light.

“To all the good times,” he said, echoing my own memories.

I probably took two good sips before carefully setting my glass down where it wouldn’t get knocked over.

“I think I like the beard,” I said and leaned forward until our lips met—gently, tentatively at first, then with such deepening hunger that searing jets of purely carnal desire shot through me, blocking out all voices of reason and prudence, leaving me sensate and reckless.

His hands. His big and wonderfully familiar hands were everywhere, burning through the thin cream-colored silk of my jumpsuit, touching me where no one else had touched in much too long. I tugged at his shirt, wildly impatient to feel and taste his skin again. His hair tangled in the crystal beads against my breasts. I was trying to untangle them and he was undoing my buttons, when we heard the hatch opening up above.

A light voice called, “Ahoy, the
Rainmaker!
” and slender legs descended the laddered stair. There was a bottle of champagne in one hand, a large purse in the other.

“Did you think I got lost, honey?” Linville Pope caroled. “One of those long-winded—”

She reached the bottom step and the smile on her lips froze as she saw us.

“Oh,” she said finally when it seemed as if the leaden silence would go on forever. “You started without me.”

Give her points for poise.

Lev had sat up so abruptly that my necklace broke and a shower of crystal spilled into my lap.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” Lev said harshly.

“I said I might not be able to get away,” she corrected him quietly. “Obviously I should have called first. Sorry.”

Clutching her purse to her chest, a just-in-case purse that probably held a toothbrush and a couple of other necessities should champagne turn into a sleepover, she set the bottle on a nearby counter and turned to go.

“Don’t leave on my account.” I had rebuttoned my blouse and was now scooping up crystal beads and shoving them into my Mexican purse. “I’m just going myself.”

“No,” she protested.

“Yes,” I said firmly. Passion was gone and so was I, just as soon as I could find my missing shoe. A cold thick rage consumed me.

Lev took one look at my face and silently handed over the high-heeled slipper that had come off before. So at least he’d learned that much over the years.

More beads sparkled across the floor when I stood, but I was too angry to stop. All I wanted was out of there. Linville stood aside to let me pass, but then I heard her steps behind me as she followed me up the ladder and off the boat.

We walked half the length of the planked dock in stony silence until the whole farcical ridiculousness of the situation abruptly hit me and I started giggling.

After a startled glance, Linville Pope gave an unladylike gurgle and by the time we reached the parking area we were both laughing so hard we had to hold onto each other to stand up.

“God! What bastards they can be,” she said at last when we had finally gained control again. “Come on over to the Ritchie House and let me get us another bottle of champagne.”

“I’m sorely tempted,” I told her truthfully, “but I probably shouldn’t show up in court tomorrow with a champagne hangover.”

On the long drive back to Harkers Island, though, I almost wished I’d accepted Linville’s invitation. I still didn’t have a handle on her, but I was starting to like the cut of her jib.

Lots of people came to her party, but Barbara Jean thought she was manipulative and coercive. Chet seemed to find her amusing except when she threatened Barbara Jean’s equanimity. Even Lev, damn him to holy hell, thought she was beautiful and smart but “maybe just a little too cute about the way she acquired property.” There had been that angry scene in the Ritchie House, something about the fraudulent sale of a boat? And I had a feeling that Mahlon Davis’s “bitch over to Beaufort” was going to turn out to be Linville Pope, too.

But anybody who could see the absurdity of the situation tonight and laugh that hard surely couldn’t be all bad.

It was well past midnight when I drove up to the cottage. Except for scattered security lights on tall utility poles, all the nearby houses were dark. No light out at Mahlon’s, but I saw the shape of Mickey Mantle’s pickup parked behind the boat shelter and wondered if his triumph in court had him driving without a license again.

The only thing I could hear was wind in the live oaks and low waves splashing against the shore. I got out of the car, walked up onto the porch, unlocked the door and set my garment bag inside without switching on a light. At that moment, the telephone began to ring—an intrusively mechanical, almost alien sound amid the island’s natural quiet. When I picked up the receiver, Lev’s voice said, “Red, I—”

I broke the connection, then laid the receiver under the pillow and walked away from its insistent beeping.

The wind was blowing in smartly off the water and it was chilly, but I slipped on Sue’s old windbreaker again and went back out to one of the porch rockers, hoping the rhythmic flash of the lighthouse and the sound of the surf would lull me into drowsiness. Seeing Lev again after all these years had roiled up so many old memories and conflicting emotions that if I tried to go sensibly to bed, I knew I’d only toss and turn till morning.

When we met, I was still running from a really stupid marriage, living on part-time jobs and money Aunt Zell sent. It was a bitter cold winter and the New York Public Library was a good place to stay warm. For some reason, I’d gotten it into my head that I needed to read Proust, and that winter, I did. From
Swann’s Way
straight through
The Past Recaptured
, though to this day I couldn’t describe a single scene or say what those seven books added up to. Yet while I read, I was totally addicted and it seemed to ease my homesickness.

And then one day I lifted up my head and there was Lev across the wide musty room and I realized that he’d been there all winter, too, in the late afternoon, in almost the same chair. Wiry hair in a perpetual tousle, close-knit frame, dark eyes set so far under the ridge of his brow that they were like two secretive intelligent creatures peering out of a cave.

He hadn’t noticed me, but once I’d focused on him, I couldn’t seem to quit. I circled to see what he was reading. Two of my cousins back in Dobbs were lawyers and I recognized that those were law books and landmark cases and that he was probably a law student somewhere in the city.

No ring on his finger and no study dates that winter.

Oh what the hell, I thought. I left Proust lying on the table and followed Lev out of the library that evening and when we were almost to the bottom step, I let myself fall against him so that we both went down in a tangle of books and scarves and laughing apology.

I must have slipped on the ice, I told him, and no, nothing seemed broken, but it wouldn’t be, would it, not with all the heavy coats and gloves y’all wear up here? He heard my accent (how could he not, the way I was laying it on?) and asked how long I’d been in New York and all I could think was that I’d never seen eyes so dark and piercing and the smell of his aftershave—I could almost smell it now, could almost—

I stopped rocking abruptly.

It wasn’t Lev’s aftershave I smelled, but a fragrance sweetish and equally well known. I stood up, sniffing now, quartering the wind like one of my daddy’s hounds.

Nothing.

Yet, seated in the rocking chair, I smelled it again, an elusively familiar aroma.

Insect repellent?

I walked over to the near end of the porch. In the dim light, did the grass there looked scuffed? If I hadn’t been looking straight down at it—a dark shape that I’d thought was a rock or a piece of scrap wood—I might not have noticed when it drew back very, very slowly and disappeared under the edge of the porch.

A booted foot.

I sat back down in the rocker and thought about that foot a minute and then went out to the trunk of my car and got the loaded .38 Daddy gave me a few years back when I made it clear I wasn’t going to quit driving alone at night or stop looking for witnesses in rough places.