“Is she gone?” Nikki said.
Harry shrugged.
“I don't think so. Not yet, at least. When I called again, she answered, then hung up. I tried back, but she wouldn't pick up.”
They had the house to themselves, Jack and Reggie at a bed-and-breakfast in Cape May, “making up,” as Nikki had put it. They had Chinese take-out food in front of them, glasses of white wine. She wore jeans and a red cardigan sweater, no makeup. Behind him, the refrigerator hummed.
“We can help her,” he said. “But I don't have the feeling she wants it.”
She pushed her plate away, drank wine.
“What happened at Mitch's trailer?”
“A neighbor called the locals. Errol was there alone. He talked his way through it, but we're blown there. If we're going to keep an eye on the trailer, we'll have to find another way to do it.”
She refilled their glasses from the bottle.
“You trying to get me drunk?” he said.
“I have the feeling nobody gets you anything you don't want to be.”
“Not sure of your grammar there, but you're probably right.”
She got up, scraped their plates into the trash, rinsed them in the sink. As she moved, the cardigan rode up slightly on one side, showing an inch of skin. He got up, resealed the leftover food containers, found room for them in the refrigerator.
“Isn't this a cozy domestic scene,” she said.
“Make you uncomfortable?”
“I'm not sure. I guess it's just been such a long time since I've led anything even close to a normal life.”
“We don't always get to pick and choose how we're going to live our lives,” he said. “Things happen.” He sat back down.
She leaned against the counter, sipped wine.
“Amen to that. You're an interesting man, you know that? Not at all the way I envisioned someone in your business being.”
“I could say the same for you.”
“Touché.”
“I'm sorry. That was wrong.”
“Don't apologize. I know what I've done. I made choices. If I had to make them again, I'd do it differently. But you don't get to do that.”
“No.”
“I could tell you about things that happened to me, in my childhood. And you'd say, âOh yeah, that explains it.' But it wouldn't be totally true, would it?”
“It never is.”
“Tell me about this woman. The one in Seattle.”
He reached for the wine bottle, turned it to look at the label.
“I'm not sure what to say.”
“Is she coming back?”
“I don't know. She said she would. I hope she does.”
“You look so sad when you say that.”
He didn't answer.
“And will you get married again? Someday?”
“I don't know.”
“You're a Man of Mystery, you know that? I'm supposed to be the one with the past. Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“A secret. Something you're ashamed of. Something that happened in your life. Something you did, something you felt.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. Maybe I just want to level the playing field a little.”
“I told you a lot.”
“Not really. Me, on the other hand, my life's an open book now, isn't it? You know everything I've done, every low I hit.”
“I don't judge. It's none of my business.”
“You're right, you don't judge. And you don't ask too many questions either. Even when I've volunteered to answer them, whatever they are. Not many men would pass up that opportunity.”
“Like I said, none of my business.”
“Knowing what I did out there, how I made a living. It doesn't make you curious?”
“You'll tell me what you want to tell me, and when.”
“You think I'm embarrassed by it? I'm not. I did what I had to do. I made my choices. It's easy to get hooked up with the wrong people, sure. And that business eats you up. But there's always another factor, a decision you make somewhere along the line. Some women I've knownâhere and out thereâlook at themselves as victims. I never have.”
“I know that. I admire it.”
“I don't hate Johnny. I never did. I hated myself for what I let myself become, how I let things get away from me. But I never blamed Johnny.”
“Maybe you should.”
She shook her head.
“On one level, it's got nothing to do with him, does it? I've made mistakes. I have to pay for them, find a way through, control the damage. I don't want to see Johnny dead or back in jail. I just want him out of the way so that I can start making things right again. I can't have him here, now, at this point in my life. He'll destroy everything I've built, everything I'm building. He'd ruin everything just to prove he can. For the boy too, if he finds him.”
“Then that doesn't leave a lot of choices, does it?”
“I don't know. I've been thinking. Maybe I should just call him, talk to him. You've got that phone number.”
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“I've always been able to deal with him in the past. Even the way he was, I could always talk to him.”
“He's been in prison for seven years. You think that improved his personality? No, I don't think you should call.”
“I feel like I'm running away again. Putting other people at risk, making them deal with my problems. It's an issue I've always had, relying too much on other people. It got me into a lot of trouble. I thought I was through with it, knew better. But now I'm slipping into it again.”
“You can't do everything yourself. And there's other issues at stake here. The boy.”
“Yes.”
“You made the right decision. Don't second-guess it now. Everything's going to be okay.”
“I have the feeling that's a phrase you're pretty free and easy with. Meant to reassure. But not always true.”
He didn't know what to say to that.
“Excuse me,” she said and set her glass on the counter, left the kitchen. He heard her feet on the stairs.
He got up, recorked the wine, took his glass out into the living room. Somewhere a church bell was tolling the time.
He sat on the leather couch, waited. After ten minutes, she still hadn't come down. He went to the foot of the stairs, called up.
“Nikki?”
No answer.
“Nikki?”
He listened, then went quietly up the carpeted stairs. Three doors opened off the hall, one of them slightly ajar, light inside.
“Nikki?”
“In here,” she said.
He put his fingers on the door, pushed it wider. It was a small bedroom, a dresser against one wall, a closet. There was a single lamp atop a nightstand, a nylon scarf thrown over the shade, bathing the room in a bluish light.
She had her back to him, was going through the nightstand
drawer. She came out with a blue candle in a glass, a pack of matches. She lit it, set it on the nightstand. The flame flickered, and after a moment, the smell of jasmine drifted over to him.
“There we go,” she said, switching the lamp off and turning to face him. Shadows fell against the wall, danced.
“You don't have to stay,” she said. “I'll understand.”
He was frozen.
“You could leave right now,” she said. “I wouldn't blame you.”
He shook his head. She came closer and he smelled fresh perfume, vanilla musk.
He touched the side of her face lightly, felt her tremble as he trailed his hand down her throat, her collarbone. He could feel the pulse of her, the thump of her heart.
He leaned close and their lips met, hers opening under his. He tasted the sweetness of the wine, broke off the kiss to look at her. She met his eyes as he undid one button on her sweater, then another, exposing the sheer black bra beneath. He reached inside, cupped her warmth, felt her nipple harden. She closed her eyes.
He held the edges of the sweater, tugged gently, and the rest of the buttons undid themselves. One popped off, landed on the bed. He kissed her again, both hands on her now, and slipped the sweater off her shoulders, let it fall silently to the floor. She leaned into him, eyes still closed, mouth open. He tasted her tongue, cupped her buttocks through the jeans. She began to pull at his belt, unsnapping, unzipping, kissing him harder, hungry. He reached back with one hand and gently pushed the door shut.
Â
It had started to snow lightly, flakes blowing up against the window. She had found three more candles in Jack and Reggie's room, along with a package of condoms. The room was filled with a yellow glow, flickering shadows.
He got up, walked naked to the window, the floor cold under his feet. He held the curtain aside and looked down at
the quiet street, the Mustang already covered with a dusting of snow.
When he looked back at her she was lying on her side in the tangled sheets, her bare back to him. He could see the yellow and red butterfly just above the cleft of her buttocks.
“Is it snowing?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Almost Christmas. The year's gone by so fast.”
He went back to bed and she slid over to give him room. He lay on his left side, propped on an elbow, looking at her, put a hand on her hip. He thought of Cristina, imagined for a moment it was her beside him.
She rolled to face him. Candlelight glinted off the small gold ring in her navel.
“How long has it been since you've been with someone?” she said.
“A long time.”
“I could tell. For me too, hard as that is to imagine. You're the first man I've slept with since I've been back here. That's the truth.”
“I'm flattered.”
“Not that much, I hope. It's not like you're part of an exclusive club, you know.”
“You don't need to talk about that. About then.”
“Sorry. It just feels strange. I used to do it for a living once. And then I stopped doing it altogether.”
“So what's strange?”
“This was different. I wanted to be with you because I liked you, was attracted to you.”
He reached beneath the sheet, ran his palm along the smoothness of her thigh.
“Nothing else?” he said.
“And I guess, to a certain extent, because I wanted to thank you. For caring. Does that bother you?”
“No, not at all.”
“I hope you weren't disappointed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Men I metâin Californiaâwhen they knew I was in the business, they expected some sort of three-ring circus in bed. Especially if they saw some of the movies I was in. They never seemed to understand I was acting.”
“Like I said, you don't have to tell me about that. Any of it. It doesn't matter to me.”
“You say that, but I'd bet you on some level it does. And I'm sure you were happy when you saw those.” She nodded at the open condom packets on the nightstand. “You can't tell me you weren't thinking about that. What I might have.”
He didn't answer. She folded a pillow behind her, sat back against the headboard.
“How do you feel?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Guilty?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't let yourself get deluded,” she said. “About this. Don't let it screw anything else up.”
He tugged the sheet gently down to expose her right breast, kissed it, ran his tongue around the nipple, felt her respond. There was a thin pale scar about three inches long that curled up from under her breast, visible only from the side. He kissed the skin there, traced the outline of the scar with his tongue.
“Do you know what that's from?” she said.
“I think so.”
“When I got out there, everybody told me I should have it done. It took me two months to raise the money. Then, just before I came back here, I went to the same doctor, had him take them out.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't want them anymore, didn't need them. And I'd forgotten what I looked like without them.”