Shooting At Loons Part 11

Lev looked thoughtful. "As you say, she's very persuasive. I did think things were a little further along."

"Like claiming t.i.tle to property she doesn't have?"

"Oh no. She's too sharp for that." He gave me a quizzical look. "You still haven't learned to play chess yet, have you?"

"I remember the moves," I lied.

"Well, Linville Pope has the makings of a natural chess player-always looking eight moves ahead. She sees the ramifications, knows that what happens on this move makes what happens later absolutely inevitable. I'm going to have to watch her closer than I realized. Interesting lady."

That I would never take chess seriously was one of the things that had rasped him. He loved the game's complexity and admired deviousness in his opponents.

I personally think that bridge and poker call for just as much deviousness. Of course, they also call for more than two players. Was that a fundamental difference?

"So how interesting would you say she is?" I asked, pus.h.i.+ng my plate aside. "Would she kill?"

"Not for any reason you've laid out here. The woman's bright, beautiful and seems to work hard and smart. Maybe she's a little too cute about the way she acquires property, but what she's offering your friend sounds like a good deal to me. I've looked that factory over from the outside and even if the fis.h.i.+ng continues, it's probably going to need a lot of capital repairs. I bet her whole operation wouldn't bring a half-million, if that, on today's market."

How casually he tossed off half a million dollars. I was suddenly remembering the tons of pasta we ate because his fellows.h.i.+p money always ran out before the month did.

"Do you still have that book-A Hundred Ways With Pasta?"

"Is that another dig about my current living standards?"

"Not to mention current moral standards if you don't see anything wrong with coercing someone to sell."

He went into his Daniel Webster mode. "You don't think your friend might have exaggerated?"

"Barbara Jean can go off half-c.o.c.ked," I conceded. "But not without something to light her fuse. She certainly didn't dream up that thing about a boat ramp and storage next door to her ancestral home."

"But accusing Linville of murdering a fisherman sounds like wishful thinking to me."

First it was poor Linville and then it was Linville the bright and beautiful. "Just how long have you known this woman anyhow?" I asked nastily.

"Long enough to know she wouldn't do something that vicious or stupid."

"Coffee?" chirped our waitress.

I nodded; Lev said, "Cappuccino?"

"Sorry, sir."

"Espresso, then."

"I'm sorry sir, we just have regular and decaf."

"Decaf then," he said ungraciously; and when she'd brought it, he grumbled, "If this town hopes to keep tourists coming back, it's going to have to get serious about its coffee."

"If the whole world turns into Manhattan, how will you know when you're on vacation?" I asked sweetly.

In a familiar gesture of exasperation, he ran his hand through his hair and wiry tufts stood up angrily. Some things even a fifty-dollar haircut can't change.

He saw my amus.e.m.e.nt, started to bristle and then suddenly smiled. "Why the h.e.l.l are we talking about Linville Pope and Barbara Jean What's-her-name and fishmeal factories when we should be talking about us? You know, I pictured a thousand times running into you again. I never expected to find you sitting on the bench in a little town on the Intracoastal Waterway."

I was willing to play and smiled back at him over my coffee cup. "How did you imagine it?"

"That we were both back in New York on a visit and we b.u.mped into each other over the cheese counter at Zabar's or standing in line for Cats or-"

"Only in Manhattan?" I teased gently.

"Nothing brought me down to Raleigh and I couldn't picture you in Boston. Were you?"

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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed right in front of my car. You had on white shorts and a red s.h.i.+rt and your hair was still long."

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Ah, what the h.e.l.l?" He pushed the candle away and signalled for the bill. "Let's walk."

a a a It always amazes me what walkers city people are. We've got the wide open s.p.a.ces 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s door to the lounge, Lev said, "Oh h.e.l.l!" and stepped back quickly.

Through the gla.s.s 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 c.o.c.ktail 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 ash.o.r.e. 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?

a a a 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 p.r.o.nounced. 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 cus.h.i.+ons softened the angles.

I slipped one of those cus.h.i.+ons under my head and watched lazily as Lev pulled ice cubes from the tiny refrigerator and gla.s.ses from a shallow cupboard.

"Still bourbon and-was it c.o.ke?" he asked.

"Pepsi, but c.o.ke'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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+rt, wildly impatient to feel and taste his skin again. His hair tangled in the crystal beads against my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I was trying to untangle them and he was undoing my b.u.t.tons, 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 reb.u.t.toned 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. Pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s, 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.

"G.o.d! What b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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."

a a a 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, d.a.m.n him to holy h.e.l.l, 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 "b.i.t.c.h 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 splas.h.i.+ng against the sh.o.r.e. 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.