Stein was in near total hypnosis. Still he managed a passable opening line. “That couldn’t be possible because if I knew a friend of yours I would know about you. And if I knew you for even ten seconds longer than I already do, I would have asked you to marry me.” He counted down without missing a beat. “Nine, eight, seven…”
“I’m Brian Goodpasture’s friend.”
“Ah.” The countdown aborted and he released her appendage.
“I wonder if you’d mind making me a cup of tea.” Before he realized that meant she might want to come inside, she had stepped inside. Upstairs, Angie’s stereo amped out a Tori Amos CD, her plaintive voice tobogganing through octaves of tortured love.
“Forgive the mess. I have a teenager.”
Nicholette moved familiarly through the roomscape as though she had been here many times. Stein became aware of how a person who never met him would perceive the place and the person who lived in it. She found the chair in the breakfast nook where Angie had splayed her books out that morning. “Is this all right?”
“Anywhere you’re comfortable. He bustled past her into the kitchen, there rifled through the cabinet above the counter. “I have mint, chamomile, English Breakfast, licorice.”
“Or actually, juice would be fine if you have it.”
“I think so.” Stein knelt at the open refrigerator door, giving Nicholette ample time to come up behind him, drape her arms languidly over his neck, press her breasts against his back, envelop him in the chrysalis of her stupendously luxuriant hair, if that had been any part of her reason for coming here.
“Boysenberry-apple OK?”
“That’s fine.”
He brought the juice to the table and watched her lips engage with the glass, part slightly to allow the fortunate liquid to pass through, and followed its pilgrimage along the furrow of her tongue down through the shimmer of tiny convulsions below her chin. She put her glass down after a sip and got to her business.
“Brian’s disappeared,” she said.
He immediately wished that his response had been more clever than “What?”
“He called me right after he left you this morning. We made plans to meet at noon for lunch. He never arrived.”
“That was just a few hours ago. Why would you think he’s disappeared?”
“He’s extremely punctual. At twelve-fifteen, when he hadn’t arrived, I called him in his car. Then at home. Then on his pager. Then at another private number. I tried them all again at ten minute intervals for an hour. I called friends who always know his whereabouts. As far as I can tell, you were the last person who saw him.”
“Miss Bradley, I-”
“Call me Nikki, please.” Her fingertips grazed his forearm. The feeling that went through him transcended any trivial concern about whether the act was unconscious or contrived. He would happily live forever in that state of ecstatic anticipation.
“He’s lucky to have someone that cares so much about him,” Stein managed to say. “But I’m sure he’s fine. Why shouldn’t he be?”
“You’re right. Nobody in the world ever died.”
Stein carefully modulated his voice so that its amplitude would not travel upstairs. “Do you think he may have died?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Maybe you ought to go to the police.”
“You know Brian’s business.”
“Still. Death trumps weed.”
“He was sure you were going to change your mind. He said if you saw a person in need you would never turn her away. Do you see a person in need here, Mister Stein?”
All of his instincts surged forward to say yes. He could feel the tectonic grinding of his internal plates, knowing that he would have to refuse.
“The thing is, I don’t see how I could really help. I don’t know his friends or anything about him. I wouldn’t know where to look, who to call. I don’t know what I could add.”
“If there was something very simple, very specific you could add, would you help?” He came close to touching her hand. He touched the neck of the juice glass.
“What would that be?”
“Would you drive with me to his house?”
Her request was so disarmingly small, calling only for an act of the most basic chivalry and kindness. He made a lame gesture of apology citing the sounds from upstairs. “I’m sorry. I just can’t get away.”
She took a card from her purse, wrote some numbers on the back and handed it to him. The card was a miniature cover of Vogue magazine, with an incredibly sexy photograph of her. “I hope Brian didn’t misjudge you,” she said.
Stein stood in his open doorway breathing in the wake of aroma that trailed behind Nicholette as she runway-strode beneath the arbor of bougainvillea out of the courtyard to the street. The feeling recalled looking up at the comet Hale-Bopp the last evening it would be visible after its month-long sojourn across the western sky, and the inexplicable ache of nostalgia he had felt knowing that he would never see its light again. Nicholette had written Goodpasture’s phone numbers on the back of the card along with her address. Stein had a strong impulse to call him. But that would have to wait until after Round Two with Angie. He climbed the stairs toward her door, which was half open. Tori Amos was still playing and an I Love Lucy rerun was on TV. Angie was sprawled out on her bed amongst books and clothes, talking on the phone.
“I thought you were supposed to be studying.”
“I am studying.”
“We need to talk.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Would you mind? His gesture implied that she turn off the distractions.
“I multi-task.”
He waited. And ultimately she hung up, logged out, turned off.
“Tell me about the weed.”
“Who was that woman?
“Nobody. A friend of a friend.”
“Are you dating her?”
“The weed, Angie.”
“You should marry Lila.”
“Lila is a friend not a girlfriend. This conversation is about you.”
“Of course I’ve smoked it. Who hasn’t? It’s not that big a deal.”
“It’s not that big a deal? Is that what you’re saying?”
“If you knew what other people at school were doing.”
“This is not about other people.”
“But if you knew.”
“If I knew I’d be terrified.”
“You’d be glad all I was doing was smoking weed.”
“I’m not just glad I’m thrilled.”
She made that face that said how much longer into the century do you plan for this to go on?
“As long as we’re being honest, Angie, do you smoke regularly?”
“As long as we’re being honest, do you?”
“Do I?”
She was giggling at him now. “Mom showed me some of the pictures of you in your hippie days.” She grabbed her backpack from the pile of books and clothing and CD boxes on her bed, and after rummaging about in it, found the black-and-white photo she’d been hunting for. “How could you think a beard and a pony tail looked cool?” She draped her arms over his shoulders while they commiserated over the picture.
“Thanks for the Kodak moment. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
