The Midnight Tour

“That’s supposed to be my line,” Dana said.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t planning to use it, anyway.”

“Didn’t think so.” He smiled. Stepping back, he ran his hand across his mouth.

“Is everything all right?” Dana asked.

“Better than all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. But...I didn’t really expect to...you know...have things happen so fast.”

“I didn’t expect to like you so much,” Dana said.

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I go ahead and make the margaritas? Then we can sit around and have a few drinks and get to know each other a little better. How does that sound?”

“Sounds fine.” Maybe he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Something has to be wrong.

Maybe it’s my breath.

Maybe he’s secretly married.

Has a terminal illness.

Oh, God, don’t let it be anything terrible. Please. I really, really like this guy.

When Warren was done blending the margaritas, he filled two glasses and asked Dana to carry them.

“Where to?” she asked.

“How about the porch^? I’ve got a table out there.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” he said.

Dana carried the drinks to the porch. She found a small, wooden table at the far end. It looked clean, and had a red candle in the center. She set down the drinks.

Warren came in with a bowl of corn tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa.

They sat down on wicker chairs.

A mild breeze drifted in through the screens. Looking to her right, Dana could see through the trees to the ocean. The fog was still far out. She turned to Warren as he lifted his glass.

“To the prettiest girl I know,” he said.

“Thanks. To my favorite guy.”

They clinked the rims of their glasses together, then drank.

“Oh, this is really good,” Dana said.

“I made ’em Mexican style.”

“As opposed to?”

“U.S. restaurant-style. Be careful, though. They’re very strong.”

“I’ll drink slowly.”

Warren set down his glass. Smile fading, he looked Dana in the eyes. “You will stay for dinner, won’t you?”

“I’m invited, aren’t I?”

“I not only invited you, I ran home right afterwards to thaw out a steak and put it in marinate.”

“Can’t miss that. Unless you throw me out.”

“What about Lynn and the prowler?”

“Tuck?”

His smile returned. “Let’s not start that again.”

Dana smiled innocently and shrugged her shoulders. Then she said, “I think as long as I get back before very late.”

“Before dark?”

“Maybe not that early.”

“I tell you what. Just let me know.”

“When it is time to go, will you drive me?”

“That can probably be arranged.”

After pouring refills and adding a handful of chips to the bowl, Warren said, “I’d better get the fire started.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure. You want to bring my drink with you?”

“I’ll bring ’em both.” Dana stuffed a crisp, salty chip into her mouth, then got to her feet and picked up her glass and Warren’s.

Ever so slightly, the porch seemed to tilt.

“These babies are strong,” she said. “But deee-licious.”

Warren smiled back at her. At the far corner of the porch, he picked up a bag of charcoal briquettes and a tin of lighter fluid. He carried them to the screen door, bumped it open with his shoulder, and trotted down the stairs.

Dana followed him, moving slowly, being careful not to spill the drinks.

Just past the end of the porch, they stopped at a red brick fireplace. Warren removed the grill. Then he up- ended the sack of briquettes, sending black chunks tumbling out.

“This is like what they call a busman’s holiday,” Dana said.

“I guess so.”

“Here you’ve been slaving over a hot grill all day, and now you’re at it again.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I enjoy it.” He set down the bag, arranged some of the briquettes by hand, then set the black iron grill into place.

“I hear you own the snack stand,” Dana said.

“That’s right.” He started squirting fluid onto the pile of briquettes.

“How did you go from Beast House guide to snack stand owner?”

He squirted out more and more fluid. It made the briquettes look wet and shiny, but only for a moment. No sooner did they get soaked than they appeared to be dry again. Dry, but a slightly darker shade of black.

“Well,” Warren said, “I had to get out of the guide business.”

“How come?”

Shaking his head, he set down the can. “The house. It finally got to me.” He reached into a pocket of his white trousers and pulled out a book of matches. “I just couldn’t go in anymore.” Crouching, he struck a match. Its head flared. He touched the flame to a briquette. Blue and yellow fire began to spread over the surface. He moved his match to another lump. Then another. Soon, the entire pile was bathed in a low, fluttering fire. “That should do it,” he said.

He stepped over to Dana and accepted his glass.

Standing side by side, they sipped their margaritas.

Dana took deep breaths. She smelled the ocean, the pine trees, and the warm scents of the barbeque. The odor from the barbeque was mostly burning fuel, she supposed. But it was a good, familiar aroma. It reminded her of fine times when she was a kid and her father cooked steaks on their backyard grill.

“If it doesn’t go out,” Warren said, “I should be able to throw on the meat in about half an hour.”

“Sounds good.”

“Want to go back into the porch?”

“I’d rather stay here. This is nice.”

“It is nice.”

“So,” Dana said. She sipped her drink. “Let’s see. Yesterday, you were telling me how you had this huge attraction to Beast House. Like you belonged there.”

“I did.”

“So what happened? All of a sudden, you just muldn’t go in?”