breeze.
Terry unplugged the old box fan and wound the cord. Then he replaced his tools in their box, and carefully refolded the tarp so nothing would get on the carpet. He stooped gracefully for his Budweiser can, which he’d placed on his clipboard, tilted back his head, and finished his beer.
“Mind if I wash my hands?” he asked.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, first door on your right.”
He placed the empty beer can on the smoothly running air conditioner, then made his way past her and down the hall. Nell knew he’d see her makeup, her toothbrush, intimate things. Maybe he’d sneak a look in the medicine cabinet and see the Midol. Maybe he’d look in the bottom vanity drawer and see her hair drier and her vibrator.
Can’t get much more intimate than that.
For some reason, she didn’t care.
“I bet you made a good cop,” she said, when he returned with freshly scrubbed, almost clean hands. “Got great reviews.”
“They said I was convincing.”
“I can imagine.”
“You should catch me when I perform sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
He crossed the room and picked up his clipboard and toolbox. Then he tucked the folded tarp beneath his arm. With his free hand, he picked up the box fan. Fully laden, he glanced at the empty beer can, then at her.
“I’ll get it later,” she said. “Want me to write you a check?”
“Not necessary. I’ll bill you.”
He started toward the door, then turned as if he’d forgotten something. But he didn’t look anywhere other than at Nell. She hadn’t risen from the sofa.
“Anything else you need?” he asked.
“Need? Maybe the refrigerator. You do refrigerators?”
“I do whatever needs doing.”
“Mine’s been heating up lately.”
“Your refrigerator?”
“No”
He carefully placed the fan, his toolbox, tarp, and clipboard on the floor and moved toward her.
“Everything in the damned place is overheated,” she said. “I guess I need a Mr. Fixit.”
He sat down next to her on the sofa.
“We’ll fix that.”
35
Beam parked his Lincoln in a patch of shade across the street from Things Past. The space was available because it was a loading zone, complete with signs that threatened potential parkers with everything from arrest to castration. Nola knew the car and sooner or later would see it out the shop’s window. He didn’t care if she knew he was there. Maybe she’d think he was harassing her, and she’d come outside and walk over and complain. He wouldn’t mind; he wanted very much to have any kind of communication with her.
Christ! I am harassing her. Just like one of those stalkers women phone the police about.
There was always the possibility Nola would call the police, and they’d send a car to investigate her complaint. That would be, among other things, embarrassing.
And there was always the possibility that she’d simply ignore him.
Beam’s injured leg was starting to ache and stiffen up from sitting in one position for so long. It didn’t do that often; maybe it was trying to tell him something.
He propped the NYPD placard on the dashboard where it was visible, then he opened the door and used it to brace himself as he climbed out of the Lincoln. After waiting for a string of cars to pass, he crossed the street to the antique shop. He’d been parked there for twenty minutes and hadn’t seen anyone come or go. Does she ever sell anything?
By the time he’d crossed the street, he was no longer limping. The warm sun felt good on his back and leg. At the shop’s door, with its OPEN sign dangling crookedly in its window, he hesitated.
Then he remembered what Cassie had told him: “…she needs to forgive you.”
He wasn’t sure precisely why his sister had come to that conclusion, but she was right enough often enough to give him confidence now. He opened the door and went inside. The muted little bell above his head sounded the customer alarm.
He seemed to be the only one in the shop.
Finally, alerted by the bell, Nola came in through an open door behind the counter. Her hair was pulled back, emphasizing her wide cheekbones and large dark eyes. The simple blue dress she had on wasn’t meant to be sexy, but on her it was. Something about the way her body moved beneath the loosely draped material, what was and wasn’t apparent. She was a woman with a subtle rhythm all her own. The thing about women that attracted and seduced was individual and rhythmic, Beam thought. Maybe it was a subtle synthesis of rhythms. He didn’t understand it, but he sensed it was true.
Nola didn’t look surprised to see him. “You get overheated sitting out there in your car?”
“It isn’t much cooler in here,” Beam said, aware not only of the warmth, but of the musty scent of the surrounding objects, the past.
“I’ll complain to the landlord.” She didn’t seem angry that he’d turned up again. She didn’t seem pleased. “What do you want, Beam?”
“I think we need to talk.”
“You need to talk.”
“We both do,” Beam said. “To each other.”
She rested her hand on an old black rotary phone on the counter. “I should pick up the phone, call the precinct, tell them I’m being threatened and I’m afraid.”
“You’re not being threatened and you’re not afraid.”
“But I could pick up the phone and call.”
“Go ahead.”
He waited, but she didn’t move. Didn’t look away from him. Nothing in the world was darker than the very center of her eyes. “I know you’ve asked people in the neighborhood about me, Beam. You wanted to know if I was married, if I was involved with anyone.”
“I did that, yes.”
Her hand didn’t move off the phone. “What is this we need to talk about?” she asked.
There was a good question. But the answer came to him immediately. “Harry.”
“He was my husband.”
“He was my friend.”
“Did he trust you? His friend? The cop who owned him and was bending his arm?”
“Yes. And he trusted you. He was right to trust us both. I don’t deny I wanted you. But I never moved on it. Never touched you. I was married. And you were Harry’s wife.”
“I’m still Harry’s wife.”
“Not any longer.”
“Your wife is dead now.”
The simple statement, coming from her, didn’t carry the weight and pain it might have. He was appalled, and then relieved, that he could hear it and not be pierced by grief and loneliness.
“You’re right, she’s dead,” he said. “And so is Harry.”
“You want to screw me. You want me to forgive you.”
“Yes.”
“One doesn’t necessarily follow the other.”
