“Touche.” Gavin smiled.
Brigid faced him then and nodded once. She was taking note of his challenge, registering it; he’d set out the ante and she’d met it. She didn’t raise him. She was waiting. Exercising some caution, for once.
“How are we on whiskey?” he asked.
She looked startled for a moment. “Out entirely,” she said, regaining composure. “Polished it off last night, Mr. Squire and myself, in fact.”
“Oh?” he said. “Oh,
“He’s not such a bleedin’ maggot as everyone thinks . . .”
Gavin looked surprised. And skeptical.
“I mean, he’s desperate sad . . .”
“And losing your wife doesn’t make that any easier.” Gavin shook his head, as if he had a clue what Lance was going through.
“He’s just full of wind and—”
“Maybe . . .”
“I just think he’s maybe not so up entirely brutal as all that.” It was hard to condemn a thirty-eight-year-old widower, especially one who, it seemed, had garnered nothing but condemnation for much of his life. It was even harder when considering Squee, because you wanted to think that somehow Lance might be able to be a good father to the kid. You wanted to hope, however far-fetched that hope might be.
“Getting sweet on old Lance, now?” Gavin teased.
“Course I am,” Brigid growled. “I just love a man in mourning.”
“Jesus!” he said.
Brigid sighed. “I’ve not rapid endeared myself to you now, have I?”
Gavin laughed a little. “You’re not exactly
“
“I’m sorry ...”
“Oh, you are, are you? Sorry for kissing me, or sorry for tearing off—”
“Wait a second,” he said, his voice silencing hers. “Wait. Look: I’m sorry. I just . . . Look, I’m just really confused these days. I’m not really sure what I want, OK? I’m just—”
Brigid cut him off defiantly. “Well, put some manners on yourself then, but don’t be—”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Shut your gob with ‘sorry’ already!”
“Jesus—why are you
“You haven’t done a thing, aside from shoving your tongue down my throat, which I quite enjoyed, so I won’t go on about it . . . Only you’ve pissed me off—”
“Look,” he interrupted her. “Look, can we just start over? Please? OK? Can we just start over from the beginning? Wipe the slate clean? Try this again?” His eyes entreated her; his hands were open in offering.
She let out a breath, an ironic laugh. She shook her head and, rolling her eyes, brushed the sand from her hand and held it out to him. “Brigid,” she said.
“Hi, Brigid, I’m Gavin,” he said, shaking her hand. “Really nice to meet you . . . So where’re you from, Brigid?”
“Bloody Americans.” Brigid snorted. “So bleedin’ friendly, the lot of you!”
WHEN IT WAS TIME to leave for Penny and Art’s, Squee ran and hid down in the ravine behind Eden’s house. Eden hollered his name into the twilight for half an hour, pleading, cajoling, begging, before she threatened to go get Roddy, who she was sure would be none too pleased with Squee for acting so irresponsibly at a time like this. Squee emerged, somber and reluctant, from the woods. “Don’t tell Roddy, OK?” he asked, and that was the last thing he said as Eden handed him a small old suitcase of Roderick’s packed with his washed and neatly folded clothes, and they drove down the hill to his grandparents’ house. Art had already gone to bed, but Penny greeted them at the door with a grandmotherly flourish and welcomed Squee inside like some sort of delicious prey. Eden stroked the boy’s hair as he stood beside her and paused a moment, her hand upon his head as though she were saying a prayer, before she bade them good night and made her way back to the car alone.
THE MECHANICS OF FLIGHT
THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR of Suzy and Mia’s room after dinner that evening, and Suzy leapt to answer it. If she was disappointed to discover that it was not Roddy, her surprise at seeing her father in the doorway certainly masked any other emotion. Suzy started, then regained herself and put up a hand to shush Bud as she slipped into the hall with him and took pains to close the door quietly behind her. “Mia’s finally asleep,” she explained.
