back and plunked herself down on my lap.
'You've come to the right place,' she said. 'I can help you.'
I grinned and we kissed each other. 'Do you have a diagnosis?' I said.
'Fucking crazy,' Susan said.
'Never mind the technical jargon,' I said. 'Is there hope?'
'Our best chance is maintenance,' Susan said. 'I don't think we can plan on improvement.'
I put my head against her chest. Her perfume smelled expensive. I could feel her heart pulsing.
'You okay?' Susan said.
'I don't know,' I said. 'I need to eat dinner and talk.'
'I am supposed to have dinner with Patti Greiff,' Susan said.
I nodded.
'I'm meeting her at the Harvest,' Susan said. 'Want to join us and afterwards, you and I can talk?'
'Sure.'
It was dark on Brattle Street and the lights of the American Rep Theatre gleamed happily through the wide glass windows. The windows of the croissant shop were steamy and the display windows of Crate and Barrel in the Design Research Building were full of colorful knickknacks and elegant folding chairs. We turned in through the courtyard of the Design Research Building and walked to the end where the Harvest Restaurant nestled in the far left corner. Susan was holding my hand.
It was cold and Susan was wearing her silver fox fur with the red fox collar turned up. There was something about the mingle of cologne and fur and cold air that made her seem even more beautiful than she usually seemed. We were quiet as we walked.
It was warm and noisy in the Harvest. To the left the bar was crowded with people who hoped to meet each other. Ahead of us a stunning blond-haired woman waved at us from a booth. She wore a wide-brimmed gray felt hat. Her black-and-white-checked coat was open and thrown back off her shoulders.
'There's Patti,' Susan said.
'I'll say.'
We slid into the booth across from Patti. And Susan introduced us.
'The BF?' Patti said.
'Isn't he adorable?' Susan said.
'Hunkus Americanus,' Patti said. She cocked her head. 'Maybe a little bit scary-looking.'
'It's my steely blue stare,' I said. 'I can't help it.'
Dinner passed easily. Patti and Susan had been friends for a long time, and I spent much of the evening at the periphery of their interest. When dinner was over, Patti took the check.
'I've waited years to meet you,' she said. 'Let me celebrate by paying.'
We left the Harvest. Outside Patti gave Susan a squeeze.
'Take care,' she said. 'It was lovely to meet him.'
'He's happy to have met you too,' I said.
'He's quieter than I'd have guessed,' Patti said.
'Yes,' Susan said. 'He is.'
Patti went to her car. Susan and I walked through Harvard Square. We held hands. Our breath hung in the air. In a recessed doorway a young man played guitar and sang into a microphone, a single speaker set up, and beside it the guitar case open for donations.
'You are quieter than I'd have guessed,' Susan said.
'I know. It's why I came home.'
'Yes. We are each other's home, aren't we?'
'It's bad in Wheaton,' I said.
Susan was quiet.
'There's a woman whose husband was murdered and then a few days later her son was murdered.'
'Part of the drug business?'
'Probably,' I said. 'The thing is, I probably caused both killings.'
'How?'
'Doing what I do,' I said. 'Poking, pushing, following, looking.'
'And?'
'The woman's husband was the police chief.'
'Rogers,' Susan said. She probably lost the key to something about once a month, but in human matters she never forgot anything.
