'I saw the governor at the wake,' I said.
'When it was just some horses, and not terribly valuable ones at that,' Penny said, 'no one was working that hard on it. Now that Daddy's been killed…'
'It has their attention,' I said. 'I can stick around pro bono for a while.'
'I couldn't ask you to do that.'
'It's not just for you,' I said. 'I don't like having a client shot out from under me.'
'I know, but no. I thank you for what you've done, and for being so decent a man. But I'd prefer that you left this to the police.'
'Okay,' I said.
'Please send me your final bill,' she said.
'Against the private eye rules,' I said. 'Your client gets shot, you don't bill his estate.'
'It's not your fault,' she said. 'I want a final bill.'
'Sure,' I said.
'You're not going to send one, are you.'
'No.'
I stood. She stood.
'You're a lovely man,' she said. 'Would you like to say goodbye to Hugger?'
I had no feelings one way or another about Hugger, but horse people are like that and she'd just called me a lovely man.
'Sure,' I said.
'Give him a carrot,' she said, and handed me one.
We walked in the now more insistent rain along the stable row until we came to Hugger's stall. He looked out, keeping his head stall side of the drip line, his big dark eyes looking, I suspected, far more profound than he was. I handed him a carrot on my open palm, and he lipped it in. I patted his nose and turned and Penny stood on her tiptoes and put her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the lips.
'Take care of yourself,' she said.
'You too,' I said.
The kiss was sisterly, with no heat in it, but she stayed leaning against me, with her arms still around my neck, and her head thrown back so she could look up at me.
'I'm sorry things didn't work out,' she said.
'Me too,' I said.
We stayed that way for a minute. Then she let go of me and stepped back and looked at me for another moment and turned and walked back to the stable office. I watched her go, and then turned the collar of my jacket up to keep the rain off my neck and headed for my car.
TWENTY-ONE
I ARRIVED BACK in Boston around three-thirty. By quarter to five I was in Susan's living room, showered and shaved and aromatic with aftershave, waiting for her when she got through work. I was sitting on the couch with Pearl, having a drink, when Susan came upstairs from her last patient.
She saw me, and smiled, and said hello, and patted Pearl and gave her a kiss, and walked past us into her bedroom. I could hear the shower, and in about fifteen minutes, Susan reappeared wearing a bath towel. She flipped the towel open and shut, like a flasher.
'Y'all want to get on in heah, Georgia boy?'
'That's the worst southern accent I've ever heard,' I said.
'I know,' she said, 'but everything else will be pretty good.'
'How could you be so sure I'd be responsive?' I said. 'Maybe I'm tired from the long drive.'
'I'm a psychotherapist,' Susan said. 'I know these things.'
'Amazing.'
When we made love, Susan liked to do the same things every time, which was less boring than it sounds, because it included about everything either of us knew how to do. She was also quite intense about it. Sometimes she was so fully in the moment that she seemed to have gone to a place I'd never been. Sometimes it took her several minutes, when we were through, to resurface.
As usual, when she had come back sufficiently, she got up and opened the bedroom door. Pearl came in and jumped on the bed and snuffled around, as if she suspected what might have happened here, and disapproved.
There was the usual jockeying for position before we finally got Pearl out from between us. She settled, as she always did, with a noise that suggested resignation, near the foot of the bed, and curled up and lay still, only her eyes moving as she watched Susan and me reintegrate our snuggle.
'Postcoital languor is more difficult with Pearl,' Susan said.
'But not impossible,' I said.
