Bare Bones

Ryan and I sat at a small wrought-iron table in the restaurant’s cobbled courtyard. Behind us, a fountain tinkled softly. To our left, a couple debated the mountains versus the beach. A female threesome on our right compared golf handicaps.

Ryan sported tan Dockers and a crisp cotton shirt the exact cornflower blue of his eyes. His face was tan from the Kings Mountain outing, his hair still shower wet.

He looked good.

Very good.

I wasn’t chopped liver myself.

Man-eater black linen sundress. Strap sandals. Guatemalan Victoria’s most secret thong.

The last few days had served up too many corpses and too much death. I’d made a decision. Like my neckline, I was taking the plunge.

“Does everyone in North Carolina play golf?” Ryan asked, as a white-shirted waiter handed us menus the size of legal briefs.

“It’s state law.”

The waiter inquired as to our cocktail preferences. Ryan asked for a Sam Adams. I ordered Perrier with lemon. Barely masking his disappointment, the waiter withdrew.

“Do you?”

I looked at Ryan. He dragged his gaze from my chest to my eyes.

“Play golf.”

“I’ve had a few lessons.”

In truth, I hadn’t swung a club in years. Golf was Pete’s thing. When I left my husband, I left the game. My handicap was probably a forty-two.

The woman to our right was claiming six strokes.

“Would you like to hit a few balls?” I asked.

Since Pete and I had never legally terminated our marriage, technically I was still a spouse and could use the facilities at Carmel Country Club.

Why hadn’t I done the paperwork? I wondered for the zillionth time. Pete and I had been separated for years. Why not cut the cord and move on?

Was it a cord?

Not the time, Brennan.

“Could be fun,” Ryan said, reaching across the table to place his hand on mine.

Definitely not the time.

“Of course, Hooch wouldn’t like being left out.”

“His name is Boyd.” My voice sounded as though I’d inhaled helium.

“Hooch must learn to enjoy the serenity of his own inner beauty. Maybe you could get him started on yoga.”

“I’ll mention that to Pete.”

The waiter returned with our drinks, explained the menu. Ryan ordered the sea bass. I went for the veal Marsala, carefully leaving my palm on the table.

When the waiter departed, Ryan’s hand came back to mine. His face showed a mixture of concern and confusion.

“You’re not nervous about tomorrow, are you?”

“No,” I scoffed.

Really, no.

“You seem tense.”

“I’m just disappointed about the beach.”

Ryan tiptoed his fingertips up my arm.

“I’ve been waiting these many years to see you in a string bikini.”

The fingers spidered back down.

“We will get to the beach.”

If goose bumps can burn, mine did.

I cleared my throat.

“There are scores of unmarked graves on these old farms. Those hand bones have probably been underground since Cornwallis crossed Cowans Ford.”

At that moment the waiter placed salads between us.

We switched gears during dinner, talking about everything but ourselves and our work. Not a word about