Courting Trouble

Dietz isn’t your enemy in Chipster.”

“I know. His wife is.”

“Wrong. You’re the lawyer. Your opponent is her lawyer. Matt Booker.”

“Of course.” Anne resolved instantly not to tell Bennie her feelings for Matt, and vice versa. “That’s a given.”

Bennie squeezed Anne’s shoulder. “Do me a favor and go to sleep. You’re running on adrenaline, and you have a big day tomorrow. Now, good night.” She turned and padded out, sniffling, with Bear click- clicking after her down the hall.

Anne took a deep breath and resumed her search. She eliminated 302 through 397, hoping against all odds that this would be her Bill Dietz. She slowed just after 426, then clicked on the very last entry, feeling unaccountably as if she were rolling the dice. But the screen read only: William Dietz, birth date 3/15/80, Cochranville, PA. Misdemeanor theft.

“No!” Anne said aloud, without meaning to. There was nothing. Mel picked his head up quickly, his ears flat.

Anne felt suddenly lost. She had been wrong. Bill Dietz did not have a criminal record. He was just a jealous, protective husband who had committed no crime, not even a misdemeanor. She felt stupid, useless, and depleted of energy and emotion. Nothing was going right. She was too exhausted to think. It had been too crazy a day.

She got up, turned out the desk light, shimmied out of her skirt, and slid into bed, slipping under the covers in her T-shirt. In time, the house fell quiet except for a loud, breathy snoring from Bennie’s bedroom down the hall. Anne assumed it was the dog, and hoped that she hadn’t made Bennie completely sick. At the foot of the bed, Mel circled a few times, then curled against her covered feet, just like home. But it didn’t feel like home. She could never go home again. She lay in the dark, feeling suddenly that she didn’t belong anywhere, with anyone. She had lost whatever context she had. It was just as Bennie had said, with characteristic bluntness:

You don’t have anywhere else to go.

Anne closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, and in a minute the snoring from down the hall was joined by street noises. Cars honked, people laughed and yelled, fireworks went off. A party somewhere must have ended, or she just hadn’t heard the noises before. She put the down pillow over her head but it didn’t help. It wasn’t her bed, and she missed her own pillow, with its woven photo of Lucy kissing Desi from “Redecorating the Mertzes’ Apartment.” Episode No. 74, November 23, 1953.

Anne flopped over and tried not to think about her house, then Willa, who had died there. And her mother, whose daisies did nothing to scent the room. And Mrs. Brown, sitting all by herself with her puzzle books. And especially not Kevin, with his gun. Would they be able to catch him tomorrow, at the memorial service? They had to. After losing him today, it was her last chance.

An hour later, she still hadn’t fallen asleep. She was jittery and anxious. She flopped back and forth, thinking of Matt. His flowers on her front stoop. The emotion in his voice at the office. The way he’d looked, grief-stricken. Would he come to her memorial service? She wished she could tell him she was alive, and she wished she could see him. She felt a politically incorrect need for a strong shoulder to cry on, a warm chest to burrow into. Anne loved men, and, before Kevin, she had dated a lot; fallen in and out of love a few times, and been very happy. Was Matt where she belonged?

Fifteen minutes later, Anne had dressed, closed Mel in her bedroom, and grabbed her messenger bag, which contained her cell phone and a borrowed revolver. It had been almost too easy to sneak into Bennie’s bedroom and steal the gun from the drawer. The snoring had been the dog’s, thank God.

She steered the Mustang through the streets of Philadelphia. She knew she was taking a risk being out, but it was calculated. She could protect herself, and her odds of seeing Kevin were slim to none. He’d be hiding from the cops, laying low, and still he had no reason to think she was alive. It was almost two in the morning, but the sidewalks were hardly deserted. Tourists club-hopped and walked in groups, laughing, talking, and holding hands. People carried brown bags with bottles inside or swung six-packs joined by plastic loops.

Anne cruised to a red light, eyeing the partiers on the street. No Kevin. The night was sultry, with a wildness in the air. Everybody was misbehaving, Anne most of all. Driving where she shouldn’t be, for no justifiable reason. All bets were off. She pointed the Mustang toward the colonial part of the city and Matt’s house. She had gotten the address from 411, but hadn’t called ahead. Olde City lay east, centering on Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence had been signed. It would be the most crowded section of the city, now that Philly was throwing itself the nation’s birthday party. She sped downtown, and soon colonial brick rowhouses covered with ivy were whizzing past the car window.

Anne could feel the summer night ruffling her short hair, and accelerated. She forgot about her mother and the Chipster case. Put distance between herself and Kevin. She felt like she did when she first moved here. Hopeful. Excited. Her heartbeat quickened. She drove around for a parking space and finally took an illegal one out of necessity; even at this hour of the morning, the holiday partied on. She cut the ignition and was about to go when she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. She had forgotten her lipstick. The stitch in the middle of her upper lip showed.

So be it.

She reached for her purse, removed the revolver, and stuck it in the waistband of her skirt, just in case. She slipped on her sunglasses and climbed out of the Mustang with a confidence that comes cheap with a concealed weapon. She walked a few blocks until she found Matt’s house, a brick rowhouse like hers, only with older brick, a faded, crumbly melon color. The shutters and door were black, and a light was on on the first floor, shining through the blinds, so he must be working late, as she had been. She knocked on the front door and after a minute, the outside light went on and the door swung open.

Anne gasped when she saw Matt. “What happened?” she asked, astonished.

16

Matt looked like he’d been punched in the face. An inch-long cut tore though his left cheek, jagged and freshly red, and underneath it rose a goose egg, almost swelling closed his left eye. He still had on his Oxford shirt, but it was spattered with tiny droplets of blood. His one good eye widened at the sight of Anne.

His lips parted in disbelief. He bent closer and peered into her face. “My God, you look like—”

“I am. It’s me. Anne. See?” She took off her sunglasses, not wanting to linger on his front stoop. A couple on the street was already turning around. She didn’t think they could see her, much less recognize her, but still. “Let me in, Matt. I’ll explain inside. It was all a mistake. I’m alive.”

“What? Anne? A mistake? Alive?” Matt stalled in confusion, so Anne took his arm and pressed him into the house, shutting the door behind them. A lamp was on in the living room, which had exposed-brick walls and a contemporary black couch and chairs. Yellow legal pads, Xeroxed cases, and documents with the Chipster.com logo covered the coffee table and buried a laptop. Matt’s house was enemy headquarters, but Anne couldn’t think of it that way. Or him that way, no matter what Bennie had said. He was bursting into a joyous smile at the sight of her, alive in the lamplight.

“My God! Anne, it is you! I see you! Anne!”

“Like my new hair?” she asked, flicking it with her fingers, but before she could fish for more compliments, Matt had gathered her up in his arms. He felt strong and solid, and relief flooded through her body, spreading warm as lifeblood. It was so good just to be held, even by someone who had never held her before.

“You’re not dead!” Matt began laughing, with evident relief. He squeezed Anne tighter, his arms so long they wrapped almost completely around her. “I can’t believe it! I’m not letting you go! I have you. I have you now!”

Anne hugged him back, letting her emotions come, and felt a tear slide down her cheek. She hadn’t cried since her shower, which seemed like ages ago. She buried her face in the rough cotton of Matt’s shirt, nestling against his chest. She didn’t know if she belonged here, but she needed someone to lean on, and hadn’t realized how much until this very minute.

“Tell me what happened. No, don’t! Forget it. Don’t talk, I want to talk. I have something to say. I’ve been regretting not saying it every minute since I heard you were dead.” Matt released her and looked down at her, wiping wetness from her cheek with a warm thumb. “Don’t cry, this is a good thing. What I have to say is—I love you, Anne.”