“I was surprised you called,” she told him.
“Why?”
“And then I wasn’t.”
Schmidt looked over and back to the road. “Okay, Tina, why weren’t you surprised?”
“It’s the idea.”
“What idea is that?”
“She’s taking a trip without you.”
“She’s doing a piece, she’s working. So am I.”
Tina nodded.
We’re linked, Schmidt thought. The three of us. Tina had gone through what happened last spring. They were all connected now, and so was Marion Ross. But Marion had distractions. Her family, her law practice. Life for Marion had more or less rediscovered its grooves and routines. The three of us are different, he thought.
“Just so you know up front,” Tina said, “Brenda called me after talking to you. And I don’t presume to know anything.”
“She told you? What did she say?”
“Just that it was over between you.”
Schmidt didn’t look over, but he wondered what had passed between them. “That’s pretty much what she told me,” he said. “Not to my face, over the phone.”
“Of course not to your face. She’d never be able to.” Schmidt kept his eyes on the pickup truck in front of him.
“Charlie—” Now he looked at her, and back to the pickup. “You need to talk about this,” Tina said. “That’s why you called me. We’re out on a date, you and I. We’re friends. This is not charity bestowed on an MS patient. I know that. We all went through something very bad. You call me up, and we go out because we’re good company for each other.”
“True,” he said.
“Look, it’s starting to snow.”
Flakes dropping on the windshield clung a second before melting on the warm glass. Schmidt put on the windshield wipers before again glancing over. Tina’s gloved hands were folded in her lap. She was wearing a wool beret that matched her navy polo coat. Just now, her large hazel eyes seemed especially sharp. Schmidt looked back to the road.
“Well, come on,” he said finally. “What did she say? I thought we were fine.”
“Charlie, please. This attractive young woman I know you love plans a trip to Florida. You casually ask if you’re invited. She tells you no, it’s over between you. I don’t think it registered with you. She said you told her, fine, you had some painting to do. Like breaking up wouldn’t even get in the way of your chores.”
She was right. It had caught Schmidt off guard. Completely. But he now said, “I am painting.” There was no point in telling Tina about the junkie. “I was working before I picked you up.”
For no reason, the truth of this made Schmidt feel vindicated. “It registered with me,” he said. “I’m just not into spilling my guts, like I’m on Doctor Phil.”
He held out his right hand for her to see the paint in his cuticles.
“Yes, Charlie, you were painting.”
He put his hand back on the wheel. “The truth is, I didn’t expect it to last,” he said. “She’s half my age.”
“No, she isn’t. Not quite. Is that what drove you to paint?”
“Do you know—”
“That I’m a pain in the ass? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But you asked me out to talk about Brenda. That’s what we’re doing.”
“I think you’re treating something complex as though it’s simple,” he said. “There are things you don’t know.”
“It’s very complex,” Tina said. “You’re exaggerating when you say she’s half your age, but she’s much younger. And something else.” Tina turned in her seat. “You seem to forget you come with your own baggage. When she comes to visit, do you have any idea how intimidated Brenda is by your wife’s taste? She says your house is like a Martha Stewart time capsule.”
He ignored this. “She’s been with a lot of men.”
“I know that, too. Don’t change the subject.”
He frowned at this. But all the women Schmidt had ever known talked with other women about their personal lives. It was something about their bodies. Giving birth, breastfeeding and diapers, all the reminders of the body. That might explain why they confided information he would never share with another man.
“She’s an intellectual,” Schmidt said. “I’m a landlord. She writes books, I read the sports page.”
“I can’t believe this,” Tina said. “I’m a retired college English teacher. What the hell are you doing inviting me to dinner? Why are you making up all these excuses?”
“It’s different,” he said.
“Come on, Charlie. It’s been nine months, and you never introduced Brenda to your daughters.”
“She met Andy in July.”
“By chance. You were at a Milwaukee Brewers game. Andy showed up with his girl.”
Talking to Tina could be very frustrating. “You certainly know all the news there is to know,” he said.
Except she didn’t know all of it, by any means. Not the half of it. But she was right: he hadn’t introduced Brenda to his two girls. It had seemed too risky. They were so close to her age that he feared Ava and Beth would see the relationship as a betrayal of their mother. Or think the old boy was starting to lose it. He now wondered whether it was true. Not that he was going soft in the head, but that he had never believed he and Brenda could make it after Kettle Falls.
Schmidt felt…cornered. Ahead, the snowy night street was painted with neon. He saw the sign for Mader’s.
Tina again turned to him. “Before we go inside, there’s something I want to say about last spring.”
“Go ahead.”
“Brenda told me what actually happened.”
It shocked him. He felt his face redden. “She promised—”
“You two have never talked about it since. Not once. She needed to tell someone.”
Schmidt felt betrayed but couldn’t say why. Yes, he felt betrayed. Brenda had promised. It was their secret.
“Jerry Lomak threw Heather to her death,” Tina said. “Then Marion hit him in the back with a drag anchor. You and Brenda got there right after. You took Marion up to the hotel to call for help. Brenda stayed on the dock. Lomak was on his knees
