“I’m glad it’s nice for you,” Rayette said. “But we get bad days here.” She balled up the plastic and sipped her coffee. Nodded approval. “Last month? Cold, and I mean cold. All the flowers were under wraps. The nurseries lost a bundle.”
Brenda took a slice of cantaloupe and ate. “Delicious.” But it was too sweet, and she never ate before noon.
“Yeah—” Rayette popped in a piece of pineapple and chewed. She shook her head. “But it doesn’t seem right to enjoy something right now,” she said. “I was home when your ride dropped you off yesterday. You know, spying through the blinds. I saw Pat Sweeney with you.”
Here we go, Brenda thought. Now would come local gossip about the smiling lobbyist. She studied Rayette Peticore and remembered Sweeney’s missing wedding band. Still pretty, Rayette was now paying the price for life in the sun. Her deep tan both helped to conceal and emphasize weathered skin. But with or without breast implants, Rayette was someone Brenda could easily see Patrick Sweeney charming all the way through Happy Hour, into next morning.
“I knew his wife,” Rayette said, and picked up a slice of honeydew. “We played scramble golf tournaments together. Last fall, she killed herself.”
On the drive to Naples, Sweeney’s whole aspect had changed. He had seemed a different man—and Brenda remembered the toys on his driveway.
“Do you know why she did it?”
“No,” Rayette said. “I don’t think anyone down here does. Such a really nice woman. She was pretty, she loved her man and her daughter. Her grandchildren. She enjoyed the life she and Pat had down here. Anyway, that’s how it looked. Then they stopped coming down.” Rayette shook her head. “You just never do know.”
She drank her coffee and set down the mug. “But there was no cover-up about her,” she said. “You know when a person’s trying too hard to convince herself things are great? There wasn’t any of that with Terri Sweeney. She enjoyed life, it came out naturally. When I heard she went up to that place they had in Michigan? In the Upper Peninsula? Out in the woods in the fall, when Pat was off doing whatever he did? Goes up by herself in the woods, and cuts her arms. Not the wrists, I heard. Inside the elbow, so you wouldn’t see when they laid her out. She had a cell phone, I heard she sent Pat a voicemail, just before she did it. That’s how they found her. From the phone.”
After a moment, Rayette looked over. “See what I mean? How you never know?”
“Yes,” Brenda said. “There had to be something.”
Rayette took another cube of pineapple. “Nope, you don’t do that because you’re having a bad day. Not unless there’s been a lot of ’em. And it’s true, you never do know how it really is for others.” Rayette chewed and swallowed. “Maybe, down here, they put on shorts and had a ball. Until it was time to go back up to Miseryville.”
Rayette said this as though Miseryville was familiar territory. “He hasn’t been down for maybe three years,” she said. “That’s why it shook me up to see him. They used to come down for long weekends every other month or so. I kept checking if he put the house on the market. His daughter and her family always came for a couple weeks before school started. They stopped coming, too. I drove past once or twice, looking for him. You know, to pay my respects.”
Brenda took a piece of kiwi fruit, then put it back. “As you say, who’s to know?” she said. “He seemed fine on the plane. Full of stories, good company.”
“See? That’s why I feel guilty,” Rayette said. “I’m over here with all this fruit and howdy-do, when really that’s the reason. The longer you’re divorced, the more the old radar cuts in when a good man reenters the market.” Rayette drank her coffee. “I suppose you think that’s trailer-park tacky,” she said.
“No.”
“Sticking my head over the wall. Running over before you’re half awake.”
“No, I don’t,” Brenda said. “It’s real life. I spent about four hours with Pat Sweeney. From what I saw, I don’t think a man like that should be alone.”
Rayette knocked her coffee mug on the glass table for emphasis. “I want to read something you wrote,” she said. “I bet you’re a good journalist. What you just said is true. There are men, and there are men. Larry my ex, the last one, he wasn’t a bad man. He worked hard, he was a supervisor for DiVosta down here. A big builder. He had his check deposited automatically every payday, he came home instead of going to the tavern with his buddies. It was my third marriage, his second. That alone makes you hang in there harder. I really did, too. I held on as long as I could. In the end? I just had to say goodbye. The man had nothing to say to me. You see where I’m coming from in terms of Pat Sweeney. He’s a keeper that way. He’s going to do right by you, and he’s going to have something to say. You meet him the first time, you think this guy’s a smoothie, watch your wallet. But I know he’s not just charm. He’s good people.”
She leaned on the table, cradling too firm breasts. “After Larry and me split, I gave Pat the green light,” Rayette said. “More than once. He stayed right there in Park.”
A car door slammed outside.
“Damn.” Brenda pushed back her chair and stood. “I forgot. I’m down here to write about real estate. A realtor’s going to show me around Naples. That must be her.” Rayette got up quickly. “Please take the fruit, it was delicious.”
“No, that’s yours.” Rayette stepped to the screened door. “We have a four-on, three-off schedule at Naples Community Hospital. I’m in accounting there. I’m off starting Sunday, but I have a golf game. Do you play?”
“Maybe you’ll teach
