This can’t work, we need to make a clean break—
As luggage rolled past her feet, Brenda saw herself in her condo in Michigan. She was at the kitchen counter with the phone. Charlie was in his den in Milwaukee, and his silence meant he knew she was right. Fine, I have painting to do.
His throw-away reaction had struck her as the kind of thing you said when someone broke a lunch date—not a problem, I have some painting. But at least she hadn’t asked him to stay in touch. Hadn’t asked for some smarmy, let’s-be-friends-with-benefits arrangement.
She focused again on the moving belt—suitcases, golf-club carriers, backpacks. Clean breaks were always painful, it couldn’t be helped. But she had come to think of their ugly start last spring as something like DNA, or a genetic defect. It didn’t matter what she and Charlie wanted, because killings and lies and choices made in an instant had shaped the future. Like bad genes, the aftermath of Kettle Falls could not be made right.
She shook it off and looked across the moving belt at James Rivera. Patrick had gone to the men’s room, and Rivera was waiting to catch Sweeney’s golf-club carrier. The woman next to him made a comment, and Rivera nodded. Smiled.
He had smiled the same way, looking up at her as she rode down the escalator. He held no placard with CONTAY in block letters, but when she stepped off he addressed her by name. It’s your hair, he explained. Mrs. Krause told me you’re a redhead.
Rivera’s own hair was black and neatly trimmed, his features both Mayan and Spanish, his skin dark. They had shaken hands, Brenda facing clever eyes. A long scar down his right cheek gave his young face an edgy quality that contrasted with his preppy clothes. She had introduced Sweeney. He was going to Donegal too, could he ride along? Of course he could. With no trace of accent, Rivera had spoken and gestured like someone good at pleasing people.
His white pinpoint oxford shirt and starched khakis stood out among the primary-color polos and floral prints of those waiting for luggage. For no reason, Rivera’s dark good looks and social skills made Brenda feel worse. Again she imagined Charlie Schmidt in Milwaukee, in his pine-paneled den, looking down at the cradled phone.
“No you don’t, sport—”
A man was shoving Rivera, grabbing what he held. “Bullshit, you weren’t on the flight, I saw this club carrier at check-in… Right, sure, bullshit, let go, sport—”
He was big in the shoulders, dressed in expensive warm-up clothes. “Hold it—” Sweeney was shoving through the crowd. “Wait a second, hold on—”
She hurried after, looking over just as Rivera went down, still holding the black club carrier. Angry, the man yanked on the side handle. “Goddammit, let go!” He kicked Rivera and kept yanking.
“Don’t!” Sweeney reached them and grabbed the man’s arm. “You’re wrong—”
He was shoved away, the man still kicking as passengers jumped clear. Very suddenly, Pat Sweeney landed a short left hook below the man’s right eye. His head snapped, but he stiff-armed Sweeney hard. Patrick fell back over the luggage and went down.
But now—perhaps from the noise—the man did finally look at whoever had hit him. He saw and seemed to recognize Sweeney. He let go of the club carrier, took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and patted his face. He checked it for blood.
“This guy tried to steal your clubs.” He patted again.
“You’re way out of line.” Red in the face, Sweeney was now on his feet. “He’s our driver. I was in the men’s room.”
Still touching his face, the man turned to Rivera. He too was now up and dusting off. “Uh oh—” As Rivera straightened, the man studied him a moment. He shook his head. “Oh boy, what’ve you done now, Teddy?” Heart pounding, Brenda heard something strange in the man’s voice. As though he was the victim. She shoved through the crowd as he used the handkerchief to wipe his hands.
“I’m Teddy Larson. Listen, let me—”
Quickly he reached in his hip pocket. “Absolutely this is an idiot snafu—” Again he shook his head, but now seemed amused. He spread his wallet and began counting bills. He stopped but counted several more before taking out the money. He tugged free a business card, centered and folded it in the bills, and held them out. “There you go,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”
Brenda stepped between them. “What he needs is an apology.”
“That’s right, don’t take his money—” Still red in the face, Sweeney was brushing himself off.
“Okay, sir, let me handle this, it’s between me and the young man.” Larson stepped clear of Brenda. Still holding out the folded bills, he gestured with the money. “Take it, something up front,” he said. “You call the number on the card, we’ll make this right.”
“Don’t do it.” Sweeney reached down and grabbed up his suit coat. “Don’t let him make this go away with a few twenties. Let’s hear Teddy Larson apologize in front of these people.”
Clearly angered, Larson refused to look at either of them. His prosperous, beefy face belonged to someone Brenda was sure did not do apologies.
“Are you deaf?” she said. “He’s with us. He’s here to drive us to Naples.”
“Larson.” Rivera looked up from the money. “Your mother lived at Grey Oaks. You’re Mrs. Larson’s son.”
Teddy Larson frowned. “How do you know my mother?”
“What’ve we got here?” An officer in a tan uniform stepped between onlookers.
“He tried to steal that bag—” A woman pointed at Rivera.
“He did not, stay out of it.” The man next to her turned her away.
“It’s fine, officer,” Rivera said. “There’s no problem.”
The cop looked at Sweeney, then Larson. “Somebody hit somebody?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” Rivera said. “Mr. Larson was protecting Mr. Sweeney’s bag, that’s all.”
“Exactly—” Nodding, surprised, Larson looked
