She turned off the engine and got out. The lights were off in the adjoining villa. Rayette had said she worked a four-day week. She had looked after things here, with a busy day tomorrow. Looked after your gentleman friend, Brenda thought.
She moved to the entrance, tried the door. It was open. She shoved in, eased it closed. All was dark. Where was he sleeping? She thought to look in the front guest room, but couldn’t. If Charlie was there, that would be awful. It would mean he had chosen the farthest point in the house to catch a few winks before leaving in the morning. On the couch in the den or the living room? She thought either choice would mean something less final. A couch would be like neutral territory, the jury still out. If he were in the master bedroom—no, Brenda thought. That’s out.
She moved into the house, took a breath, and looked in the den. Even in the dark, it was familiar to her now, and Charlie wasn’t there. She reached the living room and looked to the couch. He wasn’t there, either. Hope rose. No, Brenda told herself. He’s just out taking a walk. She wanted time for Charlie Schmidt to believe in her again. To at least consider trusting her. It couldn’t be the same right away, she knew that. But you don’t want it the same, Brenda thought. You don’t want it the same, ever again.
All at once she felt unworthy. Felt sordid and selfish. She now knew that Patrick Sweeney was dead, but he had already slipped so far from her thoughts that, with disgust for herself, she feared there might be some mistake. She feared Sweeney would come back.
Enough. Peeling off her shoes, she rounded the living room chairs and entered the bedroom. Total blackness. It was so complete she couldn’t see the bed. “Charlie?”
She listened for breathing, all at once frightened for him. He had no health problems she knew of. But what did she know? She edged forward until her knee touched the bed. “Charlie?” She climbed on, spreading her hands over the bedspread. She sat back on her knees, sure now he was in the front of the house, the guest bedroom. It had twin beds, furniture from another era, and the idea was awful to her. Charlie Schmidt sleeping alone in a twin bed.
A can clinked on the lanai. Brenda straightened, hands on her thighs. The sound was not unlike the slightly silly clink made by a driver. Oh my, she thought. If you know him at all, you know this. Charlie Schmidt doesn’t go to sleep now. Not tonight.
She backed off the bed and padded to the vertical blind over the bedroom’s door wall. She moved one of the slats and saw him. He was in the water, facing away at the deep end, looking out at the fairway. The can of beer rested on the deck next to his elbow. Seeing his outline, his back, and now his profile as he turned, perhaps having heard or sensed her, she had an impulse to go to him naked. To strip and go out and down into the heated pool like a nereid. A sea nymph.
No, she thought. Bad idea. Too contrived, too cartoon-seductive. Do that, and he might think it was a replay of last night. Last night, Brenda thought. She felt nervous again about time. She wanted distance, a temporal gap. But you don’t get that, she thought. You’re done with distance learning.
She felt her way through the dark, back between the walk-ins to the bathroom. She felt around for the towel rack and touched her still-damp Speedo. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and pulled it on. She padded back into the bedroom but stopped. His shirt was in the dresser. Should she get it out and slip it on, wrap herself in something of his, like a present?
Jesus, Brenda thought. Forget packaging. She moved through the bedroom, into the big room, and rolled back the door wall.
He turned. Unnoticed before, Brenda now saw how the heated water generated vapor. It lay just above the surface. Sweeney had made a joke about it, watching your money disappear on cool nights. She moved to the steps and walked down into bath-like water. She smoothed it with her hands. You had to for some reason, it was automatic. She stepped farther in, pushing toward him, smoothing the water. As she neared he turned to get his beer. Brenda came up behind him and put her arms around his middle. Like the golf lesson, she thought, and closed her eyes.
He drank and set down the can. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“They found a red Mazda on I-75. Rivera took it and left his van in Sweeney’s garage. The police contacted Ivy’s wife. She said something about a painting.”
“I don’t want to know,” she said. “Not now.”
“Okay.”
She had made her own decision on the way here. Whether or not Charlie Schmidt forgave her, she would not write about Rivera or All Hands. Not for Esquire or anyone else. Anymore digging or research or interviews would get in the way of what mattered. You bought the complete package, Brenda thought. From the moment he smiled up at you on the escalator. Leave it alone.
“It sounds like a hell of a story,” Charlie said.
“I came to write about real estate.” Still she held him, very gently, feeling him cool against her. Please stay, Brenda thought. Don’t go. Stay.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“Rayette gave me some cake.”
She tightened her grip on him, and Charlie placed his hand
