An unconscious smile curved her lips.
Someone rapped at the back door, and she looked up, half in irritation and half glad of the excuse to put the receipts away. She could see the outline of a man through the amber glass of the top half of the door. She knew that shape. The smile came back.
He stood outside the door, waiting for an invitation— typical of Wickie. He’d wait out there forever until she came to let him in. Just standing there, looking up at her from the lower step—looking through the straight black lashes, almost shy, as if he wasn’t certain of his welcome. She grinned at him and opened the door. “Well, I’m mad at you, but not that mad. Come on in.”
And now he looked confused. She shrugged and stepped aside, and he entered, looking around the office as if he’d
never seen it before—anything to keep from looking at her. If he’d had a hat in his hands, it would be turning around and around, his hands clenching at the rim.
But there wasn’t any hat, and he had his hands shoved into his pockets instead. So she kissed him.
He jumped at first as if she’d jabbed him with a cattle prod, and then relaxed into it. He was actually getting interested, despite himself, when she stepped away again. “What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Still not feeling up to par?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Really.” He passed the back of his hand over his lips, as if he had to scrub away the feel of her in order to think straight.
She grinned at him. “Well, that’s good news. It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come at all.”
He nodded, looking around. Stalling. He acted as if he’d never seen the place before, staring at the handmade curtains at the windows, the rag rug on the floor, the brown plaid sofa. He certainly ought to remember the sofa, she thought. They’d spent enough time there. Now he was acting like a shy kid, making her make the first move.
She had some new things on the walls, not pictures exactly, more like shallow window boxes made of wickerwork and pine cones. He studied them carefully.
He was still stalling.
“So what’s the deal?” she said abruptly, tiring of the delay, irritated by his continued lack of responsiveness. Well, if that was the way he wanted to play it, fine. “Hey, if you don’t have anything to say, I do.”
“Why don’t you go ahead then.” He was being polite, she could tell, but he was also relieved that he didn’t have to talk. Well, that was Wickie, all right. The strong, silent type all the way.
"Look, I don’t want any more messes like you got into on Friday, okay? Just make the deliveries and take the money. Okay?”
He was looking directly at her now, and she wasn’t sure she liked his expression.
“They’re kids.” The words were spaced out, precise. “A bunch of kids up by the river, getting drunk.”
She shrugged. “That’s none of our business. It was bought legal and paid for legal and it should be delivered legal. I’m in the business of selling liquor, not buying it back.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I don’t want to hear about this happening again, okay? Kevin’s nineteen. He’s legally a responsible adult. I’m not going to sell to somebody who’s under age. I’m not that dumb—I don’t want to lose my license. But I don’t want to hear my head bartender has taken up Prohibition, either, or I’m going to have to find myself a new head bartender. Got that?”
He started to say something and stopped, seemingly baffled.
She shook her head, went over to the cabinet beside the stereo, and got out a bottle. “Here. I’ll play bartender for a change.”
“Isn’t it kind of early?”
The laugh that escaped from her was more like a stifled chuckle. He really was nuts. “It’s after four. I didn’t think you cared.”
He shook his head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Her lower lip twitched. “Suit yourself.” She pulled a short, wide glass from the top shelf of the cabinet and poured an inch of whisky into it. “Confusion to the enemy.”
The liquor was a shock going down, harsh against her throat. Despite what she might have told Wickie, she didn’t usually drink this early. She gasped a little, clearing the fumes from her mouth.
Wickie was staring at her, as if something was slowly becoming clear to him, something he didn’t like. It couldn’t be the drinking, he’d seen her drink every night for almost a year.
“Fetal alcohol syndrome.”
The words were spoken with an air of discovery, as if he’d finally pinned something down.
She choked, a trail of liquid dribbling out the corner of her mouth. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she sputtered, “What did you say?”
“Fetal alcohol syndrome. Davey. The flattened aspect of the nose and philtrum, the space between his eyes, the autistic response. His mother was drinking while she was pregnant with him, she had to be. He has fetal alcohol syndrome. That’s what’s wrong with him. I’ve been trying to remember for the last two days.”
She stared at him, unbelieving. This was Wickie? Wickie, who was pretty good in bed and knew a lot of oddball drinks but never got past the eighth grade? And who the hell was he to stand there with that look on his face, disgust and sorrow and—how dare he—pity—Davey!
She slapped the glass down on top of the cabinet, slopping liquid over her hand, ignoring it as it dripped on the wood, on the floor. “When did you become a doctor?” she asked mockingly. “Those are pretty big words for you, aren’t they?”
He opened his mouth, shook his head as he changed his mind about whatever it was he was going to say. It gave her the chills. He wasn’t acting like the
