“Well, unfortunately,” I said, “I won’t be back to Basking Rock in time tonight.” Of the various lies and truths at my disposal, I thought that one would make the best impression. Being too broke for a ticket was pathetic, and he’d think I was a fool if I said I’d calendared it wrong.
“Too bad,” Porter said. “Well, it’s a foregone conclusion they’ll both get reelected, but it’s a nice event. Much too nice to be dealing with legal papers while I’m there, and I’ve only got a narrow window to get down there and back tonight, so thanks for helping me get this off my desk.” He pulled the last sticky arrow off the last of many pages and signed with a flourish. Gold light flashed off the nib of his fountain pen. I wondered if there was a place all wealthy professional men went to get their accessories: fountain pen, chunky gold watch, understated $200 haircut.
I asked my former colleague, “What’s your interest in the election, Tony?”
“My sister lives in Basking Rock.”
“Oh?” I started flipping through the documents, checking that Porter had signed and dated everywhere he should. “Anyone I know?”
“Her husband’s the mayor.”
“Huh,” I said. The mayor was old enough to be Tony’s dad. “Well, that must be nice.”
Porter chuckled. “And this must be nice for you,” he said. “More pleasant than investigating that sad little murder case I heard you’re on.”
I gave him the required smile. Apparently every damn fool was a rubbernecker now. “Well,” I said, picking up my glass for a sip, “I tell you what, the liquor on your case is definitely better.”
They laughed and clinked their tumblers together. I tucked the papers back into their envelope and raised my glass to theirs. When we’d taken our sips, I said, “Well, Mr. Porter, it all looks good. I’ll get this to Roy tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks much. Now, just so I have a scoop for everyone at the fundraiser, tell me, will you?” He threw a glance over his shoulder, a theatrical gesture to show he was making fun of all those other rubberneckers, then asked in a stage whisper, “Did Jackson murder his father?”
I chuckled politely. Tony laughed so hard I could see his molars. I wondered why a local prosecutor would be sucking up to some yacht investor. How’d they even know each other?
As the laughter subsided, Porter suggested we head for the door. We hadn’t gone two steps when his phone rang.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said, turning to shake my hand goodbye. “Thanks again. Anthony, would you see Leland out?”
Porter stepped through the French doors and closed them. Tony and I headed the other way. As his dress shoes clacked across the stone tiles of the entryway, he asked, “So, how’s life after the solicitor’s office?”
“Oh, different,” I said. “But good.”
“Putting everything else aside,” he said, “I do want you to know we were all real sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
“Glad to hear your boy’s doing better,” he added.
I wondered by what route that information had reached him. “Well, thank you again,” I said. “It’s a relief, that’s for sure.”
He came out the front door with me, to my chagrin. I glanced down the driveway and was relieved to see that a row of yucca plants blocked the view of my Chevy.
He stopped on the porch, reached into his chest pocket, and said, “Porter doesn’t like me to smoke indoors.”
“Huh,” I said. “Well, I guess that’s understandable.” I was getting very curious about why these two were friends. “Anyway, got a lot on my plate this evening, so I’ll be seeing you. Let’s stay in touch.”
He nodded, lit his cigarette, and raised one hand to say goodbye.
As I drove past the Swiss chalet and through the overgrown woods, I realized I was stuck. I’d said I wouldn’t be back in time to attend the fundraiser, so I couldn’t very well risk being spotted in town. Just before the forest road crossed the highway, I pulled over to check my email for the invitation. I needed to see what time it started.
Turned out I’d have to wait about an hour.
As I sat there wondering where the hell to go in the meantime, something light blue caught my eye out the passenger window. It was a clump of Stokes’ aster, Elise’s favorite flower. Each one looked like a three-or-four-inch firework the color of the flame on a stove.
Elise was never big on bouquets, or boxes of chocolates or other traditional things. She’d made our front yard and part of the back look like a meadow, with these asters and a hundred other wildflowers whose names I’d never know.
I remembered a night in our living room. No lights on, just the streetlamp casting shadows inside. Noah was upstairs. Elise was wearing a dress in some dark color and holding a wine bottle, which I was trying gently to get away from her. I’d come home to find her drinking. To cajole her, I’d put on Sinatra, something slow from the Capitol years. There was hardly any music written in the last hundred years that she liked, but his was an exception.
I’d gotten her up off the couch. I was tugging on the bottle, making some kind of joke, trying to surprise her or relax her so she’d let go easily. Through the front window I could see a clump of these blue flowers in the yard. When I heard Noah’s feet on the stairs, I pulled Elise close and started swaying with the music. I didn’t want Noah to see that his mother was drunk.
He was staring at his phone. When he looked up and saw us, the look on his face, lit up by whatever web page he’d been on, was a flash of surprise and then
