stepping closer.
My mouth went dry. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and it had nothing to do with who had the loaded gun.
“Mark wasn’t good enough for you, Bennie.” Bitterness tainted his soft drawl. “He couldn’t give, he could only take.”
“I don’t want to talk about Mark.”
“I do, I want you to understand. You were too much in love to see him clearly. I always used to think, I wonder what it would be like to have that woman so in love with me. I wonder what that woman would be like.” He leaned over and kissed me gently.
“Grady,” I said. I pressed him back, but he didn’t move.
“‘Grady,’ what? Why can’t it be, because of Mark? Ask yourself, would he have come here? Would he have helped you?”
“Stop that.”
“No. You ask yourself,” he said urgently. “Did he ever, once, do a damn thing for you? Did he ever, once, do a thing to deserve your love?”
“We built the firm.”
“That helped
I felt a hot flush of shame, unreasoning. “How do you know about my mother?”
“I made it my business to know. I saw you come in late some mornings, I heard you on the phone with the doctors. I know she was in the hospital awhile back. But all through it, Mark stayed at the office. He never went with you. I would have been there. Why wasn’t Mark? Why didn’t he help?”
“I didn’t need him to.”
“Sure you did. All of us could see you looked tired. Stressed. Marshall and I picked it up right away.”
“I never asked him to help.”
“Why did he need to be asked? The need was obvious. He could have just done it. Showed up. Been there.”
“It’s not that easy,” I started to say, but he interrupted, touching my shoulder.
“You know what I think about love, Bennie? I think it’s more than a state of being. Not just a feeling, or something you say. It’s what you do. If you love a woman, you love her every day, and you
I started to speak, but he took me in his arms and kissed me again, longer this time. His jacket was smooth under my fingers, his arms bulky in the light wool. His mouth felt warm and open, and I let his kiss wash over me, trying to feel it, test it. I couldn’t remember being kissed or being held this way. It was an offer, not a demand, which made it suddenly compelling.
He slipped out of his jacket, and his body felt fully as strong as mine, stronger, because he was in love. He was telling me so by his kiss, by his embrace, by his hips pressing into mine, backing me onto the couch. I felt myself responding to him, because it felt as if he were giving me something, not taking. Giving me himself.
He lay me back against the couch, his mouth and body hard on mine, and I felt myself arch up to him. Giving back. I couldn’t see him, but my other senses felt heightened. I ran my hand over the scratchiness of his chin, sensed his muscles straining under his shirt. I breathed in a trace of aftershave at his jaw, mingled with the musky sweatiness of his neck.
There was a metallic jingling of his belt, then a whispered curse as he fumbled with his zipper. My own breathing, low and excited. The sounds of my own need and his, there in the darkness.
In the middle of the night.
19
I hit the road in the brightness just before dawn, streaking down the expressway in a brand-new Juicyfruit- yellow Chevy Camaro. Not exactly inconspicuous, but between my red hair and gold suit, we weren’t into subtlety on the lam. The car’s vanity license plate readJAMIE -16, the front seat was littered with grunge rock CDs, and a banana-shaped deodorizer swung like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.BANANAROMA, it said, and smelled it.
I was running from the cops and heading to western Pennsylvania to find Bill Kleeb. I’d reread his file while Grady slept, then showered and tried to call Bill on my cell phone. No one had answered, and I’d given up. The police would subpoena my cell phone records, and I didn’t want them to know who I was trying to reach. They’d be looking for Bill, too, and at the same time I was.
I glanced anxiously in the rearview. No cops in sight and not much traffic. It was too early for commuters, who would be heading into the city anyway, not out of it. I switched lanes under a cloudy sky, going as fast as I dared. The car rumbled smoothly as the virgin tires met the expressway.
In the back of my mind were my mother and Hattie. When could I call them? Had Hattie set up the electroshock? How could I help her now? I was leaving them, maybe for a long time. I checked the rearview again. The city was far behind, the skyline shrouded in gray clouds.
I thought about Grady, asleep with my note on his chest.
I put Grady out of my mind, brushed back my carroty bangs, and trounced on the gas. I drove for two hours, sped past Harrisburg, then headed west through the fields through to Altoona in the mountainous middle of the state, and jumped off the main road. There were a few roadside bars, truck stops, and produce stands that reminded me of how hungry I was, but I didn’t want to waste time eating. I passed a series of Toro dealers, then a shack selling cement lawn statuary with a hand-lettered sign:GIVE CONCRETE -THE GIFT THAT LASTS A LIFETIME. Whoa.
I drove for hours on two- and one-lane roads, then endlessly around loops and detours until I found the bumpy route I hoped led to Bill’s hometown. I got lost twice in a maze of dusty backroads that crisscrossed fields of corn and spinach. I couldn’t orient myself in the fresh air and vegetables, I needed smog and Dumpsters.
I hung a left at the apples, a right at the blueberries, and finally reached the dirt road to the Kleeb farm. It saidTHE ZOELLERS on the mailbox, but the address was the one in Bill’s file. I pulled over next to a cornfield and cut the ignition.
I opened the window and waited for half an hour, watching tensely for any activity. Cops, press, anybody. There seemed to be none but I waited longer. The sky grew opaque with clouds, the air thickened with humidity. It soured the fresh smells of the farmland and brought up the stink of the assorted manures. Still I kept the window open, preferring it to the fruity stench of the bananamobile. I wished I had a hot coffee. It sucked, being a fugitive.
The farmhouse was a clapboard ranch, freshly painted white, and prosperous looking. Behind it to the left were two late-model pickups, a stone and clapboard barn, and a silo. Horses grazed freely on a large, grassy hill, their long necks dipping gracefully. It looked idyllic to a city girl raised by a crazy mother. The only hills I saw growing up were made of Kleenex.
I checked my watch. 12:15. If the press were coming, they would’ve been here already. I got out and stretched with my briefcase in hand, leaving the car hidden in the cornrows. I wanted to look more lawyer than lawbreaker, and the bananamobile wasn’t exactly standard-issue with a J.D.
I had to get Bill’s parents to trust me. All I would need was a little luck.
And a lot of coffee.
“God, this is good,” I slurped. It was my second cup.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Kleeb-Mrs. Zoeller since her remarriage. Her face was round and soft, floating like a motherly balloon over her pink sweatsuit outfit. She had wavy hair that matched Bill’s reddish shade, but it had thinned and gone gray at the roots.
