Devil Bones

I relaxed.

Katy pointed at me and waved. The man waved. He looked familiar.

I waggled my fingers.

The two started toward me.

The NBA build. The loose gait. The black hair parted by Hugh Grant himself.

Ping.

Charles Anthony Hunt. Father, a guard first for the Celtics, later for the Bulls. Mother, an Italian downhill skier.

Charlie Hunt had been a classmate at Myers Park High. Lettered in three sports, served as president of the Young Democrats. The yearbook predicted him the grad most likely to be famous by thirty. I was voted most likely to do stand-up.

Following graduation, I’d left Charlotte for the University of Illinois, gone on to grad school at Northwestern, then married Pete. Charlie had attended Duke on a hoops scholarship, then UNC-Chapel Hill law. Over the years I’d heard that he’d married and was practicing up North.

Charlie and I both played varsity tennis. He was all-state. I won most of my matches. I found him attractive. Everyone did. Change was sweeping the South in the seventies, but old mores die slowly. We didn’t date.

The Labor Day weekend before our collegiate departures, Charlie and I swung a bit more than our rackets. The match involved tequila and the backseat of a Skylark.

Cringing inwardly, I refocused on my veal.

“Mom.”

I looked up.

Charlie and Katy were at my side, both flashing copious dentition.

“Mom, this is Charles Hunt.”

“Charlie.” Smiling, I extended a hand.

Charlie took it in fingers long enough to wrap the Toronto Sky-Dome. “Nice to see you, Tempe.”

“You two know each other?”

“Your mama and I went to high school together.” Charlie’s accent was flatter and more clipped than I remembered, perhaps the result of years spent up North, perhaps the product of intentional modification.

“You never let on.” Katy punched Charlie’s bicep. “Objection, counselor. Withholding evidence.”

“Katy’s brought me up to date on all your achievements.” Charlie was still enveloping my fingers, giving me his “no one in the universe exists but you” stare.

“Has she.” Reclaiming my hand, I glanced narrow-eyed at my daughter.

“She is one proud young lady.”

The proud young lady gave an unbelievably staged laugh. “Mom and I were just talking about you, Charlie, and in you waltz. What a coincidence.”

Like garlic and bad breath are coincidental, I thought.

“Should my ears be burning?” Boyish grin. He did it well.

“It was all good,” Katy said.

Charlie looked appropriately surprised and modest.

“I should be moving on,” he said. “I was passing, saw Katy through the window, thought I’d pop in to tell you what a terrific job she’s doing for us.”

“She’s certainly enjoying the challenge,” I said. “Especially the data entry. Katy loves logging info into computers. Always has.”

This time it was Katy squinting at me.

“Well, we are certainly enjoying having her in the office.”

I had to admit, with the emerald eyes and lashes to die for, Charlie Hunt was still leading-man handsome. His hair was black, his skin a pleasant compromise between Africa and Italy. Though the coat masked his midsection, he appeared to carry little more poundage than he had in the Skylark.

Charlie made a move to leave. Katy scrunched a “say something” face at me and upcurled her fingers.

Tipping my head, I grinned at her. Mutely.

“Mom’s working on that basement cauldron thing,” Katy said, way too brightly. “That’s why her hair is” – she flapped a hand in my direction – “wet.”

“She’s just fine.” Charlie beamed at me.

“She looks better with mascara and blusher.”

My blushless cheeks burned.

“Painting that face would be a sin. Like colorizing a Renoir. Y’all take care now.”

Charlie turned, hesitated, turned back, Columbo-style.

Here it comes, I thought.

“I suppose we play on opposite teams.”

My look must have revealed confusion.

“You jail ’em, I bail ’em.”

I floated a brow.

“Might make for some interesting coffee conversation.”

“You know I can’t discuss-”

“’Course you can’t. No law against reminiscing.”

The man actually winked.

By the time I got home it was almost ten. Katy had already left a message on my voice mail, a reiteration of the conversation we’d had post-Charlie. Don’t be mad. Give him a chance. He’s cool.

Charlie Hunt might be a prince, but I wasn’t going to date him. A fix-up by my offspring was humiliation I didn’t need.

There were two other messages. Pete. Phone me. A landscaping company. Buy our yard service.

Disappointment. Then the usual mental sparring.

You really thought Ryan would call?

No.

Right.

Whatever.

He’s living with another woman.

They’re not married.

He could have rung from his cell.

Cell.

Grabbing my purse, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Let him go.

I miss talking with him.

Talk to the cat.

We’re still friends.

Move on.

Settling in bed, I clicked on the news.

A fifty-seven-year-old teacher was suing the school district, alleging age discrimination as the reason for her firing. An unemployed trucker had won fifteen million dollars in the Powerball lottery.

Bird hopped up and curled at my knee.

“Good for the trucker,” I said, stroking his head.

The cat looked at me.

“The man has five kids and no job.”

Still no feline opinion.

A couple had been arrested for stealing copper wiring from a Tuck-aseegee Road business. In addition to larceny, the resourceful pair were being charged with contributing to the delinquency of minors. Mom and Dad had brought the kids along on the break-ins.

Authorities were investigating the shooting death of a sixty-four-year-old man in his Pineville home. Though