“No, and if you’re afraid to be with me, I don’t blame you.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that part of it. I just keep wondering if you wouldn’t be happier working for Kevin Malloy again.”
“Probably safer, definitely not happier — no reflection on Kevin.”
We said good-bye and hung up. I closed out the computer files and turned in what I had written. I called in the deli order, then took off for Frank’s house.
In June, almost every day’s weather forecast is the same: “Late-night and early-morning low clouds, burning off to hazy sunshine in the afternoon.” The hazy-sunshine part was in progress when I drove out of the parking lot. When I reached the corner of Shoreline and Hermosa, I stopped off at the Galley and picked up the sandwiches I had ordered — a couple of pastramis with hot mustard.
I rode the long stretch past the marina and the mansions on the bluff, finally turning down one of the small avenues that led to the beach. I made a few more turns and looked for a parking place.
School wasn’t out for the summer yet, so street parking was not too bad, but I took advantage of the fact that Frank had the ultimate beach-house luxury: a driveway and garage. I got out of the car and stood there for a moment, feeling the contrast of sun and ocean breeze on my face. Seeing the house by daylight for the first time, I noticed it was neatly painted and the small front yard was well cared for. Frank was no slouch.
I entered the fenced yard from a side gate and made my way to the front door. I was surprised when Frank answered the door himself.
“Where’s your baby-sitter?” I asked.
“The department can’t keep somebody on a duty like that forever. I don’t think I was the target anyway. You’re the one we need to keep an eye on. Come on in.”
He was moving a little slowly as he led me toward the back of the house, but his steps weren’t those of someone feeling weak or pain-ridden.
“You’re really making progress,” I said.
“Getting damned impatient with it all.”
“Hey, a few days ago you scared the hell out of me. You could use a little boredom.”
“Life has been anything but dull around you, Irene.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He took me out the back door onto a wooden deck. The yard was very private, another rarity in houses near the beach. Latticework over the deck was covered with honeysuckle vines. Beyond the deck was a winding brick pathway cheerfully bordered by poppies and other colorful flowers. In one corner, another deck began, shielded from view between the garage and back fence, where a willow grew. Tall plants of various kinds grew along the side fences. It was a green and peaceful place. Somehow I had not pictured Frank having this kind of yard.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I like working out here. It’s where I spend a lot of my spare time. A little world of my own, I guess.”
“It’s great,” I said.
We sat down in a couple of redwood chairs. He had put out a small cooler with some white wine in it. He poured out a couple of glasses and we drank and ate our sandwiches. Again there was that comfortable silence between us, and I felt my anxiety about talking to him about my plans for the evening ebbing.
“I’m going to the Hollingsworth fund-raiser tonight,” I began.
He looked up over his wineglass, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m going with Guy St. Germain.”
Suddenly he put the glass down and started laughing, holding the side with the cracked ribs and saying, “Oh, God, that hurts.” But still laughing.
“I don’t suppose you’d mind letting me in on the joke?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you unless you promise not to be mad.”
“Anything given an introduction like that is bound to infuriate me, so I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.”
“Not worth any fury. Pete told me you were going out with someone tonight.”
I could feel my temperature rising, even though I had half-expected Pete would talk. “And?” I said, trying to control my temper.
“Well, he told me he didn’t think you’d tell me that you were going out, and that if you did, you wouldn’t tell me who you were going out with or where.”
“And what did you tell Pete?”
“It’s not important. Thanks for telling me.”
“What do you mean, it’s not important? What the hell did you tell him? I know there’s more to this than you’ve told me so far.”
“Well,” he said, hesitating, “we made sort of a bet.”
“Sort of a bet, or a bet?”
“A bet, sort of.”
“And the bet was?”
“He bet that you wouldn’t tell me. I bet that you would.”
