cope with something like that? The man is dead. Nothing's going to fix that. I mean, Mom and Dad can't kiss it and make it better.'
She paused. For several minutes, we lay in silence while an occasional car drove past on the street outside. There are lots of things in life parents can't fix. I didn't speak because I couldn't, not with the huge lump back in my throat.
'You're so quiet. Are you asleep?' Alex asked.
'No.'
She turned toward me, snuggling her head under my chin. 'What about you, Beau? What would you do if something like that happened to Kelly or Scott? How would you handle it?'
Alex was only making conversation, but this was the worst-possible time for her to ask that particular question.
'Kelly's pregnant,' I answered. That response was both unforgivably abrupt and totally indirect, but it covered the bases. Alex propped herself up on my chest and stared thoughtfully into my face, her concerned frown visible in the pale moonlight.
'Oh,' she said. 'So that's it. I'm so sorry.'
'Me, too,' I mumbled. 'Kelly doesn't seem to be, though. She's happy as a clam, and so's that damn fiance of hers. The wedding's set for Monday afternoon at two-thirty. Since I'm invited, I suppose you are, too, if you want to go, that is.'
I made no effort to disguise the hard edge of bitterness in my voice. Why should I? My eighteen-year-old daughter was pregnant and throwing her life away for some jerk of a two-bit actor.
Wordlessly, Alex lay back down and once more snuggled her head under my chin. The soft heat of her breath warmed my skin. My nostrils inhaled the clean, fresh scent of her hair. As gentle fingers began stroking my breastbone, some of the aching tension drained out of my body.
'What about your ex-wife?' Alex asked softly much later when I was almost asleep. 'Is she coming?'
'I don't know for sure, but I doubt it. Karen doesn't know about this, and I don't think it's my place to tell her.'
'Oh,' Alex said, and that was all.
I had meant to ask Alexis Downey about the denouement of the donor party and exactly how things were going in the theater-development wars. I meant to ask her if she had been able to keep Monica Davenport's grubby little paws out of Guy Lewis' wallet, but before I had a chance, the comforting touch of her caressing fingers lulled me to sleep.
It wasn't at all how I had imagined spending the first night of our romantic weekend away from the man- hating Hector and Alex's damnable futon, but in lots of ways it was much nicer.
And it was probably far better than I deserved.
When I woke up, brilliant rays of warm morning sunlight streamed in through the window. Alex-wide awake, showered, and wearing a terry-cloth robe-was curled up in a rocking chair by the window. She sat with a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose and with a thick, leather-bound volume tucked under her face.
'What are you reading?' I asked.
'Shakespeare,' she replied. 'The complete works. We're scheduled to see Shrew tonight. The dialogue's great. I wanted to review it for myself. By the way,' she added, 'breakfast is in fifteen minutes. You'd better get a move on.'
Sniffing the air, I savored the mouth-watering aromas that drifted upstairs from the kitchen. 'I think that's what woke me up,' I said, crawling out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
'Hope you don't mind baths,' Alex cautioned. 'Showers are out. Oak Hill was the only place in town with a last-minute cancellation, and this was the last available room. Consider yourself lucky.'
As soon as I walked into the bathroom, I understood what Alex meant. Space for this recently added bathroom had been carved from an attic area directly under the slope of the eaves. The tub-enclosure alcove wasn't tall enough to accommodate a shower stall. In fact, I couldn't even stand up in it without bumping my head on the ceiling. With my arm bandaged, though, showers would have been out of the question anyway.
I missed my morning shower, but breakfast more than made up for it. Alex and I arrived in the huge dining- room and took the last two places at the far end of a spacious dining-room table that comfortably seated twelve. By the time we appeared, the room was abuzz with lively chatter. Talk ceased long enough for a round of introductions. Guests came from as far south as San Diego and from as far north as Alex's digs on Queen Ann Hill.
The Oak Hill's owner-a retired schoolteacher named Florence who functioned as hostess, chief cook, waitress, busser, manager, and concierge-passed platters heaped high with French toast, delectable sausages, and sliced fresh fruit. She plied us with pitchers of juice and hot coffee and kept conversation flowing. Table talk focused mostly on who had seen which plays yesterday, what they thought of same, and who would see what today.
Toward the end of the meal, someone asked about the bandage on my arm. With little encouragement, Alex told a rapt audience about the previous night's activities. There's nothing like murder and mayhem to liven up a waning meal-time discussion.
Once the topic of murder came up, I figured I was in for it. Being identified as a police officer-especially a homicide detective-in a group of civilians is no favor. The cop immediately becomes the focus of all kinds of public pet peeves concerning the judicial system-from police brutality to overly enthusiastic traffic enforcement. With a brand-new local murder under discussion, I figured I was in for a real grilling.
And that would have happened most places. Ashland was different. To my surprise, that highly literate group of breakfast conversationalists quickly veered away from the specifics of Martin Shore's murder into a hotly contested philosophical discussion on the ethics of the death penalty. It's no news that I was the only person unconditionally in favor of capital punishment, but everyone else turned out to be just as opinionated as I was.
All in all, it was a delicious, interesting, and altogether enjoyable meal. It put me totally at ease, lulled me into a false sense of security and lighthearted fun. As a consequence, when Alexis and I walked back up to our room afterward, I was shocked when we ran into Kelly coming down the stairway. She was headed for the laundry on the other side of the kitchen, her arms laden with a huge bundle of dirty sheets and wet towels.
'Kelly!' I exclaimed in dismay. 'What are you doing here?'
She glanced first at Alexis and then at me. 'Hello, Dad,' she said. 'I work here mornings. I thought you knew that. I saw your car outside and thought that's why you stayed here.'
'I had no idea!'
Alexis stepped forward with a ready smile. 'Hi, Kelly. I'm Alexis Downey. Alex for short. I'm so glad to meet you.'
Now it was Kelly and Alexis who stood looking at each other and sizing one another up in the same way Jeremy Todd Cartwright and I had surveyed one another the evening before. At last Kelly smiled. 'I'm happy to meet you, too, Alex,' she said. The dignity of her response belied both her age and the dirty linen.
'Right now I have to start the wash, or it'll never get dry. We'll talk later-at lunch. I'm off around eleven- thirty.' With that, she continued down the staircase and disappeared.
I watched her go with a very real sense of wonder. I was so amazed that for the time being I forgot to be embarrassed about her seeing Alex and me together. 'She's all grown up, Alexis. How did that happen? Where have I been?'
Alex grinned. 'Daddies are always the last to know.'
We proceeded up the stairs and into our room, where the bed had been neatly made. Two sets of clean towels and washcloths hung on the bars in the bathroom. I was astonished to think that Kelly-my very own messy Kelly-had carefully placed them there and that she had actually made a bed. With her own hands. That was so out of character, I would have been less surprised if someone had told me she was an alien being from another planet.
'If you had known her when she was little…'
Alex turned to me. 'How long have you been divorced?'
'Six years, going on seven. Why?'
'When you don't see someone on a daily basis, especially little kids, they tend to stay frozen in your mind at the age they were when you knew them best. For years my grandmother sent me three pairs of panties on my birthday. Every year I had to exchange them because every year they were too small.
