sanded, or rolled paint onto large surfaces, doing the backbreaking work. Maybe painting where there were wasps or hornets nearby on hot days beneath the eaves of barns or farmhouses.
Wilde looked at him in a way that made Luther think he was taking his measure. “What you have to know, Luther, is I’m no ordinary painter. There are tricks to this trade. I can match colors perfectly, tell people what color schemes will work, tint and layer paint so things show their best, make rooms look larger or smaller, create light and shadow where none really exist. You understand what I’m saying?”
Luther nodded. “You’re kinda like an artist.”
Wilde grinned. “Sometimes, Luther…sometimes. What I am all the time is a craftsman. That’s why people hire me. That’s what I need you to be working toward-craftsmanship. Use your God-given talent and don’t abuse it, and it’ll take care of you. You believe that?”
“Maybe.”
“An honest answer.” Wilde walked back inside and switched off the mixer, then came back out into the sunlight. “Craftsmanship. You interested?”
“I think so,” Luther said honestly.
“Me too,” Wilde said, and patted him on the arm. Not We’ll find out. He was on Luther’s side. “Help me load the van and we’ll go spread some paint and cheer up our corner of the world.”
Surprisingly, the day went fast for Luther. He found that he was interested in painting, if it was done the way Tom Wilde did it.
They worked on an old house on the other side of town, a three-story Victorian, which was something like the Sands’ house, that was being totally redecorated. It was ideal for the task of teaching.
During the next few days Wilde showed Luther how to stencil a border around a room, how to tint paint and shade the beveled edges of door panels to make them appear recessed so the doors looked thicker, how to use the mixer and paint scale to match colors precisely from only a tiny paint chip. Luther applied himself carefully and didn’t make too many mistakes. The ones he did make didn’t seem to upset Tom Wilde, who helped to correct them. Wilde worked steadily but not fast; he was more interested in results than in making money on the job.
The week went by, almost without Luther realizing it had happened.
His days flew past, and in the evenings he enjoyed watching Cara Sand work around the house, dusting, vacuuming, preparing dinner for Milford, who always seemed to arrive home late from his job at the mine. Cara had those wonderful dark eyes, and Luther couldn’t help staring at the roundness of her hips beneath her housedress, the graceful turn of her ankles. There was something about her flesh, its creaminess, that made him yearn to touch it. He was sure she didn’t suspect he was thinking of her in that way, and he didn’t want her to guess. Sometimes in her presence it was an effort not to get an erection, which she might notice if for some reason he had to stand up suddenly. It wasn’t just the way Cara looked, her lush body and perfect eyes and lips; it was her smile and the way she listened to people when they talked-really listened.
Luther loved most of all to watch Cara working in the kitchen, the way she stood at the sink, up against it, with its edge pressed into her stomach, making her round breasts appear even larger, while she peeled potatoes or washed dishes. He studied how her clothes clung to her and her calf muscles gave shape to her legs when she stretched to reach things high in the cabinets.
She caught Luther once staring at her when she stooped low to reach something toward the back of the refrigerator, but she pretended not to have noticed. He knew she’d caught him looking, though, and she knew he knew-a special and unspoken secret between them. It was the things people didn’t say that made them close.
Cara was somehow able to sense when Luther was hungry and would prepare snacks for him. Once she even baked him a peach pie after he mentioned it was his favorite. Her voice became like music. “My growing boy,” she would call him as she placed food before him, with that smile that flooded his heart.
Luther began to dream about Cara almost nightly. On some mornings he’d discover he’d had an orgasm in his sleep. But his dreams were not only carnal; in his mind Cara was a lady. He never considered actually touching her, or declaring how he felt about her. You didn’t shit in your own nest was something he learned early on the streets. But Milford, Luther decided, was crazy to spend so much time at his job.
The Saturday after getting his first paycheck, Luther walked down to the drugstore and bought a razor and shaving cream, which he barely needed, and a bar of soap that was better than the cheap stuff provided by Milford that left him itching and scratching.
It was at the drugstore that he first heard people talking about him, and where he first heard the gossip about Tom Wilde.
21
New York, 2004.
Quinn got the phone call from May late at night.
“Frank?”
Even though he was in bed and half-asleep, he recognized her voice immediately. Besides, she was the only one who called him by his first name.
He scooted back to lean into his wadded pillow and pressed the plastic receiver harder to his ear. “Something wrong, May?”
“Something I have to tell you. I’m sorry to call so late, but I couldn’t sleep thinking about it.”
“Is it about Lauri?”
“No. She’s fine.”
“We still don’t speak,” Quinn said.
“I know. I’m sorry about that, Frank.”
Are you? It was you who turned her against me. If you’d believed in me…
Quinn sighed, wondering what kind of trouble was coming his way. “So what else are you sorry about?” he asked.
“How you might take what I’m going to say.”
“I’m lying down.” Trying to make a joke of it.
“I’m going to be married.”
Quinn felt as if the ceiling had dropped on him, though he knew he shouldn’t care. May was no longer his wife and hadn’t been for years.
Still, they shared a history; they were part of each other.
Married! Jesus!
“Who’s the lucky man?” he forced himself to ask, loathing how trite and hollow it sounded.
“Elliott Franzine. He’s a cost accountant.”
Whatever that is. “A successful one?”
“Reasonably. He works hard.”
“Sounds like a settled, secure guy who keeps regular hours.” Not like a cop.
“He is. You know that’s what I always needed, security.”
“There’s really no such thing, May.”
“Then call it predictability. That’s what was missing in our marriage. It’s the uncertainty that eats away, Frank.”
She was right about that. He’d seen it with too many cops’ marriages. “Yeah, I can understand that, May. I wish you and…”
“Elliott.”
“…Elliott the best. I really do.”
“Frank-”
“Life moves on.”
“What about your life? How are things going for you? Some of the news about those New York murders is reaching us here on the other coast.”
“I’m back on the force, in a way. But you might call it a probationary situation. It’s kind of my last roll of the dice.”
