“What’s David say about this?” Traci asked.
Molly looked up at her. “A situation, he calls it. We’re just going to have to live with it.”
“It would be an understatement to say you seem less than happy about that.”
“Because it seems there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You could move,” Traci suggested. Another sip of cappuccino, another wiping away of the white foam mustache with the back of her curved forefinger.
“I’m afraid not,” Molly said. “We’ve got our own lease, and it runs for another six months.” She gazed out the poster-cluttered window at New York suffering in the relentless heat, then sighed and took a sip of her latte. “Maybe I’m making too much of it. You know how Manhattan apartment buildings are-neighbors exist in the cocoons of their lives and hardly ever see each other. Maybe it’ll all work out.”
Traci raised a hand and toyed with the silver pin. “It doesn’t work out in the mystery novel I’m editing.”
Molly found herself getting irritated. “Life doesn’t always imitate art,” she said defensively. “David and I have a strong marriage.”
“Sure, I know that, Mol. But do you want it tested this way?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Molly said, “and I have to admit, I shouldn’t be afraid of being tested. David and I love each other, we’ve got Michael, and whatever was between David and Deirdre is over. That’s why they divorced.”
“You sound as if you’re trying to persuade yourself.”
Molly made a helpless gesture with both hands. “I have no choice other than to believe that’s the way it is. Besides, I told you Deirdre’s romantically involved with Craig Chumley.”
“All true enough,” Traci said. “But on the other hand, men are men.”
“Jesus!” Molly said in disgust. “You sound like one of those gynocentric feminists.”
Traci was unflappable. “Just speaking from experience.” She sipped again at her cappuccino. “What’s this Chumley guy look like?”
Molly thought about that. Chumley certainly wasn’t a standout and was difficult to describe. Of course she’d only seen him in work clothes, and behind a cardboard box. “Average-looking,” she said. “Maybe even dorky-looking. Tall with thinning brown hair, a little overweight in the wrong places. In his mid-forties, I’d guess.”
Traci cocked her head to the side. “Odd that the woman you describe would glom on to somebody like that, even if he is near her age.”
“What are you getting at?” Molly asked.
“Maybe she’s using him.”
“Oh, she’s probably wearing him out!”
Traci laughed. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, though you might well be right. Hell, I’m pushing forty and I wish I had somebody to wear out.”
Molly sat frowning. She found she wasn’t at all comforted by having confided in Traci. She should have known better than to tell her everything.
Traci leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her wrists bent and her fingers laced off center so they were diagonally twined. “Don’t look so severe, Mol. I’m interested in your dilemma. As a friend.”
“It doesn’t help,” Molly said, “to have your friends predicting doom.”
“I’m not predicting it, Mol. In fact, I’m hoping like hell this mess all works out for you, however that’s possible.” She suddenly raised her head and sniffed, like an animal testing the wind. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
“Is it overpowering the scent of the coffee?” Molly asked. “I was distracted this morning and put it on twice. It’s Oscar.”
“De La Renta or Madison?”
Molly made herself smile. Traci’s humor could crush you if you let it. “Very funny. David likes it.”
Traci lifted her tall cappuccino mug. “Then for God’s sake, keep wearing it.” After she’d taken a sip of coffee and replaced her mug on the table, she said, “I almost forgot, a woman phoned Link today and asked for you. I told her you sometimes did work for us but you were freelance and didn’t have an office there.”
“She leave a name?”
“Darlene, I think it was.”
“Did you give her my phone number?”
“No, I thought you might not want me to do that.”
“Could have been an editing job.”
“If it was, she’ll figure out a way to get in touch.” Traci grinned. “Anyway, right now we don’t want to share you.”
Molly ran a fingernail back and forth on the table, thinking. “I’m sure I don’t know any Darlene.”
Traci shrugged dismissively. “Well, she knows you.”
21
The same afternoon heat that made the Midnight Espresso coffee shop uncomfortable made Koch Public Recreational Swimming Pool almost unbearable anywhere but in the water. Only dedicated sunbathers appreciated the searing afternoon glare. They reclined on loungers and on beach towels spread on the pool’s concrete apron. Occasionally people climbed trailing water from the pool or rose from where they lay baking on towels, the hot, high sun puddling their shadows at their feet as they walked to and from the snack stand with drinks whose ice was melting almost before they could take it into their mouths and chew on it, or cup it in their hands and rub it over chest or shoulders.
But it was only the relatively few adults who seemed to be suffering severely or taking precautions against sunburn. Most of the swimmers and sunbathers were teenage or younger.
Bernice was seated with Michael in the water at the shallow end of the crowded, noisy pool. She’d obeyed Molly’s instructions and lavishly applied sunblocker on Michael. Then she’d smeared it liberally on herself. But she still preferred to keep both of them submerged to limit exposure to the sun. Besides, the water was blessedly cool compared to the hot, rough concrete surrounding the large, rectangular pool.
The only problem was that almost everyone else felt the same way. The pool was too crowded to swim more than a few strokes in any direction without bumping into someone. Or to dive, which was what Bernice enjoyed most about coming to Koch.
She watched a prepubescent girl in a two-piece black bathing suit pinch her nose between thumb and forefinger then leap from the diving board and create as large a splash as her light body would allow. Bernice couldn’t actually see the girl enter the water. Her view was obstructed by the splashing and turmoil of dozens of scantily clad bodies of every hue among the glittering blue water and white foam of the pool.
She reached down with cupped hands and dribbled water over her shoulders. “Lots of people had the same idea we did this afternoon,” she said to Michael.
Too busy playing to acknowledge her, he concentrated on the small red plastic boat he’d brought. He grinned as he made the boat skip over the glinting water then suddenly dive straight down.
Bernice kept a watchful eye on him, but she also sneaked glances at the deep end of the pool, waiting to see if the activity around the diving board would subside.
There continued to be a line of people waiting to dive, especially from the low board, which Bernice preferred. The impact of hitting the water from the high board had once made the top of her swimming suit slip down, and she’d had to hurriedly work it back up and refasten it underwater to avoid embarrassment.
Apparently the red boat had gone to war. It had resurfaced, and Michael was making gun sounds in the back of his throat and slapping his hand down ever closer to it, splashing water as imaginary shells closed in. The boat was rocking, threatening to swamp.
It was then that Bernice noticed there were only three people waiting to dive. She decided to take advantage of the lull.
“Michael, if we get out and go to the other end of the pool for a few minutes, will you promise to stay on the towel while I dive?”
