“I don’t mind,” she told him.
Before he could protest, she pulled her blouse over her head.
She wore her white satin bra. Not a pretty bra, but a well-worn and somewhat tattered undergarment with frayed elastic and a clasp broken on the back. She didn’t care.
He blinked and looked away, shifting his eyes toward the floor.
Shivering, she stepped toward him. She took his prickly sweater in her hands and pulled it up.
As it rose toward his face, he looked at her, their eyes meeting before she drew the sweater over his head.
A swath of dark curls covered his chest.
His eyes found her again, and for several seconds they stood staring at each other, their desire expanding until it filled the room.
Weston broke the stillness. He put a hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him, crushing his mouth into hers.
They kissed until her mouth was raw and sore. His hands roamed over her face, her hair, and her back. His mouth moved from her lips to her nose and jaw, and finally to her neck.
They would have gone further. They nearly did.
A phone rang in the office next door. The shrill sound startled them both.
Weston paused, his mouth hot on her shoulder. He continued lower, kissing her chest, moving toward her breast.
But then it rang a second time and someone answered.
“Hello?” The wall between the offices muffled the woman’s voice.
Weston stiffened and stood.
His hands slid away from Crystal’s back.
She didn’t reach for him, though she wanted to. His nervous, dazed expression told her the magic of the moment had slipped away.
He peered at the floor and rubbed his jaw before returning his eyes to hers. He looked ashamed.
“I—” he started.
She watched the apology forming on his lips and placed her hand over his mouth.
When she took it away, she put a finger to her lips.
She slipped the MSU sweatshirt over her head and stepped close to him, kissing him fiercely.
Without another word, she walked out the door and down the hall.
The rain had subsided, and Crystal ran across campus to the Union, where she ordered a coffee and sat in a little plastic booth watching the traffic crawl by on Grand River Avenue.
Her body seemed light and fluttery. If she stood naked before a mirror, she imagined she’d witness all the little atoms popping and whirring. She reached beneath her sweatshirt and touched the space on her shoulder where he’d last kissed her. She could still feel the impression of his mouth, not on her skin, but in her, as if for those drawn-out moments they’d melted together.
After an hour, when the buzz had worn off, she called Bette.
8
Now
Bette sat elbow to elbow with her dad in the little dive bar called Captain Mike’s. Prior to that, it been named Captain Kurt’s, and before that Captain Craig’s.
Despite the change in ownership and a slightly modified name; the nautical decor, the dim lighting, and the rank smell of beer spilled onto old carpeting remained.
“Why’d you choose this place, Dad?” Bette asked, grimacing when her arm stuck to the grubby table.
He looked at her, surprised.
“Captain Craig’s? This place is great. Your mom and I used to come here all the time. She went into labor with you at that table right over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner, occupied by a group of middle-aged men drinking tall glasses of beer and arguing about the baseball game playing on the little TV above the bar.
“How charming,” she grumbled.
“Plus, this place puts people at ease,” Homer added. “Lots of cozy corners. It’s loud enough. Setting is important when you interrogate someone.”
“Interrogate?” Bette asked, surprised.
“I think it’s an appropriate description,” he replied.
The waiter, a middle-aged man with the weary gaze of a guy who’d spent too many years working in a bar, stopped at their table.
“What can I get ya?” he asked.
“A ginger-ale for me,” Homer said.
“I’ll have water, please. With lemon,” she added.
Homer shook his head. “Make hers something dark, Coke or Pepsi.”
“Eew, no,” she argued.
Homer put a hand on his daughter’s arm.
“They look like alcoholic drinks. We want to put him at ease, Bette. I want him to order a drink and he’ll only do that if he thinks we’ve done the same.”
“Fine, Cherry Coke, then,” she told the waiter.
“And put them in short glasses, please,” Homer added.
The waiter brought their drinks, sliding them onto the table as Weston walked in.
Bette did a double take when she saw him. His long hair had been sheared above his ears and his beard was gone.
“That’s him,” Bette mumbled under her breath. She saw her father train his eyes on the man who had entered.
He looked like a clean-cut college boy rather than the scruffy hippie-type Bette had met weeks before. He wore dark jeans and a green Michigan State University t-shirt. The removal of his facial hair made him look younger, more like a student than a professor.
He spotted Bette and smiled tensely, waving.
Sliding into the booth, he held out his hand.
“Hi, Mr. Childs. I’m Weston Meeks. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Homer extended his own hand, shook Weston’s, and then signaled to the waiter.
“What will you have?” Homer asked as the waiter returned.
Wes glanced at Homer’s and Bette’s drinks.
“Ummm… I guess I’ll have a scotch and soda. Thanks.”
The waiter nodded and left.
“Let’s get right down to it,” Homer said. “Crystal was supposed to meet Bette yesterday at five for the anniversary of Joanna’s death. This is a big deal. They do this every year. They go to dinner and then to the cemetery. Were you aware of that?”
Weston blinked at Homer.
“Umm… yeah. No. I didn’t know they went to the cemetery every year. I knew the anniversary was coming up because Crystal told me last week.”
“But she didn’t show,” Bette said. “And she’d never miss it.” Her voice was rising, and Homer rested his hand over hers, a silent signal for her to stop talking.
“Crystal is spontaneous. That is true,” Homer relented. “But more than that, she’s considerate. Under no circumstances will Crystal hurt someone’s feelings or stand them up. So, when she missed her scheduled date with her sister, Bette was immediately alarmed.”
“Yeah, of course,” Wes agreed.
Bette gazed at the glass but noticed Homer kept his focus on Wes.
Homer stared at the man intently. “Do you know where Crystal is, Weston?”
The waiter returned with Weston’s drink and he took a sip before answering.
Wes shook his head. “No, not at all. Like I said, I haven’t seen her since Wednesday.”
“Have you spoken with her since then?” Homer continued.
Wes shook his head again, picked up his drink and finished it.
Homer signaled to the waiter.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Wes argued, but Homer ignored him.
“A refill, please,” Homer said, gesturing at Weston’s glass.
“No, I haven’t talked to her. I tried to call her a few times, but—”
“But she didn’t answer and didn’t return your calls?” Homer asked.
Wes nodded.
“Is that usual, Weston? To not speak with my daughter for three days?”
Wes opened his hands.
The waiter returned with his second drink, and he immediately clutched it.