Louis hesitated. Mississippi? Detroit? Ann Arbor? “South of here,” he said finally. “How about you?” Somehow, he couldn’t see this woman being from Loon Lake.
“Chicago,” she said. “I rent a cabin up on the north end.”
Louis smiled. An East Egger.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He came around and sat down on the sofa. He shrugged off the afghan, suddenly aware how he looked in his old gray sweatpants, flannel shirt, tube socks and day-old beard. He wished he had taken a shower. Even in her running clothes and tangled hair, Zoe looked elegant somehow. He felt a stirring halfway between his gut and his groin. Jesus, how long had it been? That woman he met at the bar three months ago. Some nice sex, some good talk, but nothing more. The ache, he realized, was more than sexual. It was plain old loneliness.
Louis glanced at her left hand. No ring. “So you’re here with your family?” he asked.
“No. I’m alone.”
Thank you, God…
“No family at all?” he asked.
“I don’t have any family. I come here to get away.”
“Loon Lake is a strange place for a woman to spend a vacation alone.”
“I’m an artist. I do landscapes, snow scenes mainly. I come here every winter to paint,” she said. She seemed to be watching him for his reaction.
“No kidding? I’ve never met an artist. I’ve never met anyone really creative before. Except maybe the old woman who knitted this thing.” He held up the afghan.
Zoe smiled and sat down on the far end of the sofa.
“Can I get you a drink?” He gestured toward the small refrigerator. “Haven’t got much. Beer? Some bad brandy?”
She shook her head.
He jumped to his feet. “Cocoa,” he said.
She hesitated then nodded. “All right. Cocoa.”
He went to the kitchen, pulling out a small pot and the can of Nestle’s from the cupboard. He got out the milk carton and saw it was nearly empty. He poured what was left into the pot and added tap water. As he waited for it to heat, he glanced back at her. She was just sitting there, staring into the fire. He quickly stirred the lukewarm cocoa and brought it back to the living room.
She took the cup, cradling it in her hands, her eyes on him as he sat back down. He took a drink and grimaced.
“It’s terrible,” he said.
“It’s fine.” She glanced over his shoulder at the door. He sensed that she wanted to leave. He wasn’t going to let her, not if he could help it.
“So, tell me about your paintings,” he said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“My work is private. I find it hard to talk to strangers about it.” When she saw the look on his face, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounded pretentious.”
“No, that’s all right,” Louis said quickly. “I understand.”
“Do you know the Beauman Gallery on Lake Shore Drive?”
“Never been to Chicago.”
“Oh…well, that’s who handles my work.”
The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. He was trying to decide whether to tell her he was a cop. He could never tell what sort of reaction that would draw from a woman. Some were intrigued, a few repulsed. Most were just puzzled. Zoe Devereaux, his instincts were telling him, needed only the smallest excuse to bolt and he didn’t want his badge to be it. He took a sip of cocoa, looking at her profile out of the corner of his eye.
Jesus, what a face. Not exactly beautiful, certainly not pretty. She was obviously mixed. But of what? A faint memory came to him in that instant. A memory of himself as a child, sitting on the worn wooden porch. A woman was brushing his hair. His mother? He couldn’t see her face. He saw the faces, though, of the three little black girls who stood barefoot in the dirt watching in fascination. Can we touch it? One asked shyly, can we touch his hair? It was the first time he realized he was different.
His eyes traveled to Zoe’s hair. It was almost dry now, forming a soft cascade of tight curls around her face. It was neither black nor brown exactly, but the color of the last leaves of fall, wet from the rain.
“You’re staring at me again.”
He smiled slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just — ”
“What?”
He shook his head. “It’s personal.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
He hesitated.
“My mother was Korean,” Zoe said evenly. “My father was black. Is that what you wanted to ask?”
Louis nodded. “You were born here?”
“No, in Korea. My mother died and I was in an orphanage for a year. Then one day this man showed up, this tall, black, American soldier. He told me he was my father. He took me to California.” Zoe leaned back against the sofa. “I was ten years old.”
“That’s incredible,” Louis said.
“What?”
“That he went back for you.”
She nodded then seemed to drift off to some private place. “I loved him,” she said after a moment. She looked up at him, her eyes warmed by the fire.
Louis waited, sensing she wanted to go on. He wanted her to, feeling that if she did the moment could last, maybe grow into something more. But she remained silent, her eyes vacant in the waning firelight. It occurred to him that she talked of her father in the past tense. He was dead and Louis had the feeling it was recent. She had the aura of a person in mourning, still tender to the touch.
“He passed away?” Louis asked gently.
She nodded, not looking at him.
Louis regretted asking the question. It had apparently taken her further into some private place.
“He was killed,” she said suddenly. “It was during the Watts riot. A sniper bullet.”
Louis drew in a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said softly.
“He was a policeman,” Zoe said.
“What?” he said.
“He was in one of the riot-control units. They surrounded his car. He couldn’t get out.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold. “He was black. It didn’t matter,” she said.
Louis leaned his head back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. When he looked back at her, she was staring at the fire.
He rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. He set the mug down and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the sink.
“It’s late,” she said. “I’d better go.”
He turned to face her. She was standing by the door. She slipped on her running shoes, kneeling to lace them up. Louis came over to the door and reached for his jacket.
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
“It’s not necessary.”
“I want to.”
They said nothing as they trudged out through the snow to the Mustang, half-buried in a drift. Louis wanted to say something, anything to fill the chill void that had formed between them. He wanted this to move forward somehow. Despite what she had said. Despite what he was.
The Mustang started after several tries. “It’s an old car,” Louis said. “I never know what will happen. Sorry, there’s no heat.”
She nodded vigorously. “Take 44 north,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
She said nothing after that. Louis made a few weak comments about the snow, the cold, the lake. But she remained silent. Finally, she directed him to turn onto a small side road and stop at the bottom of a hill.
“It’s steep. Your car won’t make it up. I’ll walk from here,” she said quickly.
She opened the door. Louis grabbed her left hand.
“I want to see you again,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” he pressed.
In the dim glow of the car’s overhead light, he could see something anxious cloud her face.
“I don’t know you,” she said. “And you don’t know me.”
“Okay, but I want to.” His hand tightened on hers.
She shook her head slowly.
“Let’s just try it,” Louis said.
She looked down at his hand. He felt her arm tense as she tried to pull away. He let go.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Zoe — ”
She got out of the car, started to close the door then stopped. She looked away, up the hill into the dark woods and then back at Louis.