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.
"Kelly's all grown up now, Beau. She's not eleven or twelve anymore. It looks to me as though she's behaving in a very responsible fashion."
I thought about that. "In other words, butt out and mind my own business?"
Alex shrugged. "Maybe that's a little stronger than I would have said it myself, but yes, that's pretty much what I mean."
Alex left me standing in the middle of the room, walked over to the door, and clicked home the security lock. When she came back, she kissed me full on the lips.
"Hey, big guy," she murmured. "How about a quick roll in the hay? This is supposed to be our romantic getaway, remember? So far you haven't laid a glove on me."
God knows I wanted her, but my ears reddened at the very suggestion. "With Kelly right downstairs?" I croaked.
Alex laughed. "Why not? She's doing laundry, remember? She won't even notice."
"But what if the bed squeaks? What if the floor does?"
"What if?"
Taking me by the hand, Alex led me over to the bed. I sat down on it tentatively and bounced once or twice, testing the springs. I couldn't hear any telltale squeaks, but without being downstairs to listen, how could I be sure? Meantime, Alex slipped out of her shorts and panties and peeled her T-shirt off over her head. Seconds after the T-shirt hit the carpeted floor, so did her lacy white bra.
Alex walked over to me and pulled me against her bare skin with fierce, hungry urgency. Grasping my head, she buried my face in the soft, fragrant swell of her breasts.
"Please," she whispered. "Kelly will never know. Even if she did, she won't mind. I think she knows where babies come from."
"But…"
"Kelly isn't a virgin anymore. She doesn't expect you to be one, either."
Put that way, with Alex's suddenly taut nipples grazing against my skin and lips, I could hardly turn her down. No right-thinking male would have, not unless he was totally crazy-and, most assuredly, I am not crazy.
Eventually, with some careful urging on her part, I did manage to rise to the occasion. But given the choice between making love while my daughter was downstairs washing clothes or doing it with Alex's crazy cat lying there eyeing us malevolently from the opposite pillow, I confess I'd choose Hector every single time.
CHAPTER 6
We fell asleep. Considering the lateness of the hour when we'd arrived home from the emergency room, that was hardly surprising. Alex woke me just in time for us to go to lunch with Jeremy and Kelly. Before we left the room, I personally made sure the bed was perfectly straight.
Jeremy showed up wearing his Birkenstocks and driving the Live Oak Farm van. Once we were all together, he recommended we go directly to a restaurant called Geppetto's in hopes of beating the noontime crowd. I soon saw the wisdom in that advice. Within minutes of our being shown to a table, twenty people stood waiting in line for seating as matinee theatergoers came out in droves, prowling the area for pre-play sustenance.
Ashland, like an army, travels on its stomach. Each day the town fills up with hundreds of out-of-town visitors who expect to be fed regular meals before, after, or between performances. The fact that nobody goes hungry is one of the logistical miracles of unrepentant capitalism.
When the harried waiter arrived to take our order, all three of them-Jeremy, Kelly, and Alex-ordered the eggplant hamburger. Eggplant, for God's sake! It reminded me of Ron Peters, my longtime friend and ex-partner, in his old bean-sprout days. I fumed and ordered a real hamburger.