"Your daughter can't stand to lose," Anthony said.
"I can't stand to lose? What about you?"
When the time was up, Mary's small bowl was thin and distorted on one side, thick on the other. "Another minute and it would have gone flying across the room," she said wryly. Anthony's, on the other hand, while unfinished and unexceptional, was on its way to becoming an actual coffee cup.
Then it was Gillian's turn.
At one time Gillian had been fairly adept at the wheel, but apparently she was out of practice. She immediately began having such a hard time that Mary started laughing and couldn't stop.
"Oh, Gillian!" she gasped.
Mary looked up to catch Anthony watching her with a disconcerting expression on his face. When he retained eye contact, she broke away, confused.
Ten minutes later, Gillian was slapping her rejected piece of clay, starting over again for the third time.
"Anthony wins, hands down," Blythe said.
Anthony and Gillian decided they needed more practice and played around a little longer, Blythe and Mary gathering close, coaching them and laughing. Finally Blythe took the seat and they watched as she quickly created a beautiful vase, removed it from the wheel, and put it aside to dry.
"That's why you're the artist and I'm an FBI agent," Anthony said, smiling.
"You're too sweet."
Was her mother flirting with Anthony? Mary wondered. No, surely not. Or was Anthony flirting with her mother? She'd called him sweet and he hadn't batted an eye.
The party didn't break up until almost midnight.
"Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?" Mary asked Anthony.
"No, thanks. I have to drop off my rental car there anyway. Can I talk to you a minute?"
"I'll grab my coat and join you outside. I could use some fresh air."
"I'll glaze your coffee cup so Mary can give it to you," Blythe promised.
Anthony shook hands with Gillian, then surprised Mary by giving Blythe a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for dinner. I had a good time."
Mary walked with him to the street where his car was parked. "Your mother's nice," he said, pausing near the curb.
She crossed her arms at her waist. "You didn't have to kiss her."
"Jealous? She called me sweet. That deserved a kiss."
"Deserved? That makes you sound awfully special."
"Why bring it up?"
"It just seemed… I don't know." She paused. "Out of character."
"Really? Then I guess you don't know me very well."
His delivery was teasing, but the truth behind his words stung. In some ways she knew him intimately. She could read every nuance of his expression, and often knew what he was going to say before he said it. When he wasn't around, she could hear his voice in her head, calmly offering theories. But in other ways, he was more of a mystery to her than he'd ever been.
She managed to shrug off his comment, not wanting it to spoil a wonderful evening. "I'm glad you came to Minneapolis."
"What about you? How's it been for you, being here?"
"I'm glad I came too."
"It looks as if you and Gillian are getting along. Maybe it'll be easier for you to come back now."
His insight surprised her. "I think it will." Cold air blew down her collar. She pulled her jacket tighter. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
He leaned against the car in what she read as feigned unconcern. "You are coming back, aren't you? To Virginia?"
"Of course I am. How could you think otherwise?"
"I don't know. I thought you might be starting to like it here. And I know Elliot is in the market for a profiler."
She tipped her head. "Now I'm beginning to wonder if you're jealous."
"Do you think that's possible?" he asked slowly, his voice smooth.
"Of course not," she said, suddenly flustered. "I don't know why I said it."
"Maybe you're a little drunk."
"Maybe."
He pushed away from the car and took her gently by both arms. He leaned close… And then his lips touched hers-just a brush before veering to the right to plant a soft kiss on her cheek.
That millisecond of contact sent an electrical sensation along her skin, down her jaw, up to her scalp. Her breath caught, and heat suffused her body.
"That's so you don't feel slighted." And then he was pulling away, casually telling her good-bye.
She had to stop him. He couldn't leave just yet. "Anthony-wait.''
He paused, his hand on the car door. Light from the Victorian-style street lamp fell over him, lending a film noir quality to the moment. As she looked at the contrasting shadows that made up his face, she suddenly became aware of the passage of time. Of weeks and months and years. She thought about all the unspokens, and how important it was to let the people you care about know how you felt… But how could you do that when you weren't sure yourself?
"Mary?" Anthony asked. In his face, she saw a hint of the same pain and panic she'd witnessed in those slow-motion minutes after she'd been shot. "Is it your arm?"
"No. No, I'm fine," she said slowly.
Mary had been so sure of herself for so many years.
The ground she'd stood on had seemed so solid. Now it was shifting under her, slipping away, taking Anthony with it. Was he seeing someone new? she wondered.
"I wanted to tell you to be careful," she said. "And that I'll see you soon."
His worry vanished. He flashed her a smile and got in his car. She stood on the curb and watched as he drove away, watched as the red taillights disappeared around the corner.
"He likes you." Gillian had silently appeared on the sidewalk, just beyond Mary's shoulder.
"Anthony?"
"Who else?"
"I think he sometimes finds me amusing."
"He likes you. More than likes you."
Was Gillian right? Was that what Anthony's hot-cold and sometimes unreadable behavior was rooted in? The very idea of Anthony liking her was foreign and exotic and made Mary's heart hammer in a strangely frightening and exhilarating way. A case of arrested development? "What would make you say something like that?"
"I saw the way he was looking at you when you weren't watching."
Mary tried to wave off the idea. "He's constantly criticizing me and pointing out my faults." This was like something Gillian would have started when they were younger: "Remember that time you told me the cute boy down the block had a crush on me?" Mary asked. "So I wrote him some embarrassingly mushy note and had you give it to him. Do you remember how that turned out? He didn't even know who I was."
Gillian clapped her hands together, then threw back her head and laughed in delight-showing a flash of the charming brat Mary used to know. And in that outfit, with that hair, she looked like a teenager. "I completely forgot about that stupid note!" She doubled over. "That was so funny!"
Mary laughed along with her, and when she finally stopped her stomach muscles hurt from the unfamiliar workout. It's the alcohol, she told herself. There was a good reason she never drank-it skewed her perspective. Laughing her ass off, brought to her knees by a kiss and some wine. And it hadn't even been a real kiss. What would a real kiss have done? she wondered as she took Gillian's arm. "Come on. Let's go harass Mom."
Together they returned to the house.
Chapter 24
Two days later, Mary was in the bedroom of her mother's house, typing up the final pages of her report, when her mobile phone rang. It was Elliot.
"Just got a call from Homicide," he said in a breathless, excited voice. "One of their guys is at a darkroom in Seward. Guess whose name is in their guest book?"
"Hitchcock?"
"Right. The date would fit too. He was there in late October."
She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. "What's the address?"
"Take 35 West north, get off on Cedar, east on Franklin. It's two blocks south of the co-op. I'll meet you there."
She hung up and turned off her laptop. She slipped on her gun, grabbed her phone and coat, and ran down the stairs and out the door.