"Are we flirting?" she asked. Not wanting to be in the houseboat where Walker had watched her so closely, she'd been living as LaMoia's houseguest for the past week. As friends. But on this night romance simmered beneath the surface, and both felt it.
He delivered the drinks. "Get over it."
"Delicious," she said, sampling the concoction.
"More where that came from."
"Indeed."
He raised his glass. "To forgetting."
She knew he meant well by such a toast, but it only served to remind her of all the forgetting she had yet to do. Ferrell Walker wouldn't be forgotten-at least not by a legal system hungry to prosecute him. The man had months, years, of waiting to do-first in the hospital, then a prison in the eastern part of the state. His rescue from the debris of the cave-in had come nearly twenty minutes after LaMoia's. His oxygen-starved brain had failed to recover following resuscitation. The guards called him "a drooler." LaMoia called him pitiful. Matthews called him a casualty. She wouldn't soon forget Margaret either, or the little baby girl the doctors had saved postmortem. Inquiries had been made: Margaret's mother and stepfather, her only living family, had refused the child.
An honors memorial service had been held that same afternoon for Deputy Sheriff Nathan Prair. Neither Matthews nor LaMoia had attended.
She sloshed the tangy ice around her mouth, taking a big gulp. "I could have about five of these."
"Now that's more like it," LaMoia said.
"You want to get me drunk, John?"
"It was your idea, not mine. Besides, you're not exactly drinking alone here, in case you hadn't noticed." He considered this. "Have I ever seen you drunk, Matthews? I don't think so. You see? That's another thing about you: You're always in such total control-of you, and everyone around you."
She drank too fast and froze her throat. LaMoia brought the mixer's pitcher over and refilled her glass halfway. He fully topped off his own.
"More, please." When he failed to accommodate her, she reached for the pitcher with her good hand, but LaMoia caught her gently by her wrist.
LaMoia said, "No more for you. You don't get any excuses."
"Excuses for what?" she asked, bewildered by his refusal. For a moment, the room held perfectly still-the ferries out on the bay stopped moving; the rivulets of margarita froze on the side of the mixer-the only sound in the room the steady thumping of Blue's tail against one of the stools and the high octane drumming in her ears.
He reached over, took hold of her shirt, and carefully drew her to him. She reached out for balance with her good hand as he planted his lips onto hers and drew the wind out of her, drew her eyelids down, her head spinning, her toes dancing in her shoes. She felt everything inside tense like she'd grabbed hold of a live wire, and then her muscles melted into a steadily increasing warmth that rose into her chest and flooded her thighs. Her free hand laced into his curly hair and she kissed him back.
His bar stool nearly went over.
She wanted to get naked. She wanted him inside her, right here on the kitchen counter.
He whispered, "No excuses for that."
"You make a mean margarita."
"Practice makes perfect."
"In all sorts of things." Where had that come from? She added, "I may be a little rusty."
"You don't feel rusty." His hand was inside the back of her shirt. Her head tingled.
"No excuses," she said.
"None."
She whispered, "Listen, John, either we stop right now, or... we don't." It sounded stupid, once she heard it replay in her head.
"Whatever happens, happens," he said, still kissing her. "And we give it the best chance it has. No excuses, no fear."
She said, "Who'da thought?"
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Matthews."
"I imagine so." She added, "What are the chances you might call me by my first name, Romeo?"
"None." He opened his arms and embraced her. Peace and excitement washed through her.
"Take me to bed," she whispered into his ear. "Mind reader."
She sputtered a nervous laugh. He grabbed her hand.
Easing off the stool and into his arms, she said softly, "What are we doing?"
"Living. What's so wrong with that?"
Old Friends
The Great Lady inhabited the same wicker throne, a twinkle to her dark eyes that nearly hid behind the mass of flesh as she smiled at Boldt. Dumpling soup. Crispy beef with pea pods. Egg-fried rice with gulf shrimp.
"You like, Mr. Both?"
"Tasty. Better than ever," he said.
"Why eyes so sad? You clear up Billy Chen. He make no mistake on job. Prove again what great friend you are to an old lady."
"Friendships are complicated. You helped me out, too."
"You got woman problem." Mama Lu made it a statement with no room for argument.
"I've got a wonderful wife I love and terrific kids, Great Lady."
"You still got woman problem," she said.
He laughed aloud. He thought it might have been the first time he'd ever laughed in her company, and he wondered if it was bad form. He apologized, excusing himself, just in case.
"You apologizing for laughing? You got it bad. Who is she?"
"It's a he and she," he admitted.
Again she clucked her tongue. "Only a fool suffers another man's pleasure."
He considered this, nodded, and said, "And sometimes a fool has to hear things from a friend to get it right."
She smacked her lips and picked at her teeth, and for a moment he feared she might take out her teeth. This monster of flesh trained her dark, beady eyes onto him and he withered beneath her gaze. He wasn't sure how it had happened, but he had a relationship with this woman.
"People change, Mr. Both. Maybe laws don't change, but people do. Not good confuse the two."
He heard himself admit to her, "I love them both separately, it's together I'm having a hard time."
"There you go again, face like a dog," she said, studying him from the far side of a loaded pair of chopsticks. She waited a long time before speaking. Not a grain of rice fell from her grip. She said, "Hearts of gold never break. Bend, sure. Gold soft. But never break." She ate the rice and spoke through the food. "You have good heart, Mr. Both. Heart of gold."
When he left, a half hour later, Boldt kissed her hand. It was the first time he'd touched the woman, and she clearly appreciated the gesture.
Back in the Crown Vie, he put on a Chieftains tape and cranked the volume. A plaintive Irish ballad sung by Van Morrison.
"Have I told you lately that I love you?" Van the Man crooned, and Boldt hummed along, swept up by his emotions. He had memories of Liz in his head, not Daphne, and this felt absolutely right to him.
He burped and thought Mama Lu would have appreciated that more than a kiss on the hand.
He drove home, his thumb keeping the song's slow rhythm on the steering wheel. The melody rose from his throat to his lips as he formed the lyrics and began singing loudly. He couldn't wait to get home.
Life's No Picnic
The houseboat stood empty, its hardwood floor gleaming clean because Daphne Matthews was not the kind of person to sell a house and leave it dirty. John had known this moment would hurt, and he'd offered to join her, but she'd made this pilgrimage alone.
She couldn't leave without tears, and she'd wanted to be alone to suffer them in private. So much of her adult life had passed through these doors, even if limited in terms of years. She'd both found herself here and lost herself here-several times, if she were being honest-and parting came hard. The lump in her throat practically stopped her from breathing. It had been more than a house, a home-this place had been a friend that had suffered her complaints, her joys, and two failed engagements.