“Fuck you.”
Gene Decker laughed as if she’d said something funny, but the glare he directed at her was venomous. He tilted his glass, drained it in a long swallow. “I can use another drink myself.”
“So can I. God, yes.”
“You’ve had your quota, honeybunch.”
“Like hell I have. If you won’t make me another one, Brian will.”
Lomax didn’t move.
Tension here, all right. You could feel it, almost hear it—a subaural crackling like echoes from the pitch-pine logs burning in the fireplace. Whatever was going on with these people, Macklin didn’t want any part of it. But Shelby had committed them; he couldn’t just drag her out of here. Couldn’t have managed a quick exit anyhow because she’d already shrugged out of her coat. Nothing he could do then but shed his own coat, then follow her down the three steps into the living room.
Paula made room for them on the couch. She was about Shelby’s age, plump and top-heavy, her round cheeks irregularly flushed like a person afflicted with rosacea. When Claire asked what they’d like to drink, Shelby said she’d been having a martini before the lights went out. At ease as usual in a social situation, even among bad-mannered, boozy strangers like these.
Decker said, “Martinis are my speciality,” and crossed to a built-in, stone-fronted bar. “Gin or vodka? Up or on the rocks?”
“Gin, please. Up.”
“Same for you, Macklin?”
“No. Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Oh, come on. Free booze is free booze.”
“Just not thirsty.”
“Okay, then. More for the rest of us.”
Lomax was still standing in the foyer. An imposing figure, a couple of inches over six feet and wide through the shoulders and neck, dressed casually like the others in slacks and sweater. His bristly rust-colored hair was cut so short his scalp gleamed pink and shiny through it. He’d lost his scowl; now his beard-dark face was set in tight, unreadable lines.
His wife sat down in a chair on Shelby’s right. She was at least fifteen years younger than Lomax, Macklin thought. Eyes the striking color of smoked pearl, luminous with some veiled emotion … anxiety? High cheekbones, pale skin a little liquor-reddened, long, slender throat, a model’s slim figure. But her beauty was the fragile kind that would fade or turn gaunt with age, and marred by lines around her mouth and faint shadows under her eyes. Shelby was just the opposite, he thought, more attractive now than when he’d married her; the strength and character in her face were lacking in Claire Lomax’s.
“So, then,” she said. “Where are you folks from?”
Macklin told them.
“And you’re friends of the Coulters?”
“Ben and I went to college together—UC Santa Cruz.”
“We’ve met him and his wife—Kate, isn’t it?—but we don’t know them well.”
“Kate, yes.”
“How long are you staying? Through New Year’s?”
“Until New Year’s Day.”
“Good! So are we. We’ll have to get together again, maybe on New Year’s Eve.” She seemed to need to talk, as if she were afraid of dead air; her words came quickly, a little breathlessly. Macklin wondered if she was drunk. There wasn’t any doubt that Paula was. Decker, too, if less obviously. “All of us live in Santa Rosa. We’ve been here since Christmas Eve. We thought it’d be fun to spend the holidays here this year, now that the house is finished.”
“Some fun,” Paula said. “Wackos on the loose inside and out.”
“The only wacko in here is you,” Decker said from the bar.
“Hurry up with those drinks, will you?”
“Can’t rush perfection. Santa will deliver.”
“Santa. Jesus.”
“Ho, ho, ho.”
Claire ignored them. “Brian’s an architect. He designed this house, everything exactly the way he wanted it. Isn’t that fireplace wonderful?”
It was, and Macklin said so. Built of native stone, it transcribed a long, graceful curve outward from the side wall, with the hearth in the middle of the curve and open to this room and the one on the other side, probably the kitchen. The bedrooms would be along a front hallway that led off the foyer. The rest of the living room was as impressive as the fireplace, if a little too colorless for his taste. Heavy redwood ceiling beams, dark wood paneling, floors partially covered by black-and-white woven rugs. A four-foot-square painting on one wall, of a stormy, cloud-ridden sky at sunset, added a moody note. Something brighter, with primary colors, would’ve been better. So would a Christmas tree, a wreath, some kind of holiday decoration, but there were none visible anywhere.
Lomax finally made up his mind to join them, but he didn’t sit down. He stood at a distance, like an overseer. “The house isn’t finished yet,” he said.
“Well, it is, but Brian means little things, little touches he’s not satisfied with—”
“I don’t like that, Claire. You know I don’t.”
“What don’t you like?”
“You speaking for me. Why do you keep doing it?”
“Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … Oh, good, the drinks.”
Decker was there with a tray. Martini in a broad-rimmed glass with a lemon peel instead of olives, four mixed drinks that from their color were probably Scotch and water. He handed them out, the palest of the three to his wife, who glared at him but didn’t say anything. Lomax refused the last glass with a curt, “No, I’ve had enough for tonight.”
“Another party pooper.”
“Why don’t you drink what you sell, instead of swilling Scotch all the time?”
“Ah, yes, fine California wine. How does that Omar quote go? ‘I wonder what the vintners guzzle one half so precious as the stuff they sell’?”
“Guzzle. Very funny.”
“Gene is a sales rep for Eagle Mountain Winery,” Claire said. “In the Russian River valley.”
Paula made a derisive noise. “They work him like a dog too—or I should say like a son of a bitch. Would you believe even on Christmas Day, so I had to drive up here by myself?”
Decker said, “Here we go again.”
“What was it you were working on this time, sweetie—blonde, brunette, or redhead?”
“Why don’t you finish your drink and pass out?”
“Fuck you.”
Decker didn’t laugh this time. “Isn’t she a treasure? Too bad she’s not the buried kind.”
There was an awkward moment before Claire asked Macklin, “What do you do, Jay? For a living, I mean?”
“I’m between jobs right now.”
“Another victim of the goddamn economy,” Decker said. “What profession did you get tossed out of?”
“I’ve done a lot of things,” he said evasively, and couldn’t think of anything to add that didn’t sound lame or self-defensive.
Shelby rescued him. “Jay’s passion is owning a quality restaurant. We did own one, as a matter of fact, for three years in Morgan Hill. Macklin’s Grotto. Seafood specialties.”
“What happened?”
“The same thing that happens to a lot of good restaurants these days. Too much expense and not enough customers.”
Talking about the restaurant—thinking about it—was still painful. To change the subject Macklin said, “Shelby’s the breadwinner now. She’s an EMT.”
“You mean a paramedic?” Claire said. “Oh, that’s interesting. I know there are women who do that work, but I’ve never met one. It must be rewarding to help people who … people in trouble.”
“Yes,” Shelby said.
“But stressful, too. Do you work long hours?”
“Sometimes. Nights as well as days.”
“Must play hell with your love life,” Decker said.
Another brief, awkward silence. Paula broke it by saying, “What’s it like to have a love life? Been so long, I’ve forgotten.”