"You want to give it a minute."
"I can't. I've got…what day is it?"
"Wednesday."
"How did I get here?"
"I didn't know where else to take you. You passed out."
She picked at the memory. "We were…Spencer, that bastard." Parts of it coming back. "All along, he knew…he couldn't do anything about…"
"New York?"
She lay back into the pillow, threw an arm over her eyes. "I've got to call work."
"I can do that for you."
"No." But she didn't move. Lying on the bed, breathing through her mouth.
Hunt got the phone. He had worked for her firm enough that he knew the number by heart. He also knew her secretary, Carla Shapiro, but didn't want to talk to her because she would ask him questions. So he talked to the receptionist. He was Andrea's doctor, and she had a bad case of food poisoning. She was resting and on fluids now and wouldn't be in till tomorrow.
Andrea tried to object. "Wait," she said. "That's too…"
"Maybe this afternoon," Hunt said into the phone, "but I'm recommending against it."
When he hung up, she collapsed back down. "I've really got to get home."
"You've got to get up, you've got to call work, you've got to go home. What you've got to do, Andrea, is give the alcohol time to dissipate. Get more water inside you. You're okay here. Lay back down, close your eyes, cover up. I'll unplug the phone. You go back to sleep."
"Maybe I should."
"No 'maybe' about it."
"But I need to use the bathroom."
"Can you get up?"
"I don't know." She sat up, tried to stand, went back down. "Maybe not."
Hunt leaned over her. "Put your arms around my neck."
"You don't want to…I stink," she said. "My clothes-"
"Shut up. Arms."
She obeyed him. He got her upright, walked her inside the bathroom, then stepped outside it, and closed the door behind him. After the flush, he heard the water running.
"Wyatt." The voice feeble.
He opened the door. She was sitting down on the seat cover, tears in her eyes. Again he got in front of her, went to one knee. "Arms," he said.
After a minute, she moved, and he walked her back and helped her down again to the bed. "You can take off your clothes if you want. You'll be more comfortable. I won't look."
"Okay," she said. But instead of making any movement to do that, she lay on her side and pulled the blankets over her. Hunt took the pillow and tucked it in under her head.
Before he straightened up, she was asleep.
When she woke up next time, she took four more aspirin with two more glasses of water that Hunt made her drink. In the bathroom, she used the new toothbrush Hunt had given her. Now she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. With the clean white towel Hunt had supplied, she wiped the bathroom mirror in a couple of circular strokes. Her clothes lay where she'd put them in a pile on top of the hamper, under her purse, which she now brought over to the sink. The purse still contained her hairbrush and compact. She wasn't going out without using them.
When she was satisfied, she wrapped the towel up under her arms, then around her, barely preserving a technical modesty.
Wyatt Hunt wasn't in any of the rooms she'd seen, so barefoot and towel-wrapped, she walked out through the bedroom and opened the door. She got a surprise. Hunt was on her right, facing away from her, by an old, cracked leather couch and in front of a six-foot television screen that was turned off. Surrounded by several amplifiers and four guitars on their stands, he was holding a fifth and quietly playing scales on it.
Parisi's gaze went up to the ceiling, way above her. She took a silent step out into the huge open space that looked pretty much like what it was, a converted warehouse. Over to her left, a silver MINI Cooper squatted in one corner. The far wall facing her contained a desk with a computer and file cabinets. On the right-hand corner was some kind of backstop, with a few bats stuck in the fencing. Then, coming around, a set of weights. Finally, the pièce de résistance, one half of a hardwood basketball court, backboard and all, with a Golden State Warriors' logo in the key.
"Wyatt."
He turned. His eyes immediately went to her legs, then nearly as fast came back up. "Hey," he said. "Better?"
She couldn't go that far. "At least there's some hope I might live." She gestured around. "This is very cool."
Unslinging the guitar, Hunt put it back on its stand. Took the moment as an excuse not to stare at her. He cast his eyes around his space. "Yeah. I like it. You want the grand tour? You notice my professional basketball court, bought used from the Warriors for a mere four grand?"
"No. Where is that?" Joking with him. Now looking down at herself. "You wouldn't have something I could wear, do you? I couldn't bring myself to put my old clothes back on."
Hunt decided not to say that she looked pretty damn good to him just like she was. "I'm sure I can find something," he said.
Now she was wearing one of his black pullovers over a T-shirt and a pair of his jeans with a length of rope to gather the waist. They were drinking coffee at the table in Hunt's kitchen. "So how do I thank you?" she asked.
"No need. You were in trouble. I'm supposed to leave you passed out in the street?"
"Some people might have."
"No human beings."
"Well…thank you." She sipped at her coffee. "It keeps coming back to me. I hate a public scene."
"I've seen worse," Hunt said.
"Did I hit him?"
"Yes, you did. A slap, really."
"That's inexcusable."
Hunt shrugged. "He'd been lying to you."
"Still. That's no excuse. Once the hitting starts, excuses get lame pretty quick."
"I have noticed that."
Something about the way he said it stopped her, the cup halfway to her mouth. "That sounds like personal experience?"
"Maybe a bit."
"If you don't want to talk about it…"
"No, it's all right. I spent time in a few foster homes when I was a kid, that's all. I found that once the old corporal punishment barrier got broken…as you say, any excuse became a good one."
She put her cup down. "You were a foster kid?"
He nodded. "For a while. Till I was eight. I was lucky. I got adopted."
"At eight?"
"I know, it's unusual." He made a face. "I must have been cuter then."
"Well," she said, "maybe in a different way. But you know, then, too, about getting hit."
"Too? Who hit you?"
She drew in a deep breath and let it out. "My mother's second husband. Richie. He was a big believer in discipline, and I was his favorite."
"Why was that?"
"You're sure you want to know this?"
"I asked."
She sighed. "I think because I tried to fight him off. Note the key word, 'tried.' Luckily, he was only around for a year."
"What happened?"
"Mom found out. About me. She got him to come at her, and she killed him. They called it self-defense."
"Sounds like it was."
A small smile began, faded. "Close enough, I guess." Twirling her cup on the table now. "I apologize for all the melodrama."
"It's all right. I can take it."
"Anyway, it's why I'm so disgusted if I hit Spencer, even if he's a shit. I thought I'd trained myself never to do that."
"You think maybe you got drunk and saw a little of Richie in Spencer?"
"I don't want to think that. I don't want to see Richie in anybody."
"But he's always around?"
"The memory. Somewhere, yes. And I know what you're going to say next."
"If you do, you're a step ahead of me."
"I doubt that."
"Okay, so what was I going to say?"
"That you know why I crave this public adulation, the anchor thing."
"Do you? Crave it, I mean?"
"I must. Deep down, I don't think I feel too worthy of any one person's affection. I'm damaged goods. So maybe enough love from the masses makes up for the lack of it from any one person. How's that for a theory?"