“It’s the play-offs,” I said.
“Family,” she said, “is more important than baseball.”
I looked to the heavens. Honestly, it was like she didn’t know her own father. More important than baseball indeed.
* * *
Grandy was sunk in his favorite chair, a classic leather club chair with nail-head accents. The chair was ancient. On more than one occasion Carrie had eyed the chair with the appreciation and borderline greed of an antiques dealer. On this occasion, Grandy was staring at the television that sat in the corner, his teeth clenched, the muscles of his jaw bunching and rolling. The television screen was black.
“But it would make better sense,” Ben said, “to get a full-time job, one with benefits. That way you can build a career at the same time you’re securing your future.”
On those same occasions Carrie eyed the furniture, she also turned a knowledgeable eye on the crystal, with its sharp cut glass and heavy stems. Those sharp edges she admired threatened to leave permanent indents in my hand as I gripped the bowl of the glass tighter with each word Ben uttered.
I took a steadying breath, tried to inhale calm. “I’m not averse to a full-time job,” I said. “I am actively looking for one. In the meantime, I pick up what work I can get.”
Ben’s eyes slipped closed as he shook his head. “No. You’ll never find a job while you have one. Finding a job is full-time work. You need to do away with these little diversions and focus on the job hunt.”
“I need to pay bills,” I snapped. “I need to put gas in my car. And I have an inconvenient fondness for food.”
“Now, Georgia,” my mother said. “Ben’s only trying to help. You should be grateful for his advice.”
My jaw fell. I looked to Grandy, hoping for help from his corner. The muscle at the back of his jaw twitched. At the same time I wanted him to leap to my defense, I appreciated his allowing me to defend myself. In that moment when I was close to feeling like a child again, it was nice to know someone believed I was an adult.
“Maybe,” Ben said, his voice at an almost gentle pitch, “you ought to consider looking out of state. There’s bound to be more opportunities for an accountant in a larger town, or even a city.”
“But I like it here.” I didn’t like the soft sound of my voice. I cleared my throat and repeated, “I like it here.” I felt, all it once, like I had said the same words a hundred times, but no one seemed to hear them.
Fifi picked up the sound of the car door first, earning her keep by behaving like a proper watchdog. From her napping position beneath the kitchen table, she scrambled to her feet and bounded to the door, barking her warning along the way.
“Ah. That must be your gentleman friend,” Ben said.
Grandy’s eye twitched briefly, and I bit back a “thank heavens” while I set my glass of wine down on the coffee table and stood.
Mom pushed to her feet, faced me across the table. “I’ll get it, Georgia, you sit.”
“It’s fine, Mom. I’ve got it.”
An even-measured thump sounded from the porch—Tony jogging up the steps—and Fifi mixed a little whining in among her barking.
“It won’t do to look too eager.” Ben raised his glass as though his words were a toast. I raised my eyes to the heavens and ducked out from behind the coffee table.
“I’ve got it,” I repeated.
The first chime of the doorbell hadn’t completed before I yanked open the door and slipped outside.
Startled, Tony looked at me with concern in his eye. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head, tugged the door closed. “You don’t want to go in there.” My hand against his chest kept him from advancing. “Really. Trust me on this one.”
He grinned, and rested his hand over mine. A cool evening breeze wafted the scent of his cologne toward me. “What are you going to do to stop me?”
“Give me a minute. I’m sure I can come up with something.”
“Can I make suggestions?” he asked. There was a tease in his voice and a hint of mischief in his eyes—if only for the split instant before the door whooshed open behind me.
“Well, hello there,” Ben said.
I might have flinched.
“You must be Tony,” he said. Then he was out the door and standing beside me on the porch, as Fifi wriggled through the gap left in the door. “Ben Sutter.” He stretched out a hand toward Tony, and Tony the traitor, dog snuffling at his slacks, obliged.
“Anton Himmel,” he said. He released Ben’s hand then bent to pat Fifi on the head.
“Happy to meet you. Georgia’s told us nothing about you.”
My mother appeared in the doorway. “We were beginning to think you didn’t exist,” she said.
I was obliged to shuffle to the side to let my mother join the growing huddle on the porch. My movement disturbed Fifi from her inspection of Tony’s ankles. She waddled off down the porch steps and onto the front lawn.
“In or out,” Grandy called. “But shut the door. I’m not paying to heat the whole neighborhood.”
Mom reached behind her and pulled the door closed. She took a breath and looked out across the yard. “Georgia, call the dog back before she wanders into the street.”
“She won’t wander into the street,” I said. Fifi, her canine priorities intact, located a patch of fading sunlight and flopped onto the ground.
“Oh, now, you can’t be too careful,” Ben said.
Tony shifted his stance, legs wide, arms crossed. “I installed an electric fence. Poor dog’s owner had passed away. Georgia may have told you. We didn’t want to risk the dog trying to get back to its original home and getting hurt. She won’t leave the lawn unless she’s on a leash.”
A silence of unusual magnitude overtook the porch. Seconds ticked away at the pace of hours. At last, Mom put on one of her broadest smiles. “That’s right. Georgia told us you’re in construction. I imagine putting in an invisible fence would be a piece of cake for someone like you.”
“Well.” Tony gave a lopsided grin. “Every task has its challenges.”
This was a highly delicate way of referring to Grandy’s supervisory skills, which Tony had borne with an endless supply of good nature.
“But isn’t there some concern with those fences not really keeping a dog in if it spots something it wants to chase, like a squirrel or a cat or another dog?”
Ben directed the question at me, whether because it was my dog or because he’d decided not to tangle with Tony.
I made an effort to duplicate my mother’s smile. “Why don’t we all go inside?”
With a call to the dog, I followed Mom and Ben into the house, Tony’s hand gently at my back.
Fifi pushed past me and bumped up against Ben, making him take a stumbled step to the side. I determined to share my portion of beef with her.
Stepping back into the house from the clean air of the outdoors, I was enveloped by the savory scent of beef tenderloin, which filled me with a feeling that was more than appreciation, more than hunger. In some unnameable way, the aroma comforted me.
“Dad.” Mom stood at the edge of the living room, hands planted on her hips.
Grandy remained in his favorite chair but his expression no longer looked like he’d been chewing sour lemons. He had the television remote clenched in his fist and the ball game showing quietly on the TV.
“We have company,” Mom said.
“It’s just for a minute. I only want to see the score.” Despite his words, he shifted so that his upper body bulk blocked the remote from anyone foolish enough to try and grab it from his hand.
Mom glanced at the screen, where the score showed clearly in the upper left corner. “It’s right there. It’s three to two. Will you turn it off now?”
“Three to two?” Tony said. No doubt I was the only
one who realized he spoke somewhat louder than usual. “Who’s ahead?”
“Red Sox,” Grandy grumbled.
Tony gave a say-it-isn’t-so huff. “Yankees left two men on base?”
Grandy made an agreeing grunt. “They haven’t had a decent cleanup batter since Jeter retired.”
“No kidding.” Tony moved past me, threw a wink over his shoulder, and sat himself down on the sofa end closest to Grandy. He kept to the edge of his seat, eyes on the game. “I thought they had a shot with Freeman, but . . .”
Grandy scoffed. “Lot of good he turned out to be.”
And they were off, two avid sports fans solving the league’s problems from a living room in Wenwood. At length, Ben took a seat and focused on the television. His brow furrowed as though he was deep in thought, or trying very hard to behave as if he were interested.
Mom lifted her hands in surrender. “They’re all the same. I give up.”
Together we retreated to the kitchen. Mom poured another glass of wine and I got to work chopping and dicing and grating for the salad. By the time dinner was ready for the table, the Red Sox had a four-run lead on the Yankees, and the men were happy to switch off the disappointment of the game and join us in the dining room.
Fifi took up her traditional place at the corner between Grandy and me while Friday perched on the back of the club chair, keeping a wary eye on the humans and an eager eye on the broccoli in cheese sauce.
“Everything looks delicious.” Tony flicked open his napkin and laid it in his lap. His gaze bounced from dish to dish until it landed on the same broccoli dish that held Friday’s attention. He glanced over at me and smiled. “Nice touch.”
I grinned back and raised my glass. “Something told me you might like that.”
The room filled with the clatter of silver, the pleases and thank-yous of passing platters, and finally the appreciative noises and compliments on tasty food.
It wasn’t long before the silence that accompanied people digging in to their meals edged over into the silence of people who didn’t know what to say to one another. Or what to say that was safe. No politics, no religion. Something polite that was neither cold nor prying.
“So you’re a Yankees fan?” Grandy said. “Were you raised in New York or were you a bandwagon fan?”
Tony flashed a smile. “When you’re a kid, it’s hard not to be a bandwagon fan. It takes a good amount of self-confidence to be a fan of a losing team and I think kids are generally lacking that. Or I was at least.”
“But not a New Yorker?” Grandy slid a healthy cut of meat into his mouth and instantly washed it back with a sip of cold tea.
“Not by birth. Only a temporary resident.”
“Oh, you’re not a local?” Mom asked.
“No, I’m not. Just the son of a man who was fond of scenic road trips. That’s how I found Wenwood and the brickworks.”
Ben sipped his wine, set the cup down on the table with a thump. “So you’re, what, a contract worker? Where’s home if it’s not here?”
“If you mean where did I grow up, the answer is New Jersey. Warren County to be exact.” He lifted his knife and cut with gusto into the meat. “If you mean where’s home now, the answer is Asheville, North Carolina.”
I may have imagined the silence I thought I heard—or didn’t hear, as it were. I may have imagined the paused breath, the reluctance to make a single movement. That’s what it feels like when time is suspended.
“So,” my mother began, drawing out the word. “You’ll be heading back there when the marina’s done?”
I wanted to keep my eyes on my plate, wanted to continue my avoidance of the topic.
But I couldn’t let Tony answer the question without giving any indication that his answer mattered to me.
I lifted my chin, met his fixed blue gaze waiting for mine.
“I might. Nothing’s definite yet,” he said.
Grandy’s fork clattered onto his plate. I looked quickly to him. His smile was swift in coming and going. “My apologies,” he said. “Slipped right out of my hand.”
He left the fork where it was, reaching instead for the glass of wine he had, up until that point, left untouched.
“So you’re thinking of staying in Wenwood?” Mom had one eye narrowed, brows slightly furrowed.
Poor Tony. He’d finally gotten to take a bite of food before her question.
“Can we do twenty questions later?” I asked. “Let the man eat.”
“Georgia, your mother’s just making conversation,” Ben said.
“There are other people at the table she can make conversation with,” I snapped. And just as quickly, I sighed. My regression to teenager was unending. As an added bonus, my boyfriend was a witness.
I let my eyes slip closed. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I would appreciate it if you—”
Beneath Grandy’s chair, Fifi scrambled to her feet, sounding the canine alarm. Friday came to her feet on the back of the couch, eyes wide, fur puffed. She took a panicked leap off the couch and disappeared in the general direction of the stairs. Fifi’s nails scratched against the hardwood floor, digging grooves into the wax until she got her purchase and scurried to the door.
No humans moved. We were all still trapped in the freeze frame my outburst had caused.
A loud rap sounded against the door, and Fifi’s defensive bark grew more purposeful. And still we sat, looking at one another like gunslingers at high noon, waiting to see who would make the first move.
At last, determining the silence and the impromptu game of statues were mainly my fault, I tossed my napkin beside my plate and stood.
My chair scraped as the backs of my knees pressed against it. The awful noise was enough to snap the rest of the family into action. Glasses were lowered, knives and forks dropped, and chairs were pushed back in a cacophony of noise while I headed for the door.
Fifi pressed her nose to the sliver of air sneaking between the bottom of the door and the top of the saddle. Her barking subsided to be replaced by a faint whine and the side-to-side wobble of her back end that meant someone she wanted to see was on the other side of the door.
It was based on that behavior, the wisdom of a dog, that I didn’t think twice before I pulled the door open.
11
The inward whoosh of the door brought with it the crisp scent of a deepening autumn and the woody aroma of Detective Nolan’s cologne. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other resting on his thigh, in a suit that looked somehow limp and unkempt, as though he had been in it for days. Beside him, Diana bent to try and stop Fifi from jumping against her with glee. Fifi was probably Diana’s biggest fan.
Happy though the dog was, and indulgent though Diana was, I took hold of Fifi’s collar and tugged her back into the house. I barely got a hello out of my mouth before Grandy was at my elbow. “What are you doing here?”
I hauled Fifi back behind the gathering of family at the door and ordered her to stay.
“Who is it, Dad?” Mom asked.
I turned back to find my mother on tiptoe, trying to peer over Grandy’s shoulder. “Oh, hello there, Detective,” she said.
“Detective?” Ben repeated, alarm in his voice.
To have Diana drop by on a Sunday evening was not that unusual. She often stopped for a visit, sometimes talking through her week or venting about her frustrations working toward detective status with Nolan as her assigned mentor. She was especially fond of being around while I was working with glass—she was always eager to help break things when needed. But to have her here unplanned? With Nolan? That couldn’t mean anything good.
“What’s going on?” I asked, then became instantly annoyed with myself for having echoed Ben in any way.
Nolan opened his mouth to speak. In the brief pause before words emerged, I felt Tony’s hand at the back
of my waist. With the five of us huddled in the doorway, we must have made quite a familial sight.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening, folks,” the detective said. His gaze bounced off mine and settled on Grandy. “We won’t keep you long.”
I shifted my attention to Diana, looking for some clue in her posture or her eyes. Her shoulders were relaxed, her lips halfway to a smirk, and her eyes wide in what was likely an effort to keep them from rolling. I couldn’t guess at whether she thought Detective Nolan was lying about the prospective duration of their stay or whether some conversation had transpired between them earlier that caused her attitude.
Tony edged marginally closer to me, his warmth making me all the more conscious of the cool air breezing across the porch.
“What can we do for you?” Ben asked, all puffed and official.
The muscle at the back of Grandy’s jaw bulged.
Nolan kept his eyes on Grandy. “We were wondering if by chance you had seen or heard from Rozelle Schurz.” It was somewhere between a statement and a question, and I glanced from him back to Diana.
The smirk and sarcasm had faded.
“Rozelle?” Grandy repeated. His spine stiffened and he shook his head. “I’ve not spoken to her since . . .” He raised his eyes to the lintel, as though that was where he stored his memories.
Despite the comfort of being surrounded by family and friends, a shiver of cold discomfort worked its way through me caused either by Nolan’s careful control or Diana’s uncharacteristic quiet. She was as accustomed to making herself at home here as Fifi was. Something was keeping her on the visitor’s side of the door.
“Who’s Rozelle?” Ben stage-whispered.
“She owns the bakery,” I said. “I saw her yesterday at Grace’s. Grandy, I don’t think you’ve mentioned going into the village since—”
At eighty, Grandy was too old to blush. But the careful way he avoided my gaze, the subtle shrinking in his bearing, told me he was keeping something from me, keeping something from everyone.
“Friday lunchtime,” Grandy said.
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