“I know. You’re probably right. I just don’t like loose ends. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Nice to have met you, Janet. See you around, Alex.”
“Thanks for the rescue and first aid,” Janet called after him. He waved without looking back and went out the door.
“Lord,” Janet said, “Is life in Provincetown always this exciting?”
“About once in every thirty years. We had a serial killer back in the seventies.”
“Don’t say another word! I can’t deal with more of that rare old brandy, however well intentioned you may be. And I have to get going, too.” She stood and reached for her jacket. “But about lunch tomorrow . . . is the offer still open after my sad performance thus far? Can a lady change her mind?”
I had no idea what had spurred her to accept my invitation. Maybe her near-death experience with the brandy made her realize what a charming companion I really am. “Absolutely. How about I pick you up at your apartment around eleven-thirty? I know where it is—I’ve known Mrs. Madeiros since my trick-or-treat days.”
She agreed and we walked outside and I noticed Janet look up at the almost twilight sky—the automatic reaction of the pilot, the farmer, the sailor—and I recalled she was one of the three. For no reason at all I saw us together in a sailboat on a gentle moonlit sea.
I blinked and the image disappeared as Janet said goodnight and walked on up the alley toward Commercial Street. I stopped to untie Fargo, who was stretching and yawning mightily. We just had time to get home and find something to eat before we piled into the car and went on our nightly safari to track the anything-but-elusive Ray Miller.
Miller left his home right on schedule after dinner and drove downtown. He parked, went into his building, and the second floor lights came on as usual. But this time he must actually have had work to do, for he did not come back out. A couple of times I saw shadows moving behind the upstairs blinds and assumed he was really there, and there seemed to be only one figure. I was bored. Bored and cold. Bored and cold and sleepy.
I gave Fargo a drink and me some coffee. I thought about Janet. She seemed bright and nice. She was certainly attractive. My latest bout of celibacy seemed now to have been a long, long time. Sharing a bed with Fargo was warm and pleasant and—sorry, my pet—predictable. I wondered if Janet were ready for an affair. How long had she been apart from her last lover? It didn’t sound as if it had been long, and although I could definitely be interested, I had no desire to take advantage of her possible vulnerability. I didn’t much like people who did that. Well, we’d see how things went.
I’d bet her hair was soft to touch. Now where did that come from?
I had been ‘single’ since last fall—God, had it been that long?— but wondered if I really wanted a casual affair? Of late I had been thinking that permanency might hold charms I had never explored.
Of course the operative word there was still “might.” Permanency didn’t seem to work too well for me. I wanted a partner, but I sure hadn’t had much luck in choosing one. It seemed that the very qualities which attracted me to a woman all too shortly became the ones that caused trouble.
I ground my cigarette out rather aggressively. With the exception of Nancy who, I had heard, had taken her solipsistic cocoon out to the fertile hunting ground of San Diego—my choices hadn’t really been so bad. I shouldn’t be so gun-shy.
Stiffness was setting in. I needed to move. I hooked on Fargo’s lead, figuring that Miller wouldn’t be going anywhere in the next three minutes. While Fargo looked for the right bush, I wondered if one of the affairs might have turned permanent if I had simply set some parameters.
Fargo and I returned to the car to see Miller’s office lights wink out. He walked down to the Guv and went in. This guy would drink anywhere. I kept an eye on the Guv’s door in my rear view window, and continued my threnody. I tended to avoid personal issues and simply withdrew. This resulted in my lovers’ complaints that I was aloof or cool or unreachable or even—the one accusation I could righteously deny—unfaithful.
But there were times I craved solitude like an alcoholic needs booze. And people who don’t need it tend not to understand those who do. Even so, I could hardly say the ladies-past were entirely to blame. Sometimes I saw a bit of my father in me, and I didn’t like it.
Over the years I had thought I was emotionally unmarked by break-ups, whether I had been the dumper or dumpee, or whether the relationship had simply withered away. Now I wondered. I was attracted to Janet. I was afraid of being attracted to Janet. I didn’t want another merry mix-up. If I got involved, I wanted it to work, dammit!
I lit my eighth cigarette of the day and dared Fargo to open his mouth.
I wanted someone to do things with. Or do nothing with. Or enjoy telling each other about the things we had done separately. To grow the damn tomatoes with. God, was that so much? Wasn’t it possible to be permanent without being joined at the hip?
Of course, it took a similarly minded partner for that to work. I tried to remember the comment I’d read that Jessica Tandy had made when some reporter asked her how she and Hume Cronin had lasted so long, something about separate bedrooms, separate bathrooms and separate checkbooks. My mind drifted off into ways to accomplish the first two requisites by remodeling my house. I was deep into bigger and bigger architectural changes, dreaming of second floors with two-bedroom, two-bathroom master suites— maybe a balcony . . .
I almost screamed aloud at the black apparition suddenly blocking my window. Then I realized that Fargo hadn’t barked and that his tail was thumping the back of the seat. It was Sonny.
“Sweet Jesus in the foothills! You scared me to death!”
“I thought you were asleep or passed out or something. What the hell are you doing parked down here at ten o’clock?”
“Doing a little checking on Ray Miller. His wife thinks he’s playing around and wants to find out who else is in the game, but thus far all I’ve seen is a couple of nights drinking with a couple of the boys from the bank. And tonight he seemed to be legitimately working and is now night-capping at the Guv. Unless, of course, the bankers are gay and he really is playing with the boys.”
Sonny reached in and took my cigarettes off the dashboard. “No. He’s straight. But he is playing around . . . with Marcia Robby. Usually on Thursday nights at her place. Well, I guess it would hardly be his place, would it?” He laughed. “Go home, Alex. You look beat. If you’re going to keep up with that infant you were ready to devour in one bite, you’ll need your rest.”
I took the lighter and pack out of his hand. “Good night, Sonny.”
I was more irritated than beat. I didn’t like the crack about my age. So Janet was maybe eight years younger than I. That was hardly a generation gap. And she’d been around. She seemed pretty sophisticated.
I started the car, suddenly in a foul mood. Here I’d stayed up for three nights, frozen and bored watching Miller, and Sonny knew the whole story all along. I guess there isn’t much cops in a small town don’t know. And I couldn’t imagine what got into me to tell Sonny why I was parked downtown. Not that he would care, or say anything to anyone, but I never discussed a local client, even with Sonny. If I hadn’t been lost in some romantic daydream I wouldn’t have let it slip. Dammit! I didn’t usually let my personal life overlap into my professional one.
The hell with Miller this night! I drove home, and Fargo and I lost no time in climbing wearily into bed. As I drifted off, I reached out and stroked his silky ear. “Fargo, if we need to share for a while, we’ll get a bigger bed at least, until we can do something with the house. You won’t have to sleep on the floor, don’t worry.” He pulled his head away and I could feel his dirty look.
“Share? Floor?”
Chapter 5
I was up early Thursday morning and in high good humor.
I had a date. Well, come on now, it had been a while! Fargo caught my good spirits and kept grinning and nudging my elbow while I tried to drink my fir
st cup of coffee and have that first cigarette that always tastes so good you forget all about the people who tell you how bad you are.
Ever the strict disciplinarian, I made him wait all of three minutes before I put on my down jacket and snapped on his leash and we began our walk down to Atlantic Street and the bayside beach. Race Point still wasn’t calling out to me.
As we walked along Commercial Street, a blue van came toward us. I thought it looked familiar, and then I recognized the family from New Jersey who had been at Race Point on the fateful Day of the Foot. I waved cheerily, but the adults didn’t seem to see me. They seemed fascinated by something on the other side of the street, although I couldn’t see what. I thought the van speeded up, and the children stared moon-eyed out the back window and the little girl may have waggled her fingers a bit.
At the beach I took off Fargo’s leash, and he bounded away into his on-going war of the seagulls. I followed him more sedately, enjoying the crisp morning with its promise of sun and tantalizing hint of spring warmth. Something was bouncing around in the back of my mind. You know how it is when someone has said something that later kind of clangs in your brain as being wrong, but you don’t really pick up on it at the time and later can’t remember what it is?
Someone had said something that didn’t add up, or rang false . . . or something. Had it been Sonny? Or Janet? Maybe even something silly old Harmon had said? God, how I hate it when that happens! I tried not to think about it, as that usually works best in making it come to the surface, but apparently not this morning.
My mental machinations were interrupted by a deep woof from Fargo down the beach. I jumped as if I’d been plugged in with the toaster. Dear God, not another foot! No, of course not. Just a little dachshund, running circles and darting between Fargo’s legs in that pointless frenzy that dachshunds seem to find so entertaining. I let them play for a while, then leashed Fargo again and started home. I had places to go and things to do. The beady-eyed little guy seemed disappointed that the game had ended, but finally trotted off toward one of the bed and breakfasts located along the beach.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, with the thought that Janet might—just might—come back with me after lunch, I quickly went around taking shirts and jackets off door knobs and consigning them to washer or closet. I ran a dust cloth over the most obvious surfaces, took out trash and papers, put dishes in the dishwasher and turned it on and closed the door to the office/workroom. So much for housecleaning. Anyway, I had done that kitchen floor the day before, hadn’t I? Finally, I changed the bed. Well, you can never tell. You might get lucky. If you don’t, you’ve got a nice clean bed to feel lonely in.
After my shower, I dried my hair and dressed rather formally for me, selecting a white cowl-neck sweater and navy flannel slacks. I even added a single strand of pearls to the outfit and got out my trusty camel’s hair topcoat instead of my usual L. L. Bean all-weather jacket.
Fargo watched these I-am-going-out-and-you-can’t-come-withme actions with ever-deepening sadness, finally disappearing entirely under the bed and refusing to come out, even to get the biscuits I left for his consolation while I was gone. Telling myself I had absolutely no reason to feel guilty, I picked up the pictures for Jay’s gallery, called a spuriously cheery, “I won’t be long! Now you be a good boy!” in the general direction of the bed, and left. Feeling, of course, terribly guilty.
I was on time to the minute, when I reached Mrs. Madeiros’ house. Don’t think I was eager or anything. As I started up the driveway, Janet waved from the big front window, obviously putting on a jacket. When she came out, she looked absolutely stunning in dark charcoal brown slacks, a burnt orange turtleneck and a brown tweed blazer that didn’t seem warm enough for the weather. She was walking fast in the chilly air.
I turned back to the car, opened the passenger door for her and then went around to my side. She got quickly into the car and shivered once, putting her hands out to the heater. “Brrr! I always seem to forget March is still wintertime! Winter should end with February, shouldn’t it?” She turned and smiled at me, and I found it very easy to smile back.
“If not January,” I answered. I turned toward Route 6. “Hungry?”
‘Working on it. What’s the drill?”
“Nothing special.” I indicated the canvas bag on the back seat. “We’ll drop the photos off at Jay’s gallery, which you’ll probably enjoy. He has some nice stuff. Frankly, I think a lot of it is pretty pricey. But at some point in your young life, if you like, you may want to try and pick up a Shari Mittenthal there. She’s not really well-known and so she’s not awfully expensive yet, but I think someday she will be. Get something that has a fence in it, fences are starting to be her trademark.”
“That would be great. I’ve never had anything by an ‘undiscovered’ artist who later became famous. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned an original. Wouldn’t it be fun, years later at a really posh party in your penthouse, to say casually to admirers, ‘Oh, yes, it’s an early Mittenthal. I realized simply years ago on Cape Cod she’d someday be very, ah . . . worthwhile.’”
“Meow. You’re not nice.” I laughed.
“Of course I am. That’s just a fantasy, I’m really nice. Well, usually nice. Uh, sort of nice.”
“We’d better quit while we’re ahead.”
We drove past the dunes, which for some reason reminded Janet of sleeping elephants, she said. We went by the rows and rows of boarded up cottages and motels along Beach Point. More than the leafless trees, the grey sand grasses or the lack of traffic, these closed up little buildings with their gaily painted trim and their optimistic signs of Beach-front Rooms & Cottages! and Low Weekly Rates! and Some Units With Kitchens! calling out to empty parking lots made me know the winter was still with us.
When they had cars and vans in the front yards, and towels and bathing suits on the clothes lines, with coveys of small children on the swings and slides centered on the lawns, and the smell of grilling food permeating the air along the two-mile strip, then I would know that summer had well and truly returned. We passed Truro, finally turning off on the road down to Wellfleet harbor. I coasted to a stop in front of Jay’s Art Gallery.
Janet helped me carry one of the bags of photos in and then looked around the gallery while Jay and I completed our business. True to form, Jay admired all the photos spread out on the back-room table, then picked up three, held them out to me with an apologetic moue, murmuring, “These are lovely, too, Alex, but somehow I just don’t get the feel they’re quite us.”
I shrugged mentally and took them from him. I found them little different from the others, and there was no us. Jay was never attached to anyone for longer than the eleven o’clock news. But he then handed me a check for a sizable amount for photos he had sold over the winter and told me to check with him the end of April, when he was expecting the season to pick up and would need “a goodly number” of photos for the summer. What the hell, I thought, we all have our little foibles.
“See anything you like?” I asked Janet as I walked back into the gallery.
“Oh, yes. Very much so. You’re right about Mittenthal, there’s one—complete with fence—I really love, but right now . . .”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve learned to leave my checkbook home when I come here. Let me just put these pictures in the car and we’ll eat.” I wondered how Janet was fixed for money, and told myself to be sure I got the lunch check.
We walked down the block to Separate Tables, a big old Victorian-style house that had been converted into a restaurant. The owners had been clever, I thought, by leaving the original design of the downstairs alone instead of knocking out walls to make one large dining room. You had a choice of dining in several rather small rooms: the library, the parlor, the dining room or the sun room. The library was the bar, complete with books.
We had a drink in the library and moved on to the sun room, which was warm and bright in the early afternoon. It overlooked a small garden. I
n the summer, I knew, it would be charming, but now it was a uniform wintry grey, with an empty, leaf-strewn fountain and some small statues of animals scattered about looking cold and forlorn. I was glad Janet’s chair faced inward, toward some charming and colorful familiar impressionist prints.
After an appetizer of Wellfleet oysters, the waiter brought around the wine list while we waited for our entree. I’m no oenophile. Personally I like a nice claret with just about anything. But I thought I should try at least to choose a white wine to go with the seafood we had ordered. I skipped sauternes—they all taste like vinegar to me—and moved on to the chardonnays. I selected one about midway in the price list and hoped for the best.
They brought the bottle out with the usual absurd fanfare, showing me the label, proffering the cork and then pouring a bit from the towel-wrapped bottle into my glass. The waiter looked so haughty and patronizing, I felt I had no choice but to go into my wine-expert act. I squeezed the cork to make sure the tip was damp. At least I knew not to sniff it. I picked up the glass, whirled it around and sniffed that. Then I took a sip, squished it around in my mouth and finally swallowed.
“Aah, aa-aah,” I pronounced solemnly, “A sturdy little wine, unpretentious, yet subtly aware of its true importance.”
Janet literally let out a whoop of laughter that caused nearby heads to turn. She stifled her next outburst and wiped her eyes with her napkin. “You know you are certifiable, don’t you? Sturdy little wine! How about impudent, yet captivating? Or delicate, with just a hint of inner strength?” She turned to the waiter and smiled. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine. Just pour, please.” He did, looking as if he had sampled some of his vinegary sauternes.
A waitress was right behind him with our luncheons. I’d picked the local bay scallops with their wonderful nutty taste, and curly French-fried potatoes plus a fresh asparagus salad. Janet was having filet of sole Veronique and an endive with avocado salad. The meal was served with a crusty loaf of herb bread and sweet butter. And the wine, thank God, was indeed fine. We concentrated on the food for a while in companionable silence.
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