“Head chef and manager! That’s really something, and at your age.”
“Well, I worked hard, in school and later. It wasn’t exactly a Michelin five-star operation, but it wasn’t at all bad. The food and presentation were considered excellent. I stayed in budget. And I got along with people. I think I would have made chief petty officer within a year.”
“Did something change that?” Her eyes clouded. Anger? Hurt? I wasn’t sure. “Don’t get me off on that track,” she said flatly. “We’re planning a pleasant evening. Now let me get to work. You and Fargo—out!”
I didn’t mind. I found a rerun of The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming on TV and settled down happily. It never failed to give me belly laughs. I’ve seen it so often I can quote half the dialogue. I still love it.
But simultaneously, I felt very sad for Janet. It looked as if the CG had somehow given her a raw deal, after giving her what seemed such a bright future. I wondered what on earth could have happened. Homophobia, maybe—again?
Eventually marvelous aromas began to waft in to the living room. And poor Fargo made foray after foray to the kitchen, only to be turned away each time. Finally he sat exactly one foot outside the kitchen door and alertly watched Janet’s every move. If she had dropped a single bite of food, Fargo would have beaten her to it, hands down.
It was to be formal, I saw. She even set the table in my seldom-used dining area. She had taken the candelabra and tapers from the sideboard. She wiped down the good wine glasses. I said nothing, but quietly went to the bedroom and traded my sweatshirt and jeans for slacks, shirt and ascot. At last dinner was served.
She could have opened her restaurant right then and there for my money. Boneless chicken breasts on a nest of morel mushrooms and artichoke hearts with a buttery-crystallized-gingery-hint-ofthyme sauce graced my best dinner service. She had made honest-to-god homemade mashed potatoes with crumbled onion rings and a fresh fruit salad with yogurt-honey-sesame seed dressing. And we had little pieces of unsweetened cornbread with whole-kernel corn mixed in it, topped with a dollop of sweet butter.
Of course, there was also the perfect accompaniment of the Beaujolais . . . a modest little wine, yet sure-footed and aware of its own . . . well, you get the idea.
It is an old wives tale that you cannot make love on a full stomach, and like so many old wives tales, it is untrue. It is perhaps wise to forego dessert before making love, and we did that.
But later, around ten o’clock, we got the munchies. And damn, dessert did taste good then. Janet had had no time earlier to make anything fancy, she had said, so it was plain old vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce served atop a slice of pound cake. Plain can be just fine, fine I say.
As we ate, Janet’s thoughts returned to our conversation of earlier that day. She looked at me thoughtfully. “You have a good life, Alex.”
“I’ve certainly had a good evening,” I agreed.
“No, I’m serious. Your Aunt Mae is a pure pleasure, and you speak fondly of your mother—”
“You’ll meet Mom at some point,” I interjected. “She and Aunt Mae make quite the pair. They not only love each other as sisters, I think they really like each other, too. They’ve gotten considerably more adventurous of late. Last year they went to a dude ranch. The year before that they went to Mardi Gras. Last fall I took them to New York and they were like a couple of twenty-year-olds.”
“I can believe it. Sonny’s okay, too. He’s not over-bearing like so many straight men. You two are fun to watch. Neither of you would ever admit it, but you really love each other deeply, you know.”
“Well, I suppose perhaps we do.” I licked the last of the chocolate sauce off my spoon. “Certainly we trust each other. Even when we were little kids we never ratted on each other. I know he’d be there if I hollered for help, even if he thought I was wrong. And I’d be there for him. We do best in small doses, however.”
“Nothing wrong with that, it’s the trust that counts, knowing he’ll never let you down.” It seemed to me I’d heard that phrase before. Who had it been? The parents, the CG, the lover, a friend . . . all of the above?
Janet poured us the last dollop of coffee. “And you like your job . . . actually both of your jobs. Your photos are wonderfully moving, even when they’re humorous. They catch a spirit of animals that says you love them, love nature. Of course, you’re flip about being a P.I., but I think that’s because you’re sensitive about it. Could I have one of your cigarettes?” I pushed the pack and lighter across the table.
“You really care about doing a good job and treating your clients properly. You sort of make fun of it to cover how hard you try. But I could see through it. You were really upset that Sonny and I knew about the Millers. I’m sorry I happened to see that stuff. I’ll never say a word.”
She shook out a cigarette and lit it. As she took the first drag, I reassured her.
“Of course not, I know that. And it was entirely my fault, not yours at all. The thing is—now every time you see any one of those people, you’ll think of this particular time in their lives. It will change the way you look at them forever, and that’s too bad. All three people in that situation were—directly or indirectly—entitled to my discretion. And I blew it. I’ve never done that before. I hope I don’t ever do it again.”
“You won’t. I think you are probably the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met. You make me feel safe when I’m with you.”
“I’m glad,” I replied. “Somehow I get the idea you could use a safe harbor. Things seem to have been a little rough and stormy for you.”
She smiled. “Are you offering one?”
“Could be.” I took her hand. “I cannot say much for my track record. I think maybe I don’t respond well to very much togetherness, although I seem to be enjoying it with you. A lot. Although, at some point, I’d still probably require considerable space, privacy. But that’s not very romantic, is it? And it doesn’t sound like I’m such a safe harbor, after all.” I stifled a yawn.
“It’s romantic enough. My track record isn’t so hot either . . . as witness my recent downfall with Terry.”
Terry, I thought, so you were the lover. I wonder just what happened? I re-focused on Janet’s voice as she said, “I think there’s only one thing that would ever make someone feel unsafe with you.”
“What’s that?” I sat up straight, curious.
“Your personal integrity. I have the feeling that no matter how hard it was for you—however painful—you would never let anyone infringe upon that.”
I must have looked at her strangely, for she gave a little laugh and modified the statement. “I mean, what if I watered the drinks in my restaurant? Even though I’m your lover, I’ll bet you would have me arrested.”
“On the spot. Watering drinks is a heinous crime, punishable by immediate hanging in the public square.” I considered pursuing her remark more deeply, but I was suddenly overcome by the giant yawn that had been stalking me. “My integrity forces me to tell you I’m about to fall asleep.”
We both laughed. Janet carried the dishes to the kitchen while I went out on last patrol with Fargo.
And so we went happily and peacefully to bed, or at least Janet and I did. Fargo, unassuaged by his own little dish of ice cream, stirred fretfully outside the bedroom door, whuffling with disapproval. I really had to think about a bigger bed . . . maybe an added room . . . maybe two . . .
Chapter 10
Diane Miller had had me deported to Ireland for running a TV commercial on CNN telling everyone her husband was screwing Marcia Robby in a greenhouse filled with borage. I was running lost through dark peat bogs, chased by a small child riding on a howling banshee and waving hedge clippers that glinted malevolently in the night.
Janet’s sleepy voice woke me. “Alex, for God’s sake see what’s wrong with Fargo. He must have his tail caught.” She turned over heavily, sighed and pulled the covers over her head.
Indeed he did soun
d in extremis, but I knew he really only wanted in, and consequently out. I grabbed some clothes and tip-toed for the bedroom door. As I walked across the room, the day’s attire tucked under my arm, I noticed Janet’s clothing, neatly folded and/or hung on a straight chair. I observed that it all looked brand new, even her bra and underpants seemed not just neat and clean but new.
In contrast, I looked at the two little bundles I carried. One headed for the hamper, the other clean bundle to be worn after my shower. They looked more or less alike . . . ratty. One sock had a hole in the heel and another was raveling at the top of the ribbing. A pair of underpants had a side seam opening up, and a bra was missing a hook. The outer clothing simply looked . . . worn.
It was all because I hated to shop. So when I did manage to drag myself into a store, I bought a lot all at once. Two-dozen underpants, a dozen crew socks, six bras. Maybe a half-dozen button-down oxford shirts, jeans, sweatshirts. I was well supplied for quite some time. Then one day I awoke to a choice of rags or tatters. Obviously I had reached that stage.
I showered and dressed unhappily, still thinking of my wardrobe. I let Fargo out for his morning patrol of the backyard—after many licks and wiggles of reunion following our long, sad night of separation. I put on the coffee and continued thoughts of clothing . . . this time, Janet’s.
I confess I’m not always as attentive as I should be about what another woman is wearing at a given moment. This has several times caused me to be an unwilling participant in unhappy scenes, the full implicit import of which I have never truly comprehended.
But, thinking back, it seemed to me that all Janet’s clothes I had seen in the last few days looked new. Surely, she would have brought clothes with her from Boston, wouldn’t she? And nobody had all new clothes at any one time, did they? She said she was watching her money. Surely she wouldn’t have replaced her entire wardrobe because of an emotional upset!
She had mentioned that she was keeping her Boston apartment for a month or so while she decided what to do with her life, but it was hard to believe she had just walked out without a change of socks. There have been occasional stretches in my life when I’ve wanted simply to get in the car and drive into the sunset, and once I did, but I took some clothes with me, however haphazardly selected and packed.
Maybe she and this Terry had had a fight and she’d just stormed out and then decided not to go back. Or maybe she was afraid to go back. I supposed Terry could be the violent type. At any rate, it was weird.
As I collected the morning paper and let Fargo in, I had a happier thought. Bless her heart, maybe she had bought them to impress me. As if she needed new clothes to do that! But it made sense in a Janet kind of way . . . new beginnings, new clothes. Well, I’d go shopping soon, too.
I poured my coffee and flipped open the paper. Israel and Palestine were again—still—talking peace and throwing bombs. The Euro was flat against the dollar, and while Brazil was looking up, Argentina was looking down. There was a possibility of a terrorist attack against overseas flights, and we were told exactly what counter-measures were being taken, so the terrorists were well informed of what not to do. The President assured us he had supreme confidence in an argumentative cabinet member, which was a sure sign he’d be gone by lunch. It all seemed about normal. I turned to the comics and horoscope page to provide my daily intellectual and inspirational fodder.
Leo (me) should stay in close touch with family or loved ones and not interfere in matters which did not concern them. So much for my marriage counseling plans. Aries (Fargo) should spend a pleasant day with friends and not worry about a nagging problem. It would soon be solved. Was he finally going to catch a seagull? I hoped not. “I wonder what sign Janet is?” I mused aloud.
“Scorpio,” she said as she leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “And it darned well better be good.”
“It says you must consider your options, stop procrastinating about important matters and put needs before pleasure. That means please pour me some coffee.” I held up my mug for a refill.
“It means I have certain chores like laundry and it means I said I was coming down here to write, which I have been too busy pouring your coffee to do much of, smarty.” She poured coffee for us both and sat down across from me with a smile. I could get to like this, I thought briefly. Would this time be different? I almost let myself believe it might.
I grinned at her. “You sound like Billie, down at the Rat, which if you’re going to be a famous writer, as you are, you don’t want to do much of, except for emphasis sometimes maybe. Want to go get your laundry and do it here?” I asked, thinking perhaps to prolong the unusually pleasant togetherness bit.
“Thanks but no. Mrs. Madeiros said I could use her washer and dryer. It’s simpler to do it there. And I really do need some time to write, or try to write, or think about trying to write. You’re not upset by that, are you?”
“Not at all. The muses must be served. Solitude is often benign. I shall simply think lovingly of you from afar. And I should be out looking for photo ops while I have time and the weather is good. It was just a thought.”
Then I had a brilliant idea. I’d subtly find out if maybe she did buy the clothes to please me. After all, I’m a trained investigator. “But laundry reminds me of something else. Are you some kind of fashion model on the side or something?”
“Good God, no!” she laughed. “I feel sorry for the store that’s that desperate! Why on earth would you think that?”
“Just idle curiosity. I happened to realize that your clothes all look new and wondered if maybe they gave them to you as part of the deal or something.” Oops! I forgot that I was supposed to be curbing my curious nature.
“Oh,” she looked disconcerted for a moment and then shrugged. “I picked up a few things when I first got to Provincetown . . . just to give myself a little lift, you know? I was kind of down on myself, and feeling rather bereft and worthless. And, as every woman knows, new clothes always work wonders for that. You know how that is, second only to a new haircut and massage. I have some money saved up from my Coastie days and I think sometimes it’s important to sort of ‘treat’ yourself when you’re feeling down . . .
even if you are on a budget. I think any woman is entitled just to bury the nasty old garbage that’s been making her sad and turn into a brand new woman, wardrobe and all. Do you agree?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. I just wondered. And I think you could be a model, anyway.” So much for the clothes. But at least it settled the question I’d been harboring about how she was going to get along financially. I felt a little foolish even bringing it all up and changed the subject awkwardly. “Several days ago I promised my mom I’d come for dinner tonight. If you’d like to come along with me . . .” Oh, God, what am I saying? I’ve known her four days—I don’t think I’ve even mentioned her name to Mom. Oh, God.
“Aren’t you sweet. Thank you, but I really just do need to be quiet tonight. I feel like so much good and bad has been happening to me lately.” She paused for a sip of coffee. “Completely rearranging my life, moving down here, trying to find out if I’m a writer. And meeting you—that’s the good part, of course. But it’s all been unbelievably stressful for me. I need a little downtime to absorb it all, even the lovely part. Can you promise me a raincheck with your mom? I really do look forward to meeting her.”
“Sure. I just wanted you to know you’d be welcome.” Truth to tell, I was more than a little relieved. An incidental meeting with Aunt Mae was one thing. Taking Janet home to ‘meet mother’ was something I wasn’t quite ready for, although I couldn’t really think of a reason why. Janet was presentable, polite, well mannered, intelligent. And she was certainly looming ever larger in my life. Maybe that was the problem. I tended to get nervous when people loomed. Well, I didn’t have to deal with that right now. We lingered over coffee, agreed that Janet would call me tomorrow and we would decide then what we wanted to do for the day. With all my talk of not wanting to be in a
nyone else’s pocket, I noticed I hadn’t suggested that we spend the day apart.
The phone rang, and as I picked it up, Janet left the kitchen to get dressed. It was Sgt. Peres, of Provincetown’s finest. We chatted for a few moments about Mom’s upcoming birthday and what we might combine to get her. I told him I’d be at Mom’s tonight. He said he’d try to be there, too. Then he got to the real reason for his call.
“The footless wonder finally has a name. At the morgue yesterday they found a wallet zipped inside a pocket of his jacket, and in the wallet was a driver’s license still dry enough to decipher, even after all its time in the water. Footless, we now pretty safely assume, is one Mr. Maynard Terrence O’Malley, hailing from scenic Stonington, Connecticut.”
“From Connecticut?” I was surprised. “I thought the plates on the car were from New Jersey.”
“They were stolen, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. Have the Stonington Police been able to track O’Malley down? Did they come up with anything about his background or a mysterious dark-skinned buddy?”
“Nothing came up yet about the second man. But they did locate O’Malley’s mother, living at the address in his wallet. They say she’s pretty much the ditsy type, along with being very upset about his death, of course. She says he really didn’t live there with her for several years, just used the address because he sort of moved around a lot.”
“I’ll bet he just did, with his career in robbery and other lovely hobbies.”
“Yes. She told Stonington he spent most of his time in Bridgeport, or was it Norwalk? No, maybe it was Stamford.”
“If it wasn’t Hartford or New Haven,” I completed.
“You got it. I don’t think anybody’s going to get much help from her, poor thing. She also informed them that your Maynard . . .”
Caught in the Net Page 11