A can clinked on the lanai. Brenda straightened, hands on her thighs. The sound was not unlike the slightly silly clink made by a driver. Oh my, she thought. If you know him at all, you know this. Charlie Schmidt doesn’t go to sleep now. Not tonight.
She backed off the bed and padded to the vertical blind over the bedroom’s door wall. She moved one of the slats and saw him. He was in the water, facing away at the deep end, looking out at the fairway. The can of beer rested on the deck next to his elbow. Seeing his outline, his back, and now his profile as he turned, perhaps having heard or sensed her, she had an impulse to go to him naked. To strip and go out and down into the heated pool like a nereid. A sea nymph.
No, she thought. Bad idea. Too contrived, too cartoon-seductive. Do that, and he might think it was a replay of last night. Last night, Brenda thought. She felt nervous again about time. She wanted distance, a temporal gap. But you don’t get that, she thought. You’re done with distance learning.
She felt her way through the dark, back between the walk-ins to the bathroom. She felt around for the towel rack and touched her still-damp Speedo. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and pulled it on. She padded back into the bedroom but stopped. His shirt was in the dresser. Should she get it out and slip it on, wrap herself in something of his, like a present?
Jesus, Brenda thought. Forget packaging. She moved through the bedroom, into the big room, and rolled back the door wall.
He turned. Unnoticed before, Brenda now saw how the heated water generated vapor. It lay just above the surface. Sweeney had made a joke about it, watching your money disappear on cool nights. She moved to the steps and walked down into bath-like water. She smoothed it with her hands. You had to for some reason, it was automatic. She stepped farther in, pushing toward him, smoothing the water. As she neared he turned to get his beer. Brenda came up behind him and put her arms around his middle. Like the golf lesson, she thought, and closed her eyes.
He drank and set down the can. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“They found a red Mazda on I-75. Rivera took it and left his van in Sweeney’s garage. The police contacted Ivy’s wife. She said something about a painting.”
“I don’t want to know,” she said. “Not now.”
“Okay.”
She had made her own decision on the way here. Whether or not Charlie Schmidt forgave her, she would not write about Rivera or All Hands. Not for Esquire or anyone else. Anymore digging or research or interviews would get in the way of what mattered. You bought the complete package, Brenda thought. From the moment he smiled up at you on the escalator. Leave it alone.
“It sounds like a hell of a story,” Charlie said.
“I came to write about real estate.” Still she held him, very gently, feeling him cool against her. Please stay, Brenda thought. Don’t go. Stay.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“Rayette gave me some cake.”
She tightened her grip on him, and Charlie placed his hand on her forearm. He squeezed gently. The pressure, like his wanting to feed her, filled her with hope.
“It’s not so late,” he said.
“It can wait.”
“Great seafood down here.”
He stroked her forearm and drank some beer. “This will do for now,” Brenda said. “Just water.”
Barry Knister was a university professor before turning to full-time writing. His first novel, The Dating Service was published by Berkley. His second, Just Bill is a novel for adults about dogs and owners, and was published by Gold Mountain Press. Knister has published two previous novels in the Brenda Contay suspense series. The first (The Anything Goes Girl) draws on his years as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The Second (Deep North) is set in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota, where he fishes each spring. Knister is the past secretary of Detroit Working Writers, and served as the director of the Cranbrook Summer Writers Conference. He lives outside Detroit with his wife, Barbara, and their Aussie shepherd, Skylar.
Visit the author at his website:
www.bwknister.com
or at his publisher:
www.bhcpress.com
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