Brenda, on the other hand, drew approving nods; women in low-cut knit tops were always well-received in a place like this.
Julian had suggested the bar, saying the “important TV people” would fare better here than in the more obvious tourist-clogged places. Those TV people who, he’d noted a half-hour earlier, were missing all the fun of the sunset celebration over at Mallory Square. They’d watched the sun disappear into the ocean amidst a crowd that cheered two young men juggling flaming torches, and Julian had said, “Of course Blue Reynolds can probably buy her own sunset, suited to her schedule.”
Mitch was surprised by the negative tone. “I think you’ve got her wrong, J. She’s not a diva.”
Julian shrugged. “Her world is fake,” he’d said.
Julian, in a faded green T-shirt from a Dublin club, fraying shorts, and flip-flops, fit right in with the other Green Parrot customers. He stopped near one corner of the square bar that dominated the center of the room and turned around.
“I’ll see if I can get us some space in the back.” He pointed to the other end of the room, at a second bar that took up the short back wall. In the area between the two bars was a pair of pool tables and a group of heavily tattooed bikers, whose gleaming Harleys Mitch noticed were precision-parked outside. More bikers were pulling in; the chest-rumbling chatter of the engines through open-air windows drowned out all other sound before abruptly cutting off.
While Julian went to talk to the bartender in back, Brenda pointed out a large portrait hanging behind them. It was the cartoonish face of an ugly blond male. She said, “He looks like a pedophile.”
A man seated near them said, “That’s Smirk.”
“Of course it is,” Brenda laughed. “And that?” she asked, pointing upward at a puffy thing that resembled a gigantic sea urchin strung with green Christmas lights.
“Parachute.”
“Just in case?” she asked the man, who nodded.
Julian was back. “We’re all set.”
Brenda excused herself to use the bathroom. “Order me a Mai Tai,” she called as Mitch followed Julian to the back.
“Teacher’s and soda,” Mitch told the grizzled, tattooed bartender. To Julian he said, “That was Hemingway’s drink.”
“I am aware,” Julian said.
The bartender filled a highball glass and set it in front of Mitch. “Maybe you want to take it over to Sloppy Joe’s,” he growled. “I’ve heard told the Big Man liked it there.”
Julian was laughing as he said, “We’ll also need a Mai Tai and a Corona, lime.”
“Forgive me,” Mitch said, sitting down on a bar stool just left of center. “I forget that you had so much Hemingway exposure here.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Julian sat down, his back to the bar. Mitch turned so that he faced outward too.
“Seems like a different lifetime, those years when you lived here.” He remembered being anxious about Julian’s well-being, but the memory was distant, more knowledge than feeling. Despite his intentions and despite what was right, Julian’s life had always been peripheral to his own, and those few years were no different in that respect. He’d only been grateful that his parents were willing to be parents again that year when his tenure was being considered. As much for Julian’s sake as his own, he couldn’t risk being passed over. Once approved, his career would finally be safe from Renee’s problems—he’d intended to bring Julian to Chapel Hill by Christmas. Julian’s decision to remain here in Key West had hurt, but he’d understood. Or tried damn hard to understand.
He said, “A different lifetime, and a lifetime ago.”
Julian took his beer from the bartender, pushed the lime into the bottle’s neck and, thumb over top, tipped it upside down then righted it again. “Tell me about it.”
Better to find a new topic. “So, it’s been a whirlwind week here.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I was just on The Blue Reynolds Show.” Everyone said he’d done a great job, that he’d been genuine and authoritative. The only criticism came from his father, who said he should’ve worn something more colorful.
“The start of your fifteen minutes,” Julian said.
“Maybe. I can say that being on-camera is more fun than trying to get grad students motivated at nine AM, before their caffeine kicks in.”
“Working with Blue Reynolds isn’t all bad either, I’ll guess.”
The remark was innocent enough, but Mitch heard an edge in Julian’s tone—or thought he did. Criticism? Challenge? Suspicion? Could Julian sense his guilty conscience? Because the truth was that working with Blue was so very much the opposite of bad. When she’d turned that gaze of hers onto him this afternoon, he’d felt as though he was—for that moment at least—the most important person in her life. He’d felt as if everything he did and said and thought mattered to her. As if the time they’d been apart was two weeks, not two decades. It was delightful, and worrisome. He liked her too well.
He said, “No, it isn’t all bad. She’s very good at what she does.”
Brenda came out of the bathroom and stopped at one of the pool tables to talk to a tall man whose long black hair was held back by a pink bandana. A roses-and-daggers graphic covered his entire left arm. They appeared to be discussing the game in progress, Brenda suggesting a move that would get the seven ball around the twelve and into the far pocket. She knew all the moves and was a skillful player, too, routinely beating Craig and him when they’d played in the rec room at her house. Those had been good times, the three of them gossiping about their colleagues and debating postmodernism’s effect on the literary canon.
“You going to dump her, then?” Julian asked.
“What?” Mitch turned toward him, startled. “No. Why would you say that? Am I acting like—”
“Relax. I was just wondering.”
Just wondering. Just wondering because Mitch’s enthusiasm was too obvious? “No, no, we’re good,” Mitch said. “Everything is fine.”
Brenda had been supportive of his decision to shoot the pilot this weekend. Craig’s sudden death was itself enough of a motivator to choose sooner over later, they’d agreed. Then he’d been invited onto the show, and then Blue had mentioned she would come by the shoot tomorrow to see firsthand what he was about. All good, they’d said.
His mother was certain that Blue was coming to the shoot because she intended to discuss Lions with her team at Harmony Productions. Brenda rather thought she intended to hook him up directly with someone at PBS. For his part, he thought she might just want to be sociable one last time before returning to Chicago. He wasn’t sure which scenario he preferred. He downed half his drink at once.
Julian said, “So, Brenda likes Mai Tais. What do you suppose America’s Favorite Talk-show Host drinks?”
“No idea.” Should he know? Julian was looking at him like he expected a real answer. “We’ll have to wait and see when they get here.”
“Hope it’s soon. I’m starving.”
They planned to order ribs from Meteor Smokehouse next door—the island’s best—and eat while they listened to whatever band was playing. There was always somebody worth hearing, or so Julian claimed. Mitch had to wonder if Julian’s insider knowledge was being shown off for his benefit. As if to prove how right Julian had been to choose to stay here after Renee’s breakdown. As if to prove that despite Julian’s globe-trotting, Key West was his rightful home in a way Chapel Hill never could have been. Julian, it was long apparent, would not have thrived in the genteel, traditional university atmosphere—and Mitch would not have let him loose in the free-for-all arts scene that existed outside academia’s gates.
There was irony for you.
Brenda had taken a pool cue and was demonstrating the angle needed for the shot. She looked great, as she did in all the summertime outfits she’d dug out for the trip: colorful skirts inches shorter than the skirts she wore for work; tops that showed off small-but-still-decent breasts. And backless sandals with short heels, a kind of
shoe he’d never seen her in before. Sexy shoes. She seemed to be redefining “widow,” and getting younger in the process. The biker took the cue and lined up the shot as she’d directed; the ball went in and the other bikers cheered.
Brenda bowed, then joined Mitch and Julian at the bar. “Did you see that? I’m a hero.”
“Very impressive,” Julian said. He had his BlackBerry out.
“Checking email?” Mitch asked.
“Thought I’d read the script once more. You did a good job of cleaning it up.”
“Thank you.” He’d spent a lot of the week revising and rehearsing, alone in Julian’s old guesthouse bedroom. “Did I tell you Blue plans to come by the shoot tomorrow?”
Julian looked up. “No.”
“Yes, well, she might have some useful insights for us.”
“Is a Blue Reynolds version of Lions really what we want?” Julian said.
“That’s not how it would go, I’m sure. I should mention that your grandmother thinks there’s a chance Blue might get Harmony Productions involved—which would be incredibly generous.”
Brenda said, “You’re forgetting there would be money in it for Blue, too, if things worked out.”
Julian reached across Mitch to tap his bottle to Brenda’s glass. “My sentiments exactly.”
“I’m not forgetting,” Mitch said. “I just don’t believe that would be her motivation.”
“One has to wonder, then, what her motivation would be.” Brenda’s tone was unmistakable.
“She can have any man she wants,” Mitch scoffed.
Brenda nodded. “Yes, that’s my point.”
Mitch changed the subject, asking Julian whether he’d had a chance to talk tech with any of the crew while they were over at Mallory Square.
Julian said he had. “But I’m sticking with what I planned.”
“Is that a good idea? I mean, don’t you think—”
“Yes, it is,” Julian said, “and no, I don’t.”
“Okay, I was just asking. These guys, they do this every day, and—”
“Nine,” Julian said, as a woman wearing the shortest shorts Mitch had seen since the seventies joined the bikers at the pool table.
“Nine what?” Mitch said.
“Documentaries. I’ve done nine full-length documentaries. Direction, cameras, lighting, sound. I understand production values. I understand a literate audience. I’m here,” he said, pausing to take a drink, “because you believed I could do the job. So let me do it.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Mitch said. “I know you’re qualified. It just seemed like an opportunity, that’s all.”
Julian looked at his watch. “I’ll go grab menus. If they aren’t here in five minutes, I’m ordering without ’em.”
Brenda said, “Me, too,” and gave Julian a reassuring smile.
As soon as Julian was out of earshot, Mitch said, “I can’t tell if he hates me, or Blue, or life, or what.”
“He’s just worn down right now.”
She was probably right. Still, he worried that Julian would alienate everyone around them, and Blue in particular. A fine thank-you that would be.
Julian was still gone when the group arrived, Marcy and Stephen in the lead, Blue behind them, Peter and his wife last. Blue looked distracted but lovely, wearing the same thing she’d worn this afternoon.
“Leave a spot for Julian,” Brenda said as they moved the bar stools into a loose circle. Blue, who had been about to sit next to Mitch, moved over one.
Peter was full of praise for Mitch and the show and the entire week’s work, dominating the conversation. “Best we’ve had in months, hands down,” Peter said. “Next week’s mail will be a big improvement over what I hear has been coming in this week.”
Marcy said, “It hasn’t been all bad. We got as many letters commending Blue as damning her.”
Blue said nothing.
The band began its warm-up as Julian returned, a waitress trailing him. Mitch saw him assess the seating arrangement and frown before sitting down. The waitress began handing out the menus, her hand shaking when she gave one to Blue.
Marcy took a menu and told the bartender, “A bottle of tequila—Who’s in?” she asked the group. Stephen and Peter raised their hands.
“Water for me,” Blue said.
“You are not drinking water. Set her up, too,” Marcy said. “You need a drink.”
Blue looked at Marcy, then at what the others were having. She nodded toward Julian and said, “That looks good.”
Julian’s frown deepened and Mitch thought, Oh Christ. But all Julian did was raise his bottle high enough for the bartender to see, and say, “One more like this.”
ith the music so loud, conversation was all but impossible except with the people closest by. For Mitch that meant Brenda who, after a light dinner and four drinks, was calling the ongoing pool games with animated play-by-play analysis, and Julian, who had eaten well and drank even better. He’d said little to Mitch, and nothing to Blue. Brenda caught Mitch glancing at him for probably the fifth time in twenty minutes and said, “Quit worrying.”
“I’m not worrying,” he said, though of course he was, and of course it showed.
The pink-kerchiefed biker was waving Brenda over. “We’re doing teams,” he called, “and I need a good partner!”
She was out of her seat before Mitch could suggest maybe it was time to head home. When she pointed at him with a questioning look, he shook his head, thinking it was wiser to stick close to Julian. In a minute she had recruited Stephen and Peter, too, and the bikers were urging Blue to play.
“Thanks, but no,” Blue called, standing up. Two women with leather-wrapped braids and bikini tops to match took pictures of her with their cell phones.
Mitch just caught Blue’s words as she asked Marcy something about walking back to the hotel. Marcy looked at Stephen, and Mitch could see she was torn—things were just livening up. Mitch wondered if he could—or even should—offer to go with Blue. He wouldn’t want Brenda to take it wrong … Maybe if he was quick … He tried to envision how far they were from her hotel—
“I’ll go,” Julian said, laying a twenty on the counter. Mitch swung around, sure he’d heard wrong in the din of the ending song and the applause that followed.
But Blue was saying, “No, stay. It’s fine, I’ll get a cab.”
“You’d end up waiting longer than it takes to walk,” Julian said. “I was leaving anyway.”
She hesitated, then said, “Okay. That’s—well, that’s a generous offer, thanks. Marcy, just catch up with me mid-morning, or whenever you get up, okay?”
“Will do. You feeling all right?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then,” Marcy said. “Julian, make sure she doesn’t get kidnapped by pirates.”
Julian nodded. “She’s safe with me.”
16
ow here was something Julian never imagined himself doing: walking up a dark Key West street at eleven o’clock at night with a woman whose yearly income exceeded some countries’ gross national products. Such a thing was a conceptual impossibility—and yet, here he was. Here they were. A slightly tipsy, past-his-limits man and a too-attractive, slightly older woman. It was beginning to drizzle, which didn’t seem to trouble her—a surprise. He should not be here, not tonight, not alone. His offer had been knee-jerk, good manners besting good sense. It wasn’t at all about wanting to be alone with Blue. That would be absurd.
If he had imagined doing this, he wouldn’t have thought it would feel as awkward as it did. They’d walked three blocks so far, and, even away from the noise of the bar, she hadn’t said a word. So he hadn’t spoken either. Here in the dimness of Whitehead Street, there was only the sound of their shoes on the sidewalk, distant laughter and music, the odd dog’s bark, the tiny peeps of chicks in hedges, and the continuous hum of night insects—a sound like soothing music, a symphony compared w
ith the night noise he’d grown accustomed to.
He thought she’d be talkative. Weren’t talk-show hosts supposed to be super-friendly, inquisitive types? She hadn’t done anything he’d expected tonight—sit near his father, horn in on Brenda’s turf, talk incessantly about herself, that sort of thing. In fact she’d hardly spoken to anyone. If he hadn’t known, he might have thought Marcy was the celebrity in the room, or Stephen, with his Nordic features and the stories he was telling of designing restaurants with Jamie Oliver.
Glancing at Blue’s profile, he wondered if she had written him off as uninteresting, beneath her notice or attention.
Well, what if she had? It was no sweat—except that he was sweating. She walked fast, and he was unused to the humidity here after so long in the deserts of the Middle East.
Her phone rang and she stopped suddenly, looking at the display. Her eyes were wide and worried when she faced him. The phone continued to chime. “I have to take this,” she said.
She moved away from him, closer to a towering banyan tree whose branches spanned a hundred feet or better. “Ketchikan,” he heard her say into the phone, then, “Really. What was the cause of death, did it say? … I hope you do. Keep me posted.”
She didn’t turn back to him right away; in the darkness he couldn’t see whether her stillness was contemplation or grief so he waited, unsure of what he should do. Then she turned around and said, “Sorry for the interruption.”
“No trouble.” That was it?
They were at the end of the block, two more to go before reaching the hotel, when she stopped again. “Would you mind if we take a detour?”
He checked his watch. Things were barely getting started on Duval. For him, however, it was … too many hours past his bedtime for his brain to be able to do the math. “Why? Where did you need to go?”
“Nowhere, really. Never mind—I forgot that you’re on Afghanistan time. You must be desperate to get some sleep.”
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