Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Coop said.

  “Miss Templeton, you’re charged with trespassing and violating a restraining order. Do you understand these charges?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said in my most reverent, scared-of-burning-in-hell voice.

  Coop talked about the South Carolina Constitution and how all people are entitled to bail except murderers. He asked the court to continue my unsupervised probation and to release me on my own recognizance.

  At the other table, a man with short sandy hair stood up—I was pretty sure he was the DA. He said I was a flight risk, adding that on the day of my arrest, my car had been found packed with clothes. Coop argued that I was moving to another apartment, not another state. The judge told me to rise. “Miss Templeton, you will post $25,000 bond. You will surrender your passport to your attorney. I’m continuing unsupervised probation, but if you leave the state, you’ll lose bail and be put in jail. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said, even though I didn’t have a passport. I was worried about bail. $25,000 was a lot of money, and Miss Dora had brought a small pocketbook.

  After the hearing, I followed Coop into the hall. A detention center deputy started to lead me away. “Wait, Coop?” I called over my shoulder. “They’re not taking me back to jail, right?”

  “Just until the bail is posted and the paperwork goes through,” Coop said.

  Miss Dora walked up and glared at the deputy. “Is the trial over? Is she cleared?”

  The deputy shook his head. “No, ma’am. This was just the bail hearing, not a trial. That’s later.”

  “Teeny is innocent,” Miss Dora said. “Y’all should look for the real criminal.”

  She drew me into a hug, and I breathed in her rose-petal perfume. She pulled back and smiled at Coop. “I’m Dora Jackson. And you must be Mr. O’Malley?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What was Teeny charged with?” she asked.

  “Trespassing and violating an order of protection.”

  “Why’d they put her in jail over a little thing like that?”

  “Because she was on probation when she was arrested. The judge could have come down a lot harder.”

  “Thank goodness he didn’t.” She lifted her pocketbook. “Where do I post bail?”

  “You need to see the bail bondsman,” said the deputy.

  Miss Dora turned to Coop. “You are awfully handsome. But I’m wondering if you’re the right lawyer for Teeny. I don’t understand why she had a bond hearing in the first place.”

  “She was arrested on a warrant,” Coop said. “She had to go before the judge.”

  “All that is just over my head.” Miss Dora patted my arm. “I’ll be gone all day—back-to-back appointments. If you need me, call.”

  The officer started to lead me away, but Coop stopped him. “I’ll try to expedite the paperwork. Just go with the deputy. I’ll be right behind you, okay?”

  “You better be, O’Malley,” I said.

  eighteen

  When I got back to the detention center, a female officer took me to a holding area. She removed my handcuffs and escorted me to a hall, where Coop was waiting.

  “That was fast.” I smiled, then I frowned. “How can I do nothing and be in this much trouble?”

  “Happens all the time.”

  Police were milling about. Coop touched my elbow, and we stepped down a long corridor, through metal doors, into the parking lot. “Your car hasn’t been released,” he said. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “I have a key to the Spencer-Jackson House.”

  “You don’t own the property, do you?”

  “No. But Miss Dora said I could stay.”

  “Has she given her written permission?” Coop asked.

  “No, but I’m sure she’d be happy to.”

  “Does she own the house?”

  “It’s part of the Jackson estate.”

  “I don’t like gray areas, Teeny. I’d just feel better if I had a signed document.”

  “She won’t be home until later.” I leaned across the seat. “I couldn’t talk you into taking me to Bonaventure, could I?”

  “You’d violate the terms of your parole. The police would go into a feeding frenzy, and the bondsman would send a bounty hunter after you.”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “Well, I’m not kidding about the Spencer-Jackson House. You shouldn’t stay there without written permission.”

  “Then drop me off at a safe, cheap hotel.”

  “Could be a problem without reservations. You know how it is this time of year.”

  “Right.” Tourist season was a bad time to be homeless in Charleston. On the other hand, he seemed to be making excuses. That excited me.

  “I just live up the road a piece,” he said. “We’ll make some calls. See if we can’t find you a room.”

  * * *

  “Up the road a piece” turned out to be a gray clapboard house on Isle of Palms. It resembled a modern schoolhouse with tiny square windows, peaked dormers, and a wraparound deck. Built on pilings, the house seemed to float above the sea oats.

  Coop steered onto the narrow, curved driveway. Through the dunes, I saw slashes of the Atlantic.

  “Can you handle a stick shift?” He pointed at a gray ’69 Mustang in the carport. It was the same car he’d driven in high school.

  I nodded.

  “You’re welcome to drive it.”

  I glanced back at the Mustang. Coop held on to people and things. Me, I couldn’t keep either.

  I heard barking from inside the house. Coop unlocked the door and stepped inside. T-Bone let out a woof and pushed his nose against Coop’s hand. I froze.

  “Relax, Teeny. Just let him smell you.”

  I held still while T-Bone’s enormous nose sniffed me up and down. I was trying not to freak, but the top of the dog’s head was level with my boobs. He sat down and extended his paw.

  “Can I shake it?” I asked Coop.

  “Hell, yes.”

  I touched the paw. The nails were clipped short, but the paw itself was epic, filling up my palm. Coop opened the door wide. T-Bone scrambled to his feet and shot out. The deck shook as he ran down the steps.

  “Will he be all right?” I asked, glancing anxiously at the road. I thought of Sir, locked up at the pound.

  “He won’t go far,” Coop said and dropped his keys into an abalone shell.

  “Nice foyer,” I said. Light streamed through two skylights, hitting the Ansel Adams prints on the wall. White, cube-like bookcases stood in each end of the foyer. Each cubbyhole held black-and-white pottery vases.

  “I can’t take credit for it.” He smiled. “My mother drove up from Bonaventure and fixed it up—she cleaned out her gift shop.”

  I glanced at the sleek black bench under the artwork and gave a silent prayer that his mother was responsible for the décor and not his girlfriend. I followed him through the hall, into a beige room with a cathedral ceiling. A black leather sofa sat in front of glass doors that looked out onto the ocean.

  Coop picked up shirts, ties, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and carried them to the kitchen. He came back, stopped by a bookcase, and switched on the stereo. Music started up, Elvis singing “Suspicious Minds.”

  “It’s a bit early, but you look like you need a drink,” he said. “Will gin and tonic do?”

  “Only if you’re having one.”

  He turned into a small dining room with black walls. The table had a huge driftwood base with a thick slab of glass on top. White, heavily carved chairs were lined up on either side.

  I turned in a slow circle. Turkish-looking pillows were piled on one end of the sofa. Another set of bookcases framed the fireplace with more black pottery. I walked over to one of the French doors. Two white Adirondack chairs were angled toward the water. Each chair had a cushion and footstool. Two of everything, like on Noah’s Ark.

  Miss Dora had taught me to study people’
s homes. She said you could learn everything you needed to know about people by their colors, art, and accessories. I’d half expected Coop’s shelves to overflow with law books, but there were no books at all. That worried me. In the left case was the TV and video equipment. The right case had three glass shelves with shells on Plexiglas stands. There was a fireplace but no mantle, and no logs in the fireplace, just an empty grate. Nothing on the coffee table either, except for a smear of mustard.

  Coop rounded the corner, holding a tall glass in each hand. He handed me one and gave me an appraising stare. It was the same look he’d given me on our first date, a look I associated with desire and treachery, a look that had lied when it said I ♥ you.

  I fixed him with my blandest expression—not cold, because I didn’t want to send coldness. I wanted to send blankness. I ( ) you.

  “Cheers,” he said and clinked his glass against mine.

  I took a sip and gazed through the French door. The beach stretched out beneath a blue haze. A man and a woman walked hand-in-hand along the shoreline, pausing now and then to kiss. I took a long swallow of my drink and turned away. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d wandered into an old movie about lovers reconnecting after many years but with poor results. I didn’t want to end up like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass.

  “I’ve got a phone book in the kitchen,” Coop said. “But you’re more than welcome to stay here. I’ve got four bedrooms.”

  “You’re sweet to offer.”

  “I heard a but in there.” He smiled.

  I sat down on the black sofa, hoping that was all he’d heard. I wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet, anyway. Plus, it was plain sleazy to crash at my lawyer’s house—weren’t there rules against that? Or was I being old-fashioned? I finished my drink, and images of Bing skittered up into the haze. Maybe Miss Dora had been right. I needed to carpe diem a little more.

  Coop sat down beside me. “Maybe I asked this before, but how long were you and Bing engaged?”

  “Just a few months.” Coop pretty much knew what I’d been up to for the past eleven years, but I didn’t know anything about him. He wasn’t wearing a ring. And, other than the decorative objects his mother had set out, I hadn’t noticed any feminine touches in his house.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “Eleven months.”

  I wondered where he’d lived before that but didn’t want to pry. I lifted my glass, and the ice clinked like loose gravel. “Gosh, I’m woozy,” I said. Translation: My fiancé is dead. The police think I killed him in a jealous rage. They took my dog, my phone, and my car. Other than that, nothing’s wrong. I’m just peachy.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “It’s just hitting me, you know? Bing, jail, court. Would you mind if I lied down?” I cringed—had I said that wrong? Was it lie or lay?

  Coop showed me to a room with indigo walls and tiny white-framed windows. Beyond the panes, the sky and water met in a dark line. I flopped onto a bed with a carved shell headboard. When I reached down to pull off my shoes, my hand stopped on my knees. I was too exhausted to move. I didn’t fall asleep so much as drift. I was a girl in a leaky boat, desperately trying to row myself into a dream. Then I let go and sank down into the salty blue.

  nineteen

  Way off in the distance, a dog barked and barked. I opened my eyes. Sunlight dappled along the walls like minnows caught in a tide pool. I pulled back the covers. I was wearing the pilgrim dress and brown shoes. But where the blazes was I? A blue room with white windows that looked out into more blue.

  Coop’s house.

  I bathed and put on my brown dress; then I walked into the hall. Doors were lined up on both sides. I opened one and saw a room filled with plants: maidenhair ferns, baby’s tears, spider plants, orchids, African violets. A humidifier purred in the corner. Grow lights cast a blue tint over metal shelves, a watering can, and clay pots. Mama used to say, “If you ever find a man with a green thumb, keep him.”

  Good advice. But what if that man doesn’t want you?

  I turned back into the hall and let my nose guide me to the kitchen. Coop was forking up bacon and laying it on a paper towel. T-Bone stretched on the floor. Both of them glanced up when I walked into the room.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” Coop grinned.

  “What time is it?” I pulled back my hair, wishing I had a rubber band.

  “7:00 a.m.”

  “I slept that long?”

  “You needed to. You want toast and coffee, sweetheart?”

  There was that word again. I smiled. “Love some,” I said.

  We ate breakfast on the deck, watching gulls wheel in and out of bright sun. The tide was falling. I set my empty mug on the rail and turned away from the beach. I could see our reflections in the glass doors. We looked so normal, like two people on a date, not a criminal and her lawyer.

  “A couple of things you need to know about probation,” he said. “You can’t carry a firearm. The police can search your home without probable cause. And you can’t consort with other criminals.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” The wind caught my dress and I smoothed it. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Right now, the police are doing forensics. They’ll test your clothes for gunpowder residue and for blood. I’m confident the tests will show a contact transfer versus blood splatter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You got blood on your clothing from your dog. If you’d shot Bing, chances are you’d have gotten sprayed with blood droplets. It would depend on the range, of course.”

  “What about the gunpowder? I should be in the clear on that one. The test won’t show a false positive, right?”

  “In your case, I don’t think it’ll show a damn thing. Unfortunately, it won’t clear you. We’ll know the results in about ten days. Longer if the lab is backed up. I wouldn’t fret over it. GPR is corroborative evidence, but it doesn’t give the whole picture.” He paused. “More coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said, but I was still mulling over “corroborative.” I remembered hearing that word on CSI: Miami.

  He reached around for my mug, and our eyes met. He stared so long I began to worry.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t meant to gawk. But I’d forgotten how pretty you are.”

  I smiled. A nice girl would have averted her gaze in a flattered but saintly way and go powder her nose, but not me. He put his hands on my face and kissed me. He tasted sweet and salty, and I sucked his lower lip into my mouth. His cotton shirt felt warm and rough as I slid my hands over his shoulders. My mind was like the surface of a pond, reflecting chaos instead of sky. Making love to Coop would be like throwing a rock into the water, the ripples breaking up the turmoil for just a few moments. Then the water would settle and life would go back to the way it was.

  His lips brushed over mine. I pulled back. I couldn’t let this go further until I knew how the last eleven years had changed him, and especially why he’d dumped me for Barb.

  “Remember the summer we dated?” I asked.

  “Every bit of it. I still have that daisy you picked.”

  That startled me, but I pressed on. “I bought you a birthday present. It’s probably still sitting in Aunt Bluette’s closet.” I paused. “Remember that day you broke up with me?”

  “You had an asthma attack,” he said. “Scared me to death.”

  “I really, really cared for you.”

  “You did?”

  I nodded.

  “I had feelings for you, too. But I couldn’t tell you what happened.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Well, it’s like this. One night Barb’s car broke down on Broad River Road. She couldn’t find anyone to help. Her parents were in Savannah. She called me, and I went. It caught me off guard when she started hitting on me. I tried to resist. I cared about you, Teeny. I really did. Barb must have sensed I wasn’t interested in her anymore
, so she took off her clothes. My hormones collided with hers in the backseat of her mama’s Chrysler.”

  “I got thrown over for nookie?”

  “She blackmailed me. She said if I kept seeing you, she’d tell you what we’d done. But if I dropped you, I could have more of the same. I was blindsided by the sex. And I didn’t know how to tell you. I couldn’t look you in the eye. I was young and stupid.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted to get laid. My penis took control of my brain.”

  He looked up at the sky. I looked, too. Clouds gathered over the water, all bunched up like sheep.

  “Barb and I became a cliché,” he said. “Boy goes to college. Girl stays home. Boy goes wild with a whole campus full of girls. The girl back home gets mad. Truth is, Barb and I were apart more than we were together. It’s a long way from Bonaventure to Chapel Hill. And she was crazy-jealous, so I stopped seeing her.”

  I knew the rest of the story. He’d broken Barb’s heart, and she’d up and married Lester Philpot, a local sports legend who blew out his shoulder and became a pharmacist. Then Barb’s mom passed away. Because I’d admired Mrs. Browning, I went to the funeral home. Barb stood next to the casket with her new husband. She wore a loose-fitting black dress, and when people came up to pay their respects, the first thing she said was, “I’m pregnant, not fat!”

  “I didn’t really let you know me back then,” Coop said, bringing me back to the present. “But now I want you to know everything.”

  My formerly favorite subject was offering himself, all of his warts and accolades. I picked up his hand. I liked the way the dark hair lay on his wrists and how blue veins branched across his knuckles.

  “So, tell me all about yourself, Cooper O’Malley.” I spread my arms.

  “I like oysters on the half shell and old trucks.” He grinned. “Big dogs. Kindness. Truth. Babies. St. Patrick’s Day. Sleeping late. Guinness. Forgiveness. Orchids. Justice. Empathy. Reliability. A woman who really listens. Brown-eyed girls who bake peach cobblers and carry inhalers.”

  I laughed. He leaned forward like he was going to kiss me again, but I leaned back. He was into truth and justice. And I kept track of my lies.