by Maureen Tan
I opened my eyes in time to see Alex wrinkle his nose.
“Gross!”
“I win, don’t I?”
“Not yet, you don’t.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared across the kitchen at the ragged row of cookbooks on a shelf above the cellar door. Unlike the couple of cookbooks on top of the refrigerator, these were old and dusty, promising more arcane recipes.
Alex looked at me and smiled. Wickedly.
I held my breath.
“Beef tongue—”
I exhaled, shrugged. If that was the best he could do . . .
“—smothered in a thick, sweet raisin sauce.”
I shuddered and threw a pot holder at him.
* * *
We sat together on the sofa in the living room, caught the end of an X-Files rerun, then watched the late news.
Alex looked good on TV. Sincere. Credible. Handsome. He stood with the devastated store behind him, spoke of the investigation in progress and said they had several strong leads. Of course, the Savannah Police always encouraged the public to call them if they saw anything suspicious.
The man on the sofa beside me muttered, “Fucking politician.”
After that, we watched the sports report, then the weather. A pleasant looking fellow in a conservative suit and tie talked about high pressure systems, a day or two without rain, and temperatures in the sixties.
Alex sighed.
“Nice. But boring.” He suddenly laughed. “Actually, it hasn’t ever been as much fun since Captain Sandy went off the air.”
I noted the expression on Alex’s face and knew I was being set up again.
“Who is Captain Sandy?” I asked cautiously.
“The local weatherman. Years ago. Back before the news was in color. In those days, of course, there was no Doppler weather radar or spiffy animated weather maps. Captain Sandy had a boring wall map with weather symbols that looked like they were cut out of cardboard. He used a wooden pointer to show you where things were. But I watched him anyway, because he was a sailor, and he always dressed according to what the weather was going to be. Every night, just as he came on, they’d play his special song. Give me a minute. I bet I can remember the words.”
He began whistling a very tentative hornpipe.
“Got it!” he said, half a dozen bars later. “Now you have to imagine I have a raincoat and gum rubber boots on. And I’m dancing, okay?”
“Right-o. I’m picturing you wearing green Wellies with your bright yellow slicker and doing a jig.”
“Oh-oh, what’s the weather going to be?
“Here’s a man who knows, so let’s take a look and see.
“Here is Captain Sandy with the weather he has found,
“For Savannah and for Charleston and the counties all around.”
* * *
I laughed until my sides hurt and tears ran down my cheeks. Laughed as Alex put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. Then laughter died, replaced by longing.
I wanted him.
I had never stopped wanting him.
He gently shifted me onto his lap and wrapped his arms around me, surrounding with his warmth, his strength.
I settled in willingly, tipped my chin upward as he brushed his lips along the curve of my neck, around my ear, across my cheek. Then his hands followed the trail of his lips, and he cupped my jaw and cheeks in his palms.
The soft, warm caresses continued, soothing tension and encouraging desire. His lips lingered on my eyelids, skimmed the bridge of my nose, played at the corners of my mouth.
Then he kissed me. He held my face trapped between his hands, pressed his lips against mine, and demanded response.
I rested my left palm against his chest, surrendered intellect, embraced instinct . . .
A mistake. I was making a mistake.
Beneath my hand, his throbbing heart summoned memories of the day he’d been shot. He would die, too. Just like everyone else. Just like Brian. How could I have forgotten?
I panicked, suddenly wanting nothing more than to push him away, push memory away, flee the house, run.
Where?
I couldn’t trust the man I worked for.
I needed access to my past.
There was nowhere but here.
Desire turned cold-blooded.
Alex was a man like any other. I needed him. I would use him.
I slid my hand downward until my palm rested against his belt buckle, hooked my fingers beneath it, promising pleasure.
It had worked on other men. Bought me information, contacts, protection.
No response from Alex.
He took a deep, shaky breath.
“Are you sure, Jane? Is this what you really want?”
Tension tightened his voice.
Urgency shaped the lines of his body.
But he would retreat from passion to friendship. If I asked him to.
He would never use me.
I could trust him.
The reminder rekindled longing.
Lingering fear inspired urgency.
I let go of his buckle, moved my hand to the back of his neck, pushed my fingers through his hair, pulled him to me. I opened my mouth to his, accepting—no, seeking— a single moment of exquisite, mindless pleasure.
19
I dreamt I was back in Australia.
* * *
The radio was tuned to a Melbourne station. Harp music—a traditional Gaelic tune, light and airy—poured from the tiny speaker. Across the room, loud male voices argued yesterday’s football game.
Ignoring the distraction, I bent closer to the table, encouraging twin wings of dark hair to sweep forward and shield my face. I focused on the music as my fingers performed another task altogether.
One voice cut across the others, breaking my concentration.
“I bet the sheila knows.”
“Hey, Morgana,” another man called out, “just before he scored for New-bloody-Castle, wasn’t it O’Malley that elbowed Simpson in the nose?”
I kept my eyes on the device I was building, paused with tweezers midair, one end of a wire waiting to be anchored to the timer. I took a breath, answered in an accent as broad as theirs, answered knowing that I had a reputation for being as unstable as the explosives I handled.
“It was that sod O’Brian. And if I don’t get some quiet, it’ll be us, not the Sydney Opera House, that blows up tonight. Either way, the explosion’ll be a real ripper.”
I lifted my head, swung my hair back, let them glimpse a lunatic grin, then hunched over my work again.
For the next hour, only harp music filled the small room.
* * *
I drifted up from sleep, smiling at the single moment of humor in that hellish assignment. I opened my eyes, found Alex awake, head on his pillow, looking at me.
“Pleasant dream?”
“Uh-huh.”
“About what?”
“Building a bomb.”
He rolled over, swung his legs off the side of the bed, sat up. Reached back across the bed and ruffled my hair.
“Just an old-fashioned girl,” he said.
* * *
I sat up against the pillows in the warm bed and listened to the sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower was running, the waterproof radio hanging in the stall was tuned to a local station, and Alex was singing. The weather report—river flood warnings in effect for the Savannah River at Burtons Ferry, the Ogeechee River at Eden, and the Ohoopee River at Reidsville—had been followed by a song about a lost love. Alex joined in on the chorus.
“That’s my girl, my whole world, but that ain’t my truck.”
Then a cheerful female voice announced it was time for one from Garth. This seemed to please Alex, who belted out the lyrics to the energetic song with considerable enthusiasm. His voice was pleasant, the words clear, and the song’s rhythm an upbeat accompaniment to the exercises I was doing.
Work on flexibility first and then build stre
ngth, Dr. Bowers had said when she’d given me the exercises. Discomfort was acceptable. Pain was not. Deciding where the line lay between the two was up to me. And she hoped to God I’d exercise common sense.
“He says it’s really kinda simple, keep your mind in the middle . . .”
I listened to Alex and Garth as I methodically rotated my shoulders, loosening muscles. Slowly, carefully, I stretched my biceps by extending my arms straight out in front of me. Palms down, palms up, then a gentle compression achieved by bending both arms at the elbow and pressing my palms together. I extended my arms out to the sides—palms up and down and meeting above my head—and then I was ready to repeat the entire sequence again. And again. That left the muscles in my right arm quivering and the song at an end. I pushed myself to do another two repetitions. The activity encouraged the repetitive buzz of the song’s chorus through my mind.
“He’s got a fever, fever, fever, fever . . .”
Poor thing. Perhaps a few aspirin . . .
The water turned off, and Alex stepped out of the shower. Which was a nice distraction from the tight band of discomfort across my upper right arm. He worked at staying fit, and it showed.
He noticed me watching him, did a bouncy little jig for my benefit, then wrapped a towel around his waist. He stepped over to the sink, spread a layer of shaving cream on his face, began scraping at his beard with a safety razor. Paused.
“I have to go back to the station,” he said, his eyes on the mirror. “I need to do the paperwork that I didn’t finish yesterday and see what’s happening with the shooting.”
He went back to shaving.
I bent my knees, folded my arms across them, hoping the change in posture would relieve my aching muscles. It didn’t. I considered having some aspirin myself, perhaps as a prelude to breakfast, then told myself to get a grip and think about something else.
“While you’re out, I’m going to work on my next book,” I said. “The manuscript is due in August, and I’ve got to recreate the material I lost in the fire. By the way, I bought a laptop.”
Actually, if you counted the one that was now nothing more than charred components, I’d bought two.
“ ’Bout time.”
During his convalescence, Alex had embraced computer technology with fanatic fervor, eventually condemning my portable electric typewriter as heretical. Never mind that I liked it.
The icon of his new faith was visible from the bed, on the opposite end of the bedroom suite, within easy reach of his massive rolltop desk. The PC sat rather disconcertingly atop a solid, centuries-old George II kneehole writing table.
My conversion had been prompted by a repairman judging my typewriter beyond resurrection.
“Mac or PC?” Alex asked.
“One of the new Macs.”
“Nice.”
High praise indeed.
* * *
Alex poured himself a cup of coffee, loaded it with sugar and half-and-half, then settled down across from me at the kitchen table.
I pushed a plate of toast toward him, then reached for the smaller of the two jars that shared the center of the table with the salt and pepper shakers. I twisted the yellow lid off the kettle-shaped jar of Marmite, dipped out a bit of the savory spread on the tip of my knife, and spread a thin, dark brown layer on my toast.
As he always did, Alex wrinkled his nose at the Marmite’s yeasty smell and reached for the one-pint Mason jar half-filled with peach preserves. He dolloped preserves into the center of a piece of toast, then folded it over to create a drippy triangle.
I waited until he’d had a bite and washed it down with coffee, then ventured back into dangerous territory.
“That copperhead the other night might have killed you. Why not make an official report?”
He shook his head.
“It would have hurt like hell, but the bite isn’t lethal.”
“In my book, that still makes it intent to commit GBH.”
Alex paused mid-bite, raised an eyebrow.
“Grievous bodily harm, which is similar to assault with a deadly weapon. And I gather this isn’t the first attempt. Coral snakes are lethal.”
Alex chewed the bite of toast carefully, swallowed. He wiped the edges of his mouth with a napkin, lifted his chin, and stared straight at me.
“As I told Tommy, those previous incidents were strictly my imagination. Nothing happened that was worth filing paperwork on.”
Unless he was killed. Then, I suspected, he expected his unofficial “imaginings” to be used as the basis for a formal investigation. No wonder Tommy had been angry.
I wasn’t too happy, either.
I met Alex’s eyes, let a little annoyance show.
“Am I imagining things, too?”
He didn’t answer.
I used a bit of toast to mop up an invisible dab of Marmite from my plate, considering how I wanted to react. Beyond, of course, keeping my eyes open and avoiding having some figment of Alex’s imagination crawl up and bite me. I popped the piece of toast into my mouth, picked up my coffee mug, and found it nearly empty.
“Buggers,” I muttered.
I took my mug and Alex’s over to the coffeemaker and filled them from the carafe. All the while, I thought about willful, duty-bound men. They seemed to be my particular curse.
Brian was dead now.
A reminder not to care too deeply about Alex.
I could live with him. I could sleep with him. I could use him. And then I could walk away.
Of course I could.
* * *
“Where’d you learn to handle snakes like that?” I said when I’d returned to the table with our coffee.
Alex seemed relieved by the change in topic.
“From a buddy of mine, used to live down the road. We met one summer, when we were fishing along the river. Well, actually, he’d just come down to the river. I was stuck out on a tree branch overhanging the river. I’d crawled out on it to retrieve my lure, couldn’t figure out how to get back down. Willie rescued me. And didn’t laugh. I was twelve. He was maybe fifteen, probably been living on his own for a couple of years. He never went to school as far as I could tell. Could barely read. But the things he knew . . .
“He treated me like, well, more like a son than a brother. Seemed surprised at how ignorant I was. He said he always figured that white boys were smart, and I’d gone and proven him mighty wrong. He taught me to handle snakes and snare small game, showed me how to catch cooters—turtles—and cook ’em up into a passable soup.”
Alex reached out, lingeringly slid two fingers over the Mason jar, touch rekindling memory.
“I bought these at the farmer’s market in Garden City. The fire chief’s daughter-in-law makes them, and they’re real good. But I don’t think I’ll ever find peach preserves that tasted quite as good as Willie’s. He’d make them over a wood fire. Out back, behind the two-room house he lived in. His daddy left him the house—wasn’t much more than a shack, really—and a hundred acres of marshland along the Ogeechee. Half of those acres are high and dry. As close as they are to Savannah, they’re worth a fortune to a developer nowadays.”
“Is that the same Willie who owned the bait shop?” I didn’t give Alex time to look surprised. “I noticed the shop on the way from the airport. The cabby told me about him.”
“Yeah, the same Willie, the same house. Taxi driver tell you he drowned?”
I nodded.
“He pointed out the very bridge.”
Alex sighed.
“You heard about the ghost.”
“Oh, yes. The story makes a nice addition to my collection of local lore.”
I’d heard my first Southern ghost story before I’d arrived in Savannah. As she gave me directions to Savannah, the young woman at the car rental in Atlanta told me I would be traveling along some of the state’s oldest roads. For generations, slaves and, later, chain gangs had toiled to build the roads through the swamps. Fever, exhaustion, and physical abus
e had claimed many victims. Some locals believed that those so cruelly treated in life walked unhappily even in death.
Since then, I’d heard other stories, some of them from Alex. But he’d never mentioned Willie. I soon found out why.
“Well, Willie isn’t folklore, and that story is crap.”
He said it belligerently, as if he’d said it before and then ended up defending his words.
“Most of those stories are,” I said mildly.
His chin went down, the tight line of his lips relaxed, and he nodded.
“Willie was my friend. You’ve probably seen his picture. It’s in the bedroom, on the wall behind my desk. Willie and me with our fishing gear and a string of fish, showing off for the camera. I think I was just out of high school. My mom took it, developed and printed it herself.”
I remembered the black-and-white photograph. In it, two young men looked straight at the camera, chins lifted, expressions open and innocent. Except for the differences in race, the men were very similar in appearance—tall and lanky, angular in a way that promises beauty in the adult male. Sunlight sifted through the trees, framing them with shafts of light and shadow. The foreground was dark. Behind them, the river sparkled. The photo was idyllic, yet expectant. Like the promise of a thunderstorm on a hot summer day.
“That photograph is art,” I said. “Your mom had a real talent.”
“Yeah, she was a remarkable lady.”
He smiled sadly, took a quick breath, continued.
“Anyhow, Willie always talked about opening a bait shop and making his fortune selling worms and shiners. He started the business on his front porch, just before I left for ’Nam. Actually did well enough that he had electricity and indoor plumbing by the time I got home. It was a sad day when I found him floating under that bridge. River was real low that year, or he might have been washed right out to sea. As it was . . .”
He shook his head, dismissing the memory.
“Turned out that my mom’s picture was the only one ever been taken of him. The newspaper cut it down to a head-and-shoulders shot for his obituary.”