Gone With a Handsomer Man (6 page)

Just the idea of seeing him tonight made me reach inside my pocket to make sure I’d brought my inhaler. My hand shook a little when I opened McTavish’s tall oak door. I stepped into the pub and waited for my eyes to adjust. Smoke curled along the low beamed ceiling. The smell of fish ’n’ chips wafted from the kitchen and mixed with the faintly bitter scent of Guinness. Antique golf clubs and pictures of St. Andrews lined the green-and-red plaid walls. Now I understood why Bing had chosen this place.

I headed toward a long mahogany bar and passed a pool table, where two elderly men rubbed blue chalk on their cue sticks. On the wall behind them, a dartboard with Prince Charles’s face was filled with holes. A lady in purple shorts smiled at me from the jukebox. She pushed in a quarter, and a minute later Elvis began singing “Softly, As I Leave You.” Mama used to pair that song with Psalm 65:10 and soft shell crabs.

I didn’t see Bing anywhere. I slid onto a leather stool. The bartender swaggered over and spread his hands on the counter. His sleeves scooted up, showing Celtic cross tattoos on both wrists.

“Peach martini, please,” I said, and the bartender reached for the schnapps. Behind me, the billiard balls cracked, and laughter rose up into the smoky air.

The bartender returned in a flash with two peach martinis. “It’s happy hour,” he said. “Enjoy.”

I took a sip and kicked off my flip-flops. The stool beside me creaked. I glanced up as a dark-haired man sat down and ordered a Guinness. He wore ragged jeans and a faded blue t-shirt with
LAWYER OR LIAR—YOU MAKE THE CALL
printed across the front. As he leaned his elbows on the counter, a curl fell down over familiar gray eyes.

Please god, not him.

Not Cooper O’Malley.

I’d imagined this moment a thousand times, and here I was, wearing flip-flops and wrinkled shorts. The last time I’d talked to O’Malley was eleven years ago. He’d stood in my aunt’s parlor and told me he couldn’t see me anymore, then I’d promptly had an asthma attack. I’d done my best to forget him, not an easy trick in a small town. I’d stopped reading the newspaper so I didn’t have to keep tabs on his heart-stomping ass.

Maybe I should ignore him now. I reached for my second martini, took a sip, and glanced sideways. He smiled. Damn, men that gorgeous should be outlawed. The bartender brought Coop’s beer. It had a stamped clover in the foam.

“Another drink, cutie?” the bartender asked me.

“Please,” I said, thinking about crazy girls with hammers. I fished a peach slice from my glass and bit into the tangy flesh. It tasted like a fallen fruit. They’re stronger and slightly alcoholic, with a flavor like schnapps or brandy. My mouth filled with the memory of Aunt Bluette working in her roadside stand, weighing bags of fruit and chatting with customers while honeybees hummed over the bins.

The door opened, and warm night air pushed into the bar. I glanced at my watch. Five forty-five and no Bing. Cooper lifted his glass mug. His t-shirt was stretched over his shoulders, each deltoid muscle round as an Elberta peach. I’d never wanted to touch a man’s arm this bad—well, except for
this
particular man’s arm. I wanted to push my hand under his sleeve and feel his peach of a muscle, the way I had when we were younger. If Bing strolled in, he’d think I was flirting. Well, so what? He had it coming. Tit for freaking tat. Except our “talk” would go out the window, and I’d end up totally homeless.

The bartender brought my drinks and cleared the empty glasses. I reached for my martini, and the voice inside my head made a tsking sound. I needed gas money, not alcohol. Too damn bad. I tossed down the drink. It felt cold against the back of my throat. Now I understood why Mama did what she did. Her mind was crawling with snakes. No place to be still, no peace, only the slick edge of pain. Alcohol was a cheap way to step out of her own skin.

“You come here a lot?” Coop grinned and dimples cut into his cheeks.

“My first time.”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asked.

“I’d know you anywhere, O’Malley,” I said. Even if he did look a little different. And more handsome, if that was possible. In high school, he’d been thinner, and his long dark bangs had fallen into his eyes.

His smile widened and I saw the tiny scar on his chin. When he was six years old, he’d tumbled off a merry-go-round at Lakeside Elementary, and I’d held my mitten against the wound until his daddy, Dr. O’Malley, had arrived.

“Whatever happened to you?” I asked. I was referring to why he’d dumped me all those years ago.

“After Carolina, I went to Yale law. Then I lived in England.” He shrugged. “What about you? How’d you end up in Charleston?”

“Long story.” Well, what was I supposed to say? I could tell him about Bing and my criminal record. Or I could describe the Food Lion bakery and how I’d distributed pecan sandies to members of the Free Cookie Club.

You’re drunk
, I thought, mentally adding an apostrophe between “you” and “re.” I stared into my glass. No more peachtinis for me, at least not tonight. If I understood anything at all, it was the chemistry of food. Bread won’t rise without yeast. When vinegar hits baking soda the gasses whoosh up and unstop your sink. Hot water makes sugar crystallize, and the result is rock hard candy. You can even turn a lemon into a battery. A martini was a chemical. And it was changing me, changing my brain. Oh, I would regret this in the morning.

“I heard about your aunt’s passing,” Coop said. “I’m so sorry. She was a nice lady. ”

“I miss her.”

“Death is tough. I lost Uncle Ralph a year ago. I thought I’d see you at the funeral home.”

“Aunt Bluette was getting radiation therapy,” I said.

“Bonaventure won’t be the same without her,” he said.

“Or without your uncle,” I said. Ralph had taught biology at the high school. Twice he’d been chosen Teacher of the Year for inspiring bored, hormonally driven teenagers to care about cell division.

“Damn, I didn’t mean to get maudlin.” Coop finished his beer and leaned into the space between us. “You smell like vanilla cake from the bakery.”

“A bakery?” I laughed.

“I really do smell vanilla,” he said.

I touched my nose to my shoulder. It did smell faintly sweet. Vanilla is supposed to increase blood flow to the nether regions. I wondered if it was affecting his.

“I made a coffee cake today,” I said.

“Homemade?”

“Is there any other kind?” I smiled. He wasn’t flirting. But I was.

He eased off his stool, walked over to the jukebox, and dropped a quarter into the slot. On his way back “Don’t Be Cruel” began to play. He leaned across the bar, and his hand knocked into the glass I was holding.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay.” I blotted up the spill with a napkin. “It’s happy hour. I’ve got a spare drink.”

“But I ruined your blouse.” He waved one hand. “Just take it off. Take it off right now. There’s a one-hour dry cleaners on East Bay.”

Seriously? Wait, he was kidding.

He leaned closer and sniffed. “Peach schnapps?”

“90 proof,” I said.

“Potent stuff,” he said. “I could pass out on Broad. A horse-drawn carriage might roll over me.”

“Or snag you,” I said. “You could be dragged for blocks.”

He laughed. “Just give me the blouse and nobody’ll get hurt.”

Normally I wouldn’t joke about accidents, but I couldn’t help it. The old chemistry was still there, and it wasn’t all from my side. Then I remembered why I was here. Coop’s job was to defend jailbirds, not flirt with them.

“I can’t resist vanilla,” he said.

“How can you smell anything in here?” I waved my hand. Cigarette smoke hung in thick strands under the billiard lights. Aunt Bluette always said breathing secondhand smoke was dangerous. Besides, it was time for me to go. I slid my toes into my flip-flops and smiled up at Coop. I wasn’t sure what to say—See you around? Nice talking to you? I hadn’t seen him in eleven years and probably wouldn’t see him for eleven more.

“Nice seeing you again, Coop.” I tossed down my drink.

“Don’t let me chase you off.”

“I’m chasing myself. I have to get up early.”

“Let me walk you to your car.” He touched my hand and a jolt of pleasure traveled up my arm.

“I didn’t drive,” I said. “I walked.”

“From where?”

“I just live a few blocks away.”

“I’ll drive you. This neighborhood can be scary after dark.”

“I’m not scared. Tourists are all over. And policemen.”

“Policemen won’t help. See, I’m a lawyer. I know what really goes on. Things that don’t make the news.”

“And it’s your duty to defend me, right?”

“I’d just feel better if you got home safe.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to know where I live.”

“You can blindfold me.”

“Then you can’t protect me.”

“Just let me walk you halfway.”

“Half? What good is half?”

He threw a wad of cash on the counter. “How about if you walk me to my truck?”

“You just don’t give up, do you?” I smiled.

“You should see me in a courtroom.”

We squeezed through the crowd, onto the sidewalk. A breeze stirred the hanging flower baskets. I smelled fried banana fritters, espresso, and cigars. Way off in the distance I heard a blues band playing on a rooftop bar. Coop stopped beside an old red truck. A gigantic hairy beast stood in the back.

“What’s
that
?” I said.

“My dog. Don’t worry. He’s a gentle giant.”

I took a breath, remembering dogs could sense fear. The animal was the size of a miniature donkey, with gangly legs and a long tail. As I moved forward, the dog’s ears swiveled through the rippled, taffy-colored hair, tracking my movements. The gigantic mouth opened, and a pink tongue slid between curved incisors.

“This is T-Bone,” Coop said. At the sound of his name, the dog spun in tight circles, making the truck sway, then he stood on his hind legs and waved his paws.

“T-Bone loves to ride,” Coop said. “Don’t you, boy? I hate leaving him at home.”

“How old is he?”

“Don’t know. I found him two years ago. He was half dead. Starved. A broken leg. He’s fine now. He weighs nearly 140 pounds, but he could stand to gain a few.” Coop patted the dog’s head, and the pink tongue shot out, the size of a brisket, narrowly missing Coop’s cheek.

“Cut that out, T-Bone.” Coop laughed.

The dog woofed and spun again.

“He’s got chutzpah,” I said.

“That’s for sure.” Coop grinned. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

Why not? I thought. I wasn’t taking a ride from a stranger, just an old boyfriend. I glanced at his profile. His nose was just as I remembered, long and straight, as if drawn with a ruler. “Okay,” I said.

“Where do you live, sweetheart?”

“East Bay.” I looked away so he couldn’t see me smile. The way he’d said “sweetheart” put me in mind of Humphrey Bogart in
The Maltese Falcon.

We climbed into the truck. The light from the dashboard reflected into his face as he cranked the engine. Music started playing. Radiohead was singing “All I Need.”

I turned around and looked out the rear window at T-Bone. “Does that tail ever stop wagging?” I asked.

“Never.” He adjusted the mirror and I saw T-Bone’s reflection.

Coop turned onto East Bay Street. A group of tourists in shorts and sandals strolled toward the waterfront. A little farther down, a carriage moved toward the Battery. Coop tapped the brake. The truck slowed just as the music started to build in a rush of piano, xylophone, drum beats and cymbals.

At the end of the street, a dark car pulled away from the curb. I jumped a little—Bing drove a black Mercedes—but when the car passed under the streetlight, it was navy blue.

Not Bing. What a relief. A Winnebago pulled into the slot, and a plume of dark smoke drifted from its tailpipe.

“I live right there.” I pointed to the pink house. If I invited him in for coffee cake, would he think I was offering more than dessert? Even in the old days, we’d never crossed the line.

Coop squinted out the window. “You’re selling it?”

“What?”

“There’s a sign out front.”

I turned. The ornate sign was back. It jutted up from a narrow patch of grass, lashed to the palm tree by a thick metal chain.

“You can stop here.” I cracked open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“May I call you sometime?” he asked. “For dinner or drinks or something? Or you call me. My number’s real easy to remember: SUE-THEM. The answering service picks up 24-7.”

“Sure.” I started to climb out of the truck, and he touched my arm. I turned. From the radio, the music reached a crescendo. We reached for each other at the same time, our movements building like music, the different elements converging—lips, tongues, hands.

The song ended abruptly, and I came back to my senses. I pulled away, my hands knotted against his shirt. I’d kissed someone I used to love. But he hadn’t loved me. Why would it be different now?

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” I wrenched away and climbed out of the truck. I ran toward the sidewalk, past the sign. A note was taped to the wrought iron door.
Check Out Time—24 Hours, Bing.

I flattened the note with the heel of my hand. His handwriting looked odd: the
g
in Bing wasn’t curled up like a watch spring. Had he written the note or dictated it to Natalie? He’d sworn up and down he hadn’t known about the sign, and I’d believed him.

I ripped up the note. As I threw the pieces at the sign, I remembered an old Gullah recipe called Bye-Bye Bitch. It calls for pepper, gunpowder, and spit from your victim. If throwing fruit is a crime, how in the world would you collect saliva without ending up in the pokey? Why, you’d have to be a dentist—or quick on the draw with a turkey baster.

nine

I went straight to bed but I couldn’t sleep. Seeing Coop again had brought back feelings that I’d worked hard to repress. He’d been a year ahead of me at Bonaventure High, but he’d always teased me in a brotherly way. His daddy, Dr. O’Malley, had taken care of the town’s ills, including my asthma, and his mama beautified local homes with a gift shop on the town square.