Tight Lines (16 page)

Around five I showered and shaved and headed for Acton. I found myself nervous about meeting Terri’s daughter. I hadn’t had much experience with ten-year-old girls. I wanted her to like me.

I found Terri waiting in the lobby of the Rusty Scupper. “Hi, General,” I said.

“Oh, hello, Brady.” She gave me her hand and tried to smile. It was a poor effort.

“Where’s Melissa?”

“Wandering. She’ll be back.”

I touched her arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Regret this?”

“No. I’m just not sure how Melissa’s going to react.”

I shrugged. “I’ll try to behave.”

She smiled. “Don’t try too hard. Kids can tell.”

She appeared a minute later, a miniature of her mother. The same clear olive complexion, the same black hair, the same dark chocolate eyes, the same head-turning beauty.

“There’s a bar upstairs,” she said to Terri. “They’ve got four televisions.”

Terri touched her shoulder and turned her around to face me. “This is Mr. Coyne,” she said.

“Brady,” I said. I held my hand out to her.

She took it solemnly. “Nice to meet you, Brady,” said the girl. “Do you like rodeos?”

“I’ve never been to one.”

“All the TVs upstairs are showing rodeos. These cowboys try to ride Brahma bulls. They almost always get thrown off, and they never get hurt. It’s pretty neat.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

The hostess led us to a table. “Nonsmoking,” Terri whispered to me. “Hope you don’t mind. Melissa hates smoking.”

“I’ll survive.”

Melissa ordered spaghetti from the kids’ menu. Terri asked for scallops, and I settled for shrimp scampi.

Melissa told me about her soccer team and her fifth-grade teacher and a boy named Benjamin, whom she hated because he kept telling everyone he had kissed her, which he certainly hadn’t done. I learned that her favorite food was Brussels sprouts and that she hated shrimp and that she was going to be an archaeologist when she grew up and that she was going to get married when she was thirty and have three children.

Terri sat quietly and smiled.

“Are you married?” said Melissa.

“I’m divorced.”

“Why?”

“My wife and I weren’t good for each other.”

“Didn’t you love each other?”

“We did,” I said. “We still do, sort of. Marriage just wasn’t right for us.”

“I understand,” she said solemnly, as if she was consoling me. “It’s the same with Mommy and Daddy, except they were smart. They didn’t get married at all, so they didn’t have to get divorced. But I still think that being married can be good, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

When our meals arrived, Melissa gave me a dissertation on the various methods of eating spaghetti. “You can twirl, like me,” she said. “Italians can twirl. Nobody else can do it right. People who aren’t Italians, when they twirl, they have to use a spoon. Or else they just twirl the whole bowlful until they’ve got a humongous big glob on their fork, and they try to jam the whole thing in their mouth. Some people suck. That Benjamin sucks, I’ve seen him in the lunchroom. He gets a string in his mouth and starts sucking, and when he gets to the end it kind of pops in, and he gets sauce all over his chin. It’s disgusting. Little kids have their parents cut it up and they eat it with a spoon.”

Melissa, I noted, twirled expertly and got no sauce on her chin. She was polite and charming and at ease. I found myself regretting that I’d had no daughters.

Terri and I had coffee afterward while Melissa had a dish of ice cream. I wanted to ask about Susan, but it didn’t seem appropriate in front of Melissa.

I walked them to Terri’s Volkswagen. Melissa held her hand out to me. “Thank you very much, Brady,” she said. “I had a nice time.”

“So did I. Maybe we can do it again.”

“Mommy should make her gnocchi for you. It’s awesome.”

“I’d like that.”

Melissa climbed into the passenger seat. I went around and held the other door for Terri. “Thank you,” she said softly. “All my fears were unfounded.”

“Kids are tougher than we give them credit for,” I said. “She’s a doll.”

She gave my cheek a quick kiss. “We can do it again, if you want.”

“I want.”

“Next Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll make you my gnocchi.”

“Great. I’ll bring the wine.”

I watched Terri’s Volkswagen chug away. Then I trudged over to where I’d parked. I was vaguely envious of Terri. She was going home to read a story to her daughter and tuck her in for the night. I found myself missing my boys, missing them when they were young and innocent and unskilled at twirling spaghetti, and when they demanded a story before bedtime.

When I got back to my apartment, the message light on my answering machine was blinking. I played the message. It was Jill Costello. “Hi,” she said. “It’s Jill. Give me a call, okay?”

I called her.

“Jill, it’s Brady Coyne.”

“Oh, hey. Thanks for calling. How are you?”

“I’ve recovered.”

“Recovered from what?”

“Sort of a long story. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, really. I just wondered if you’d like to come over, have a rematch.”

“I’m not much competition for you, I’m afraid.”

“To tell you the truth, I was kinda lonely.”

I realized that I was, too. Somehow, being with Terri and Melissa had made my apartment feel empty. “I could come over for an hour or so,” I said.

“Great.”

I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled on a windbreaker, and walked to Jill’s place on Beacon Street. It was a cool October evening, crisp and dry after the rain earlier in the week. Frost would surely settle upon every pumpkin in New England this night.

I banged on the steel door outside Jill’s apartment. “It’s Brady,” I called to her.

She had on the same outfit as the first time I had seen her—snug-fitting jeans, sneakers, and an untucked man’s blue oxford shirt. Her handyman costume, I figured. Her hair was braided down her back. She looked very vulnerable and very sexy. And very young. I guessed she was as close to Melissa’s age as she was to Terri’s.

She grabbed my hand and tugged me inside. Once we were in her apartment with all the doors bolted shut, she snaked her arms around me and pressed herself against me. I patted her back paternally for a moment, then pulled away from her. She looked up at me with her eyebrows arched. Then she shrugged. “Beer?” she asked.

“Sure.”

I sat at the table. She fetched two bottles of Miller’s from her refrigerator and sat across from me. She propped her feet up on the seat and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Well,” she said, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“Your long story. You said you had a long story for me. I love stories.”

“I guess it’s not that long. When I left here the other night, your husband attacked me. Didn’t you know?”

Her hand flew up to her mouth. “God, no. Did he hurt you?”

“Nah. I’m tough. He’s not that good at it. He caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Aw, Jeez. I’m sorry, Brady.”

“Not your fault. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I did hear him banging on the door out there sometime after you left. I didn’t respond, of course. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay.” I took a swig of beer from the bottle. “I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, he hit me and knocked me down and kicked me, but somehow it seemed more pitiful than vicious.”

She pulled her long blond braid around to the front and began to twist it in her hand. “Pitiful: good word. I guess the whole situation’s pitiful.”

“Well, anyway, that’s what happened.” I looked at her. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

“About Mary Ellen.”

“Miz Ames? No. What about her?”

“She’s dead.”

Jill’s eyes widened. “What?”

“They found her drowned in a pond in New Hampshire.”

“Drowned,” she whispered. “Oh, shit.”

I watched her face crumble. Tears abruptly welled up in her eyes before she squeezed them shut and covered them with both hands. She put her forehead onto her knees and began to sob quietly.

I let her cry for a minute or two. Then I said, “Jill.”

My voice sounded harsh to my ears, and Jill jerked her head up and frowned at me. “What?”

“No policeman has been around this week to question you?”

“Question me? No. Nobody. I didn’t know.”

“What would you have told them if they did?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you have told them the truth?”

She shook her head slowly back and forth. “What truth? What are you talking about?”

“About you and Mary Ellen.”

“Brady—”

“You were lovers, weren’t you?”

“Of course not. We hardly—”

I reached across the table and put my hand on her knee. She stared at me. “Jill, it’s all right. I just want to know.”

She shook her head back and forth, then let out a long breath. “How did you hear this?”

“I know she had a woman lover. I figured out it was you.”

“But how?”

“You’re a terrible liar, for one thing.”

“You never asked me anything about this.”

“No. But you implied that you barely knew her, and when you had your wits about you, like just a minute ago, you referred to her as ‘Miz Ames.’ But a couple times you slipped and called her ‘Mary Ellen.’ And twice, now, when I’ve mentioned something about her to you, you’ve cried in ways that strike me as an overreaction for someone who barely knows her.”

She hugged her knees hard. “God,” she said. “If Johnny ever knew this… I think it would be worse than if I had a man for a lover. Brady, this is so embarrassing. And now. Now you say she’s dead.”

I nodded.

“What can I say?” she said.

“Well, you surely don’t have to tell me about it. I’m not accusing you of anything, or judging you. The only reason I bring it up is because the circumstances of her death are not clear. I thought you might’ve been questioned.”

“Well, I wasn’t. What would they want to question me about, anyway?”

“They’re wondering about suicide.”

“Mary Ellen? Hardly.”

“She wasn’t depressed or unhappy?”

“Lately? Hell, no. She was in love.”

“With whom?”

Jill chuckled. “Not me, if that’s what you mean. With us it was—different. You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I guess I wouldn’t.”

“With us it was—it was comfort, it was—shit, the words don’t work very well here. It was intimacy, escape. It was a new thing for both of us. I mean, we like men. We really do. Neither of us had ever—at least, I hadn’t. Mary Ellen said she hadn’t, either. I went up one evening to look at her oven. The self-cleaning setting wasn’t working. She’s like the only person my age in the whole building. It was so good for me to see somebody of my own generation, and I guess I just babbled away to her. I couldn’t fix the damn oven. She made tea, and I stayed and we talked. Shared life stories, sort of. Hers was much more complicated than mine, though I don’t think she was telling me very much of it. And I told her about my dumb, frustrating marriage. I guess I cried. I’d only left Johnny a couple weeks earlier. She came over and hugged me. And…”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Jill, who was she in love with?”

“I don’t know. She was funny about that. As if she thought I’d be jealous. Look. We mostly just lay down and hugged each other. It wasn’t dirty or anything. I mean, it didn’t
seem
dirty. It was—comforting. We held each other. And we talked and we slept. I know this doesn’t make sense to you. She was—she sort of played my mother, and I was her child. She’d hold me and hum to me and tell me everything was okay, and I’d relax and snuggle up in her arms. And that’s how it was. I mean, I knew she wasn’t really telling me her secrets. I told her everything, but she kept things back. The way it would be with mother and daughter, do you see?”

I nodded. “Did she tell you about Dave Finn?”

“Dave?” She nodded slowly. “She talked a little about a man named Dave, yes. She called him Huckleberry sometimes. She liked him. Thought he was funny.” She stopped and nodded. “Oh, I get it. Finn. I never knew his last name. Huckleberry Finn.”

“Well, what did she say about him?”

Jill shrugged. “He was a man in her life. I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking me these questions? You said she drowned. What difference does any of this make? She’s—she’s dead.”

“I want to try to understand it. For Susan. Her mother. I think she’d feel a little better if she was convinced that Mary Ellen did not take her own life.”

Jill nodded slowly. “Sure. Of course she would.” She shrugged. “Maybe I didn’t know her that well. I always knew she was holding things back. It was me who got consolation from her, mainly. But she certainly didn’t seem suicidal or anything.”

“Did she talk about other men besides Finn?”

“Well, yes and no. There was another man, I think. She never said his name or who he was. But the way she talked, there was somebody else. Somebody she was more interested in than Huckleberry. I’m not sure if they ever got to the point of, you know…”

“Johnny didn’t know about the two of you, huh?”

“How would he know?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know.” She smiled at me. “Want another beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“Do we have to talk about this anymore?”

I shook my head. “I guess not.”

“Good. This is awfully upsetting.” She put her chin on her knees and peered at me. “Maybe we could go sit on the couch and you could hold me for a little while, huh?”

“No,” I said gently. “I don’t think so, Jill.”

“You think I’m some kind of freak, don’t you?”

“No. Not at all. You’re a beautiful young woman. I just don’t think it would be a good idea.”

She tipped her head so that her cheek rested atop her knees. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I really miss being held,” she said quietly.

“I know,” I said. “Sometimes I do, too.”

H
OROWITZ CALLED ME MONDAY
afternoon. “Just wanted you to know,” he said. “The medical examiner up there in the Granite State isn’t prepared to release the Ames body yet. I figured your client should know. Figured you’d be the one who should tell her.”