Goldilocks (30 page)

Cole said, “It’s time you went home. Edith will be worried.”

“Look at me, Barney. Look me straight in the eye and tell me the truth. You think Edith loves me?”

“I know she does.”

“What about my kids?”

“Without question.”

“Then that’s all that’s important,” he said, and began descending the steps, Cole trailing him. At the bottom he wheeled around and said, “Will you look where some jerk parked his car! It’s blocking everything. You oughta run back in and tell Abe.”

“No need.”

Daisy placed his hands on his hips and admired it. “Brand-new Cutlass Supreme. How much do those go for? No, don’t tell me. It’ll hurt my stomach.” He walked around to the front of it, with Cole following. “All my life, I’ve never had a new car, always had to buy iron.” He tapped the shiny hood with his fingers. “I was twenty years younger, you know what I’d do? I’d steal it.”

“You don’t have to,” Cole said, and dangled keys in front of him. “It’s yours.”

• • •

A secretary at Pullman & Gates typed out the press release announcing attorney Katherine Fletcher’s elevation to senior partner. In her vast new office Kit contemplated the Pollock on the wall and decided to keep it. The vase of long-stemmed roses on her desk was from Chandler Gates. At seven o’clock, in celebration, he took her to Maison Robert, where they dined sumptuously and killed a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Former mayor Kevin White stopped by their table, as did a woman editor from Houghton Mifflin who had edited a biography of Chandler’s grandfather. At ten o’clock Chandler accompanied Kit to the harborside tower where she lived, rode the elevator with her to the upper reaches, and invited himself in for a nightcap.

Her place was minimally but aesthetically furnished and had much window space overlooking the waters of the harbor, whose daytime murk shifted into an iridescent magic under starlight. She served Chandler a brandy, none for herself, which disappointed him. He did, however, coax her to a place beside him on the sofa. In a tone that was a shade accusatory, he said, “You won’t be in tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Duty calls?”

“If you want to call it that.”

Opening his gray pinstripe knees, he took a swallow of brandy and placed the snifter on a low lacquered table. Usually he wore a regimental necktie, but tonight he sported an absurd little bow tie under his vulpine face. He took her hand, which she withdrew when he began spreading her fingers.

“Behave,” she said, their eyes engaging.

“I was hoping you’d sit on my lap,” he murmured, closing his knees.

“I’m too big a girl for that.”

He retrieved his snifter and stared at the amber light it cast on the silk cuff of his shirt. His wrist was no wider than hers. “You’re not thinking of marrying this fellow of yours, are you?”

“It’s a possibility,” she said.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“I didn’t say it was likely, just a possibility that I might want my life to be more than a yellow legal pad.”

“Ah, but think about it for a minute,” he said, his voice carving a warm place for itself in front of her face. “A small-time lawyer. He’d be out of his element in your life.”

“You’ve never met him.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“You wouldn’t like him.”

“See what I mean?” he said triumphantly.

“That’s too subjective an argument, Chandler, and specious to boot.” She shored up her smile before going on. “What would you do if I did marry him?”

“I wouldn’t do anything. But I’d be very disappointed.”

“You wouldn’t take away my promotion, would you?”

He moistened his lips with brandy. “Certainly not. A deal’s a deal.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You should trust me more.”

“That’s not always easy,” she said.

“But you can handle any situation,” he said, placing his hand on her knee. “You’re a cool customer. It’s what I’ve always admired about you.”

His hand, as if it could shape her future more than it already had, moved with force into her skirts. She stood up. “It’s getting late, Chandler.”

“Yes, I know.” He raised up the empty snifter. “Another one, please.”

“That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He rose slowly, his eyes stretching over her. “When I drink too much, I can’t get it up. That would suit you, no?”

She took the glass. “I’ll get you another.”

When she returned, she saw that he had slipped off his jacket and shoes and was padding about on his black-stockinged feet, inspecting potted plants, pictures on the wall, though every item in the room was familiar to him. The Japanese vase that adorned a corner was a gift from him.

“Don’t settle in,” she said. The fresh brandy she gave him was a small one. Though at the moment his smile was merely mischievous, she had on occasion watched him drink himself into a condition of ugliness.

He pointed. “The vase would look much better somewhere near the windows.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed. “My mistake.”

“You don’t make many.” His eyes went cruel only for a second. The he gazed through a wide window at the pulsing red signals of a jetliner sailing into Logan. Turning, he said, “Yes, it is late. Would you mind terribly if I stayed the night? On the sofa, of course.”

“Your wife,” she reminded him.

“Darling, she’s at the Cape.”

Kit tipped her head. “She has a nice life.”

“She adores it,” he said, sipping. “And I adore mine. I also adore you.”

He stepped toward her, but she kept him at bay, his drink between them. Without his shoes, he was shorter than she, which was the reason he immediately went up on his toes. Standing that way, his pointed jaw raised, his feminine hands clutching the snifter, he looked like a small public monument.

“May I tell you a secret?” he asked. “It may embarrass you.”

“Perhaps I’d better not take the chance.”

“When I pleasure myself, it’s always with you in my mind.”

“That’s nice to know,” she said.

“You mean it?”

“Yes. I’m flattered.”

“May I stay?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to stain my sofa.”

After he tossed off the last of his brandy, she prodded him back into his jacket and placed his shoes at his slender feet, which were as shapely as a ballet dancer’s, the toes straining the silk of his hose. He wanted help putting on his shoes, and to speed him along she obliged. While she tied the laces, he stroked her hair. “I deserve more than this,” he said with an edge, but before he could act she was on her feet, maneuvering him along. At the door, he said, “What if I were not who I am? What if I’d had a different grandfather? Would you have ever looked at me?”

She leaned toward him, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Never put that question to your wife, Chandler.” Then she eased him out the door.

• • •

The night turned muggy in the small hours, and the dawn broke watery and shimmered with impending heat. Emma Goss slept badly, rose from clammy sheets, and peeked into the front room, where Henry Witlo lay without covers on the couch, sleeping with his mouth open as if dead. She withdrew, hoping he would sleep late, but he began banging about while she was in the bathroom and was waiting to get in when she came out. He said, “It’s going to be a hot one, Mrs. Goss. I heard it on the TV.” She tried to edge by him, but he stayed firm. “I slept pretty good last night … and I didn’t bother you, did I?”

She said, “Go brush your teeth.”

She made coffee, enough for both of them, and carried her cup outside to the back lawn, where she settled in an aluminum chair, disturbing a finch in the birdbath. The morning had a sparkle unlike that of any other morning of the year, the scent of green at its freshest, its burning best. Her eye lit on flares of scarlet lilies, simmering balls of matricaria, flashes of butter daisies, all planted by Harold in his prime, some now struggling with weeds. Bending forward, she pulled a few. Henry called from the window, but she did not reply. Over in the Whipples’ yard a mother robin noisily fought back a squirrel that had trespassed too near her nest. Henry came out favoring an arm.

“I’m going for groceries,” he said. He had slicked back his long yellow hair but had not shaved. “You want anything special?”

“No,” she said.

He rattled the keys to the Plymouth. “I thought I might get some strawberries so we can have a shortcake.”

“Not for me,” she said.

“How about something cold to drink? What do you like best?”

“Anything,” she said.

He shuffled off in Harold’s loafers, which had been resoled once and reheeled twice. Emma plucked a few more weeds before sitting back with her coffee to watch the Plymouth roll out of the garage. “He’s driving your car, your baby,” she said to Harold as if he were not dead but just offstage and not quite ready to speak his lines. “He’s not doing it with my permission, so it must be with yours,” she said, feeling the growing heat. When a muggy breeze licked over her, she drew her dress above her knees and examined her legs under a critical eye. They were not at all bad-looking. She should never have been ashamed of them. “All of those ocean vacations, I never wore a bathing suit,” she said. “You shouldn’t have let me be such a fool, Harold. But it pleased you that I was, made you feel safer.”

The sun gushed golden through the young trees in the Whipples’ yard and gilded the bordering shrubbery. Mrs. Whipple appeared on the back step in a sleeveless jersey and bright shorts. Stretching her neck, she gazed over at Emma, who pretended not to see her, a fruitless ploy.

“You won’t be sitting there long, Mrs. Goss. The weatherman says nineties.”

Emma did not lower her dress. She was not ashamed. With little difficulty, she visualized herself taking a place on the beach in a one-piece bathing suit.

“How’s that nephew of yours?” Mrs. Whipple called out.

“He’s gone grocery shopping,” Emma said.

“You’re a lucky woman, Mrs. Goss. I wish I had a nephew like that.”

Speaking into the sunshine in a low voice, Emma said, “Did you hear her, Harold? I’m a lucky woman.”

When the heat threatened to clamp her down, she dumped out the remains of her coffee and shifted the chair into the shade, from which she watched a monarch bouncing between the golden clusters of daisies. She closed her eyes and dozed off as the heat sneaked up on her. She woke when she heard the Plymouth rumble into the garage. Carrying one bag at a time in his good arm, he made several trips through the breezeway into the kitchen. On his last trip, he smiled out at her. She smiled back bitterly and murmured, “You’re in cahoots with him, aren’t you, Harold?”

Resettling herself, she again shut her eyes. Despite Henry’s banging about in the kitchen, all his noisy movements audible through the screen of the window, she drifted back to sleep. She slept through the revving of a motorcycle across the street, the honking of a taxi a few houses away, and the insistent bell of a Good Humor truck. She stirred when the shade she was in vanished and the sun threatened to cook her. Henry hovered over her.

“You ought to come in,” he said.

She needed help from his good hand to get up. Her hair curled against the wet of her brow, her dress clung. “I’m all right,” she said, and after a few seconds she was.

“Cool in the house,” he said, and she followed him in. He had put away the groceries, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned the kitchen, which smelled of Lestoil and ammonia. He smiled proudly. “Looks nice, huh? I’m going to clean one room at a time so the house will be like it used to. It was looking like a pigpen, Mrs. Goss. Half my fault, maybe more.”

“Yes,” she said, “maybe more.”

He was staring at her. “You’ve still got those circles,” he said suddenly, “but, I’m not kidding, you look younger every day.” He sprang back for a better perspective. All her underwear was in the wash, and she was wearing nothing under her dress, which was still adhering to her damp skin. “My God, you’re beautiful.”

She said, not to him, “I could have been.”

He was on her heels when she went into the bathroom to freshen up. He forced her to the mirror and rammed his hip against hers. “You don’t believe me, look at us! You’re getting younger, I’m getting older. Not fair, Mrs. Goss, but that’s the way it is. In the supermarket I felt like a bum, people gawking at me.” He stripped off his T-shirt, loosened the top of his jeans to relieve pressure, and snatched up an aerosol can missing its cap. “Shave me,” he said, foaming his face.

The razor was Harold’s, the blade double-edged, the last in the packet. She ran it under hot water and seemed resigned to the job until Henry planked himself down on the closed toilet seat and lifted his face, hanging it out sacrificially. “Come on,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”

She made a razor road into the foam, taking away some of his hairline and more of it when he touched her knee. When his hand ventured higher, she cut him. Blood stained the foam like strawberries in cream. When he began raising her dress inches at a time, she cut him again. And again. He never flinched. “You can’t hurt me, Mrs. Goss. Women have tried, but they can’t do it.” He caressed a sprawl of bared flesh. “And never fight a man who’s got nothing to lose,” he said, and drew her over his lap.

• • •

Barney Cole, planning to leave the office early, still had a couple of phone calls to make. The first was to the Andover Inn, a dinner reservation for two. The second was to a woman who had brought an indecent assault charge against her boss for goosing her as she was serving him coffee, which she had promptly thrown in his face. He had filed a countersuit. Cole said, “He wants to settle.”

“How much?”

“I got him up to five thousand,” Cole said, and she laughed. “Do you want money or revenge?” he asked.

“I want both,” she said with steel in her voice. “Tell him to double it.”

Cole smiled. “I thought that’s what you’d say. He’s thinking about it.”

When he hung up, Marge came in with an overdue bill to a client. “Should I just resubmit it,” Marge asked, “or give her a call?”

Cole looked at it. “This isn’t like her,” he said. “Let me call her. I’ll try to be subtle so she won’t die of embarrassment.”