Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (21 page)

“Tomasetti?”

The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.

I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-deco–style bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.

“Tomasetti!” I call out.

No answer.

“Well, shit.” Still lugging the grocery bag, I go down the steps, through the kitchen, and back outside. The doors of the barn and silo are closed, telling me he’s not there. I stroll to the Explorer and look out over the pasture beyond. I’m about to reach through the window and lay on the horn when I spot the pond. It’s a good-size body of water—at least half an acre. A big cottonwood tree demarks the north side. A stand of weeping willows flourish near the shore to the west. I see some type of dock from where I stand and I’m pretty sure the person sitting on that dock is Tomasetti.

Hefting the grocery bag, I start toward the nearest gate, careful to close it behind me in case he inherited cattle with the place, and I follow a dirt two-track to the pond. From fifty feet away, I see Tomasetti slumped in a lawn chair with his feet stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing blue jeans, navy golf shirt, and sneakers—a far cry from his usual custom-made suits and Hermes ties. Next to him, a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red sweats atop a good-size cooler.

I make it to within twenty feet of him before he hears my approach and glances my way. His usual inscrutable expression shifts, and it delights me to see surprise on his face. He’s not an easy man to surprise. Smiling, he rises and faces me. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, contemplating, finding our feet, and the rest of the world falls away. After a moment, I look around and spot the fishing pole lying on the dock, the clear nylon line running into the water.

“Tomasetti, are you
fishing
?” I ask.

He bends and opens the cooler. I’m expecting him to hand me a Killian’s Red. Instead, the cooler is filled with water and three good-size fish, which are swimming around. “I’m catching dinner, actually.”

“Are those largemouth bass?” I ask.

“You know your fish. I’m impressed.”

“My
datt
used to take me fishing when I was a kid.”

“Who knew? I could have used some pointers early on.”

“Looks like you figured things out.”

He replaces the cover and straightens.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night,” I say a little too abruptly.

“You’re here now.” He unfolds a second lawn chair and sets it next to his. “How’s the case coming along?”

“Still looking for the driver.”

“Anything new on those bones?”

That’s when I realize one of the reasons I’m here is to escape the pressures of my job. I know it’s shortsighted; not only does Tomasetti usually offer pretty good insight and advice, but I’m well aware that the weight of both cases will drop back onto my shoulders when I leave. But I don’t want tonight to be about work. I want it to be about us and this short stretch of time between us.

“Let’s not talk about work,” I tell him.

He tilts his head, puzzled, and then shrugs. “We could just sit here and fish.”

I look down at the bag I’m holding. “I brought wine.”

He takes the bag, peeks into it. “You want to go inside?”

From where I’m standing, I can smell the foliage and the water on the breeze. I can hear the buzz of insects and the coo of a mourning dove. “I kind of like it out here, Tomasetti. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” He sets the bag atop the cooler and proceeds to set out the things I bought. Wine. Grapes. The cheese and bread. On the other side of the pond, a family of red-winged blackbirds swoop across the water’s surface and chatter from within the branches of the cottonwood tree.

Kneeling at the cooler, Tomasetti raises his brow at the plastic wine glasses. “You came prepared.”

That couldn’t be farther from the truth; I’m not prepared for any of this. Being here with him is like stepping into deep water when I’ve barely learned to swim. I don’t want to choke, but I desperately want to explore the depths of this man and the relationship we’re building.

He uses the corkscrew to open the bottle. “We’ll just let that breathe.”

“I like your new place,” I tell him.

“A little different from the loft in Cleveland.”

“More wildlife.”

“Or less, depending on your definition of wildlife.”

He’s got paint on his shirt. A smear of white on the front of his jeans. It makes me smile. “I like the new look.”

He grins. “That’s what all the female chiefs of police say.”

“You look happy,” I say. “I like it.”

He’s staring at me, assessing, weighing, as if he knows something’s different about me, too, and he’s trying to figure out what it is. The air between us is charged, and I’m left with the sense that we’re dancing around some white elephant I should see, but can’t. So much of our relationship has taken place during the hardship and stress of whatever case we’re working on. Our pasts are always in the backs of our minds. So much of where we are now is derived from dark times. Being here with him, like this, is new ground that feels crumbly and uncertain beneath my feet.

I suppose I’ve always used my job—our work—as a buffer between us. I’ve used it as an excuse to see him. To spend time with him. Tonight, I can’t fall back on that comfortable old ground, and there’s a part of me that’s terrified he’ll know I’m here because I couldn’t stay away.

“You’re thinking way too hard about something,” he says.

I laugh self-consciously. “I probably am.”

“Well, cut it out.” He shoves the lawn chair toward me. “We need one more bass, Chief. Then we’ll go inside and fry them up.”

“I didn’t see a stove in that kitchen.”

“I’ve got a Coleman and cast-iron skillet in the Tahoe.”

I don’t take the chair. I stand there like an idiot, staring at him, trying to put my thoughts and the things that I’m feeling into some kind of meaningful order.

“Kate…”

Before realizing I’m going to move, I’m crossing the distance between us. I hear my boots scuff against the wood planks. The red-winged blackbirds calling. The next thing I know my body is flush against his. He’s lean and solid and warm against me. Somehow my arms find their way around his neck and then I’m pulling his mouth down to mine.

The force of the kiss sinks into me and goes deep. His lips are firm and moist. I take in the sweetness of his breath. When I open my mouth he’s ready. His tongue intertwines with mine and for a moment I can’t get enough. Vaguely, I’m aware of his essence surrounding me. His hands restless on my back. His breaths in my ear.

The sound of something scraping across the wood surface of the dock draws me from my fugue. I glance down to see his fishing pole clatter across the planks. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.

“I think you’ve got a bite,” I whisper.

“Shit.” Tomasetti lunges away from me, snatches the pole off the dock, and begins to reel. “I think this might be the big one,” he says.

“That’s what all you guys say.”

He casts me a look, but I see the grin in his eyes. For several minutes he pulls back on the pole and reels in the slack. I watch the line skim through the water as the fish on the other end fights.

“Gotta be a bass,” he tells me. “They usually put up a pretty good fight.”

I see a flash of silver beneath the water’s surface, then the fish is out. Tomasetti was right; it’s a bass, probably weighing in at six or seven pounds.

He kneels, grasps the fish in his right hand, and works the barbed hook from its mouth with the other. “I almost hate to eat this guy.”

“Toss him back.” When he frowns at me, I add. “He’ll spawn. Breed more fighters.”

Holding the fish in both hands, he bends close to the water’s surface and lets it go. “We’re going to have to make do with the three I’ve caught, and they’re kind of scrawny.”

“We have grapes and cheese,” I tell him.

“And wine.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns his attention to me. “Where were we?” he asks.

“I think I was in the process of putting my tongue down your throat.”

He leans in to me and kisses me on the mouth. It’s just a peck, a soft brushing of his lips against mine, but it moves me, makes me want more.

I laugh. “So are you going to show me around, or what?”

“How much time do you have?” he murmurs.

“I can’t stay,” I tell him. “A few hours.”

“In that case, let’s go inside and get started.”

*   *   *

It’s odd that after being with Tomasetti I would dream of Mattie. Prior to the hit-and-run, I hadn’t thought of her in any meaningful way in years. Since, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. She was a huge part of my formative years. She taught me many things, about myself, about boys, about the way life worked. Only now, as an adult, do I realize not all of the things I learned were good.

If you were a teenager and living in Painters Mill, the Round Barn Creamery was
the
place to go in the summertime. The owners, a husband and wife team I always fancied as former hippies from the 1970s, boasted fifty-three flavors of ice cream, sherbet, and gelato and ran their business out of a historical German-style round barn that had once been a dairy operation. The real draw, however, was the patio in the rear. Nestled beneath the shade of a massive maple tree, the area was paved with flagstones and dozens of potted tropical plants. An old rococo fountain spurted water that trickled over river rock and made the most amazing sound. A smattering of antique ice-cream tables and chairs were scattered about. Best of all, the owners piped alternative rock through massive walnut speakers, which drew teens by the drove and guaranteed a full house all summer.

My
mamm
and
datt
didn’t know about the music—or the boys—both of which would have ended my new favorite pastime. I made sure they never found out. As long as my chores were finished, they didn’t mind my going with Mattie for ice cream. We’d meet on the dirt road in front of my house and ride our bicycles into town. Friday afternoons at the Round Barn Creamery became part of our summer routine.

When you’re fourteen years old and Amish, being away from the farm with your best friend was the epitome of independence. I drank in that newfound sense of freedom until I was drunk on it and giddy for more. Still, walking into an “English-owned” establishment—even a place as teenager friendly as the Round Barn Creamery—wasn’t easy. I was ever aware that because of the way I dressed, some people would stare as if I were some kind of oddity.

One hot July afternoon, Mattie and I parked our bikes outside the shop. We’d been in such a hurry to get there and pedaled so fast, we arrived drenched with sweat. The bell on the front door jingled merrily when we walked inside. A wash of air-conditioned air sent gooseflesh down my arms as I made my way to the counter. I wanted to order my usual: a chocolate shake with a single dip of coffee ice cream, but we were both short on cash that day so we settled for small iced teas instead and carried them to our favorite table on the patio, where Kurt Cobain belted out a song about teen spirit.

I was so embroiled in the music and this special time with my best friend, I didn’t notice the group that came in behind us. Two boys and two girls. English teenagers about the same age as Mattie and me. The boys wore cut off shorts with T-shirts depicting different rock bands. The girls were pretty. One wore blue jeans with a white tank top. The other wore shorts that displayed long, slender legs. I stole looks at them as they walked onto the patio, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to dress like that. To have jewelry and wear makeup and be surrounded by boys.

“They’re fat cows.” Mattie whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. That was one of the things I loved most about Mattie. Her unapologetic audacity. She was bold and brave and completely unstoppable.

When the group received their ice cream orders—big sundaes stacked high with whipped cream and slivered almonds—they strolled onto the patio. I could tell by the way their eyes swept toward us that they were curious. I wondered if they were tourists, if they’d ever seen an Amish person before. I wondered what that would be like, too.

“We ought to put on a show, give them a reason to stare,” Mattie said, watching them unabashedly.

The group wandered to the table next to ours and sat down. I turned my attention back to my iced tea, hoping they left us alone. Mattie had no such ambitions. She was completely unperturbed by their not-so-covert ogling and the whispers they didn’t bother to conceal.

But I felt the burn of their stares like fire against my skin, and I wanted to kick her under the table. After a few minutes, the two boys sauntered over to us. The first boy had brown hair that was nearly as long as mine. The second was blond with a slightly feminine air. I suspected he might have been confused for a girl if it hadn’t been for the tuft of peach fuzz sticking out of his chin.

Mattie cast me a quick smile and winked. I couldn’t believe she thought they were going to be nice. Even at the tender age of fourteen, I had developed a sixth sense when it came to spotting troublemakers. These two boys had it written all over their too-pretty faces. I sucked hard on my straw, uncomfortable because all of them were watching us expectantly, looking bored and mean and a little too anxious to focus those things on us.

“Do you ladies come here often?” the brown-haired boy asked.

A round of snickers erupted from the girls sitting at the table next to ours. I didn’t look up from my drink. But I was quickly running out of tea. That was a problem because once that happened, I’d have nothing to do.

“We’re regulars,” Mattie said breezily. “Haven’t seen you around, though.”