Little Did I Know: A Novel (8 page)

Left of the bar was a shiny, black baby grand. A tuxedoed musician whose tip jar held perhaps fifteen singles and at least one fin played it with great earnestness yet modest talent. He was in the middle of a medley of Carpenters tunes, and on the dance floor dozens of fortyish couples made their way randomly about. The room was in full flight, with more than three hundred people in a space built to handle two hundred and fifty.

To my delighted surprise, seated at the bar was Veronica. She was talking animatedly with a girlfriend who, if not for Veronica’s presence, would have been the most beautiful girl in the room. I approached the bar and ordered a bottle of beer, feigning indifference to her presence. We were just inches away from each other but neither made an effort to close the gap. I picked out a choice barstool, asked for a guy named Sidney, and waited to see what would happen.

Veronica was wearing blue eye shadow with a hint of glitter that magnified the natural color of her eyes. Her cheeks had a touch of blush, and she wore her thick, blond hair down and tasseled so the overall affect was one of “do me,” or “how do I look having just been done?” Her long, tan legs were bare, satin smooth, and perfect. She wore a faded denim miniskirt and a white tank top that dramatized the curves of her waist and breasts. She was braless, and her nipples poked through like the erasers on a Ticonderoga number 2 pencil. She carried a classic western denim jacket over her right arm and a big canvas bag on her left shoulder. Black ostrich cowboy boots went to her midcalf and must have added two inches to her long, lithe frame. Again she smelled of strawberries, and her lips were glossed with a tint of red. I found it difficult not to look at her nipples.

I took a moment to collect myself then, because I couldn’t stand the suspense, said in a voice that didn’t sound like mine, “Veronica at the White Cliffs. Funny how I found my way here only to find you. It does seem strange that you passed on my invite but ended up in the same place as if you had agreed to join me.”

“Coincidences do happen, you know. This is a small town and there aren’t a great many options to occupy a rainy night.”

I took a long pull on my beer and reveled in the irony.

“This is my friend Kellie,” she said. “We go out together often to keep each other out of trouble.”

Kellie wore a pink halter top and low-hung, tight, new blue jeans. Her red hair was the color of an Irish setter’s, and it framed her face perfectly. She had soft, slightly freckled porcelain skin and bright-green cat’s eyes. She wore a touch of lipstick and no jewelry other than a charm bracelet on her right wrist.

She offered her hand and said, “So this is Sam August, Veronica’s newest topic of constant conversation. Six foot four’s worth of temptation, trouble in extra large.” Then she added coyly, “It is so nice to meet you. I wish we had more time to get acquainted, but it’s almost eight and I suddenly remember that I have an early appointment in the morning. A girl has to get her beauty rest.” She stood up from her bar perch and patted the seat, making sure I would sit down.

I stared at Veronica for a long time. Inside I was smiling all the way to my toes. Maybe the “charm riff” had opened the door. She stared right back as though we were in a contest to see who might blink first.

“So, Ms. Chapman,” I began, “other than being—how can I say this nicely?—a mindfucker, what else would you be willing to share now that we’re here by ‘coincidence?’”

Veronica tapped the bar top and in a whispered shout to the bartender said, “Sidney, two tequilas, and back ’em with a beer.” Then she added with a flourish and a beaming, happy grin, “Make it snappy, my good man!”

Sidney bowed slightly, offered a knowing grin, and set about preparing our drinks.

“Isn’t this place fabulous?” she said turning to me. “Don’t you feel like you’re in a fairy tale and you must get home by midnight before the coach turns into a pumpkin?”

Sidney brought the drinks and kissed Veronica on the cheek. Introductions were made. He was sixty, if not older, with a pleasant, round face and bushy gray hair that circled his bald pate. He had obviously spent years in the sun and his spotted, deeply creased face showed the damage of the elements. Tall and fit, he carried himself like a former athlete. He had an easy smile and a firm handshake. We sized each other up and then Sidney said, “Good to meet you, kid. College boy, huh? You be nice to my girl here or there’ll be hell to pay.”

He took Veronica’s hand in his and looked at her with great fatherly affection. “If you need anything else, honey, just let me know.” Then he pointed at me with intensity in his eyes and returned to his business.

Veronica picked up her shot glass and suggested we toast.
Clink.

“Who’s driving us home?” I asked.

She paused while raising her glass and said, “As of yet there
is
no ‘us,’ and this one drink is where it ends between you and me. Sidney can call you a taxi if need be. She tilted her head slightly and gave me a breathless look that melted my heart. “Are you going to drink with me or not, big boy?”

With the question hanging in the air, we began to drink very slowly, our eyes never leaving one another’s. I was glad I had not bedded Lizzy Barrows that morning in what now seemed a long, long time ago.

I paused, then lifted my beer glass to toast Veronica. We clinked again and drank. I could feel the heat rising from my feet all the way up to my soul.

A
nd so the evening had begun. We sat at the crowded bar amid a sea of humanity noticing nothing but each other. It was as if there was a spotlight shining, one that muted the cacophony surrounding two individuals who were quickly becoming an “us.”

Veronica had been born and raised in Plymouth, the youngest of three children and the only girl. Her dad was a fisherman, as was her grandfather. One of Veronica’s brothers worked with her father and the other was serving time in the state pen for a bar fight that had gone horribly wrong. Veronica’s mother was a supervisor for a cleaning service that worked the hotels and estates throughout the area. No one in her family had gone to college nor had ever lived more than ten miles from where they were born. She described herself as a people watcher, having observed tourists come and go her entire life. Once she got her degree, she intended to hang up her psychiatrist’s shingle in some urban haven like Boston, New York, or San Francisco. She had been working part-time jobs since she was eleven, and she’d saved wisely.

She didn’t loathe Plymouth; she just knew too many friends who had grown angry and frustrated by their flatlined service jobs, leading them nowhere but the bottle, divorce, and one wasted life after another. She described the town as akin to a nightclub, all glitter and gold in the evening, but depressing and sordid in the morning with nothing but stale smoke, sweat, and rancid beer.

Patrons paraded across the dance floor as the piano man played dozens of tunes. The only lyric I heard was “I only have eyes for you.” It could have been minutes or hours or an entire day that had passed when she leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “You know, you are really sweet. Who taught you that to listen is to get lucky?”

“You don’t learn much about people from hearing yourself talk,” I replied.

“That was amazing,” she said, pulling back a bit. “It seemed eerily practiced, well rehearsed, almost frightening.”

“No, Veronica, it is all as real as rain.”

We were silent for a beat. Then another. It felt as though there was nothing we could say to match the moment. The piano man was on a break. The place had become quiet, and the wind had picked up, as had the rain. The drops were percussive against the windows, and I could see their distorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had come to talk with Marty Stanhope, for discovery. Yet I had found a different kind in the deep-blue sensual eyes of this special girl.

Sidney walked over and placed a platter of shrimp in front of us. They were huge, the size of softballs, garnished with lemon wedges, horseradish, Tabasco, and little red plastic toothpicks with the initials WC emblazoned in white. He stared at me, then without looking at Veronica asked with a wink, “So, sweetheart, ya like this guy? Ya havin’ fun?”

She measured me with her eyes, took a long pause and said, “He’ll do for now. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Sidney’s gaze stayed on me. “So what are you doing here in Plymouth?”

“Working. Research,” I replied.

“What are you researching?”

“I’m trying to rent the Priscilla Beach Theatre and put on some shows this summer.”

His brow furrowed. “You talking with Barrows?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be careful. The old man is a fuckin’ bastard and the woman is a black widow.” I nodded warily.

Sidney continued. “What kind a shows do you want to put on? Musicals?” I nodded.

“You a queer?”

“Not the last I checked.”

Veronica jumped in. “No, Sidney, he’s not. I can assure you he most definitely is not.”

“How you so sure, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Woman’s intuition. Nothing more.”

Sidney fixed me with his gaze again. “You got any references? Anyone vouch for ya?”

“My mother would say nice things. I dated a lot in college, broke a few hearts. Does that count?”

“Remember what I told ya, kid. Be nice to my girl or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Not to worry, Sid. Being nice to Veronica is a privilege. I’m just fortunate she has the time for me.”

His severe look turned to mirth and then a belly laugh. “I’m just fuckin with yous kid, that’s all. Veronica told me she was coming in tonight and I got permission to treat you right if I liked you. And I do. So does my girl here.” He placed a wine bucket on the bar with two crystal flutes and poured us each a glass from a bottle that read
Dom Pérignon Vintage 1968.

“A millionaire’s milkshake,” he said. “Have fun, kids.” Then he walked the length of the bar and drew a pint for one of the other customers.

Veronica and I giggled and drank, and I realized that for a guy who didn’t like champagne I was getting pretty darned used to it. The piano man began to play “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Veronica took my hand and led me to the parquet floor where we danced cheek to cheek. The piano man picked up the tempo and we were soon moving to a faster beat. I thought it apropos that we could both rock and roll all over the dance floor but also, more important, dance close without stepping on each other’s toes. The music slowed down again. I whispered in Veronica’s ear, “Who the hell is Sidney?”

Our slow dancing soon deteriorated into nothing more than grinding up against each another. I was aroused and desired Veronica more than ever, but I was afraid that Sidney might jump the bar to wallop me. Considering the size of my boner, no one would have blamed him. I took my sweatshirt off and tied it around my waist.

“Clever,” Veronica said. “Let’s eat. Our table’s ready.”

We were seated at a table next to the window. The shrimp crunched a bit when you took a first bite. After this came huge cherrystone clams covered in stinging horseradish and dabs of Tabasco sauce, and lobster meat pulled from the shell and bathed in butter. Dessert was cherry pie with a cream cheese crust topped with gobs of whipped cream. Delicious foreplay.

The rain came harder now, drumming angrily against the pane. The night was still black as ink, and all one could see were the phosphorescent whitecaps dancing above the swirling invisible sea.

Veronica poured us both a glass of Napa Valley white, the Dom Pérignon long gone. I realized the piano man had gone home and Sidney was offering last call to the remaining stragglers, who had already had enough. I reached for her hand and she allowed me to take it. Without words, we both knew it was time to go.

O
utside, it was pouring. There was a strong, cold wind off the ocean that turned the stinging raindrops horizontal. “Willie” was nowhere to be found; he had left my car alone in the empty lot with the windows wide open. It was flooded, clearly going nowhere for a while, and despite the cold, brisk wind I was in no position to drive. I didn’t trust that Veronica was capable either.

“My car is fucked,” I said as I rolled up the windows, “and you’re tipsy. I think we should go inside and call a cab.”

“I don’t think so,” she shouted. Then she sprinted toward the woods, her boots splashing through the shiny puddles and her clothes drenched and clinging within seconds. “Come on, you chicken. Get wet.” I watched Veronica for all of a heartbeat and then raced to catch up with her. My gut told me there were still some surprises ahead as Monday night had turned to Tuesday morning.

Veronica had disappeared into the woods. I was hoping she’d left a trail like Hansel and Gretel, but unfortunately there was nothing. She was just gone. Was that her surprise—leaving me freezing and stranded in the pelting rain with a disappointed libido? I began to inch my way into the harrowing forest. The wind whistled and the trees seemed to come alive with palpable menace. I squinted in the dark and saw a sliver of light coming from the open door of a barely visible house. I moved ahead faster until I could see that the house was ablaze with light. I ran to the door and found Veronica’s soaked denim jacket on the floor. I picked it up and warily pushed myself quietly inside.