Guilt By Degrees

43

It was early evening by the time we finished with Rick. I hadn’t wanted to leave his charming aerie, but we’d run out of questions. Bailey navigated through the narrow streets of the trailer park and pulled onto Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward town. The highway ran parallel to the ocean, and I stared out the window, mesmerized by the vast expanse of gently undulating water that stretched to the horizon under the gray, cloud-filled sky.

“Hungry?” I asked. I didn’t have the energy to return to work, and I wasn’t keen to get back to my room, where I’d have too much time to think about Graden.

“Funny you should mention it,” Bailey said. “How about Guido’s?”

In our last murder case, the body of the rapist/suspect had been found in his car, impaled on a tree branch, at the bottom of a ravine in nearby Malibu Canyon. One of the crime scene techs had told us about the warm, familial Italian restaurant that was just minutes away, on the land side of Pacific Coast Highway, but we hadn’t had a chance to get there at the time.

“Perfect.”

Five minutes later, Bailey pulled into the parking lot. Strings of white lights hung from windows facing the small inlet of water next to the restaurant, giving it a festive holiday feel. At six o’clock the dining room wasn’t yet busy, but the small, intimate bar near the entrance was packed with regulars, some talking, some watching the basketball game on the television that hung from the ceiling. The atmosphere was relaxed and convivial, and the manager greeted us like we were his favorite cousins.

He guided us to a booth that overlooked the small inlet. A waiter, who introduced himself as Aris and talked as though we used to get stoned together in high school, brought us water, bread, and a plate of olive oil, and left us menus. I watched a family of ducks paddle serenely across the water as twilight gave way to the silvery luminescence of moonlit clouds. Beautiful.

A busboy carrying a pitcher of water stopped by the table. “Want me to top you off? Or you afraid you’ll rust?” he asked, chuckling at his own joke.

“Thanks, we’re good,” Bailey said.

I smiled as I watched him move down the aisle to another table. “What is up with the staff here? I don’t know whether to invite them to the next family reunion or ask to borrow money.”

Aris came back, and I ordered an arugula salad and grilled tilapia. Bailey chose the grilled salmon and vegetables. We ordered a bruschetta appetizer and a glass of Pinot Noir for each of us, figuring we’d be here long enough to burn through the alcohol. The second glass would determine who was driving back.

“So,” Bailey said after the waiter had brought our wine, “how’re you doing?”

Exactly the question I wanted to neither contemplate nor answer. “Okay,” I said, taking a sip of wine. I savored the rich, peppery flavor and hoped that’d end the topic.

“I don’t know what exactly happened between you and Graden, and I’m not saying it’s any of my business.”

“Here comes the but,” I said, leaning back in the booth.

“Yeah, here it comes,” Bailey agreed. “But your welfare is my business. That means I’m supposed to at least say something when I think you’re making a big mistake. This breakup is a mistake. You are not yourself, girlfriend.” Bailey paused and looked at me meaningfully. “And, just for the record, neither is Graden.”

I wanted to say I didn’t care what Graden was, but I knew Bailey would catch the lie. I said nothing.

“You two were really good together and good for each other. You owe it to yourselves to make sure there’s no way to work it out-”

“Please believe me, Bailey,” I said, my voice brittle even to my ears. “There isn’t.”

“Rachel, a man can screw up once, learn from his mistake, and never do it again. I know you don’t believe that right now, but do me a favor-give yourself a date to think about it again, say, a week from now,” Bailey suggested. “Can you at least promise me that?”

“Will you drop it then?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I promise.” I picked up the bread basket, took a piece, and offered the basket to her.

Bailey accepted and we both dipped our bread in the olive oil.

“Do we have appointments with anyone tomorrow?” I said, liberally salting the plate.

“Thanks for the side of hypertension,” she said, grabbing the saltshaker from me. “I’ve got us set up to see the hiring partner at the law firm.”

“We’ll hit the younger associates on the fly?”

Bailey nodded. “And the secretaries.”

She took another piece of bread and swiped it around the plate of salty olive oil, then popped it into her mouth and chewed with relish.

Bailey thought a moment, then reached across the table for the saltshaker. “Needs more.”