Killer Summer

20

As Walt pulled up to the picket fence that fronted his house, a house he wasn’t sure he’d live in much longer, because of the divorce, he flashed the Cherokee’s brights, flooding the porch and signaling his guest.

Fiona Kenshaw waved at him from the Smith & Hawken bench by the front door. He’d given Gail the bench on their tenth anniversary. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever sat in it before. It was more a monument to his picking the wrong gift. Gail had gushed over it, unwrapped it on the porch, and had left it there, never to look at it again.

“Hey there,” he said, climbing the steps.

“Hey there yourself,” she said playfully, in a voice he didn’t recognize.

She looked beautiful despite the glow of the yellow bug light overhead. He tried to think of her only as a professional-a part-time crime-scene photographer, an associate-but failed miserably.

Seeing her with Hillabrand had caused him a moment of unease. He hadn’t processed it at the time but recalled it now, feeling squeamish. There had been a time, not long ago, when he’d have felt awkward having a woman other than his wife on his front porch. But it was just the opposite: he wanted to wake up the nosey Mrs. Mer imer, and all his neighbors, and show them he’d picked himself up. Like Gail, he too could move on.

“This is a surprise,” Walt said.

Fiona patted the bench beside her.

“Would you like to come in?” he asked. He pulled open the screen door and held it with his foot.

“No. It’s a gorgeous night.” She patted the bench again.

Walt sat down beside her. She smelled like lilacs, or maybe the bench was scratch-and-sniff.

Her hands-they were rough from all her hours in rivers as a fishing guide-twisted in her lap. He’d never known Fiona to be the nervous type. Single-minded, independent, socially cautious, to be sure. But agitated and uncomfortable?

“How was the dinner?” he asked. “I’m assuming you did one of the private dinners.”

“Surreal,” she said. “Six courses. Too much wine. Way too much.”

Then he saw it: she was drunk. “Did you drive yourself?”

She put her arms out. “Cuff me.” But her eyes sparkled, and he felt tempted to kiss her wet lips.

“I’m driving you home,” he said.

“Party pooper,” she said. “Do you know what the Brits used to call spirits? Maybe still do, for all I know.”

“I’ve never been good at trivia,” Walt said. “Unless the chosen topic is forensics, dogs, or wildlife.”

“Courage,” she answered.

“Okay,” he said. He clawed at the knees of his pants, suddenly extremely uncomfortable.

“So I’m just going to say this whether you want to hear it or not, because I may never be like this around you again. Feeling my courage, that is. Carpe diem, and all that.”

“And all that,” he echoed.

Then she said nothing. His throat had constricted to the width of a cocktail straw. He was afraid to try to talk for fear he’d merely squeak.

“You listen, but do you hear?” She turned her head to face him, and he felt a jolt.

“I definitely hear,” he said. “I promise, I’ll hear whatever you have to say.”

“You were jealous tonight,” she said.

“Guilty.” Gail had complained he was never honest with her. He had vowed to not repeat that mistake. “I’m not exactly sure why.”

“It’s because we both feel this thing between us. You know that’s true. I feel it too, Walt. I’d love to go on pretending I don’t, because I don’t want to feel it, acknowledge it, but I do. And so do you, whether you’ll ever admit it or not, because I saw it on your face tonight at the tasting. It made the whole rest of my night a lie because it was all that I could think about. You… were all that I could think about, which was hardly fair to Roger.”

“You looked like you were having a good enough time.”

“You’re a better judge than that. I have no idea what Roger must have thought. But the point is… Well, that is the point, isn’t it? I don’t know what the point is, and there’s something sad about it taking way too many glasses of the best wine to convince me to say something about it. Especially when I don’t know what exactly it is I’m trying to say.”

Walt looked away from her, out to the empty street and the porch light on Mrs. Merimer’s cottage. He had a resuscitation kit in the back of the Cherokee. He wondered if she’d know how to use it on him. He felt as if he was going to blow a valve.

“You are going to say something, right?” Her voice sounded terrified.

He nodded, hoping that might do until his pulse leveled off.

“Say something, Walt.” She sounded dangerously close to being angry.

“I’m trying,” he managed to choke out.

“Don’t leave me hanging here. I don’t think I can take it. Tell me I didn’t just make a complete ass out of myself. Oh my God,” she said, leaning over with her head between her legs.

He tentatively reached out and rubbed her back. She was hot and damp.

She rushed forward then, grabbed the rail, and threw up into the lilacs.

He hurried to her and again placed his hand on her back.

“Okay?” he said.

“Do I look like I’m okay?” Fiona sounded as if she was crying. “Could I bother you for a paper towel?”

He hurried inside, composing what to say in order to rescue the moment. He did feel the same as she but hadn’t known it until she’d confronted him. He wasn’t sure he knew how to explain himself. Gail. Brandon. His two girls. The house.

He heard a car engine start.

He ran to the porch, the damp paper towel in hand.

Taillights.

A swarm of bugs were circling the porch’s yellow light, a light that was supposed to repel them. A dog barked a block away. A drip of the water fell from the paper towel striking the toe of his boot. A feeling of remorse overcame him, of loss, of missed opportunity. More water hit his boot, and he caught himself having squeezed the paper towel in his fist.

He turned and headed inside, straight to the phone.

The scent of lilacs was gone.