altogether.”
Carver said, “Different answers, too.” Wondering what was this hard-ass bureaucrat doing threatening him. But then, some DEA agents were like that. The last one he’d met had been a closet fanatic bent on revenge for a long-ago lynching.
Strait stared at him as if doing some reassessment. He pulled a long black wallet out of an inside pocket, withdrew a card, and laid it on Carver’s desk. “Gomez contacts you again, call that number and let me know immediately.”
Carver didn’t say he wouldn’t, didn’t say he would.
Didn’t even say good-bye when Strait walked from the office.
10
A FTER STRAIT HAD LEFT the office, Carver talked by phone to a Del Moray woman who wanted him to follow her husband to confirm adultery with her teenage sister. She told him she’d be in to see him and make arrangements, but he wasn’t sure if she’d show. There was no telling where an investigation might lead, and who’d be hurt by spilled acid. So that kind of thing usually stayed within a family. Sometimes everything worked out, sometimes it festered and the poison spread.
Carver spent most of the day dunning people who owed him money, the only paperwork he enjoyed.
The hours slipped past and the woman who suspected her husband and sister of having an affair didn’t come into the office. Carver skipped lunch and ate supper alone in Del Moray, and considered driving by Edwina’s to see if she was home. Then he decided against it. He lowered the Olds’s canvas top and drove north along the coast toward his beach cottage, while the sea went from blue to dark green as the sun arced like a slow-motion meteor toward land.
She was waiting inside the cottage, sitting on the small sofa with her legs crossed, wearing a flowered, silky white blouse and white shorts that showed off her tanned thighs. Seeing her there made Carver ache when he thought of losing her. The dependency he’d feared had become fact.
When he leaned on his cane and closed the door behind him, she said, “I thought we oughta talk.”
Carver limped over behind the breakfast counter and opened the refrigerator. He got out a Budweiser and popped the tab, spilling some of the cold, fizzy beer to form a small puddle on the wood floor. Bracing with the cane, he spread the dampness around with the sole of his shoe. He came out from behind the counter and said, “Well, we didn’t do much talking last night.”
She smiled, remembering. The sun was in the final, rapid stages of setting, softening the light in the cottage and taking ten years off her. Then her face set in hard lines. “I had a conversation with Lester today.”
Jack Lester was the real-estate developer who was building the huge condo project in Hawaii and wanted Edwina as marketing director. Carver could imagine what the conversation had been about. He was right.
“I have to let him know within a week whether I’ll take the job.”
“Pressure,” Carver said.
“Lester’s under pressure himself.”
Carver didn’t care about Lester. He took a pull of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A gull screamed outside, wheeling in the darkening sky. He said, “You want the job.” Not a question.
“Yes,” she said.
He stood for a while, leaning on his cane and listening to the ocean whisper ancient secrets. “Gonna take it?”
“I don’t know.”
He thought she did know.
“Think I should take it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” But he did know. Jesus, how did they get into this?
He walked to the wide window and gazed out at the timeless ocean undulating with an orange tint from the sunset behind the cottage. The horizon seemed higher than where he was standing; the sea was overwhelming.
“Fred?”
He turned around to face her. She’d uncrossed her long tan legs and had her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. He said, “You think love’s always a trap?”
She gave him a brief, hopeless smile. “Maybe that’s the nature of
Carver said, “Different answers, too.” Wondering what was this hard-ass bureaucrat doing threatening him. But then, some DEA agents were like that. The last one he’d met had been a closet fanatic bent on revenge for a long-ago lynching.
Strait stared at him as if doing some reassessment. He pulled a long black wallet out of an inside pocket, withdrew a card, and laid it on Carver’s desk. “Gomez contacts you again, call that number and let me know immediately.”
Carver didn’t say he wouldn’t, didn’t say he would.
Didn’t even say good-bye when Strait walked from the office.
10
A FTER STRAIT HAD LEFT the office, Carver talked by phone to a Del Moray woman who wanted him to follow her husband to confirm adultery with her teenage sister. She told him she’d be in to see him and make arrangements, but he wasn’t sure if she’d show. There was no telling where an investigation might lead, and who’d be hurt by spilled acid. So that kind of thing usually stayed within a family. Sometimes everything worked out, sometimes it festered and the poison spread.
Carver spent most of the day dunning people who owed him money, the only paperwork he enjoyed.
The hours slipped past and the woman who suspected her husband and sister of having an affair didn’t come into the office. Carver skipped lunch and ate supper alone in Del Moray, and considered driving by Edwina’s to see if she was home. Then he decided against it. He lowered the Olds’s canvas top and drove north along the coast toward his beach cottage, while the sea went from blue to dark green as the sun arced like a slow-motion meteor toward land.
She was waiting inside the cottage, sitting on the small sofa with her legs crossed, wearing a flowered, silky white blouse and white shorts that showed off her tanned thighs. Seeing her there made Carver ache when he thought of losing her. The dependency he’d feared had become fact.
When he leaned on his cane and closed the door behind him, she said, “I thought we oughta talk.”
Carver limped over behind the breakfast counter and opened the refrigerator. He got out a Budweiser and popped the tab, spilling some of the cold, fizzy beer to form a small puddle on the wood floor. Bracing with the cane, he spread the dampness around with the sole of his shoe. He came out from behind the counter and said, “Well, we didn’t do much talking last night.”
She smiled, remembering. The sun was in the final, rapid stages of setting, softening the light in the cottage and taking ten years off her. Then her face set in hard lines. “I had a conversation with Lester today.”
Jack Lester was the real-estate developer who was building the huge condo project in Hawaii and wanted Edwina as marketing director. Carver could imagine what the conversation had been about. He was right.
“I have to let him know within a week whether I’ll take the job.”
“Pressure,” Carver said.
“Lester’s under pressure himself.”
Carver didn’t care about Lester. He took a pull of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A gull screamed outside, wheeling in the darkening sky. He said, “You want the job.” Not a question.
“Yes,” she said.
He stood for a while, leaning on his cane and listening to the ocean whisper ancient secrets. “Gonna take it?”
“I don’t know.”
He thought she did know.
“Think I should take it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” But he did know. Jesus, how did they get into this?
He walked to the wide window and gazed out at the timeless ocean undulating with an orange tint from the sunset behind the cottage. The horizon seemed higher than where he was standing; the sea was overwhelming.
“Fred?”
He turned around to face her. She’d uncrossed her long tan legs and had her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. He said, “You think love’s always a trap?”
She gave him a brief, hopeless smile. “Maybe that’s the nature of
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