Heather(56)
“Why the padlocks?”
“Someone kept stealing my tools.”
“You report that?”
“Wasn’t worth the hassle. Didn’t want to waste the time of those good men in blue.”
Callie scoffs. “You know as well as I do that those good men waste their own time. But you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t give you one more mystery to sleuth out.”
Callie feels a rush of anger. She gets what he’s implying. Girl detective, playing games. And that she’s not good at what she does.
“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see if Damien wants to help out a little over here. I might have some work for him once we get Christmas trees in.”
Callie watches him retreat around the back of the shop building. When she’s sure he’s gone she steps up on the running board of his truck and looks into the cab. She knows he would be smarter than to keep anything out in the open, but she can’t resist. The truck is clean, save for a takeout coffee cup, the rim marked with red lipstick.
* * *
This time, she’s meeting Adrian at his house on the Mullica River. On her way out the door she kicks over the pile of unread copies of the Pine Barrens Gazette that the newspaper carrier now leaves to the left of her doormat since she axed the mailbox. She swears, pushes them back into an unsteady heap. It’s been a week since she installed the cameras and so far nothing on them but footage of deer tiptoeing across the driveway.
She’s not over this way much, by the river, and she’s struck by how open it feels, the horizon all water, the Atlantic in the distance. She pulls up to his house, an 1800s cedar shingle with a big wraparound porch. As she approaches the door she studies the porch furniture, red chairs covered in navy-striped cushions, and tries to decide whether she thinks they were picked out by a woman. Yes, she thinks, and then she tries to guess how old they are. They look pretty new to her.
Adrian opens the door before she has a chance to knock. He stands back so she can come in, kisses her on the cheek, lets a hand linger on her hip. Stay there, she thinks. He pulls away with a smile, like he’s read her mind.
Inside there are wide plank-wood floors, a fireplace in the living room with a framed map over the mantel.
“It’s a survey of this area dating back to 1899.”
“You really are a dork for waterways,” she says, but leans in closer to take a look. “It’s cool.” She recognizes Atsion Lake, finds the creek behind the bait shop where Sabrina worked, the little cedar lake where her cabin sits. “What are those dots that are darker than the others?”
“Sinkholes. You ever been out to Blue Hole?”
“A few times. Was smart enough to keep my distance.” Looking at the map, it makes sense: The Pines is riddled with sinkholes, Blue Hole the most notorious. Seventy to eighty feet deep. A kid drowns every other year up there, drunk or high or just doing something dumb on a dare.
He flashes her a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to the rivers. You need anything before we go? I’ve got a few beers and packed some sandwiches. Marinated beets, avocado, hummus, Irish cheddar, toasted the bread so it won’t get soggy.”
“That sounds perfect.” She’s charmed by the extent of his planning. She never ate around any of the men she used to hook up with back up North. Fellow detectives always meeting up at odd hours, having a quickie. It seems like an essential thing to know about a person, how they eat, what comforts and sates them.
As they make their way to the dock she tells him she likes his porch furniture. Can’t help herself. If she’s walking into what had recently been another woman’s home, another woman’s relationship, she needs to know about it, needs to get her disappointment out of the way.
“Oh yeah?”
“Who picked it out for you?”
“Oh come on, you don’t think I have good taste?” He hands her a lifejacket. “My sister helped with a few things when I moved in.”
“Ah.” She unclenches a little.
“You’d like her. She’s an ER nurse in Philadelphia. Sort of has the same no bullshit vibes as you. I would have been fine sitting on my ten-year-old camp chairs, but she told me to be a grownup and buy some real stuff once I had a mortgage.”
“Well I’m not really one to judge. I live in a one-bedroom cabin meant for seasonal visitors.”
“How’s the insulation? You get cold there during winter?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to know. I guess I’ll find out.” She doesn’t want to admit that she’s been wearing two pairs of socks and a jacket inside and technically it’s not even winter yet.
“I’ve got two fireplaces. Just saying.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He turns toward the boats and she finds herself blushing, and bubbling with panic on the inside. She’s not good at this. It feels overwhelming, how direct he is, how he wants to lay claim, and part of her wants to turn and run but she talks herself down. This is what people do, she reminds herself. They make room. They stay.
* * *
They paddle out toward the place where the river meets the ocean. They don’t talk much, but the silence is easy, just the two of them and the rhythm of their paddles. He points out where an eagle made its nest last spring, where in the summer, orchids bloom along an unassuming bank. She watches his smooth, assured movements with the paddle, lets her eyes travel upward, thinks about what it would be like to press her mouth to the skin at the back of his neck.