Or maybe I’m simply looking for trouble. The no-strings kind. Hell, I think I’ve earned it. I’ve been intimate with only one man since Len’s death, a bearded stagehand named Morris who worked on Shred of Doubt. We were postshow drinking buddies for a time, until suddenly we were more. It wasn’t romance. Neither of us was interested in each other that way. He was, quite simply, yet another means to chase away the darkness. I was the same thing for him. I haven’t heard from Morris since I got fired. I doubt I ever will.
Now here’s Boone Conrad—quite an upgrade from Morris and his dad bod.
I gesture to the pair of rocking chairs behind me. “You’re welcome to join me for a drink right now.”
“I’d love to,” Boone says. “Unfortunately, I don’t think my sponsor would be too happy about that.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks past my spleen. “You’re—”
Boone interrupts me with a solemn nod. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been sober?”
“A year.”
“Good for you,” I manage. I feel like a horrible person for asking an alcoholic if he’d like a drink, even though there’s no way I could have known he had a problem. But Boone definitely knows about mine. I can tell from the way he looks at me with squinty-eyed concern.
“It’s hard,” he says. “Every day is a challenge. But I’m living proof it’s possible to go through life without a drink in your hand.”
I tighten my grip around the bourbon glass. “Not my life.”
After that, there’s not a whole lot else to say. Boone gives me his little twelve-step pitch, which I suspect is the real reason he stopped by. I express my distinct lack of interest. Now there’s nothing left to do but go our separate ways.
“I guess I should get going then.” Boone offers a little wave and turns back to the woods. Before stepping into them, he gives me an over-the-shoulder glance and adds, “My offer still stands, by the way. If you’re ever feeling lonely, stop on by. There might not be any liquor in the house, but I can make a mean hot chocolate and the place is well stocked with board games. I need to warn you, though, I show no mercy at Monopoly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, meaning thanks but no thanks. Despite Boone’s looks, that doesn’t sound like a good time. I suck at Monopoly, and I prefer my drinks stronger than Swiss Miss.
Boone waves again and trudges through the trees on his way back to the Mitchell place. Watching him go, I don’t feel a bit of remorse. Sure, I might be missing out on a few nights in the sack with a guy way out of my league. If that was even his intention. But I’m not willing to accept what goes along with it—chiefly being reminded that I drink too much.
I do.
But with good reason.
I once read a biography of Joan Crawford in which she was quoted as saying, “Alcoholism is an occupational hazard of being an actor, of being a widow, and of being alone. And I’m all three.”
Ditto, Joan.
But I’m not an alcoholic. I can quit at any time. I just don’t want to.
To prove it to myself, I set the bourbon down, keeping my hand close to the glass but not touching it. Then I wait, seeing how long I last before taking a sip.
The seconds tick by, me counting each one in my head the same way I did when I was a girl and Marnie wanted me to time how long she could stay underwater before coming up for air.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
I make it to exactly forty-six Mississippis before sighing, grabbing the glass, and taking a gulp. As I swallow, I’m struck by a thought. One of those insights I usually drink to avoid.
Maybe I’m not looking for trouble.
Maybe I am the trouble.
The sun has slipped beneath the horizon by the time Eli makes his way over. Through the binoculars, which I picked up again soon after Boone departed, I watch him return to his truck carrying a bag of groceries before going back to his house for the cardboard box. When he climbs into the truck, I follow the glow of headlights as he drives the road circling the lake.
I put the binoculars down when the headlights enter the section of the road not visible from the back porch and walk to the front of the house. I get there just in time to see Eli pull into the driveway and emerge from the truck.
Back when he was on the bestseller lists, Eli cut a dashing figure in tweed jackets and dark jeans. For the past three decades, though, he’s been in Hemingway mode. Cable-knit sweaters, corduroy, and a bushy white beard. Grabbing the cardboard box from the back of the truck, he resembles a rustic Santa Claus bearing gifts.