Right in front of me.
“What the hell?” I said when he came back.
He grinned. “Don’t be jealous, chérie,” he rumbled, exaggerating his accent and lowering his lids to skim down my body. I let him lift me up on the counter, and peel back my bikini top to show my pert, if not lush, breasts.
I pushed him away. “Are you sleeping with her?”
He met my gaze, his hands on my thighs. “Do you want me to?”
“Of course not!”
“Not even,” he said slowly, his hands running up the inside of my thighs, “if I bring you with me?”
All these months later, I delicately look through her suitcase and touch her bras and wonder if that’s what was on my mind all along. Do I long for her body, her kiss? Is it a carnal hunger I feel? I test the idea, imagine touching her body, kissing her again, as she kissed me in the bathroom, and I feel no desire. That’s not it.
It’s something else. Something warmer, calmer.
A mother. Of course. I drop her lingerie and force myself to swallow the longing, which eternally rises: a mother a mother a mother a mother. How old will I be when I finally stop?
Firmly, I shove the hunger down deep and refocus.
I want to know what makes Meadow tick. What drove her to the heights she’s attained? And what happened between two people who obviously had such an abiding passion for each other?
Chapter Sixteen
Meadow
On some of the school visits, we harvest and serve food from the land, but today nothing is quite ready. The lettuces and radishes bolted weeks ago, and the squashes and tomatoes are too small. After a couple of hours, we’ve done all the checks and answered all the questions the children have about the community garden.
Tanesha walks with me to the car. “Can you drop me at my brother’s house?” she asks. “Unless you want me to come to the police station with you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I drop her off and head into the city center to the police. I have the piece of paper Tanesha gave me, but I’m very clear on who wants to talk to me: that square-jawed man who stopped in at Peaches and Pork. Officer Vaca. I feel clammy as I enter, and wipe my palms on my jeans.
I give my name to the desk sergeant and sit in a plastic chair against the wall, waiting. A woman in her late twenties wrings a shredding tissue between her fingers, but she’s the only other person here. I find myself smoothing my jeans, brushing a lock of hair out of my face, worrying over the dirt under my nails. What will he tell me? Ask me?
He takes his time. I’ve been there nearly twenty minutes when he strolls from the back somewhere. “Hi, Ms. Beauvais. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I stand. “No worries. How can I help you?”
“This way.” He leads me to a room with a single table, and closes the door, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I frown. “Is this an interrogation? Do I need a lawyer or something?”
“What would you need a lawyer for? It’s just busy as hell out there.”
Mollified, I sit down, but gingerly, on the edge of the seat. I think for the first time in years of my stepfather. He had the same sharp jaw, the same regimented haircut. “What can I do for you?” I ask.
“We need to piece together the events of the night Augustus died,” he says, flipping open his notebook. “You said you saw him in the afternoon? Or was it evening?”
“Evening. I brought a flat of strawberries from the farm.”
“That’s in Ojai, isn’t it? Kind of far to drive to just drop off strawberries.”
I flush and look down at my hands to hide the truth of what I was doing there. “It’s not unusual. I make the drive daily. Sometimes twice a day.”
“Mmm.” He peers at me with ice-blue eyes, and pauses a long time. I try not to, but I squirm a little. Look away.
“Did you have a sexual relationship with the deceased?”
“We were divorced,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked. Did you have a sexual relationship?”
It’s embarrassing. I feel my ears heat up. “No.”
“Really?” He leans back. “Because we have video from the restaurant that says otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
He flips lazily backward in his notes. “The night of May eighth, an encounter on the bar? Ring any bells?”
A memory of that night walks over my skin, touches my inner thighs. “Yes,” I admit. “So what? We were married a long time. It happens.”