it into the bed. He turned the fish, poked it with his finger. His intentness focused hers, pulled her gaze into a close-up. He sucked his fingers and broke off a piece of tail, then began to nibble at the body.
She was going to let him go. She pictured him licking his fingers, looking up, as she waded across the stream. Brief alarm. And then? Taking in her badge, her holster, her mild hello. Would he help her up out of the stream? Certainly if she held out her hand.
This cameo reappearance of the old Elsie ended. He would eye her badge, her holster, but then … The son of a bitch might even laugh at her waddling across the stream on her pale, plump legs.
She watched him suck the last bit of flesh off the bones. He put them on the fire, took another drink from the bottle. He filled a pipe, lit it with a stick from the fire, recorked the bottle, washed his knife, packed everything into his knapsack. He stood for a long while, looking all around. She began to like him again, liked him for liking what he was looking at.
Maybe in a month. Apples and carrots and riding her bicycle. Or was this the way she would be, cocooned in splashy flesh so that she couldn’t even fantasize about a man being startled by her, by her badge and the lighthearted look of her?
• • •
The man shouldered his knapsack, tapped his pipe ash into the stream, and ground out the last bit of fire with the sole of his boot. He squatted to splash water on the rock, reminding her that he was serviceably strong in the hip and leg. Were all voyeurs washed back and forth between thrill and loneliness?
She watched him go, heard him for a bit longer crackling through the undergrowth. Then only the stream and her own breathing. She rolled onto her side and tucked her hand between her legs. No—she wouldn’t be able to, she wouldn’t fit into any of her old fantasies.
She had a moment of self-pity, an emotion she despised. Enough of that. If she wasn’t going to arrest anybody or fuck anybody, she could at least do something useful. Go back and test the water samples. And then tell Mary not to bring home any more of her damn desserts.
chapter eight
M ay was surprised when Phoebe Fitzgerald asked her to have lunch. She couldn’t think how to say no. “Oh, good,” Phoebe said. “I’ll swing by and we’ll go to Sawtooth. The food’s wonderful, and you’ll be doing me a favor. Part of being a member of the tennis club is I have to have so many lunches there each month, and Eddie won’t go. Wait—that’s not what I mean at all.”
May hadn’t had a good look at Sawtooth Point since they put up the yew hedge. “Irish yew,” Phoebe said, as if she’d planted them herself. “And stands of Scotch pine between the cottages so you don’t have to see your neighbors, even in winter. The big one over there is Jack Aldrich’s. Do you know him? His wife and her sister grew up here. But you must know all about them.”
No end to Elsie Buttrick.
May was just as glad Phoebe went rattling on. “I only met Jack Aldrich at the interview. He interviews everyone before they can buy a cottage. He even interviews you just to join the tennis club. The great big white mansion with the porches is called the Wedding Cake.”
“It always was,” May said, “even before it got added on to and gussied up.”
May stuck close to Phoebe when they got out of the car and went up on the porch. A waiter or maybe the person in charge said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fitzgerald. You’ll be two? Lawn side or ocean side?”
“Lawn, please.” She said to May, “I want to see who’s playing tennis.”
More than half the people around them were dressed in white tennis clothes. What with the high-gloss paint on the posts and railings and the tablecloths and napkins, it made for an awful lot of white. May felt better once she sat down, not that anyone had looked at her oddly, but she’d felt odd in her navy blue dress and nylon stockings.
Phoebe leaned forward and
She was going to let him go. She pictured him licking his fingers, looking up, as she waded across the stream. Brief alarm. And then? Taking in her badge, her holster, her mild hello. Would he help her up out of the stream? Certainly if she held out her hand.
This cameo reappearance of the old Elsie ended. He would eye her badge, her holster, but then … The son of a bitch might even laugh at her waddling across the stream on her pale, plump legs.
She watched him suck the last bit of flesh off the bones. He put them on the fire, took another drink from the bottle. He filled a pipe, lit it with a stick from the fire, recorked the bottle, washed his knife, packed everything into his knapsack. He stood for a long while, looking all around. She began to like him again, liked him for liking what he was looking at.
Maybe in a month. Apples and carrots and riding her bicycle. Or was this the way she would be, cocooned in splashy flesh so that she couldn’t even fantasize about a man being startled by her, by her badge and the lighthearted look of her?
• • •
The man shouldered his knapsack, tapped his pipe ash into the stream, and ground out the last bit of fire with the sole of his boot. He squatted to splash water on the rock, reminding her that he was serviceably strong in the hip and leg. Were all voyeurs washed back and forth between thrill and loneliness?
She watched him go, heard him for a bit longer crackling through the undergrowth. Then only the stream and her own breathing. She rolled onto her side and tucked her hand between her legs. No—she wouldn’t be able to, she wouldn’t fit into any of her old fantasies.
She had a moment of self-pity, an emotion she despised. Enough of that. If she wasn’t going to arrest anybody or fuck anybody, she could at least do something useful. Go back and test the water samples. And then tell Mary not to bring home any more of her damn desserts.
chapter eight
M ay was surprised when Phoebe Fitzgerald asked her to have lunch. She couldn’t think how to say no. “Oh, good,” Phoebe said. “I’ll swing by and we’ll go to Sawtooth. The food’s wonderful, and you’ll be doing me a favor. Part of being a member of the tennis club is I have to have so many lunches there each month, and Eddie won’t go. Wait—that’s not what I mean at all.”
May hadn’t had a good look at Sawtooth Point since they put up the yew hedge. “Irish yew,” Phoebe said, as if she’d planted them herself. “And stands of Scotch pine between the cottages so you don’t have to see your neighbors, even in winter. The big one over there is Jack Aldrich’s. Do you know him? His wife and her sister grew up here. But you must know all about them.”
No end to Elsie Buttrick.
May was just as glad Phoebe went rattling on. “I only met Jack Aldrich at the interview. He interviews everyone before they can buy a cottage. He even interviews you just to join the tennis club. The great big white mansion with the porches is called the Wedding Cake.”
“It always was,” May said, “even before it got added on to and gussied up.”
May stuck close to Phoebe when they got out of the car and went up on the porch. A waiter or maybe the person in charge said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fitzgerald. You’ll be two? Lawn side or ocean side?”
“Lawn, please.” She said to May, “I want to see who’s playing tennis.”
More than half the people around them were dressed in white tennis clothes. What with the high-gloss paint on the posts and railings and the tablecloths and napkins, it made for an awful lot of white. May felt better once she sat down, not that anyone had looked at her oddly, but she’d felt odd in her navy blue dress and nylon stockings.
Phoebe leaned forward and
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