The Sixth Idea Read Online Free PDF Page B

patio?”
    â€œI love the patio. I feel like I’m having an après ski glass of wine at a Swiss chalet. I can almost see the Alps right there, by your security fence.”
    She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “Nice of you to say so, but this isn’t exactly a Swiss chalet.”
    And that was true. Grace’s house was a tiny structure with a tiny yard in an average city neighborhood. She could afford a real Swiss chalet if she wanted one, but she’d chosen this piece of real estatespecifically for its size, because it had been easier to turn into an unbreachable fortress where she could shut herself in and shut everybody else out. “Do you ever think of moving, getting a different place?”
    She shrugged. “I’m comfortable here.”
    â€œCharlie wants a bigger yard, I can tell.”
    â€œCharlie’s agoraphobic.”
    â€œYou used to be agoraphobic, too. Animals take cues from their owners, change with them, you know.”
    â€œAnd this from a man who’s never owned an animal?”
    â€œI might be watching too much cable TV. Do you know how many animal psychology shows are on now?”
    Grace didn’t giggle exactly—that would have been outrageous—but she was clearly amused. “What about you? Do you ever think of getting a different place?”
    â€œI’m comfortable there,” he echoed her earlier comment, and suddenly whatever strange tension had been tightening the air around them eased.
    â€œCome on, let’s go eat.” She took his hand and led him into the house.

SEVEN

    C huck had only sketchy memories of driving back to the hotel after leaving the fire at Wally’s house. One minute he was at the fire, talking to a Detective Hudson, the next he was walking through the lobby of the Chatham to the lounge. He told himself he wanted a beer, needed a beer, but the truth was, what he wanted and needed was human contact. You could live a solitary existence for most of your life, but when you really came up against it, sitting alone in a hotel room was a miserable prospect. It would be nice to prefer the company and solace of particular people, but if you didn’t have that, a bartender was the next best thing.
    â€œGood evening, sir. What can I get for you?”
    â€œBeer, please. Whatever you recommend.”
    The bartender expertly tapped a perfect pour into a frosted glass and watched Chuck lift it to his mouth with a hand that still hadn’t stopped shaking. “Are you all right, sir?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I lost a friend tonight.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you can patch things up.”
    â€œI don’t think so. He’s dead.”
    â€œOh my God, I’m so sorry.”
    Chuck stared down through the perfect foam head of his beer and felt sick. “His name was Wally.”
    The bartender noted Chuck’s pasty face and his hunched posture and poured two fingers of amber liquid into two crystal lowballs. “This might go easier on your stomach than beer right now. To your friend Wally, sir.” He touched his glass to Chuck’s.
    â€œYou’re very kind.” Chuck downed his drink and set his glass on the bar, thinking that bartenders were actually quite brilliant. The scotch went down smoothly and settled like silk in his troubled stomach, much more soothing than beer.
    When he tried to pay, the bartender refused, saying, “On the house, sir, with my sympathies.”
    Chuck pressed his lips together and swallowed, wondering when people had become so nice, wondering if he’d missed that all these years.
    After his second scotch with the sympathetic bartender, Chuck started to think he might actually be able to go to sleep—the unexpected infusion of alcohol in a body unused to it had calmed him a bit. And for a time, at least, he’d stopped dwelling on what had certainly been the worst day of his life.