Barefoot Beach (25 page)

“But you wouldn't
have to
. Money buys options.”

“Whatever, it's a moot point. Dirk didn't show a scintilla of interest. Trust me, there's no chemistry on either side.”

“Nonsense. It's much too early to tell. Or for him to make a move. All I'm saying is, don't shut any doors. Or”—I could almost see her wink
through the phone—“open any too wide, too soon, if you know what I mean.”

I didn't. I was dealing with a Jewish Confucius. I didn't know what the hell she was talking about and I was afraid to ask. What I did know was that my life was already a patchwork quilt of complications and I didn't need any new material.

As if I had any say about that. Incoming emails had pinged a few times during our conversation and I checked them as soon as I got off the phone. Two starred new ones. I'd been getting sweet notes from some of the people I'd emailed with my job hard-luck story, but nothing tangible or even promising. This response was from Tess Gaffigan, whom I knew from the psych hospital a decade back. She was now the social services honcho at the National Care and Rehabilitation Centers of America.

Tess had written:

We may have something for you. I'd like to meet with you sooner rather than later. How does next Tuesday at ten sound? My office is at corporate HQ in Bethesda.

The second email was from Nate Greenberg, Lon's New York agent, burbling that he'd found the perfect writer, someone named Hector Fuentes, to finish
Thunder Hill Road
. From Nate:

Short notice, but just heard Hector will be in Washington for a writers conference from the eighteenth through the twenty-first. I could take the train down and we could meet for lunch. Monday's good for him. You?

I went to Hector Fuentes's Web page and read the list of his credits—magazine articles, short fiction, two moderately successful novels under
his own name. And Nate said he'd been writing unacknowledged for a famous mystery author, doing the real work while the big name swiped the glory.

Suddenly the week ahead had turned complicated. Good complicated, or so it appeared at the starting line. Problem was—and I knew this from too much experience—life had a way of moving the finish line. I made a note to pack my running shoes.

The Upton Abbey Resort and Casino, site of the vets' food pantry fund-raiser, was a cathedral whose developers prayed to the god of excess, British style. Twin doormen were dressed as Beefeaters, costumed Tudor gentry roamed the lobby, and the décor was late Balmoral Castle with accents of brass, crossed swords, and hunting prints hung on oak-paneled walls. According to a plaque near the door, the VFW event was being held in the Mary Queen of Scots Room, which, considering how the lady ended up, struck me as hilarious.

Our entrance into Queen Mary's chamber caused a noticeable dip in the decibel level. One moment it was a whirlwind of chatter, laughter, and clinking crystal; then the crowd caught Scott entering with me and the noise lowered to a buzz as elbows poked and whispers were traded.
Scott Goddard's with a date. Who?
You could almost hear the question hum through the crowd.

“Looks like we got their attention,” Scott said as he took my hand to lead the way to the bar. “This is going to be an interesting evening. I'm having a martini and I highly recommend you do the same.”

Tom Hepburn, drained of his usual sparkle, came to greet us. He was still on antibiotics for pneumonia and wasn't allowed alcohol, which must have cramped his style.

When Scott clapped him on the shoulder, he lit up. “You two should
work the room. Your fans await. More than that, they're dying of curiosity about this lovely young lady. You are looking especially fetching tonight, Nora.” Tom was on automatic flirt, but you could see his heart wasn't in it.

We left him nursing his glass of ginger ale and threaded our way among the guests, Scott presenting me as his friend Nora. The men swept swift recon glances, but the women, some wives, some retired military, took their sweet time checking me out. I didn't blame them. I was an unknown quantity, an outsider, and their regard for Scott was evident in every handshake, hug, and backslap. Would any woman be good enough for the local hero? Then again, I piled up points just by not being Bunny. As Scott introduced me, I turned on the low-level charm.

“Listen to Mother Margo,” my girlfriend had advised. “I know the drill. These people are military. Remember I played Nellie Forbush in
South Pacific
. Off the field, this bunch doesn't go for flash and bang. You're aiming for understated. Pretty, not bowl 'em over. Pearls, not diamonds.” She'd meant more than my wardrobe.

As for my wardrobe, she had one stipulation and it wasn't for the fund-raiser but for what she'd named with a wink the après-party party. Access to the essential me had to be via a stripper zipper.

“It's a strange phenomenon,” she'd mused. “A man who can repair a car engine and untangle the guts of a computer can't deal with anything complicated on a woman. Take that as a metaphor if you wish, but I'm talking buttons and hooks and eyes. Trust me, dearest, you don't want him having to do engineering mid-hard-on.”

When I started to protest her assumption that Scott and I . . . that we would be . . . she overrode me. “Oh, come on, Little Miss Innocence. Do you want to get laid, or don't you?”

“Well, if you put it that way.” I caught a breath. “No, I'd rather make love.”

She'd flashed me a contemptuous look. “Idiot. Love takes time. Laid is instant gratification. Get 'em while they're hot.”

She had a point, but not necessarily mine.

While the roast beef was being served, Scott excused himself and moved to a platform up front. As if he'd snapped an order for silence, the crowd hushed. He took a breath, then launched into his keynote speech. It was extemporaneous, straight from the heart, and brief. He talked about the plight of unemployed or underemployed veterans and how some families would have broken apart or wound up in shelters without help from the food pantry. He concluded, “This is our tenth year and our work is needed more than ever. So please open your hearts and your checkbooks. We have to take care of our own.”

After dinner, there was a show billed as a USO tribute featuring entertainment from earlier periods when America was at war. A vaudeville routine from World War I. The VFW Women's Auxiliary Silver Slippers tapping to “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” A Marine gunner singing a beautiful rendition of “I'll Be Seeing You.” When he crooned the line, “I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you,” Scott's hand, nesting mine, squeezed it. Finally, we all stood to sing “God Bless America.”

Then, just as everyone thought the party was over, there was a surprise. Max Cassidy, the developer of Upton Abbey, took center stage. He wasn't going to miss this opportunity to welcome Tuckahoe's warriors to the resort, he announced. He wanted to personally thank each and every one of us for our service, and that included spouses who kept the home fires burning. He wanted us to know that Upton Abbey would offer priority employment to all veterans and—here, he took a dramatic pause—he was proud to present Lieutenant Colonel Goddard with a check for ten thousand dollars to support the food pantry. Scott strode up to grasp the other end of a large poster-board check. The resort's official photographer snapped a series of grip-and-grins, one of which would no doubt make the front page of the
Coast Post
with a headline proclaiming something like “Local Resort Gives Back to the Community. Casino Helps Poor Vets.” And then, good deed accomplished, commercial plug done,
Max Cassidy sailed off on a tide of applause. Margo was right. The man had style.

In the wake of the cheers, Tom Hepburn edged to my side and said, “Now, that was a very nice ending to a very nice evening. Scott's got to be walking on air, and you, my dear, are a hit. That's the intel I'm picking up.”

I thought Tom might have defied doctor's orders, because now his glass of ginger ale wafted the smoky scent of scotch and for a few seconds the old twinkle returned to his eyes. But it dimmed quickly.

“While we have a moment alone, I'd like a word.”

“Of course, Tom.”

“I'm a man for straight talk and I think you can take it. You know I never had any sons, and Scott's like a son to me, and he would bayonet me if he knew I was telling tales out of school. I like you very much, Nora, and I can see Scott's gaga over you. But I don't want anyone to get hurt here.” He paused for a wheeze. “That man, one in a million, has been through hell.”

“I know,” I said.

“What do you know? Or think you know?”

“I read his medical chart during intake at the studio two years ago. I saw the newspaper stories. He came close to being shipped home in a casket. With his level of injury, it was touch-and-go. He could have bled out before a medic got to him.”

“He saved a buddy. Did you know that?” Tom poked a finger in my direction. “Dragged him to safety and did it on an almost severed leg. Hence the Silver Star. But that's one thing. Every soldier is aware of the possibility of death or injury in combat. It's always lurking out there and Scott's entire career until Iraq prepared him for it, so it never had a chance of breaking him. It was afterward that almost did that.”

“PTSD?” That tumbled out of me, from the therapist, not the woman.

Tom's smile was indulgent. “Sweetheart, anyone who's been on the
front lines comes out a different person. Anxious, pissed off, at least for a while. You'd have to be crazy not to be changed by what you do and see in combat. But no, from all I know about it and him, the colonel is remarkably free of what they used to call combat fatigue when I was in Vietnam. What he has is a serious case of PTBD.”

“I never heard—”

“Post Traumatic Belinda Disorder. That bimbo Bunny? She almost did him in. I'm not going into the gory details, but he came close to losing everything.” Tom inhaled a raspy breath. “So, however you two wind up, for better or worse, I'm asking—no, I'm
begging
—you to be kind to him.” He took a slug of what I was now sure was scotch, although it wasn't just the alcohol talking. “Even the strongest man can be undone by a woman. And he cares for you more than you know. You be good to him, y'hear?”

I was stunned by the fervor of his entreaty. “Copy that,” I said.

Reassured, Tom nodded, and then he vanished.

Five minutes later, Scott and I took advantage of the announcement of door prize winners to slip away.

As we exited into the hall, he said, “I am so ready to put my feet up and taste that champagne I promised you.” He stopped to give me a tentative look. “You up for that? My place?”

I'd given thought to some version of that question since our first kiss under the streetlamp. And I'd been tugged by an impossible attraction to Scott Goddard long before then. But now impossible had become possible. We were twenty-one-plus, of reasonably sound mind (though the rush of pleasure that bubbled up as I gazed at him made me wonder), and we were both free. There was nothing holding us back. Even I, who'd banked my precious guilt as if it earned interest, knew that. And
felt
it.

Beyond Scott, on the brass plaque, I'd have sworn I saw the likeness of Queen Mary wink at me.

“Sounds good,” I said, and, at least for the evening, I sealed my fate. The way Mary did when she said whatever it took to lose
her
head.

We didn't talk much on the way home. We reviewed the entertainment and replayed Max Cassidy's presentation of the check and then lapsed into a gentle quiet. That's when I noticed how hard Scott was gripping the steering wheel, which made me wonder if this was a white-knuckle drive for him. Occasionally, though, he reached over to squeeze my embarrassingly clammy hand. At one point, I felt a rivulet of sweat trickle into my lacy bra.
Relax,
I told myself.
Just go with the flow.
It works for the ocean.

His condo was a villa surrounded by trees and bathed in the glow of a full moon. As he turned the key in the lock, a couple of short yelps greeted us. “That's Sarge's welcome-home bark. He knows you're one of the good guys. Believe me, you don't want to be one of the bad guys.”

The shepherd bounded over as we entered. “Hey, boy. You remember Nora. The pretty lady.” Sarge gave me a quick once-over, then swung and butted his head against Scott's right shin. “Smart dog. He knows he'll give himself a concussion if he hits the wrong leg,” he joked.

Sarge had peed, pooped, and played Frisbee from nine to nine thirty, according to the note propped on the hall table by the neighborhood teen who'd been hired to walk him. But now it was past eleven.

“I need to take him out for a quick walk, but it will be his last outing for the night,” Scott explained. “Then he'll trot into his crate and we'll have the place to ourselves.”

He shot me a significant look. I felt heat splash my cheeks. The shepherd turned questioning eyes on me. I crouched down to hide my giveaway blush and stroked his smooth coat. “Better safe than sorry, right, boy? Ready for a walk?” Sarge whined assent high in his throat.

“You can come along if you want, Nora.” Scott removed the leash from a hook on the wall. “Or you can stay and make yourself to home, as
my mom liked to say. Settle in. Try the chocolates. They're Swiss. I ordered them online. I hear women like chocolate, and you said at dinner you prefer the dark kind.”

Now, that was sweet. The gesture as well the truffles from Teuscher. More confirmation that he was just starting out on the dating road and this was as new to him as it was to me. He'd mentioned that his experience with women since the divorce had been limited. And how could he extrapolate from twenty-five years with the wife from hell?
Mean,
I scolded myself, as the worst part of me snickered silently.

My feet were killing me. The shoes were not hooker stilettos, but they were higher than my usual sandals or sneakers and not broken in. I wasn't broken in either, and my official debut evening had exhausted me. The sofa looked plump and soft and the coffee table held a remote tagged “Stereo.” It was too inviting to turn down.