Dark River Road (69 page)

“No. I really am leaving. Stay, Chantry. It’s okay. Maybe you should have been here for this anyway since you know everything. Hell, it seems like we’re all in this together somehow.”

Maybe they were. A strange sort of threesome. He stood awkwardly, looked away when Chris kissed her goodbye, heard Tansy whisper that she loved him, that she’d always loved him, and then Chris left, shutting the door softly behind him.

For a few minutes Tansy stood where he’d left her, then she sighed and said, “Well, that was a bit of a surprise.”

“Took him long enough.”

She laughed. “You do have a way of cutting straight to the chase sometimes, Chantry Callahan. God, I’ve missed you.”

He managed a smile. He wanted to say something nice, congratulate her or wish her well or say everything would be great, but he had this sinking, horrible feeling that it wouldn’t be. That there would be consequences none of them would like. It hung over his head like a dark cloud, a feeling of doom pressing down so heavy and thick he could almost touch it.

Instead, he just said, “Mind if I smoke in here?”

“I’d heard that.”

“So now you know it’s true.”

“Yeah. Now I know.” He glanced toward the door, wished Tansy would hurry up and get her ass out here, didn’t know quite how or if he wanted to deal with Kim. Ordinarily, he’d have taken her up on her obvious suggestion. She was the kind of woman who attracted him, light and breezy and not in it for the long haul. A “passing the time with hot sex” kind of thing.

As if sensing his retreat, Kim sat back a little, studied him from under her lashes, the trick putting him back in familiar territory.

“So now that you’re here,” she said, “are you going to hang around for the show?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

Her brow lifted. He figured she was waiting on him to say he’d changed his plans, but he didn’t know yet what he wanted to do. For some reason, Cinda popped into his mind. Hell, she was all the way across the Atlantic. Probably sitting on an Italian beach with some guy.

“I might,” he said after another moment ticked past.

Kim smiled. “Look me up if you do.”

“Sure.”

Tansy came out then, saving him from having to commit or think of an excuse, and he got up from the couch. Rehearsal in the empty room went quickly, while people came in to clean and set up for the night’s show. Chantry stood to one side in the wings, watching Tansy go through her routine, the same basic show as the night before, making a few changes here and there to accommodate what she called shitty acoustics, suggesting a few extra riffs in one of the songs. She was all business, even in sweat pants and with her hair still damp and held up on top of her head in a ponytail.

Then she came over to him, stuck her hand through the angle of his arm and dragged him with her. “You look hungry,” she said. “I never eat much before a show. Afraid I’ll throw up on stage. God, you just don’t know how often I come close.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” She looked up at him, shook her head. “Every time I go out there I’m terrified I’ll either throw up or won’t be able to get a single note out.”

“Sure can’t tell by watching.”

“Good. Hey, what’d you think of Kim?”

He didn’t say anything. Tansy sighed. “That’s what I thought. Well, I told her it was worth a try, but that you aren’t that easy.”

“It’s just
 . . .
hell, I don’t know what it is.”

“That’s okay. I know what it is. When is Cinda getting back in town?”

“This doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Cinda.”

“Right. Who do you think you’re talking to here, Chantry? You forget that I know you.”

“You knew me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

They’d reached the elevators and she stopped, turned to look at him in the muted light that fell from a recessed fixture, a faint frown on her face. “No, she said, “you’re not a kid. But I think you’ve never gotten past that kid.”

He made an impatient gesture. “Let it go, Tansy.”

“Maybe I should be saying that to you. All right. Come on. We’ll get something to eat while you tell me what you think of my show. How’d you like that last song?”

He didn’t stay for the show, and didn’t see Kim again. After eating, he left while Tansy went up to the room to get ready. It was still daylight, but softer, not as hot or intense as it’d been earlier, the sun dipping toward the river and leaving long shadows under trees and walls. When he pulled up in Cinda’s driveway, he saw her car parked in the open garage.

Herky came out to greet him, smiling broadly. “Hey, Chantry. Still room for your car. I told Miss Cinda what happened and she said she wanted you to park here.”

“What’s her car doing here?” He’d rolled down his window but didn’t pull into the garage and didn’t get out of his car.

“She came back today. Said some kind of heat wave over there’s killing a lot of people so she might as well be here where we got air conditionin’.”

Chantry flicked a glance toward the house as if he’d see her in the doorway, and Herky noticed. He leaned close to the car.

“S’okay, Chantry. I told her ’bout what happened. She knows you didn’ do nothin’ wrong to Cathy. Her mama told her you’d shot her, so I had to tell it the right way.”

Great. He’d already been a hot topic. He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll just park in the alley from now on. Brad’s probably the one who slashed my tires anyway.”

Despite Herky’s protests, he backed from the driveway and drove around the block to park in the alley close to the carriage house. Bad enough knowing she was this close again, but he didn’t want to run into her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Damn. He should have rented that house with the lace curtains, or the one smack in the middle of screaming kids. It’d have been safer.

It was cool and quiet in the house. He took a shower and changed into sweatpants, went into the living room to turn on the television. Nothing much on that interested him, so he settled for a Clint Eastwood movie he’d seen at least twenty times. A spaghetti western, filmed in Italy when Eastwood was still trying to make a name for himself. It was one of his favorites. He’d had a girl tell him once that he reminded her of the actor in that movie, the role he played about as unsympathetic as it could get and still be the hero. He’d never been quite sure how to take that.

When the knock came on the door, he realized he’d been half-expecting it. He got up all stiff, the bandage around his ribs keeping them from hurting too bad most of the time, but still moving pretty slow. Cinda stood in the doorway, lantern lights gleaming on her pale hair.

“Hey,” she said, and he stepped back to let her in. She stood just inside the doorway, gave his bandages and bare chest a swift, cursory glance. “I should be used to seeing you like that, all bruised and battered, but somehow I’m not. You look like hell.”

“Thanks?”

She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess.”

“Look, feel free to use the garage. I should have mentioned it before I left anyway. Just didn’t think of it.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. Brad was probably the one slashing my tires anyway, and since he seems to be on the run
 . . .
” He let that sentence fade, and she nodded.

“Probably. I wouldn’t put it past him. Why Chris hired him for security, I’ll never know. That’s like putting the fox in charge of the hen house.”

“Chris seems to be pretty loyal.”

“Hm.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushed it back from her face, looked at him with her head to one side a little. If she’d sat out on Italian beaches, she’d sat in the shade. Her skin still didn’t look tan, just creamy and maybe a bit pink. She had on a loose dress that skimmed her body and ended above her knees, a pair of some kind of strappy sandals that showed off pink nail polish on her toes, and smelled sweet and powdery like she’d just gotten out of a bath. He saw all that in a brief glance, turned away to keep from thinking about other things.

“Want a beer?” he asked to keep the silence from feeling awkward, and she accepted.

“Thanks.”

He got one from the fridge and popped the top before handing it to her. She looked at it and smiled. “Mexican beer, huh. Somehow that seems about right.”

“Goes with hot weather.” His hosting skills weren’t exactly something he practiced a lot, and he motioned to the couch. “If you want to sit
 . . .
”

“How about the courtyard? I always loved it out there. When the mosquitoes aren’t too bad, anyway.”

“Herky put out some candles and a few plants that smell like candles. Says they keep them away.”

“Citronella plants. Let’s try them out and see how well they work. Feeling brave?”

“Not very.”

She smiled and headed for the courtyard, and as he figured she already knew he would, he followed. Being with her felt strange. Awkward. Expectant.

She sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs and stretched out, swinging her feet up on the matching stool so that the edge of her dress fell away some from her thighs. He looked away. He remembered things he should have forgotten—that day at Sardis dam, Cinda in her black and white bikini, body all sweet and round and soft, still damp from the lake water and so warm beneath his hands and mouth. It made his belly clench and the blood run south so that he wished he had something to put over his lap. He sat down in a chair and crossed his leg at an angle, foot resting on his opposite knee. Camouflage. Loose sweatpants put him at a distinct disadvantage.

Cinda rested her head against the back of the chair, smiling a little. “I used to come down here sometimes just to sit. It’s private. Away from everything and everybody.”

“You live alone in that big house and you’d come down here?”

“When I didn’t want to get found for a while. No one ever thought to look for me here. Except Herky.”

“He notices things.”

“Yes, he does. He’s a lot smarter than most people give him credit for being. One of the best employees I’ve ever had.”