Skinny Dipping (18 page)

“Yeah, great, but I didn’t call to talk about my…about
her
. I want you to ask Mom what she thinks about me and Neil moving in together. I think he’s going to ask me soon, and while I really don’t care what Mom thinks, I figured I ought to give her a chance to bitch, seeing as how she enjoys it so much. She must really miss that. Hold on.”

Somewhere in the background Mimi heard a young man’s voice calling, “Where are you, Jessie? You said you’d be right back and I’m lonely and the DVD is stuck again. Can you fix it?”

Mimi heard the distinctive sound of a hand covering a mouthpiece and, through it, Jessica replying in a voice Mimi had never heard her use before, “I’ll be right there, Neilly!

“I gotta go,” Jessica whispered into the phone. “Find out from Mom what she thinks about Neil.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call later.” Jessica hung up.

“I can’t wait,” Mimi muttered, closing her cell. “Sorry,” she said. “I forgot I was, ah, supposed to work tonight. I didn’t think I’d be at the party long, so I signed up for the graveyard shift.” She grinned at her own wit. He didn’t. “Get it? Graveyard shift?”

“Maybe I should go.”

“No,” she said hastily. “Most calls don’t start coming in until after two. You know. People can’t sleep. They get themselves all twisted up with regret and recriminations….” She shrugged in a “who can tell why people do what they do?” gesture.

He looked downright uneasy.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ask your dead aunt Nettie what you were like as a little boy.”

“I don’t have an aunt Nettie.”

“It was a joke.” Crap. He was definitely uneasy with her profession. “How about something to drink? I have pop, water, beer…”

“Thanks. I could use a beer.”

She started toward the kitchen.

“That’s quite a television,” he said as she entered the tiny kitchen. “You must like television. A lot.”

“The picture’s incredible. You have to see it to appreciate it. The control’s on the dining room table. Try it out,” she called as she opened the small refrigerator. She ducked down, peering over the stacked Tupperware containers for the last couple of bottles of Pete’s Wicked Ale she’d stashed and wondered whether animal crackers went with beer.

Joe liked to think of himself as nonjudgmental. Spending two decades in international business working with cultural differences and personality types from across the spectrum, he’d had to be. But as he walked toward the oak table in Mimi’s apartment, he wasn’t so sure.

No two ways about it, Mimi’s profession threw him off balance, and Mary Werner’s comments about her sister’s obvious—and apparently very recent—success at that job, especially in light of how Mimi didn’t receive any money from her mother, kept picking away at his comfort level. Sure, he’d ignored the uneasiness when he’d offered to take Mimi home. He’d ignored it when he’d leaned down to kiss Mimi good night. And he’d ignored it when their kisses exploded into passion. But as soon as that phone had started playing, his misgivings had come rushing back.

The stack of couture dresses with their outrageous price tags, and boxes of shoes and other expensive accessories of similar quality, did nothing to diminish those misgivings. Neither did that incredible pearl and diamond necklace. None of it jibed with the bargain basement decor, unless she’d recently come into a windfall. Or somewhere earned a bonus. Maybe she’d channeled Bill Gates’s grandpa. Maybe she had—what would she call it?—a live one on the hook.

He hated to entertain any such suspicions about her, but he was a realist, and everything he saw and had heard about her pointed to this as being the most reasonable explanation for what he saw. Except how much reason could enter into an explanation when you were talking about a mystic or ghost whisperer or psychic or whatever she was? Added to which, someone like her was completely out of his sphere of experience. He was floundering in his attempts to figure her out. Fraud? Or odd? Was there another choice?

“Having trouble?” she called from the kitchen.

“What?”

“With the television. Use the
POWER
button, not the
ON
button. The
ON
just toggles from cable to antenna. I’ll be there in a jiff.”

The remote. Oh, yeah. He bent over the dining room table but didn’t see it, so he started moving some of the piles of papers and found it lying—He stared.

The remote was lying on top of a picture of Prescott holding a small moth-eaten-looking dog. Which made no sense. Prescott was horribly allergic to dogs along with ninety percent of everything else in the world.

He picked up the photograph and his gaze fell on the picture beneath it. It was another one of Prescott, in different clothing but with the same dog. He picked this up, too, and beneath it found another picture of his kid.

What the hell was going on here?

Mimi Olson had mocked Prescott’s “lodge” and called Prescott pathetic. She’d pointed out his lack of friends and his isolation. She’d also pointed out how rich he was. And Prescott was infatuated with Mimi.

Who could be more easily taken advantage of than Prescott? And who would be a better candidate for the “live one” he’d already suspected was hanging from Mimi’s hook? If there was a hook. Please, let there not be a hook.

Maybe there was another explanation for why Mimi had printed out a dozen pictures of a misanthropic millionaire who had a crush on her. He just couldn’t think of any. He raked his hair back with one hand. He realized he was making a rush to judgment but…but Prescott was so damn naive in so many ways.

“Still can’t figure out the remote?” Mimi backed into the room carrying a tray containing a couple bottles of beer, a box of Ritz crackers, and a plastic tub of something in a weird shade of orange with purple ripples running through it.

“Yup. That’s right,” she chirruped, noting the direction of his gaze. “Port wine cheddar spread.”

He had no idea what that was. “Oh.”

She set the tray on the table and handed him a bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale. She lifted her own. “Here’s to”—she puzzled a second before her face cleared—“letting the good times roll.”

When he didn’t lift his beer bottle, she reached over and clinked the bottom of hers against his, then raised it to her lips.

“Whatcha got there?” Mimi asked, nodding at the papers in his hand.

He held them out and said in very measured, very careful tones, “Pictures of Prescott. What are you doing with them?”

She lowered her bottle and tilted her head to look sideways at the papers in his hand. Color washed up her throat and tinted her cheeks. “Oh. Those. Prescott sent them.”

“Why?”

“I asked him to.” Her gaze flitted away from meeting his. “I mean, I didn’t ask him to send so many, but—”

“Why?”
Years of self-control stood him in good stead. His voice sounded reasonable, calm, not much more than curious, if a little insistent.

“Why?” she echoed. She shrugged. “Because he wanted to. I think he’s lonely. I printed them off the e-mails he sent. Some of them are sorta cute. I think he uses a self-timer to get into the shot.”

She leaned over the table and spread out the remaining pictures across the surface, selecting one and holding it up. “See? Kinda cute, right? Not the dog, of course. The dog is not cute. The way Prescott is holding the dog is cute. You can see he’s trying not to look sappy about the mangy mutt, but he is. Your son, I’m afraid, is an easy mark.”

Easy mark?
“
Why
does Prescott want to send you pictures of himself?”

That got her full attention. She was standing close, bent over the table, and now she turned her head slowly. He could see every tiny line at the corners of her eyes, the way the curls in her hair spiraled, the skin across her breastbone where the sun had permanently stained it tan.

He could also see the moment she realized the implications of his questions. The muscles in her neck tensed. “Why do you think?”

He ignored the question, gesturing toward the dresses lying across the back of the chair and the boxes on the seat cushion. “Looks like you recently came into some money.” He tried to sound nonchalant. He failed and he knew it. “You win the lottery or something? Win big at the casinos?”

“I don’t gamble.” Her voice was icy. “Why don’t you put into words what you’re thinking, Joe?”

“You know what I’m thinking.”

She waited a long minute, her eyes never leaving his, before answering. “I found that dog before I left Fowl Lake this summer. I was going to drive it to a shelter, but Prescott showed up and said he’d take it. I asked him to send me a picture of it because”—for the first time, she looked sheepish—“because I didn’t know if he’d take good care of the dog.”

Joe looked at the pictures in his hand. Now that she’d drawn his attention to it, he realized that every single picture showed not only Prescott but the little mongrel. The tightness in his chest loosened incrementally. “Why would Prescott offer to take a dog? He’s allergic to dogs.”

She’d stepped back, her easy manner notably absent. “I don’t know. He’s
your
son. Why don’t you ask him?” She picked up her cell phone and shoved it against his chest. “Do you need his number?”

If he was just sending her occasional pictures, why would she have Prescott’s unlisted number? “You know his cell number?”

“You
don’t
?” she countered.

He was floundering. He couldn’t find his objectivity. He was used to forming quick but astute opinions. Not here. He didn’t trust his own judgment. He was acting like a boor, a fool, a foolish boor. She wouldn’t tell him to call Prescott if she had anything to hide. And who knew why Prescott kept the dog? Probably to impress her. After all, he seemed to think of her as a sort—

She’d put the bottle back down next to one of Prescott’s pictures, and his gaze followed the motion. This picture had been taken in the lodge. In the background, on the fireplace mantle, Joe could clearly see a framed picture of Karen and Prescott. His unwilling gaze snapped to the stack of expensive clothing. She still hadn’t told him how she was able to afford the expensive dresses and jewelry. He wanted to shut up but he wanted to know even more.
Had
to know.

“Did you tell Prescott you could get in touch with his mother’s spirit? Are you pretending to receive messages for him from her?”

She’d been mopping up the sweat ring left by the beer bottle on Prescott’s picture, but that stopped her. She straightened.

“I think you should go now.” Though her expression was cool, her voice quiet, her eyes were filled with hurt.

“I have a right to know. I’m his father. He’s vulnerable and I don’t want him to be hurt.”

“No, you don’t have the right to know,” she said. “And you’re asking because you don’t want him to be bilked by a fraud because that would make him look gullible, and in your book, that’s worse than being hurt.”

“That’s not true,” he said stiffly.

“Isn’t it? Maybe
I
shouldn’t be so quick to judge. But let me set your mind to rest. No. As far as I know, Prescott doesn’t have any idea what I do or who I am. And that makes him leagues ahead of his father in what he does know.”

“You can’t be angry because I asked you if you offered your services to my son,” Joe said, stung. She wasn’t being rational.

“Yes, I can.” Her lips were stiff, her skin ruddy. “You accused me of exploiting Prescott’s love for his dead mother for cash. I didn’t. I don’t. Now, good night. Good-bye.”

He didn’t deny it, because she was right—that’s exactly what he’d done. There was nothing left for him to do here now but leave. Because he still wasn’t sure what to believe. He didn’t know if she was a sincere wack-job who really believed she spoke to ghosts or a con artist. He wanted to believe her but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said.

“Bye.”

She didn’t see him to the door.

The tears caught Mimi off guard. For the love of God, she was weeping over a guy she barely knew when she hadn’t shed tears for guys she’d dated for weeks. Certainly not the hot-air balloonist who’d donated half the genetic material to the baby who’d never be born…That must be it. This must be some sort of estrogen echo left over from her pregnancy, because this was not her usual behavior.

It didn’t matter. She wept like a sixteen-year-old girl who got dumped the day before prom. She was still crying when someone knocked at the door five minutes later. She bounded to her feet, dashing the tears from her face, envisioning Joe Tierney kneeling outside, begging for her forgiveness and realized she was heading into emotional territory she’d never visited before. It didn’t stop her from jerking open the door.

Jennifer Beesing stood outside in her housecoat, fluffy slippers on her feet, a china plate filled with pecan patties clutched between her hands. Pecan patties, Mimi knew, took an hour to make. Which meant Jennifer must have started them the minute she spied Mimi in the hall with Joe. It was as if Joe’s leaving had been predestined.

Jennifer held out the plate, her doleful expression welcoming Mimi into the fold of those whose romances are doomed to fail.

“I made pecan patties,” she said.

Prescott popped open the Prius’s hatchback and pulled the Sam’s Club carton toward him, tallying the number of Kleenex boxes he’d bought. Twenty. Should be enough for the week. The shots from the allergist were finally beginning to show effects. Of course, the same allergist had also advised Prescott not to share quarters with any fur-bearing creature. As far as Prescott was concerned, that wasn’t an option.

He’d told Mrs. Olson he would take Bill (he’d picked the name from
The Lord of the Rings
, hoping for the same sort of loyalty Sam’s pony had shown him on the road to Mordor), and he wasn’t going back on his promise. Without Bill, Prescott didn’t have any excuse to contact Mimi Olson, to send her pictures, to write her notes about Bill’s care and progress. His diligence had been rewarded. Every now and then she had found time amongst her many obligations to write back. Last week, she’d written four full paragraphs.

Prescott jerked the carton toward him. Besides Kleenex, it held groceries and a dozen fully digestible dog chews in various sizes and shapes. He swung the heavy carton to his shoulder and grappled one-handed to close the hatchback.

He could tell he was losing weight, maybe even getting some muscles. He’d discovered that dog ownership entailed long daily walks, because a dog filled with pent-up energy is a destructive dog. Several chairs and tables had fallen victim to this object lesson before Prescott had tumbled to it.

He didn’t mind. Since the weather had turned cold and snow covered the ground, killing off many of the allergens afflicting him, he actually looked forward to their walks. In fact, as he’d anticipated, dog cohabitation (he decided he was morally opposed to the concept of owning another living being) had totally enriched his life. He liked being greeted whenever he entered a room, even a bathroom. He got a contact high from the mindless rapture a dog could find in an empty plastic water bottle. The weight of a dog’s warm body draped over his legs like a bean bag filled him with contentment. He enjoyed taking care of a dog, the feeling that someone depended on him not only for the basic necessities, but to fulfill a deep inner need to be part of a pack. He enjoyed it so much he’d decided to add to his enjoyment.

At the door, he set the dog food down and searched in his coat pockets for the keys. The workmen he’d hired to put in an in-ground pool had disabled the security system. He didn’t expect to use it much himself, but during the first week he and Bill had cohabited, many times when they went on their little walks, Bill went for swims and afterward the little guy stank of fish. Prescott did not like the fragrance, but Bill loved to swim, ergo the pool.

With the unexpectedly early arrival of winter, the crew had been forced to quit and had neglected to reconnect the system. Prescott didn’t care; he didn’t need it anymore. On cue, frantic barks and yaps from inside announced that his arrival had been noted.

“Just a minute! I’m coming!” he called, fumbling the keys. He grinned at the howl of canine protest in answer to what must have seemed like a cruel tease. As soon as he dumped this stuff in the kitchen, they’d go for a walk. They’d go east, following the footpath through the woods to the Chez Ducky compound, deserted now, as quaint and seedy and slumberous as the backmost shelf in a secondhand bookstore.

He pushed the door open. Three dogs blasted past him into the yard, barking and jumping and tumbling over one another. Three. He’d tripled his enjoyment of his new life as a rural iconoclast.

“Okay, okay! Just let me get this stuff inside.” He picked up the carton.

They wiggled, bounded, darted, and, realizing he had something that smelled really good in the cardboard carton, created a log jam at the entrance in their haste to be first back inside. His family was growing.