The Ladies' Man (40 page)

Her own room is unusually neat and inviting, and she takes credit for its perfectly made bed and uncluttered surfaces. Too uncluttered, she realizes: The magazines piled high and slipping off her maple nightstand are gone, and the precise order of her knickknacks and mementos has been upset by someone dusting with no sentimental blueprint. She lifts and flops her suitcase onto the bed. She's been gone almost four weeks: April 26 is still on her Word-a-Day calendar, “Mendacious.”

Next door, Kathleen's room is dark, and at the end of the hall, so is Adele's. Slightly annoying, this lack of any reception. Well, of course no one expected her. If I were the one missing, she reasons, they'd know
Movie. Date. Drink with a coworker
. Silly of me to be concerned, Lois thinks. Old maidish. Parental.

It's lovely to have the place to herself, though. She unpacks her terry-cloth robe, her boiled-wool slippers, her creams and her toners, and goes to the bathroom. No place like a single-sex home—rug on the floor, toilet seat down, no mildew in the grout. A real showerhead instead of a rubber hose and a sprinkler. Her mother's monogrammed hand towels, usually saved for company, are hanging next to the sink. And it is in the long, hot shower (uninterrupted by any boarders rapping on the door or Mrs. Chabot reminding her of the hot water heater's capacity) that she feels a stab of grief for her dead parents, the one that returns at odd moments, after unexpected encounters with cross-stitching on a towel, or hairpins in a drawer. No one is home, she reminds herself. Acoustics be damned. Perfectly understandable—a touch of homesickness she didn't know she felt.

She puts on her good bathrobe, the satin quilted one, emerald green, that she wears only on holidays. She finds sliced whole wheat in the bread box and a new pineapple marmalade in the refrigerator. Obviously, with her away, Kathleen and Adele have been indulging their orange-yellow jam preferences; she likes the purples and reds. But how nice to be in her own kitchen, eating on a china plate, drinking milk from a refrigerator instead of warm soda from a windowsill.

She returns to her room and sits in her rocker. She gets up again to rearrange the five things on her vanity. The top drawer of the vanity yields the missing heart-shaped frame, faceup. Didn't I look fabulous that day, she thinks. Weren't we a lovely couple?

Where did she hide that book he sent? She's never read it, never wanted to be caught reading it. Never opened it until now. “If you're willing,” says the card inside, “there are other titles I can recommend.”

Like all mornings when he's in the office, Richard eats a Boston Kreme Donut and rifles through the papers in the Hold box, annoying his secretary, but only slightly.

“Anything good?” she asks.

“This asshole again,” he says. “I testified twice already. Now they're saying they don't have an address for him.”

“Lieutenant Diaz got engaged last night,” she says.

Richard stops midpile, paper in hand. “Well, I'll be damned …”

“They've been going out for at least two years. Have you seen her, in person, I mean?”

“Look at this,” says Richard.

Stephie reads the first few lines. “So?”

“I know him.”

“ ‘State of California,' ” reads Stephie.

“I'll take this one,” says Richard.

Mrs. Chabot wonders what good word of mouth has brought so many nice-looking gents to her establishment of late. “Do I know you?” she asks.

“Lois Dobbin's brother?”

“Lois,” she breathes. “One of my favorites.”

“I've visited her here,” he says. “I'm Richard.”

“The cop!”

“Suffolk County Sheriff's Department.”

“She's not here anymore.”

“I know. I'm looking for a Mr. Nash Harvey.”

She shakes her head. “Out.”

“Can I wait?”

“Where?”

“Your parlor?”

“Can you come back?”

He reaches into his breast pocket. “I'm on official business for the Commonwealth.”

“About what?”

“I'm sorry. I can't say.”

“You have to say. I live here, too. I don't want any dangerous criminals under my roof.”

“Not dangerous.” He hesitates. “Spousal support. A civil matter.”

“You mean money?”

Richard folds the papers lengthwise and returns them to his pocket. “I could wait inside or I could wait outside. Your choice.”

“Is your cruiser parked in front?”

“Not right in front. Did he say when he'll return?”

“They don't tell me. I bake, and then I go back to bed.”

Richard smiles. “What do you bake?”

“Scones one day, muffins the next.”

“And today?”

“Muffins. Oatmeal peach.”

“Mmmm.”

“Maybe there's one left. Sit. You want coffee?”

“You're a doll,” he says. “And a pat of butter?”

“I got oleo,” she says.

He rises from the parlor love seat when he hears footsteps. Nash looks happy to see him, not surprised, not perplexed. Does a goofy two-step.

“Harvey,” says Richard. “I'm afraid it's not social. These are for you, from Orange County. Served through us.”

Nash takes the papers, scans them. “Hey! This isn't right. We're not married. How can she be asking for spousal support?”

“Sometimes it's not what it seems,” says Richard. “Sometimes it's to establish a husband-wife contract and for the judge to determine if she was your common-law wife.”

“No way,” he says. “Not interested.”

“Have an attorney look at them, Harv.”

“What attorney would that be?” he snaps.

He leaves them on the arm of the sofa and starts for the stairs.

Richard says, “You don't want them? You want to leave them here? They can rot here, but if you don't take any action, the court will find against you and that'll be only the beginning.”

Nash walks back, sits down. “Why now?” he asks. “She knows what I have. She knows, musically, I'm on the back end of not being wanted anymore.” He lowers his voice. “Eight hundred dollars a month from the A.F.M. from when I worked as a sideman. Why would she be going after me?”

“It's not the money,” says Richard. “I've seen this. Papers get served sometimes when a man leaves. She doesn't want spousal support, Harv. It's not about that. She wants you back.”

Someone has to pay Mrs. Chabot's bill. Richard, willing to drive him to the airport, says, “I'd cover it, trust me, but I can't do it on the heels of in-hand service. It's too weird.”

“You don't suppose …?”

“Adele? Never. You'd have a better chance of sweet-talking Mrs. Chabot out of the debt.”

“I could still write the thing. All it would do is bounce. By then I'll be home—”

“Larceny by check,” says Richard. “Over two hundred and fifty dollars is a felony in this state.”

“Can I borrow a quarter?” he asks.

Cynthia says, “Believe it or not, I'm almost glad. In some strange and perverse way, I think this is a perfect ending to our little affair—your asking me to cover a bill for the only nights you weren't under my roof.”

“A loan. Just until I get home, open my mail, and get to the bank.”

“How much?” she asks wearily.

“Three hundred and thirty. Made out to The Lucky Duck.”

He thinks he hears a pen scratching on paper. “Are you still there?” he asks.

“You know why I'm doing this? Because there's a lesson here for me. An entry in my check register that screams, ‘See what you let yourself in for? Even though you knew better? Well here's the tariff: three hundred and thirty bucks. Probably a bargain. You're a little devastated, but maybe you're also a little wiser.' ”

Nash waits a polite interval. “Is that a
yes?”
he asks.

R
ichard gives him two twenties at the gate and says, “Don't come back, Harv. Stay out there. Try to work it out with what's her name, the plaintiff.”