4th of July (7 page)

You’re not supposed to hear the bullet that gets you, but that must be a myth. The booming report of the shot that drilled through my spine sounded like a bomb.

I slumped over, paralyzed. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t stop the flow of blood pulsing out of my body, ebbing into the cold water of the bay.

But how had it come to this? There was a reason that just eluded my grasp. Something I should have done.

Slap the cuffs on them. I should have done that.

That’s what I was thinking when my eyes flew open.

I was lying on my side, my fists full of sand. Martha was looking down at me, breathing on my face.

Somebody cared.

I sat up and reached my arms around her, buried my face in her neck.

The dream’s sticky sense clung to me. I didn’t need a PhD in psychology to know what it meant. I was churning in the violence of last month.

Stuck in it up to my eyeballs.

“Everything’s fine,” I told Martha.

Lying my face off to my little dog.

WHILE MARTHA HERDED SHOREBIRDS, I sent my mind skyward and pretended that I was drifting effortlessly, up there with the wheeling gulls. I was ruminating on both my recent past and my uncertain future when I leveled my gaze and saw him.

My heart lurched. His smile was bright, but his blue eyes were scrunched against the glare.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said.

“Oh, my God, look what the tide brought in.”

I let him help me to my feet. We kissed, and I felt this sensational heat searing my insides.

“How’d you manage to get the day off?” I finally asked, squeezing him hard.

“You don’t understand. This is work. I’m scouring the coastline for terrorist infiltration,” he cracked. “Ports and shorelines, that’s what I do.”

“And here I thought your job was to pick out the day’s color alert.”

“That, too,” he said. He flapped his tie at me. “See? Yellow.”

I liked that Joe could josh about his job, because it would have been too depressing otherwise. Our shoreline was extremely porous, and Joe saw the holes.

“Don’t tease,” he said, then we kissed again. “This is hard work.”

I laughed. “All work, no play makes Joe a dull guy.”

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said as we walked together along the jetty. He pulled a packet of tissue paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I wrapped it myself.”

The packet was sealed with Scotch tape, and Joe had penned a string of Xs and Os where a ribbon would’ve been. I ripped open the tissue and poured a bright silver chain and a medallion into my palm.

“It’s supposed to keep you safe,” Joe said.

“Sweetie, it’s Kokopelli. How did you know?” I held the little disk level with my eyes.

“The Hopi pottery in your apartment kinda gave me a clue.”

“I love it. What’s more, I need it,” I said, turning my back to him so he could fasten the long silver chain around my neck.

Joe swept the hair off my nape and kissed me just there. His lips, the roughness of his cheek against that tender spot, sent a thrill through me. I gasped, then turned into his arms again. I liked it there a lot.

I kissed him softly, and the kiss turned deeper and more urgent. I finally pulled away from him.

“Let’s get you out of those clothes,” I said.

CAT’S GUEST BEDROOM WAS peach and gauzy with a double bed next to the window. Joe’s jacket flew onto the chair, followed by his blue denim shirt and yellow tie.

I lifted my arms, and he gently pulled my skimpy halter top over my head. I took his hands and pressed his palms to my breasts, and the warmth of his touch made me feel almost weightless. I was panting by the time my shorts hit the floor.

I watched from the bed as Joe finished undressing and climbed into bed beside me. God, he was a good-looking boy. Then I went into his arms.

“I have something else for you, Lindsay,” Joe said. What he had was quite apparent. I laughed into the crook of his neck.

“Not just that,” Joe told me. “This.”

I opened my eyes and saw that he was pointing to small letters clumsily written on his chest with a ballpoint pen. He’d written my name over his heart.

Lindsay.

“You’re funny,” I said with a smile.

“No, I’m romantic,” said Joe.

IT WASN’T JUST ABOUT sex with Joe. He was too real and too good a person for me to think of him as simply a hunk and a real good time. But I paid a terrible price for feeling more. At times like this, when our jobs permitted, we had an indescribable intimacy. Then morning came and Joe jetted back to Washington, and I didn’t know when I’d see him—or if it would ever feel this good—again.

It’s been said that love finds you when you’re ready.

Was I ready?

The last time I had loved a man so much, he’d died a terrible death.

And what about Joe?

He’d been scalded by a divorce. Could he ever really trust again?

Right now, as I was lying in his arms, my heart was divided between taking down all of the walls and protecting myself against the wrenching pain of our imminent separation.

“Where are you, Linds?”

“Right here. I’m here.”

I held Joe tightly, forcing myself back into the moment. We kissed and touched until being apart was unbearable and we joined together again, a perfect fit. I moaned and told Joe how good he felt—how good he was.

“I love you, Linds,” he murmured.

I was saying his name and telling him that I loved him when waves of pleasure overtook me and I allowed all of my scared, undermining thoughts to go away.

We held each other for a long time afterward, just catching our breath, getting a grip on our spinning world, when the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” I said. “Pretend it’s not happening.”

“Gotta get the door,” said Joe softly. “It could be for me.”

I CLIMBED OVER JOE’S body, threw his shirt on over my cutoffs, and went to the door. An attractive fifty-ish woman was standing on the front porch with an expectant smile on her face. She was too hip in her tennis dress and Lilly Pulitzer sweater to be a Jehovah’s Witness, and she looked too sunny to be a federal agent.

She introduced herself as Carolee Brown.

“I live down on Cabrillo Highway, about a mile north of here. That blue Victorian with a lot of chain-link fencing.”

“Sure. I know the place. A school, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

I didn’t mean to be snappish, but I felt awkward standing there with my beard-roughened face and love-smushed hair.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Brown?”

“It’s Dr. Brown, actually, but please call me Carolee. Lindsay, right? My daughter and I help your sister out with Penelope. This is for you.” She handed me a platter covered in aluminum foil.

“Oh, Cat did mention you. I’m sorry. I’d invite you in, but —”

“Don’t even think about it. I wasn’t paying a visit. Just being the Cookie Lady. Welcome to Half Moon Bay.”

I thanked Carolee, and we exchanged a few more words before she said good-bye and got into her car. I stooped to pick up the morning paper, glancing at the front page on the way back to the bedroom. Sunny today, NASDAQ down ten points, Crescent Heights murder investigation still going nowhere. It was nearly impossible to believe that people had been murdered in this lovely place.

I told Joe about the slayings, then peeled the dome of aluminum foil off the platter.

“Chocolate-chip,” I announced. “From the Cookie Lady.”

“The Cookie Lady. Like the Easter Bunny?”

“I guess. Something like that.”

Joe was staring at me with that dreamy look of his.

“You look great in that. My shirt.”

“Thanks, big fella.”

“You look even better out of it.”

I grinned and put down the platter. Then I slowly unbuttoned Joe’s nice blue shirt and let it fall from my shoulders.

“I USED TO HAVE a pig like this one,” Joe said as we leaned over the pigpen fence that evening.

“Come on! You’re from Queens.”

“There are backyards in Queens, Linds. Our pig’s name was Alphonse Pignole, and we fed him pasta and sautéed escarole topped off with a hit of Cinzano. Which he loved.”

“You’re making this up!”

“Nope.”

“What happened to him?”

“Ate him at one of our famous Molinari family pig roasts. With apple sauce.”

Joe saw the look of disbelief on my face.

“Okay, that part was a lie. When I went to college, Al got a great home in upstate New York. Let me show you something.”

He reached for a rake that was leaning against the pig house, and Penelope began grunting and woofling as soon as she saw it.

Joe grunted and woofled right back.

“Pig Latin,” he said, grinning over his shoulder.

He reached the rake over the fence and scratched Penelope’s back with it. She dropped to her knees and with a pleasurable groan rolled over onto her back and stuck her legs in the air.

“Your talents know no bounds,” I said. “By the way, I think you’re entitled to three wishes.”

THE WANING SUN WAS streaking the sky as Joe, Martha, and I had our dinner out on the deck facing the bay. I’d used my mom’s barbecue sauce recipe on the chicken, and we followed it up with a pint each of Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey.

We sat nestled together for hours, listening to the crickets and music on the radio, watching the candle flames do the mambo in the soft, sultry breeze.

Later, we slept in snatches, waking up to reach for each other, to laugh together, to make love. We ate chocolate-chip cookies, swapped memories of our dreams, and fell back to sleep, our limbs entwined.

At dawn, Joe’s cell phone brought the rest of the world crashing back. Joe said, “Yes, sir. Will do,” and snapped the phone shut.

He opened his arms and folded me back in. I reached up and kissed his neck.

“So. When is the car coming for you?”

“Couple of minutes.”

Joe didn’t exaggerate. I had 120 seconds to watch him dress in the dark room, one lone ray of light slipping beneath the window shades to show me how sad he looked as he left me.

“Don’t get up,” Joe said as I pushed back the covers. He drew them up to my chin. He kissed me about eleven times: my lips, cheeks, eyes.

“By the way, I got my three wishes.”

“Which were?”

“Not telling, but one of them was the Cherry Garcia.”

I laughed. I kissed him.

“Love you, Lindsay.”

“Love you, too, Joe.”

“I’ll call you.”

I didn’t ask when.

THE THREE OF THEM gathered at the Coffee Bean early that morning, settling into deck chairs on the stone terrace, a wall of fog obscuring their view of the bay. They were alone out there, conversing intensely, discussing murder.

The one called the Truth, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, turned to the others and said, “Okay. Run it by me again.”

The Watcher studiously read from his notebook, citing the times, the habits, his conclusions about the O’Malleys.

The Seeker didn’t need to be sold. The family was his discovery and he was glad the Watcher’s investigation had confirmed his instincts. He began to whistle the old blues standard “Crossroads”—until the Truth shot him a look.

The Truth had a slight build but a weighty presence.

“You make good points,” said the Truth. “But I’m not convinced.”

The Watcher became agitated. He pulled at the collar of his crewneck sweater, riffled through the photographs. He stabbed the close-ups with his finger, circled details with his pen.

“It’s a good beginning,” said the Seeker, coming to the Watcher’s defense.

The Truth waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Don’t jerk me around. Get me the goods.” Then, “Let’s order.”

The waitress named Maddie pranced out onto the terrace in skinny hip-huggers and a tank top that exposed a smooth expanse of tummy.

“That’s what I call a belly-blinker,” said the Seeker, his charm overshadowed by the hunger in his eyes.

Maddie gave him a wan smile before refilling their coffee mugs. Then she pulled out her order pad and took the Truth’s order: scrambled eggs, bacon, and a freshly baked cinnamon bun.

The Seeker and the Watcher ordered, too, but unlike the Truth, they only picked at their food when it came. They continued to speak in muted voices.

Working the angles.

Trying it on.

The Truth stared into the fog, listening intently as a plan finally came together.

THE DAY UNFURLED LIKE a yellow beach blanket. It was a terrible shame that Joe wasn’t here to share it with me.

I whistled Martha into the car, and we headed into town for provisions. As we sped along Cabrillo Highway, I saw the sign: Bayside School, Department of Child Welfare, State of California.

The big blue Victorian house loomed large on my right side. On an impulse, I pulled the car into the parking area.

I sat for a long moment, taking in the house, the playground, the tall chain-link fence. Then I locked the car and walked up a gravel pathway to a heavy oak door.

A very overweight black woman, probably in her midthirties, answered the bell.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Dr. Brown.”

“Come on in. She’s in the teachers’ lounge. I’m Maya Abboud. I’m one of the teachers here.”

“What kind of school is this?” I asked as I followed her through dark, narrow hallways and up two flights of stairs.

“The state stashes runaways here, mostly. These kids are the lucky ones.”

We passed small classrooms, a TV lounge, and dozens of children from very small ones to adolescents. It was a far cry from Oliver Twist, but still, that all of these children were essentially homeless was sad and troubling.