Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) (43 page)

She smiled back. “Really?” she asked, challenging me.

“What?”

She hesitated, and then said, “I think of all the people I know, I’m closer to you than I am to anyone—even closer than I am with my sister and my mom—or at least, a different kind of close. And I think you feel the same way, right?”

“You know how I feel about you,” I said. “No one knows me the way you do, that’s true. And I think I understand you pretty well, although you’re probably way more complicated than I am.”

“You’re a man. That goes without saying,” she said, smiling. “Anyway, I think you might call us best friends, agreed?”

“Of course,” I said.

“And best friends are honest with each other, right?”

“Agreed.”

“Then listen to me. Danny, I know you. I know what this has meant to you. I know what you’re going through. You may think you’re okay, but you’re not. I think you’ve got some healing to do.”

I shrugged.

“Maybe you should take a few days off. I can run things in the office for a while. We’ve got these three little surveillance cases, and they’re all easy. The boys and I’ll finish them up over the course of the next week. You should take the Jeepster and head out to the forest. You seem to like it out there. You do well out there.”

I thought about it. I hadn’t had a day off in over a month. A week between jobs might be nice. I could load up some camping gear and drive up to the Olympic National Park. Take my guitar and find a quiet spot where the only sound was my music, the wind in the trees, and the running water. And mosquitoes the size of blue jays, but that was just a recreational hazard that you had to get used to. I agreed, the trip sounded like a good idea. Only one thing might make it better.

“Come with me,” I said. “You haven’t had a day off in God knows how long either. I could use the company.”

She looked at me and smiled. “You’re not thinking straight, Danny,” she said.

“Why?”

“For starters, you’re forgetting a few things,” she said.

She waited for me, so I said, “What?”

“We’re friends, remember? We work together. I think neither of us wants to take a chance at screwing that up.”

I nodded. If I were thinking straight, I’d have probably agreed.

“Besides,” she said, “even if I didn’t work for you, I’m no rebound baby. If you want me, you’d have to do it properly. Not ‘someone dumps you, and you turn to Toni’ or ‘someone dies, and you turn to Toni’—no disrespect to Gina. You need time to get your head straight all by yourself, not twisted around by me or anyone else. You need to do this on your own.”

I was quiet for a few seconds as I thought about it. She was probably right, at least about her last point. “Can’t blame me for bringing it up,” I said.

She smiled at me. “I don’t,” she said. “In fact, I’m flattered.”

Chapter 29

I LEFT THE
next morning at eight. Courtesy of the army, I’m able to pack quickly and efficiently. It took about ten minutes to load up the Jeep with tent, sleeping bag, my Martin D-28 guitar, and my backpack. One more sack of supplies, and I was on my way. I’d called Toni the night before and thanked her for what she’d said and for being my friend in general. She deserved that and more from me. Much more.

I told her I’d take the Edmonds–Kingston ferry to Highway 104, and then take that to the 101. Highway 101 circled the top of the Olympic Peninsula and would take me to the park’s main entrance at Hurricane Ridge near Port Angeles. My intent was to drive all the way back to Lake Mills and then find a nearby camping spot on the shores of the lake. It was remote enough that even on Labor Day weekend, I should be able to find a nice quiet spot all to myself. I’d be home on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. On the way, I’d be damn certain to skirt Port Townsend. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to visit there again.

I didn’t tell Toni that I was going to stop first at Gas Works Park on the way. In fact, I didn’t even think of stopping until I pulled out of my condo, but the damned Jeep seemed to have a mind of its own. It turned north on Westlake, crossed the Fremont Bridge, and then hung a quick right on Northlake. Three minutes later, I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot at Gas Works. I locked up and walked to the park entrance.

Because of the hour, the park was very quiet, only a few people out. A young couple held hands and sat on the grassy slope, staring at the water without speaking. An elderly lady threw crumbs to a flock of Canada geese, the birds honking excitedly around her. I walked past and made my way south down the hill to the water’s edge. I found the exact bench where Gina and I sat on Thanksgiving Day, almost six years ago. I had a seat. I looked south over the water and took in the vista. I thought about everything that had happened over the past few weeks, particularly last Sunday and Monday. My emotions were completely jumbled. As I remembered Gina, tears formed in my eyes.

“We used to sit on that bench together.”

I looked quickly to the side. The old woman who’d been feeding the geese was talking to me. She was plainly dressed in neatly pressed khaki slacks and a dark green jacket.

“I was saying,” she repeated, when I didn’t respond, “that we used to sit on that bench, together, my Harold and I.”

“Really?” I asked, wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry. Would you like to have a seat here now?” I started to get up.

“Sit down,” she ordered, waving me down. She sat on the edge of the bench and looked at the water. Then she turned to me. “You know, Harold and I sat right on this very bench fifty-five years ago,” she said. “He proposed to me, sitting right where you’re sitting now. Told me he didn’t have a penny to his name, but that he was dedicating himself to making me happy for the rest of my life. And he did, too. Leastwise, for the rest of his life, anyway. Harold’s been gone since 1998 now, but I still come here, and I remember. For me, this will always be a happy place. I come here often.”

I smiled. “That’s a nice story. What’s your name?”

“I’m Helen. Helen MacReedy,” she answered.

“Hi, Helen,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Danny Logan.”

“Hello, Danny Logan. I’m glad to meet you,” she said, shaking my hand.

“Believe it or not,” I said, “this bench has special meaning for me, too. Six years ago, I spent three weeks with a girl who I’d known in passing in high school five years before that. I had to go away for a bit, and she and I spent some time on our last day together on this very bench. Be six years this Thanksgiving Day.”

“Really? Was it a happy time?”

“It was very happy. We didn’t know what was going to happen between us. Turned out we ended up not getting back together afterwards. I was in the army then, and I had to go one way, and she went another. Our three weeks together was all we had. Then, by chance, we managed to reconnect for one day last week. Last Sunday. And the next day, she died. We buried her yesterday morning.”

“Oh, my,” she said. She considered this for a minute, and then said, “That’s a very sad story, Danny. I’m very sorry for you.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be okay,” I said, nodding again. “Thanks for asking. I’ve got good friends—people who care about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you look like a very strong, handsome young man,” she said. “I can give you a couple of pieces of advice from an old woman who’s been through the crap, as they say,” she said, “but only if you’re interested in hearing them. I don’t want to barge in where I’m not wanted.”

I smiled. “Feel free, Helen,” I said. “I could use some good advice.”

“First off,” she said, “you’ve heard it before, but time really does help to soothe the pain of passing. When Harold died, it hurt, believe you me. But I had two things working against me that you don’t have to deal with. First, Harold and I were together more than forty years—most of my adult life. He’s all I ever knew. When Harold died, I felt like half of me had just been ripped out. I’d really never even been on my own. It took a long time to get over that. In your case, although you might not feel it now, your recovery will be much easier simply because you weren’t together very long.”

I nodded.

“And second,” she said, “when Harold died, I was sixty-three years old. I suppose I could have remarried, but I’d already had a full life with Harold. I had a history that I was comfortable with, and I didn’t want to add another chapter with someone new. Too damned hard to train one man—I sure didn’t want to have to go through it all over again. Besides, I never was much of a looker—starting over might have been a problem for me. You, on the other hand, you look like a movie star.”

I laughed. “Helen, you’re beautiful now. Fifteen years ago, you must have been a knockout. If we were even close to the same age, I’d be asking you for a date right this second.”

She laughed. “Smart aleck. I was never that smooth with the words, either,” she said. “So you’re what, thirty years old?”

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“Twenty-nine,” she waved her hand at me dismissively. “You’re still a baby. You’re not even broken in yet. You’re just about the right age to find yourself a nice young woman and settle down—find someone to train you. Your whole life is still in front of you. Trust me, Danny Logan, you’re going to be fine.”

She got up. “I’ve got to go. I have a date every Saturday morning, and I can see he just got here.”

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in a new man?” I asked.

“I said I wasn’t interested in getting remarried. See that old man over there?”

I looked and saw a tall, silver-haired man walking toward us. “Yes,” I said.

“That’s Adam. He meets me here on Saturday mornings, and we feed the geese. We’re not getting married,” she said, “we just fool around. Big difference.”

I laughed.

“Good luck to you, young man. Remember, God built you to face forward, not backward. Your future is in front of you, not behind.”

I smiled. “Thanks for the advice, Helen. It was good advice. You have a nice morning.”

“You too, Danny,” she said, turning to walk off. Suddenly, she stopped and turned back. “Hey, Danny Logan,” she said, “I saw you on the TV news a couple of nights ago. You looked good then, but you’re even more handsome in person.” She waved, then turned around and left.

~~~~

I chuckled to myself. First Toni last night, and now Helen this morning. How could I feel bad?

After she walked away to join Adam, I turned to look south, out over Lake Union. Funny how on the one hand, the view had barely changed at all in six years; yet on the other hand, it was profoundly different. The water looked the same as it did six years ago. The city to the south was the same. I-5 still framed the view on the east, and the houseboats where
Sleepless in Seattle
was filmed still framed the view on the west.

Yet today, everything was different. Six years ago, I was holding Gina, wondering how I could be so lucky, still unaware that we were not destined for each other. At that moment, six years ago, everything seemed perfect.

Today, not so perfect. More real, more pure, more ups and downs, more joys and hurts, but not perfect. I guess that’s what you get when life happens. You get bashed. You get knocked down. And, if you’re made of the right stuff, you get back up, wiser for the experience. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.

Gina was gone, and I was sad. But, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. It hurt, but at least according to Helen, one day it wouldn’t. For me, I guess it was time to think about getting back up.

PART 4

Chapter 30

FOUR MONTHS PASSED
—four months in which I grew accustomed to the fact that Gina was gone. Toni and Helen had been right—time was beginning to patch over the hurt. I hadn’t had a bad dream in over a month. Christmas 2011 came and went, and now we were four days into the new year. Life fell back into something of a normal rhythm. We’d been able to pick up a half-dozen new cases: mostly simple surveillances plus one skiptrace. They paid a little, but if Angelo Fiore hadn’t called me and told me to keep the balance of his retainer—that I didn’t owe him any kind of refund—we’d have been hurting. I objected when he said this, but he insisted. Oh well, it came at a good time. As it was, I was starting to get a little nervous. I had personal cash reserves, but I wanted to keep them in reserve. One thing I never had to worry about in the army was meeting a payroll. It’s not my favorite part of owning the agency.

In fact, it would be nice to get lucky and stumble onto a “gold mine” case—one that paid so well that I wouldn’t ever have to sweat paying the rent again. I have a few friends who are PIs. One of them did some work for a software company some time ago. He was paid in the form of a stock option because they were tight on cash. Then his client went public. Overnight, he was wealthy. Today, he works only because he likes it. He sure as hell doesn’t need to work. I should be so lucky.

On the good news front, Toni and I were fine again—back to our old selves. We talked and laughed and joked and occasionally hung out a little together. I still didn’t really feel like going out with anybody romantically, so mostly, I just stayed home. Sometimes, Toni would come over, and we’d drink a few beers and listen to music. It was mostly too cold and usually too wet to sit out on the balcony now, so instead we’d just sit around inside and hang out—maybe watch a movie. She continued to go out on dates with the gay football player when he had time, and I continued to tease her about it. She took it well.

Overall, I was content. On Wednesday morning, January the fourth at ten, I sat at my desk, reading the
Seattle Times
. Outside, it was pouring. Not the usual Seattle drizzle—this was real honest-to-God rain like they get in the Carolinas. Big, heavy, wet drops the size of small water balloons. A couple of direct hits, and you were soaked. It was cool—probably mid-thirties, and it was blustery. All in all, a good day to be indoors. I sipped my coffee and looked outside and watched the rain.