Between Friends (4 page)

After Hurricane Charley came through in 2004, I cried more for the downed trees on Crayton than I did for our own damaged roof and mangled pool cage. Letty and I spent that one in the master bedroom closet, while Benny roamed the house, cursing the wind and the dark and the screaming of screws and bolts ripping out of concrete and stucco.

Enough time had passed that I was hard-pressed to remember which yards had had the trees and which hadn’t, and there were enough left that it was still the most relaxing drive in Naples. I passed by Cora’s house and slowed, as I always did.

She had a company that stopped in once a month to check the shutters, take care of the pool, and ensure everything was okay, but Benny drove by regularly to check too—though I think sometimes he just enjoyed the fact that she wasn’t in town—and I always cast a critical eye over the property, looking for anything that might need attention.

The inspections were voluntary and even a bit surreptitious. They were my own private way of keeping my childhood close. Our little town had changed so much, but there were still pockets that maintained the dignity of restraint, dwindling every day, true, but still there if you knew where to look.

Cora’s place was a holdout, a squat old Florida house with concrete tiles on the roof from the 1960s. New, Mediterranean-style homes rose up on either side of it like monoliths. I knew Cora had been offered plenty of money to sell years ago when the real estate boom was in full swing, but she told me that she’d never considered it.

Everything looked buttoned up tight, the edge of the lawn straight, no palm fronds battering the roof. All was as it should be.

There were two cars in the lot when I arrived at the music shop, and though I wasn’t late, I was apologizing to Simon before I’d shut my door.

“Don’t worry about it, Ali,” he said, grinning at me as his student slowly got out of the other car.

I flushed. I should never have noticed how handsome Simon was, but it couldn’t be helped. And it certainly hadn’t escaped my notice that he flirted with me, despite not having flirted myself since I was about twenty.

The student’s mother remained in the driver’s seat with the door closed. I could see the outline of her with a cell phone to her ear behind the dark tint.

“Ali, this is Laura, my star pupil,” Simon said, pulling the girl out from behind him. She looked up at me only briefly from behind a veil of dark hair, her eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second.

“Hi, Laura. I have some beautiful cellos for you to look at. Shall we go in?” I asked, casting a glance at her mother again. She continued talking on her phone, though, to be fair, all of us were still technically early.

“Sure, we can look around,” Simon said, not bothering to see where the mother was. Laura said nothing.

I left them in the front while I turned the lights on, and by the time I returned Simon was already looking at the cellos I’d pulled out for them the night before. I didn’t keep many in stock—they’re about as convenient to store as a tuba—but I had one in particular I thought would be perfect for her skill level.

This was my favorite part of the business. My parents opened the store when I was just an infant, and I learned to walk by grasping the low metal shelving that held musical scores. I dabbled in guitar when I was in middle school, and I still tooled around on it when things were slow, but other than that I didn’t know how to play an instrument.

I didn’t need to make my own music; my skill was in helping others make theirs. I’d gotten to the point that I could tell what instrument a customer played, or wanted to play, instantly.

Laura had surprised me, though. I’d have pegged her for flute, maybe French horn.

But when she sat and Simon placed the Eastman before her, everything seemed to elongate, and she stretched tall, and became a cellist right in front of my eyes. She began tuning, and even I, without a gift for perfect pitch, could hear that she had it. Once her preparations were done, she was still, her eyes closed. Simon winked at me and silently mouthed, “Wait.”

As soon as she opened her eyes, she tucked her head and the prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 filled the store. It wasn’t perfect, but it was perfectly haunting, and I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with air that suddenly seemed clear and dry and cool. She stopped abruptly, and I opened my eyes to see Simon adjusting her bow.

“Hang on,” I said, taking advantage of the break. I grabbed the Doetsch 701 I’d had for two years. I rarely brought it out. I was the main supplier of instruments for our local youth orchestras and schools, but despite the fact that Naples was a wealthy town, most students never achieved the level that would prompt their parents to spring for an instrument like the Doetsch.

Laura went through her preparations with it, glancing at me appreciatively when she heard its silken tone, and then started the prelude again. Simon and I looked at each other triumphantly. This was the instrument for the girl, no question.

As she played he spoke to me in low tones, merely confirming the price but making me feel as if we were in a shadowy bar whispering over a candlelit table. I’d never seen him speak to another woman, but I assumed this was simply part of his personality, that he was barely aware of it.

Simon and I were so lost in enjoying the music that we didn’t hear the car door slam, but Laura must have been paying attention, because just before the bells on the door chimed she stopped playing, and her mother entered the shop.

“So,” she said, barely glancing my way. “We find something?”

“Your daughter plays beautifully,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied, but there was no warmth or pride in her voice. “Where are we at?”

“Within your budget,” Simon replied.

“Okay, let’s wrap this up then,” she said, nodding at Laura. She dug in her purse and pulled out a credit card just as her cell phone rang again. She handed the card to me and made a circling gesture, indicating the whole store. I looked questioningly at Simon as she turned away and walked back out the door.

“Strings, case, everything,” he said, while Laura began tuning the Doetsch again. I followed him around the store as he picked up all the accessories and rang up the order. Simon took the receipt outside for the woman to sign. She rolled the window down and signed it on her steering wheel, as if he’d just pumped her gas, and never took the phone from her ear.

The purchase was probably less than the mother spent on shoes in a week, but it covered my expenses for the month. It was the most thrilling part of having your own business, hitting what my father liked to call the “gravy mark.” Once you hit it, everything after that was gravy.

As they left, Laura turned back at the door and said, “Thank you,” in a clear, distinct voice, filled with the genuine warmth her mother lacked. I told her to come back anytime, and she smiled as the door shut behind her. I stared after her, comparing her to Letty. I should have asked where she went to school, though I’d be willing to bet that Laura went to a private school.

I’d tried to interest Letty in music, even forced her to take piano lessons for a few years, but nothing ever took. She learned to walk at the mall, pushing her own stroller. I placed my hand low on my belly imagining another baby growing inside me, smiling at the thought of being pregnant again.

Letty checked in with me when she got home from school, and I promised to bring her home Thai food for dinner, feeling generous about my bright, pretty daughter, thinking that she’d make a wonderful older sister.

I left early, skipping my drive down Crayton, anxious to get the food and get home. Tonight I wouldn’t be put off by Benny. Hitting the gravy mark felt auspicious, and I was looking forward to sitting with Benny in the backyard and talking about our new lives.

She hardly remembered how they got to her room. Well, that wasn’t really true. She’d brought Seth there, feeling really excited, walking backward and pulling him with her, but when she was close enough to breathe him in, she barely remembered her own name. They had more than an hour and it seemed like forever, but also not enough time to really get in any trouble.

He pulled away before she got him through the door, making her face redden, as if she were acting desperate.

“My mom’s not going to be home for a while,” she protested.

“It’s not your mom I’m worried about, baby.”

“My dad?”

“You think? Damn, I don’t feel like gettin’ popped. I’m gonna find a place for us.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling uneasy for the first time. She felt okay in his car and in her house, but she wasn’t sure she should go to
a place for us
.

“I can’t keep staying at Paul’s, his mom’s getting tired of me.”

“How long have you been there?”

He shrugged. “Week or so.”

She thought back over the past month and the different friends he’d said he was staying with. “Do you go home at all anymore? Doesn’t your father get mad that you’re not there?”

He laughed and kissed her and didn’t answer.

“We could check out that house,” he said.

“What house?”

“That empty one you showed me. Come on, you didn’t take me there by accident.”

She blushed again, and he turned around and left her in the hallway.

“Wait, Seth . . .”

He was looking out the front window, cracking the plantation shutters, then snapping them back up.

“So when’s he supposed to be home?” Seth asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, after my mom.”

“Where’s he keep his guns and stuff?” he asked, setting off toward the master bedroom.

She hurried after him. Her dad had a safe he kept his guns in. She’d never known the combination, so she wasn’t worried about Seth getting it open, but still, she didn’t want him bothering anything. She knew her parents would know. Her dad had been a cop since before she was born. He knew everything.

Almost everything.

He didn’t know about Seth, but only because he hadn’t thought to ask.

Seth was already in the closet, looking at the safe.

“It’s locked, it always is,” she told him, listening for the sound of her mom’s car even though she wasn’t due home. He didn’t turn around, just ran his hands around the outside of the safe, like he was looking for a hidden catch or something.

“Come on,” she said, tugging at him. He turned in her arms, and finally,
finally
, bent to kiss her. She started moving out of the closet, tugging him with her. Just when he took over, pushing her toward the door rather than her pulling him toward it, he stopped, and she opened her eyes to see what had caught his attention.

“What’s this?” he asked, nodding his head toward the wall filled with all the stupid articles, all framed like they were works of art.

She sighed. It always had to be talked about. She gave the canned story she’d been giving practically since she could talk. She could say
sperm
and
egg
and
uterus
more easily than most adults.

“No shit?” he asked.

She didn’t reply.

He moved down the line, scanning them and then coming back to the
People
cover. He stared at it for a minute and then looked at her critically, squinting.

“Yeah, you look like her, I see it.”

“I do not,” she protested. She didn’t look like Cora. Did she? She hadn’t looked at the picture in a really long time, but she wasn’t going to stand there and inspect it. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and she backed up toward the bed.

“Are you going to look at me up there, or right here?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

And then he wasn’t looking at the clippings anymore. He walked over, really slow, like he had all the time in the world. It was hard to breathe sometimes when she looked at him. He got right up in front of her and pushed her onto the edge of the bed, making her sit, so she was looking at the middle of his T-shirt, his belt buckle just a few inches below her chin, and her heart sped up.

Just as he started to smile the house shook slightly, and then the rumble of the garage door opening changed her freak-out to total panic. Seth looked wildly around.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Is that your dad?”

She pointed to the master bath. “There’s a door to the pool—”

She didn’t even finish and he was on his way. She cringed, waiting for the screen door to slam, but Seth wasn’t stupid, and she saw a shadow slip past the window before she even got out of the bedroom. She was in the kitchen when her mom came through the garage door and into the laundry room with Thai takeout in her hands and a big smile on her face.

“Hi, punkin,” she said.

Her knees felt weak. She wasn’t going to
punkin
her if she suspected anything.

“Thought I’d knock off a little early, spend some time with you.” She would have loved that a year, six months ago. Spending time with her meant they went shopping, they got manicures and pedicures. But really, she didn’t want to spend time with her mom anymore. She wanted to spend time with Seth.