The Book of James (26 page)

It was like he’d taken an arrow and shot me in the gut. “No.

Nothing like me.”

“Because I can’t imagine two of you.”

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“Let me get going. Go to bed.” I backed up. He watched me

for a few moments without saying anything. We were facing each

other. He looked like he was going to say or do something. “What?”

I asked.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

He shrugged and walked back to his house.

Samantha and I sat in my Jeep in front of Dylan’s house. I’d been at the Philadelphia International Airport to meet her seven-thirty arrival that evening. She was going to be staying with Dylan,

although something about it made me a little uneasy. Samantha

was in between boyfriends. She’d been involved with this derma-

tologist, and it had seemed like they were fairly serious. He was tal , blond, good looking, drove a nice car. But I knew from the

beginning that it wouldn’t last. Dermatology wasn’t the most exciting profession, even though it came with the title of doctor.

The periods between Samantha’s relationships usual y lasted a

few months at the most, and they were hallmarked by a frenzy of

dating. She was out all the time, socializing with friends at bars, and would inevitably meet men. I remembered one period when

she had a different date every day and sometimes two per day

on the weekend. If she wasn’t working, she was out somewhere.

Eventual y she’d get tired of all the pointless parties and settle on one guy. That was the beginning of the relationship phase. But

even then she kept one eye open for other possibilities.

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I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. Samantha didn’t ask

why we were just sitting in the car instead of going in. I guess she figured I had my reasons. Dylan’s car was in the driveway, and he was expecting us at some point tonight.

“You look good,” she said, breaking our silence. “You’ve lost

weight, you know. Look at those pants you’re wearing.” They were

a little loose.

“Stress’ll do it.” It was so nice to have someone familiar close

by. We’d spent the drive from the airport just chatting about nothing in particular.

“So tell me about Dylan,” she said.

“He’s the lawyer handling Nick’s estate.”

“And?”

“He was nice enough to let you stay with him for a few days, so

please, be a good guest, don’t take advantage of him.”

“Take advantage of him how?” She grinned. “Is he cute?”

I glanced over at her. “He’s okay.”

“Ohhh.” She stretched out the word. “Topic off-limits.”

I knew her so wel . She’d drop it for now, but it’d come up

again before the night was over. I took a deep breath and got out of the car. Samantha carried her bag and followed behind me. I

felt like pushing her back into the Jeep and taking her to the nearest hotel. She hadn’t ever purposely taken a boyfriend from me

or even openly competed for attention. Stil , I’d gotten my heart broken a few times over the years.

Dylan
wasn’t
my boyfriend, I reminded myself. We were just friends, and we had a nice dynamic going. But I knew that the

minute he opened that door and saw Samantha, that dynamic

would be altered permanently. I’d be leaving them together, alone.

Night after night. In the same house. It was just natural they’d be drawn to each other—and they
would
look good together. Both tal , attractive.

214

ELLEN J. GREEN

The front door opened and I made the introductions as we

stepped inside. “Dylan, Samantha. Samantha, Dylan.”

Dylan smiled. He took her in. She took him in. He took her

bag. We all sat down. Samantha crossed her long legs and slipped

out of her leather jacket, holding it in her lap. Her hair had gotten long, and I could see she’d highlighted it, making the already blonde hairs almost white. When she woke up that morning I

guess she’d decided that her tightest pale-pink cashmere sweater

would make real y good travel clothing. She was one of the only

thin women I’d ever seen in person who still had breasts and an

ass. Right at that moment I hated her.

Dylan jumped up to take her coat from her. “Do you have any-

thing to drink, Dylan?” I asked. I wandered into the kitchen and

turned on the light. I opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.

“Help yourself,” Dylan called from the living room.

I pulled the cap off and swallowed from the bottle. Dark beer.

Guinness Stout. It was bitter, but I didn’t care. I started to leave the kitchen when I heard Dylan say, “Do you want anything,

Samantha?” and then her voice and then high-pitched laughter.

I wandered into the bathroom, shut the door, and leaned against

it. A few days, a week tops, and I’d be out of here, back home in Portland. Everything and everyone associated with this adventure

would be just a memory.

I looked at myself. My hair was down. It didn’t look too bad.

My cheekbones were a little more pronounced because I’d lost

some weight. I wasn’t bad looking, real y. Then why did I feel so ugly and out of sorts? I took another swallow of beer and then

banged my head lightly against the mirror. What was wrong with

me? I was attracted to Dylan, but then I probably had the potential to be attracted to a lot of people. I wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Everything inside me was a jangled mess.

I could hear more laughter from the living room. I had that

feeling you get right before you start to cry—but I refused to sit in THE BOOK
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this bathroom and feel sorry for myself. I ran my hands through

my hair and opened the door.

Samantha and Dylan had their backs to me. They were stand-

ing in the doorway of the kitchen, chatting, and hadn’t even missed me. If I tiptoed, I could sneak out with no one the wiser.

Dylan turned suddenly and grabbed my arm. “I need to talk

to you.”

He pulled me over and sat me down on the couch. “I have info

for you about the picture. I emailed around and final y got in touch with Phillip Simmons. He lives out in Seattle now. He remembered

when that was taken.”

He sat down next to me. “Phillip’s mother dropped him and

his friend Jim Durham off at the law office that day. Phillip’s father was supposed to take them home with him, but something happened, he got delayed, whatever. Bradford was headed to Cora’s

to see Nick, and so Phillip’s father asked him to take the boys with him. They were only at Cora’s for a little while. He doesn’t know anything else, who took the picture or who the other child is.” I started to open my mouth. “You can’t ask Jim. He died that summer. That’s why I didn’t recognize him.”

“Jim—James. He died? How?”

Dylan frowned. “A bunch of older boys took him to the

Wissahickon Creek park. There’s a swimming spot. Devil’s Pool.

Cliff. Deep water. No one was watching, and he drowned.”

“Let me think. All we know is that something about that pic-

ture is important. It’s not Nick. Why burn that one when she had

hundreds of others? I don’t think it’s Phillip. He’s been living out west and is irrelevant. So it’s either Jim, who died that summer. Or the other one.”

“The other one is a toddler. You can only see half of his face.

Phillip said a young woman was taking care of him. He only

remembers that much because of what happened to Jim that

summer.”

216

ELLEN J. GREEN

“Damn. Of all the luck . . .”

Dylan put his hand on mine. “Let me take on this part of the

mystery. I’ll ask around about the drowning, get more info on

Durham, get something on the toddler, see what I come up with?”

I nodded. Samantha had been listening quietly, drinking her

vodka and orange juice, pretending to be mesmerized by the cover

of a coffee-table book. She knew I’d fill her in later.

—

I stretched out on my back on the queen-sized bed, looking at the ceiling.

Samantha lay down next to me. Her legs nearly reached the

end of the bed. There was only one pillow, so we shared it, the sides of our heads nearly touching. “So, what’s the story with him?”

I knew it was coming. “He’s been very nice to me since I got

here. Who knows why? Maybe he feels sorry for me.”

“Don’t think so,” she responded. “He’s not the type to put him-

self out like this on pity alone.”

I laughed. “How do you know?”

“I know people, and I know men even better. He’s curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“About you. So tell me. What have you two been doing?”

“Nothing, Sam. Talking. That’s al . Oh, and he went out to see

the gardener with me.”

“And you think he’s doing this because . . .”

“I like him. Is that what you want to hear?”

“And?”

“And if things were a little different I might be interested in

him, but—”

“Oh, please don’t say the
N
word. I can’t listen.” She put her hands over her ears.

“What
N
word?”

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“Nick. You had to make me say it, didn’t you?” At that moment

I rolled my head over to look at her, and the sides of our faces collided. Dylan chose that moment to open the door. He looked at us

for a second, muttered something, and then shut the door quickly.

I burst out laughing. “Wel , my chances are ruined now. He

thinks we’re lesbians.”

Samantha grabbed my arm. “No. He’d like that. All you have to

do is wait about five minutes and start moaning real y loud, he’ll be in his bedroom jacking—”

“Shut up. Please.” We were laughing so hard I’m sure he

could’ve heard us all the way outside the house. It took effort to get up.

“I’ll be here around ten in the morning. We’re going to the

historical society.”

She sat up. “You just ruined the best laugh I’ve had in months.”

“It’ll be fun. I promise.”

I found Dylan outside on his patio.

“I wanted to say thank you again. For letting Samantha stay

here,” I said. He was looking at my shirt. I looked down. One button had come undone.

“Hey, no problem.”

I buttoned my shirt, but he kept looking at me. Maybe

Samantha was right. “I was thinking of going to the historical society tomorrow. Do you remember if they have a layout of the house

or anything like that?”

“What?”

He was distracted and I’m not sure he even heard me. “A lay-

out of the house?” I looked at him and smiled. “Never mind.” I patted his arm and went out through the side gate. I glanced back and he was watching me, his head turned to the side with this peculiar smile on his face. I couldn’t help but laugh all the way home.

Samantha was up when I got there the next day. She was still in

sweats, drinking a cup of coffee. We sat at the kitchen table, and she poured me a cup.

“Did you see Dylan this morning?” I asked.

“No. He left early. He left me this note”—she tossed a piece of

paper at me—“and had coffee already made.”

“He thinks we were screwing around up there last night, you

know. I could see it in his face when I left.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “It can only add to your

allure.”

“I’m going to say something to him when I get a chance.”

“There’s something wrong with you. You can stay in that house

with that old woman, wander through those tunnels, and that

doesn’t bother you, but playing a little joke on Dylan, that gets you upset?”

I shrugged.

She smiled and stretched out in her chair. “You forget how

long I’ve known you. I know what you were thinking last night.

You came here and met Dylan. The two of you have been flirting

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over the past week or so. You were kind of playing with the idea of being with him. Maybe just a little bit. In between your moments

of guilt, that is.” I opened my mouth to say something, but she put up her hand. “Let me finish. And then I come along and you were

thinking he’d take one look at me and forget all about you. That’s why we sat out there in the car for over a half hour before we came in.” She stopped talking and I just looked at her. “You can’t say anything because I’m right. But it didn’t happen. And personal y

I couldn’t care less if he thinks we’re screwing around, and you

shouldn’t either. In fact, if I knew it wouldn’t bother you, I’d purposely do things to give him that idea.”

I took a long sip of coffee. “And why is that?”

She shrugged. “It’s funny, and it breaks things up.” She laughed.

“The question then isn’t whether it’s going to be you and him or me and him. It’s going to be you and me. Shut him out in the cold.

Make him jealous.”

“And you say there’s something wrong with
me
?”

“Mackenzie, you crack me up. If he real y believes that we were

doing something up there last night, you won’t have to say a word; he’ll say something to you about it. Trust me.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because. He’s the type that would find it real y interesting,

and he’d want to talk to you about it, see if he could join in.” She stood up. “I’m going to take a quick shower and get dressed. Are

you sure we have to go to the historical society? Can’t we just go shopping or something?”

“No.”

“Bitch,” she muttered as she went up the stairs.

The Chestnut Hill Historical Society was right on Germantown