The Devil's Redhead (55 page)

She rested her cheek against his arm. “Poor, sad, fucked-up Frank.”

He flinched a little at her tone, and caught himself again wanting to say, I didn't want …, or some such, but she beat him to it. “If I had a nickel for every good intention gone bad,” she said, “we'd be set for life. Good intentions gone bad and people I never meant to hurt.”

He trolled her backward around the pool, glancing up at Ed and Polly on the bleachers. They sat close, sharing the Sunday funnies, him in his street clothes, her wrapped in a towel. Suddenly they laughed out loud, knocking against each other, rattling the comics between them. Shel glanced up then, too.

“Polly's been the queen's kid sister,” she said. “Even helps me dress sometimes, when I'm just … such a klutz. I feel stupid. And Eddy, God. Eddy's been stellar.”

“It's his nature,” Abatangelo said.

“If anything happens to them,” she said, “I'll never forgive myself.”

Abatangelo kissed her hair. It smelled of chlorine and shampoo. “They're not here,” he said, “because it's easy. It'd be nice if we could wish the risks away, but we can't.”

“We could disappear.” The words came out rushed, hopeless. “Leave them out of it.”

“You tried that once, remember? Where'd it get you?”

“It's not fair,” Shel said. “Not for them. I'm serious, Danny.”

“Everybody's serious,” he responded, “and everybody's scared. Too bad that's no excuse. If people care about you, return the favor. Love them back. Have the guts to be grateful, make it worth their while. Running's chickenshit and there's no guarantee it'll protect anybody, anyway. I realize, like a lot of sound advice, that's easy to say and hard to live by and doesn't seem to solve much, but …”

He tightened his grip around her and kept moving, kissing her hair again. Swirling the water with her feet, she watched the froth dissolve behind her and settled back against his arms, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing. In time, he lay his cheek against her hair and hummed a tune she couldn't quite place at first. Gradually, it came to her—it was one of the songs he'd sung that night at his flat, when he dropped her into the tub of scalding water and nursed her. A comical song, except now she detected sadness in it. Not tragic or crazy-making or wrong. Gentle. True. Maybe it's the way he's humming it, she thought, or just your imagination, or these pills. Then again, maybe it was there all along, that sadness.

Something broke inside her then, a tension wire in her heart, snapping. Her body started to shake with sobs and behind her Abatangelo slowed his pace through the water, whispering in her ear, “Talk to me.” She clutched his arm with one hand while the other signaled that she was good, fine, keep moving. He did so, enveloping her in his arms, and as he did the sorrow rising up inside revealed itself as something familiar, long lost. Like the called-out greeting from an old friend, a wise friend, one who's been away, it seems, forever.

Acknowledgments

This book was purchased at the same time my wife learned her chemotherapy for ovarian cancer had failed. The bravest person I've ever known, she lived little more than a month after that, nearly all of which was spent at the Petersen Cancer Center at Stanford Medical Center. I would like to extend my first words of thanks, then, to the doctors and nurses and staff who kept vigil with me and Terri's loved ones during those final weeks. I learned a great deal about decency and kindness and strength in that place, among those people. Learned something about hope, too. It's a lesson I vow never to forget.

As for the book itself, first and foremost, thanks are due to Laurie Fox of Linda Chester and Associates, who saw promise in the manuscript, devoted to it an unflagging advocacy, and became a cherished friend.

Thanks go out as well to Leona Nevler, Anita Diggs, Michelle Aielli, Maria Coolman, and everyone at Ballantine who has worked so arduously on the author's behalf. Jacqueline Green, Judi Farkas, Teresa Cavanaugh, and Linda Michaels have also earned my deepest appreciation. I'm lucky and grateful to have such people in my corner.

Thanks as well to Peter Winter, who graciously permitted use of his sculpture,
Phoenix Rising
, as the backdrop for the author's jacket photo.

Assistance on technical matters came from a number of people: Stephanie Voss, Paul Palladino, Loreto Tessicini, Elly Sturm, Ana Bertha Ramirez, and David Stauffer deserve particular mention. If errors remain in the final text they are entirely the fault of the author.

Several people read portions of the manuscript prior to publication, and their comments were invaluable: Tom Jenks, Laura Glen Louis, Donna Levin, Brad Newsham, and Waimea Williams, among others. Michael Croft deserves an especially profound note of gratitude in this regard. Thanks are due as well to Oakley Hall, the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, and the staff of Truckee Meadows Community College Writers' Conference.

Last and most importantly, this book would not exist if not for the continuous devotion, encouragement, editorial advice, and technical assistance of my late wife. The sight of her bundled up in our lamplit bed, surrounded by the dogs as she pored through the manuscript, making her notations—I'll treasure that memory long after any praise this book garners fades away. Her ear for pacing, her contempt for pretense, her big, strong heart, her constant reminders to “tell the love story”: they resonate on every page of this book. It feels like a curse, knowing she will never hold it in her hands, or read these words of gratitude.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Though the locales mentioned in the narrative exist, many geographical and topographical details have been altered for the sake of the story and dramatic effect. Accordingly, they should be regarded as entirely fictitious.

copyright © 2002 by David Corbett

Cover design by Angela Lennert Wilcox, Wilcox Design

This edition published in 2012 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.mysteriouspress.com

www.openroadmedia.com

FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

Available wherever ebooks are sold