The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (7 page)

“That’s enough! God, Potter, that’s enough!” She was half laughing. “Come here.” And now she did pull him up by the shoulders, so that he was on top of her, his long, lanky body stretched against her soft one.

She gave a little scream as he entered her, as she used to do, as she had always done until they had both become conscious of noise, of keeping quiet because of the children. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had heard it, and a shiver passed through him. “I love you,” he said. “God, Yolanda, I love you.”

She screamed again, this time because she was coming. She often came like that, at first, almost the second he entered her, or she used to. It hadn’t happened in a long time, and the thought of that filled him not with regret, but with greater, deeper love for her, as the weight of their years together settled comfortably on him.

It was as if they had always been together—she was as familiar to him as his fingers and toes—and he knew they always would be, that nothing could separate them.

Some people, he thought, never get to love anybody like this, and he nearly exploded with gratitude.

* * *

Afterward, they warmed up the etouffée Yolanda had made and drank the wine. When they had progressed to coffee, Yolanda said, “What is it, Potter? It’s not our anniversary.”

He put a hand over hers. “I was just feeling grateful to the Lord, that’s all.”

“For what?”

“Oh, I’ve got a beautiful wife and a great job—and of course, the campaign’s going good.”

“That’s all?”

“I swear, honey. I just wanted some quality time.”

“Did I ever mention I love you?”

Potter thought:
You never thought you could do it, did you? You are one lucky sonofabitch.

She said, “The campaign’s really going good?”

“Great. Except …” He furrowed his brow, thinking. “I don’t know about the new press secretary. Noel Treadaway—remember him?”

“From where?”

“‘Think.”

“Oh, yeah. Pretty boy on TV.”

“That’s him. Quit to write a book, and now he’s decided to go into politics.”

“He’s famous in this town, and he’s pretty. All he has to do is issue statements, right?”

Potter laughed. “He’s really got to control the flow of information.”

“You don’t think he can do it?”

“He’s competent. He’s just a little green. I don’t know how tough he is.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

“I’d feel better if he were a Christian.”

“Oh, what difference does it make?”

“It’s about commitment, honey. It’s all about commitment.”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

He patted her again. “I mean doing what you have to do. That’s all. I don’t mean anything more than that.”

Chapter Five

SHEILA’S HOUSE was so beautiful Torian was almost embarrassed to have her over. The apartment in which she lived with her mother was only part of a building the size of Sheila’s—about a quarter of it, probably. It didn’t even have charm. It was one of the few French Quarter buildings with low ceilings, part of an apartment complex owned by one of her mother’s ex-boyfriends who was probably letting them live there for free. Torian didn’t know the details, but if she knew Lise, she’d probably bullied him into a free apartment.

It didn’t get much light, which depressed Torian, and it was furnished with any old thing they could scrounge, most of it beyond tacky. At least Torian’s room was better than the rest of the place. She had gone to the flea market and found a few things—some antique lace curtains and some old pictures—but she had very little money and no way to get more. While Sheila had everything money could buy.

“Except my mother,” Sheila would wail. “At least you have your mother.”

“But I don’t have my dad.”

“Yes, you do, on weekends.”

It was true, but Torian still felt orphaned. Lise was never home—all she cared about was her damned boyfriend—and her dad lived in Old Metairie. At first she’d been furious that they’d moved to the French Quarter—the mingy little apartment, the crummy school, no other kids around, her dad on the other side of the planet—but things had worked out.

There was Sheila now, and most of all, Noel. How she felt about Noel was indescribable. It was love, but it was beyond love; it was passion, but it was … so much finer, so much sweeter, so much rarer. It was the tenderest, most fragile thing, and yet it was also a strong, sinewy bond that nothing could break.

Nothing!

Torian had never been so sure of anything.

The buzzer sounded, harsh, like most things in her life. Good—Sheila. She was coming over to work on a science project, but Lise was gone, so they could talk. That was the good thing about having her come over—total privacy; an adult-free zone.

Sheila was in a snit. “God, Uncle Jimmy’s a dork.”

“What’s he done now?” Torian led her into her bedroom, where she had lit candles and incense. It wasn’t dark yet, but the shadows were lengthening, and the effect was almost Anne Rice-ish. If only the ceilings were high and the walls were peeling; it was hard to live a romantic life in a modern box.

“Cool,” said Sheila, noting the decorative touches. “You know Layne—Uncle Jimmy’s boyfriend?”

“I don’t think they say boyfriend. I think they say ‘lover.’ ”

“Ewwwww. Gross.”

“I don’t think it’s so bad.”

“It just … I don’t know … it just makes you think about… what they do. I mean, what they actually do.”

“You don’t have to think about it. Anyway, it’s kind of fun to imagine.”

“Torian!”

“Well, he’s not my uncle. I guess that makes a difference. What about Layne, anyway? I think he’s cute.”

“Not Layne. He’s cool. Uncle Jimmy’s the dork. See, Layne’s allergic to Angel, and Uncle Jimmy says he should get a healing from these witches Skip knows.”

“Weird.”

“It’s not me, right? I mean, are these people weird, or what?”

“At least he doesn’t stay out all night with his boyfriend.” She couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice.

“Well, I think he’d like to have Layne stay over sometimes. Which would be fine. Layne’s really cool—he knows lots of games nobody else ever heard of. But he can’t, because of Angel. But witches! I mean, really.”

Torian shrugged. “I don’t know. If it’s not expensive …”

“He actually believes that stuff!”

“Oh, he probably just thinks it’s worth a try.”

“Torian, you have no idea how weird my uncle is.”

Torian shook her head. “You want a cigarette?” She walked over to her bureau and brought out a pack of Virginia Slims.

Sheila shook her head. “Not today.” She had coughed for ten minutes last time she’d tried.

Torian lit one and inhaled. “How’s Danny?”

“Oh, Danny! What a child. Danny has all the sophistication of those asshole tourists who pee on the buildings at Mardi Gras.”

Torian giggled. She was nervous because of what she’d decided to do. “Last week he was your main man.”

“He’s just such a…baby.” She walked over to the window and looked out, moody, and then turned back to Torian. “What about you? Do you like anybody yet? You’ve got to forget about Billy and get out there.”

Torian had known Sheila would ask her. She’d been nagging about this for weeks now, and Torian couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to tell her, even though Noel had asked her not to tell anyone. You had to tell your best friend—that didn’t count as anyone.

She smiled. “I do like someone.”

“Really! Who? Tom from English class? He likes you, I’m pretty sure.”

“No. No, it’s no one like that.” Now she turned toward the window, gathering courage. On the slate roof next door, just on the peak, were two doves. She took it as a sign. “I’m really in love, Sheila. This is it. This isn’t a teenage crush.”

“‘Torian.” Sheila’s voice was awestruck. Torian turned back and saw that her face was serious; she wondered if it reflected her own.

Sheila said, “Your face! It’s different. Torian, have you done it? We said we’d tell each other …”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. Do I really look different?” She walked over to the mirror, one she’d salvaged and painted the frame. She looked at her features, slightly indistinct in the dusk, but even she thought there was something romantic about herself.

She turned to Sheila. This was the part that might hurt her feelings, and she wanted to see her friend’s face while she talked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you … he made me promise.”

“Oh, no. Not one of my exes.”

“Of course not! What kind of friend do you think I lam?”

“Well, who is it? I’m going to explode if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s Noel.”

“Noel? Who’s Noel?”

“Noel Treadaway.”

“Mr.
Treadaway
?”

“I swear to God.”

“The guy you babysit for?”

“Do you think I’m horrible?”

Sheila’s face was contorted, like two sides of her were working against each other. “Could I have a cigarette?”

“I mean it. Do you think I’m horrible?”

Sheila lit her Virginia Slim slowly, apparently considering. She shook her head finally. “I just think it’s a little weird.”

Torian shrieked, “Sheeeela!” She was aware of the panic in her voice.

“I’m trying to think this through, that’s all. I think you’ve got to fill me in.” She puffed nervously, not inhaling, Torian could tell. “Okay, let me see if I can get it. You’re in love with Mr. Treadaway, and he knows it, right?”

“Noel. Yes, he knows it. He started it. He’s in love with me.”

“But he’s married.”

“He’s got a kid, too. I think that’s the hardest part for him.”

Sheila was leaning her head on a hand. “Wait a minute. Why would a married man with a kid … ?”

She obviously couldn’t bring herself to say it. “What? Fall for the babysitter? He didn’t plan it, Sheila. It just happened.”

“You mean, he … like, saw you and got to know you, and then one day just declared himself?”

“Something like that.”

Sheila threw herself backwards on the bed, landing with a plop. “God, that’s romantic.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it? I think it’s the most romantic thing in the world.”

“What do you do with him?”

“Oh, we have dates after school. He reads to me. Poetry.” She hoped she didn’t look unattractively smug.

“Oh, my God.”

“And we kiss. And talk about things. We just talk and talk and talk. I never thought anybody could understand me like …” She saw Sheila’s hurt look and stopped. “I mean a man. And without having to be told. He just knows things about me. Like he’ll say, ‘I’ll bet you’re the kind of person who likes poetry.’ Or ‘You’re going to love this movie. Know what? This movie is meant for you.’ And he’ll be right. He knows me, Sheila. It’s like he sees down to my soul. And he feels that way too. It’s like he’s always saying that. That he really sees me; like no one else does. We’re … you know…God, we’re lucky.”

Sheila was quiet, apparently still trying to take it all in.

“You could go all your life without meeting your soul mate, and here I am fifteen and I’ve met mine.”

“You sure he’s your soul mate? I mean, he’s pretty old.”

“Age doesn’t matter when you’re really in love.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t know everything.”

“But I know so much more than I used to. I feel like I’ve learned half the stuff I know in the last month.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like all the good poets of the twentieth century. And … other stuff.”

“But what other stuff? I mean, if you’re not even doin’ it, then what?”

“What it means …” Torian faltered, tears coming, her voice thick. “What it means to be loved.” She almost screamed it. Sheila was sitting up now. She shrank back against the headboard, cheeks seeming almost to sink, as if withdrawing into an imaginary shell.

“Sheila, you just don’t know! You just don’t understand. My mother doesn’t give a shit about me, do you understand that?”

Her cheeks were flaming. She dumped her ashes, and when she raised her eyes, they were afire as well. “My father deserted us. Did you forget that?”

Sheila was almost pale.

“Oh, I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. It’s just that you can’t know what it’s like living with Lise. She’s such a bitch. All she cares about is her goddamn boyfriend, who probably couldn’t give a shit about her and certainly doesn’t about me.

“My dad … well, I know my dad loves me, but he’s got all these responsibilities—huge responsibilities—that he wouldn’t have if Lise hadn’t left him. I mean, he has to support us, and his new wife and kid—I don’t blame him for getting married again, do you? I mean, who wouldn’t? She dumped him—just threw him out like I didn’t matter and he didn’t matter and … I don’t know … nothing mattered. You just don’t even know what a bitch she is.

“And Noel
cares
about me. It’s so sweet.” She felt herself calming down, the tears subsiding as she thought of him. “I’m dying to make love to him. Dying to! Wouldn’t you be? But he’s the one who won’t do it. He’s trying to protect me, do you see that? He doesn’t want me to do anything before I’m really sure. He won’t drink with me either, or even buy booze for me, and when he found out I smoke, he threw away my cigarettes.”

“Gosh, with him you don’t need a mom.”

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”

“‘Torian, it’s illegal for him to make love to you. He could get in big trouble for that.”

“Well, he wouldn’t want to anyhow. That’s the kind of person he is.”

Sheila grabbed another cigarette, but she was smiling. She’d gotten a grip on herself, though Torian had no idea what her true opinions were. All she saw, all that mattered, was that Sheila was still her friend.

“So,” said Sheila, “are you going to marry him?”

“Uh-huh.” Torian nodded, sure her love was making her radiant. Her pale skin probably looked gold in the candlelight. “Sure. Of course we’re getting married.”

“Torian! He’s got a wife and kid.”

“Well, he won’t always.” She must look like a cat licking cream from its whiskers. But she didn’t even care if Sheila thought her smug. This certain knowledge, this perfect trust made her feel happier, more secure and satisfied than anything ever had.