The Last Good Kiss (21 page)

said, "I'd just as soon drive back to Meriwether."

Trahearne laughed loudly, breaking the quiet in the

cab , and said , "Don't worry. Melinda's a saint. She

forgives me even before I transgress. So come in and

let's have a homecoming drink. " Then he slapped me

on the shoulder and climbed out, shouting, "Whiskey,

woman!" His great voice echoed across the shallow

valley. Across the creek, a light appeared in an upstairs

window of his mother's house, and the dark blot of a

woman's head came to the window.

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"In which order?" the woman in the doorway asked,

her soft, unaccented voice unhoned by even a hint of

rancor.

"Order be damned," Trahearne shouted back. "Celebrate, love, the sailor, home from the sea, the hunter home from the hill."

"On his cliche or bearing it?" she answered happily.

As the big man limped up the redwood steps to the

deck, I followed with his suitcases and my duffle like

some faithful native bearer. ·

"Who's that behind you?" his wife asked. "Gunga

Din?"

"Come, Gunga Din, you swine, sahib needs water

for the whiskey," he said as he came back to help me

with the bags.

"Thanks," I said, then paused on the steps to ease

the amphetamine trembles in my legs. Traheame and

his wife embraced in the doorway as she fondly

murmured you maniac, and she chuckled as she led him

through the doorway. In the silence, the creek whispered in its rocky bed, and the face at the far window seemed to be staring at me. I crept up the stairs in silent

guilt, away from the face.

By the time I reached the doorway, which opened

directly into a living room as big as a house, Trahearne

had fallen into a huge leather lounge chair and propped

up his feet. His wife was behind a small bar, rattling ice

cubes. Across the room, in a fireplace large enough to

roast a Volkswagen, three four-foot logs crackled

merrily against the mountain chill. From where I stood,

it looked like a cozy little fire.

"A drink, Mr. Sughrue?" Traheame's wife asked.

"A beer, please," I said, and she opened a bottle and

poured it into an earthenware mug, then brought the

drinks around, Traheame's first, then mine.

As she handed the mug to me, she said, "I'm afraid

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Traheame has the social grace of a stone. I'm Melinda

Trahearne." She held out a rough hand, which I shook

as I introduced myself. "Make yourself at home," she

said, then smiled. "Walk around until your butt wakes

up , then have a chair."

"Thanks," I said as she walked back to Traheame.

So I stood around like a knot on a log while she sat on

the arm of his chair and fiddled with his sparse hair. She

was so obviously pleased to see him home that I did my

best not to watch them, not to overhear her whispered

greetings.

I had been so wound up with Betty Sue Flowers

that I hadn't thought about what Trahearne's second

wife might look like, and even as I tried not to look at

her, she seemed a rather plain woman of about thirty,

not at all what I would have expected if I had thought

about it.

She wasn't ugly, just plain, and she looked as if she

had just come in from a hard day's work in the fields.

Her hair was a dull shade of brown, neither dark nor

light, and she wore it in a closely cropped tangle that

made her nose seem too long, her mouth too wide, and

her eyes set too far apart. Except for a streak of

pinkish-gray clay across her forehead, her face was

unpainted, and even in the soft light, her tan seemed

sallow, the skin color of a convict or a barmaid. She

wore a pair of baggy jeans and a loose velour sweatshirt, so I couldn't tell about her body; she didn't seem fat or skinny but she moved with the sort of controlled

grace rich girls seem to learn as soon as they take their

first steps. Her bare feet, too, were slender and elegant,

well-manicured, although her hands were as rough and

hard as a brick mason's, and her eyes were an odd

shade of blue-green, which might have made them

striking, but they didn't seem to match her hair or

coloring.

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She glanced at me, caught me watching her, and her

smile was generous, her teeth as straight and even as

money could buy. If her voice hadn't been completely

without accent, I might have thought that she was one

of those rich East Coast girls who majored in English

Lit and field hockey at one of the seven sisters. As I

watched, she slipped off the arm of the chair to stand

behind Trahearne, her strong hands kneading the thick

muscles of his shoulders. It looked like it felt good, but

he groaned.

"Enough, woman," he said, "the cure surpasseth the

disease." Then he patted her hands to hold them still.

"Sissy," she said, laughing as she walked over to pick

up his bags. When she lifted them, heavy as they were,

her shoulders didn't dip, and she carried them toward a

dark hallway as if they were empty. I knew they

weren't. As she walked away from me, the firm outlines

of her hips swayed with a force of their own beneath the

baggy jeans. As I turned back, I caught Trahearne

watching me watch his wife.

"How long have you two been married?" I asked,

then applied my mouth to a worthier project, my beer.

"Nearly three years," Traheame answered without

interest.

"Seems like a nice lady,"

"Yeah," he answered. "A nice lady." His voice

seemed to drift away with fatigue.

"Maybe I should unhook the cars and hit the road," I

said.

"Nonsense," Melinda said from the hallway.

"You've been on the road too long, and I insist that you

at least stay the night."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, "but I don't want to

impose."

"No imposition at all," she said graciously. "The

basement is filled with guest rooms-it's private, quiet,

and you can come and go without bothering us at . all.

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There's a wet bar, an icebox full of beer, a small

kitchen, and two color televisions. You must stay."

"Well . . .

" I said.

"Oh to hell with him," Trahearne growled. "He's

some kind of ultimate redneck country boy, and he

can't sleep except under the stars. Besides, he's never

been married and he's scared shitless of domestic

strife. "

"Don't be silly," Melinda said, then laughed. "The

only strife in this household is the sound of Trahearne's

snores. " She walked over and picked.up my duffle bag.

"Come on, I'll show you your room."

"And I'll show myself to bed," Trahearne said as he

stood up. "Good night, C. W. , and all that social grace

crap," he added, then lumbered toward the hallway

like a wounded bear.

"In the morning," I said, then followed his wife

through the large, open kitchen to the stairway.

Downstairs , a large room with full-length glass walls

on the daylight side filled most of the basement, and the

bedrooms lay down a hallway that followed the track of

the upstairs hall. Melinda carried my bag to a small

bedroom beside the bathroom , then led me back to the

game room to show me the bar and the small kitchen.

"Please make yourself at home here," she said.

�·You'll find everything you need for breakfast in the

icebox. For lunch too. I'm sorry, but because Trahearne and I work at different hours, we only eat one formal meal at dinner. Usually around seven. Until

then, I'm afraid you'll have to fend for yourself."

"I'll be fine," I said.

"I'm sure you will, Mr. Sughrue," she said. "Bachelors always make the best houseguests. They're more capable of fending for themselves than most married

men, it seems." She smiled slightly. "You never

married?"

"No, ma'am."

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"Do you mind if I ask why not?"

"I don't mind," I said, "but the truth is that I don't

rightly know why not. I've never jumped out of an

airplane on purpose. Even in jump school they had to

kick me out. I guess nobody ever kicked me into

marriage."

"I've done some skydiving," she said softly, "and

found marriage to be just as exciting."

"You seem to be happy," I said.

"Yes, I am," she said. "And as I'm sure you noticed,

I'm very fond of my husband."

"Yes, ma'am. "

"And he seems fond of you," she said. "I'm pleased

about that. I don't begrudge my husband's friends. I

only hope we can be friends too." Then she held out

her hand again.

"Yes, ma'am," I said as I shook her hand.

"Of course, if you cail me 'ma'am' again, I'll have to

knock the shit out of you," she said calmly, then burst

out in a fit of giggles.

"I guess I could break down and call you Miz

Melinda," I said, and we both smiled.

"That's an improvement," she said, then wished me

pleasant dreams.

As she left me, her voice echoed in my head, words

and phrases that seemed to have no meaning-"my

husband" and "icebox"-but I didn't pay any attention

to myself.

The drive and the Desoxyn had left me too rattled to

sleep, so I sat down in front of the television to drink

beer and catch the late movies by cable from Spokane.

Although they were quiet for twenty or thirty minutes,

after that the Trahearnes made a great deal of commotion for a couple not engaged in domestic strife. Since I began in the business, I always did the whole number,

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so I had done more divorce work than I should have,

more than my share back in the days when I still had a