Venom and the River (21 page)

When they’d first gone to the bedroom he’d left a closet light on and the door cracked open. A narrow band of soft, flattering light dropped across the bed, just right for a first time together.

It had been slow, summer-night love-making. They’d taken turns touching and exploring the other. Phil had been curious, attentive, responsive when he was learning her body. She’d taken a long time to come. He held back, following her by seconds.

She’d thought of no one else and nothing else all the while. She’d forgotten how that could happen during good sex. Forgotten how nice it was to think of nothing but the feel of skin, the rolling, tumbling and touching, the pressure of a man’s body. A reprieve.

Leigh whispered, “I wanted to buy a house, Phil. A small house somewhere. A house where my daughter would feel she belonged.”

He pulled the light summer blanket over them. “If you’re sure it’s going to be exposed, you’ve got to tell Terry first. This book means so much to him, and if it’s going to go up in smoke he should be warned. That night you were with Geneva I read parts of the manuscript. The next day I called Delia and told her how good it was. I told her you were for real.”

“Oh, Phil. You’ve missed the point: I’m not.” She got out of bed and pulled her shirt from a pile of clothing on the floor.

Phil stood and wrapped his arms around her. “Come back to bed. We’re not done sharing secrets. You need to hear mine.”

“A lie, Phil?”

“No, just something only a few people know, but you need to be one if we’re going to keep seeing each other.”

“I don’t think I’ll be in Pepin long, Phil. Once I ’fess up to Terry, there won’t be any reason to stay.”

“Emily thinks you should stay here, has she told you that? She said so the night we played cards. According to her you aren’t really rooted anywhere. So, where would you go?”

The question hit hard and he knew. He dropped his arms.

“No place, really,” she said. A musty apartment she seldom saw. No place called home.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Kate and Dee want to have a baby, and I’ve agreed to be the father. I wasn’t sure at first, but then I realized I wanted to. I want to be a father. They’re my best friends, Leigh, and raising a child with them will be wonderful. I hadn’t counted on a new relationship, though. I hadn’t counted on there being someone else whose opinion mattered.”

After a moment he said, “I wish you’d say something.”

Leigh said, “Some day that baby will be a teenager. A questioning, unforgiving teenager. I need to go home to mine. I wonder if she’ll smell the sex on her mother.”

Phil sat on the bed. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

All she’d wanted to do tonight was escape. To avoid the Little Girls and her daughter’s perfidy, avoid greeting Roberta, avoid an evening of Terry’s meandering daydreams. She’d wanted to look at a handsome man and listen to music. She’d wanted to get laid.

All that, accomplished. But at what point in the night had things pivoted from simple to complicated?

“Have you ever noticed, Phil, how it just takes a few steps and suddenly you’re in deep water? I called, you answered, we went to the bar, picked songs, danced, came here, had sex. Now you’re worrying about my opinion on your decision to have a child you want. Now you say this is a relationship.”

“Chiaroscuro,” he said. “Form emerging from gradations.” He rubbed his palm on her arm. “My mother was a painter, and that’s all I’ll say about her on a first date. If this isn’t a relationship, what is it?”

“Reaching out. We both reached out and it’s been lovely tonight and I hope it’s not our last night together. But even if my lie doesn’t blow up, even if I don’t confess to Terry, I’ll be finished with the book in a few weeks. Then I’m gone. Your decision about fatherhood doesn’t involve me.”

His hand touched hers. “We’ll leave that alone for now. But do you have to be in a hurry to leave tonight?” She held still a moment, then rocked her head slightly. He tugged her back down onto the bed.

Maybe it was still simple.

5.

In the hours since Leigh had last left the cottage, several floral bouquets had been delivered. Either Phil worked fast or her houseguest was getting a very warm welcome. She moved from one arrangement to the other, reading cards. Peach Wickham, Ida May Turnbull Society, Little Girls of North America, Pepin Chamber of Commerce, the Good Thyme Book and Gift Shoppe.

Someone was in the shower. She glanced to the spot on the desk where Emily always tossed her cell phone and purse when she walked into the cottage. They were gone.

Water clanked off in the bathroom, and Leigh heard the scraping of rings on the metal shower curtain rod. In the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgled twice before a final hiccup.

She poured herself a cup and waited in the living room. Two bottles of wine poked out of the top of a gift bag. She fingered the card:
To Leigh Burton, with many thanks from your thrilled houseguest.

Several books lay in the bottom of the bag. She took out the wine bottles, picked up the bag, and set it on the table. She pulled out the books: novels by Roberta Garibaldi.

Signed? She flipped to a title page…
your grateful houseguest
…

“Good morning!”

Leigh set the book down, but didn’t turn toward the voice. How long would it take? Would there be instant recognition?

She turned to greet Roberta Garibaldi.

The writer was a good ten pounds heavier than Leigh remembered from the hot tub. The woman’s hair was very short and had turned a light gray—the color and cut most likely a no-nonsense concession to late middle age. She wore blue-framed trifocals. Leigh smiled. If she had changed half as much as Roberta, she might be safe.

Roberta returned the smile with an even brighter one. “Either you sneaked past the guard and I should scream, or you’re Leigh Burton. But you look so much like Emily, I’d say I’m safe.”

“I am Leigh. Welcome to Pepin. Thank you for the wine and the copies of your books.”

“No—thank you. This is an invasion.” Roberta sat in the brown chair. She gestured toward the drawing. “This place is heaven. I nearly lost it last night: to sit in this chair, and with an original Seville drawing for company.”

Leigh said, “To say nothing of the Red Lady.”

Roberta laughed. “What a fun revelation she was! Though I realize not one you probably appreciate as I understand you’re not a fan of the Little Girl books.”

Leigh resisted looking away. “Marti’s been talking.”

“And your daughter too. What a lovely girl.”

“It’s not entirely fair of either of them to say I’m not a fan of the books as I’ve only just been introduced. I’ve read a few chapters and found them charming.”

“Charming!”

Leigh shook her head. She rose and headed down the hallway. “I need to shower and get back to work. Please make yourself at home, Roberta.”

“Leigh,” Roberta called, “you seem awfully familiar. Have we met? You haven’t come to one of my book signings, have you? Taken one of my workshops?”

Leigh sighed and returned to the living room. “As a matter of fact, Roberta, we have met. Years ago. Not a book signing.”

“Where?”

Leigh headed toward her bedroom. “It will come to you.”

*

Leigh walked into the living room, her hair still wet from the shower. Roberta was settled into the big brown chair with a fresh cup of coffee. She said, “Nancy Taylor Lee.”

Leigh nodded and went into the kitchen. Flowers weren’t the only delivery that had been made. The fridge and counters overflowed with an array of expensive food Marti must have bought in the Twin Cities. She found a bagel, nicked a finger when slicing it open, dropped the cream cheese container on the floor, sloshed juice over the side of the glass as she poured. When she’d finally managed to eat enough to quell her roiling stomach, she returned to the living room.

“It’s nice to see you again,” said Roberta. “It’s been years.”

“A lifetime, Roberta.”

“Your daughter said you were assisting the vice president with papers and things.”

And things. “Yes. That’s the sort of work available to me. I’m an itinerant…researcher and secretary. I do some freelance writing under various names. Online newsletters, mostly; some short pieces for regional magazines, work-for-hire children’s books.”

“I’m sorry,” Roberta said.

“This is the difference between a lying journalist and a truthful one, Roberta. You left the business standing up, and I crawled out, deservedly flogged, and licking my wounds. And what do you know: Here we both are in Pepin. You’re here to speak to a crowd of fans. I’m a forgotten old man’s temporary secretary.” She tapped the books. “You’ve done very well indeed. I’m sorry to say I’ve not read them. Emily’s a fan.”

“I wish now…” Roberta said. “If I’d known, I’d never have brought them for you.”

Leigh raised a hand. “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy to have them. You must be very proud of what you’ve done since leaving the
Courant.
Was it difficult going from reporting to fiction?”

“Easiest thing in the world. Have you ever thought about it?”

“No.”

“I’ll confess it was a bit tricky at first. The ideas…the right ideas aren’t always right at hand. People always ask about that: ‘Where do you get your ideas?’”

“How do you answer?”

“I get them the same way I got ideas for reporting: I keep my eyes open. And I never underestimate the value of daydreaming.”

“Paying attention and being inattentive.”

Roberta nodded. “Exactly. The combination creates a mysterious ether, and out of that there usually emerges one single image that’s clearer than the others. I start there. It’s quite fun, Leigh. Very liberating, really, to be able to go where you want to and make—” She looked away.

“Make things up, you mean.”

Roberta’s head moved slightly. A nod. “The vice president,” she said softly. “He’s written a memoir, hasn’t he? Wasn’t it a best-seller?”

Leigh said nothing as they faced each other. Roberta said, “Is he writing another?”

Leigh held still.

“And he’s hired you to help.”

Leigh sank against the cushion of the chair. So she’d figured out the plot, almost as quickly as she’d recognized Nancy Taylor Lee. “I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t mention Nancy Taylor Lee to anyone other than Marti and my daughter. Hardly anyone else knows, you see, including the man who has hired me.”

“You’re helping a vice president write a memoir, and he doesn’t know who you are?”

“I’m assisting with his research, Roberta.”

Roberta ran a finger along the bottom of the Seville’s frame. “Lisa MacNally is a good friend of mine. We worked together at the
Courant.”

“I don’t know the name.”

“She’s been the executive editor for five years now at the
Observer.
”

Leigh turned toward the window. Marti was coming down the path. “New since my time.”

“She likes working for the Putnams. There aren’t many family-run newspapers anymore, and hardly any turning a profit. She loves it there because she says they’re still making money and still interested in good journalism.”

“Then their goals haven’t changed since I was part of the paper. Roberta, I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Does Emily’s father know you’re writing something for the vice-president?”

“As far as they know, I’m a secretary, which fits their idea of my downfall and banishment.”

Marti burst in through the door. “Good morning, ladies! What a beautiful day!”

As Roberta gave a limp wave, Leigh said, “Once again, Roberta, I’ve been caught in a lie. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson ten years ago.”

Marti looked from one writer to the other. She said, “Oh, damn.”

*

Leigh declined an invitation to join them for lunch with the convention committee.

The phone rang twice. She didn’t budge from the chair. Why bother? Phil was out on the river all day, and the only other likely caller would be either Terry needing company or his newest home aide needing instructions for his dinner.

Perhaps she should go to the convention’s afternoon opening session and ask to speak. She could announce that Jasper Bancroft’s grandson was in the market for a good housekeeper. Cottage privileges possible. Must be past child-bearing age.

She’d bet there were plenty of women who’d raise a hand, and nearly as many who’d trample the others to be first in line.

The phone rang again. She took one of the bottles of wine into the kitchen. Drinking alone and not even noon.

But it was close. She popped the cork, filled a small tumbler, and counted to thirty as the long hand on the white wall clock slid under the short hand, both of them now straight-up and covering the number twelve.

She took possession of the big brown chair. She raised her glass to the Red Lady, and then to little Maud. It was a sweet drawing, no doubt about it. Of course, any fifteen-thousand dollar drawing was sweet.