Last to Know: A Novel(76)

Homicide Detective Harry Jordan was sitting next to her; well, almost next to her. In fact Squeeze had pushed his way between them and was leaning against her legs, his long head on her lap, eyes raised adoringly to hers whenever she looked down at him.

“I swear my dog’s in love with you,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. Her eyes met his. “And I don’t blame him,” he added softly.

Rose gave him a smile, lowered her eyes, willed herself not even to go there. Not to think of Harry. Ever. Again. In that way. She turned to look at Diz, who had his brand-new binoculars slung around his neck, whose eyes were bright with the optimism and resilience of extreme youth, and whose black eye—a true purple shiner—and scabbed limbs were a lingering reminder of what he had gone through.

“He’ll be okay.”

It was Harry who said it to Rose, not her husband.

“How can you know that?”

“I’ve been through violence before, with kids. Some of them can work it out. Others can’t. I’m guessing Diz is one of the ‘cans.’ All due to you,” he added. “With a mom like you he’ll be able to release the terrible memories, not all at once, of course, but we have people in place who’ll help him.”

“A therapist?”

Harry nodded. “One of the best. I told her about Diz and she’s made her services available, immediately, if you wish. Personally, I think the sooner the better. Diz is a good kid, Rose, we don’t want him harmed by this, long term.”

“Of course not.” She looked searchingly at him. “Are you sure, though, he’ll be all right?”

Harry took her hand in his. “I’d bet the farm on it,” he said.

*

Diz didn’t need the binoculars to watch what was going on between his mom and Harry Jordan. They liked each other, even he could see that. And boy, was he glad. He’d never been so glad in his life to see anybody as he had been with Harry. “Detective Jordan,” his mom said he should call him, but Harry said just call him Harry. So he did.

“Harry,” he called across the table.

Harry turned his gaze from Rose. “Yeah, Diz?”

“My mom taught me always to say thank you and I’ve forgotten whether I did or not.”

“You already did.”

“Did I thank you too, Detective Rossetti?”

“You did, son.” Rossetti felt Rose’s gaze on him and he slicked back his hair, and gave her a warm, white smile.

“Detective Rossetti, is my mom’s cooking as good as your mom’s?” Diz liked to mix things up a bit and was happy when he saw that the detective appeared confused.

Then, “Listen, kid,” Rossetti said sternly. “Everybody’s own mom’s cooking is the best. Keep that in mind and you’ll never go wrong.”

Everybody laughed and Diz sat back, satisfied. Even the dog came to sit next to him, like he really belonged. Everything was okay again, here at Evening Lake. Home.





EPILOGUE


It was dusk and Evening Lake was peaceful. Lights were coming on at the pretty homes and the water rustled like a sheet of gray moiré silk, dipped at the western edge with the last remnants of pale sunlight. There was not a cloud left in the sky. “Like an omen of good fortune,” Mal said to Harry.

They were sitting together on the porch in the uncomfortable Adirondack chairs now padded by Mal, with memories of how painful it had been for her behind, with Harry’s sofa cushions, which, looking at them critically, she decided he needed new ones anyway. Stars that somehow looked bigger and brighter at the lake were already beginning their glitter, and every bug seemed to have disappeared with the oncoming of night.

Mal stole a look at Harry, next to her in his Adirondack chair. His head was thrown back, his eyes were closed. An ice-cold mojito, made by her, was clutched in one hand. With his other, he slowly smoothed Squeeze’s ears. The dog’s big head rested on Harry’s knee. They looked, Mal thought, the epitome of contentment. She did think, though, she should mention it was time Harry got some better outdoor furniture. Come to think of it, indoor as well. But perhaps now was not the time. This was a moment of quiet perfection, which, after all that had gone down the past few weeks, was to be relished and enjoyed with the long-awaited peace of mind.

She sat, swinging her legs, looking at the fading sky, thinking about how fleeting happiness might be, how rare these brief moments of pure contentment, how fortunate she was to have found this, to have found Harry. Or had Harry found her? She smiled as she looked at him again. He was half-asleep now, mouth slightly open. She reached over and took the glass from his hand before it fell, spilling a little onto the new slippers she had bought him. Black velvet loafers, with his monogram, HJ, embroidered in gold.

Without opening his eyes, Harry said, “Why did you get me these f*cken rich old playboy slippers?”

Mal waved her own feet at him, also in the black velvet slippers. Monogrammed. In gold. MM. “I thought it was good for our image,” she said, taking a sip of the mojito, which tasted deliciously of mint, hand-picked by her from the jungle in back of the cottage that was Harry’s “garden” and that she believed must have been planted by his grandfather because Harry was certainly not into gardening.

“Velvet slippers make me feel old,” Harry said, sitting up and looking at her.