Envy(32)

She gazed into the face of a man sitting alone. He was about Mike Strother’s age, with a neglected white beard and the weather-beaten face of a seaman. He seemed not to be aware of her or anyone else. His rheumy eyes were fixed on the glass of dark liquor cradled between his callused hands.

“Mr. Evans, the least you could do is give me ten minutes of your time.”

“Come on over here and bend over, honey,” a nasally voice invited. “I’ll give you the best ten minutes you’ve ever had.”

“In your dreams, Dwayne,” the tattooed woman drawled. “You can’t keep it up more’n two.”

Laughter erupted, louder than before. The woman was high-fived by the man standing nearest her, but he said, “Ol’ Dwayne’s got the right idea, though.”

“Yeah, Yankee lady. You don’t know what you’re missin’ till you’ve been rid hard by a horny southern boy.”

Maris had experienced catcalls from construction workers made anonymous by distance and hard hats. She had received obscene propositions by crank callers and men lurking in recessed doorways on the sidewalks of the city. When she was seventeen, she had been groped in the subway, and to this day the memory of it made her skin crawl.

But having been the victim of crude behavior hadn’t made her immune to it. Their vulgarity got to her, but not in the way they expected. It didn’t frighten her; it made her angry. In fact, it made her mad as hell.

Not even attempting to disguise her contempt, she said, “Whoever you are, Mr. Evans, you’re a damn coward.”

The snickering ceased abruptly. Silence fell like a lead curtain. Any other insult was pardonable, but apparently cowardice wasn’t. Name-calling couldn’t get more serious than that.

Using it as her exit line, she made a beeline for the door. As she passed a billiards table, a pool cue arced down in front of her like the arm of a toll gate. She ran into it, connecting with her pelvic bones hard enough to make a smacking sound.

She pitched forward, but broke her fall against the stick. She took hold of it in a tight grip and tried to shove it out of her way, but it was unyielding. Turning her head toward the man holding it, she realized he was the one she’d noticed earlier chalking the pool cue.

“I’m Parker Evans.”

Maris was astonished. Not by his audacity or the hostile eyes that reflected the red glow of a neon sign as they glared up at her.

What astonished her was the wheelchair in which he sat.





Chapter 7


The contraption was green, a cross between a golf cart and a pickup truck. Maris learned later that it was called a Gator, but she had never seen one before Parker Evans nodded her toward the one parked outside Terry’s Bar and Grill. He invited her to get in.

Still reeling from the shock of finding him in a wheelchair, she did as he requested and climbed into the passenger seat. She kept her head averted as he used his arms to lift himself onto the driver’s seat. Then he leaned down, folded his chair, and swung it up into the shallow trailer.

The Gator had been reconfigured for him. The brake and accelerator were hand-controlled. He handled the vehicle with an ease that comes from practice as he steered it away from Terry’s and headed it toward the dock.

“I can take you only as far as the ramp,” he said. “It’s too steep for my chair. I’d make it down okay, but I might have trouble stopping and would wind up in the drink. Which you probably think I deserve.”

She said nothing.

“But even if I didn’t go hurtling into the sound, I couldn’t get back up the ramp on my own.”

Maris was at a complete loss. “Ramp?”

“Down to the dock. Where you left your boat.”

“I don’t have a boat. I paid someone to bring me over.”

“He didn’t wait to ferry you back?”

“I didn’t know how long I’d be here. I told him I’d call.”

He brought the Gator to a stop, looking displeased that he wasn’t going to shake her as soon as he thought. His shirt was chambray like Mike’s, except that the sleeves had been cut out of Parker Evans’s, revealing muscled arms that compensated for the limitations his legs imposed. Those muscles went to work as he pulled the steering wheel into a sharp turn.

“Shouldn’t take a boat long to get over here. Terry will call for one. You got the number?”

“Couldn’t we talk for a while, Mr. Evans?”

He braked the Gator again. “About what?”

“Look, be obtuse on somebody else’s time. I’ve come a very long way—”

“Without an invitation.”

“You invited me when you sent me that prologue.”

He registered mild surprise over her snappishness and raised his hands in mock surrender.

She took a moment to collect herself, then continued in a more conciliatory tone. “It’s been a very long day for me. I’m tired. A hot bath and cool sheets sound wonderful. But I’m here, so I’d like to make this trip worth my time, trouble, and expense by having a civil conversation with you before I leave.”

He folded his arms across his chest in what she supposed could be viewed as a civil gesture. But it also looked smart-alecky, and that, she thought, was probably closer to his intention.

Doggedly she continued. “You sent me your work. You meant for me to read it or you wouldn’t have sent it. Despite your claims to the contrary, you want this book to be published. I publish books. We could work together. You don’t even have to meet me halfway. I’ll go three-quarters of the way. In fact, I believe I already have by coming here. So could we please have that conversation?”