The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(3)

“Were you dating him back then, in high school?”

“Richard? No, hardly. I knew him, of course, because he was a really good soccer player, but it was just random that we got together. We met in Boston, actually. I lived there for a year after college, and he was still at BU and bartending in Allston. That’s where I lived.”

“Where do you both live now?”

“In Dartford, I’m sorry to say. We actually live in Rich’s parents’ house. Not with them. They live in Florida now, but they sold us the house and it was such a good deal that we couldn’t really pass it up. I suppose you’ll need to know our address and everything if you’re going to be following Rich?” She pulled her shoulders back a fraction and raised her head. It was a gesture I remembered.

“You sure you want me to do this for you? If you already know that he’s cheating—”

“I am definitely sure. He’s just going to deny it unless I have proof.”

So we talked terms, and I gave her a rate that was slightly less than I should have, but she was a former student, and it wasn’t as though I didn’t have the time. And she told me the details about Richard’s real estate office, and how she was convinced that the affair was only taking place during work hours. “You know it’s the easiest profession for having affairs,” she said.

“Empty houses,” I said.

“Yep. Lots of empty houses, lots of excuses to go visit them. He told me that, a while ago, when two of the agents in his company were sleeping with one another, and he had to put an end to it.”

I got more details from her, then let her know I’d work up a contract and email it to her to sign. And as soon as I had her signature and a deposit I would go to work.

“Keep an eye on Pam,” she said. “That’s who he’s with, I know it.”

After Joan left my office, I stood at my window with its view of Oxford Street and watched as she plucked fallen ginkgo leaves off her Acura before getting inside. It was a nice day outside, that time of year when half the leaves are still on the trees, and half are blowing around in the wind. I returned to my desk, opened up a Word document, and took notes on my new case. It had been strange to see Joan again, grown up but somehow still the same. I could feel myself starting to go over that period of time when I’d last known her but I tried to focus instead on what she’d told me about her husband. I’d tailed a wife once before, but never a husband. In that previous case, just over a year ago, it turned out the wife wasn’t cheating, that she was a secret gambler, driving up to New Hampshire to visit poker rooms. Somehow, this time, I thought that Joan’s husband was probably exactly who she thought he was. But I told myself to not make assumptions. Being at the beginning of a case was like beginning a novel or sitting down to watch a movie. It was best to go in with zero expectations.

After locking up my office and leaving the building I was surprised to find it was dusk already. I walked home along the leaf-strewn streets of Cambridge, excited to have a paying job, but feeling just a little haunted by having seen Joan again after so many years.

It was mid-October and every third house or so was bedecked with Halloween decorations: pumpkins, fake cobwebs, plastic tombstones. One of the houses I passed regularly was swarmed with giant fake spiders, and a mother had brought her two children, one still in a stroller, to look at the spectacle. The older of the two kids, a girl, was pointing to one of the spiders with genuine alarm and said to her mother that someone should smush it.

“Not me,” the mom said. “We’d need a giant to do that.”

“So, let’s get a giant,” the girl said.

The mother caught my eye as I was passing and smiled at me. “Not me either,” I said. “I’m tall, but I’m not a giant.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” the girl said, her voice very serious. I kept walking, thinking ominous thoughts, then disregarding them, the way I’d taught myself to do.





Chapter 2





Joan


Before Joan even realized that Richard was at the Windward Resort, she’d met his cousin Duane. It was her first night at the beachside hotel in Maine, a Saturday in August, buggy and hot, the start of a two-week vacation with her parents and her sister. Joan was fifteen.

Duane had sidled up to her as she was taking a walk along Kennewick Beach, trying to get away from her family. He was a muscular teenager, probably a senior in high school.

“Hey, I saw you at the Windward,” he said. “Didja just get here?”

She’d seen him, too. In the lobby, sitting on one of the couches outside of the dining room, his legs spread apart. He had bad posture and a low hairline that made him look a little like a caveman.

“Yeah, we got here today,” Joan said, still walking.

“Sorry about that. This place kind of sucks. Full of old people.”

“It’s not so bad,” Joan said, even though she basically agreed. “This beach is pretty.”

“Yeah, the beach rocks. I was just talking about the hotel. I mean, once it’s nighttime there’s like nothing to do. Hey, slow down, you’re walking so fast.”

Joan stopped and turned.

“I’m Duane,” the kid said.

“I’m Joan.”