Trespassing(109)

“Did you get it?” I don’t look up when I ask.

“That tidbit about the house in Tuscany? That’ll narrow down the search.”

“I’ll be in touch.” And I continue on toward Elizabeth Street.

Bella jumps into my arms when I step beneath the welcoming arch. “Mommy!”

“I missed you,” I tell her, carrying her up the pink driveway.

She gives me a wet kiss on the cheek.

I pay the twins for their time, but they don’t leave right away. “Uncle Chris wants to talk to you.” Emily grins when she says it. “He’s out back.”

I enter the house and, after discarding the wire and my shoes, head toward the backyard.

I stare at the blank shelves as I pass through the family room.

No matter that I know the truth about the children whose pictures used to line the shelves—I know now that they were conceived in a laboratory and not in the heat of passion—I can’t look at the built-in cabinetry without seeing their faces.

A sinking feeling settles into my bones. The boys are dead.

So much loss, and none of it makes sense.

I’m going to repaint the room and the woodwork and fill the shelves with new memories. The empty shelves only serve as a reminder of all that’s gone.

The beaded paneling at the back of the left cabinet looks more askew than it did upon my arrival. I’ll have to have it repaired. And I know someone who might be able to help.

I look out the kitchen window, toward the sound of running water, at the man I know as my neighbor standing at the edge of my pool.

Only he isn’t my neighbor. He’s retired Lieutenant Christian Renwick Brown—he didn’t lie about being retired, although he isn’t a writer. He’s a private detective. He is, indeed, a Phillies fan. And he’s filling my recently repaired pool.

I pour two drinks, one for Christian and one for me, and meet him on the porch.

The warmth of the afternoon sun soaks into my skin.

He approaches, rubbing the scar on his left hand.

“Let me guess.” I hand over one glass, which he takes. “No knife at the chop-chop-Japanese-grill. No automatic nail gun or fight over the cheating ex.”

Chris grins. “Actually, that’s exactly what happened. Everything I told you about my ex . . . it’s all true.”

“And you were shot in the hand with a nail gun.”

“Yes, I was. And I took a knife in the hand, too.”

“Really.”

“That’s why I do my own cooking, for the most part, and why I don’t believe in contractors. They’re very untrustworthy.”

“In that case . . . I might need some help with repairing the built-in shelves.”

“I’ll have a look.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” The way he smiles tells me he really might find pleasure in helping me. “You know, I saw some work in the gallery over on Greene Street.”

Heat flushes my cheeks when he mentions seeing my stoneware creations. “Yeah, they’re just little . . . you know.”

“I bought a few pieces. The pasta bowl, the blue thing with twisty thing. I mean, I don’t even know what that thing’s supposed to be, but damn. You’re talented.”

I shrug. It’s not a career yet. But it’s a start.

“So.” I redirect to finish the conversation we started the day I met him. “You said you were a writer.”

“I am. I write true crime. Just haven’t found a subject worthy enough to finish.”

“Are you writing about me?”

“No.” He narrows his gaze. “But to be honest, I’d like to.”

“And you said, when I first met you, that a Tasha asked you to look after the cat.”

“I went with what I knew. I knew there was an ex-girlfriend named Natasha. I borrowed the cat . . .”

I miss the cat, who is back at the Hemingway estate. “I’m thinking of getting another, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“If you let me do the honors, I won’t steal one from the Hemingway estate this time.”

“You want to buy me a cat?”

“It’s Christmas.” He shrugs. “Least I can do.”

“You won’t put a bug on his collar this time?”

“Not this time.” He chuckles. “That was a mad scramble, getting that rental set up with two days’ notice. There was the cat . . . I even moved his litter from the cat shelter on the Hemingway grounds.”

“Just so you know, if you’d told me the truth . . . why you were here . . . I would’ve understood.”

“Lying is an occupational hazard sometimes. I’m sorry about that.”

I understand. In the scheme of things, these are tiny lies, compared to those my husband told.

“Emily said you wanted to see me.”

“Always. What are your plans?”

“I like it here. I’m going to stay.” I sip my drink. I breathe in the flora of my gardens. “I guess you were right. This island can swallow you whole.”

“Swallowed me long ago. Beats the hell out of winter in Philly.” He sips. “But really . . . I was just wondering if you had any plans for tonight. Up for dinner at Turtle Kraals?”