Tips for Living(32)
“But Ben is the press.”
“Ben is an exception—he’s already involved and sworn to stay off the record. In fact, don’t talk to anyone you can’t completely trust, including and especially friends and relatives. You have no idea what trouble can come of that. I had a client charged with insurance fraud whose sister testified against her in order to take over the family business. And my client’s husband, as well. What about your friend Grace and her family? Do you trust them?”
I was choking up again, upset. I cleared my throat and nodded. “They won’t gossip. And as far as relatives, there’s only my aunt. You don’t have to be concerned about her.”
I couldn’t put off calling Aunt Lada any longer. Not hearing from me at all would freak her out more than hearing from me in a state of distress.
Gubbins frowned. “Discretion is all.” He took his car keys out of his camel hair overcoat. “Come to my office tomorrow afternoon. By then I’ll have the paperwork for you to sign and a strategy to discuss.”
“Is that what you and Ben were talking about inside? A strategy?”
“Oh no, no, no.” He smiled nervously. “That was about something else altogether.”
I didn’t believe him. And I didn’t think it was a good thing not to be able to trust your own lawyer. But Ben trusted him, and he was no fool.
“Please try not to worry too much,” Gubbins said.
He shook my hand and then scurried down the steps. Belly roiling, I sat down on the low cement wall at the edge of the landing. Knotted muscles had a painful grip on my neck. How could I help but worry? Recognizing that Aunt Lada would be growing more anxious by the minute, I took out my phone and called her apartment at The Cedars.
The Cedars is the assisted-living complex I found for her sixteen miles from Pequod. She’d worked as a photo librarian for the Associated Press well past retirement, but her crippling arthritis eventually made navigating the city impossible. The Cedars is much nicer than those claustrophobic urban senior residences. Lada seems happy there, and the proximity means I can visit her every week. The only downside is that I need to make up the difference between what they charge, what Medicare pays for and what Lada can afford. But I feel good about setting her up in a safe environment. She moved just in time. She’s begun to drift.
Lada’s line trilled and trilled, eventually rolling over to the front desk. I left a message with Yvonne, the receptionist, asking her to tell my aunt that I was fine and I would visit as soon as I could. The loud rumble of a motorcycle had me shouting the last few words before I hung up.
A dark-green-and-chrome bike—a vintage model—thundered along the perimeter of the parking lot and stopped at the base of the steps. Amazingly, Ben straddled it. I walked down to meet him, incredulous.
“Since when is this your ride?” I asked over the engine idle.
Ben pushed the visor of his helmet up.
“My car is in the shop.” He patted the Triumph logo on the gas tank. “This was Sam’s graduation present. A ’92 reissue of Steve McQueen’s bike. She needed some work, so Sam left her home for first semester. She’s perfect now.”
He pulled a second helmet from the bike’s saddlebag and offered it.
“Hop on.”
I hesitated.
“It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. I had a Harley in college.”
“It’s not that. I’m just . . . I’m not ready to go home yet.”
He looked at me for a long moment, seeming to search my face for I don’t know what.
“Understood,” he finally said. “How about we find a bar in Massamat, or go back to Pequod and stop at—”
“The Tea Cozy,” we said in unison. I smiled. I felt lighter already.
I strapped on the helmet and climbed on behind Ben. As I leaned into his broad back, I was surprised by its firmness. I wrapped my arms around his center. No beer gut. He was in pretty good shape at forty-seven. But it felt strange to be embracing a man after so long, and even stranger that the man was my boss. I was used to taking assignments and editorial notes from Ben, not motorcycle rides. He put his hand over mine briefly and squeezed. I was both surprised and comforted.
“Hang on tight,” he said.
With a flick of his foot, the kickstand went up, the bike lowered and we took off with a jerk and a roar. Ben steered us out of the lot heading east toward Pequod, but not along any route I’d driven before. We zigged and zagged through sketchy residential streets, passing boxy houses, unmowed lawns and broken, weedy sidewalks until we met up with a narrow country road that hugged the shore.
Ben drove faster on the winding road. I leaned in with the dip and swerve of the bike as we rounded the curves, taking pleasure in the movement and in the vibration alternately hastening and slowing between my legs. I breathed in the salty sea air. The late afternoon sunlight flickered through the bare trees, lulling me into a pleasant trance. Ben’s body blocked the wind, and the heat of him warmed my chest. Only my bare hands were cold; I hadn’t thought to wear gloves.
As if reading my mind, Ben took my right hand from his waist and placed it inside the pocket of his parka. It felt intimate—a gesture a boyfriend might make, and I tentatively followed his lead, slipping my left hand into the other pocket. It met with something metal. About four inches long, an inch or two thick, smooth on the sides, and ridged in between. A folded knife. A big one.