Tips for Living(56)

“Yes.”

“Stokes told the police he found you . . .” Ben checked his notes. “The way he put it was that he found you ‘crawling around the crime scene.’ Is he lying?”

“No.” I looked down and fidgeted with the mug handle.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were there? You’ve done a lot of evading, Nora. Pretending you didn’t know the painting had been stabbed. Leaving this little adventure out.”

It pained me to ask. “Do you actually think I’m guilty, Ben?”

I wanted him to believe in my innocence, even if I had doubts.

“Of course not. I’d just like to know why you didn’t tell me.”

Relieved, I turned away and put the mug on my desk, suddenly finding the stains on the wood very compelling. I ran my finger over them. It was scary to feel this vulnerable with him.

“I was embarrassed,” I said finally.

I could feel Ben watching me for a few moments before he spoke. He cleared his throat.

“At the beginning, I used to go to the cemetery every day before and after work. In my head, I knew Judy was dead, but I couldn’t make it feel real. I had to sit there on the ground next to her gravestone every day, twice a day, so it would sink in. I never told anyone.”

I stilled my hand and looked up at him.

“Maybe it was something like that for you,” he said. He was looking at me expectantly, his soulful brown eyes asking for confirmation.

“That must’ve been it,” I said.

I didn’t mention that I also spied on Hugh and Helene while they were alive, and that if my eyes had been lasers, I might have happily incinerated them.

“Understandable.” He nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself.” He picked up his BlackBerry and made a note. “I’ll reach out to the editor at the Catskill News and ask to review the material on Kelly’s parents’ deaths—to see if there was even a whiff of foul play. And I don’t think we should worry about Kelly, in any case. If it’s Stokes, he’d be playing it cool right now with the police looking around here so closely.”

“That’s what Gubbins said. I guess it makes sense.” I walked over to his desk tentatively. “Checking out the Catskill story would be really helpful. I appreciate it.” Did I really want to pursue this?

“Ben?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“Who?”

“The voice mails.”

He stared down into his mug of wine like it was an oracle that would tell him his fate. Then he set it aside and met my gaze. I felt my whole body quake.

“You’re sure you want to know?”

I nodded.

“The first one said I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

I suppressed a slight moan. So, it was the same for both of us. The kiss meant something.

“The second said I was sorry if I shocked you, but I’d been attracted to you since you first walked into the office. Then when I heard that you might be in trouble . . . well, I realized it was more than attraction. I realized how much I cared. ‘What the hell are you waiting for, Ben?’ I asked myself. ‘Let her know how you feel.’” He paused.

Yes, please. Don’t stop. Tell me how you feel.

“And the third said I was having a big problem.”

My face fell. “Oh.”

“I asked for your help,” he said.

“With what?”

“Figuring out how to get to know you better. After all this time, it’s not the easiest thing for me . . .” He trailed off.

I stepped closer to him. I could feel the heat from our bodies mingling. What was that scent? It was a familiar, happy smell that reminded me of going to the movies. Good & Plenty licorice candy. That was it. Ben smelled like licorice candy. I breathed him in.

“In my experience, when you’re trying to solve a problem, it’s best not to overthink it,” I said.

“Good advice.”

“You have to do something to relax your mind and then the answer appears. Or at least part of it does.”

“Just like that?”

“No, like this.” I leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.



Wave after wave broke through me. One final arch of my back and I collapsed in sweet pleasure-pain. Electric shocks were still running up and down my calves from pointing my toes like Anna Pavlova. Ben rolled off me. We were both panting.

“Now I know why the French call it a little death,” I said, gazing up at the stars through the skylight over his bed. “We’ve definitely gone to heaven.”

We turned to face each other. Ben ran his hand along the curve from my waist to my hip.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Let’s spoon. I haven’t spooned in years.”

As Ben wrapped himself around me, I marveled at what a wreck we’d made of his bedroom in our deliriousness: clothing flung onto furniture and into corners, his nightstand overturned. A clear glass lamp filled with seashells had landed on his sheepskin rug—intact, at least. A watercolor of Pequod’s harbor hung askew on the wall where he’d pinned me. We’d gone at each other with such hunger and abandon. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this alive again. My body was tingling. Out of the deep freeze into the sun. I smiled; Ben was such a passionate man, all this time disguised as a porcupine.