Now I sat on the grass, next to Lenny. We were on the north hill of the cemetery, the angle such that it almost felt like you were upright. Above us, the sun hid behind a solid line of clouds, putting a cool and eerie shadow over the field of graves.
There was a gentle nudge on my right side and I looked down to see him offering his flask. “Want a sip?”
“No.” I gave a contented exhale. “My luck, I’d get pulled over on the way home.”
“You don’t have to chug it. You can just sip. It’s peanut butter whiskey. Actually tastes pretty good.”
“Well, then. It’s a good thing I declined. Peanut allergy.” I closed my eyes, enjoying the breeze on my cheeks. “I love the smell of grass, right after they cut it.”
“So if you’re fired, what are you doing all day?” He eyed me, and even drunk, it felt like he could see me more clearly than most.
“I don’t know. I’m working down at the docks in Marina del Rey right now, running errands for boat owners.”
He squinted at me. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
“Yeah, well.” I kicked off a fly that had landed on my shin. “I’m trying to figure out who ‘me’ is.”
“Do you miss writing?”
“Do you miss arresting people?” I shot back, immediately regretting the dig. Like me, he hadn’t had much of a choice. You show up at work drunk as a cop, you tend to lose your job pretty quickly.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do. Not the arresting bit, but the investigations. The hunt. The clues.” He sat fully upright. “I was a good detective, Lill. And you’re a good writer. The best I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah, well.” I tugged at a blade of grass. “I’m not missing it so far.”
He pulled at the collar of his cemetery uniform and changed the subject. “You already visited Marcella?”
“Nah. I parked on the other side, so I haven’t made it that far yet.”
He climbed to his feet, his knees popping as he stood, and held out his hand to help me up. “I’ll go with you. I just planted a new monkey flower bush beside her.”
I took his hand, my feet almost leaving the ground as he pulled me to standing. I steadied myself, then brushed off the back of my jean shorts and my shirt. “Thanks.”
The appreciation went unnoticed. He was already walking down the hill and toward Marcella’s grave.
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE DEATH
CHAPTER 31
LILLIAN
Normally, I left the docks by five thirty, but I was starting to get slack. On days when David was in town, I lingered. I liked the way his eyes stuck to me. If I bent over and picked something up, he’d watch in appreciation. I liked the weight of his lust, how it hung in the air, even if the sex wasn’t great.
On Tuesday, Mike was in San Francisco on “business,” and I accepted David’s invitation for dinner. He bought me a dress, a knee-length, gold, slinky number that clung to my breasts and hips and swirled out when I spun. It was wrapped in tissue paper and in a box from an expensive store in Beverly Hills, a lacy bra-and-panty set also enclosed.
I showered in the small bathroom on his boat and bumped my elbow against the wall as I dried my hair. There wasn’t great light, but I still managed with the extra makeup I kept in the glove box of my car. I slid the dress over my head, then stood in front of the full-length mirror and stared at a sexy, vibrant woman who looked nothing like Lillian Smith.
“Wow.” David came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his mouth to my neck, kissing along the slope of skin. I smiled. Tonight would be another night of sex. I was mentally prepared for it, even needed it. Not the pleasure, but the hunger, the attention, the look, and touch of a man who desired me. “You’re going to break the heart of every man in the restaurant.”
Even if it was ridiculous, I preened at the idea, and when we walked down the dock and I saw the limo at the curb, I felt like Cinderella, being whisked off to the ball.
At a restaurant with tuxedo-clad waiters and a personal sommelier, I ordered from a menu without prices, and thought only briefly of Mike’s damning receipt, crumpled in the pocket of his pants. I sipped a grapefruit martini and cut into a lobster-topped filet mignon, laughed at David’s story about a red-eye flight to Cincinnati, then told my own Taylor-inspired falsehood about a girls’ trip to Vegas.
When we got back to the boat, we went to the upper deck, where he smoked a cigar and we opened a bottle of champagne. From the opposite dock, theGreedy Girl’s owners had their fiddles out, and the music floated past on the crisp salt air. After our second glass, David stood and started to move in rhythm with the beat, swiveling his hips and undulating his arms through the air. I started to laugh. “Stop. We’re too old to dance.”
He beckoned at me with a smile.
I shook my head.