"Hello Mr. J. P. Morgan," she said, "fancy meeting you here."
"Very funny," he replied. "It's Charles Schwab."
"Oh yeah, Schwab. I knew the name had something to do with money. What can I do for you, Mr. Schwab?" All of Cassie's own code buttons were flashing. She was scared of this guy Schwab, and at the same time she was not scared of him at all. It was funny. She was aware he could do her a lot of harm, and somehow he still managed to remind her of a cute guy in high school. No one in particular, he was just the type she used to like. The one with the shy smile who wasn't really shy once you got to know him.
"Nice outfit. You can call me Charlie if you want." He turned around all the way to get a better view.
Click. High school. Cassie blinked. The feeling of the past in the present was strong. She shivered in the heat. "Thank you. What are you doing in my greenhouse, Charlie? Interested in gardening?"
"Girls are supposed to like it when you compliment them on their outfits." There was the smile.
Click. Cassie was back there, eighteen, attracted to a guy, hoping he would ask her to dance. Click. She was fifty, married to a comatose man who hadn't loved her in years.
Puzzled, she ducked her face into the shade of her hat. "Checking out my orchids?"
"Yes, I hope you don't mind. Very impressive. They really are."
"Sublimation," Cassie quipped.
"No kidding, which one is that?"
"All of them. Orchids are amazing. I don't even think of them as flowers. They're more like exotic creatures." She smiled.
Just their names alone set Cassie dreaming: phalaenopis, dendrobium, cattleya, paphiopedlium. She dreamed of them at night-their colors, their shapes, delicate and extravagant, like butterflies and moths and bees and tigers, firebirds, fish, with beauty unmatched by any other species on earth. Each orchid small or large, in bunches like vandas or sprays like dancing oncidium, felt to Cassie like stirrings of the senses she'd lost, teasingly sensual yet entirely accessible. Her substitute for sex. The globes of the paphs were like full, round testicles of athletes, the cats like richly dressed court ladies in heat.
"They're very splendid," Schwab said, neutral on the subject of sublimation.
"So, what are you really doing in my greenhouse?" She knew his job was to catch her husband at tax evasion, embezzlement, everything Mitch enjoyed doing.
"I love these orchids. I didn't know orchids smelled like this. What do you call this one?"
"That's a cattleya. It's called Hawaiian sunset."
Charlie tilted his head at it, sniffed, stuck out his bottom lip to examine it more comprehensively. The two large flowers were elaborately frilled purple and orange, outrageously scented.
"Hmm, of course, tropical sunset," he murmured. "Very nice. This one smells, too." He pointed at a large oncidium with two dancing sprays of mothlike blooms in brown, pink, and lavender.
"That one smells like chocolate. Isn't it amazing? It's an oncidium." Cassie couldn't help being proud of her babies. Not everybody could do even easy orchids like these.
"Amazing. You have quite a talent for this." He looked her over some more. "How are things going?"
Click. The question felt personal. Click. She shook her head.
"That's a not good?"
"That's a not good." She lifted a shoulder, feeling like eighteen. Feeling like a hundred, both at the same time.
He rubbed at an ink stain on one of his fingers. "I'm sorry to hear it. Your husband's still in intensive care?"
"Oh yes, still out of it." She scratched an eyebrow, chewed on the inside of her tortured lip. She was still reeling over the events of the week, the doctors and lawyers. And she was shaken that she could also feel like a teenager in spite of it all. She was hanging back in the doorway because the greenhouse was too small a space for two people who weren't close friends. Nervous. She was very nervous because of the dangerous stranger in her space.
Charlie bent his knees a little to peek under the brim of her hat. "Does that mean you're still not serving coffee?"
She laughed.
"I noticed that you have one of those fancy cappuccino makers in there." He pointed at the house and her wonderful kitchen. "Does it work?"
"Were you peering through the windows again, or have you been inside?" Cassie asked anxiously.
"Just peeping. I saw the car was gone. The alarm button is on. I didn't want to mess with it." He smiled his disingenuous smile that made it clear he knew how to disengage burglar alarms when he wanted to. "I thought I'd hang out for a few minutes and see if you came back."
"Thanks, I appreciate the courtesy."
It was his turn to laugh.
"Actually, I came back because I had a feeling someone was here," Cassie told him. It just wasn't who she'd expected. "Sure, it works. It works very well." She backed out of the door to let him out. "Come on in the house, I'd like some coffee myself."
All the dancing moths on Cassie's oncidium jumped into her stomach as she led the IRS agent into the minefield of her house. She had no clear idea what Mitch had hidden there or what the agent was looking for. But she had a strange, upsetting feeling that he wasn't here only about taxes. He was here about her.
She opened the door and turned off the burglar alarm that she'd used only rarely up to now. Then she went about grinding beans, setting up the machine, getting out the milk for frothing while Schwab looked around.
"Nice Viking, Sub-Zero. What a pot collection!" He took it all in.
"Don't get too excited. It's all fifteen years old," Cassie informed him.
"Age doesn't matter with quality items," he replied, touching another nerve.
"Some maybe. Do you like to cook?"
"I fool around a little. I cook for my dad."
"That's nice."
"Not really. He has special needs. He has a problem swallowing." Charlie checked out the cupboards of dishes, good ones.
"Really? That sounds unusual." The coffee machine started chunking and spitting, getting its job done. It was a big and fancy one, but it took a while.
"It's a rare condition," Charlie said.
"That's a shame," Cassie thought of the soft food groups. Purees, soups, ice cream. Puddings, soufflés. She didn't want to ask if Charlie lived with his dad or vice versa. Or if his wife lived there, too. He was the one who was investigating her.
"He's been living with me for thirteen years, since my mother died." He answered her unasked question easily, pulling out a chair and plopping down at her table as if he'd been drinking coffee there for years. "I don't like to talk about it. Must be your kitchen that got me going." That smile again.
Click. "I know what it's like. My mother died first, too. Widowers can have a lot of trouble if they don't remarry." Cassie kept it conversational.
"Everybody has a lot of trouble if they don't remarry. But I agree with you about geezers. My dad is a handful."