"Umph!" My ear banged against somebody's chest.
"You walk worse than you drive," Sam said.
I stepped back quickly. "Sorry. You might have stepped out of the way," I added.
"And let you crash into that tree?"
I glanced at the sycamore behind him, part of the row that lined the brick walk.
"Okay, next time," he said agreeably, then gestured toward the cafe. "They make the best doughnuts in the world. You should try some, Kate."
It was the first time he had called me by my name. I heard the way he said it-and I felt it, too, somehow.
"That's where I was going," I said, taking a step toward the door.
"Me too."
I hesitated and he laughed.
I think there is room enough in there for both of us," he said, "even if you can't stand me."
That wasn't why I'd hesitated. Now that he had been nice to Patrick, it was doubly dangerous to be around him. I didn't want to meet his dark eyes and nurture this lunacy inside me.
He reached for the door and held it open, waiting for me to go through.
I can open my own door."
He walked through and let it slam in my face.
I took a deep breath and entered. There was a mob around the glass cases, so I didn't have to stand next to him. He took a number, then I took a number. We went to opposite ends of the bakery shelves, but both of us gravitated toward the center, to a seductive tray labeled "cheese pastries." There were six left.
I hope there are more of those in the back," Sam said, glancing sideways at me.
"How many do you eat?"
"Six."
When his turn came he bought all six, then turned around and offered me three. ' "Thanks, but I prefer doughnuts," I lied.
1 saw the twitch of his mouth and the light in his eyes. I looked away, annoyed. I was doing my best to be prickly and off-putting, and he found it entertaining.
I ordered cinnamon doughnuts to go, paid, and headed for the door, looking neither left nor right. It was a relief to step into the brisk air. I turned toward the riverfront, then heard footsteps behind me.
Sam strolled next to me, chewing a pastry.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Eating. Walking. Being friendly. I would have left with you, but I was waiting for you to do your door thing," he explained. "Trade you a cheese Danish for a doughnut."
"No thanks." I wasn't going to be seduced. "But you may have a doughnut."
His hand dove into the bag. "Do you act like a cactus with everyone?"
I didn't respond. We crossed the street and continued down another block.
"Maybe you kind of like me and are just pretending."
"That's an interesting theory," I replied.
"So, where's the short guy today?"
"Patrick? With his mother and headed for a concert. It's my day off."
"I owe him an apology," Sam said, "but since I don't think he realizes it, I'll apologize to you. I'm sorry I was a jerk. It's stupid to judge people by their parents. It's not like we get a choice."
We walked on silently, he seeming much more at ease than 1.
"So," Sam said, "can Patrick and you come to the play-off game next Saturday?"
"We're planning to. It will be good for him."
"And for you?"
"It's entertaining," I said.
We had reached the public dock, a large wooden platform that jutted over the river, with pilings for temporary docking. On a cold day like this, it was deserted. I sat down on a bench facing the river and Sam sat next to me. Maybe it was just the roughness of the water and the way the wind came off it and wrapped around us, but I was very aware of Sam's closeness and warmth. Part of me wanted to move even closer to him; part of me wanted to move away.
He was staring at me again.
"Didn't your mother teach you not to stare at people?"
"She tried, but it didn't take," he said. I don't pretend, Kate. I look where I want to look, except when I'm playing hockey. Don't your ears get cold?"
"Because my hair is short? No colder than yours."
"They're bright red. You look like you've got a rose stuck on either side of your head."
I covered my ears with my hands. "You have such a way with words."
He took a wool hat out of his pocket and put it on my head, pulling it down too far, then adjusting it, carefully rolling back the edge around my face. His big hands were surprisingly gentle. His thumb brushed my cheek. It felt warm where he touched me.
What was happening to me? How could I find a guy who said my eyes looked like green pop bottles and my ears poked out like roses in any way romantic?
His dark eyes swept my face. That was how.
I couldn't think of anything to say. I turned my face away from his, pulled my shoulders in, and folded my arms in front of me, as if I were cold. Out of the comer of my eye, I could see him smiling, as if he guessed I wasn't doing that to stay warm.
"So how old were you when you learned to play hockey?" I asked.
He tilted his head slightly, perhaps trying to decide whether I was truly interested or simply making polite conversation.
"I started skating when I was four. My dad taught me. He had grown up near a rink in Brooklyn and loved to skate." Sam's voice grew warm. "When we moved here from New York, they had just built the rink at Chase-it's an old college, and they keep trying to be like Harvard. Anyway, Dad would take me there every chance he got. He taught me a little about using a hockey stick. Then, well, then, a year or so after Dad died, when I was six, my mom enrolled me in lessons and then a league."
"Your father died?" I repeated quietly.
He nodded. "After his death I became an angry little kid. Mom hoped sports would help me channel that. It did more-it earned me a college scholarship.
Nothing too impressive-to Chase-but it's full tuition for four years."
"Congratulations. Your father would be very proud."
"Yeah."
I heard the wistfulness in his voice.
"I'm sorry." I thought of telling him that my own father had died recently, but sometimes, when people respond to your sadness by immediately telling you their own, it's as if they take away the importance of yours. We sat quietly, watching the gulls, which had discovered us and were circling close, hoping for a handout.
"I want to get Patrick started in hockey," I said at last. "He's a kid with some problems, and it would help him to get involved in a team sport."
"What kind of problems?"
"It's a long story."
I have three more Danishes and can chew very slowly."
I told Sam about the situation at Mason's Choice, the quarreling and resentment, and the way Adrian's cancer and the favoritism he showed Patrick made a bad situation worse. I recounted how the others treated Patrick, ending with my suspicions about the loss of his hamster.
"They'd kill a little kid's pet? Don't they have anything better to do with their time? I can't believe it-though I don't know why!" The anger in his voice surprised me.
I have no proof that it was deliberate, but I'm suspicious. Brook used to do the same kind of thing to Ashley, let out her pets, though we usually found them."
"Ashley-the girl who was murdered?"
"Drowned," I corrected. "She fell through the ice."
His eyes narrowed. "You said, 'we usually found them.' Who is we?"
"My mother and I. My father was an artist hired by Adrian, and my mother sometimes took care of Ashley. We played together."
"You're-you're Venerelli's daughter!" He spoke it like an accusation.
"That's right."
He hurled the pastry straight out in the river. The gulls dove.
"Is that some kind of problem for you?" I asked.
"You might say that." When he looked at me, his eyes were cold black glass. "My father was a detective for the N.Y.P.D. We moved here because the violence he saw every day was getting to him. My mother grew up on the Eastern Shore-it was the only other place they knew. But Dad had trouble getting work in Wisteria-all his training and experience were in detective work-so he hung up his shingle as a private investigator. He was hired by Adrian Westbrook to investigate Victoria Venerelli."