My back was still to all the action, but I heard a somewhat nasally voice say, "Hey there, Sam. God, this is so great to see you."
I turned around to see a pretty-looking man with blow-dried hair and a dapper red pocket square in a navy blue suit come walking over, his white teeth blazing all over the room. He was tan in November, which explains more than I can describe. He looked to be the type of guy who always got along better with women than men.
"Eric, this is Jack. Jack Flynn." As she said this, she rubbed the back of her hand affectionately against the side of my arm. I thought she was overdoing the lovey-dovey act a bit but didn't think it was my place to say anything. I held out my hand cheerily to shake Eric's, and he gave me an oddly limp-wristed shake. I held in check my desire to call him a pussy.
"Very nice to meet you," I said.
"Same," he said, somewhat dismissively, his eyes drifting back to those of his former wife. I'm not precisely sure why, but I had the urge to punch him in the mouth. Worry not: good manners prevailed once again.
Meanwhile, Samantha was now running her hand up and down my back as we all stood there. Eric turned away for a moment and said, "Hey, Julia, Julia sweetie. Look who's here. Come on over and say hello to Sam."
Up walked an extraordinarily attractive blonde in a skirt so short I wasn't sure if I had accidentally been transported into some sort of adult entertainment lounge.
Eric again: "Sam, do you remember Julia? Julia, this is Sam. You guys met at Nordstrom's that day."
As I stood there, Mr. Manners didn't bother introducing me, and I wasn't sure if it was by intention or stupidity. Finally I stuck my hand out and said, "Julia, I'm Jack Flynn. Nice to meet you." Then I took my hand and softly ran it down Samantha's cheek, the very feel of her skin making my head go light.
Samantha took my hand in hers and kissed it softly. Here I was, thinking I was doing good. I was certainly feeling good. Samantha pulled my hand down to her side, squeezing it with what I first thought was sincere affection. Then I felt her sharp nails dig into my skin, and I almost yelped and jumped in pain. Luckily, I have the discipline of a Marine, and I maintained my smile.
"Coming or going?" I said to Eric.
He just kind of looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. Maybe the complexity of the question caught him off guard. Julia said, "Just coming. We're going to get a bite to eat at the bar." She seemed nice enough, if not a little daffy, which is maybe what I mean by nice enough.
Samantha absently leaned into me, her body feeling warm and wonderful against mine, even if I was now gin-clear on what a charade this was.
She said to Eric, "We don't want to hold you up. We just had a great dinner upstairs and are hurrying out. I'll see you around." She laughed and said, "Seems like we're doing more and more of that."
Proper, mature farewells were made, though I'm not sure if Eric ever addressed one to me. Julia did, though, andwitha smile, creating a kind of bond as the two appendages in this little scene. Outside, on the sidewalk, I said to Samantha, "You almost scratched the skin off my hand."
She laughed in a distracted way and said, "You seemed to be taking advantage in my moment of need." She wasn't quite as flustered as I thought she might have been. Actually, she seemed to be relieved that things had gone this well, especially after that Nordstrom's debacle she had described.
I said, "Sorry about that." I left the intention of my apology vague, whether it was for her running into her former husband, or for my somewhat coarse attempt at physical engagement.
"Apology declined." She said this as she stood facing me, unusually close. The night was cold, the street crowded with cars, the valets bustling back and forth-all of it creating a blur of peripheral motion, even as my eyes focused hard on Samantha, standing in front of me, her face cold and pink and shiny. I could never precisely explain the hints I got, whether they were from her words, her tone, her posture, or her proximity, but inexplicably I placed my hand on her forehead, brushed her hair softly, then let my fingers run down her cheek. She glided closer to me without ever seeming to move, and before I could even think about what was happening, she placed her warm lips fully against mine and kept them there for what could have been an eternity. She pulled back slightly, and I opened my eyes to see hers still closed, her face inches away. So I put my lips on hers again, a kiss that was hard and soft, passionate and affectionate, all at the same time.
Then she pushed me away gently in an almost helpless manner and said,
"There's a cab right here. It's better if I just leave." She turned and walked slowly to the curb. As she settled into the taxi, she looked back and gave me an odd, even goofy wave and a smile. I stood on the sidewalk until all I could see were the taillights of her car driving down Pennsylvania Avenue, and I thought, my God, this finally feels like something called home.
As I pulled out my keys on my darkened front stoop, there was a noise from inside the house that I wasn't used to: the sound of someone talking. I froze and strained to hear, but all I could decipher was a low, barely audible mumble. I leaned over the railing to look in the window, but the shutters were drawn closed, as I had left them this morning. I could see a light was on, but that would make sense, given that Kristen had been supposed to drop Baker off earlier in the night.
I strained harder to hear, thinking it might be Kristen inside, but it sounded more like a male voice.
Another voice filled my mind. There are people who would kill rather than see you get to the bottom of this story. You are in danger.
Imminent danger.
A good warning. In the past ten days I had been struck by gunfire, shot at unsuccessfully, punched, and stalked. It was coming up toward eleven-thirty. The only sound was the gentle rustle of crinkled leaves in the chill wind of a late autumn night. There were no passersby, no moon, no lights on in any of the neighbors' houses. Inside mine, the sound droned on.
It could be a stereo, but it certainly didn't sound like it. Kristen may have left the television on for the dog, though she had never done that before. I admit, I had no idea what it was. I just knew it was something unusual, and right now, the unusual was not going to be good.
You are in danger. Imminent danger.
I thought about slipping back toward my car and calling the police from my cellular telephone. This being Washington, though, it might be a while before they arrived. And it struck me in a wave of panic that if Kristen had dropped Baker off as she said she would, then he was inside with God only knows who. And if the police arrived, it seems one of the first things they always do is shoot the dog. So standing there in frozen silence on the stoop of my own house, I realized I had to handle this myself.
The mind, as I've said, is a funny thing. Miraculously, I remembered that I had left a pair of old pruning shears beside the stoop, in my little patch of a garden in front of my house. I slowly, silently walked down the two stairs, hunched down in the dark, and found them protruding from a pile of ancient, soggy leaves. I at least had a weapon now-maybe not something the NRA would be proud of, but a weapon nonetheless.
With the shears in hand, I stepped cautiously back up on the stoop. I pushed the key into my lock, moving with what I pictured to be the precision of a German surgeon. I strained to hear the voice, making sure it didn't waver or get closer, and I could detect no movement or change. It was a goddamned monotone. What the hell it was, I had no idea. The key pushed all the way in. All I had to do was snap the lock open and burst into the door.
With the key in the lock and the breeze blowing on my neck, I briefly weighed my options one more time. I knew, inherently, that charging into my own house with a garden tool as my only shield was probably not the smartest thing I would ever do. Hopefully it wouldn't be the last.