“Perfected cold fusion.”
Rafe opened his mouth to make a smart remark, but instead turned to smile at our approaching waitress. “Thanks,” he said as she handed around the drinks. “I don’t suppose you have a table where I can sit and eat without being insulted.”
“Pay no attention to my husband.” Kristen hopped her chair close and slung her long arm around his shoulders. “We’re still working out the best medications for him to take.”
“It’s that weird-shaped pill that’s giving him the trouble,” I told the waitress in a confidential tone, leaning over to tuck my hand under Rafe’s elbow. “You know, the blue one?” I winked at her.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly catching on that we were talking about an erectile dysfunction medication. “Oh. Well, I hope it works out for . . . um, for all of you. I’ll be back in a few minutes for your order.”
When she was back inside, Kristen and I spluttered with laughter.
“Aren’t you the funny ones,” Rafe said sourly, but he said it with a smile.
“We are, aren’t we?” Kristen held up her glass. “To the reinvigoration of the Thursday Night Restaurant Review Crew.”
As we tinked glasses, Rafe pointed out the obvious. “It’s not Thursday.”
“Which makes us even funnier,” Kristen said. “Drink up, my dear boy. It’s the only one you’re getting until we’re home, no matter how many times you bat those long lashes at our waitress.”
He looked across the table and fluttered his eyes violently.
“Not a chance,” I said, tucking my wineglass close to my body.
“Don’t even.” Kristen took a sip of her burgundy. “This stuff is too good for you.” She glanced at me. “For you, too, but I have high hopes.”
It was a fond hope of Kristen’s that I’d turn into a wine connoisseur so we could have long esoteric conversations about vintage and growing conditions and the best way to harvest grapes. I doubted she would ever succeed since my wine preferences were based on two things, price and the cuteness of the label, but who was I to tell her to give up a dream?
“Speaking of you,” Kristen said, “I’ve heard ten different stories about what happened yesterday with you and the bookmobile and Leese Lacombe and how her dad died. What’s the real deal? Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not really,” I said. “Not right now anyway.”
As a relative newcomer to Chilson, I often had to rely on natives to give me the historical details that were so often necessary to understanding relationships and motivations. The town wasn’t tiny, not by Up North standards, but it wasn’t uncommon to realize, halfway through a conversation, that you were talking to someone about their cousin. Years ago, I’d learned to get a background check on everyone I met from Kristen, or Rafe, or my aunt Frances, or Donna at the library, or sometimes all four.
“Did Leese go to Chilson?” I asked. Rafe had graduated from high school two years ahead of Kristen and me.
“She was in the elementary school,” Rafe said, “but then her mom got a job in Petoskey and they moved.”
“I remember,” Kristen said, snapping her fingers. “Number eight on Petoskey’s softball team. She was a power hitter. Whenever she came to the plate, our outfield moved way back.”
All very interesting, but I wanted to get back to what Rafe had said. “You said her mom got a job in Petoskey. What about her dad?”
As I asked the question, I focused hard on the sailboat coming up the channel, trying to guess exactly when the bells on the drawbridge would start dinging, when the traffic lights would turn red, stopping traffic back all through downtown Charlevoix, trying hard to watch what was going on in front of me so I didn’t have to remember what I’d seen.
“Leese’s parents split up a long time ago,” Kristen said.
“Dale and Bev got divorced when Leese was little,” Rafe said. “I remember Leese being the first kid I knew whose dad didn’t live with them.”
The bells went off and the traffic lights switched to red. As the bridge’s deck started to rise, bells ringing, I said, “Them? Does Leese have siblings?”
“Only child,” Kristen said. “At least directly. When her dad showed up to games, sometimes he had two little kids in tow. Stepbrother and stepsister from his second wife.”
“Brad and Mia.” Rafe tapped his glass. “Brad’s a brew master at that new craft brewery on the north side of Petoskey. Not sure what Mia does.”
“Figures he’d know the guy who makes beer,” Kristen said to me. “But I’m surprised he doesn’t know about Mia. She was a cute little bug of a kid, and she grew up pretty. I lost track of her after she got out of high school.”
Rafe pulled out his cell. “Of course, now that you mention it, I think she’s a Facebook friend. Hang on.” He tapped at his phone’s screen a few times, tapped again, then said, “Sure, here she is.” He handed his phone over to Kristen.
“No kidding,” she said. “Mia’s in charge of Information Technology for what’s-their-face, that company in Charlevoix. You know, that one that makes something for cars.”
A girl computer geek? I’d have to tell Josh. I squinted at the screen, which was hard to see in the glare of the setting sun. “Does it say anything about her liking the White Sox?” Because if she did, there was no point in introducing her to Josh, who was a die-hard Detroit Tigers fan.
“No, but she did grow up to be gorgeous.” Kristen gave me the phone and I studied Mia’s picture.
“Wow, she is hot.” I passed the cell back to its owner. “And you haven’t dated her?”
Rafe shrugged. “Not my type.”
Laughter erupted on the female side of the table. “I didn’t know you had a type,” Kristen said, “other than that she has to be breathing and younger than your mom.”
Rafe looked at Mia’s Facebook photo. “Pretty enough,” he said, “but she doesn’t talk much. She’s a friend of a friend. We run into each other at parties, is about it.”
“Her mom’s sooo not like that,” Kristen said. “Carmen. I remember at softball games, Carmen would be there with Dale. He’d be yelling at the umpire like the jerk he was—not to speak ill of the dead, but the truth is the truth—and she’d be right there with him, both of them in the guy’s face.”
“You remember that stuff?” I looked at Rafe. “Do you remember the parents of your opponents?”
He tapped the side of his head. “Like a steel trap.”
“It’s a small-town thing,” Kristen said. “If a kid is athletic, they’ll play every sport they can. I did soccer, basketball, and softball.” She shrugged. “A lot of girls did those same sports, so you see the same kids over and over. You get to know them and the people who show up to watch them.”
In Dearborn, where I’d grown up, the student body was roughly a zillion times bigger than the size of Chilson’s high school. If I’d wanted to play a varsity sport, which I never had, the odds of me actually making a team were about the same as Eddie never shedding any of his variegated black and white hairs. Up here, if you wanted to play, about all you had to do was keep a decent grade point average.
“What did Leese’s dad do for a living?” I asked.
“Builder,” Rafe said. “I worked for him one summer. Sort of. Not my favorite job and he was a horrible boss.” Rafe twisted in his chair and glanced around. “You two ready to order? Our waitress is right over there.” He flashed her another smile and made a come-along gesture.
“The magic is gone,” I said, watching. “Look, she barely smiled back.”
“Poor Rafe.” Kristen sighed. “This could be the start of a long dry spell for him.”
“In spite of the lies you already told her, five bucks says I’ll get her number before we leave.” Rafe reached for his wallet.
“That’s five each.” I drew the appropriate bill out of my pocket and Kristen did the same. If we spent any time with Rafe, a five-dollar bet was almost a guarantee, so we’d come prepared.