Doubleback: A Novel (8 page)

Friday night after the fireworks she met Pete Dellinger at Mickey’s, her favorite place in Evanston. Pete was her neighbor and her friend, and while she knew he wanted it to be more, he wasn’t pushy. As she walked into the dimly lit bar, she spotted him at the bar, talking to Mickey’s owner, Owen Dougherty.

“Here she is.” Dougherty was a big man in his sixties with dark coloring and a mustache that made him look like Jackie Gleason, whose
Honeymooner
reruns Georgia had discovered on cable. He snapped the white towel that usually hung over his shoulder. “So, what’ll it be, tonight? The firecracker special?”

Pete was nursing a draft.

“Diet coke with lemon,” Georgia said.

“How’s by you, Davis?” Owen said as he poured her drink. Protocol demanded that everyone go by last names at Mickey’s. Except Owen. Georgia decided to buck the system.

“Just peachy, Dougherty,” She slid onto the stool next to Pete.

Owen frowned at her breach of etiquette but set down her soda. Pete touched her arm by way of greeting. He had sandy hair, a small nose, and behind a pair of glasses, lively blue eyes. He wasn’t what you’d call handsome—his eyes were too widely spaced, his chin too prominent, and his hair too unruly—but he was interesting.

And nerdy. Pete dressed like he lived in Pleasantville during the fifties. Once Georgia had teased that he must have been deprived of penny loafers and a button-down shirt as a kid, because he always wore them now. When he didn’t reply, she realized she was closer to the truth than she’d known. She’d seen him in shorts and a tank top, though, and knew that underneath his Ivy League getup was a great body: broad shoulders, muscled arms, flat stomach. She sighed. If she’d been a different kind of woman...

“You go to the fireworks?”

“Nope. Just got home. I was doing laundry.”

“Where were you?”

“Camping in northern Wisconsin with my brother.”

“You have a brother? I thought there was only you and your sister.”

“Steve’s my half brother. Lives in Minnesota. He called a few weeks ago. Wanted to spend some time together. We went fly fishing on the Flambeau river.”

“Tents and campfires and all that?”

He nodded. “A little bit of paradise on earth.”

Georgia shook her head. “My idea of paradise is a hotel with room service, a minibar, and movies on demand.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing: two stinky men drinking beer for breakfast and lunch, and fishing for our dinner.”

Gemma, Mickey’s only waitress, came over with menus. “You want over there?” She motioned toward an empty booth.

“We can eat at the bar,” Georgia said. “Save you the trouble of bussing.”

“Appreciate it.” Gemma had three kids and no husband and was putting herself through a CPA program. She’d been moonlighting at Mickey’s for years. Georgia ordered her usual: hamburger, rare, with fries. Pete ordered fried fish.

“You didn’t have enough last week?”

A flush started up Pete’s cheeks. “Well, turned out we didn’t quite have the right lures. We ate a lot of pizza.”

Georgia laughed. “So much for living off the land. Or water.”

“Hey, we had a great time. Lots of brotherly bonding.” He took a pull on his draft. “So, what have you been up to?” He was always careful not to get too personal. Giving her space.

She told him about Molly and Christine Messenger. “Then, right after the girl was released, which itself was strange, the mother’s boss died in a car accident. The mother is freaked out. Thinks it’s related to her daughter.”

“Do you?”

“Hard to say. I’m waiting for a tox screen and the autopsy results.”

Pete took another sip of beer. “You do have a thing for kids... especially girls.”

Funny. Foreman had said the same thing. They probably had a point. First Rachel, Foreman’s daughter, then Lauren Walcher, now Molly Messenger. Georgia was drawn to the vulnerable ones, the ones who couldn’t defend themselves. But it wasn’t just girls. She thought back to Cam Jordan, a mentally challenged kid who’d been railroaded last year for a murder he didn’t commit. He’d needed her to fight for him.

It was probably all wrapped up in being abandoned by her own mother. She’d walked out when Georgia was twelve, leaving Georgia with her father, a cop who liked the bottle as well as the strap. Georgia had more or less raised herself. Still, the idea of motherhood terrified her. She started to fidget.

Pete picked up on it. “Hey, that wasn’t supposed to make you stress out.”

She stared at her drink.

“So what do you think?” Pete tried to change the subject. “About the mother?”

“I can’t figure out whether she’s on the level or she’s the kind of woman who feels entitled to special treatment. The referral came through... well, that’s not important. The thing is, I looked into this as a favor. I’m not getting paid. So whatever she turns out to be, my part is over once the screens come back.”

“But what if the mother’s hunch is right and it wasn’t an accident?”

“A hunch is just wishful thinking unless the evidence is there.” She twirled her swizzle stick. Enough about Christine Messenger. “Hey, you ever hear of a dating service called More-than-Friends?”

Pete shook his head.

She was about to tell him when the news on the TV above the bar came on. When she heard the top story, she gasped.

chapter
9

T
he flame from the scented candle flickered in the dark. Currents of cool air kissed my skin, but I felt heat in the sweep of his fingers, first tender then insistent. Luke had a way of touching me that made me feel I was the most beautiful, desirable woman on earth. I tried to arch up, but his weight held me down. I felt his mouth hot on my skin. My muscles tightened and my breath caught. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and he entered me, thrusting hard and fast and deep. I rose up to meet him. When we made love, the rest of the world fell away. He claimed not only my body but my soul too, ransacking then refilling it so that all my thoughts and senses were of him.

•   •   •

I woke up later than usual Saturday morning. Luke sat on the edge of the bed already dressed, watching me. I smiled and reached for him. He buried his face in my neck. I felt his heart beating against mine. Warm. Comforting. He kissed me, then straightened up.

“I thought I’d go for a run.”

I nodded lazily. “After all the fireworks last night? You were amazing.”

“I know.” His eyes twinkled. They were a shade of blue that changed from ocean deep to cloudless sky depending on his mood, and they were his most interesting feature. He had carrot-colored hair on top of his head, gray on the sides, and freckles all over his skin. He wasn’t that tall, but he was compact and fit. Most people wouldn’t look twice at him, but when his eyes landed on me, frank and guileless, my stomach flipped, and I couldn’t look away.

“You sure you want to go for a run?” I remembered the passion we’d shared just a few hours ago. “I do have another idea.”

“More fireworks, huh?” He disengaged from my arms. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. We’ll negotiate.”

I sank back against the pillow. Truth be told, I am not a morning person and I resent the cheerful types who are. For Luke, though, I made an effort. “Go ahead. I’ll make breakfast.”

“We could go to the pancake house,” he said.

“And put back all those calories you burned off?” I shook my head. “Eggs this morning. Maybe egg whites.”

“You can splurge on the yolks. We earned them.”

When he grinned I felt a twinge of desire. It never quite faded. “You’d better get out now. Or you never will.”

He kissed me again, then took the stairs down. The screen door banged. I took my time getting up, threw on a tank top and shorts, brushed my teeth, went down to the kitchen. I got out eggs, milk, bagels, and a cantaloupe that had been ripening on the counter and smelled just right. Then I went out to grab the paper.

It was a perfect summer day: azure sky, puffy white clouds, sun-baked breeze. I could turn off the air conditioning. I was bending over to pick up the paper when an old, battered pickup pulled up to the curb. For an instant I thought it was Fouad Al Hamra, a friend who owns a landscaping company and helps me take care of my garden. But Fouad just bought a new Dodge Ram, and unless he’d entered it in a demolition derby, this wasn’t his truck.

Three Hispanic men climbed out. Landscapers are a familiar summer sight on the North Shore, even on a holiday weekend. Most are probably illegals, working long hours taking care of peoples’ lawns for minimum wage or less. To them, we are “rich
gabachos
... northerners.”

The men gathered at the edge of my driveway and stooped to examine something at the curb. From my vantage point all I could make out was green material. Speaking in Spanish, they gestured excitedly, then looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back. They bent to pick up the object. What they were doing wasn’t uncommon—I’d often see people cruising around the North Shore, scavenging perfectly good items other people had thrown away. I couldn’t blame them.

Until I realized what they were carrying to the truck. It was my patio umbrella—the one I bought last year. The one I’d asked Rachel to put away a few days ago. Put away. Not throw away. She must have misunderstood. I dropped the newspaper and hurried to the curb.

“Hey...” I waved my hands. “No, no. That’s mine. Sorry. You can’t have it.”

The two men frowned but kept hold of the umbrella.

“The umbrella.
Es lo mi
!” My Spanish is practically nonexistent. “It’s new!” What was the frigging word for “new” in Spanish?
Nouvelle
in French. My father was right, after all. He’d told me to take Spanish, but my mother insisted on French. Damn them both. Where was Rachel? She was in Spanish Four.

The men’s faces remained impassive. They were gaming me. They had to know, even if they didn’t understand the words, that I didn’t want them to take it. Still, they looked away and slid the umbrella into the bed of the truck.

I went over to the pickup and grabbed one end of the umbrella. So much for my give-me-your-poor-and-oppressed compassion.

The Mexicans talked excitedly among themselves. One of them turned to me and shook his finger. “
No no, es de nostros
.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be thrown away.
Muchacha es mistaken
.” I tried to slide the umbrella out of the truck, but as one end fell to the ground, one of the men snatched the other end and started to pull.

“No!”

Another man shouted at the one who’d grabbed the umbrella. Umbrella man shouted back. From their tone, I knew they were arguing, trying to decide what to do. I couldn’t tell whether Umbrella man was trying to placate his buddies or wanted to give me a hard time. I kept hold of my end, and he kept hold of his. A tug of war ensued.

“Come on, give it back!” I said. “
Es mi
!”

He pulled. I pulled. If both of us kept it up, the umbrella might come apart. Thankfully, Luke chose that moment to appear at the end of the street. He slowed as he jogged to the driveway. Confusion swam across his face.

“Luke, help!”

He was breathing heavily, and sweat poured down his cheeks. “What the hell is going on?”

Between tugging on the umbrella and trying to keep my balance, I tried to explain. I didn’t get too far, but he must have gotten the point because suddenly his voice rang out, louder than mine.

“Stop.
Dejala ya!
”

Everybody froze, including me.

“This belongs to the senora,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “
Dejala, por favor. La sombrilla es de la senora,
” he went on in perfect Spanish.

“¿Y eso? Porqué estaba votado en la basura?”
The man playing tug of war with me asked.

Luke turned to me. “Why was it on the curb? With the garbage?”

“It was Rachel,” I panted. “She threw it out by mistake.”

Luke turned back. “
Fué una equivocación.
Her daughter didn’t understand.
Su hija se equivocó
.
La señora no quería votarla
. She doesn’t want to get rid of it.”

The man at the other end of the umbrella shot me one of those if-looks-could-kill glances but let go. I lost my balance but held on. I started to carry it back to the house.

Luke prattled on in Spanish. The three men started to nod. He spun around and called out, “Ellie, go inside and get them ten bucks a piece.”

“Why? They were stealing—”

“Just do it.”

I recognized an order and meekly went inside. I came out a minute later with my wallet, peeled off a twenty and a ten, and handed them over to Luke.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Luke said. “
Discúlpa la equivocacion.”

The man who’d been holding the umbrella grinned. He was missing a couple of teeth. The men saluted Luke and piled back into the pickup. They smiled at me, then took off.

I planted my hands on my hips. “What did you tell them? Why did they salute you?”

He came over and put his arm around me. “You’re something else. Getting territorial over a patio umbrella?”

“It was practically brand new.”

“It’s not like you couldn’t afford a new one.”

“Easy for you to say.” Luke comes from old Wasp money. Lots of it.

“Don’t you think they needed it more than you?”

“Well, yes, but —”

“Next time, let them have it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

I was loath to admit it, but Luke was right. In the vast scheme of things, fighting over a patio umbrella was not one of my finer moments. My cheeks got hot, and I went to pick up the newspaper, hoping to come up with some pithy response to justify my behavior. But when I saw what was on the front page, any urge to be clever flew out of my mind.

chapter
10

I
met Georgia at the village diner an hour later. Tucked away on a side street just off the expressway, the restaurant is the twenty-first century version of the general store, a place where everybody congregates for sustenance, gossip, and a good cup of coffee. During the week the groundswell of traffic outside, plus the machines at the dry cleaners’ next door, can make it impossible to hear. But on a Saturday morning, you can actually have a normal conversation.