Reunion at Red Paint Bay (5 page)

Simon stepped back from the dais. He hadn’t realized how short his speech was until this moment, as the Rotarians sat there staring at him, expecting more.
It took a moment for Concannon to get up from his seat and start the applause.

Amy was in
the hallway when he opened the front door, waving an oversized postcard in the air. “Your anonymous correspondent strikes again.”

Simon set down his briefcase in the hallway and loosened his tie. He gave her a hug and inhaled a wonderful citrus scent, possibly grapefruit. He could never remember the name to buy it for her.

“This one’s of the Liberty Bell,” she said. “He’s getting closer.”

“It’s just been three cities—Salt Lake, Chicago, and now Philadelphia. That doesn’t necessarily make a pattern.”

“Sure it does. Any two things are meaningless. Three show a pattern.”

“Okay, what’s the message this time?”

She read it dramatically, as if reciting lines in a play: “I learned a valuable lesson from you some time ago. I am now in a position to pay you back. Come to the River View Restaurant in Bath, Sat. July 2, 7 p.m. Faithfully …”

“So maybe these cards have a point after all,” Simon said as he took off his jacket.

“Which is?”

“That I helped someone in my generous past, and that person wants to repay me with dinner. The mystery will be solved July 2 at seven p.m.”

Amy inspected the message more closely. “It’s written ambiguously.
Pay you back
could mean getting even.”

“Why would you jump to that idea?”

“You’re a journalist. The stories you run in the
Register
aren’t always positive. Like that sex registry last month. There were a lot of mistakes you had to correct the next issue.”

“There were two mistakes in the level of offense, and they weren’t our fault. The state gave us incorrect information.”

“Still, somebody on that list could hold you responsible for ruining their reputation. They might want to get back at you somehow.”

“And you think they’d go to this elaborate effort, starting out in Salt Lake City and letting me know they’re coming?”

“Revenge is often elaborate. That’s part of its appeal. You get to enjoy it over and over again as you plan it.”

He searched for a hanger in the hall closet but couldn’t find one. He wanted to ask why there never were enough hangers, but that would imply that she was in charge of them. He slipped his jacket around another one and turned back into the hall. “When did you become an expert on revenge?”

She handed him the postcard. “I’m an expert on people, and I don’t think you should meet this person.”

“Nothing’s going to happen at the River View.”

“It has those huge windows. Somebody could take a shot at you from outside.”

The thought of being a target amused Simon. Had he somehow fallen into a cliché mystery novel? “I won’t sit by the windows or on the deck out back, how’s that?”

“I’m serious, Simon. You don’t know who this guy is or what he intends.”

“This person has become a
he
in your opinion?”

She pointed at the writing. “Look how large the letters are and the way the words crowd in at the end of the line. No woman writes like that.”

“Messiness is a male trait?”

“On postcards it is.”

“All right, I admit there’s a small risk responding to an anonymous note. But it might make a good human interest story for the paper. I’m going to meet
him
.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“You weren’t invited.”

“Nevertheless, I’m going.”

It was useless to try to persuade her otherwise, so Simon just nodded and headed for the stairs. “How did your speech go?” she called after him.

“I was triumphant,” he said as he mounted the steps. “A standing ovation, if you count the busboys
waiting at the back for me to finish so they could clear the tables. They were standing at least.”

“I’m sure you knocked ’em dead.”

Davey was late
for dinner, which wasn’t like him. He always turned up on time for food. “Maybe he’s kicking his soccer ball around out back,” Amy said as she set the dining room table.

Simon opened the side door to check the yard as a black-and-white Red Paint police cruiser pulled into the driveway. The possibilities raced through his mind—Davey struck by a car, Davey caught shoplifting, Davey smoking or drinking. Simon ran to the squad car and saw his son sitting in the backseat, his arms folded in his lap, staring straight ahead with a fierce expression on his face, like a criminal who doesn’t believe he should be treated as a criminal.

Officer Jim Daly, the oldest patrolman on the force, hoisted himself out of the driver’s side. “Everything’s all right, Simon. Just a little scrap on the Common your kid got into, so I thought I’d bring him home to you.”

Daly opened the back door and Davey slid out, his head down. Simon squatted so that he was eye level with his son. There weren’t any visible bumps or bruises. His clothes weren’t torn. He didn’t look like he’d been in a fight at all, which made Simon feel a little proud. Apparently he had gotten the best of it. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Yes
, Simon thought, say
yes
for once in your life. “What happened?” Davey kicked at the gravel in the driveway. Simon looked up at the officer.

“Why don’t you send him inside and we can talk?”

“Go in and wash up for dinner, Davey. You’re late, and you had Mom worried.”

“It’s nothing serious,” Daly said as the youngster trudged across the lawn. “I was driving by the bandstand and saw a scuffle going on. I separated the kids and thought it best if I brought Davey home.”

“Is the other boy okay?”

Daly rubbed his hands over his face. “Actually, it was a girl.”

“A girl?”

“Tina Squires. She’s a pretty big girl, I’ll say that. She could have hurt him if she’d landed a punch.”

Simon tried to picture the scene. “You’re telling me my son was fighting with a girl?”

The policeman nodded. “Seems she called him a little shrimp.”

That was, Simon figured, the worst insult that could be hurled at the second-smallest boy in his class. And not just from a girl, but from Tina, his girlfriend.

“Kids can be cruel,” Daly said, “that hasn’t changed since I grew up. Still …”

“Yes,” Simon said, “still.”

Simon stared at the rack
of summer shirts in his closet. He reached for a green-striped one, which he often wore to the office, then slipped it back on the hanger. He pulled out a blue linen, his going-out-to-dinner-with-Amy shirt, and held it up. “Is this dressy enough or too dressy?”

She leaned on his shoulder to steady herself putting on a shoe. “It’s dinner at the River View in Bath. A sweatsuit is too dressy.”

He returned the blue linen and took out a basic black cotton shirt. “This guy might be bringing a camera to capture the moment when he hands me a thousand-dollar check for something I did for him. I’d like to look sharp for that.”

He put on the shirt, and she licked her finger and rubbed at a spot on the front. “I still wish you’d change your mind.”

“If someone was planning to shoot at me, they wouldn’t have to lure me to Bath to do it. They could drive down Mechanic Street and fire away at me through the window.”

“That makes me feel better.”

He pulled her toward him and felt the whole shape of her pressed against him. He loved her firmness, nothing frail or brittle about her. She wouldn’t break easily, but she did worry. “I really don’t need a bodyguard,” he said.

“If you go, I go.”

Simon picked up
the car keys from the hall table and called upstairs, “We’re leaving, Davey.”

The boy jumped out at the top of the steps as if hiding there. “See ya,” he said, then pushed in his earbuds. Amy motioned for him to pull them out.

“Check the back door for Casper in a little while and feed her the soft food when she comes in.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“And remember, you’re grounded.”

“I remember.”

“We’re going to the River View Restaurant up in Bath. I left my cell number on the kitchen table if you need us.”

“I know your cell, Mom.”

“If you have any problem, just go next door to the Benedettis’. They’re always home.”

“I thought I was grounded.”

“If there’s an emergency, we’ll suspend that so you can go over there. I put some chicken nuggets in the microwave for you. Just heat them for two minutes.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t forget …”

Simon took her arm. “You almost done with the reminders?”

“Almost.” She looked upstairs to give her last instruction, but Davey was gone.

On the long
, winding road to Bath, Simon imagined the moment opening the door to the River View. All eyes would turn toward him, everyone let in on the surprise. He would survey the crowd, face to face, until one would stand out. He’d point and laugh—
“You? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Then it would all come back to him, the gesture he had made that seemed so small at the time but became a life-changing act.

Amy fished in her pocketbook and pulled out lipstick. “You think we were too hard on Davey?”

“Too hard? He hit a girl on the Common. A
girl
.”

Amy applied the lipstick. “He says he only shoved her, and he was provoked.”

“He still can’t be shoving girls around.”

“Shoving boys is okay?”

“In some circumstances, yes, I’d say shoving boys is an appropriate response to a provocation.”

“I assume you didn’t tell him that.”

“I told him he shouldn’t hit or shove anyone. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s tearing around the house punching and kicking the air all the time.”

“Summer,” Amy said, “that’s what got into him.”

“We should have sent him to camp again. He said he wanted to stay home to make money cutting lawns, but he’s only done the Benedettis’. He just hangs around all day trying to make Casper disappear.”

“At least he hasn’t succeeded,” Amy said. “Be thankful for that.”

The River View Restaurant
once lived up to its name, with the Kennebec flowing past its back windows, just fifty yards away. Now the view was of the red brick Riverside Luxury Condominiums, squeezed kitty-cornered into the once open space. They sat at a small table for two, one aisle back from the window, and sipped Molson ales. Whenever a man entered they looked at each other and shook their heads. Too passive, too cheerful, too unimaginative. Definitely not the revenge type.

Amy reached over and took his hands. “Even if nobody shows up, it’s nice to get out by ourselves.”

Simon surveyed either side of the River View—the steamy kitchen to the right behind a small partition, with the cooks chattering in some indecipherable tongue, and the pea green wall to the left, spotted with large fish photos. “I would have chosen someplace a bit more romantic for us than this.”

A young waitress came by with her notepad poised in her hand. “Still waiting for your third?”

Amy checked her watch. “It’s 7:40. We shouldn’t sit here any longer without eating, Simon. People are waiting for tables.”

“People waiting at the River View—that defies logic,” he said, then remembered the waitress. “I just meant it’s surprising your being so crowded on a Thursday night.”

“We’re crowded every night. Are you ready to order then?”

“I’ll have the meatloaf special,” Amy said.

“Very good. And you, sir?”

Simon scratched his head at her choice. “Meatloaf?”

“When in Rome.”

“Right, okay, make it two, I guess.”

“You’re disappointed,” Amy said as the waitress left.

“I just thought this might be something fun for a change. But here we’re sitting in the worst restaurant within fifty miles of Red Paint getting ready to
eat a loaf of meat. That’s a pretty good joke somebody played on me.”

Amy looked around. “If it’s a joke, the person must be here watching. Otherwise how would he enjoy it?”

“Good point.”

They scanned the seats over each other’s shoulders.

“We can rule out all the families and couples, it’s probably a single guy.” Amy nodded behind him, toward the bar. “Don’t look now, but how about the man behind you with the bag on his lap? Maybe he’s got your thousand bucks reward in there in small bills.”

Simon glanced over as if looking at the wall clock. “No,” he said, turning back, “too …”

“Wait,” Amy said, “here he comes.”

The man walked up to their table, clutching a leather messenger bag to his chest, and nodded at Amy. “I couldn’t help noticing you were looking at me. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, “but it’s funny, because I thought you were looking at us, and I was wondering the same thing—whether we had met before.”

“I’m sure we haven’t.” The man tipped his head and left.

“I still think that could be him,” Amy said as she leaned into the aisle to see the man push through the exit door. “Maybe we should follow him, get his license plate.”

“And do what?”

“You could get your contact at motor vehicles to run the number.”