Randy White - Gone

Nate wasn’t going to miss this chance to goad me about secretly preferring women, a topic he enjoyed and often hinted at. “I think Martha’s gorgeous,” he said, “but in a frosty, ball-breaker sort of way. You said yourself you find her attractive. And that you were flattered.”

Being honest has its risks, and my friend had caught me at a soft moment during our ninety-minute drive south. First, he’d impressed me with background information on three ex-cons who might be using the name Ricky Meeks, as well as a paragraph that seemed to describe the unusual gun I’d found. Twenty years ago, a gun-customizing company named Devel had produced a concealment weapon for a State Department agency that was still classified. Fewer than two hundred of the guns had been made. The weapon was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard and “window” grips, plus some other tweaks for fast shooting.

“I’m not sure if the name’s pronounced Dee-vel or Devil ,” Nate had added, telling me with his tone that he preferred the second. There was no photo, but it sure sounded like the mysterious weapon I’d brought along for him to see.

Then my muscular friend had softened me more by giving me a photo of Barbara Stanwyck framed in polished aluminum. The frame was too modern for my taste, but I was touched by his thoughtfulness and loved the picture. It was different from the one in Darren’s magazine, but I’d seen it on the Internet when researching the actress. I’d never been compared to a beautiful Hollywood star before so, naturally, was hopeful of finding other similarities that would support Darren’s compliment. To my surprise, I’d discovered a couple that even the skeptical girl inside me couldn’t deny.

As I’d told Nathan, “Barbara Stanwyck’s father ran off when she was a little girl, too. Went to Panama or someplace when she was barely three, never saw him again. And she was a real outdoorsman. Owned a ranch, rode horses, and loved to trout-fish. Plus, she lived most her life as a single woman after divorcing. Didn’t feel the need to hook her star to a husband to be happy.” As a secret compliment to myself, I’d almost added, “She was an independent lady. A man’s woman,” but unfortunately did not.

That was the slip that had led to prying questions from Nathan, then me revealing how Martha had tried to seduce me. Worse, I’d admitted I had found it flattering-as unwelcome as Martha’s behavior was-to be picked out by such a successful, attractive woman when there were plenty to choose from on a night when live music was being played at Jensen’s Marina just down the road.

I’d sworn Nate to secrecy! Instead, he was jabbing me with more questions, and in a public place, where the woman ignoring us behind the bar could hear if she’d bothered to put down her cell phone and pay attention.

Now he was asking, “After she tried to kiss you, what happened? Jesus, Hannah, the details! You slapped your boss. What’d she say?”

Yesterday, I would not have revealed to Nate, or anyone else, the exchange that took place between Martha Calder-Shaun and myself two nights ago. What the woman said had troubled me so much, I’d left the Seasonses’ estate sleepless and was still wondering about my feelings the next day. But that was no longer true.

Even so, teeth clenched, I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, saying, “I pushed Martha’s hand away-more of a whack than a slap. Then the two of us agreed to forget it. If you’re so darn nosy, I’ll tell you the details-but later, when we’re in the truck. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It’s kind of funny, really.”

“Oh, come on! Tell me now.” Nate’s huge head swiveled toward the bar. “Our waitress is too busy texting to hear.”

I sighed, confirmed that it was true, then wiggled my index finger to summon him closer. “You’re a mess, you know that?” I said.

“Please?”

“Okay!” I hissed, then whispered what the New York attorney had said after I’d knocked her hand off my breast.

“Hannah, you beautiful, unusual girl. Ninety percent of all women are bisexual, they just don’t know it. It’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re afraid to let go… risk finding out how sexy and tender it can be. Why? Because you know y ou’d love it.”

To Nathan, I added, “Those aren’t her exact words. But close. It isn’t true, of course.”

Nate said, “That’s awesome! The woman’s crazy about you. My God, she was still trying to get in your knickers even after you slapped her.”

“Martha isn’t one to quit easily,” I agreed. “You don’t get to her level unless you’ve got some grit.”

“Listen to yourself! You’re defending her!”

“A woman who comes right out and says what she thinks? I admire that. I wish I was more like her. Why not?”

Nate was loving it. “You were tempted to let her kiss you, I can tell. Just a little? Admit it, Four.”

I shrugged and shook my head, comfortable with what I was about to say. “Like I told you, I was flattered. Sure, I’ve thought about what it would be like. Do something that’s fun and feels good-especially with someone I admire-I don’t see anything wrong with that. But my body makes the rules-so far, at least-and I don’t see that changing. My body tells me I’d have a lot more fun and feel a lot better with a man who has something between his ears and between his legs.”

I shrugged again, adding, “There’s no doubt in my mind about what I like.” Which wasn’t a lie-especially after last night, sitting in a small, warm room with the biologist, listening to his voice and watching the way his hands and shoulders moved. If Dr. Ford had a woman in his life, there was no evidence of her in his manner, or in his bathroom shower soap caddy. I’d checked.

Nate parroted Martha’s words, wanting to remember them: “Ninety percent of all woman are bisexual, they just don’t know it.” Then asked the same question I’d made the mistake of asking: “What about the other ten percent?”

I quoted Martha Calder-Shaun, getting it almost perfect. “They’re lesbians, kiddo. Don’t fret-most of them are a hell of a lot happier than we are.”

The dumb grin on Nathan’s face told me he was trying to commit the conversation to memory, but then his expression changed. I realized he was looking beyond me at a man who had just come through the door. Short man, with muscled forearms, wearing a turquoise Miami Dolphins cap and white rubber fishing boots.

“I think that guy’s following us,” Nate whispered. “He was hanging around the marina. Then drove past when we were at the door where the postmistress lives. Remember the old pickup with the loud muffler? Red one. I saw his face.” My friend made a subtle hushing motion with hands. “ Quiet. Here he comes.”

To balance Nathan’s timid body language, I sat taller on my seat and didn’t disguise my interest as I watched the man stop for a moment, silhouetted by the bright day outside. His eyes moved around the room until he found me, then he smiled, teeth whiter and straighter than expected.

–

“YOU’RE THE FOLKS been asking questions,” the man in the Dolphins cap said when he got to our table. “We’re looking for the same guy, I think. Ricky Meeks. That crook owes me money. How much he owe you?” Spreading like a cloud over our table floated the smell of beer and lighter fluid or what might have been sweat.

Nathan was a foot taller when he stood to shake hands, which caused the man to puff up and try to appear larger, his eyes still fixed on me. “Name’s Eugene. And you’re Hannah Smith. Don’t look surprised. I sell fish to the marina, and the boys told me what a famous family you come from.” He still hadn’t craned his neck to look up at Nate but said to him as an aside, “Place as small as Caxambas, people talk. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. That ain’t always a bad thing… unless you do bad things-like that boy you’ve been asking about. Mind if I sit down?”