Daniel Palmer - Helpless

Tom felt woefully underdressed. His thrown-together outfit (ancient tweed jacket, chino slacks, somewhat wrinkled collared shirt, no tie) might as well have been procured from a Goodwill reject bin.

Tom took out his cell phone and sent a text message to Jill.

How are you doing? he typed.

Jill’s reply came seconds after his message was sent.

Green.

He’d dropped Jill off at Lindsey’s with a promise that she’d stay there until he came to pick her up.

Most of the dinner guests were standing, milling about, when Tom entered the main dining hall. He recognized many of Roland Boyd’s clients. Several were parents of players on this year’s team or teams from the past. The host of the Harold Ross Grill escorted Tom past men who chatted in close clusters. Their attractive wives, many in low-cut black dresses, talked in tight circles of their own.

Every few steps somebody would reach out and grab Tom by the arm. They’d express their condolences, ask about Jill, and wish him luck on the upcoming season. But he also heard whisperings about the blog-post scandal. From what little Tom picked up, the opinions on the matter varied widely.

At least the superintendent of Shilo schools, Angie Didomenico, was on his side. She had given Powers a formal reprimand for not informing her of his plans to question his team about the Tumblr blog and had filed a complaint with the Shilo Police Department to protest their handling of the investigation.

Thank you, Angie.

Tom was glad Jill was at Lindsey’s house and not on display here. The funeral had been a hard enough stage, though he had marveled at his daughter’s courage in eulogizing her mother.

Tom spied Adriana seated at one of oval tables, with Mitchell beside her. Adriana’s face lit up, and she stood as Tom neared. She clutched Tom’s arm in her tight grip.

“Well, hello there,” she said in a husky voice that resembled Demi Moore’s. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

Adriana looked breathtakingly beautiful, shimmering inside a sequined blouse and slim-fitting black slacks. She kept hold of Tom’s arm and wouldn’t let go even when he shifted his weight to slip his hands inside his pants pockets.

“Well, Jill wanted to go over to Lindsey’s, and I didn’t really feel like hanging out alone in my old house. I’m glad I had a place to go, which I guess is a roundabout way of saying thanks for inviting me.”

“How are things going with Jill?”

“Persistence and patience,” Tom said, with a slight smile. Adriana smiled, too, and gave Tom’s arm another squeeze.

“I know you two will do great together,” Adriana said, and added, “Come sit with me and Mitchell a moment.”

But before Tom could oblige, Roland appeared and took hold of Tom’s other arm. A mini tug-of-war ensued before Adriana finally let go.

“Sorry, darling,” Roland said with a wry grin, “but no sitting until Tom here has had something to drink. We’ll be right back.”

Roland led Tom to the bar, dodging caterers, who roamed the floor like heat-seeking missiles. Roland was dressed in a pin-striped linen suit, with a pocket square, straight as a ruler’s edge, tucked into his jacket pocket. His shirt was a light blue oxford; the tie a pattern of pink and blue hues, like those of a sunset. But even in a fancy suit, Tom still saw echoes of Roland’s younger self. The kid who sometimes brought a flask of whiskey to school, which he was always willing to share. The guy who favored buzz cuts and gray hooded sweatshirts in any weather. A townie kid from Shilo, New Hampshire, with big plans for big living, but no real road map to get there.

Well, it looks like you found your way, thought Tom.

Roland patted Tom’s hand as the two reached the bar, his skin cool to the touch, despite the room’s warmth.

“Glad you could make it out,” Roland said.

“Nice club,” Tom said. “You’ve been a member long?”

“Long enough.” Roland’s trademark grin hadn’t changed any over the years. It held a hint of playful mischievousness, a sly suggestion that he could still be the same troublemaker that many parents had believed him to be in their high school days.

“How’s your game?” asked Tom.

“Seven handicap. Yours?”

“I have a hard time getting through the windmill and the whale’s mouth, but I’m getting better.”

Roland chuckled. “Buddy, we don’t play that kind of golf here. Drink?”

“Coke.”

“Right, with a lime,” Roland said, remembering.

“With a lime,” repeated Tom.

“What’s this I’m hearing about you hooking up with one of your players?” Roland said. “I hope for your sake that it’s all a bunch of bull.”

“I guess these days you can put anything on the Internet and people will believe it. Yeah, it’s all bull.”

“Good to know,” Roland said.

Though the bar was packed with thirsty patrons, the bartender took Roland’s drink order first. Roland’s clients were loud and chatty, which Tom attributed to the open bar.

“Tom, let me introduce you to a friend of mine,” Roland said, placing one of his well-manicured hands on the shoulder of a heavyset man seated on the bar stool next to him. The man had the thick neck of a former football player, greasy dark hair, and a round tough-guy face that suggested he, like Roland, had led a very different lifestyle before becoming country club elite. “Frank Dee, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine from high school and fellow vet, Thomas Hawkins. Tom just moved back to town… under difficult circumstances.”

Dee nodded in a knowing way. “Good to meet you,” he said in a voice that sounded like gravel was lodged someplace deep inside his throat. The two shook hands. Dee’s breath smelled of alcohol. The man’s grip felt like a vise squeezing Tom’s hand. Tom noticed a thick band of whiter skin just below the knuckle of Dee’s ring finger and wondered if he’d recently divorced.

Dee said, “I’m sorry about your ex-wife. Tragic. It’s really rocked this town. Any breaks in the case, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Tom shook his head. “No. It’s still very much an active investigation.”

“Well, I hope they catch the scumbag who did it and hang ’em by the balls,” Dee said.

Tom was glad their drinks showed up, because it gave him something to do besides respond.

“You two served together, huh?” Dee asked.

“I was navy. Roland was army,” Tom clarified.

“Navy SEAL,” Roland added.

Dee’s eyes widened. “That’s badass. Very badass.”

“It’s also very much in the past,” Tom said.

Dee just laughed.

“Frank’s in the restaurant business, owns a bunch of different franchises in southern New Hampshire,” Roland said, keeping one hand on Dee’s massive shoulder. To Tom, Roland jokingly whispered, loud enough for Dee to overhear, “I got sick on one of his burgers last week.”

Another man came over to their perch at the bar. He was rugged looking, about Tom and Roland’s age, with a strong jawline and tanned skin that accented his bright white teeth. He reminded Tom of the guys who advertised Just For Men hair coloring products on TV.

“Hey, Simon. Glad you made it.”

“Have I ever missed one of your client parties?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Roland agreed. Turning to Tom, he said, “Tom, I’d like you to meet Simon Cortland. He runs a PR firm in Boston that does a lot of work for clients of mine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tom said, giving Cortland’s strong hand a firm shake.

“Likewise,” Cortland said with a pleasant smile and another flash of teeth. He turned his attention back to Roland. “You still up for the boat on Saturday?”