Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

Ambler stepped away from her. "It's him, isn't it?"

"No."

"I knew it," he said bitterly. "I knew from the minute you heard there was going to be a movie in town, you were going after him. What did you want? For him to sweep you away to be a star?"

"Wex, come on…"

"Don't you remember? We were lying in bed-"

"Shhh!" She raised her palm to silence him.

"-and it was the first day they came into town, in that damn camper of theirs and all you talked about was making a movie. How much you wanted to act."

"Maybe I did. I want to be successful at something. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

"Meg, you can't just go start a Hollywood career. You-"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Did he fuck you?" His voice was loud.

"Be quiet!" She whirled to face him. "You can't come to my house and talk to me that way!"

He grabbed her arm. She winced. Then he calmed, reached forward and touched her face. Her eyes focused behind him, where a fast burst of light from the opening door would warn that Sam was on his way outside. "I love you, Meg. You don't know how much. I want to be with you. I'm going to be with you."

"Wex, it's never been right. Not here. Cleary isn't the kind of place for this sort of thing. I see how wrong it was."

"You make it sound cheap. It wasn't that." His whisper was harsh.

"I didn't mean it that way. I don't regret anything. I just…"

He stared down at her for a moment then released her suddenly. Ambler turned and walked down the steps.

Meg felt the vacuum of his leaving. There was too much unresolved. Wex Ambler had been her only lover. Was this how affairs always ended? Punctuated more with question marks and ellipses than exclamation points? She leaned against the banister and watched him-without a glance toward her-get into his Cadillac.

He drove slowly away. She saw the flash of his brake lights as he paused at the road-paused just long enough to let the Winnebago turn up her driveway. Then Ambler hit the accelerator hard and vanished into the night.

They're waiting for me to say grace, he decided.

Meg and Sam were looking at him, expectation in their faces. Pellam cleared his throat. In front of him, on the Sunday-set table, was a veal roast that would have fed enough men to rake up all six acres of leaves on the Torrens estate in half an hour. A huge bowl of beans and one of salad. Another plate was loaded with potato pancakes. He and Meg were drinking the white wine; Sam had a glass of milk.

That's what they're waiting for. Grace. What do I do now?

They'd settled in their chairs, candles were lit, and their eyes turned toward him. Then, as the seconds rolled past slowly, they looked at each other.

Pellam unrolled his sleeves and buttoned his cuffs to buy time. Meg said, "Well?"

"Last time I did this must be twenty years ago. I don't remember it too well."

She was frowning. "Twenty years?"

"Well, I don't say grace in the camper."

And Meg was laughing, her wine glass in her hand rocking, spilling the blond liquid over her fingers.

"Pellam… No. We're just waiting for you to carve the roast."

"Oh." He covered his face with his hands and laughed. Sam said, "I can say grace, Mr Pellam. Here goes: Over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes! Amen."

Pellam picked up the knife and serving fork and went to work. The first couple pieces crumbled. "Can I at least pray for help in carving?"

It was an hour into the meal when the eeriness settled on him. A feeling he couldn't pin down. It happened when he was laughing at one of Sam's jokes, one that Pellam himself had told to death thirty years before, and he glanced up at Meg. Their eyes met, and for one moment, a pivotal moment, there was no movie, no studio, no camper, no Keith, just a universe centered around the three of them.

And the instant he thought how comfortable and natural it seemed, the moment ended and he became anxious.

Pellam surveyed his massive wedge of blueberry pie. Meg said to his protesting palm, "Pellam, you're too skinny."

He ate two pieces.

When they'd finished dessert Pellam helped Meg clear the table. Sam asked, "Mr Pellam, tomorrow can you teach me to shoot your gun?"

"What gun's that?" Meg asked.

Pellam told her about the Colt.

Meg said, "I'm not real crazy about pistols. But…" She looked at her son. "You listen to everything Mr Pellam tells you."

As if that needed to be said.

"Totally excellent!" the little boy squealed.

Meg said, "Next you'll be teaching him poker."

Pellam laughed.

The two of them sat in the living room for a while, sipping coffee, the unidentified feeling ebbing and flowing within Pellam. He couldn't tell whether he wanted to stay, wanted to leave. One thing he knew for sure-he definitely wanted to leave before Keith came home.

The phone rang. Meg went to answer it and returned a moment later. She didn't say who the caller was. But now she too seemed uneasy.

What the hell're you doing here? he thought to himself. She's married, she's got a lover… You don't need those kinds of troubles. He rose. "I better go."

"You sure?"

No. But he said, "Better. Still have a few things to do."

"Sunday night?"

He nodded. Then asked, "Got a favor."

"Sure."

"You have a bottle of whiskey I can borrow?"

"Borrow?"

"No, now you mention it, make that have."

"After-dinner drink?"

"Little more complicated than that."

"Sure." She smiled in curiosity. And dug down under a cabinet and emerged with a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey.

"That's the cheapest you've got?" Pellam picked up the bottle.

"'Fraid so. Say, what're you going to do, teach my little boy to shoot, gamble and drink?"

Pellam hefted the bottle, hugged her. "Thanks again, ma'am. You make a mean meal. See you tomorrow."

"Ah, it's the gunslinger's grandson," said Fred, who squinted his red, retiree's face and studied Pellam's cuts and bruises. "Hell, what happened to you?" He ordered two Buds.

"Had an accident."

"Another one?"

Pellam said, "I'm an unlucky guy sometimes. What can I say?"

"No fooling-you all right?" the old man asked with genuine concern.

"Fine, no problem."

"Weekends're rough around here. All those tourists. What'd you do, get in the way of somebody taking a picture of a leaf? Hey, how about a game?"

"Can't tonight, Fred."

"What's this shit I hear about you not making a movie here?"

"Talk to the town council about it."

"Buncha old SOBs. Shit, there goes my Hollywood career."

Pellam asked, "Where can I find Nick?"

"The kid we were playing with th'other night?" Fred's head was swiveling. "Was here a few minutes ago. Maybe he's in the backroom. That's where they got what they call the restaurant."

Pellam finished the beer. He lifted the bottle in thanks.

"Hey, Pellam, Burt Reynolds ain't available, gimme a call."

In the backroom Pellam found Nick sitting at a table with another man, skinny, long hair, a couple years his junior-maybe eighteen. Nick had a bowl of soup in front of him. He hunched over it, putting slippery noodles into his mouth.

"Hi, Nick," Pellam pulled up a chair. Nick waved then returned to the soup. It looked like Campbell's. What else at the Cedar Tap? Nick said, "This here's Rebo. This's Pellam, the guy you heard about, makes the movies."

Rebo's eyes went wide. He grinned. "Wow, movie man." They shook hands.

"How you doing?" Pellam asked.

"Wow."

Pellam turned to Nick. "Hey, Nick, why I stopped by, my studio's looking for somebody like you."

"Yeah?" The big man took some more sips of soup. "You still making that movie? I heard you weren't."