Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

Robin lived minutes from that scene. Did she ever participate?

Did that matter?

Her block on Rennie was quiet and inconsistently lit, lined with neatly tended little houses and side-by-side duplexes. I spotted the flower beds she’d planted out front before I saw her step out of the shadows.

Her hair bounced as she beelined to the car. Nighttime turned auburn rosy. Her curls reminded me, as they always did, of grapes on the vine.

She wore a second-skin top in some dark shade, form-fitted light jeans, boots with nasty looking heels that clump-clumped. As she opened the door the dome light told all: chocolate brown tank top, textured silk, one shade lighter than her almond eyes. The jeans were cream, the boots mocha. Silvery pink gloss ripened her lips. Blush on her cheekbones created something feline.

Those curves.

She flashed a wide, ambiguous smile and put on her seat belt. The strap cut diagonally between her breasts.

“Where to?” she said.

I’d taken her at her word about “nothing intense.” Haute cuisine meant ritual and high expectations and we could do with neither.

Allison liked haute. Loved rolling the stem of a wineglass between manicured fingers as she engaged in earnest discussion of an elegant menu with snooty waiters, her toes trailing up my trousers…

I mentioned a seafood joint in the Marina that Robin and I had patronized back before the Ice Age. Spacious, dockside, no-sweat parking, nice view of a harbor full of big white boats, most of which seemed never to go anywhere.

She said, “That place. Sure.”

We got a table outdoors, near the glass wall that keeps the wind out. The night had turned cool and butane heaters were switched on. The sports bar up front was packed but it was still early for the Marina dinner crowd and more than half the tables were empty. A chirpy waitress who looked around twelve took our drink order and brought Robin’s wine and my Chivas before we had a chance to get awkward.

Drinking and gazing at the yachts postponed that a while longer.

Robin put her glass down. “You look fit.”

“You look gorgeous.”

She studied the water. Black and sleek and still, under a sky streaked with amethyst. “Must’ve been a great sunset.”

“We had a few of those,” I said. “That summer we lived at the beach.”

The year we’d rebuilt the house. Robin had served as the contractor. Did she miss the place?

She said, “We had some spectacular ones at Big Sur. That crazy Zen place that was supposed to be luxurious, then they stuck us with chemical toilets and that terrible smell?”

“Rustic living.” I wondered if the place had been on the resort list Milo and I had just run down. “What was it called?”

“The Great Mandala Lodge. Closed down last year.” She looked away and I knew why. She’d gone back. With him.

She drank wine and said, “Even with the smell and the mosquitoes and that splinter in my toe from that stupid pinecone, it was fun. Who knew a pinecone could be lethal.”

“You’re forgetting my splinters,” I said.

Oversized incisors flashed. “I didn’t forget, I chose not to remind you.” Her hand made circular motions in the air. “Rubbing that ointment into your cute butt. How could we know that other couple would be watching? All that other stuff they could see from their cabin.”

“Should’ve charged them tuition,” I said. “Crash course in Sex Ed for the honeymooners.”

“They did seem pretty inept. All that tension at breakfast. Think the marriage lasted?”

I shrugged.

Robin’s eyes turned down a bit. “The place deserved to tank. Charge that kind of money and smell like a cesspool.”

More alcohol for both of us.

I said, “Nice to be with you.”

“Just before you called this morning, I was thinking.” Brief smile. “Always a risky thing, no?”

“Thinking about what?”

“The challenge of relationships. Not you and me. Me and him.”

My gut twinged. I drained my scotch. Looked around for the baby-faced waitress.

Robin said, “Me and him as in What Was I Thinking.”

“That’s rarely useful.”

“You don’t engage in self-doubt?”

“Sure I do.”

“I find it good for the soul,” she said. “That old Catholic girl resurfacing. All I could come up with was he convinced himself that he loved me and his intensity half convinced me. I was the one who broke it off, you know. He took it really hard- but that’s not your problem. Sorry for bringing it up.”

“He’s not a bad guy.”

“You never liked him.”

“Couldn’t stand him. Where is he?”

“You care?”

“I’d like him to be far.”

“Then you got your wish. London, teaching voice at the Royal Academy of Drama. His daughter’s living with him- she’s twelve, wanted the switch.” She tugged at her curls. “It was rude, bringing him up.”

“He’s a twit,” I said. “But the problem wasn’t you and him, it was you and not me. ”

“I don’t know what it was,” she said. “All this time and I still can’t figure it out. Just like the first time.”

Breakup number one, years ago. Neither of us had wasted time finding new bed partners.

I said, “Maybe that’s the way it has to be with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eons together, centuries apart.”

Somewhere out in the open water a ship’s horn sounded.

She said, “It was mutual but for some reason I feel I should ask your forgiveness.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“How’s Allison?”

“Doing her thing.”

Soft voice: “You two are really kaput?”

“That would be my bet.”

“You’re making it sound like you have no control,” she said.

“In my limited experience,” I said, “it’s rarely been necessary to make a formal announcement.”

“Sorry,” she said.

I drank.

“You really see it as mutual, Alex, and not my fault?”

“I do. And I don’t understand it any more than you do.” Ditto for the break with Allison. Maybe with any other woman I’d find…

“You know I was never untrue to you. Didn’t touch him until you and I were living apart.”

“You don’t owe me any explanation.”

“Everything we’ve been through,” she said, “I can’t figure out what I owe you.”

Footsteps approaching the table rescued me from having to answer. I looked up, expecting Ms. Chirpy. More than ready for another drink.

A man loomed over us.

Big-bellied, ruddy, balding, fifty or so. Black-framed eyeglasses slightly askew, sweaty forehead. He wore a maroon V-neck over a white polo shirt, gray slacks, brown loafers. Florid jowls settled over the shirt’s soft collar.

Swaying, he placed broad, hairless hands on our table. Sausage digits, some kind of class ring on his left index ring finger.

He leaned down and his weight made the table rock. Bleary eyes behind the specs stared down at us. He gave off a beery odor.

Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.

Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.

He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on the table, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot out before her wine toppled.

The drunk looked at her and sneered.

I said, “Hey, friend- ”

“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”

Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up a ways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearest couple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.

I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”

He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”