Bones of the Lost(15)

Typical Pete. For two decades I’d shouldered most of the child-rearing responsibility because his professional calendar always came first. Car pools; dentist, doctor, and orthodontist appointments; gymnastics, ballet, and swim-team runs.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy fussing over your baby bride’s Barnum and Bailey three-ring you’d have noticed your daughter these past months, caught the signs she was about to make a dangerous decision.

I didn’t say that, either. I waited, annoyed and anxious to hang up and phone for a taxi.

“Tempe. Are you listening to me? I need the papers.”

The divorce agreement. I’d signed but not delivered it to Pete. Could have with little effort. So why the procrastination?

“Right. They’re on my desk at home. I should have given them to you ages ago. Sorry. Of course, come and get them anytime. There’s no need to take me to dinner.”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

I started to protest. Pete cut me off.

“I’ll pick you up out front. And I promise. Not a word about the wedding.”

“I don’t think—”

“How was it you planned to get home?”

Side-out, Pete.





FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, A SHINY new BMW convertible swerved to the curb. Red with black leather interior.

Trophy wife. Trophy car. I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.

Less commendable was Pete’s fashion sense. Sure, he could muster a suit and tie for court, but a golf shirt and khakis was his normal attire. My ex’s guiding principle: comfy and cool.

As I dropped into the passenger seat, my brows rose at the sports jacket, blue shirt, and navy slacks.

“Don’t we look snazzy.” Excluding the sockless loafers.

“I’m having dinner with a lovely lady.”

Orbital roll beyond my control.

“Nice wheels.” Keeping it light.

“Got a good deal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Took ’er up to Asheville over the weekend. Purred like a kitten. Summer squealed at every switchback. Almost squealed myself once or twice.”

Squeals all around.

“Goes from zero to sixty in faster than you can say zero to sixty.”

Pete understood I cared little about cars. I knew he was tiptoeing to avoid mention of the upcoming nuptials.

I grabbed the armrest as he gunned out of the lot, cut left, right, then left again.

“Zero to sixty,” I said, smiling.

“Check out the sound system.” Pete tapped something and Maroon 5’s “Payphone” surrounded us in a moving cloud of noise that rendered further communication impossible.

Just past the Queens University campus, Pete winged onto the main drive at Sharon Hall, shot the tunnel of ancient magnolias past the white-columned manor house, and braked to a gravel-spitting stop in the parking area between the carriage house and its annex. Turning his head sideways, he gave me a two-brow waggle.

“Nice.” I unbuckled my seat belt.

“I’ll wait here.”

“I’ve got to shower.”

“No rush.”

I held out a palm.

Pete pulled his keys from the ignition, removed one, and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I flipped the door handle.

“Tempe?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t lock it in the house.”

Pete’s phone was out before I was.

The annex has a bedroom and bath upstairs, living and dining rooms, kitchen, a study/guest room, and bath down. Garden in back, grassy patch in front, patio to one side. Though cramped, the place suits me perfectly.

I let myself into the kitchen and flipped on the light.

“Bird?”

No cat.

“Here, boy.”

Nothing but a soft ticking coming from the parlor.

I found Birdie under the sideboard holding Gran’s clock. Though cats are said to lack facial musculature capable of expression, his message was clear.

“You mad?”

Pausing a moment for effect, Birdie rose, stretched, then padded toward me, cool but prepared to consider explanation. And dinner.

I bent and scratched one furry white ear.

“Sorry, champ. But tonight’s menu is a bit subpar.”

Returning to the kitchen, I plucked two eggs from the fridge, mixed in a tin of sardines, and heated the combo. When the mess congealed I scraped it into his bowl.

One thing about Bird, he does not hold grudges. All sins forgiven, the feline dived in.

Since I often spend my days with decomp and biohazard, I’ve mastered the art of the quick cleanup. And amassed a spa-worthy array of soaps, gels, and lotions. Tonight I grabbed the nearest. Out and dry in five minutes, smelling of grapefruit.

Birdie walked in as I was pondering acceptable couture for delivering divorce papers. My eyes met his.

“Screw it.”

I grabbed jeans and a black tee, added pale green seashell earrings and a black cotton jacket.