“What’s the point of having all those horses under the hood if you don’t let ’em run?” he said, apparently picking up on my discomfort by my white-knuckled grip on the dashboard.
His mention of horses brought John Dillon to mind for a moment, but I pushed the thought aside. Glen pulled into a spot in the lot across from The Crab Pot a few minutes later and we walked into the restaurant, a cozy place with high-backed booths and décor that ran to strategically strung nets populated by plastic crabs and fish. I considered The Crab Pot a tourist haunt and rarely went there during the summer, but it was okay at this time of year. It sat on Ocean Drive and had a lovely view of the sound from the second-story deck. White caps made the sea look like a dark meringue tonight, and we opted to sit inside, out of the growing wind. A sprinkling of customers provided a background hum of conversation.
“Have you thought about evacuating?” Glen said. “I guess the storm’s supposed to hit late Wednesday.”
“If it doesn’t veer north like they usually do,” I said, opening my menu. No surprise: nearly every entrée featured crab in some form. “What about you?”
“I’ve never seen a hurricane—we don’t have them in California. I’m going to stick around to see what it’s like.” He flashed a white smile, clearly jazzed by the thought.
“No power or running water is not the stuff of high adventure,” I said prosaically, giving my order to the waitress: she-crab soup and a Caesar salad. “So you’re from California?”
“LA. Land of palm trees and movie stars, daahling. Kiss-kiss.”
“I take it Hollywood wasn’t your cup of tea?” I asked, smiling at his air kisses.
“Oh, I gave it a whirl,” he said, “but it seems I don’t have that star quality.” His grin this time combined both self-deprecation and a hint of bitterness.
“Were you in a movie?” I asked, surprised.
“Several. Infinitely forgettable.” He waved the topic away. “I got tired of doing auditions and brown-nosing casting directors and decided it was time to grow up and do something useful with my life. My degree was in biology and I heard there was a shortage of science teachers, so I picked up my teaching credential and taught for a couple of years in LA before moving out here. No wife or kids to worry about—like how I worked that in?—so I could suit myself and give Georgia a whirl. What about you? Are you living the life of your dreams?”
His question took me aback and I sipped my water, grateful that the server’s appearance with our salads gave me a chance to think. “I like my life,” I temporized, trying to think if I even had a dream. Once, it had been to marry Hank, have children, and live a life not unlike Mom and Dad’s, except for that whole Dad-dying-young thing. Now . . .
He apparently read my confusion because he said, “I’m sorry. That’s too deep a question for a first date. We should start with the basics. Ever been married? Children? Favorite color? Hobbies?” He forked up a bite of his salad.
I laughed, relieved to abandon soul-searching. “Divorced. No. Green. Singing.”
We chatted easily through the rest of the meal and I enjoyed his company, but the evening’s easy camaraderie dissipated when we pulled up behind a police car parked outside my apartment.
“What’s a copper doing on your doorstep?” Glen asked in a tight voice.
“My ex,” I said, having recognized Hank even in the near dark as he turned away from my door and tromped toward us. I got out of the car.
“I thought you’d be home, Grace,” Hank said, scanning the Corvette suspiciously. “I needed to follow up with you on the incident Halloween night. The explosion. Who’s that?”
“A teacher from the high school,” I said. I did not need a run-in with Hank to cap off my evening and I prayed Glen would have the good sense to just go. “Bye,” I encouraged him with a wave.
Glen climbed out of the car and came around to the sidewalk. He and Hank were of a similar height, but Glen was far less bulky, looking almost willowy beside Hank’s body-armored and uniformed figure. I introduced the two men and they shook hands, Hank glowering and Glen smiling easily. “Looks like the officer needs to talk to you,” Glen said. “We’ll do that nightcap another time.” And he astonished me by ignoring my outstretched hand and kissing me on the cheek, just at the corner of my mouth. Before I could recover, he was back in the car and zooming off in a way that must have had Hank itching for his radar gun.
He jotted down the car’s license number and turned to me. “What the hell—”