Fifteen

Lola headed for Munro’s house, rehearsing her get-out-of-the-story speech, pausing occasionally for interruptions by the officious tones of the Directions Bitch.

Munro lived within the city, his neighborhood streets bedeviled by Salt Lake City’s bewildering street numbering system but a relief after the deliberate meandering of all the Courts and Circles and Ways in Camellia. A small business district featured coffeehouses, bookshops, and boutiques. People sat at sidewalk tables, in jackets but determined to take advantage of the kind of evening they wouldn’t see again until spring. Lola had lived so long in Magpie, with its lone cafe reliably fronted by a row of muddy pickups and a convenience store for faster fare, that she’d forgotten how a big city, beyond the inconveniences of crowds and traffic and parking, also offered its share of enticements.

The car before her stopped, maneuvering itself into the sole empty parking space in front a bookstore. Tall windows on either side of the store’s door gave a view of crammed shelves and end tables high with enticing stacks. Lola drew a deep breath, imagining the pleasurable musty scent that invariably greeted her in such stores, the seductive wandering past the shelves, a finger trailing over the spines. This one. No, this. And this. Lola’s trips to Great Falls or Helena or Missoula were rare, but in each city, bookstore owners greeted her by name. Charlie swore the cash registers ka-chinged in delight at the very sight of her.

Charlie. Lola yanked at the wheel, cutting around the car trying to park, cursing an oncoming vehicle. Inside it, three faces—child, mother, and goddamn father—turned to stare. For once, Lola welcomed the flat, unemotional voice of the Directions Bitch.

“Turn left here. In two blocks, your destination will be on the right.”

Away from the business district, older homes predominated, brick bungalows and small Tudors. Lola lingered in the rental car after finding Munro’s house, once more going over her ironclad reasons for ditching the story.

The door opened. Light flooded the front steps. Munro’s voice reached her even through the closed car window.

“Are you going to sit there all night? Because I’m not toting your pizza out to you.”

The house was a surprise, with its commodious leather sofas and chairs, worn Persian rugs, and just enough clutter to make Lola feel at home. She’d figured on the dorm room decor of the divorced dads she’d known.

“This is a lot nicer than I expected.” Someday, she thought, I’ll learn not to say the first thing that comes to my mind.

Munro pushed his hair back from his face. “My wife—my ex-wife—moved into her new husband’s place over by the university. Worked out great for me, house-wise.”

“I didn’t think Mormons got divorced.”

“They don’t. But exceptions are made when one makes the mistake of marrying a Gentile and then comes to her senses and leaves him for a Mormon.”

So Munro had been dumped. Probably a whole new experience for him. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear to have humbled him.

The kitchen table was much like his desk, two spaces cleared amid a scattering of newspapers. With a sigh of envy, Lola noted the New York Times, which had yet to bestow home delivery upon Montana. Munro cleared away a third place and handed Lola three plates.

“Silverware’s in there.” He pointed to a drawer. “Napkins in the one below it. What are you drinking? Water? Juice? Beer? No wine, I’m afraid. I’ve got some of the hard stuff somewhere, too, if that’s your preference.”

Lola raised her eyebrows. “Booze? Really?”

“I didn’t have it in the house when Bevany was here. Out of respect. The minute she left, the beer came back. Don’t ever let anybody tell you divorce is all bad.”

Marriage is better. Something that, pre-Charlie, Lola never could have imagined herself saying. The words caught in her throat. She spoke around them. “A beer would be fine.”

He reached into the fridge. “This is the real thing. Hard to get anything but near-beer in Utah. Anytime someone visits from out of state, I ask them to bring full-strength brews. If you’d been driving instead of flying, I’d have put in an order. Damned if I’m going to support the crazy alcohol laws they’ve got here by shopping in the state stores.”

Lola refrained from reminding him that he’d been the one who’d insisted she fly. She licked her lips at the hiss and fizz of opened bottle and dealt the napkins to their places.

“Glass?”

She shook her head and nearly grabbed the bottle from his hand, eager for a quick buzz. Throughout her career, she’d avoided unwelcome assignments with the wiliness of the professional she was, but she’d never backed out of a story once she started one. Especially not a story as good as this one had improbably turned into. She needed all the fortification she could get.

Munro looked at the table, raised an eyebrow, and retrieved knives and forks from the drawer. He stepped to the kitchen door. “Malachi! Dinner!”

Lola took a breath and prepared to launch into her spiel as Munro removed a pizza box from a warm oven. The plan was to hit him with her decision just before his son walked into the kitchen. She figured he wouldn’t dare rebuke her in front of the boy, and that the meal that followed would take the edge off his anger.

She tilted the beer high. Swallowed long. They didn’t call it liquid courage for nothing. “This story. With all the changes, it’s going to take a long time. Given the kind of story you want, I really think it’s best for you to pull me off it now, and hand it over to someone else, just like I suggested before. You know, to do the story justice.”

Footsteps on the stairs. Lola congratulated herself on her timing.

Munro’s lips thinned. He made an abrupt movement. His hair swung free. He looked beyond her.

“Malachi, this is Miss Wicks. Miss Wicks, my son Malachi.”

Lola turned and stooped, holding out her hand at toddler height. Found herself looking at thighs. She straightened. Her hand fell to her side.

“Hey, Miss Wicks,” said the youth who’d sold her the pills in the park.