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BASED ON WHAT Cissie had said about her husband, I already disliked the man. Now here he was, Viking blond and beautiful, masculine with a capital M, flashing a Hollywood smile, and offering to shake my hand. Every man under fifty has tried to bring off the too-busy-to-shave look, but Ronald Voight owned it. His clothing was broken-in and mussed just right, his boots steel-toed and dirty. Not many women would kick this one to the curb.
“Who’s this?” He addressed his wife, but his bead on me never wavered.
Cissie had stepped back as soon as her husband entered the house. She stopped biting her lip to answer. “This is Ms. Barnes, Ron honey. Chelsea’s mother.”
“Cheslea who?”
Cissie’s neck suddenly looked scalded. “The new neighbors. You know. Chelsea and Bobby next door.”
Trying to be cute, and almost bringing it off, Voight folded his arms and peered at me like a game-show host asking a thirty-thousand dollar question. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
Cissie jumped in. “She been a big help, Ron. I had to call the cable company, and, and the TVs working again. You can watch the Phillies if they’re on, or whatever...”
Ronald chewed the side of his cheek. “You from around here?”
I mentioned the name of my town, but I couldn’t tell if it met with relief or indifference. At the time it didn’t seem to matter.
“How was your day?” Cissie asked.
Ronald dropped his arms. Wandered over to the Formica table. Tented his fingers on it. “Same old, same old. What’s for dinner?”
“I, I haven’t started yet.”
“Been busy?”
“Well, yes. The baby, then the TV went out...”
“Um hum.” Ronald stepped closer. Wrapped his arms around his wife’s head and kissed her hair. The challenging stare he gave me clearly conveyed, “This is private.”
As I pulled the backdoor shut, I saw that Cissie had freed her face enough to breathe.
If I had to guess, I’d have said she was in shock.