Andrea slipped her leather coat off her shoulders and draped it over the nearest stool. She was dressed to kill. Her black skirt strained to cover her thighs. Her legs were athletically curved and sleek under black stockings. She wore a pink satin blouse, which glinted under the casino lights. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a hint of bare skin that swelled as she breathed. Her makeup was impeccable and had obviously taken time to apply, from the pale gloss on her lips to the delicate streak of eyeliner above her long, light lashes. A thin gold chain graced her neck, and she wore sparkling sapphire earrings that accented her eyes.
It was a vampish look, full of invitation, but Stride realized that Andrea simply couldn’t pull it off. She was uncomfortable. She tugged at her skirt, trying in vain to pull it farther over her legs. Her smile was shy and awkward, not at all confident. She played with her necklace, twisting it between her fingers, doing everything possible to avoid looking directly at him.
He realized she was nervous and didn’t know what to say. Neither did he. It had been a long time since he had been on his own, dancing the delicate dance with the opposite sex. He tried to remember what it was like, but he had been with Cindy for so long that he couldn’t remember anything that sounded clever. The last time he had dated was in high school, and he assumed that nothing he had said then would sound clever now.
Finally, the dealer coughed and gestured at the cards.
“Do you play?” Stride asked.
Andrea shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Do you prefer the slots?”
“Well, to be honest, I’ve never gambled,” Andrea admitted. She turned and very briefly met his eyes. “Sometimes I’d come here or go to Black Bear with Robin, but I always watched him. I never played myself. This is my first real visit.”
Stride saw the dealer sigh.
“Why did you come?” Stride asked.
Andrea nodded her head in the direction of the nearest row of slots. Stride turned and saw two women, pretending to play but obviously more interested in observing them at the blackjack table. The women were whispering and smiling. He recognized one as another teacher from the high school.
“My cheering section,” Andrea explained. “They told me that it was Friday night, and as an eligible divorcée, I needed to strut my stuff in public. And I guess this is about as close as Duluth gets to a hot nightspot if you’re over thirty.”
“Well, I’m glad they did,” Stride said.
“Yeah,” Andrea said. “Yeah, I guess I am, too.”
“Do you want to play?” Stride asked. “I’d be happy to help you lose some of your money.”
Andrea shook her head. “The noise is giving me a headache.”
“Would you like to go somewhere?” Stride asked. “I know a place by the water that serves the best margaritas in town.”
“What about your partner?”
Stride smiled. “Mags can take a cab.”
Stride glanced at his watch. It was almost one-thirty in the morning. They drove down into Canal Park; the parking lots of the bars and restaurants were still jammed with cars. He steered onto the street that led across the canal bridge.
“I don’t recall any good bars on the Point,” she said.
Stride glanced at her, embarrassed. “Well, actually, I’m the one who makes the best margaritas,” he said. “And my place is on the water.”
“Oh,” Andrea said. He sensed her sudden hesitation.
“I’m sorry, I guess I should have explained. Look, I don’t have any intentions here. You said you hated noise, and my porch is quiet, except for the waves. But we can go somewhere else.”
Andrea glanced out the window. “No, it’s okay. I’m with a cop, right? If you get fresh, I can always call—well, you.” She laughed, comfortable again.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But those margaritas better be good.”
He reached his house a few blocks after the bridge and pulled into the strip of sand that counted as a driveway. When they got out, the street was still and dark. Andrea studied Stride’s tiny house and the jumble of skeletal bushes out front with a puzzled smile.
“I can’t believe you live on the Point,” she said.
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Why?”
“It’s so rough out here. The storms must be brutal.”
“They are,” he admitted.
“You must get buried in snow.”
“Sometimes the drifts go up to the roof.”
“Doesn’t it scare you? I think I’d feel like the lake was going to swallow me up.”
He leaned across the roof of the car and stared at her thoughtfully. “I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes I think the storms are my favorite part. They’re the reason I’m here.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrea said, confused. She shivered as a gust of wind blew past them.
“Let’s go inside.”
He put an arm around her to warm her as they walked toward the door. She let her body drift against his, and it felt good. He could feel her shoulder through the sleeve of her leather coat and feel her hair brush against his face. He let go long enough to fumble for his key. Andrea wrapped her arms around herself.
He let them inside. The hallway was dark and warm. He heard the ticking of the grandfather clock. They lingered silently together after Stride closed the door. He realized now that Andrea was wearing perfume, something soft, like rosewater. It was strange to catch the aroma of a different woman’s perfume inside his house.
“What did you mean about the storms, Jon?”
Stride took her coat and hung it inside the closet. In her skimpy outfit, she was obviously still cold. He hung his own coat up and closed the closet door. He rested his back against it. Andrea was watching him, although they were both barely more than shadows in the hallway.
“It’s like time hangs there suspended,” Stride said finally. “Like I can get sucked inside the storm and see anything or anyone. There are times, I swear, I’ve heard my father. Once I thought I could see him.”
“Your father?”
“He worked on one of the ore ships. He was washed off the deck in a December storm when I was fourteen.”
Andrea shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”
Stride nodded quietly. “You still look cold.”
“I guess this was a stupid outfit, huh?”
“It’s beautiful,” Stride said. He felt an urge to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he resisted.
“That’s sweet. But yes, I’m cold.”
“You want a sweatshirt and jeans to put on? I’m afraid that’s the height of fashion in this house.”
“Oh, I’ll be okay. It’s warm inside.”
Stride smiled. “But I was going to suggest we sit on the porch.”
“The porch?”
“It’s enclosed, and I’ve got a couple good space heaters.”
“I’m going to freeze my ass off, Jon,” Andrea said.
“That would be a shame, because it’s a very cute ass.”
Even in the darkness, he felt her blush.
They walked into the kitchen. Both of them blinked as Stride turned on the light. He realized to his dismay that the last three weeks of the investigation had left his house in chaos, particularly the sink, which was stacked with dishes. The dinette hadn’t been cleared in at least two days. In addition to dirty glasses and plates crusted over with the remains of spaghetti, stacks of research notes littered the table.
“Nice,” Andrea said, smiling.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about this. I’m not used to having my house visitor-friendly. Except for Maggie, who doesn’t care. She lords it over me. I guess I should have thought of this before I asked you over here.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“The porch is clean, I promise. Let me grab you a blanket. You can warm your toes by the space heater, curl up under the blanket, and I’ll get you plenty drunk with the strongest margarita you’ve ever had.”
“Deal,” Andrea said.
When the pitcher of margaritas was half empty, they barely noticed the cold anymore.
Andrea lay propped in a wicker chaise, her stocking feet poking out from under a multicolored Spanish blanket. A space heater glowed in front of the chaise, warming her toes. The blanket bunched at her waist. Above it, she wore only her silk blouse. From time to time, she rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare forearms. For the first hour, she had kept the blanket tucked under her chin, but eventually she let it slip down.
She held a bowl glass in her hand. Every minute or two, she extended her tongue to lick a trace of salt from the rim, then took a swallow of the green drink. Despite the dim light, Stride could see her do this, and something about the glimpse of her tongue on the glass was very arousing. He watched her from his own chaise a few inches away.
The porch was nearly dark. A faint glow from the house lights behind them cast shadows. Where the frost had not crept onto the glass, they could see through the tall windows to the inky darkness of the lake, illuminated only by a handful of stars and a half moon giving off a pale glow. For long minutes, they lay next to each other. It was late, but they were wide awake, keenly attuned to the sounds around them: the crash of waves, the hum of the space heater, the in and out of their breathing. Their conversation came in fits and spurts between stretches of silence.
“You’re pretty calm about the divorce,” Stride said. “Is that an act?”
She stared at him. “Yeah.”
A few streaks of water appeared on the windows. Stride could see texture in the rain, a light mix of sleet and snow. They heard the patter increasing on the wooden roof above their heads and the whip of wind against the house. The frame rumbled. He reached for the pitcher of margaritas and refilled their glasses.
Andrea swirled the ice in her drink. A sad smile crossed her lips.
“I had to visit my sister in Miami. Denise had just had a baby. I got back, and there was a note. He needed some time alone, he said. To write. To ‘find himself creatively’ again. He never had the courage to call me. Not once. Just postcards. Goddamn postcards, for the whole world to see. Next thing I know, he’s in Yellowstone. Then Seattle. He’s still writing great stuff. But somewhere along the way, he’s realized that he just can’t be himself around me anymore. That I’m stifling his genius. So maybe it’s better if we call it quits.”
“Shit,” Stride murmured.
“It took five weeks and ten postcards for Robin to officially declare our marriage over and tell me he’d met someone else in San Francisco. On the back was a photo of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge.”
“I’m sorry,” Stride said.
“That’s okay. I don’t miss him so much as I hate being alone.”
“It’s the little things I miss,” Stride murmured. “I’m cold in the mornings. Sometimes I wake up and try to roll over to get close to Cindy, like I used to. She’d always complain about my cold hands, but she was like a heater warming me up. But she’s not there anymore. So I lie there freezing.”
He heard his words die away. He was aware of the lingering silence. Without Andrea asking, he knew she wanted him to tell her more. Earlier, in a passing comment, he had mentioned Cindy’s death, not going into detail, not wanting to cast her shadow over their evening. Andrea reacted with shock and grief, but like everyone else, she had no idea what to say or how to comfort him.
Even one little detail, a memory of warming up next to her in bed, made him want to tell all his stories. But he was stubbornly silent.
It was now actively snowing outside. The streaks of ice, slowly slipping down the window glass, obscured the view. Stride glanced at the Parsons table next to the chaise and realized the pitcher of margaritas was empty. He glanced at his watch but couldn’t read the time in the shadows.
“You have succeeded,” Andrea declared finally.
“At what?”
“I am now drunk. Thank you.”
Stride nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Andrea looked over at him. Or he thought she did. He could barely see her.
“Tell me something,” she said. “Do you want to fuck me?”
It was the kind of question that called for an immediate answer, although this was the first time since Cindy died that Stride had faced it. He knew what half a pitcher of margaritas and his stiffening crotch told him to do, but he still felt unfaithful. “Yes, I do.”
“But?” she said, hearing it in his voice.
“But I’m drunk, and I don’t know if I can, uh, rise to the occasion.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t had sex since she died.”
“Nope.”
Andrea slid out of the wicker chair. She staggered to her feet. “Tough,” she said.
Stride didn’t move. He watched her hike up her skirt and yank down the black stockings and floral panties underneath. She peeled them off and tossed them aside. She was a real blonde, with a wispy patch of pubic hair nestling between her slim thighs. With clumsy fingers, she undid the buttons of her blouse, then unsnapped the bra inside. She pushed aside the fabric, exposing her small breasts with erect pink nipples.
Andrea bent over him and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. Her fingers squirmed inside his pants and found his erection.
“Looks like you rose to the occasion.”
“Looks like it.”
She extracted his penis with some difficulty. In one swift motion, she swung her leg over the chaise and straddled him. Using one hand to spread her vaginal lips, and the other to hold his cock, she lowered herself onto him. Stride felt his penis sinking into her wet folds, and he groaned.
“You like?”
“I like.”
“Good.”
He reached up to her breasts and caressed her nipples with his fingertips.
“Harder,” she said.
He pinched them, then squeezed her whole breasts in his large hands. Andrea gave a loud shout of pleasure and sank forward, kissing him, forcing her tongue inside. Her buttocks rose and fell as she pumped up and down on top of him. Stride squeezed his hand onto her mound and found her clitoris and began to rub it in circles.
The porch creaked and whined. So did the chaise, complaining under the pounding of their combined weight.
Stride felt himself swelling. She was bringing him quickly to a marvelous, drunken orgasm. And it looked like she was having one, too. Her head rose back, and she had a wild smile on her face. Stride leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth. She held his head tightly against her breast. He licked and tugged at the nipple, and the feel of her erect areola on his tongue sent him over the edge. Stride’s hips rose up to meet her as he spasmed. He came with his mouth still closed over her breast. Strangely, Andrea started laughing.
“God,” she murmured, half to herself. “And the bastard said I was cold in bed.”