eighteen

When I got back to the detention center, a female officer took me to a holding area. She removed my handcuffs and escorted me to a hall, where Coop was waiting.

“That was fast.” I smiled, then I frowned. “How can I do nothing and be in this much trouble?”

“Happens all the time.”

Police were milling about. Coop touched my elbow, and we stepped down a long corridor, through metal doors, into the parking lot. “Your car hasn’t been released,” he said. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I have a key to the Spencer-Jackson House.”

“You don’t own the property, do you?”

“No. But Miss Dora said I could stay.”

“Has she given her written permission?” Coop asked.

“No, but I’m sure she’d be happy to.”

“Does she own the house?”

“It’s part of the Jackson estate.”

“I don’t like gray areas, Teeny. I’d just feel better if I had a signed document.”

“She won’t be home until later.” I leaned across the seat. “I couldn’t talk you into taking me to Bonaventure, could I?”

“You’d violate the terms of your parole. The police would go into a feeding frenzy, and the bondsman would send a bounty hunter after you.”

“I’m just kidding.”

“Well, I’m not kidding about the Spencer-Jackson House. You shouldn’t stay there without written permission.”

“Then drop me off at a safe, cheap hotel.”

“Could be a problem without reservations. You know how it is this time of year.”

“Right.” Tourist season was a bad time to be homeless in Charleston. On the other hand, he seemed to be making excuses. That excited me.

“I just live up the road a piece,” he said. “We’ll make some calls. See if we can’t find you a room.”

*   *   *

“Up the road a piece” turned out to be a gray clapboard house on Isle of Palms. It resembled a modern schoolhouse with tiny square windows, peaked dormers, and a wraparound deck. Built on pilings, the house seemed to float above the sea oats.

Coop steered onto the narrow, curved driveway. Through the dunes, I saw slashes of the Atlantic.

“Can you handle a stick shift?” He pointed at a gray ’69 Mustang in the carport. It was the same car he’d driven in high school.

I nodded.

“You’re welcome to drive it.”

I glanced back at the Mustang. Coop held on to people and things. Me, I couldn’t keep either.

I heard barking from inside the house. Coop unlocked the door and stepped inside. T-Bone let out a woof and pushed his nose against Coop’s hand. I froze.

“Relax, Teeny. Just let him smell you.”

I held still while T-Bone’s enormous nose sniffed me up and down. I was trying not to freak, but the top of the dog’s head was level with my boobs. He sat down and extended his paw.

“Can I shake it?” I asked Coop.

“Hell, yes.”

I touched the paw. The nails were clipped short, but the paw itself was epic, filling up my palm. Coop opened the door wide. T-Bone scrambled to his feet and shot out. The deck shook as he ran down the steps.

“Will he be all right?” I asked, glancing anxiously at the road. I thought of Sir, locked up at the pound.

“He won’t go far,” Coop said and dropped his keys into an abalone shell.

“Nice foyer,” I said. Light streamed through two skylights, hitting the Ansel Adams prints on the wall. White, cube-like bookcases stood in each end of the foyer. Each cubbyhole held black-and-white pottery vases.

“I can’t take credit for it.” He smiled. “My mother drove up from Bonaventure and fixed it up—she cleaned out her gift shop.”

I glanced at the sleek black bench under the artwork and gave a silent prayer that his mother was responsible for the décor and not his girlfriend. I followed him through the hall, into a beige room with a cathedral ceiling. A black leather sofa sat in front of glass doors that looked out onto the ocean.

Coop picked up shirts, ties, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and carried them to the kitchen. He came back, stopped by a bookcase, and switched on the stereo. Music started up, Elvis singing “Suspicious Minds.”

“It’s a bit early, but you look like you need a drink,” he said. “Will gin and tonic do?”

“Only if you’re having one.”

He turned into a small dining room with black walls. The table had a huge driftwood base with a thick slab of glass on top. White, heavily carved chairs were lined up on either side.

I turned in a slow circle. Turkish-looking pillows were piled on one end of the sofa. Another set of bookcases framed the fireplace with more black pottery. I walked over to one of the French doors. Two white Adirondack chairs were angled toward the water. Each chair had a cushion and footstool. Two of everything, like on Noah’s Ark.

Miss Dora had taught me to study people’s homes. She said you could learn everything you needed to know about people by their colors, art, and accessories. I’d half expected Coop’s shelves to overflow with law books, but there were no books at all. That worried me. In the left case was the TV and video equipment. The right case had three glass shelves with shells on Plexiglas stands. There was a fireplace but no mantle, and no logs in the fireplace, just an empty grate. Nothing on the coffee table either, except for a smear of mustard.

Coop rounded the corner, holding a tall glass in each hand. He handed me one and gave me an appraising stare. It was the same look he’d given me on our first date, a look I associated with desire and treachery, a look that had lied when it said I ♥ you.

I fixed him with my blandest expression—not cold, because I didn’t want to send coldness. I wanted to send blankness. I ( ) you.

“Cheers,” he said and clinked his glass against mine.

I took a sip and gazed through the French door. The beach stretched out beneath a blue haze. A man and a woman walked hand-in-hand along the shoreline, pausing now and then to kiss. I took a long swallow of my drink and turned away. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d wandered into an old movie about lovers reconnecting after many years but with poor results. I didn’t want to end up like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass.

“I’ve got a phone book in the kitchen,” Coop said. “But you’re more than welcome to stay here. I’ve got four bedrooms.”

“You’re sweet to offer.”

“I heard a but in there.” He smiled.

I sat down on the black sofa, hoping that was all he’d heard. I wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet, anyway. Plus, it was plain sleazy to crash at my lawyer’s house—weren’t there rules against that? Or was I being old-fashioned? I finished my drink, and images of Bing skittered up into the haze. Maybe Miss Dora had been right. I needed to carpe diem a little more.

Coop sat down beside me. “Maybe I asked this before, but how long were you and Bing engaged?”

“Just a few months.” Coop pretty much knew what I’d been up to for the past eleven years, but I didn’t know anything about him. He wasn’t wearing a ring. And, other than the decorative objects his mother had set out, I hadn’t noticed any feminine touches in his house.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Eleven months.”

I wondered where he’d lived before that but didn’t want to pry. I lifted my glass, and the ice clinked like loose gravel. “Gosh, I’m woozy,” I said. Translation: My fiancé is dead. The police think I killed him in a jealous rage. They took my dog, my phone, and my car. Other than that, nothing’s wrong. I’m just peachy.

“You okay?” he asked.

“It’s just hitting me, you know? Bing, jail, court. Would you mind if I lied down?” I cringed—had I said that wrong? Was it lie or lay?

Coop showed me to a room with indigo walls and tiny white-framed windows. Beyond the panes, the sky and water met in a dark line. I flopped onto a bed with a carved shell headboard. When I reached down to pull off my shoes, my hand stopped on my knees. I was too exhausted to move. I didn’t fall asleep so much as drift. I was a girl in a leaky boat, desperately trying to row myself into a dream. Then I let go and sank down into the salty blue.