“Miss Byrne, truly, I can only make the highest recommendation. Really sets it apart from what the other museums are doing, really brought it to life.”
“Oh, well. You know it’s always wonderful… Obviously, we have a… An innovative approach here…”
“Well, the direction naturally deserves much credit.”
“He’s a genius,” Susan says, biting back sarcasm. She holds Bourke’s gaze. He regards her like a fish on a hook.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Bliss. It’s been good to meet you.” Warily, his eye softens. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Susan.”
Bourke retreats.Catch and release.Relief, regret, her swollen throat.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Alcott says, studying her cut-offjeans, her exposed navel, her sequin scrunchie, as though he expected something else, as though the discrepancy has impressed him. He is beaming ear to ear, high on his success.
“I thought we agreed I didn’t need saving.”
“You looked like you needed help.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“What could possibly be good about needing help?”
“Look, I’m sorry. I said you’d be all right, didn’t I? Can I take you home?”
“I don’t want to go home.” Her unspent anger is turning to petulance. Home is a cage, and all his good intentions have damned her back to it.
“Well then, come for a drive.”
It isn’t a question. His face is set, like he has already read the script. Like he himself has written it.
Did she leave Bridget at the door? In the half-hung rumple on the costume rack? Or is she still here, making the decision for her, guiding the instinct that says:Go on, live!Maybe it is the heat, or the rush, or the light sweep of his hair, or the way that he is looking at her, like he would chase her to the end of the earth. Is she the type of person to get in a stranger’s car? Is that even a type of person, or does it all just depend on the moment?
“Fine,” she says.
“I should warn you,” he says brightly, “I’m Ted Bundy.”
“I thought your name was Alcott?”
He laughs, as though she has made a joke, as if they have both been joking, but then sees the blankness on her face. “Al, actually,” he says, holding open the passenger door as she climbs in.
Salem leaves them, the municipal red brick giving way to low, unloved shopping strips and the drearier outlying neighborhood where Susan grew up. Where Susan still lives in a dilapidated neocolonial surrounded by a chain-link fence.Is that her mother, out by the mailbox?Whoknows—who cares—they are rushing off north, over the bridge and up the wooded coastline.
“So,” he begins. “How long have you been a witch?”
“Three years,” she says. She focuses on the unfamiliar branches and low stone walls rushing by. Inside herself she surrenders to the situation, the relief of someone else taking control.You didn’t want to quit, she tells herself.Not like that. Not without a plan.She just gets carried away sometimes. But the houses growing broad and secluded around her rub it in; she lacks the financial means to be reckless. Like it or not, he saved her from herself.
“It must be hard, a role like that.”
“Gotta collect a lot of toadstools,” she says. “Snakeskins, that sort of thing.”
He laughs, loud and surprisingly high with a note of astonishment, as though he has never encountered a woman with a sense of humor. When did she last make anyone laugh like that? In profile, she can only see the coyer half of his smile, its hint of dissatisfaction, its reserve. It’s not the first time she’s taken a chance on an older man. The pleasant smell of him infuses the car, starchy with an undertone of sweat. She settles into the ease of mutual interest.
“So,” she asks, “how long have you been a liar?”
“I’m not a liar!” he says with mock affront. When she looks at him, his eyes are dancing. “Well, at least, I try not to make a habit of it. I only lie on behalf of pretty girls. Or, you know, for the greater good.”
“The greater good?”
