“I said relax, not stop. And chill out before you screw the mood.”
From the back of the truck, Ginger barks and paws at the window, but not in a “Hey, guys, what about me?” kind of way. She’d probably rip my throat out if she could.
“Ginger can be protective,” Freya says.
“I’ve noticed.”
“She’s gentle unless there’s a reason for her not to be,” Freya adds. “Anything I need to worry about?”
“This is a small town, and everyone knows who you are. They’ll talk.”
“I can handle gossip on the Hero Board. It’s when I make the cover of theNational Enquirerthat I worry.”
Unlike most of us, Freya’s actually appeared in that tabloid. She steps back and opens the driver’s-side door. She stands on the running board, her auburn hair falling from the knot at the back of her head. “Are you coming?”
I trip over my own feet as I scramble to the passenger’s side door. Ginger bares her teeth, but when Freya tells her to sit, the dog transforms, woofing a welcome. I find myself sprawled across the front seat, kissing Freya all over again. This time, Ginger tries to nose her way into the action as Freya bats her away and mumbles, “Stop.”
“Is thatstopfor me?” I ask.
“Not in any way.”
By now, the town has mostly closed for the evening. Freya disentangles herself and swerves around the southern side of the marina and into the parking lot where the old motel used to be. A steel door opens beneath the new condos, and Freya pulls into an underground garage. Lights flood the empty space as she cuts the engine. Behind us, the steel garage door seals shut, and the kind of silence that comes from being locked in a soundproof room descends over us. “Should I let someone know I’m here?” I ask.
“Your girlfriend knows where you are. She’ll take care of you.”
“I told you Seton’s not my girlfriend.”
Freya kisses me. “I don’t need to make enemies with the chief of police. I get enough speeding tickets as it is.”
She jumps from the truck and opens the back so Ginger can leap to the cement floor. The dog puts her nose to the ground, sweeping the perimeter of the garage, her body low and agile. She pauses once, tilting her head, before sitting at attention, her ears pivoting. “All set,” Freya says. “Grab the guitar.”
I get out of the truck and pull the guitar case from the covered bed. At another steel door, Freya enters a code, and what sounds like the lock on a bank safe releases. Ginger trots ahead of us into a hallway, sniffing until she stops at an elevator door.
“Paranoid much?” I ask.
“Cautious.”
“You just picked up a guy you’ve never met in a bar.”
“You don’t fit the profile of who I worry about.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I guess.”
Inside, we take the elevator up two floors, where it opens onto a huge space of clean lines and glass that reminds me of Reid’s apartment in the South End—as it should, since Reid designed this whole building. Freya hangs my coat in a closet, my father’s pint glass tucked into the coat’s front pocket.
“Bar’s in the kitchen,” she says. “Mix me an old-fashioned.”
She whistles, and Ginger leads the way up a set of invisible stairs to the second floor.
The condo has soaring ceilings and inset lighting, with a vast open plan divided into separate seating areas. One area has a piano and a guitar stand. Another has a workspace with bookshelves that rise to the ceiling. A third has comfortable, overstuffed furniture and a huge television set. Modern art hangs on nearly every inch of wall space, including a portrait that takes me a moment to recognize as Freya. It’s a nude.
A kitchen runs along one wall, with white cabinets, soapstone counters, and appliances that belong in a restaurant. I find a recipe for an old-fashioned on my phone and have doused sugar cubes with bitters by the time Ginger trots down the stairs. Freya follows, having swapped the glittery blouse for a flowing hostess dress straight from the sixties that somehow works in her favor.
I hand her the cocktail. She clinks her glass against mine. I take a sip and gag on the bourbon. “Lightweight,” Freya says as she leads me through one of the sitting areas to a set of steel, floor-to-ceiling doors.
When Ginger gives the all clear, we join her on a deck that runs the length of the apartment and overlooks the harbor. The rain has stopped, and the skies have cleared, and a sliver of a moon shines down on the blackened surface of the lake. Freya shivers and steps a bit closer to me.
“What would bring someone like you to Hero?” I ask.
