He did turn then, and I half wished he hadn’t.Facing him head-on, I suffered that same inner jolt that I’d felt earlier.Something about the way he looked at me made my heart catch.
“If I asked what those reasons are,” he said, “would you tell me?”
I forced myself to breathe normally.“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not here to talk about me.You’re here to talk about Cooper.”
“Then why isn’t Cooper here?”he asked, with a blunt and simple logic that put me quickly on the spot—which was where, when I thought of it, I’d felt from the moment Peter Hathaway had appeared at my door.
“Cooper isn’t here,” I said slowly, wishing all the while that Peter Hathaway was short, fat and balding, “because I wanted to talk with you first.There are certain things you should understand before you meet Cooper.”
Peter slipped both hands into the pockets of his slacks, drawing the fine gray fabric more snugly across his hips.I don’t know why, but my eyes fell, then bobbed back up on a silent command, and I prayed that my face didn’t look as warm as it felt.
Gesturing beseechfully toward a chair, I again urged him to sit.“Please.”When he seemed determined to simply stand there, so tall and straight and beautifully masculine, looking at me, I tried a different diversion.“Did they serve you anything on the plane?Have you had lunch?”
“I didn’t fly.I drove up.”
That surprised me.“All the way from New York?”
“I got an early start,” he explained.“I enjoy driving.I don’t get to do it enough.”He paused for an instant before adding, “Besides, the alternative was flying into Boston and switching to a small commuter plane.They can be harrowing.I avoid them at all costs.”
Big city, big name, big bucks, afraid of flying?I had trouble believing that.If his reputation was indicative of his practice, he flew all the time.I wasn’t quite sure whether he was trying to charm me into forgetting the danger of his smile by presenting me with a flaw, but if so, I wasn’t buying.
“It would have been faster to fly,” I told him.“I’m prepared to spend whatever it takes to clear Cooper’s name.Still, the well isn’t bottomless.If I’m paying you for travel time—”
“You’re not,” he cut in, looking around again.“If I choose to take the longer route, I cover myself.Besides, I’m not on retainer yet.I haven’t agreed to take this case.”
“Oh.”Thanks for nothing, Mom.“I’m sorry.I was misinformed.”And for that I’d offered my house for the weekend?Thanks fornothing,Mom.
Peter Hathaway didn’t look at all disturbed.“No problem,” he said and crossed to the small table that Adam and I had picked up so long ago in Nanny Walker’s attic.Like most of the furniture in the room, it was a local relic.Like most,it had been stripped, sanded and restained.I loved doing things like that, loved thinking of the artisan who had originally made a piece, loved caressing the curves he or she had so painstakingly carved.After all, I was an artist, too, a partner in obsession.
This particular table was a round mahogany piece that stood on an intricately crafted pedestal and had delicate fluting around its rim.On its surface was a small, gently swirling candy dish of my own making and two photographs, each mounted in strikingly unusual metal frames made by my friend, Hans, who lived in Bangor.
Peter raised the larger of the two.It was a picture of Adam and his crew in front of theFree Reign.“Who’s who?”he asked.
Knowing that the sooner he started learning names, the better, I crossed to where he stood and moved a light finger over the glass.“Adam … Cooper … Jack … Tonof … Benjie.”
“Was that the pecking order?”
“Pretty much so.Cooper was second in command to Adam.Jack and Tonof were experienced men who worked hard but had no stake in the endeavor other than what money they earned.Benjie is Cooper’s brother.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“He was fourteen when this was taken.He’s twenty now.”
Peter studied the picture a little longer, then set it back on the table and lifted the smallerone.It was of Adam and me, taken during the first year of our marriage.Adam hugged me from behind in the waist-up shot.We were windblown, two blond beach bums, scantily clad, looking tanned, carefree, immortal.
“He was a handsome man,” Peter commented.
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
It occurred to me to remind him a second time that he was there to discuss Cooper, not me, when I realized that, as with the identity of the crew, my answer would provide necessary background information.Besides, I had nothing to hide.Adam’s death had been reported in the papers.It was matter of public record.In fact, I was surprised my mother hadn’t already told him.
“There was a fishing accident.A piece of equipment went berserk.Adam was swept overboard and underwater before his crew could see, much less help.”
