“I’m thinking of sprucing up my place.”
“Bullshit,” Luke says, crossing his arms.
“I’m worried about Damien. And Jane.” She realizes she’s taking Luke’s advice from the night of the dinner. Tell a lie as close to the truth as you can get. “They seem like they’re struggling. With money. With everything.”
“You talk to my dad about it? I’m not Damien’s keeper.”
“Between you and me, I think your dad is more invested in reprising his role as good old Chief Caputo, in having a hand in this drug case, than anything going on with his family.” It’s the truth, but Callie also wants to see what he will do, with a mention of the drugs. Whether it makes him nervous to think of Frank circling.
Luke raises his eyebrows, amused. “Damien doesn’t always make good choices. He tries, but he doesn’t always think things through. I’m sure he’s dealing with some regrets right now.”
“Like?”
“Guy’s got a wife who needs a lot of medical care, a kid at home, his little pet business isn’t going to cut it, it wasn’t before all of this either.”
“Too bad he isn’t as enterprising as his brother.” Callie nods at the greenhouses. “Whatcha growing in there?”
Luke narrows his eyes. “Kale. Swiss chard. Though it’s about the end of the season for them, would cost me an arm and a leg to keep the heat on through the winter. You can take a look if you’d like.”
“Why the padlocks?”
“Someone kept stealing my tools.”
“You report that?”
“Wasn’t worth the hassle. Didn’t want to waste the time of those good men in blue.”
Callie scoffs. “You know as well as I do that those good menwaste their own time. But you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t give you one more mystery to sleuth out.”
Callie feels a rush of anger. She gets what he’s implying. Girl detective, playing games. And that she’s not good at what she does.
“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see if Damien wants to help out a little over here. I might have some work for him once we get Christmas trees in.”
Callie watches him retreat around the back of the shop building. When she’s sure he’s gone she steps up on the running board of his truck and looks into the cab. She knows he would be smarter than to keep anything out in the open, but she can’t resist. The truck is clean, save for a takeout coffee cup, the rim marked with red lipstick.
This time, she’smeeting Adrian at his house on the Mullica River. On her way out the door she kicks over the pile of unread copies of thePine Barrens Gazettethat the newspaper carrier now leaves to the left of her doormat since she axed the mailbox. She swears, pushes them back into an unsteady heap. It’s been a week since she installed the cameras and so far nothing on them but footage of deer tiptoeing across the driveway.
She’s not over this way much, by the river, and she’s struck by how open it feels, the horizon all water, the Atlantic in the distance. She pulls up to his house, an 1800s cedar shingle with a big wraparound porch. As she approaches the door she studies the porch furniture, red chairs covered in navy-striped cushions, and tries to decide whether she thinks they were picked out by a woman. Yes, she thinks, and then she tries to guess how old they are. They look pretty new to her.
Adrian opens the door before she has a chance to knock. He stands back so she can come in, kisses her on the cheek, lets a hand linger on her hip.Stay there, she thinks. He pulls away with a smile, like he’s read her mind.
Inside there are wide plank-wood floors, a fireplace in the living room with a framed map over the mantel.
“It’s a survey of this area dating back to 1899.”
“You really are a dork for waterways,” she says, but leans in closer to take a look. “It’s cool.” She recognizes Atsion Lake, finds the creek behind the bait shop where Sabrina worked, the little cedar lake where her cabin sits. “What are those dots that are darker than the others?”
“Sinkholes. You ever been out to Blue Hole?”
“A few times. Was smart enough to keep my distance.” Looking at the map, it makes sense: The Pines is riddled with sinkholes, Blue Hole the most notorious. Seventy to eighty feet deep. A kid drowns every other year up there, drunk or high or just doing something dumb on a dare.
He flashes her a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to the rivers. You need anything before we go? I’ve got a few beers and packed some sandwiches. Marinated beets, avocado, hummus, Irish cheddar, toasted the bread so it won’t get soggy.”
“That sounds perfect.” She’s charmed by the extent of his planning. She never ate around any of the men she used to hook up with back up North. Fellow detectives always meeting up at odd hours, having a quickie. It seems like an essential thing to know about a person, how they eat, what comforts and sates them.
As they make their way to the dock she tells him she likes his porch furniture. Can’t help herself. If she’s walking into what had recently been another woman’s home, another woman’s relationship, she needs to know about it, needs to get her disappointment out of the way.
