The black dog! It was like a damn Disney flick, a plucky hound swimming to the rescue, dragging him to the top for air…
Except it wasn’t a dog bringing him up. It was Desie, one arm behind his head, holding him upright while she adjusted the pillows. The first thing Twilly saw when he opened his eyes was the pale cleft at the base of her neck. He leaned forward to kiss it, a deed that (judging by the pain) split open his chest.
Desie was smiling. “Somebody’s feeling better.”
“Lots,” Twilly gasped.
“Don’t try to talk,” she said, “or smooch.”
She pecked him on the forehead; not a good sign. They always pecked him on the forehead right before they said good-bye.
“I’m sorry about everything,” he told her.
“Why? I was there because I wanted to be.”
“You leaving?”
She nodded. “Hot-lanta. Spend some catchup time with the folks.”
“I love you,” Twilly said blearily, though it was absolutely true. It was also true he would fall in love with the next woman who slept with him, as always.
Desie Stoat said, “I know you do.”
“You look incredible.”
“It’s the Demerol, darling. I look like hell. Get some rest now.”
“What about that man… ”
“Oh!” Desie tweaked his ankle through the blanket. “You’ll never guess who he is!”
When she told him, Twilly acted as if he’d been mainlined with pure adrenaline. His head rocked off the bed and he blurted: “I know that name! From my mother.”
“Clinton Tyree?”
“The whole story! She thought he was a hero. My father said he was a nut.”
Desie said, “Well, he hit on me in the helicopter.”
“See? That proves he’s sane.” Twilly flashed a weak smile before sinking back on the pillows.
“He also expressed an extremely low opinion of my husband. He said a school-yard flasher would be a step up.”
Twilly chuckled. A nurse bustled in to fiddle with the drip on his IV bag. She told him to get some sleep, and on her way out favored Desie with a scalding glare.
“I spoke to Palmer this morning. Just to let him know I’m OK,” Desie said. “He sounded happy as a clam. He’s going hunting this weekend with Governor Dick and—guess who else—Robert Clapley. I suppose they’re celebrating Shearwater.”
Twilly grunted curiously. “Hunting for what? Where?”
“Honey, even if I knew, I’d never tell.” Desie wore a sad smile. She traced a finger lightly down his cheek. “All that crazy talk about killing somebody—you keep it up, hotshot, you’re headed for an early grave. Call me selfish but I don’t want to be around when it happens.”
Twilly Spree spoke out of a fog. “Have faith,” he said.
Desie laughed ruefully. “Faith I’ve got. It’s good sense I’m dangerously short of.”
When she stood up to go, Twilly saw she was wearing a new sundress: sea green with spaghetti straps. It put a knot in his heart.
“I need a favor. It’s McGuinn,” Desie said. “Could you keep him until I get squared away? My mom’s deathly allergic to dogs.”
“What about Palmer?”
“Nossir. I might not get much out of this divorce, Twilly, but my husband is not keeping McGuinn. Please, can you take care of him?”
“Sure.” Twilly liked the dog and he liked the idea of seeing Desie again, when she came to collect him. “Where is he now?”
“With Lieutenant Tile and you-know-who. The motel where I’m staying won’t take pets.” Desie picked up her purse. “I’ve got a flight to catch. Promise me one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
She put one knee on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to kiss him; a proper kiss this time. Then she whispered, “Don’t make love to anyone else in front of the dog. He’ll be so confused.”
“Promise.” Playfully, Twilly tried to grab her straps, but she slipped away.
“Be good. There’re four humongous cops outside your door with nobody to pound on.”
Twilly tried a feeble salute. He could barely lift his arm.
“Good-bye, hon,” Desie said.
“Wait. That other guy, Gash… ”
Her eyes hardened. “Freak accident,” she said.
“It happens.” Suddenly Twilly was very sleepy. “Love you, Desie.”