“Sure. That’s fine.”
“Just conversation. At least for now.”
“Absolutely.”
“Mr. Agreeable.”
“I try,” I said.
“Try and you’ll succeed. . . . Um, I can’t go too far—the kids.”
“How about the same place—the Country Mart?”
“No,” she said. “Too public. Meet me up the beach from where I am, down by the old Paradise Cove pier. Down where the Sand Dollar used to be—where you got your kayak. It’s quiet there, nice and private. Pretty, too. I go down there by myself, sometimes, just to look at the ocean.”
“Okay,” I said. “But there’s a gate arm down by the old guard shack.”
“Park along the side of the road and walk the rest of the way down. That’s what I do. You’ll see my Expedition pulled to the side and know I’m there. If I’m not, it means something came up—one of the kids woke up, whatever. But I’ll do my best.”
“Great. Looking forward to it.”
“Me too, Alex.”
At night the drive was an easy glide, and I pulled off PCH onto the Paradise Cove turnoff at 9:55. I navigated the speed bumps and drove slowly, searching for Cheryl’s Expedition. No sign of the SUV as the gate arm came into view, and I pulled to the left, parked, sat for a while, tried to figure out how I’d transform what she thought was a date into the scariest conversation she’d ever had.
A date. I hoped I’d get back before Robin got home. If I didn’t, I’d just say I’d been driving.
I remained in the Seville awhile longer, coming up with no easy script, wondering if Cheryl would actually show and, if not, would that be enough for me to drop the whole thing and leave town with Robin . . . be normal.
I got out of the car, descended toward the construction site on foot, using a tentative quarter moon as my compass. Reached bottom, dodged nails and planks and shingles and boards.
Chilly night, purplish black sky freckled by starlight, the water below inky, identically blemished. Off to the south the remains of the Paradise Cove pier listed like a drunk, pilings angled dangerously toward the ocean. Someone had peeled back the chain link that blocked access, and for a moment I wondered if I was alone. But when I stopped I saw no movement other than the breeze-nudged boughs of sycamores, heard nothing but the tide.
I walked around aimlessly, no more insightful than when I’d arrived. A husky engine hum filtered down from the road. Then a car door slamming. Footsteps. Rapid footsteps.
Cheryl Duke’s hourglass shape appeared seconds later, descending the slope smoothly. Making herself easy to spot in a tight, pale cardigan, white T-shirt, and white jeans. Swinging her arms, purposeful but relaxed. Lithe.
I said, “Over here,” and headed toward her.
She looked at me, waved.
When I reached her she was smiling. The cardigan was pink cashmere, cropped above her firm waistline, straining at the chest. “I dressed so you could see me.”
“Oh, I saw you all right.”
She laughed, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me full on the lips. Her tongue pressed its way through my teeth, licked my palate, filled my throat, retreated. She threw back her head, laughing. Wiggling the tongue—huge and pointed—curling the tip upward and tickling the bottom of her nose.
“See,” she said, “size matters all kinds of ways.” One hand cupped the back of my head as sharp little teeth nibbled at my chin, and I thought of her son biting down on my ear. A family of carnivores. My arms were at my sides, and she grabbed my hands and planted them on her rear. Her breasts asserted themselves against my chest, obstructive, unyielding. Her pelvis rotated against mine; then the palms of her hands replaced the breasts as she shoved me away.
“That’s all you get, for now.” Her hair was loose, full, bleached white by the moon, and she turned tossing it into a production.
“Shucks,” I said, still feeling her tongue in my gullet.
“Aw,” she said. “Poor baby.” Another soft shove. “Why should I let you fuck me? We barely know each other.”