Anchoring one corner of the property was a crape myrtle in full bloom, its bark the texture and color of deerskin. Wedged against the other side of the cottage was a twenty-foot holly, red berries peeping out, ornamentlike, from among the dark green leaves. In between was a hedge of burning bush, the ground underneath it sprinkled with cardinal-red leaves. Behind the house Fiske noted the stairway angling down to the water. From there he thought he saw the bob of a sail mast. From the back seat, he grabbed the clean clothes he had gotten from his apartment. They got out of the car.
“Nice place,” he commented.
Sara stretched and yawned deeply. “When I got the clerkship at the Court, I flew in to look at housing. I thought I’d just rent at first, but found this place and fell in love with it. So I went down to North Carolina, sold the farm, and bought this.”
“Must have been hard selling the homestead.”
Sara shook her head. “The two reasons it was important to me were dead. All that was left was a bunch of dirt that I couldn’t do anything with.”
Still stretching, she headed to the house. “I’ll get the coffee going.” She looked at her watch and moaned. “I’m going to be late for oral argument. I should call in, but I’m afraid to.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand, given the circumstances.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” she said doubtfully.
Fiske hesitated. “Do you have a map around here?”
“What kind?”
“Eastern half of the United States.”
She thought a moment. “Check the glove compartment.”
He did so and pulled out the map. As they went into the house she asked, “What are you looking for?”
“I’ve been thinking about the eight hundred miles that were on Mike’s car.”
“You want to see what’s eight hundred miles from here?”
“No, four hundred.” Sara looked puzzled. “Four hundred miles out, but he, or someone else, had to drive back to D.C.”
“Although it could be a number of smaller trips, a hundred miles here and there.”
Fiske shook his head. “Human remains inside a trunk on a hot day aren’t real pleasant to be around. I’ve found a couple that way,” he added grimly.
While she fixed coffee in the kitchen, Fiske looked out the window that faced the river. From this vantage point he could now see the pressure-treated lumber dock and the sailboat tied up to it.
“You get to sail much?”
“Black or cream?”
“Black.”
She got out two cups. “Not as much as I used to. Where I lived in North Carolina was pretty landlocked. Some fishing with my dad, swimming at a pond a few miles down the road. But out at Stanford, I really got into it. You never know how big something can be until you see the Pacific Ocean. It dwarfs everything else I’ve ever experienced.”
“Never been there.”
“Let me know if you ever decide to. I could show you around.” She wiped the hair out of her eyes, poured his coffee and handed him his cup.
“I’ll put that on my list,” he said dryly.
“I’ve only got one bathroom, so we’ll have to take turns showering.”
“You go first. I want to check out this map.”
“If I’m not down in twenty minutes, pound on the door; I’ll probably have fallen asleep in the shower.”
Fiske was looking at the map, sipping his coffee, and didn’t comment. Sara paused on the stairs.
“John?” He looked up. “I hope you can forgive me for last night.” She stopped, as though mulling over what she had just said. “The problem is, I don’t think I deserve to be forgiven.”
Fiske put his cup down and stared at her. The sunlight poured through the window at a graceful angle, falling full upon her face, accentuating the sparkle of her eyes, the sensual margins of her lips. Her hair was limp from the river water, sweat and sleeping on it. The little makeup she wore had long since lost its life, staining her eyelids and cheeks, her entire body pushed to the point of exhaustion. This woman had been the source of a major, perhaps cataclysmic rift between him and his father, a man he worshiped. And yet Fiske had to fight the impulse to slip off her clothes and lie down next to her right there on the floor.