Dagger Key and Other Stories

She was easier around him than before, and this both elated and distressed him. What he felt for her, when he tried to isolate it, was less defined than what he felt toward her husband. He was attracted, but the basis of the attraction confounded him. True, she was sexy, with her green eyes and expressive mouth and strong, slender body. Her vulnerability made him feel protective, and this enhanced the other feelings. But he could not help thinking that a large part of his attraction was due to the danger she posed. For several years he had limited his contact with women to those he met through outcall services; now, alone with her in this secluded place, he wondered if he was not toying with fate, pretending there was something for them other than the moment. She finished her drink and asked for a refill. He doubted she was much of a drinker and thought this might be her way of signaling that she was ready to take a step. He did not believe her capable of discretion. Her spirit was so damaged, if Broillard were to get a whiff of another man and pressured her, she might confess everything. Broillard might no longer care about her…though in Shellane’s experience, men who abused their women were extremely possessive of them.

She asked what he used the laptop for, and he told her the lie about his book. She pressed him on the subject, inquiring as to his feelings about his work, and he fended off her questions by saying he didn’t know enough about writing yet to be able to talk about it with any intelligence.

“But you were a songwriter,” she said.

“I was a wanna-be. That doesn’t qualify me to speak about it.”

“That’s not true. If you want to do something, you think about it. Even if it’s not conscious, you come to understand things about it. Techniques…strategies.”

“Sounds like you should be telling me about your work,” he said. When she demurred, he asked what she would write about if she regained her confidence.

“It’s not my confidence that’s the problem.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “Having enough confidence to fail is most of everything. So tell me. What would you write about.”

“The lake.” She tugged at a strand of hair that had come loose from the ponytail, stretched it down beside her ear so as to contrive a sideburn. “It’s all I know. My father and I lived here from the time I was four. My mother died when I was a baby.”

“It’s your father’s house you’re in now?”

She nodded. “After he died, Avery came along. He helped me with the business.”

“The Gas ’n Guzzle?”

“Avery renamed it,” she said. “It used to be Malloy’s. I wanted to keep the name, but…” She gave another of those glum gestures that Shellane was beginning to interpret as redolent of her attitude toward an entire spectrum of defeats.

“So Avery moved right in, did he?”

“I guess.” She held out her empty glass again and he poured a stiffer drink.

“Looks like I’m going to have to call you a cab,” he said.

She giggled, lifted the glass and touched the liquid with the tip of her tongue. It was the first sign of happiness she had shown him, and it was so pure a thing, evocative of a girlish sweetness, that Shellane, himself a little drunk, was moved to touch her cheek.

Alarmed, she pulled away. He started to apologize, but she said, “No, it’s okay. Really!” But she appeared flustered. At any minute, he thought, he would hear her say she had to go.

She stared into her glass for such a long time, Shellane grew uncomfortable. Then, her tone suddenly forceful, she said, “I could write a hundred stories about the lake. Every day it has a different mood. I never wanted to live anywhere else.” She looked up at him. “You like it here too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t live here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated,” he said after a pause.

She laid her palms flat on the table and appeared to study their shapes against the dark wood; then she pushed up to her feet. “May I use your restroom?”

She was so long in the bathroom, Shellane began to worry. The water had been running ever since she went in. What could she be doing? Effecting an ornate suicide? Praying? Changing into animal form? He considered asking if she was okay, but decided this was too much solicitude.

Wind jiggled the door latch, and a bough scraped the roof. He stretched out his legs, let his eyelids droop. He pictured Grace with the glass raised to her pale lips, the tawny whiskey and the coppery color of her hair blended by lamplight. He did not notice the sound of the bathroom door opening, but heard her soft step behind him. Her face was freshly scrubbed and shining. She was holding a bath towel in front of her, but let it drop to the side. Her breasts were high and small, strawberry-tipped; the pearly arcs of her hips centered by a tuft of coppery flame. Her eyes locked onto his.

“I’d like to stay,” she said.