P is for Peril

I said, "Well, I haven't known you long enough. Besides, you're too young."

He lifted his brows and I found myself blushing.

I said, "How'd you decide to move to Santa Teresa?"

"You're changing the subject."

"I don't like to be pushed," I said.

"Let's talk about sex. Tell me what you like in bed in case it ever comes up."

I laughed. "Let's talk about grade school. I hated mine. How'd you feel about yours?"

"Good. It was fun. I was captain of the Safety Council two years in a row. I went to four different colleges, but didn't graduate. I may try it again some day. I'd like to finish my degree."

"I did two semesters of junior college and didn't like it at all. I took Spanish in adult education, but I've forgotten everything except 'ola' and 'buenos dios.' "

"You cook?"

"No, but I'm a tidy little thing."

"Me, too. My brother's a pig. You'd never guess it by looking. He dresses okay, but his car's a mess."

"I carry cans of motor oil in my backseat."

"Part of your work," he said, forgivingly.

We chattered on in this fashion and I found myself liking his face. Also, I was not exactly unaware of his body, lean and muscular. I wondered where Dietz was tonight. Not anywhere in range, so what difference did it make? Few men appeal to me, not so much because I'm picky about them. I'm protective of myself, which means I disqualify all but the most-what . . . ? I couldn't think what it was that allowed some men to get through my defenses. Chemistry, I guess. I focused on cutting my chicken, trying a sample of mashed potatoes, which rank right up there with peanut butter, in my opinion.

Tommy touched my hand. "Where'd you disappear to?"

I looked up to find him staring at me. I moved my fingers away from his. "Is this a date?"

"Yes."

"Because I don't date."

"I can tell."

"I'm serious," I said. "I'm not good at this boy-girl stuff."

"You must be. You were married twice and now you have this other boyfriend on the string."

"I've had guys in between. That doesn't mean I handle it well."

"You do fine. I like you. You don't have to be a jerk. Lighten up."

Humbled, I said, "Okay."

When we left the restaurant at nine o'clock, the streets were still glistening with the rain, which had passed. I saw his Porsche parked across the street. The children's playground was dark and the boats in the marina beyond were bobbing dots of light. I waited while he unlocked the car and let me in. Once he fired up the engine, he said, "Something I want to show you. It's early yet. Okay?"

He pulled away from the curb and did a U-turn on Cabana Boulevard. We drove west, passing the yacht harbor on our left and Santa Teresa City College on our right. Up the hill on Sea Shore. Left at the next big intersection. Without being told, I knew we were on our way to Horton Ravine. He smiled over at me. "I want to show you the house."

"What about Richard? Won't he object?"

"He drove down to Bell Garden to play poker tonight."

"What if he loses and comes home?"

"He won't come back until morning whatever happens."

We drove through the stone pillars that marked the rear entrance to Horton Ravine. The road was wide and dark. Many properties on either side were unfenced and had the look of rural countryside: pastures and stables, house lights twinkling through the trees. The route he took was circuitous, and I suspected his intention was to demonstrate the power and handling of the Porsche. At length, he turned right and up a short driveway to a half-moon motorcourt. I caught a sweeping glimpse of the house: stucco walls, massive lines, red-tile roof. All the arches and balconies were washed with dramatic exterior lights. He reached for the remote garage-door opener, pressed a button, and then swung into the open bay of a four-car garage. The cavernous space was pristine; new white drywall that smelled of the plaster overcoating. Three spaces were empty. I imagined Richard driving a sports car as new and as flashy as Tommy's. I opened the car door on my side and let myself out while Tommy got out and fished for his house key. There were no shelves, no tools, and no junk piled up; no lawn chairs, no cardboard boxes marked XMAS ETC. He let us into the utility area off the kitchen. The indicator on the alarm panel by the door was dark. There was a half bath and maid's quarters to the left, a laundry room on the right. There were stacks of junk mail on the kitchen counters, catalogs and flyers. In a separate pile there were instruction manuals for the answering machine, the microwave oven, and the Cuisinart, which had clearly never been used. The floors were done in dull red Mexican pavers, sealed and polished to a high gloss. Tommy tossed his keys on the glossy white-tile counter. "So what do you think?"