The Athenian was the next doorway.
She paused outside, smelling the pungent familiar odors of cigarette smoke and frying grease, listening to the buzz of conversations that were always the same, ultimately circling back to Are you here alone?
Alone.
It was certainly the most accurate adjective to describe her life. Even more so now that Ali was gone. It was amazing how big a hole her tiny niece had left behind.
She didn’t want to go into the Athenian, pick up some man she didn’t know, and bring him back to her bed. She wanted—
Joe.
A wave of melancholy came with his name, a deepening of the loneliness.
She pushed away from the doorway and headed home.
In the lobby of her building, she waved to the doorman, who started to say something to her. She ignored him and went into the elevator. On the penthouse floor, the elevator bell clanged, and she got out.
Her apartment door was open.
She frowned, wondering if she’d left it that way this morning.
No.
She was just about to slink back into the elevator when a hand appeared in her doorway; it held a full bottle of tequila.
Elizabeth Shore stepped out into the hallway. “I heard your transatlantic cry for help, and I brought the preferred tranquilizer for the slutty, over-the-hill set.”
To Meghann’s complete horror, she burst into tears.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Joe was almost finished for the day. It was a good thing because he actually had places to go and people to see.
It felt good to look forward to something, even if that something would ultimately cause him pain. He’d been drifting and alone for so long that simply having an itinerary was oddly calming.
Now he lay on his back, staring up at the dirty underside of an old Impala.
“Hey there.”
Joe frowned. He thought he’d heard something, but it was hard to tell. The radio on the workbench was turned up loud. Willie Nelson was warning mamas about babies that grew up to be cowboys.
Then someone kicked his boot.
Joe rolled out from underneath the car.
The face looking down at him was small, freckled, and smiling. Earnest green eyes stared down at him. She squinted just a bit, enough to make him wonder if she needed glasses, then he realized that his worklight was shining in her face. He clicked it off.
“Smitty’s in the office,” he said.
“I know that, silly. He’s always there. Did you know that the sand in Hawaii is like sugar? Smitty lets me play with the tools. Who are you?”
He stood up, wiped his hands on his coveralls. “I’m Joe. Now, run along.”
“I’m Alison. My mom mostly calls me Ali. Like the gator.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ali.” He glanced up at the clock. It was 4:00. Time to get going.
“Brittani Henshaw always says, ‘See you later, Ali Gator,’ to me. Get it?”
“I do. Now—”
“My mom says I’m not ’posed to talk to strangers, but you’re Joe.” She scrunched up her face and stared up at him. “How come your hair is so long? It’s like a girl’s.”
“I like it that way.” He went to the sink and washed the grease from his hands.
“My backpack has Ariel on it. Wanna see?” Without waiting for an answer, she scampered out of the garage. “Don’t go anywhere,” she yelled back at him.
He was halfway to his cabin when Alison skidded in beside him. “See Ariel? She’s a princess on this side and a mermaid on the other.”
He missed a step but kept moving. “I’m going into my house. You better run along.”
“Do ya hafta poop?”
He was startled into laughter by that. “No.”
“You wouldn’t tell me anyway.”
“I definitely would not. I need to get ready to go somewhere. It was nice to meet you, though.” He didn’t slow down.
She fell into step beside him, talking animatedly about some girlfriend named Moolan who’d cut off all her hair and played with knives.
“They have school counselors for that kind of behavior.”
Alison giggled and kept talking.
Joe climbed the porch steps and opened his door. “Well, Alison, this is where—”
She darted past him and went inside.
“Alison,” he said in a stern voice. “You need to leave now. It’s inappropriate to—”
“Your house smells kinda funny.” She sat on the sofa and bounced. “Who’s the lady in all the pitchers?”
He turned his back on her for a second; when he looked again she was at the windowsill, pawing through the pictures.
“Put those down,” he said more sharply than was necessary.
Frowning, she put it down. “I don’t like to share my stuff, either.” She glanced at the row of photographs. There were three of them along the living-room window and two on the mantel. Even a child recognized an obsession when she saw one.
“The woman in the pictures is my wife. Diana.” It still hurt to say her name aloud. He hadn’t learned yet to be casual about her.