It’s not natural.
Just get through this dinner, I tell myself, let her apologize for the article, say good-bye, have a nice life, and then put her out of your mind forever.
Forever.
Uh-huh.
Our table is next to a massive picture window that opens onto the Puget Sound. A gull hovers against an otherwise spotless blue sky, a still figure riding a gentle breeze. Miles away, at the end of the world, islands rise from the deep in the shape of pyramids and plateaus, lording themselves over the Sound. Much closer, a discordant fleet of boats is tied up in the harbor like so many birds gone to roost. There are sailboats, motorboats, fishing boats, and yachts. Their sizes are as varied as their colors and shapes. A lucky few have managed to escape the coop and now ply the open waters of the Sound, long white tails trailing behind them.
It’s breathtaking.
“I always loved this view,” Heather says. “It’s so romantic.”
Great! That helps.
We make small talk between visits from Miguel, our waiter, who starts us off with a baked Dungeness crab, shrimp, and artichoke dip served with flatbread. For the entrée, I stick to my usual, char-grilled wild Alaskan silver salmon finished with wild mountain huckleberry sauce. Heather opts for the garlic herb chicken and Parmesan mashed potatoes; not a bad choice.
On the table, set intentionally off to the side, is Heather’s black leather portfolio. It’s the same one she was using while embedded with us, so I know there’s a notepad inside, along with several pens and copious reference documents and other papers she considers important or relevant. She’s waiting to spring it on me—whatever it is—but she wants to put it on display first.
Then it hits me like a hammer.
Maybe she’s not here to apologize; maybe she doesn’t feel bad at all about the article or the way we ended; maybe she really doesn’t have feelings for me at all.
Maybe she’s here to get another story.
As we work our way through ample portions of salmon and chicken and mashed potatoes and cornbread pudding, I find myself glancing at the folder with increasing frequency. She’s up to something, I just know it, only she’s too clever to just throw it out for discussion. She’s trying to bait me.
Now I feel insulted.
Does she honestly think I’m that easy, that predictable? I couldn’t care less what’s in the folder. I couldn’t care less about her agenda, or whatever angle she’s trying to play.
It’s just a portfolio.
Why would she need her portfolio for a dinner date?
I make it all the way to dessert before I can’t take it anymore and blurt, “What are we doing here, Heather? What’s in the portfolio?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I think, She just won. She broke me.
There’s a smug look … no, a confident look on her face, a look I remember so well, a look that says she knows something I don’t. It’s been nine months since she was embedded with the unit, but I remember how hard it is for her to hide her emotions.
The girl has no poker face.
Without a word, she opens the portfolio and extracts four sheets of typed and stapled paper. The pages are neither crisp nor clean and appear as if they’ve been folded and unfolded dozens of times. A coffee stain graces the lower edge of the top page, and every corner is dog-eared. She sets it on the table and pushes the stained and worried mess slowly across, her eyes intent on my face.
“What is it?”
“Something I want you to read.” Her face is blank. There’s no emotion in her eyes now and the corners of her mouth are unmoving, giving no hint either up or down. She’s been practicing her poker face. I feel my stomach ball up and my intestines go to water.
“Last time I read something you wrote, we didn’t speak for nine months.”
“You didn’t speak for nine months,” she clarifies. “I’ve called every couple weeks, or have you forgotten? If you don’t remember, I could call Diane. She and I have become great phone pals.” She gives a short shake of her head, truncated and abrupt. “It’s funny, when I was embedded with the team, I didn’t really get to know her. It took you, Steps, to help us get close. Did you know she went to Hawaii with me over Christmas—I’m sure she told you?”
“Hawaii…?” I shake my head. “I remember she said something about a beach … was that when she showed up all tan? Or … or…” Jimmy’s right, I’m not a Viking. I quickly slug down some water from my perspiring glass. I’m drowning here; suffocating, choking.
Setting my glass down, I cross my arms over my chest … then remember that Heather studied body language … extensively; she’s like the Amazing Kreskin of reporters. I always thought that reading body language was the purview of law enforcement, a skill used to help decipher a suspect’s guilt.
It never occurred to me that such a skill could also be useful to reporters … until I met Heather. Maybe it’s something they teach at journalism school, or maybe Heather took it on herself to learn, realizing its great potential. In either case, she’s good at it; I should have remembered that. In the short span we’ve been in the restaurant I’ve probably shifted my gaze from one eye to the other, then to her lips, at least a dozen times.
That’s bad.
I quickly uncross my arms and take another drink.
The left corner of her mouth twitches up half an inch and her eyes smile, letting me know that she knows what I just remembered. Damn!
She gives the worn pages a push closer. “Just read it.”
I hesitate … then hesitate some more … and then realize that the only thing that’s going to make this go away—make her go away—is to give her what she wants. With my right index finger I spin the pages around so they’re right side up and read the title aloud, “‘Signs of Passage: The FBI’s Special Tracking Unit.’” Pushing it away, I say, “I’ve already read this.”
“Has anyone told you you’re stubborn?” she hisses.