Traynor’s eyes stabbed Max in the back as she walked to the front door. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jada bump the kitchen door with her hip, two cups in her hand. Her gaunt face registered nothing, and her eyes, deep in their sockets, were vacant.
Max didn’t question the situation she walked away from, didn’t lament the opportune moment she’d thrown in the trash, nor berate herself for folding her hand at the slightest provocation. Retreat to regroup. She wasn’t weak, she was sensible.
Wasn’t she?
The door closed behind her, and she could breathe again. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. The afternoon sun was bright, a car with a bad muffler rattled down the road, and in someone’s backyard a child shrieked with laughter. Everything was normal outside the house.
Ladybird tugged on her hand and started down the front steps. Max let herself be led down the path, through the gate and along the sidewalk.
“Well,” Ladybird chirped, “I certainly didn’t see abundant amounts of grief in there. Did you?”
No, but on the face of it, that didn’t always mean the obvious. “I didn’t cry when my husband died.”
“Bet you didn’t serve tea and crumpets, either.”
Max stared straight ahead and remembered another day. “The afternoon we buried my mother, my aunt made a bean and hamburger casserole. She was terrified she’d given everyone gas.”
“Did you get gas?”
“I didn’t eat.”
Silence. Max turned into the sun, eyes closed, blessed heat bathing her face. She needed heat.
“What’s wrong, Max?”
She couldn’t have said. She was other worldly, out-of-body, astrally projecting. She wanted to stand like this forever in the glow of sunlight. She should have been drawing conclusions or assessing what she’d learned. Seeing Traynor so unexpectedly had drained her for the moment. So had memories of Cameron and her mother. She needed to regenerate.
“I need to call Witt.” There was something she wanted to ask him. The questions hovered at the edge of her consciousness. She’d know what it was when she heard his voice.
“You can use my phone,” Ladybird offered.
“I’ve got a phone in the car.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Ladybird insisted. “Was it thinking about your husband? Or was it that man who upset you?”
Max turned to look at the little woman beside her. They’d stopped at Ladybird’s row of plastic bushes, the leaves speckled with dust. She had, of course, been patently obvious. Her fingers were still in Ladybird’s dry, soft grip. Max squeezed. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. I just have to ask Witt something.”
“Did you two fight last night?”
Before or after he almost throttled her for sneaking into Bethany’s house?
Ladybird didn’t let her answer. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business. I know I was a pushy old broad last night, but you can tell me to butt out any time.”
Max smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Ladybird wouldn’t have done it anyway. Max was beginning to feel she could say almost anything she wanted where Ladybird was concerned, and no offense would be taken.
Max pulled her keys from her pocket, turned her back on Witt’s mother, walked back along the street to her car, and unlocked the door. When she looked up again, she was alone on the road.
Witt’s cell phone was still in the glovebox. Wondering how much longer she had on the battery before it died, she punched in his cell number.
When had she memorized the number?
The thought occurred, not for the first time, that she was in way over her head.
Chapter Eighteen
Witt answered with a crisp, “Long.”
Succinct. Nothing extra. Like the man himself.
Something warm washed over Max, something like comfort, something like the soothing blue of Witt’s eyes. “It’s me.”
“Me who?” Laughter laced his voice.
That, too, warmed her. The panic at seeing Bud Traynor up close and personal receded. She closed her eyes against the sight of his car at the curb. When she opened them again, the white Cadillac didn’t bother her as much. “It’s Max.”
“Calling because you missed me?”
Witt had lowered his voice. Either he wasn’t alone or he was ratcheting up the level of intimacy. She liked the sound of his voice in her ear; it turned her mushy inside. Almost as mushy as last night’s kiss. Of course, the sensation could have been the aftereffect of an adrenaline rush.
Question. She had a question. What was it? “No, I did not miss you. I called because ...” stretching, thinking, ah ...
“Suppose you wanna know if I set up the phone line yet,” he helped her out.
Something flickered at Ladybird’s front window, then was gone. “Phone line?”
“Prefer to call it your sex line?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh, that.”
“Yeah, oh that.” There was something in his voice. Anger? Excitement? Jealousy?
“Sooo ...” she prompted. “How’s it going to work?”