Page 1 of Water's Edge

One

The streetlights on the corners were dim. Young men—teenagers, mostly—stood in the yards or between houses in small groups, smoking, laughing, staring at her small car as she passed as if challenging her to encroach on their territory. She had heard all the talk about this part of the city. She’d read the newspaper accounts and seen the raw footage on television. And still she came. His invitation had been so shy, embarrassed, charming.

She had rushed home from her shift at the tavern, showered, and tried on several different outfits before she decided on the one that would highlight her figure and accentuate the red of her hair.

Green.

That was her go-to color. She studied herself in the mirror.

She’d been called pretty, even beautiful a time or two.

Yet never by the sober.

Or the especially handsome.

That evening he’d called her beautiful.

She had been working in a coffee shop downtown and just started taking shifts at the tavern. Tips were better at the Sandpiper, but the clientele had bottomed out on the disgusting scale. The coffee shop had been full of New Age creeps and wannabe writers. The Old Whiskey Mill had drunks and more drunks, and it was a cop hangout. Drunks were more generous than coffee sippers.

She ran her fingers through her hair and thought about him.

He looked familiar. Not overly so. Just enough to make her lean in when he spoke. He ordered a Jack Daniel’s, straight up, and smiled at her. She’d said something like: “Do I know you from somewhere? Are you famous?”

The moment it passed from her lips she felt schoolgirl silly.

“Afraid not. I’m sure I would remember a beautiful woman like you.”

It was a very old, very worn-out pickup line, but he’d blushed.

And yet, there it was: a real, honest-to-God blush.

She remembered asking if he worked in town, and he answered with a straight face.

“I work for the CIA.”

She blinked and was about to say something, but he laughed and said CIA stood for the Culinary Institute of America. CIA. He was a chef in search of employment. A recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America in Napa Valley, California. He said he was going to prepare something special for her.

He sheepishly explained he still lived at home with his father and would she mind if his dad ate with them?

That made her mind up. She had felt silly that she had almost turned him down. She hadn’t gone out with anyone for a long time. Especially someone she’d just met. She’d said yes much too quickly. She regretted that now. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

Or maybe she did?

She knew what her mother would have said if she were still in her life. “Leann Truitt, just what were you thinking?” It was one of her mother’s favorite lines; a dart meant to hurt. It was true that sometimes she hadn’t been thinking, but she was a grown woman now.

“Shut up, Mom,” she said to herself. “We’ll find out soon enough what I was thinking.”

The house was on the corner and faced north. It was badly in need of a makeover and was exactly as he’d described it. But her stomach dropped as she drove around the corner. The house was dark except for a flickering light behind thick yellowish curtains. It looked empty. She looked at the clock on the dash, thinking she was early, but she was actually a few minutes late.

She parked and walked across the cracked cement of the sidewalk to the side gate. She lifted a black latch and pushed the gate open. A walk of original brickwork led to the door. The bricks were covered in green moss, and she had to step carefully to keep her high heels from slipping. If she twisted an ankle, she wouldn’t be able to work—and, even worse, would miss this wonderful evening.

And yet something niggled at her; a little doubt crept in.

She looked for a doorbell but there wasn’t one; there wasn’t even a knocker. She raised her hand to knock and hesitated. What if his father disapproved of her coming for dinner? This place was older than old. It smelled of mildew and rot. It reminded her of one of her father’s rental dumps.

“I’ll get it, Dad,” a voice said from inside.

She heard footsteps. A shadow appeared behind the glass and the door opened.

---