Page 45 of All the Wrong Places

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He’s doing a walking tour of the city.

And why not? He’s still something of a tourist after all. He hasn’t been here that long. And he’ll be leaving soon. Another few weeks, maybe a month, and it will be time to head elsewhere. Wouldn’t do to outstay his welcome.

Too bad, because Boston is a great city. So much to see and do. Art, culture, fine restaurants. Not that he’s interested in any of these things. But Boston also has lots of small, dark bars. And lots of eager women. He’ll be sad to go. What was it his mother used to say?“All good things must come to an end”? Well, she was right about that anyway, if little else.

Originally, he was considering Atlanta as his next stop, but he’s thinking it’ll still be too hot there even a month from now, and he’s not a huge fan of the heat, having grown up in Gainesville, Florida. So maybe Cincinnati or Cleveland. Cleveland is home to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, so that place might be worth a visit. Not much else there, though, as far as he can tell, so come fall, he might just cross over into Canada. He’s heard autumn is beautiful in Northern Ontario, the ordinary green leaves of summer turning a brilliant variety of red, yellow, and orange. People come from all over the world to see nature’s spectacular display of fall colors, he remembers reading. He finds this fact amusing, as what the changing colors really signify is that the leaves are dying.

Of course, there is beauty in death. He knows this better than anyone.

He pictures the girl now lying lifeless on the floor of his apartment, the graceful way her body went limp as he squeezed the final breath from her lungs at the stroke of midnight, the delicate way the light faded from her soft brown eyes, the horror of what was happening to her evaporating like dew in the early morning sun. A soft, milky film has since covered those eyes, and rigor has caused her limbs to stiffen and her flesh to turn an alabaster shade of white, so that she looks more like a statue than a human being. She has become, truly, a work of art.

Which would make him an artist, he thinks, feeling a surge of pride.

He was almost tempted to stay with her. Still, he couldn’t very well waste a whole day admiring last night’s handiwork.What’s done is done.Something else his mother was fond of saying, no cliché too insignificant for her to espouse. And it’s a beautiful Saturday morning, the sky an iridescent shade of blue, the temperature hovering in the mid-seventies. All in all, a great day to be alive, he acknowledges, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Too bad Nadia had to miss it.

Nadia,he repeats silently. Twenty-seven years old. Originally from Romania. Named after some once-famous gymnast. Recently quit her job as a nanny when the children’s father got a little too hands-on for her liking. No family. No friends. No ties to the community. Looking for work. Looking for love.In all the wrong places,he sings silently, recalling the old song his mother used to hum.

Looking for Mr. Right.

Finding Mr. Right Now.

He laughs out loud, attracting the attention of an elderly woman walking toward him along Hull Street. He tips an imaginary hat in her direction. “Beautiful day,” he says in passing.

“That it is,” she says.

He considers complimenting her on her hair—older women are so grateful for even the smallest of compliments, and you don’t see many of them with gray hair these days—but by the time he forms the sentence she is crossing onto Salem Street, and the moment is gone. Once more he ponders choosing an older woman as his next target. It would make for an interesting change of pace, at the very least, a break from all these self-absorbed millennials.

And he knows exactly whom he would pick: Joan Hamilton.

Mother of Wildflower.

He laughs into the palm of his hand, proud of his amateur sleuthing. Not that it was difficult to ferret out the information he sought, what with Facebook, LinkedIn, and Instagram to aid in his search. All those heartwarming pictures Paige has posted on @paigehamilton of her and her mother, #JoanHamilton, #BestMotherInTheWorld, as well as several with a beautiful blonde named Chloe, #BestFriendForever. He’s never been much into blondes, but still, best friend Chloe might make for another interesting change of pace.

Thank you, social media,he thinks.How did the world manage without you?

He could start with Paige’s mother. Follow up with her closest friend.

That would teach Paige to treat him so cavalierly, canceling their date at the last minute, after the expensive steaks were already marinating and the salad chilling in the fridge. The apartment was immaculate. Everything was set to go. He’d had such plans.

Luckily, he had Nadia waiting in the wings, primed through weeks of subtle online seduction to take Paige’s place. Of course, he’d had to postpone his plans from Wednesday to Friday to accommodate Nadia’s schedule, and the poor girl had borne the brunt of his frustration over the delay, but some things were unavoidable.

I’m so sorry. Something unexpected has come up and I have to cancel. Can we reschedule?

He still bristles when he thinks of it.

After all his careful plotting and meticulous research, the pride he’d taken in determining which approach would work best on her. She’d already demonstrated that mere good looks wouldn’t be enough to win her over, that he’d have to come at her from a different angle. The key, he’d decided, was to appeal to her emotions, to tug at her heartstrings. Hence, the parents married fifty years and the young wife dead of cancer. That, along with the offhand mention of an MBA to appeal to her intellect, as well as the lie that he liked jazz, tossed in at the last second because of a picture she’d posted of herself in a Herbie Hancock T-shirt. Combine those elements with the seeming awkwardness of his approach and he was on his way. Up until the very last minute.

I’m so sorry. Something unexpected has come up and I have to cancel. Can we reschedule?

Count on it,he thinks.

He laughs again, this time drawing unwelcome stares from the long line of noisy tourists clogging the narrow sidewalk in front of the Paul Revere House. He turns down Hanover Street on his way to Union and the marketplace at Faneuil Hall. But Faneuil Hall is even more crowded with weekend visitors than he expected, the café that is his destination already filled to overflowing.

He sees them almost immediately. They are sitting at a table against the far wall, sipping their coffee, Paige digging into her brunch of bagels and smoked salmon, her mother eagerly attacking her plate of strawberries-and-whipped-cream-smothered waffles. It is no accident he’s here.Thanks again, Instagram,he thinks.Saturday brunch at Faneuil Hall. #BestBrunchInTown.#BestMomInTheWorld.

He watches them for a while, thinking it might be fun to do the two women together, make one watch while he tortures and defiles the other.Defile,he repeats silently, rolling the word over on his tongue, feeling an immediate lift to his spirits. He loves that they have no idea he is watching them, of the hours he has spent online—thank you, white pages, Boston, Mass., for providing me with Joan Hamilton’s address—that they’re blissfully unaware of the danger they are in, of the cruel fate that awaits them. Still, he can’t very well stand here forever, hoping a table will free up.

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