 
# A Shiver of Wonder

### By Daniel Kelley

Copyright © 2014 Daniel Kelley

www.lastresortmusic.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, without permission in writing from Daniel Kelley.

Cover design by www.digitaldonna.com

Daniel Kelley is an author and a music arranger. His novel, Jack and Tilly, the sequel to his short story A Dance with Tilly, was published in November 2015. Nearly 675,000 books of Daniel's compositions and arrangements have sold worldwide, and over 30,000 of his e-books have captivated readers. With lyricist JoEllen Doering, he also composed the music to the classic holiday song, "It's Christmas Time Again".

Daniel mosaics, bakes constantly, annoys practically everyone with puns, is a massive EDM fan, and loves playing games of almost any kind, though Hearts is his current fave. He and his wife Cynthia have three children and too many fish. Adair, Darcy and Adele are the names of the children.

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

for Mary Rorro, who deserves so much more
Table of Contents

Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27  
Chapter 28  
Chapter 29  
Chapter 30  
Chapter 31  
Chapter 32  
Chapter 33 **  
**

Chapter 1

The day that David Wilcott met himself was a Tuesday. A drizzly Tuesday in mid-May, to be specific. He was both 31 and 58 at the time, and both of his selves had been aware of this meeting beforehand, although obviously the elder David had enjoyed some decades of anticipation as opposed to days.

The 31-year-old David was only weeks away from moving out of the Rainbow Arms, a once upscale apartment complex that had been his home and refuge for almost two years. The 58-year-old David had spent years trying to forget the Rainbow Arms and nearly everything associated with its comfortable yet dilapidated trappings. He hadn't found this an easy task, at any age.

Johnson. The image of Johnson was the first thing to arise in David's thoughts whenever the Rainbow Arms came to mind. That cherished, loyal, frolicsome chocolate Labrador who loved nothing more than to just accompany him about the streets of Shady Grove, or to chase moths, butterflies, or the occasional bee around the small private courtyard that ran along one side of the property. Johnson was David's friend, his only companion when the two first moved to Shady Grove, his solace, his sole connection to a past best left behind.

The Rainbow Arms was situated on Piston Avenue, an east-west thoroughfare approximately a mile and three-quarters south of the downtown district. It was one of several avenues named decades before after the five most prominent men in the town, who in an odd coincidence had also comprised the town council at the time. In an ebullient spurt of growth, Shady Grove had pushed south, flourishing and spreading. Easton, Smithfield, Marion, and Piston Avenues had been anointed, along with the dubiously coined Dr. Longworth Avenue. The town couldn't have expanded farther north; a series of foothills began to rise just above downtown, and the best views had long ago been commandeered by the elite. Widening to the east or west would have cut too deeply into the farmland of William Marion or Philip Piston. But south had been Smithfield territory, and as the town's primary industrialist he had been more than eager to build and sell.

Shady Grove, however, had contracted over time, both in population and in usefulness to the world at large, allowing its outskirts to become dry and desiccated, unclean and a touch unsavory. Piston Avenue was one block north of Easton, the southernmost avenue in the town, but the creeping malaise of dereliction had begun to cast its shadow there as well.

For David, though, the Rainbow Arms was ideal. While there was little about the building or its grounds that resembled or even so much as inspired the thought of a rainbow, it was quiet, pleasantly nondescript, and both far enough away and close enough to downtown for comfort. David didn't own a car, so if he needed to be somewhere faster than he and Johnson could walk, the Third Street trolley was an easy two and a half blocks away, and it made the trip to the center of downtown in less than ten minutes.

The courtyard, with its stone fountain, wooden benches, and drowsy rosebushes, was David's favorite place to sit and read, or to sit and think while Johnson alternated between lying quietly and amusing himself with attempts to catch an insect. The apartment building itself was indistinguishable from many of its neighbors: two floors, seven units over seven, with a dated lobby and a strip of grass fronting a border of geraniums and ferns to cover the bald spots where the stucco had chipped away. But how many other complexes in Shady Grove could boast a quiet, walled-in garden, and to the side of the building as well? None!

A dim passageway between units 1E and 1F led to a brief wooden gate. And opening that gate, even after nearly two years of doing so, still brought a pleasurable thrill to David. To the left when one entered was the burbling fountain, four time-cured oak benches, and a confused welter of flowering plants and shrubs. To the right, a wooden fence separated the courtyard from another feature unique to the Rainbow Arms: a caretaker's cottage, where a man named Bill Lopes had lived and worked for over forty years.

Bill had been the one to show David the apartment available to rent, 1F. And David had known that he was going to live at the Rainbow Arms within seconds of making Bill's acquaintance, just outside the tiny lobby.

"Not a chance in hell," had been Bill's opening gambit, mumbled really since he hadn't bothered to remove the unlit cigar he'd been chewing from his mouth.

David, who had carefully parked a bright yellow Porsche at the curb before letting Johnson out and ambling toward the man who was wiping down the blades of an old push mower, couldn't help but blink. "Excuse me?"

Bill had jerked his head toward the shiny car. "If you're Wilcott, and who the hell else could you be at eleven in the a.m. with a dog on a Goddamn Wednesday, you ain't gonna live here, not for shit sure, if _that's_ your ride."

David had taken one glance back at his car and then burst into laughter. And as Bill put down the lawnmower and began to rise, David had answered, "That won't be my ride as of Saturday, and I sure as shit _am_ going to live here. That is, as long as Johnson agrees."

Johnson, who'd looked quizzically upwards at the unaccustomed sound of David's laughter, hadn't offered any immediate response.

"Well, blow me sideways," Bill had replied. "If that's the case, I just sure as hell started us off on the wrong footwise, no?"

David had stuck out a hand, ignoring the smeary mess on Bill's. "David Wilcott."

They'd shaken. The cigar had been removed. "Bill Lopes. Good ta meetcha."

The lease for a small one-bedroom apartment had been signed, Johnson had chased and failed to catch his first bee in the garden courtyard, the Porsche had made three more trips to the Rainbow Arms before disappearing from Shady Grove forever.

But David had found a home.

#  Chapter 2

While David had enjoyed some odd, even hysterical, moments along his journey, the strangeness in his life truly began with the girl. Clair. No e at the end of _this_ child's name. An e would have added clarity to her written sobriquet, a girlishness to her as-yet undeveloped femininity. It wouldn't have changed anything that happened, anything that she was, most likely, but it should have been a clue that something was a touch off-kilter with her, if not massively out of whack.

Mrs. Rushen was the woman who took care of her. She _might_ have been the girl's mother... but probably not, as no one had ever seen so much as a document with the words 'Clair Rushen' printed on it. Patricia was Mrs. Rushen's first name, but nobody called her that. Unapproachable to an extreme, she was one of those women cursed with a bland, ageless face, and a dumpy body that could have belonged to a 23-year-old or a 73-year-old.

No one had ever heard Clair call her by any name.

David had met Clair in the courtyard. Perusing the Shady Grove Courier late one Sunday afternoon, he'd been stunned to discover a girl standing just a few feet away. Johnson, snoozing, had sounded no alarm, and David hadn't heard the wooden gate either open or click shut.

"Hello," he'd said curiously, folding the newspaper onto his lap.

"Hi," had been her simple response. Johnson lifted his head and opened his eyes, but made no move toward her.

"Do you... live here?" David asked.

"Not yet. But tonight I will," she answered.

David studied her: a stilted answer from a queer little girl who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. With neat dark hair hanging straight to her shoulders, a lilac sweater buttoned over a floral print dress, and a pair of saddle shoes on her feet, she could have stepped straight out of a 1950s photograph. Her eyes were dark as well, frank and unwavering as she gazed back at him.

"I'm David," was what he tried next.

"I'm Clair," she answered immediately, without inflection.

Johnson still hadn't risen, a peculiarity David's subconscious was processing. Normally he'd be all over a newcomer, sniffing and circling, tail wagging as he assayed a potential playmate.

Clair hadn't moved either. _Who wears saddle shoes these days?_ David wondered as he gathered his newspaper and set it beside him on the bench.

"How old are you?" he asked aloud.

"How old do you think I am?" she rejoined with the merest whisper of a smile.

And again, David found himself scrutinizing her. She had a six-year-old's height and frame, but those clothes, and the direct manner in which she spoke... "Are you seven? Eight?" he asked.

Her smile grew. "I'm in first grade," she said. But that was all she offered. And then the garden was quiet except for the trickle of water in the fountain, and the singsong of a pair of birds concealed in one of the bushes.

"First grade," David repeated, slowly nodding his head as though her few words had opened up a world of hidden meaning to him. And he would have stupidly repeated this again if his trance hadn't been broken by a click of the latch as the gate was pushed open.

"Clair." A woman stepped into the garden, shapeless in a drab, ankle-length skirt and a limp top. Johnson had stood up, but once again didn't approach the stranger. "Clair, I asked you to wait for me in the courtyard."

Clair hadn't turned. Her eyes were still locked on David's as she answered, "I _am_ waiting. And I am waiting for you in the courtyard. Aren't I, David?"

David looked back and forth between them, suddenly confused as to how he had transitioned from reading the Shady Grove Courier to becoming a mediator between two females he'd never laid eyes on before.

"Um... we do call this the courtyard," he stated equably. His gaze shifted to the woman. "You probably meant the common area just beyond the lobby, but there isn't really a name for that. Though I suppose in most buildings that _would_ be the courtyard. But here..." And once again he found himself looking at Clair. "...here, we call this the courtyard. How did you know that?" he then asked the girl directly.

But Clair didn't answer. The woman had stepped forward to take hold of her arm.

"Bye, David," Clair had uttered quietly just before the two of them turned to exit the garden.

And within seconds, David and Johnson were alone again, with the click of the closing latch adding finality to the brief encounter.

~*~*~*~*~

That had been a year and a half into David's tenure at the Rainbow Arms. It was another two weeks before he saw Clair once more, and yet again she had thrown him a curveball.

This time, he met the two of them in the common area.

"Oh, hello!" he said brightly. He and Johnson had gone for their usual morning walk, and they were passing the mailboxes in the lobby when he spotted two pairs of shoes descending the stairs that led to the second floor. One pair of light brown, practical flats, and one pair of polished saddle shoes.

"Hi, David," Clair said. She smiled at him, a real smile this time.

The woman was not smiling. David and Johnson were blocking the way out, and she'd halted unhappily before them.

"I'm David," David said, "and this is Johnson." He tried to catch her eye. "We've met Clair, but I didn't have time to introduce myself the other day."

The woman was clearly uncomfortable, peering over his shoulder toward Piston Avenue, glancing to the right and left as though seeking alternate routes of escape. "My name is Mrs. Rushen," she said to no one in particular. "Good to make your acquaintance. Clair is going to be late for school." Her eyes hadn't once alit on David's countenance.

Clair reached out to touch Mrs. Rushen's arm. The woman immediately looked at her. "I like David," Clair said. "We won't be late. I was four minutes early yesterday, and we left at the same time as today."

David noted that once again, Johnson was neither eager to inspect the pair nor afraid of them. He was calm, cool, and collected. At three years of age, perhaps his skittish years were finally behind him.

Mrs. Rushen had nodded.

Clair looked directly into David's eyes. "You have a girlfriend," she stated.

He chuckled. Mrs. Rushen gave Clair a funny look, but remained silent.

"Yes. Sort of," David answered.

"Well, which one?" Clair asked with a directness that, considering her appearance, was disarming.

He took a breath. "Yes, I guess. Most of the time. Sort of, because sometimes we're... well, we're just not..." As he had in the courtyard two weeks before, David found that he couldn't quite grasp how the conversation had swerved in the direction it had. "How did you know about her?" he asked.

"I like her name," was Clair's answer.

Mrs. Rushen appeared unperturbed. David, however, was more than confused. "Her name?" he parroted. Johnson glanced at him; his two words had come out more strained than befuddled.

Clair's smile returned. A hand rose to brush her bangs to the side. "The pronunciation. Zhahn-vee-ev. Not Ge-ne- _vieve_ , but Gen-vi-eve. I like it better that way."

David could only gawk at her. What was this, a joke? Mrs. Rushen had noticed his discomfort, and she once more began fidgeting as her eyes sought the street.

The smile had evaporated. A look of concern made Clair appear older, much older.

"We need to go," intoned Mrs. Rushen.

"I'm sorry, David. I didn't mean to frighten you," said Clair as Mrs. Rushen began moving forward. David and Johnson both backed out of her way.

"I'm not frightened," David replied briskly, unsure of _what_ exactly he was. "I just... you just surprised me, is all."

As she strode by with Mrs. Rushen lightly gripping her arm, the smile peeked out again. "I do that sometimes," Clair said. "I never mean to."

But then she was halfway through the lobby, and on the concrete walkway that led to the sidewalk. And within seconds, the pair had turned right, heading toward Fifth Street and presumably the elementary school at the corner of Marion and Fifth.

David stood frozen in place, his eyes locked on Piston Avenue, on the spot where Clair and Mrs. Rushen had just disappeared. How could she know about Genevieve? Where could a child who had just moved to the building with an asocial automaton like Mrs. Rushen have picked up the name of David's on-and-off girlfriend?

Of course, Clair's voice was that of a child, but her words were those of a much older, much _stranger_ , girl.

And she hadn't answered his question. Again. Just like when she hadn't answered his question about her age. An oblique reply, as if she were responding to a different query, or just imparting information that she wished to impart, never mind what had elicited the response.

But she 'liked' David. Just as she 'liked' the way Genevieve's name was pronounced.

David had shivered, and headed to his apartment for a shower.

#  Chapter Three

The death that brought Detective Ormsby to the Rainbow Arms occurred on a Wednesday, four months after Clair and Mrs. Rushen moved into the building, and two weeks before David Wilcott's encounter with his elder self.

David's first indication that something had happened was a pounding on his door at six a.m. the following morning. And if the sound of a fist clobbering the apartment's front door hadn't been enough to rouse him, Johnson's subsequent barking fit while he threw himself at the bedroom door was.

"Okay, boy. Okay," David moaned as once again the hammering outside began. He made his bleary way through the living room. "Seriously? At six o'clock?"

Opening the door revealed a ham-like fist, still raised in mid-swing. David restrained Johnson so he wouldn't fly through the opening for an early breakfast.

"David Wilcott?" The resolute fist and a voice to match belonged to a tall, good-looking man with steely eyes.

"Yes?"

A badge was flashed, then folded in its case and stowed. David noted a pair of handcuffs on his belt, as well as a blinking walkie-talkie.

"Detective Ormsby, Shady Grove P.D. I'd like to talk to you about your whereabouts yesterday."

While Detective Ormsby was in plainclothes, David could see several uniformed policemen and ambulance personnel moving about the common area. "What happened? Did something happen?" he asked. And even without his eyes on Ormsby's face, David caught the flinch of irritation that immediately tightened the detective's features.

"Yes, something happened. Clearly. Now, is this a good time to talk? Or would you like me to send out for some pancakes and coffee so you can better pay attention?"

David's eyes again found his. And while pancakes and coffee did indeed sound better than continuing this conversation, David understood that the offer had been made with distinct irony. "Now is fine," he replied coldly. "Perhaps you could give me a minute to put my dog in the other room." Johnson was still trying to thrust himself outside.

"That's fine. Do it," said Ormsby.

David closed a recalcitrant Johnson into the bedroom, and then returned to the front door. Ormsby's eyes intently locked on his, and an almost palpable aura of hostility began to ripple between the two men. David knew what he didn't like about Ormsby; the authoritarian swagger of testosterone-fueled masculinity had never been an attribute he'd found tolerable. The man's chiseled handsomeness only enhanced the antipathy David felt toward him.

And Ormsby, looking downwards at the somewhat shorter-than-average David, saw what he despised more than anything: a man who was worse than mediocre in every possible way. Physicality, intelligence, income, lifestyle. What could the world come to, populated with purposeless weaklings like this?

A notebook came out. An automatic pencil as well, all without breaking eye contact.

"What do you do?"

David blinked, and cleared his throat. He felt as if he needed to hold his own here, but was already losing before he'd even begun. "I'm a website architect. I design... I build and design websites. For companies that hire me... to do so."

"Do you work from here?"

Another blink. "Yes, some of the time. If the company is local, I split my time between the business and here. I enjoy getting a feel for the company and its – "

"Were you working here yesterday?"

David shook his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs. "Yesterday?"

The detective's words were laden with disdain. "Yesterday. Wednesday. The day before today. Were you working here yesterday?"

David had to think. "Yes. No, not the entire day. I was at the Culpepper Mills corporate offices for a while."

"When?"

"I... I took the trolley downtown around ten. They have a space there for me to work, and I stayed until twelve thirty or so. I ate lunch in the public square with Johnson, and then we wandered around, had some dessert, and then I suppose I got back here around three fifteen or three thirty."

Ormsby almost sneered. "Sounds like a hard life. I might need to speak to this Johnson. Do you have a contact number?"

David couldn't help but smirk. "I just put him in the bedroom. Would you like me to let him out so you can question him?"

A tightening of the face again. A stiff inhalation. "No. But I will be needing to confirm your alibi with someone at Culpepper Mills. What other companies have you _architected_ websites for?"

"Alibi? Why don't you tell me why I _need_ an alibi?" David was suddenly angry, pissed that at six in the morning he was standing in his apartment doorway in boxers and socks, being questioned like a felon while an arrogant cop taunted him with his own words.

"I'll tell you what I want to tell you," was snapped back. A hand slid toward the cuffs. "Why don't you answer the question, Mr. Wilcott?"

David breathed deeply, trying not to avert his eyes from the detective's. "I've _designed_ over fifteen websites. Ten were for companies that hired me online, five are local. Culpepper, Jack Sprague for his real estate business, Sally's Flower Cart, the Shady Grove library, and Gâteaupia, which if it matters is where I ate dessert yesterday before I returned here to _work_ for the rest of the evening."

"Why did you take the trolley?"

"Excuse me?"

"There's plenty of parking in downtown. Wednesday morning, no traffic, Culpepper's office is one block off the trolley route. Why didn't you drive?"

David shook his head in incredulity. "I don't own a car! How could any of this, these useless questions of yours, possibly have anything to do with – "

"Murder." David's jaw dropped. "Murder, Mr. Wilcott. And in a murder investigation, no piece of information is useless."

David's eyes shot to the common area again. He peered around Ormsby's bulk, and saw that, sure enough, a stretcher with a body bag on it was being carefully guided out of an apartment door. Apartment 1D. "Janice?" he asked aloud, disbelieving.

"No." Ormsby's head shook. "Not Janice. She found him, though." He was scrutinizing David's face, searching and studying.

David retreated, and his eyes found the detective's again. "Heck?" he asked, puzzled.

A slow nod. "Yes. Hector Vance, age thirty-seven. Did you know him?"

"Barely. He was sometimes here, sometimes not. I don't even know if he officially lives here."

"Lived."

"Fine, lived. I didn't know if he _lived_ here."

"The sole tenant on the lease for 1D is Janice Templeton. You're acquainted with her?"

"Yes," David answered.

"Detective?" A meatball of a man in an ill-fitting suit had waddled up.

Ormsby turned. "Steve?"

"They need you back in there." The man didn't even glance at David. "Found some things you should check out."

The notebook was flipped shut, the pencil vanished. Ormsby's glare was back. "I'll have more questions for you," he said to David. "Stick around."

"All day?" David asked. "All week?" He'd tried not to be overly flippant, but...

Slowly, slowly, Ormsby crossed his arms. "Just don't go crawling into some hole where I can't find you, got it?"

And then he was gone, trailing Steve around the perimeter of the common area toward Janice's apartment.

David took in the entire scene, and waved awkwardly at a group of neighbors gazing down from the second floor walkway. He could hear Johnson whimpering and knocking his head against the bedroom door.

No use attempting to go back to sleep. He let Johnson out, and the two of them began to get ready for their day.

#  Chapter Four

Shady Grove's downtown district was charming and relaxed, almost appearing as if it had been engineered to exude a nostalgic, small-town ambience. A public square anchored the western end, majestic trees and wood-chip playgrounds and an outdoor amphitheater with a covered stage offering a social center to the town. The library and the town hall bookended the northern and southern midpoints of the square, with the police station, a stone Episcopal Church, and other esteemed public institutions dotted about like perfectly constructed hobby shop models.

Stretching east from the public square was a two-block-deep swath of businesses. Not a mall in sight, but a few enterprising chains had recently begun to slip through the cracks of local proprietorship. Bordered on the north by Willow Avenue and on the south by Oak, with Larch Avenue bisecting the middle, this wealth of various establishments extended from Third Street all the way down to Seventh, where the town immediately began to peter out, taking only two subsequent blocks to transition into farmland.

No one knew for sure which variety of tree had provided the original grove for which Shady Grove had been named, but with Maple, Gum, and Birch Avenues bridging the gap between Oak and Smithfield, it was anybody's guess.

The foothills north of the town began to set up shop a touch early, midway through the public square. And while this made for a natural locale for the outdoor amphitheater, with the audience backing toward the corner of Willow and Second and the stage set cozily into the curvature of the land, it also made for a wonderful view of Shady Grove from The Restful Nook. And The Restful Nook is where David and Genevieve truly met, three months after David moved into the Rainbow Arms.

"No Johnson today?" had been the question lobbed down a hallway as David exited a room, irritated and in a hurry to catch the trolley that would depart Willow Avenue in a few minutes.

"Huh? Oh, hi. No, no dogs allowed." He certainly recognized the woman, but couldn't place her.

"Oh! I suppose I should have known that, but it's never been an issue for me."

She had taken several steps toward him, and as he took in the delicate cheekbones, the sensuous eyebrows, and the hints of warmth behind the businesslike exterior, it clicked: she worked at Gâteaupia! It had instantly become David's favorite dessert haunt when he'd discovered it a few weeks before.

"You don't know my name, do you, David?" But she was amused, not upset.

He attempted a grin. "I do. I... uh – "

"Genevieve."

"Ah. Pronounced like that. _That_ I didn't know." His grin was widening, becoming honest as he realized that she actually didn't care.

"And do you recall where we've run into each other, David?" she threw out coyly. The warmth was melting her habitual cool, and David understood that Genevieve enjoyed challenges. Especially when she was challenging others.

"Gâteaupia," he beamed. "You're... You're a counter girl there."

This last response elicited a genuine peal of laughter. David glanced around them, nervous suddenly that he really _had_ put his foot in it. There was no audience present for his faux pas, though.

"All right," she managed to say, "I've been called many things in my life, some of them _not_ so complimentary, but that's a new one."

David began running synonyms through his head, as fast as he could: server, salesperson, waitress, attendant, menial, drudge... Not _one_ of them was appropriate, or any better than counter girl.

Her hand reached out to gently touch his arm. A smile followed. "Being a counter girl would be a relief at times," she said quietly. "I actually own it, though." Her hand withdrew. "So. Who are you here to visit?"

Relieved that the subject had been changed so smoothly, David glanced back down the hall. "My Grandpa. Henry Wilcott. He's actually the reason I chose to move to Shady Grove."

"Oh, so that's why we'd never seen you before a few weeks ago!"

He smiled. "Your cakes are pretty much the best cakes I've ever eaten."

A hand rose to brush hair off her cheek. David liked her hair; it was strawberry blonde with subdued highlights, usually tightly wrapped in a bun, but today hanging loose below her shoulders. Genevieve smelled sweet, too, like brown sugar with a dusting of cinnamon.

"Thank you," she said. "We try. Is your Grandpa pleased that you moved here?"

David couldn't help but grimace. "I'm not sure. He's... angry a lot of the time. _All_ of the time, to be honest."

"He doesn't like being old?"

"Who would?" But David shook his head, unable to make light of it. "The last time I'd seen him was five years ago. He lived down on Gum then, in the same house in which he'd lived for over fifty years. He was independent, a bit crusty, but content. My Grandma died a decade ago, and he'd been dating some, which he loved. _Always_ younger women! He had a fall, though, about two years ago while he was pruning his trees, and that was it for the independence. One knee went out, and then the other, and everything else in his body apparently decided to follow suit."

Genevieve's eyes hadn't left his. "That's sad."

"I know. I try to make him happier, but it's tough. I've even brought him some of that Bourbon Chocolate Tipsy Cake of yours, which is his absolute favorite, but then he just starts going on about all the things he _can't_ eat anymore."

"Oh! That's really sad."

David couldn't help but grin. "We tried playing cards today. When I was a kid, he always used to let me win at Uno and War. It made me happy, even though I hadn't known at the time he was doing it. Today, I let _him_ win – bottom dealing and such – but _nothing_ will make him happy. He's just... He just wants it to be over, I think."

Genevieve glanced away from him, toward a picture window that overlooked the town, and David found himself doing the same. It was an incredible view, for The Restful Nook sat atop a low hill, cattycorner from the amphitheater in the public square. The multitude of trees appeared as a rolling carpet; a slight haze above the distant farmland induced a mystical aura; the square itself was humming with Saturday activities.

"May I ask who you're here to visit?" David said without turning toward her.

"Abby Lowell," she replied, also still gazing outside. "I call her my angel. She taught me art once, and when I opened Gâteaupia, she became one of my first customers. She told all of her friends that they had to come in and try my cakes, so they did. And then she told them to tell all of _their_ friends. She's bought cakes for schools, for her clubs, for her church, for everything, really. I've never had such a booster. I adore her, and I try to come every week to see her."

"She doesn't sound that old."

"She's not! She's our age or younger, just stuck in a 76-year-old's body."

David turned to look at her, struck suddenly with a surge of admiration for this successful businesswoman who still made time for those people in her life who had helped her _become_ successful. She was definitely a bit forbidding, but yet at the same time he wished he could have been more like her. Her confidence in herself, her obvious ability to choose a path and stride down it, remembering the steps she'd taken and not second-guessing each move, not _making_ wrong moves that she would then spend years ruing.

Genevieve's head tilted toward him. "Lydia's going to be jealous. She thinks you're cute."

"Lydia?"

Again, she laughed. "The girl with the purple streak in her hair and a hummingbird tattooed on her shoulder."

David couldn't help but look delighted. Lydia was his favorite server at Gâteaupia. Bright eyes, a raunchy wit, a penchant for making every type of cake sound like the best type of cake.

"I think you're cute, too," Genevieve added. "And maybe I'll see you in the store again sometime soon."

She tapped his shoulder as she passed by, but her eyes lingered on his until she was a few feet away.

David decided that he could walk back to the Rainbow Arms instead of taking the trolley. He could think, and then perhaps he and Johnson could meander back into town for a piece of cake.

#  Chapter Five

Thirty-three hours after Detective Ormsby had so rudely awakened him with his barrage of knocks and brusque queries, David was enjoying the mid-afternoon sun in the courtyard. Johnson lay dozing by his feet; the fountain was murmuring pleasantly; his newspaper lay on the bench at his side, its contents perused, mulled over, and digested. Obviously, the story of Heck Vance's killing hadn't made the Thursday papers, but Friday's edition was practically about nothing else.

David had worked at home on Thursday – Ormsby's warning aside, it had been his original plan – but this morning, he'd spent several hours at the Culpepper Mills corporate offices, where both he with his questions and Johnson with his companionable disposition were always welcome.

While the subject of the murder had indeed come up, no one at Culpepper had put together that David lived in the same building.

And David hadn't volunteered this information to anyone.

The Shady Grove Courier was full of facts, speculation, paradoxes, and innuendo in equal measure, exactly what any self-respecting rag in _any_ city, large or small, would print. Color pictures of Heck and the Rainbow Arms on page one to draw in the looky-loos, and then ambiguous quotes from Detective Ormsby, along with seemingly endless rehashes of the same information, on the inside.

Hector Vance lived with Janice Templeton at 565 Piston Avenue.

Heck Vance did _not_ live at the Rainbow Arms, but with his sister-in-law in Greenville.

Janice Templeton was head cashier at the Bargain Bin at Willow and Eighth.

Janice Templeton worked as a waitress at The Hot Spot.

Heck Vance was a drug dealer.

Heck Vance _worked_ for a drug dealer.

Glass hashish pipes had been found at the scene, along with vials, digital scales, and zipper storage bags.

A backpack belonging to the deceased had been found that contained drug paraphernalia, but no drugs had been discovered despite an exhaustive search of the premises.

The few facts that were apparently _not_ in dispute are as follows: that Hector Vance, a 37-year-old man with an expired driver's license and a slew of unpaid parking tickets, had expired himself in the kitchen of Apartment 1D of the Rainbow Arms. The back of his head had been stove-in by brute force with an as-yet undetermined weapon. The murder occurred sometime between the hours of 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. on Wednesday. When Janice Templeton made the call to the police at 11:00 p.m. Wednesday night, she was initially the prime suspect. She was _not_ considered a suspect after officers determined that she had been 240 miles away, visiting her mother in the northern part of the state, from Monday evening until she returned to Shady Grove approximately 52 hours later.

It was all true. However, _no_ fact couldn't be proven untrue with the right set of new facts.

"Hi, David."

David almost fell off the bench. Johnson stood straight up, ears and tail vertical, but quickly relaxed again.

"Hi, Clair. How do you _do_ that?"

David hadn't been facing the gate, but his peripheral vision should have caught the motion as Clair entered the courtyard. Not to mention the click of the latch opening, the clunk of gate closing, her footsteps as Clair in those pristinely clean saddle shoes walked toward him.

A ghost of a smile. "I don't know. I just thought I'd come in and say hi."

David had become inured to Clair finding him to 'say hi' in the little garden courtyard. She always seemed to know when he was there... but then again, he never knew if she sought him there when he _wasn't_ outside, either at work in his apartment or gallivanting about the town with Johnson.

He had come to like Clair. An odd, quiet, shyly introspective girl, she emanated a certain fragility and loneliness, yet at the same time owned a distinctive core of strength and soundness. Many times, David had found himself puzzling over the things she'd said to him, hours later, days later. Her words were simple, and yet not so simple. She possessed wisdom, despite a skewed sense of perspective she couldn't help because of her age.

She was an enigma, but a pleasant one.

"I don't like him either," Clair stated.

David smiled. Typical Clair: an assertion uttered without the slightest iota of context. "Who?"

"That man. The detective."

"Oh. Him. Did he bother you guys too?" He cocked his head. "And how would you know if I did or didn't like him?"

"Wasn't it obvious?" She strode forward and sat down on the bench facing David. She was wearing shorts today, and a tee shirt with two large bumblebees on it.

David couldn't recall seeing Clair _or_ Mrs. Rushen among the bystanders on the second floor the morning before, but perhaps his altercation with Detective Ormsby had been more strident than he'd thought. "Some excitement yesterday, huh?" he said cautiously, unsure of what Clair might have been told.

"If you call a death excitement," she returned evenly.

"You know what happened?"

She nodded. "And if I hadn't, it was all the kids at school could talk about today."

"Oh..." David reached down to scratch Johnson's head. "Did any of them know you lived here?"

She shook her head. "I told Mrs. Jenkins, because I thought I should. So she knows. But she agreed with me, that it would probably be best if I kept that fact to myself for the time being."

David couldn't help but grin as he sat up again. Mrs. Jenkins agreed with _Clair!_ But very possibly, it had actually been like that; the girl's self-possession was nothing if not extraordinary.

A door shut nearby, and Johnson immediately bounded toward the gate that led to the caretaker's cottage. The latch clicked open, and within seconds he was leaping all over Bill Lopes.

"Hey, boy! How are ya, Johnson?" Bill was always affectionate with the dog, and David hadn't failed to notice that it was only on these occasions that Bill exhibited a true sense of happiness. He wasn't taciturn so much as imperturbable, but as he massaged Johnson's ears while deftly avoiding an eager tongue, he appeared years younger than he was, as well as decades spryer.

Bill turned to David. "How ya holdin' up? I was hopin' I'd find ya out here today." And then he caught sight of Clair. Johnson dropped down as Bill instantly stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he drew a taut breath. "Clair," he nodded. "How're you?"

She smiled at him, a far wider, more engaging smile than she ever managed with David. "Hi, Mr. Lopes. I'm good. Thank you for asking. Are you off to sweep the walk?"

Despite Clair's efforts, Bill still appeared discomfited. "Yes. Yes, I am," he replied tightly. "Almost three twenty. I'm late."

Johnson trailed Bill to the gate that led to the common area, but dejectedly; it was clear that Bill wasn't interested anymore. Bill opened the gate before turning back to David. "Maybe a beer after I'm done?" he asked. "Ya got a few minutes?"

David didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. I'll be here."

Bill nodded, and then left. Johnson leapt after a fly, chased it around the fountain a bit, and then shook himself before lying down at David's feet again.

"He doesn't trust me," Clair said quietly.

David blinked. Trust? What a strange way to phrase it. 'He doesn't _like_ me' would be more natural, if a bit bizarre coming from a first grader. But since when did Clair say anything in a normal, straightforward manner?

"I don't know about that," David replied easily. "He's just... awkward around most people, I suppose."

Her head shook. "It's okay. He has his reasons. You talk with Janice here sometimes, don't you?"

David's eyebrows rose. "Sometimes. But not today. Or yesterday. And I would guess that ninety percent of my conversations with neighbors occur right here. Like now, with you."

"Janice likes talking to you."

David tried not to smirk; it was something Genevieve always pointed out, too. The fact that David liked Janice, but had never had any interest in pursuing anything further, was usually lost on Genevieve when she was in one of her antagonistic moods.

"She'll need somebody to talk to," Clair continued. "I hope it's you."

And as his eyes shot to hers, she stood. "I have to go now."

"But..." David rose as well. "What do you mean? How do you – "

There was a loud click as the latch was opened, and a few seconds later Mrs. Rushen stepped through the gate into the courtyard.

Clair was smiling openly now. "I'll see you Sunday, maybe," she whispered.

David glanced at Mrs. Rushen, imposing and sexless in an amorphic gray dress. "Are you ever going to tell me her first name?" he whispered back, determined to end their conversation lightly with the same game he and Clair had played for over two months now.

"No! Are you going to tell me Genevieve's last name?" she murmured.

"No! You never told me how you knew her first name, anyway! What about _your_ last name? Does it begin with P?"

"Ha!" she rejoined. "Maybe you'll never know."

"Come," said Mrs. Rushen tonelessly. She nodded at David, and Clair winked before the two of them filed briskly out of the courtyard.

Johnson, who had risen along with David, spied a flying insect he could pursue. David slowly sat down once more, finding himself intrigued and confused yet again by the little girl who lived in 2B with her peculiar guardian. Why did she say so many curious things, and how did she _know_ so much? Was it all just obvious, and an observant child could pick it up without any effort at all? Or was she abnormally attuned to what went on in other people's minds?

Johnson caught his prey, mauled it, and then spit it out.

The fountain gurgled, the dog and the man relaxed, the afternoon sun moved leisurely lower in the sky.

#  Chapter Six

"That girl creeps me out." Bill popped open a can of Miller Genuine Draft and downed a healthy swig. "She ain't right," he added after swallowing.

David had opened his own beer, sipped some, and then set it down on a rickety side table. "She's a little off, but she's okay," he replied lightly.

"She's _way_ off. And that woman is barmy."

"Mrs. Rushen?"

"Yuh. She's demented."

"Mmm." David hadn't a clue as to what drove the mysterious Mrs. Rushen, but hoped for Clair's sake that she wasn't a psychotic.

The two men were in the front room of Bill's cottage. Rustic wood-paneled walls and dark, dust-laden window curtains made for a dim man cave, the effect magnified by creaky furniture, a decades-old television, and piles of frayed magazines that hugged the walls of the room.

Bill had eyes that had seen more than their fair share of hardship, of harshness, of the shitty end of the stick that life wielded so casually and callously. This was his home, and he was fine with it. He could have ended up somewhere far worse, and he knew it.

"Big business here yesterday," Bill said. "Big business, bad business."

David picked up his beer. "Yeah. Pretty crappy." He drank some. "I can't quite say I feel bad for Heck, but I can't imagine Janice is having an easy time of it."

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Saw 'er this mornin', on 'er way to Bargain Bin. She had to take off yesterday, 'count of the police 'n all, but she pulled her servin' shift last night. She looked a mess."

David believed it. He took another long sip.

"That detective, Ormsky. What an asshole," growled Bill.

David snorted. Some suds found their way into his nostrils, making them tingle. "He's not exactly a charmer."

Bill blew out some air. "Kept pronouncin' my name Lo-pes, Spanish-like, with two syllables. Do I look like I came from Mexico?" He lifted an unlit cigar out of an ashtray and chomped down on it. "Asshole."

Johnson's head rose as a fly buzzed out of one of the curtains, only to make a landing in the adjacent fold. The dog promptly closed its eyes again.

"Do they have any idea who did it?" David asked. "I wasn't here all morning, so I only know what I read in the paper."

"Whoever did it, I hope they get away," said Bill. "I told 'em what I saw. They can follow it up and come up with their own conclusions."

"What'd you see?" said David, eager but trying not to be overly inquisitive.

"Well, first of all, ya gotta understand that Heck had it comin'. Ya know that, right?" Bill's eyes bored in on him.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Oh, c'mon! Ya knew he beat on her, right?"

David hesitated, but then quickly nodded. "Yeah. I did. I never saw him do it, but..."

"But ya saw the presents he gave 'er."

Another nod. "Uh, huh. The worst one was a few months ago. When her arm turned totally purple, and her cheek – "

"It was bust open like a piñata on the Fourth of July."

David tried not to laugh, but couldn't help it. "Yeah. About like that."

Bill grabbed his beer and tilted his head back to guzzle some, the cigar going along for the ride. "My Mum," he said after wiping his mouth, "she lived for a bit with a guy just like Heck. He sponged offa her, beat us kids ever' time he was lit and ever' time he wasn't. He once hit her so bad I thought she was gonna die just from the one blow." His head shook, slowly. "Well, he got his."

"What happened?" David asked.

Bill glanced toward a window, where a spider web so thick it was almost solid looked as though it was an extension to the glazing.

"It's funny," he said, "my Mum actually missed 'im after. Jim Frisk. Big Jim Frisk. Some guys he owed money to, they came for 'im one day and gave 'im a touch of his own medicine. They went too far, though. They killed 'im. His head was nothin' but bloody pulp when they got through." Bill's eyes sidled back to David as a wry grin emerged. "That enough detail for ya? Or do ya want me to tell ya some more?"

David reached again for his beer and drained half the can. His eyes began to water, but he forced himself to evenly meet Bill's gaze. "So... what'd you tell the police you saw on Wednesday?"

"Ya mean, what'd I tell that asshole Ormsky?"

David nodded. Bill laughed.

"I made sure to take ever' Goddamn minute of his precious time I could. I started with my first sweep out front at eight a.m., and went through ever' last bit of trimmin', tidyin' and fixin' I did. All Goddamn day."

David couldn't help but chuckle, imagining the impatient, officious Ormsby blowing his cool while Bill drawled on and on.

"There were only two things I knew would matter to 'im. First was, Heck showed up 'round eleven thirty. I was outside gettin' the mowin' going, and he sauntered right on past me like he owned the joint. Didn't tell 'im Janice was out, figgered he knew. Second was, 'bout thirty minutes later, two of those thugs he's been here with a few times while Janice was workin' came on by too. I was done with the mowin' then, and as I was headin' back on in here, they were poundin' on her door, callin' for Heck to come out."

"So it's the two guys!" David was excited, sitting forward on his chair. "That wasn't in the paper. I read the whole thing!"

Bill waved a hand about. "Maybe. Maybe not. I headed to the courtyard to muck the fountain after that. Never heard another Goddamn thing. Forgot all about 'em till Janice came and woke me up 'round eleven that night."

"Janice came to you? I thought she called the police!"

"Yuh. She did. I came over, took a good gander at ole Heck lying there in a puddle of his own mess, and told 'er to call 'em. She was innocent, wouldn'ta done her no harm to do things the right way."

David sat back again. All of this going on while he was either building links and concocting metadata in the sterile offices of Culpepper Mills, or blithely asleep in his bed.

"Weird thing is," Bill continued, "that creepy girl Clair?"

"Uh, huh?"

"I overheard her tell Janice that she needed to go see her mother."

"What?" This made zero sense to David. "When? And why?"

Bill shrugged, and removed the cigar from his mouth. He set it down and then popped open another beer. "Sunday afternoon. Clair and that woman were sittin' in the courtyard. Just sittin'. I passed by on my way up to 2G – those idiot kids in there stopped up the Goddamn toilets again – and as I was comin' back, I saw Janice poke 'er head into the courtyard, real tentative-like. But then she goes in. I stood just outside and heard her say it. 'You should go see your mother. She needs your help,' or something like that."

Most of the second beer was then emptied into Bill's mouth. David reached for his own and finished the can. He couldn't even process all of this, it was so disjointed and nonsensical. He stood, and Johnson followed suit.

"I should go," David said.

Bill nodded.

"I'm supposed to meet Genevieve at six."

Bill guffawed. "She gonna dump ya again?"

"I hope not." David glanced down at Johnson, who was already pawing at the cottage door, ready to chase after a few more bugs. "But ya never know."

#  Chapter Seven

"So how was the meeting last night?"

Genevieve eyed David coldly as she locked Gâteaupia's doors, seeking even the slightest hint of derision or sarcasm.

"Just asking!" David added, throwing his hands into the air in a show of innocence.

Johnson barked; his leash had gone along for the ride.

The keys were stowed in a purse. The locks were double-checked, and then triple-checked. "It was good," she answered as she began striding west on Larch. "Not quite the turnout we'd hoped for, but still... about twenty of us."

David stepped quickly to catch up with her. "Are we... are we headed to eat somewhere?" Genevieve's house was in the opposite direction, at Birch and Seventh.

"I want to walk. I'm not hungry yet. Let's go to the square and take a couple turns around. Look how happy Johnson is!"

Indeed, Johnson was straining forward, eager and hopeful for the cool green expanses of the public square.

"Okay! So tell me about the meeting."

She glanced over with a doubtful smile. "You sure?"

He nodded. "But if the acronym has changed again, I'll need a refresh."

Genevieve laughed, and she warmly took his arm. "It's funny, your saying that. We actually spent fifteen minutes debating that very point!"

David's eyes rolled, but with amusement. "What's being added now?" he asked.

"Do you remember what it was?"

He chuckled. "I memorized it! LGBTQIA. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transsexual, questioning, intersex, asexual."

His arm received a squeeze. "Impressive. Push it, will you?"

He pushed the Walk button so they could cross Fourth Street.

"All right, so you know how we try to keep things on a casual basis – no titled leaders, no person-in-charge, right?"

"Uh, huh."

"Well, I'm not sure how much longer _that's_ going to last. We at least need someone who can shut things down when they head in the wrong direction."

"But who determines what the wrong direction is?"

" _Exactly_ the dilemma! If our mission is openness and acceptance of all, how can there _be_ a wrong direction, no matter where that direction leads us?"

"So what happened last night?"

Genevieve groaned as her arm detached from his. "Jill and Joan, the couple that joined just last month? They object to the I and the A. _They_ think it should be LGBTQIDK."

"What the hell is IDK?"

"I don't know."

" _What?_ How can they possibly – "

But Genevieve had turned toward him, beaming, and with a glimmer in her eyes. "Literally, it's 'I don't know.' IDK, see?"

This time it was David who groaned. "I thought the Q covered all those who weren't sure what type of ice cream they liked."

He received a playful slap on his arm as they began to cross Third. Johnson was digging his paws into the street, head low as he stretched the leash to its limit.

"The Q earned its own fifteen minutes last night. Lydia had read online that some groups consider it queer, not questioning. So of course she brought this up, but while most of us were fine with either, some people detest the negativity the word 'queer' connotes, and others want to embrace it."

"Johnson! We'll walk first!" David attempted to guide Johnson back onto the pathway that circumnavigated the square. And then to Genevieve, "Is that it for your hosting duties for a while?"

"Yep. Next month, it's 'Lez Hang Out' right here in the park, and for July we're going to advertise a gender chat, probably in a room at the library. Lydia suggested an LGBT dog owner social group, but I suspect that she'd want the membership to consist of just you and her."

"And Johnson. And Isabel. And wouldn't that totally defeat the purpose? An LGBT subset with a hetero couple?"

"Oh, Lydia's _so_ not hetero."

David grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Just when she wants to be."

They walked for a few minutes in silence then, passing the Moose Lodge and jogging right on Second, making an uphill approach to The Restful Nook before turning onto Willow. The graceful stone Episcopal Church was on their left, the lowering sun framing it perfectly atop the rising hills behind it.

"So did she do it?" Genevieve asked.

"Did who... Oh, Janice? No. She was out of town when it happened. You didn't see the Courier?"

"I did. I just didn't read it. They lived together, right?"

"I'm not sure. He was certainly there often enough, but Ormsby – the detective – told me that only Janice's name was on the lease."

Genevieve had stopped walking. David pulled up as well, tugging the leash twice so Johnson wouldn't throttle himself.

"Ormsby?" she asked, disbelief in her voice.

"Yeah. He managed to get himself quoted about a hundred times in the paper today. I told you about him yesterday, he's the jerk who – "

"You never mentioned his _name_ , David. Not once." Her face was tense, her words edged with what almost sounded to David like anger.

"So? Do you know him?" David was confused; what difference could his name possibly make?

"He was a friend of Todd's," Genevieve said tightly, and then she began to walk again, striding toward Third with efficiently determined steps.

For the second time in one evening, David scurried to catch up with her. "Really? Is that why he acted the way he did? Because of Todd?"

She didn't respond, but kept walking.

"Hey!"

Nothing.

" _Hey!_ Seriously, what's the deal here?"

In a flash, she'd whirled and halted. "I just can't get into it with you. Not again. I'm tired of it!"

"Wha –? But I didn't bring it up, I didn't even _think_ of it that way!"

Her hands found her hips. "David, for something like eighteen months, it's been Todd, Todd, Todd. Over and over! Do you even have the tiniest clue how many times you've brought him up?"

"But... That's not fair! You wanted to talk about him, you wanted to tell me about it so I'd understand! Understand what you'd gone through, how you... How we – "

Genevieve's head was shaking back and forth, her lips mere slivers of whiteness amid the greater paleness of her face. David was glad he couldn't smell the usual sweetness that wafted off of her. Cinnamon and brown sugar had no business in this very awkward, very public confrontation.

"I _texted_ you to let you know I wanted some time to myself before I saw you tonight," she enunciated rigidly. "I actually texted _twice_ , the second time to see if you'd received the first."

David's hand fumbled toward a pocket. "I... er, I don't even know if I have my phone on me."

"You _never_ have it on you! I get it, I get the whole unplugged thing you're doing, but seriously, David. It's annoying."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to – "

"I know you don't." Genevieve stamped her foot, though not angrily. "But I wanted to call Jess, and she's in a later time zone, as you know. And I'd hoped that after I talked to her a bit, I would have been calmer, ready to see you... and ready to be... nicer."

David didn't respond. Jess had been Genevieve's best friend for years, though he'd never met her. They talked at least twice a week, usually for hours.

"I'm sorry, David. Can we just call it a night? Do you mind?"

_YES_ he minded, but what was he going to do, protest and piss her off even more? "Is Jess ever going to visit?" he heard himself ask. "So I can meet her? So she can meet... me?" Genevieve had disclosed that Jess was her sounding board regarding all things David, and he was understandably concerned about all of the late night dissections at which he'd no doubt been present, despite the fact that one of the surgeons had never laid eyes on him.

Genevieve looked away, toward the Episcopal Church on the opposite side of the street. "One day. Maybe. We'll have to see."

David looked off to the side as well. Same answer as always. The enigmatic Jess held more sway over Genevieve in absentia than David had ever managed in person, even during the best periods of their relationship.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked, trying to keep the plaintiveness out of his voice.

She nodded. "Yes. I can't visit Abby until Sunday, can you tell her? Assuming you're going, as always?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm going. It's a nice change to have a male berate me once in a while."

And at that, Genevieve laughed lightly. She stepped forward to place a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, David. Tell Grandpa hi from me. And let's have dinner. Tomorrow night, okay? You have fun in the square with Johnson, and I'll... I'll pull myself together. I promise."

And then she was striding away down Willow as Johnson began pulling toward the center of the park, where squirrels and hillocks and other frolicsome canines awaited.

David sighed, and followed his dog.

#  Chapter Eight

The living room of David's apartment appeared dim and dismal. It was 8:30 on a Friday night, and he knew that how he perceived his home was entirely due to his melancholy in regards to Genevieve. Up, down. On, off. Together, apart. This was the one clear constant in their relationship, the inconstancy regarding what their relationship _was_.

His eyes kept being drawn to his computer workstation: three large screens in a semicircle, with trios of keyboards and mice ready to grant him access to any electronic portal in the world. Why was he lying on a scratchy, secondhand couch, petting his dog and moping, when he could instantly energize himself with news, music, movies, erotica, _anything_ at all that he desired?

But David knew why. And he understood that being drawn into that world again, with its easy amusements and false comforts, was an incredibly horrible idea.

There were reasons why his walls were lined with books, and why his was the only apartment at the Rainbow Arms lacking that most essential of modern devices, a television.

David's eyes closed, though he continued to stroke Johnson. He hadn't the least desire to start a new novel tonight. Bill Lopes was probably six sheets to the wind already, so stopping by the caretaker's cottage for another chat wasn't an option. He'd wanted to spend time with _Genevieve_ tonight! She was so busy with Gâteaupia most of the week that they already saw each other less than most couples did.

When they were together, that is.

If only he'd checked his phone earlier, he could have been at her house right now, sipping a glass of Merlot while the two of them prepared dinner together. Perhaps he would have spent the night, always a delight except for poor Johnson, who'd be relegated to sleeping on an old blanket in her spare room.

David rose. Where _was_ his phone, anyway? Not at its charging station by the computers; that would have been too obvious.

He checked his tiny kitchen, and then the bedroom. Nothing. Had he left it in the courtyard or at Bill's?

But he hadn't used it since... since...

Oh. The bathroom, on the counter by the sink. He had texted his Culpepper Mills contact earlier, to let her know that he would finish some linking from home over the weekend.

He retrieved his phone, and as he grasped it the screen lit up, vividly fulgid in the dark room. An unknown number flashed again and again. The sound was muted, and David found himself mesmerized by the lights pulsing in utter silence.

He decided to chance it. "Hello?"

"Hello. Is this David?" A singsong female voice, fake and overly pleasant.

He sighed. "It is. Seriously, Friday night? What are you trying to sell me?"

She laughed. "I'm not trying to sell you anything. Unless you want me to. This is Jess, Genevieve's old housemate. She... she suggested I call you, so we could talk. You don't mind, do you?"

"No! Not at all!" David made his way back to the couch, his head spinning. Jess, calling him? And at Genevieve's prompting?

"She _has_ mentioned me, right?" was then dryly tossed out.

David barked a laugh himself. "Oh, yes. Many, many times."

"I would hope so!" was her reply. "I'd hate to think she'd partitioned me off just because I don't live in Shady Grove anymore. Genevieve's fabulous with partitions. But you probably know that all too well by now, don't you?"

David practically fell back onto the couch. Johnson jumped up, but then quickly made himself comfortable again. Jess's voice was nothing like David had imagined, but then again, he'd never actually seen a _picture_ of her! Not that this was unusual. Genevieve didn't have pictures of anybody up in her home, just artwork and a few framed posters.

"So..." began David, unsure of what he should say.

"So..." echoed Jess in an exact imitation of David. "Why don't we talk? You can ask me some questions, I can ask you some. Perhaps we can both clear up some minor issues, and I can try to help you understand why Genevieve is so... well, so much like Genevieve can be."

David had to stifle a giggle. Of all the things the mysterious Jess could have said, this was about the least expected.

"Okay. First off, why... um, why is it so hard for me to keep her... close to me? And no," David interrupted himself, "that didn't come out right. Let me try again. Why is it that whenever she and I reach a certain level of intimacy, it always feels as if the rug gets pulled out from under me? From under both of us?"

"Physical intimacy? Or emotional?"

David felt a blush strike his cheeks. "Emotional. _Some_ times tied in with the physical." He couldn't believe he was saying all this to someone he'd never met. "It just seems as if every time we bond, a day later, or even the next morning, she's pulled away. Purposely distanced herself."

"She was hurt, David. Badly. It's hard for her, to trust anyone."

"You mean Todd."

"Yes. I mean Todd."

Silence then for a few long seconds. David could hear Jess breathing: slow, careful intakes as she assessed his responses.

"She's older than you too, David. That can make for a divide."

"She's not _that_ much older."

"She's thirty-six, you're thirty-one. That age gap can create differences, all on its own."

"I never feel that she's older than me, or that I'm younger. I don't see her as anyone other than who she is."

"That's one of the things she likes about you. A lot, as a matter of fact. That you don't classify her, or stereotype her."

"I do feel sometimes that I'm not good enough for her. That I can't measure up to... To..."

"To your own image of who you should be? Or to Todd?"

David sighed. "Either. Both."

Jess laughed, a low-pitched ripple of amusement. "Define 'good enough,' David. Or maybe don't even try. Genevieve's better than most of us. She always has been. Neither you nor I – nor Todd – can ever measure up."

"Why did they break up? Why did he leave Shady Grove?"

A clearing of her throat. The singsong returned. "I'm sure that you've gone over that with her. Too many times, at least from what I've been told."

"She wanted to talk about it!" David tried not to sound defensive. "She wanted to explore things, let me in on the reasons why she acted certain ways. I know I've gone... overboard at times, for lack of a better adjective, but she kept bringing it up, she kept bringing _him_ up!"

"And you feel that Todd was the love of her life? And you're the rebound-style leftovers?"

"No! Or yes. Or maybe sometimes. They were together for seven years. I know she lived with you for a good part of that, but no matter what she tells me, she always clamps down on why it ended. I know they never lived together, and may God help me for saying this, I totally get that – even after eighteen months, I still feel like a guest at her house! But aside from that, I sense that while part of her despises Todd, I also sense that she hasn't gotten over him. That she loves him still, and _that's_ who I'm competing against. This hunky, goodtime ex-football player who exists in her mind, and never ages, or says the wrong thing, or forgets to bring his phone with him everywhere he goes."

David slapped his forehead. "God, I'm sorry. I sound like a loon."

She laughed again. "No. You sound like you're in a relationship with Genevieve MacGuffie."

But he couldn't continue to make light of it. "Seriously, Jess, I apologize. It's the first time we've ever talked, and all I can do is come across like some neurotic wimp who can't handle his girlfriend's past."

"But if her past is alive in the present..." She inhaled deeply. "You could certainly handle some things differently, but I'll be the first to admit to you that Genevieve is no walk in the park, no matter _how_ sweet those cakes of hers might taste."

"She keeps suggesting – jokingly, I assume – that I go out with Lydia. And there are times I almost want to. Simpler, more laughter, less expected of me, a _lot_ less angst."

"And perhaps Lydia has a girlfriend who could join the two of you on occasion if the fancy strikes her?"

At that, David couldn't help but snicker. "Well, the thought has crossed my mind, but if I can barely handle one woman, what would I do with two?"

"Bring 'em to one of those meetings. Swap 'em out for another pair if they can't behave!"

"Mmm. I've never been to one of those meetings, though."

"Has she ever asked you to?"

"Genevieve? No."

"Then don't worry about it. It was at the store the other night, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. She probably told you about it."

"Nope! All I got to hear about was David, David, David."

"Oh, joy."

"It's not so bad. Better than past tense, like Todd."

"Ha! Do you get to hear about him, too?"

Jess chortled in reply. "All the time, all the time. But if you tell her I said that, I'm driving right out there and dropping one of those Blackberry Buttermilk Cakes of hers right on your head."

David smiled. "We will meet, right? Some day?"

A pause. And then, "Yes. I promise. Genevieve's promised _me_."

"Good. I..."

"Oh, don't start groveling again! No more apologies. And David?"

"Yes?"

"You've got my number now, and I have yours. Call if you want. Anytime. I'm on your side, on _both_ of your sides. I liked talking to you, hearing your voice. You're honest. And that is something dear sainted Todd was _not_. For a lot of those seven years those two were together."

"Really?" David tried to rein in his eagerness. "Did that have – "

"That's not for me to tell you," Jess interjected. "When Genevieve's ready, you'll know."

"If we last that long," he almost moaned.

"Courage. Fortitude. She's one of the few who's worth it."

David nodded. "I know." And he did. Genevieve was a rarity, an absolute gem underneath that beautiful, demanding exterior.

"Tell her what we talked about. Or _most_ of it," she added with a giggle. "She'll want to know, anyway."

"Thank you, Jess. Truly."

"Good night, David. Sweet dreams."

She'd clicked off before David could return the sentiment.

He set the phone down on the floor and lay back once more on the couch. It was a lot to think about, a lot to think about.

#  Chapter Nine

"Damn it, I hate this game! Why do you come here every week?"

David closed his eyes, willing himself not to snap back. His visit with Grandpa Wilcott had begun poorly, and had only skidded downhill from there.

"It's Gin rummy, Grandpa. It's a game you once played every night with Grandma. And I come because I enjoy seeing you."

"Bah!" Grandpa threw down the card he'd picked up, his ninth from-the-pile discard in a row. "Long time ago. Probably had nothing better to do. Don't _you_ have anything better to do?"

"Apparently not," David replied evenly, picking up yet another card that would have given him Gin before placing it atop the discards.

The first thing Grandpa had done upon David's arrival was to shove the previous day's Shady Grove Courier at him. "Isn't this you? Isn't that the crap hole you live in?" he'd asked, a finger jabbing at the stark image of the Rainbow Arms.

"Yep. But it wasn't me that got knocked off. So you're still stuck with the same offer: you want to walk around the square a few times or play cards?"

The newspaper had been tossed aside, and Grandpa had lodged himself firmly in his favorite chair, a decades-old leather Barcalounger that, when fully reclined, took up half his floor space.

David always found it amusing that while his Grandpa had become crusty, irascible, and entirely unable to find any joy in life, his room reflected quite an opposite sentiment. Warm family portraits and candid photos of David's Grandma covered the walls; the bedspread was a patchwork quilt that had been crafted by two of David's aunts; books, hobby magazines, and well-thumbed motorcycle manuals were neatly lined up in order of size within two elegant mahogany bookshelves.

Grandpa had kept pictures of his last three girlfriends on top of his dresser for a while, but they'd disappeared a few months before. David had decided to leave it alone.

"HA!" Grandpa had gotten what he'd needed: a five, to give him fives over a run of three Diamonds.

But then he threw down his hand. "Took long enough. How the hell could you not have won that one?"

David quickly scooped and racked the cards before his hand was picked up and analyzed.

"I don't want to play anymore." The Barcalounger began extending. "Why don't you just go?"

David took a deep breath. "Grandpa, isn't there _anything_ you want to do? We don't have to play cards every week, we can go anywhere!"

"Where? On the Shady Grove trolley?" A swift, dismissive shake of his head. "I'm done with the world. It can be done with me."

"That's so not true. You've got years left in you!"

"I sure as hell hope not." The Barcalounger creaked and then snapped as it returned to its upright position. "David, I just don't understand why you're here. In Shady Grove. Fine, you've got some good memories of visiting years ago. But why? Why?"

Another long, deep breath. "I wanted to live somewhere nice. Small town, not large. I wanted to be... independent. Of..."

"You want to be done with the world, too?"

"No! I just wanted something simple. Simpler than what things had become."

"Well, you got it! Welcome to Dullsville." Grandpa's glare honed in. "You were _doing_ something with your life, David. You were going somewhere, you were living! How could you trade that in for – " His hand swept toward the charming panorama of bucolic, small town America that his window offered. " – this?"

David rested his eyes on the view. "Easily," he replied. "But it wasn't exactly like I gave up a lot, you know."

"You gave up hope!"

Their eyes met again. "Look who's talking!" David tried but failed to keep the anger out of his voice. "Physician, heal thyself!"

Grandpa Wilcott stood straight up, then. And as David wondered if he was really going to take a swing at his grandson, he also had to stifle an urge to cry. Not for himself, but for the toll that time and living took on a human being. Grandpa's muscles were rippling, but they were a poor remnant of what he'd been so proud years before. Even the flash of fire in his eyes waned quickly, the energy needed to sustain his indignation not being in abundance anymore.

He had sunk down again. Whump, creak, snap. "Go," he intoned.

David stood. He felt enervated, despite having begun the morning with an optimistic vigor.

"I know you'll be here next Saturday, no matter what I say." But Grandpa wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just... go. I'll see you then. I'll try not to be such a... turd."

David nodded. "I love you, Grandpa," he uttered quietly. "I really do."

And then he turned, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled the door mostly closed behind him.

#  Chapter Ten

David had made it most of the way to The Restful Nook's main entrance before he reversed course and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Two right turns and a left later, he found himself in front of Abby Lowell's room. Her door was decorated with art projects: a Valentine made of pressed flower petals, a pastel rendering of the Easter bunny peering under a bird's nest for colored eggs, a Cinco de Mayo sombrero created from shredded magazine pages.

He knocked.

"Come on in!" sang out.

And even before he entered her room, David was smiling again, feeling better about himself and the world at large. "Can I bother you for a few minutes, Abby?" he asked.

"But of course, David!" Abby was up and moving toward him, already beaming. Her hands reached forward to clasp his. "I just love it when you drop by. Was Henry his usual charming self this morning?"

He grimaced. "You could say that."

She shook her head. "I never understand that, how old age turns some of us into glowering old lumps of coal. He was always such a sweet talker, and so energetic. Anyhow!" She clapped her hands. "Come on, sit down. Tell an old lady what's going on in your life."

David sat as Abby slipped her oxygen cannula into her nose again, and deftly turned her compressor back on. Her room was similar to Grandpa Wilcott's: warm furnishings and pictures everywhere. But it appeared as if there had been an explosion of color in Abby's room. The walls were aglow in bright yellows, radiant reds, and glistening greens. Picture frames twinkled with hand-painted designs, and her desk was a work of art in itself, all moons and stars and brilliant creatures that seemed ready to leap out of the woodwork to experience life themselves.

She smiled again. "Might as well start talking, David. I actually _do_ have all day, unfortunately, but it won't do you any good to keep whatever's bothering you bottled up."

"I talked with Jess last night," he began. "She called me."

"Really!" She leaned forward. "How is she?"

"Good. I think. It was the first time we've talked."

"Ever?" Abby's lips twisted as she sat back once more. "I hadn't realized that."

"I don't think she's come back to Shady Grove since I moved here," said David. "And other than a couple quick trips out of town I've had to make for business, I haven't left."

She nodded. "That makes sense, then. You'll meet her someday. She can be a trip!"

David laughed. Abby spoke the lingo of several different generations, all fluently.

"So what did you talk about?" she asked. "Must've been strange for you, no? Your girlfriend's bestie, who knows all of her dirty laundry and childhood secrets... did you find yourself trying not to dive into all that?"

David felt himself blushing. "Well... that was kind of why she called. I suppose I _wanted_ to dive into some of it. To try to understand Genevieve better. There are so many things about our relationship, no matter _how_ bad or good it is, that I just don't get. It always seems like I'm missing some big pieces of the puzzle." His hands rose, palms open with the fingers splayed. "Not that it would fix things if I knew more... It's just that... I _want_ it to work, I really do. I believe I love her, more than I've ever loved anyone, and..." He shifted uncomfortably as his hands fell. "I'm sorry, Abby. It seems like half my conversations lately have involved me apologizing for rambling on and on about Genevieve. I certainly did last night with Jess."

Abby's eyes remained on his for several seconds, unblinking as she took in his earnest discomfiture. She sat forward again, and gently patted his knee. "Jess is a nice girl, David. Todd was a nice boy. Genevieve is always going to be Genevieve. Why do you keep dragging yourself over these same shoals?"

David's head shook. "I don't know. I really don't."

Her hand withdrew, and Abby reclined again. Her countenance was sad, reflective. "I remember the first day I met her," she said. "Almost twenty-five years ago. Seventh grade art class, back when they _had_ art classes in junior high." A wistful smile appeared as she glanced about her room. "Of course, she first got my attention when she corrected my pronunciation of her name. But then, her work! Oh my, what all we teachers wish for, a student who can appreciate, listen, _and_ apply. And Genevieve was that student, in spades." She scrutinized him. "You've seen some of her drawings, right? Or her oils?"

He nodded. "Yes. She has a few up in the house, but the attic is full of them."

Abby glimmered. "And, of course, she has several of her newer pieces up at Gâteaupia. But the talent and skill that girl had would have been nothing without her determination. I don't believe I ever had a student work so hard. If it wasn't right, if it wasn't exactly what she'd pictured in her head, she began all over again. Not with anger or complaints, just the sheer willpower to do it better, and better, and better. And it worked! In the two years I taught her, she transformed. From a skillful creator to a true artist. And no, David," Abby smiled, "I am _not_ attributing that to my teaching. Genevieve learned nearly everything all by herself. I merely pointed her in a direction, and she'd just take off."

"She always credits you for guiding her," he demurred. "And every time I'm in this room, I can see it. The freeness of form, the touch of whimsy that almost camouflages the craft."

"But the craft is still there, David. The hours, the years spent perfecting techniques, learning how to make it look easy, look natural. You do understand that Genevieve uses the same approach with everything she undertakes in life, right?"

"Of course! Her cakes are all works of art, the store, her house."

"And your relationship, too."

David remained silent, thinking.

"She keeps ending it and then beginning it again. Just as she did in my class, just as she does with each cake she designs. As she did with Todd. As she's doing with you."

"Todd, too? I knew they had some rough patches, but..."

Her hand waved his digression away. "After he left Shady Grove, she didn't go out on a single date for over two years. Two years! Until she met you. Trust me, she wants to get it right. Allow her to. Give her the space to find her way."

"But what if it's me that she can't get right? What if I'm the problem?"

"Oh, you've got problems all right, but those are yours, not hers!"

David laughed. "Fair enough."

Abby leaned toward him again. "Genevieve feels alone, David. Her parents both died when she was in college, her best friend lives across the country, the other girls who know her best are her employees. Todd was great with her for many years, but the two of them became different people from what they were in their twenties. You're an adult, and you've been hurt, you've lost things that mattered to you. She knows that you can understand her, she knows you can accept her."

"If she feels so alone, why does she always push me away?" David hadn't meant his reply to emerge so petulantly.

"I've already told you," answered Abby. "She needs to get it right. One day. One day, she'll tell you everything and you'll understand. Or at least I hope you will."

David rose. "Thank you, Abby. Thank you for letting me... be an idiot in front of you."

She removed her cannula and stood. "Nothing a few thousand kids haven't done before you!"

He smiled. "By the way, Genevieve said that she can't stop by today, but she'll visit tomorrow."

"Anytime! Whenever. You're both always welcome, together or apart."

He hugged her goodbye, and then once again headed for the exit of The Restful Nook.

#  Chapter Eleven

The day outside was brilliant, the May sunshine golden but not overly warm, the hues of the mid-spring foliage clean and crisp. Willow Street was packed with parked cars, the owners of which were scattered about the public square along with children, dogs, Frisbees, baseballs, blankets, and books.

David stayed on the north side of Willow, wishing Johnson were with him. But his dog was stuck at home, undoubtedly curled up on the living room couch, waiting to hear the approach of David's footsteps.

A young couple exited the front doors of the Episcopal Church on his left. A pastor had emerged as well, and he embraced each of them before they joined hands and began to descend the steps. The pastor nodded at David, who had halted for a second. He gestured welcomingly toward the interior of the church, but David shook his head and started walking again. For his refusal he received both a smile and a polite bow.

The trolley was at the stop at Willow and Third, but David was headed to Gâteaupia. He'd texted Genevieve late the previous night: "Talked to Jess. You know that. Thank you." And she had texted back. "Hope it helped. It was time you met. Come by if you want in the a.m."

He had known that she meant her business, not her home. Saturdays were early days for the owner of a popular bakery.

David turned right on Fourth, and then crossed it at Larch Avenue. Gâteaupia was midway down the block on the north side of Larch, between a sandwich shop and a bookstore.

"David, sweetie! Oh my God, we're busy. No Johnson today?" Lydia had just dropped off two plates at a table near the front, and she'd rushed forward to plant a kiss on David's cheek.

"Nope. God, you _are_ busy. How's G?"

She made a face. "Slammed. Eight event specialties: four locals, two that need to be in Franklin by three, two new ones that came in this morning. You wanta take over my spot so I can give her a hand?"

"Uh..."

"Yeah, yeah! Then just come sit by me so I can whisper all that I want to do to you into your cute little ear."

David had no reply for that. After a few seconds of amused silence, Lydia stepped forward and _did_ whisper into his ear: "Green apple and broccoli torte with a champagne ganache!"

As she stepped back, he quickly retorted, "Cherry cornmeal jam cake, topped with candied blueberries."

"Yuck! You win. Find a place to sit, I'll bring ya something in a few. Anything you want specific?"

"Surprise me," David grinned.

"Oh, I want to. I want to," she answered, her voice sultry and low.

Lydia swept away, and David couldn't help but admire her. Her hair, streaked with purple when they'd first become acquainted, was now a deep black with shimmery pink highlights. Her figure was perfect, her demeanor a delight. She made everyone feel as though she knew them, and in truth, she did. Quiet about her personal life, Lydia focused outwardly, and took a profound joy in doing so. Between her service and Genevieve's cakes, it was little wonder that Gâteaupia was filled to capacity most days.

David found a table with a single chair in a corner by the washroom. At Gâteaupia, however, no table was a bad table. The storefront itself was an enchantment: elegantly lit cake display cases, gleaming round tables with scalloped back chairs, a stamped tin ceiling that shone with the vintage lighting's radiance. Genevieve's spectacular paintings of various desserts enlivened the walls, and then there was the actuality itself. Pure heaven on white china, served with linen napkins and real silver. Once you ordered at the counter, the remainder of your Gâteaupia experience consisted of relaxing in comfort while being catered to with style.

"Here you go. Chocolate and Glazed Hazelnut Mousse Cake." Lydia slid a plate in front of him before setting down a lustrous fork atop a tidy napkin. "G says she'll be out in a few. She asked if you could entertain yourself. Think of me while you do so, David?" She bounced back toward the counter, swung around to make sure that he was still watching her, and then winked as she began to take another order.

David dug in, famished. This would spoil his lunch, but so what? Nothing could compare to one of Genevieve's desserts, ever. It still amazed him that she could run the business so well. Aside from Lydia, five other women worked for her, though two only on weekends when it was frantic. Genevieve also oversaw the kitchen, managed the books, and _still_ found time to constantly develop and test new recipes. She was practically superhuman, David felt at times. At other times, he found her high level of competence daunting, if not downright frightening.

"How is it?" Genevieve stood before him, in a fetching hair net and dusted here and there with flour.

David gestured toward what little remained on his plate. "Howdoya think?" he got out while trying not to swallow too quickly his final bite.

She smiled. "That's a new one. It's clearly a keeper. I snapped some yummy pics this morning; if I send them to you, can you add a page to the website?"

He nodded. "Easy. This afternoon, if you'd like. Just hit me over the head with the spelling so I don't muck it all up like the last one."

Genevieve's smile became a smirk. "I'll email you when I take a break to do paperwork. And not _everyone_ innately knows how to spell 'Mascarpone.' "

"What about 'rhubarb'?"

"That was a typo and you know it. Ten cents deducted from your fee."

" _What_ fee?"

"Your next slice of it. How was Grandpa? Did you talk to Abby?"

David set his fork down atop the plate. "I told her. Grandpa was himself. A slightly worse version than last week. Can we have dinner together tonight?"

"Oh, right to it, huh? Didn't Lydia manage to snare you for the evening?"

"She tried, but she'd forgotten she had a date with a seamstress named Bethany. Bethany no like her girlfriends to have boyfriends."

"Ah. But Lydia could sell ice to the Eskimos. Bethany might be stunned to discover what she's been missing out on all these years, and never let you go. If you're sure you're not otherwise engaged, come by around six thirty? You bring the wine, I'll bring dessert?"

"Works for me."

"Okay, see you then. Bye!" She pressed a finger to his forehead, and then headed back toward the kitchen.

As always, David couldn't help but note that Genevieve was at her happiest and most comfortable with him when she was at work. An interesting element in their odd relationship, but he accepted it. He'd never failed to leave Gâteaupia a good deal merrier than when he'd arrived.

"That's it? You just eat your fill and leave?" Lydia once more, cantering by with four plates balanced in her arms. "Wait a sec, will ya?"

David looked on as she served a table of eager diners, the smiles on their faces the only evidence he needed that Genevieve's constant tweaks to her recipes were well worth her time.

"I'd so kiss you again," she said as she strode up, "but I'm afraid you'd start to like it. And then what? I'd gain a lover, but be out of a job."

"I _do_ like it, I do," David insisted, gazing into her sparkling eyes. "But how would I ever keep you?"

"Oh, you'd keep me, David," she simpered. "You're a keeper, didn't you know that? And oh! One more thing!"

"Mmm?" Lydia had angled forward as though she were about to deliver a confidence.

"Banana-carrot Clementine cake with pomegranate sauce," she said in a hushed voice.

"Ugh. Fruit and date spice cake with cream cheese frosting."

"That doesn't sound so bad. I win!" She patted his cheek twice, and then was gone.

David pushed open the door to Larch Avenue with liveliness in his step, and a smile on his face.

#  Chapter Twelve

At five o'clock, after a couple of hours spent working and a forty-five minute stroll with Johnson, David was ready for a quick shower before the two of them walked to Genevieve's house for dinner. The streets of Shady Grove were busy, as they should have been on a weekend afternoon as summer's approach began to seem more like a reality than a dream. They had begun by meandering down to Easton Avenue, but had quickly veered north, the encroaching desolation of the town's southernmost street proving an ill match for David's ebullient mood.

He had only taken three steps into the Rainbow Arms' lobby before that mood was punctured and deflated.

"Mr. Wilcott. I've been wondering how long I would have to wait for you." Detective Ormsby had returned. He'd been studying the names on the building's mailboxes, but pivoted as David entered.

"Detective." David nodded to him. "What can I help you with?"

"Oh, quite a lot. Quite a lot." Ormsby smiled, but the effect was more chilling than comforting. David understood that this was undoubtedly his intent.

"Why are you here? Why do you live here?" he began.

David noted that he hadn't pulled out his notebook or automatic pencil. "How exactly could my answers to those questions be relevant to your investigation?" he asked.

An eyebrow rose. A breath was taken. Detective Ormsby waited, patiently. David breathed carefully as well, attempting to keep his pulse, as well as his anger, in check.

A woman stepped into the lobby from the common area, took one glance at the two men staring each other down, and hurried outside. David recognized her: Patty Fisher, from 2E. But he hadn't acknowledged her. He intuited that Ormsby was searching for weaknesses, looking to strike at any Achilles' heel David happened to reveal.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. _This is ridiculous!_ he thought as they passed the 30-second mark. _What kind of policeman utilizes these sorts of playground tactics?_

Ormsby cleared his throat. "Do you have an answer for me?" he asked, his steely voice tight, "or are you still trying to think of one?"

"I live here because I do!" David burst out, unable to tamp down his ire. "I have to live somewhere, I wanted to live in Shady Grove because of my Grandpa. Why would I need to think up a different answer?"

"I'm not sure. Why would you?" was thrown right back. And then, "Why this building? Why the Rainbow Arms?"

"Why does it matter?"

Ormsby took a step forward. He practically towered over David at this distance. "Because it does. I told you on Thursday, no piece of information is useless in a murder investigation. For example, I've discovered that you and Janice Templeton are friends, a fact you must have conveniently forgotten to mention to me on Thursday."

"You didn't ask me on Thursday!" David wanted more than anything to back up and reclaim his personal space, but didn't dare.

Ormsby cocked his head. "I don't know, Wilcott. I tell you that a man's been murdered, I tell you in which unit, and which tenant is on the lease for that unit. It might have _occurred_ to you at some point in our discussion that to bring up your friendship with the deceased's girlfriend might be a good idea."

"It wasn't exactly a friendly discussion, and I honestly didn't think it mattered."

A meaty finger flew straight at David's chest. He gasped sharply at the sting, stepping backwards while trying not to tread on Johnson, who'd begun to growl. David gripped the leash tightly.

"It's not your job to determine what matters or doesn't here," Ormsby said, his words drenched in derision. "And my sincerest apologies if you didn't feel our talk was friendly. I do my best to be a civil police detective, but on occasion I actually have to perform my duties, which don't always involve being a Mr. Goody two-shoes. That undoubtedly works well in your line of business, but not in mine. Now! Why did you choose to live at the Rainbow Arms? An educated man like yourself, opting to live down on Piston Avenue? I'm not seeing this clearly."

David's breathing pattern was accelerating. Johnson looked up at him, obviously concerned about the interactions taking place above, never mind the words.

"I needed a place to live," snapped David. "I found one. Beginning of story, end of story."

Another neighbor walked by, one of the Martinez kids from 2A, heading out for the evening. A swift peek at the two men, and then his head was down and he was out of there.

"How would you characterize your relationship with Janice Templeton?"

"We're neighbors who are social. Friends might be a bit strong. But if you want to call it that, it's fine with me."

"Do you spend a lot of time alone with Janice?"

"What? No!" David gave his head a shake, trying to think clearly. "But yes, on occasion we have been alone together."

"Well, which one? Yes? Or no?" Ormsby demonstrated no visible pleasure at having caught his adversary in a distortion.

David drew a long breath. "We see each other in the courtyard – the garden out back – reasonably often. We sit and chat. About nothing. And everything. Stupid stuff, neighbor stuff."

"Were you ever a visitor in her apartment?"

David hesitated, but then nodded. "Yes. We had a Coke and crackers, or something like that. We talk, just like in the courtyard."

"How often has this occurred?"

"Which? Talking in the apartment or outside?"

"Inside. And how exactly did your neighborly chats get upgraded to indoor status?"

"The weather. If it was cold or rainy, we'd talk inside."

"Do you have a regular appointment with her? Is this an ongoing thing? And you didn't answer my question about the frequency of these cozy little confabs."

David closed his eyes for a few seconds, wondering how the hell a single day could include such incredible highs and lows. And then he faced Ormsby again. "We have no appointment. If we run into each other, we talk. We've been friendly for probably six months. I've been inside her apartment perhaps seven or eight times."

"The last time being?"

David thought. "A week ago. A few days before it happened. The murder, that is."

"Janice didn't do her dishes too often, did she?"

"How the hell would I know?"

Ormsby's smile was back. "We found a set of your prints on a glass in her kitchen. You had a Coke. Straight. Some nuts, too."

"My fingerprints? What is this? Am I a suspect now?"

The smile evaporated. "You always were, Wilcott. We lifted your prints from your own front door, by the way, so don't get your panties all in a bunch."

"But..." David was entirely befuddled. "I read in the paper today that Heck was killed probably because of some drug connection! That the two guys – the two who came to the building – "

"Deke and Thickman?"

"Yeah, them. The drug guys! That they... they had maybe killed him because of some money he owed them!"

"A lot of maybes and probablys in there, Wilcott. You read your newspaper good. Except that in the Courier, the word 'allegedly' was used about fifty times today. How well did you know Heck?"

"Heck? Not well at all. We just knew each other to say hi or nod."

"Did you know he beat Janice? Had been doing so for years, in fact?"

David's eyes found his mailbox. "Yeah. I knew that. A few of us did. Their relationship was... pretty crappy."

"Pretty normal, you mean, for a _lot_ of folks who live this side of town. What'd you think about that, about Heck beating the crap out of Janice on a regular basis?"

David shifted so he could glare right up at Ormsby. "It sucked. All right? I thought it sucked. But what was I going to do, tell him?"

The detective shrugged. "Maybe you did. Perhaps last Wednesday, around noon or so."

David gritted his teeth. "I wasn't even here then! Which you already know, since you visited Culpepper Mills to ask about my whereabouts that day!"

"Don't get tetchy. Remember, this is my job. I'm merely serving the public interest."

David wasn't tetchy, he just wanted to drill the detective a new one to serve his _own_ interest.

"Did you know she had a crush on you? That she considered you a Good Samaritan of sorts?"

"No! How would I know that? All we did was talk. Nothing else!"

Yet another resident of the Rainbow Arms strode into the lobby, and David felt himself turning red. Was he going to be questioned and bullied in front of everyone for the rest of the evening?

Detective Ormsby had followed his line of thought. "Why don't we step into your apartment for a few minutes?" he said. "More private. I just have a few more questions to ask, and then we'll be through."

"Ask them here." David's tone was as harsh as anything he'd heard come out of his mouth in years.

Ormsby pursed his lips. "Well, to be honest, I was going to ask if I could take a quick look-see around. I could get a search warrant by Monday if I had to, but it would be so much easier..."

David rolled his eyes at the casually dangled implication. "What? You're hoping you'll find the murder weapon in my apartment?"

"We don't have it yet."

"Yeah, I read that too! A blunt object, probably stone or steel, with a slightly rounded edge. Perhaps you'd like to examine my rock collection?"

"Do you have one?" Ormsby actually looked excited by this prospect.

"No! No, I don't!" David was torn, though, as to whether giving in to the detective or making him get a warrant, if that was what he was truly planning to do, was the simpler means of ending this inanity.

"Fine. Go look around," he finally said, and then he and Johnson headed for his apartment with Ormsby trailing behind.

David unlocked and pushed open the door. "Have a ball," he stated dryly.

As Johnson growled and attempted to lunge at him, Ormsby wordlessly stepped by the pair. After a brief survey of the living room, he headed for the kitchen and began opening cupboards. David turned his back, knelt, and tried to calm Johnson as he listened to his belongings being pored through and pawed over.

Three minutes passed before the detective was back. "You need to do laundry," he uttered with deadpan delivery.

"Are you through? Can I be crossed off the suspect list now?" David asked.

Ormsby shook his head. "If and when that happens, I might let you know." He waited a few seconds, and then feigned disappointment at David's lack of response to his joke.

David stood to the side so Ormsby could step back into the common area.

He didn't move. "Don't worry, Wilcott. Almost done here. One more question: does your girlfriend know about your relationship with Janice Templeton?"

But at that, David lost it. With Johnson right beside him, he pushed himself directly into Ormsby's face. "You leave Genevieve out of this! I know that you know her. She told me how you're friends with Todd. I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but that's _well_ outside the bounds of what's appropriate."

"This isn't a game, Wilcott." Ormsby leaned forward until his chin was practically touching David's nose. "But a word of advice. A woman like Genevieve MacGuffie deserves better than you. If I find evidence of anything, _anything_ inappropriate that might have happened between you and Janice, it's going on the public record. Understand?"

David glowered upwards, pure hatred flowing through him like molten fire. This time, though, it was Ormsby who backed off first, calmly, taking a single reverse step before striding into the common area and heading out through the lobby.

David resisted the urge to slam his door shut with all his strength. He had already drawn enough attention from the neighbors this afternoon.

#  Chapter Thirteen

A long, hot shower hadn't been enough to purge the distaste regarding his encounter with the detective from David's thoughts. He'd pounded the stall's tiles a few times just to release some of his negative energy, but all this had accomplished was to bring Johnson into the bathroom, the same inquisitive look on his face each time.

"Goddamn it all!" David muttered to himself, not even sure what it was that he was angriest about. Ormsby's cavalier superiority? His absurd allusions? His tenuous connection with Genevieve, along with the ridiculous threats to expose David should he unearth some impropriety with Janice?

But there hadn't been any! What had they done, other than talk, and share the courtyard, and eat a few afternoon snacks together while she disclosed cautious hints about her dreadful relationship with Heck?

Of course, the last couple of times they'd been together, her caution had been absent, and she'd made quite a few upsetting disclosures.

But a crush on him? From what source had _that_ supposition been dredged?

David turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel and began to dry himself. And then he poked his head into the bedroom and winced: it was 5:45 already. So much for a leisurely perusal of the wine selection at the liquor store en route to Genevieve's.

He dressed quickly, and did his best with his hair. And then he packed a backpack: sneakers, a tee shirt and shorts, and a handful of dog treats. While he had managed to slip a toothbrush and razor into a drawer at Genevieve's house without upsetting the applecart, his minor encroachments into her closet space had been firmly rebuffed.

"You ready to go out again?" he asked Johnson. Johnson leapt off the couch to paw at the front door. "All right, let's go." David closed and locked the door behind them, and was halfway to the lobby before he performed an about-face and headed for Apartment 1D.

"Let me just see if she's home," he said to his dog, who appeared confused.

But knocking on Janice's door yielded no response. Her doorframe still had shreds of yellow and black Do Not Cross tape dangling here and there, and where a doormat should have lain was a welter of jumbled footprints.

Fifteen seconds later, David found himself bounding up the stairs to the second floor, only his third foray to the Rainbow Arms' upper level in nearly two years.

Knocking on the door of 2B, though, where Clair and Mrs. Rushen resided, was also unfruitful. What David would have _said_ to either one of them was a mystery, even to David, but he felt a strong urge to ask Clair if she could explain things to him.

Which was insane. She was a child. She was in first grade.

David closed his eyes for a few seconds before turning to descend the stairs. What was going on at the Rainbow Arms? A man murdered; David an alleged suspect in that murder; the relationship of the victim's girlfriend to David under a microscope. Janice had been visiting her mother when the incident happened, and a strange little girl with a freaky nutjob of a guardian had apparently told her that she should do so. And just as when Clair had stated so forthrightly that she liked Genevieve's name, or that she _didn't_ like Detective Ormsby, David felt disoriented, out of his depth. As though he was unknowingly on a precipice, directly above something that was far beyond either his powers of observation or understanding to decipher.

"Hey ya. Ya headed out?" David blinked, and found himself facing Bill Lopes, halfway down the walkway to Piston Avenue.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah." He shifted his backpack as Bill reached down to rub Johnson's head. "Going to Genevieve's for dinner."

"Oh. Guess I'm gonna have to finish all these by myself, then." Bill grinned, and raised the paper bag he was carrying a few inches. David heard the tinny clunks of a pair of six-packs nudging against one another.

"Yeah. Wish I could. It's been a crappy afternoon." Which wasn't quite true. It had been a fantastic afternoon until he and Johnson had returned from their walk.

"Ormsky, eh? Yuh, he was lookin' for ya. Asshole."

"Did he come after you, too?" David asked.

Bill turned, and with precision, shot a stringy loogie about ten feet, straight into a bare patch between two geranium bushes. "He had some questions. Nothin' I couldn't handle. He wanted to know 'bout you and Janice. I told 'im ya barely knew each other, that maybe ya sat and talked a few times out back. He wanted to know everyone's schedule for comin' and goin', how many nights a week Heck stayed, if those two thugs that maybe did 'im in had been 'round before."

"And you could answer all that?" David wasn't sure if he was aghast or impressed.

"Hell, no! I just gave him the easy ones, nothin' that'd rub up against what anyone else'd say."

"Has..." David adjusted the backpack again. "Has Janice been back? I haven't run into her since it happened."

Bill lifted his bag to tuck it under an arm. "Yuh. She's pretty skittish-like, though. Ducks in, ducks out. I helped her clean up the mess. Good thing it were in the kitchen, would've been hell if it'd been on the carpet. Finally fixed her sink, too. She's been botherin' me for a couple weeks 'bout it leakin' down below."

"Is she doing all right? I mean, about Heck?"

Bill rolled his eyes. "She feels guilty. Like it were her fault it happened. I pointed out that if she _hadn't_ gone to her mother's, she would've been at Bargain Bin instead. Same result, more trouble with the cops."

"Yeah. And Clair told her to go." David scratched behind Johnson's ears; the dog was being patient, knowing that they were about to take another long walk.

"Creepy Clair, creepy Clair," Bill said, but that was all he had to offer on the subject. He shifted the beer again. "Might not be able to knock all this down tonight. Feel free to drop in tomorrah if ya want."

David smiled. "I just might do that. Thanks, Bill."

"Yuh. See ya." Bill headed toward the lobby.

Johnson was already several feet beyond David when the tug of the leash prompted his master to follow.

#  Chapter Fourteen

David's first conversation with Janice had occurred on a cool Sunday morning, seven months before in October. He'd been sitting on a bench in the courtyard, reading the newspaper. Johnson had been chasing a bee. The latch had clicked, and she'd stepped inside. Johnson had immediately bounded over, and Janice had knelt, arms opened wide to allow him all the access he desired.

"Hi, puppy," she'd cooed. "Hi, you beautiful, beautiful dog."

Whether it was the words or Janice allowing herself to be licked everywhere, Johnson had been taken with her. And this warmth had not diminished with time.

"Hi," Janice had said to David when she eventually rose. "Do you mind if I sit here a bit, too?"

"Not at all," David replied. His newspaper was still up, but he gave it a shake and carefully folded it onto his lap. "Nice day."

She nodded as she sat down across from him. "Yep. Don't know why I never come out here. I always forget this place is here."

David recognized her – he'd certainly passed by her enough times since he'd moved in – but had no idea what her name was. Her face owned the hardened, distrustful look of a working girl that had seen it all and just wanted to be left the hell alone, but her body appeared delicate, almost elfin. She was short, barely touching five feet. And her hair was a natural bright blond, usually pulled into a ponytail that jounced when she walked, giving her that air of casual femininity that could drive men crazy. Today, it was hanging loose about her shoulders.

"You're in F, right?" she asked. Her voice was soft, unassured.

"Yes. You're 1D," he replied.

"That I am. Are you Dave?"

"David. David Wilcott."

She shrugged. "Apologies, David. Bill's told me about you, but I can't ever remember who's who. I'm Janice."

"J. Templeton," David smiled. She shot him an odd look. "It's what's on your mailbox," he added, a touch sheepishly.

She half smiled, and then her eyes roamed the garden, taking in the gaunt bushes and the few limp roses that were still clinging to life. "It was nicer before," she stated.

"It was pretty lush until a couple weeks ago," he answered. "Cold weather hit, everything began to shrivel."

"Doesn't that bother you?" she asked, pointing to the fountain. "At night. You must be able to hear it from your bedroom." Her glance touched David's bedroom window before meeting his eyes again.

"Doesn't bother me. Sometimes Bill turns it off, sometimes he forgets. But I like it when it's quiet, and I also like the sound of the water."

"Easy to please. Must be nice," she said, almost dismissively. Her eyes began to wander again.

David was ready to take up his paper once more when she asked, "Do you know what time it is?"

He leaned to the side so he could pull his watch out of a pocket. "Eleven fifteen."

But Janice had emitted a giggle, an honest, ringing peal of amusement.

"What?" David said, smiling himself.

"I don't think I've seen someone pull a watch out to check the time in years. Nowadays it's always a phone." Her hands flew up. "Sorry, sorry, I'm totally not makin' fun of you."

"I'm not upset," he grinned. "I try to use technology as little as possible. Except for work, where I have to."

Her eyes followed his hand as he returned the watch to his pocket. "I left to take a walk about an hour ago," she said. "I forgot my phone, but didn't want to bang back in to get it. My boyfriend's inside, sleepin' last night off, and he gets testy if I wake him up before he's ready."

David kept his expression neutral; the idea of sleeping past eleven on any day, even a Sunday, seemed impossible.

"He works nights," Janice added quietly, almost as though she had read David's thoughts.

And this is how nearly all of the conversations between David and Janice went. Standard pleasantries, innocuous statements, mild disclosures. She would step into the courtyard while he was there every few weeks, they'd talk, and then she would leave. Never once did she set foot in David's apartment, never once was a line crossed when he was in hers.

Janice did eventually talk about Heck. She had to. An array of red and purple welts on her arms kept catching David's eye as her long sleeves betrayed her, slipping down as she reached for glasses for their Cokes, sneaking upwards as she sat at her kitchen counter, elbows worrying the faded beige tiles.

"Sorry," she said after a particularly long awkward silence. "Sometimes, I... things just happen to me."

"It's not the first time I've noticed," he returned gently.

She nodded. "Yeah. Well, I tend to say the wrong things sometimes. I can't seem to stop from..." She met his gaze directly. "Did Bill tell you about it?"

David shook his head. "Nope. Bill's pretty quiet. If he'd said anything, I probably would've brought it up. But... I've seen marks on you before. Two months ago, you were wearing a ton of makeup on one cheek. We were outside; it was easy to see the bruising underneath. Janice, you don't have to accept this."

She looked away. "You don't know anything, David. Best to keep it that way."

"But can't you..." His question faltered.

She was biting her lip, staring across the room at nothing. "I didn't want you to find out. I didn't want you lookin' at me the same way as others who know look at me."

"Have I looked at you any different the last couple of months?"

Janice remained inert for several long seconds. And then she answered, her voice thick: "No."

"Well," David said, "I don't. I won't. And this isn't... it isn't anything I'll talk about with anyone, Janice."

She nodded. "I was gonna ask you for that, but you beat me to it."

David took a quick, careful breath. "I don't know, maybe that isn't the best way to phrase that," he replied, immediately regretting his attempt at humor.

Janice stared at him then, almost laughing, almost crying. "Not funny," she scolded as her face turned beet red from the effort of not reacting. "Cute, but not funny."

Theirs was an odd relationship, yet at the same time a very normal one. Neighbors and acquaintances who shared bits and pieces of their lives, temporarily relieving stress while never having to fully interact outside of the Rainbow Arms. Heck knew that David and Janice talked, but didn't care so long as it didn't interfere with him. Genevieve was _not_ so thrilled; she couldn't comprehend what the two of them could possibly find in common to discuss.

Heck thought they talked about dogs and the other residents of the building. Genevieve _knew_ that their friendship had attained a far greater depth than that, and hated that Janice could open herself up to David, never mind the vice versa.

Awkward, awkward. But on the very few occasions that Genevieve and Janice had met, the two women had ignored one another. Not so much because of jealousy, but because of an innate distrust each had for the other's type.

David had been perfectly fine with this. It made things easier. And no reason needed to be more complicated than that.

#  Chapter Fifteen

Sunday morning brought an early alarm clock, a brisk shower, and breakfast eaten on the run.

David, however, left all of that to Genevieve. He accepted her brief kiss goodbye, rose to let Johnson out of the spare room, and then the two of them snoozed another two and a half hours until nine.

He'd been late for dinner the night before. Only fifteen minutes, but Genevieve hadn't been pleased. The wine he'd picked out at the middlebrow liquor store on Dr. Longworth Avenue hadn't been good enough to atone for his sin of unpunctuality.

By nine thirty, he and Johnson were ambling south, his backpack bulging with the clothes he'd worn for dinner.

"What do you want to do today, boy?" David asked.

Johnson glanced at him, but didn't offer any suggestions.

"Public square? You want to try the Frisbee again?"

Johnson continued to trot along, content for the moment, with no definitive thoughts regarding the rest of the day.

David shrugged, and they turned right on Smithfield. The evening hadn't been a total disaster, at least. He'd thought long and hard en route to Genevieve's, and had come to the conclusion that no good could come from bringing up his second confrontation with Detective Ormsby. Not only was there the Todd connection, but since so many of his questions had been focused on Janice... David could only imagine what Genevieve would make of that!

Johnson veered left onto Sixth Street ahead of him. After nearly sixteen months of sporadically following this route, he knew the drill.

The day was cooler than Saturday had been, and the streets were quieter. A few children were outside playing in front yards, but nary an adult was about. Sunday morning. Only ministers and bakers truly _had_ to work on a Sunday morning.

David recalled entire weekends disappearing in a vortex of work not so long ago. Work, and then some serious play at night. How had he become that person? Or had that actually been who he was before he moved to Shady Grove?

And look at what all that hard work had earned him: nothing! Nothing, and more nothing.

But as the pair turned right on Piston, half a block from the Rainbow Arms, David felt disgusted with himself. How could he consider what he had to be nothing? He and Johnson had everything they needed: a home, a beautiful town in which to live, his Grandpa, their friends. A girlfriend who genuinely seemed to like him, at least most of the time. Perhaps Abby had been correct, and Genevieve really was trying to get it right, over and over again. Molding David and herself into the duo she felt they could be, _knew_ they could be. Breaking things off temporarily so she could regroup, and gather herself with fresh energy so that they could try again and become better, more durable, stronger as a couple.

As he and Johnson stepped past the mailboxes in the lobby, David realized that he wanted it to be so. He _yearned_ for the two of them to survive the constant skirmishes and face-offs. He loved Genevieve, and desired nothing more than for her to love him.

He had headed straight for the apartment door, but Johnson had other ideas. The dog was halfway down the passageway to the courtyard before David even got his key out.

"What is it, boy?" he called out. There was no reply, so David followed him around the corner. Johnson was standing by the gate, not pawing at it, but clearly determined to go inside. He glanced back at David, then at the gate again.

"Okay, okay." David strode forward. "You could have chased any number of bugs on the way here, though."

He opened the latch, and they stepped inside. Clair was there, seated cross-legged on the bench directly across from David's favorite.

"Hi," he said as Johnson did indeed go running after something. "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

She smiled. "Same as you. Not much. It's a nice day, so I thought I would sit outside."

David nodded. And then he walked to his bench. He set the backpack down before deliberately sitting himself. "How do you know so much?" he asked, the words emerging more brusquely than he'd intended.

Clair gazed at him, her smile still in place. The water in the fountain tumbled, Johnson's jaw snapped as he leaped to grab a gnat, a light breeze feathered through the flowering bushes in the courtyard.

"What do you mean?" she asked ingenuously.

David took in her outfit: a dark blue jumper over a white blouse with a ruffled collar. He could just catch the black and white of her saddle shoes underneath two gently scraped knees. Was he truly questioning a little girl as though she had performed some criminal act? He wasn't Detective Ormsby!

He softened his tone. "I guess it always seems like... like you say things to people that don't make sense. And yet they do make sense. Sort of. Later, I suppose." He shook his head. "And _yes_ , I understand that what I'm saying right now doesn't make much sense." He met her eyes. "Why did you tell Janice that she should visit her mother last week?"

Clair uncrossed her legs, and began to swing them. "Why do you want to know?" she asked, her voice light.

David breathed out, wondering just what he was hoping to accomplish here. And where was Mrs. Rushen? "It just seems like an amazing coincidence – " Careful, careful... " – that you told Janice to go see her mother, and then Janice's boyfriend was killed while she was out of town."

But to David, the words he was speaking sounded idiotic. How could Clair possibly understand what he was getting at? And what could she know of abusers, of alibis and adults?

Her expression hadn't changed. "Did Janice tell you I said that?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed. It was a good question. "No. I... I heard it from someone who... who overheard you." He felt worse than an idiot, he was coming across like a busybody moron!

"Bill is the only one who could have told you that." Her voice was clear, her tone not accusative.

"How do you know?"

She gestured toward the gate that led to the common area. "Only someone standing behind there could have heard what Janice or I said." Her legs were still swinging, swinging, swinging. "I don't mind. Bill and you are friends. He can tell you anything he wants. I know he thinks I'm strange, and I told you he doesn't trust me. But I don't mind any of that, either."

"How did you know you'd see me today?"

Her head tilted. "How do you mean?"

"You whispered to me on Friday that you'd see me today. Maybe. Just before you left with Mrs. Rushen."

This time it was Clair's eyes that constricted as she thought about the question. "Don't I usually see you on Sundays?"

"Sometimes. Not always."

"I said 'maybe,' though. Maybe I was just hoping to see you today. I like talking with you, David. You know that."

David was learning nothing here. If there was anything to learn, that is. "How about Genevieve's name?" he said quietly. "When we first met. You've never told me where you heard it. How you knew it was pronounced that way."

Her feet slowed and then stopped. After the constant motion of the past few minutes, it was almost disconcerting to David. "Why do you want to know?" she asked. She appeared confused. "That was so long ago."

And for a girl her age, it probably _would_ have seemed like years ago, he realized.

Johnson cantered by on his way to his favorite peeing spot, and both David and Clair followed his progress: surveying the ground, lifting his leg, checking afterwards to ensure that he'd marked his territory properly. He glanced around briefly, spotted another insect, and was off again.

"You would like Mrs. Jenkins," Clair stated.

His eyes returned to her. "Would I?"

"She's nice, like you. She's lost things, too."

"See?" David sat up. "That's what I mean! How do you _know_ I've lost things? And Mrs. Jenkins – how do you know that about her?"

Clair's gaze was steady. "Am I wrong, David?"

"No! But how do you... It's the way you say these things, Clair, with such confidence. _Yes,_ I've lost things. But... I don't know how you know this."

"Mrs. Jenkins says that everybody loses things they care about. Parents, or friends, or jobs, or pets. She says that time takes away everything, but that the pain goes away with time, too. She read us a poem about it."

"That seems like an odd subject for a first grade class."

"Wally Smith's grandfather was in that accident in March. The bad one, out on the state highway."

"Oh. Yeah, I read about it. Okay, that gives it a better perspective."

Clair brightened. "See? That's the same word Mrs. Jenkins used. And she didn't even make us spell it." She rose from her bench and approached David. Her hair lifted slightly in the breeze.

And then her hand reached out to take hold of his. It was warm, shockingly warm. "You will know yourself, David," she said. "One day. Soon."

That was it. Her hand had been retracted as soon as the last word was spoken. But for those few seconds, David had been mesmerized, utterly under the spell of this odd child who spoke so simply and yet with such wisdom, if wisdom was what this was called.

"Wha – " he began to say.

But Clair had leaned forward to whisper into his ear. " _Now_ are you going to tell me Genevieve's last name?" she asked.

"No," David replied in a gentle voice. "But I'll trade you. Your last name for hers. An even swap. I've given up on guessing the first letter; I can't even remember which ones I've tried."

Clair had stepped back as he spoke. Her smile had returned, and she was shaking her head slowly. "I have to go now," she announced. "I'll see you again. Soon."

"Don't you know which day? Perhaps the time?"

Her smile widened. "Maybe I do. But maybe not. I don't know everything, David."

"But you know some things." He scrutinized her countenance for clues, for a hint to _anything_ that could explain this.

"I know I like you. Not many people deserve to be liked."

David had been aware of that latter sentiment for quite some time now.

Clair had begun moving backwards toward the gate. "Goodbye," she said tenderly.

And then she reached up to open the latch, pulled the gate toward her, and departed the courtyard.

#  Chapter Sixteen

It wasn't until their fourth date that Genevieve began to open herself up to David. The first three times they'd gone out had been cautious forays for both of them: feeling their way, trying not to delve too deeply into the past, attempting not to invest too much hope in the possibility of a future.

One of the many benefits of living in a small town, as David had discovered, was that to pick up his date, all he had to navigate were the six and a half blocks between the Rainbow Arms and Genevieve's house.

"So how long have you lived here?" he asked as she closed and locked her front door behind her. Once again, they were going to stroll to Shady Grove's business district. This time, however, no reservation had been made. The vagaries of chance were being allowed some sway, now that a foundation for their relationship had been established.

"Most of my life," she replied. "We moved to this house when I was five."

David knew that Genevieve's parents had died. He wasn't sure how far he could probe without hitting a sinkhole. "What did they do?"

She smiled at him, and he could see sadness lurking in her eyes. "My father was a cabinetmaker. A craftsman. He had his own business in town, right at the corner of Willow and Sixth. He built the glass-fronted cabinets and shelves in the dining room that you were admiring a few minutes ago." Her hand rose to ensure that her hair, done up in a bun again, was still perfectly in place. "My mother was a housewife. She could have been anything – she spoke three languages, and had degrees in both Mathematics and Applied Sciences – but she wanted to be there as I grew up. She wanted to raise me herself."

They turned onto Fifth Street, heading toward Gum Avenue. "She did all right," David said sincerely. "With you, I mean. You... turned out pretty amazingly."

She didn't glance over at him, though, and he wondered if it was his poorly worded compliment, or if the subject just needed to be changed.

Genevieve continued to look directly ahead of them. "I don't know if I turned out the way they'd hoped. French mother, Scottish father, each well-educated and well-read. I wanted to be like both of them. Funny and creative like him, exacting yet happy like she was. I certainly got the creative and the exacting, but funny I'm not. And happiness? Well, it's been elusive. But perhaps it's that way for everyone."

David almost guffawed, thinking of his own recent failures at being happy. But he didn't. "They had a good marriage?" he asked instead.

She nodded. "Yes. They fought occasionally, tremendous, ear-bending fights that had me running to hide in my bed, but they loved each other. A lot. They were good for each other, they... I'm glad they died together. That's a horrible thing to say, I know, but I've had many years to think about it, and I don't believe that either one of them would have enjoyed living without the other."

"But wouldn't they – " Her hand had jerked up, and David halted in mid-question.

"Wouldn't whichever one that survived have me? Yes. But I wouldn't have been enough, for either of them. That's what I meant when I said I don't know if I was entirely the daughter they'd wanted. For my mother, I was too independent, too... No, that's not even the right word, it implies that I roamed free. I just didn't _need_ her enough once I hit a certain age, say eleven or so. And she loved it best when I needed her. And as for my father? I know that he loved me more than anyone in the world outside of my mother, but I never could have replaced her. Ever. When I was in high school, I would sometimes catch him looking at me with this touch of disappointment. I don't think it was anything I said or did, or the person I was becoming. Only now, nearly fifteen years later, can I understand what that most likely was: he couldn't comprehend why I wasn't turning out exactly like her, which is how I think he saw me as a child, who he _wanted_ me to become. A miniature version of Hélène Beaumont MacGuffie."

Genevieve stopped walking. She grasped hold of David's hand. "Can we not talk about this all night? And yes, I know that it's _me_ doing all the talking. Please, David?"

And then David did the unthinkable. He took hold of her and kissed her. Roughly, almost violently. Genevieve was too shocked to respond at first, but then she did, eagerly, joining him in a heated embrace that lasted for what felt like minutes, like hours.

And then he pulled back, slowly. "I... I'm sorry. About that. I didn't – "

"I liked it. A lot." Her countenance was flushed. "And it's about time, too. Fourth date, you know. I was starting to worry."

He laughed. "And you say you're not funny."

"I'm not!" She began swinging their hands, still clasped together. "Let's go somewhere quick to eat tonight. I want to have food that's bad for me, and then walk some more and talk. Or listen to you talk, about happier subjects. Would that be okay with you, David?"

This was more than okay with David. And so they ate at Rocky's Sandwiches, not the sandwich shop adjacent to Gâteaupia, but one out in the netherworld between Shady Grove's business district and its farmland. Neither one of them saw a soul they knew.

"Lydia's certainly become more taken with you the last couple of weeks," Genevieve said as they slurped split pea soup and munched on BLTs with extra bacon.

"Feast or famine," he replied with a grin. "And while we're on the subject of Lydia, what's with all the things she keeps saying to me? Screwy cake names that just sound awful?"

This time it was Genevieve who laughed. "I told her how you said she made every cake sound incredible. She's... oh, tell me one of them! She's just seeing if she can make the most terrible cake in the world sound good to you."

"Yesterday, it was apple dumpling Bundt fantasy, with a tunnel of peanut butter and Maraschino cherries. A few days before, it was a gooey molasses-garbanzo bean layer cake, or something completely insane like that." David set down his sandwich, still grinning. "Is she making fun of me?"

Genevieve shook her head, trying not to burst into the kind of laughter that would draw the attention of every patron at the diner. "She's... It's totally, totally my fault, but she's been making hay out of that counter girl thing, too."

"You told her I said that? Oh!" David's palm slapped his forehead. " _That's_ embarrassing!"

She reached forward to place her hand atop his. "No. Not at all. All of us actually found it hilarious, especially the fact that you didn't know it was my business. I think... it helped. With how they feel, I mean. The girls might be a little scared of me sometimes."

"Sometimes?" David smirked. "You're a one-woman phenomenon, creating fantastical cakes out of the air and running the business besides. I'd be scared of you, too!"

Her fingers tightened on his hand. " _Are_ you scared of me, David?"

He thought about it, and then moved his head from side to side. "No. Yes." And then he rolled his eyes. "Okay, maybe a little. But just a little."

Genevieve's eyes, though, were twinkling. "You shouldn't be. I'm... far from perfect. And you should have tried some of the five thousand cakes I attempted that _didn't_ make the store's lineup."

"I would have loved to. I bet not one of them was a total clunker."

Her hand returned to her side of the table. "Oh, a few of them were. Some tasted good, looked bad. Others tasted bad, looked good. The best ones I worried, worried, and worried over until they were just right."

"Let me build you a website."

"Huh? Why?"

"It's what I do. I won't charge you for it, even if..." He motioned briskly between the two of them. "...even if this doesn't work out."

"But... why would you do that? And what could a website do for Gâteaupia? We're pretty well-established in Shady Grove."

David sat back in his chair. "A website could garner you business from all the towns within a hundred miles, further even. Trust me, no one in the _state_ can do what you do! And just to be fair, I _will_ charge you for it. My price will be cake. Lots of cake. Any time I want a piece."

Genevieve appeared disconcerted. "It's not worth it. That's hundreds of hours of your time, most likely. In exchange for something that I would probably offer you for free, anyway."

"Not if we break up. You wouldn't give me free cake if we broke up."

"But we're not even together!"

"Then what was that back on the street there?"

"I welcome _all_ newcomers to Shady Grove like that!"

"Then I want to be welcomed again. I enjoyed being welcomed to your town like that."

"I'll see what I can manage after dinner. Eat up, your soup is getting cold."

It was a special evening for both David and Genevieve, ripe with banter and affection, underlined with a burgeoning sexual tension. By the conclusion of their meal, her hair had started to slip out of its tightly wound bun, and David had begun to see her as far less forbidding than he had before.

They strolled hand-in-hand down Willow toward the public square. She pointed out the building where her father's woodworking shop had been, and David showed her the auto repair business where Grandpa Wilcott had worked for most of his adult life.

"He and my Grandma got married right down there. In the Episcopal Church just past the library."

"Oh, it's beautiful inside. Have you seen it?"

"No, I've never been in."

The two of them climbed the steps of the church, but the doors to the narthex were locked.

"Another time, then," said Genevieve as, disappointed, they retraced their steps to the street. "Can we go to the park for a bit? Will you be too cold?"

David gave her hand a brisk squeeze. "Isn't it supposed to be me asking you that?"

She smiled. "I'm fine. You just have to let me know when you're ready to go back to the house. I was hoping you'd want to come in for a bit."

"Oh! Pressure's on now. Let's go up on the stage! I came here a few times to see plays when I was a kid. I always wanted to see what it looked like from up there."

So they jumped onto the concrete stage of the outdoor amphitheater, and David strode about, testing various lines from various Shakespeare plays in his best stentorian tones.

Genevieve remained silent, but eventually pointed out to David that a group of teenagers was not so subtly enjoying his theatrics from the audience, where they were passing around what looked like a pair of marijuana cigarettes.

He blushed, gave one last brief oration from _Hamlet_ as Genevieve hopped off the stage, and then bowed before following her. They wended their way through the square down to Oak Avenue, and then rested for a few minutes on the town hall steps, watching as the moon rose slowly, slowly over the eastern edge of Shady Grove.

"I like it here," said David, taking her hand again. He pulled her toward him, and she slid a few inches closer.

"I like it here, too," she replied. "And look. Right there, above the tallest tree. That's the window where we stood, that day we met. Three weeks ago."

"Three weeks? That's it?" David tossed her hand back. "Too soon, too soon. Small town rules: no holding hands until at least six months have elapsed."

"Ha!" She reached for him again. "My father always said that I could start dating after I got married. But you'd be surprised. For all that big cities have a bad reputation for things like that, it actually occurs a lot quicker in places like this. I'd be embarrassed to tell you how many girls in my graduating class got pregnant their senior year."

"Were you one of them?"

"God, no! I was the perfect-in-every-way valedictorian."

He snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Oh, I worked for it. While everyone else was out partying every weekend, I was the nerdy girl hitting the books and volunteering at The Restful Nook."

"And you still do."

She leaned into him, pushing him to the side. "I go now because I love to, silly. I went then because I thought it would look good on my college applications. And it did!"

David righted himself again. "Do you have any dreams beyond Shady Grove? Expanding Gâteaupia, maybe? Or opening it in a major city?"

"No," she replied without hesitation. "Why would I want that? Business is good, and if I need more, _you_ can drum some up with that website of yours. We can knock out ten wedding cakes a weekend! How about you?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I've had my big city experience. I think I'm done with it. Or maybe it's done with me, I'm not sure which."

She released his hand, and then threaded her arm through his. "I do want more. But I want to do it here. I want to make things better in Shady Grove."

"Like how? A longer trolley route? More dessert shops?"

That earned him a slap on the thigh. "Nobody'd better _try_ to open another one. I'll eat 'em alive!"

"I bet you would. And they'd deserve it, too."

"I joined the board of the business association last year. I got someone to nominate me and ran. You've been down to Easton Avenue, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "A little gamey. You know I live a block away. It can get scary down there at night."

"I know. I want to try to do something about it, stop it from spreading into the town. Too many people are leaving Shady Grove, though, and not enough move here like you." She closed her eyes. "I also want to start a support group to help... well, people who need support. Because they're confused sexually, and they don't know what to do."

"Are _you_ confused sexually?" David asked. And then he took a breath. "And I'm sorry. That came out really stupid. Please, go on."

Eyes open, she flashed him a weak smile. "No. Not me. But I know people who are. They feel... isolated, I suppose. It's something I've wanted to do for a while now. You're only the third person I've told."

"I think it's a great idea."

"So did Lydia and Jess."

"Jess, your friend from back East?"

"Uh, huh." She turned to look at him. "And Lydia with the hummingbird on her shoulder who thinks you're cute, and who cooks up crazy cake names to make you smile. Do you have any friends who aren't straight?"

David blinked. Unbelievably, he couldn't think of any. Any friends, period. And beyond that, any former friends who had been brave enough to step out of the closet. "No," he answered aloud. "I don't."

"Well, then I won't make you go to any meetings. If we ever get that far." She stood. "Walk me back to my house?"

He rose as well. "Absolutely."

And though they only kissed and cuddled that night, nothing further, it was a magical evening that both of them thought of often. A perfect, enchanted few hours that nourished their bond, and nurtured their hopes that the future might hold similar experiences.

Similar experiences there had been, but not in the abundance either had wished for. Still, they each made it work.

They wanted to. They needed to.

#  Chapter Seventeen

After a couple hours of light work, David was ready to take Johnson out for a walk. He'd built the template for an entire series of Culpepper Mills product web pages, but all he'd been able to think about was Clair. Clair, and the kooky things she'd said to him.

_You will know yourself, David_.

What the hell did that mean?

One day. Soon.

Wednesday? Friday? Was he about to join a self-realization fellowship?

And Clair had almost indicated that she _did_ have some sort of idea as to when she and David would next see each other: _Maybe I do. But maybe not_.

What was with that screwy girl? And how had Johnson known she was in the courtyard, anyway?

"Johnson!"

The dog raised its head to gaze at David. His ears were perky, his tail wagging. He knew what time it was.

"Johnson, how did you know Clair was there earlier?"

Johnson barked.

"No, seriously. How did you know?"

No response. Only the eagerness of a simple animal, ready to savor the innumerable pleasures that an excursion about the streets of Shady Grove could offer.

"Fine. Keep it to yourself. But I'll let you maul an entire bully stick if you spill." David stood up, and grabbed Johnson's leash off its hook. "Ready?"

But Johnson was already ahead of him. Leash snapped on, they stepped into the common area and David closed the door behind them.

"Hi, David." The voice was shy, uncertain.

He turned. "Janice. How are you?"

Janice didn't look good. She was haggard, her features drawn and pale. Her blond hair, usually her best attribute, was bedraggled, appearing to have been snared in its limp ponytail.

"I've had better weeks," she said without a hint of levity. "I tried to find you last night, but you weren't home."

"No," David answered, "I was out pretty late. I looked for you too, yesterday afternoon. Wouldn't blame you for staying away, though."

Her eyebrows lifted and then fell. "I missed two days at Bargain Bin this week. Swapped days with someone to go see my mother Wednesday, and then I couldn't work Thursday 'cause of this. Had to make 'em up. You and Johnson going out?"

"Just on a walk."

She shifted her purse. "Mind if I tag along for a bit? I have to get dressed to go to work again soon, but I don't like being in there too long."

David nodded. "Sure. You're always welcome to."

"Let me put this inside. Be out in a sec." She turned toward her apartment door and stepped inside.

Two minutes later, she was back. Her hair was down, and her face had been scrubbed clean. "Didn't realize how crappy I looked," she said by way of explanation. "Certainly couldn't show up to the The Hot Spot like that. Gonna have to pile on the makeup tonight."

"Long shift?" David asked as they headed through the lobby, Johnson in the lead.

"The usual for Sunday. Six to ten. This morning was rough, after a Saturday six to midnight."

"Rough week overall," he commented as they turned right onto Piston.

"Yeah. Shitty. Totally."

They walked in silence then for a few minutes. Janice's footsteps were hurried, almost frantic, and David slowed his pace a jot, realizing that she'd probably always had to walk like this, her legs being quite a bit shorter than the average person's. She didn't glance over at him even once, just stared straight ahead of her as she plowed forward.

At Third Street, she veered left, and David, who would normally head north or go straight here, followed. After a brief second of confusion, Johnson was back in front again.

"Do you – " David began to say. But Janice had started to speak simultaneously. "You first," he said with a smile.

"You didn't grow up with money, did you?" she asked.

He considered. "I wouldn't exactly say that. My folks were up and down. Sometimes we'd be skipping out in the middle of the night, sometimes they were so flush it seemed like the money would never run out. But it usually did. Why?"

"You're a little off sometimes. Though I don't mean that bad. You fit in, but you're educated. You're nicer than most people who're educated. I just wanted to know, is all."

They turned right onto Easton, and David was reminded yet again of why he and Johnson didn't come down here too often. Broken bottles littered the gutters, the front lawns of decaying apartment buildings were brown, the street itself looked as if it hadn't been paved in decades.

"I like the park up here," Janice said. "It's a nice place to just sit sometimes."

David kept his reaction off his face. The only park on Easton was Denby Pocket Park, a civic renewal project that had probably needed renewing itself within weeks of its grand opening. "You don't like the public square?" he asked.

"You mean that chichi park in uptown? No. It's too big, and I always feel like I don't belong there. Saw a show once in that theater they got with one of my friends from work, but neither of us could understand a single thing they were saying, so we left."

David couldn't help but smile. The Shady Grove Elizabethan Players was an amateur acting society that put on free performances several nights each summer. They were amusing to watch not only for the plays, but for the familiar hams who invariably emoted as if they were strutting the boards on Broadway.

"See? It's just like the garden back at our building. The right size for a park, and lots of places to sit, too."

David took in the desolation of Denby Pocket Park. There _was_ plenty of seating, mostly because there were more concrete benches than grassy areas. Two street people were camped in a corner eating their supper out of cans, and at the far end was a huddle of scrawny men, clearly taking care of some sort of iniquitous business.

Janice's pace didn't slow, for which David was grateful. The last thing he wanted to do this afternoon was to sit a spell on Easton Avenue while Johnson whimpered because he wasn't allowed to go off leash.

They began to cross Second Street.

"Heck came down here a lot," Janice said. "When he was in town."

David thought it best not to reply.

She glanced over at him. "I'm not an idiot. I know what he did. I never had nothin' to do with it, though."

He cleared his throat. "I never would have thought so, Janice. And from what I read in the papers, the police didn't, either."

"The police!" she spat out. "That oaf who looks like he slid right out of a magazine so his shit don't stink. Someone should go off him, see how many folks miss _his_ bull crap!"

David grinned. He'd had a feeling that Janice wouldn't have developed a fondness for Detective Ormsby.

"At least it didn't get out what Heck did to me," she said in a gentler tone. "I appreciate that. You not sayin' anything and all."

"I would have had to answer if he'd asked specific questions," David replied. "But he didn't."

She nodded. "Bill left it alone, too."

"He said he helped you clean up. Was it... awful?"

She emitted a sound that was a cross between a snort and a snicker. "You mean, did it suck, mopping up my boyfriend's blood and brains off the kitchen floor? Yeah. Bill did all the heavy stuff. I just tried not to cry while I handed him things."

David drew a long breath as they turned right on First to head north. "Do you... I mean, what happened was terrible. But is there a part of you that... that..."

"That's glad Heck died?" she finished for him. "Don't worry, David. You're not the first to ask. _Yes_ , there's this part of me that's happy. A very small part. But if it wasn't Heck, it would've been someone else."

"You mean, doing that to you?"

She shot him a hard look. "Guys have always beat on me, David. Startin' with my Dad and my brothers. Maybe it's the size thing, maybe it's my hair or my mouth. I don't know, I'm just used to it, I guess. If they didn't hit me once in a while, I'd probably start to worry."

"But – "

"It's not normal in your world, is it?" she interrupted.

David couldn't imagine a world where that kind of thing could be _considered_ normal. "No." he answered.

"So leave it. I'm not gonna pretend I understand everything about Heck, or men, or life beyond what I know. I have to take what comes my way and do the best I can with it."

"Do you think those two guys really did it?"

Janice choked out a laugh. "Deke and Thickman? Yeah, they're capable. Heck was too, if you really want to get down to it. He'd had his share of run-ins with other guys in his business, and I don't think all of them ended with a handshake and a pat on the back."

"But why? Just because he owed them money?"

"Heck _always_ owed somebody money. But he always paid it back, too. Maybe they just got impatient. The three of them were... friends, as much as anybody could be in that world. But money is money. If you need it, and somebody else has some of yours, you're gonna take it."

They had crossed Piston and Dr. Longworth Avenues. Smithfield was next.

"Why do you think Clair told you to visit your mother?" David asked. And then hurriedly, as she stared at him, "I saw her earlier today. In the courtyard. It came up." No need to bring Bill into it.

"That girl does say the darndest things," Janice replied, still studying him. She broke their gaze as they turned onto Smithfield, heading east. "It was a good thing I went, though."

"Why?"

"My mother had one of her asthmatic fits, about two hours after I got there. Usually my brother Joey – he lives with her – makes sure she has fresh inhalers, but Joey was pullin' graveyard that night, and she had no idea where anything was. I drove her down to Emergency Care, they pumped her full of Ipratropium or something that sounds a lot like that, and she was back home in an hour."

"So..." David was almost gawking. "If Clair hadn't said anything..."

Another dubious look. " _Maybe_ she wouldn't have been okay, but she probably would have looked a hell of a lot harder for her inhaler if she was the only one in the house!"

"But Janice, it's such a coincidence that your going out of town that day maybe saved your mother's life, on top of your not being in Shady Grove during the day Wednesday when it happened!"

"What?" She halted to face him, hands on her hips. Johnson glanced back as he pulled up as well, most likely as entranced by the sight of the indignant kewpie doll as David was. "You really think that little Clair, who's probably in kindergarten, knew somehow that my mother was going to need to go to the hospital? And that I'd need a good story just in case Heck got knocked off in my apartment a couple days later?"

She glared at him, an eerie echo of Genevieve at her challenging worst. A woman pushing a stroller sidled quickly around them. A car honked twice as it drove by, but neither Janice nor David turned to see if the summons was meant for them.

"She's in first grade," David said quietly. "Not kindergarten. And yes, I do think that she knew what would happen to your mother. And maybe to Heck as well. I don't know why, but I do."

Janice's eyes remained obdurate, but her chin rose as she began to bite on the insides of her cheeks. Genevieve no more, she was thinking about it, mulling over the doubts she had experienced herself once the sequence of odd events had run its course.

"It wasn't the first time she said something like that to me," Janice said.

"About your mother?" David asked.

Her head shook. "No. She knew I drove up to visit her every few months. She asked me once where I grew up. I'd gone to the garden to see if you were there, and she was there instead, all by herself. We talked a few minutes, and after I asked her where else she'd lived before, she started askin' about me. I don't know, I usually shut down when people go there. But she talked just like an adult and yet she was a child, so I guess I felt okay tellin' her."

"What was it she said? I mean, that was similar. And... where else had she lived?"

Janice's eyes went blank for a few seconds, and then she pivoted and began walking again. "Ya know, she never said. I just realized that. How weird."

They began to cross Second Street.

"It was my friend, Stacey. At The Hot Spot, we usually work the same shifts. Clair saw me as I was leavin' that night. She was with that strange woman, but she stopped me and took hold of my hand. 'Wait until she gets on the bus,' she said in this low, serious voice. And then the woman came forward and they both went upstairs. But that night, as I was headin' for the trolley after work, I turned 'round and saw Stacey, just sittin' down to wait for the late bus to Greenville. And what Clair had said started to bother me. Who the hell else could she have meant? So I went and sat with Stacey, and sure enough, a couple minutes later her ex pops out of the bushes, drunk as a coot and in a fightin' mood to boot. He got all belligerent, but we both just shouted him down till he slunk away. She got on her bus, and I went home and tried not to overthink it all."

"Did you ever ask Clair what she'd meant?" David asked as they turned right on Third.

"Nope! I didn't want to find out. But when she did that hand thing again and told me I should visit my mother, I knew I'd be going. No doubt, no delay."

And as had happened at the beginning of their walk, the pair then lapsed into silence. Johnson appeared unaware of the absence of conversation, continuing to drive forward with the same eagerness he'd displayed throughout their saunter through southern Shady Grove. They crossed Dr. Longworth Avenue, and then turned left onto Piston. The Rainbow Arms was a block and a half away, then a block, and then, as they traversed Fifth, a few hundred feet.

Janice stopped walking before they entered the lobby. David and Johnson halted as well.

"I want to thank you," she said. She was looking up at him, her expression somber and sincere.

"For what?" David signaled for Johnson to sit, which the dog did obediently.

"For being kind. For listenin' to me."

"It's nothing you don't do with me," he replied with a smile.

"You never talk about yourself," Janice said. "I mean, you do, but you always shift right out of it and then turn the attention to me again. Most guys, they... Well, they don't give a shit about nobody but themselves. So that's it. I just wanted to say thanks."

David reached toward her to place his hand on her arm. "Janice. There's no need to thank me. Truly. I always enjoy talking with you. I just hope that this whole thing that happened – "

Johnson had risen and barked, twice. David's hand fell to his side as both he and Janice turned toward the street, where a dark blue Volkswagen Passat had just pulled up. The window was rolling down.

"Shit," David muttered as he caught sight of Genevieve's angry visage inside the vehicle.

"What? She doesn't think..." Janice began to say, but David was already striding toward the car, Johnson tugging him forward.

"Hell – " he almost managed to say, but Genevieve overrode him.

"I called you. Twice. I texted you, _three_ times. Let me guess. Yet again, you have absolutely no idea where your phone is."

David automatically patted his pocket, but she was correct: his phone hadn't gone along on the walk. "Is anything wrong?" he asked. "What happened?"

Her face tensed, and she must have accidentally touched the accelerator, for the car jerked forward a few inches before the brakes were stomped.

" _Nothing_ is wrong!" she exclaimed. "I just thought I'd drop by and take you out to dinner! But obviously, you're busy."

"No!" David leaned toward her, almost placed his hands on the passenger side doorframe, but then thought better of it. "We just took a walk. With Johnson. That was all!"

"And that's exactly what it looked like," Genevieve snapped. "I always make sure to end _my_ walks with a caress or two as well. Have a good evening, you two!"

And then she hit the gas pedal deliberately, flooring the Volkswagen so hard that the brakes practically screamed when she had to slam on them at the end of the block. She veered right on Fifth, and was out of sight in less than a second.

Janice had stepped forward until she was a few feet behind David. "Was that for real?" she asked quietly.

He turned and nodded. "She can get like that. Must have been a long day for her at work."

Janice pursed her lips. "I'll trade jobs with her any day," she murmured.

David had to resist the urge to reach toward her again. Underneath Janice's rigid exterior he could sense anger, disdain, disbelief, and a small dash of guilt. "We didn't do anything wrong," he said to her. "I've always told her, we just talk."

Her eyes locked onto his. "I know it, you know it, God knows it." And then her head began to shake from side to side. "But none of that means a thing if she's got the wrong idea stuck up top."

"I'll talk to her." David looked down at the sidewalk. "I'll talk to her."

#  Chapter Eighteen

David didn't talk to Genevieve on Sunday night. He found his phone in the most obvious place it could be, charging atop his computer desk, and after feeding Johnson, he read her texts and listened to her messages. An hour and a half later, having allowed to elapse what he considered a reasonable cooling-off period, he tried calling her, but she didn't answer. He decided not to leave a message.

Sunday was the hardest day of the week for Genevieve. Gâteaupia was open Tuesday through Sunday, so it was her sixth consecutive workday. And while the store's busiest day was Saturday, Sunday was when she did payroll, managed the upcoming specialty orders, and dealt with baking supplies, and tax forms, and the four hundred other miscellaneous chores a small business owner had to juggle.

Sunday night was not usually David's favorite opportunity to spend time with Genevieve.

And her dismissive rudeness regarding Janice... it must have been an exceptionally stressful day at the bakery for her to lash out as she had. David had to admit that it probably _looked_ funny, him with his hand on Janice's arm as they faced each other in front of the Rainbow Arms. But seriously, if he were conducting nefarious double-dealings with other women, wouldn't he have been intelligent enough to do so behind closed doors?

Janice had asked if she should call Genevieve, to at least leave her a message clarifying how she and David had arrived at that moment. But David had demurred, knowing full well how delighted an exhausted Genevieve would be to hear Janice on her voicemail.

At eight, having had quite enough of staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, David rose and, along with Johnson, made his way through the courtyard to Bill's cottage. He knocked on the front door.

"Open!" was shouted from inside. David and Johnson entered.

"Heyyuh. C'mon in 'n sit a spell. Game's on. Cubs're eatin' it, big time."

Johnson trotted right up to Bill, who grunted as he leaned forward in his easy chair to run a hand along Johnson's head. "Hey there, dog. How ya doing, Johnson, ole fella?"

Bill was much drunker than David was used to seeing. He felt in his pocket for his watch, but both it and his phone were still in the apartment. Besides, he knew that it was only a couple minutes after eight.

"Ya want one? Still a few in the fridge. C'mon, have a sheat."

David took in the scatter of empty beer cans on the floor beside Bill's chair. And then he shut the door behind him, headed to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. A box of pizza, two apples, and five cans of Miller Genuine Draft stared back at him.

"Bring me 'nother?" was called out from the front room.

"How about an apple?" David returned. "This pizza looks good." He poked open the top of the box and grimaced; it looked like a puddle of congealed fat slathered over a cutting board.

"Just the beer!" was shouted back with a touch of distemper.

"Got it." David grabbed two cans, and handed one to Bill on his way to his usual chair. "Who's playing?"

"Cubs 'n D-backs." Bill cracked open the beer. "Arizona's killin' 'em. Eighth innin', no chance in hell they're comin' back." He tilted his head, and appeared to drain most of the can in one swig.

David thought about not drinking any – Bill would most likely blow through the rest of his stash in the next half hour – but one less beer wouldn't kill Bill, and David needed a touch of _something_ to alleviate his irritation. He popped his top, and gulped down a quarter of the can.

"Good, ain't it? Turned the fridge down to the freeze my nuts off settin' to get the Miller jus' right."

David loved it. The cold brew was exactly what he needed after a couple hours of dry reflection.

"So... gotta ask ya somethin', David." Bill lifted his remote and lowered the volume of the game.

"Fire away. Just don't ask for any advice about women."

Bill guffawed, and an explosion of suds sailed out of his mouth to splatter his pants. He didn't seem to notice. "Those days is done 'n gone. Done 'n gone, my friend. Old Bill's partaken of his last partakin'. Sad but true." His beer rose again as if to salute this.

David couldn't even begin to formulate a sensible reply.

"Saw ya in the garden today," Bill went on after a long hoist. "With her. With that girl."

It took David a few seconds to realize that Bill meant Clair. The episode with Janice and Genevieve had pushed all thought of the morning's encounter with her out of his head. "Yeah?" he said aloud.

"What'd she say to ya?" Bill's eyes were as bright as his reddened forehead, and the reflected light from the TV made him appear slightly demented.

David gulped some more beer, attempting to sort through all that Clair had said. "I asked her why she knew so much. _How_ she knew so much. She didn't answer. Big surprise. Why?"

Bill leaned further toward him. David got a thick whiff of his breath, and it wasn't good: fermented halitosis with an undercoating of decay. "When she took your hand. What'd she say to ya then? Was too soft for me to hear."

"Mmm." David tried not to dwell on the weirdness of Bill down on his knees, eavesdropping through a crack in the wooden fence as a first grade girl took hold of David's hand to whisper bizarre prognostications into his ears. "Something about me knowing myself. That I would do so. Some day. Soon."

Bill continued to gawk at him, his intense gaze turning by slow degrees more and more befuddled. "What?" he asked, a detonation of spittle going along for the ride. "What's _that_ s'posed to mean?"

David shrugged. "I don't know. It was strange, even for Clair. But that was what she said: that I'd know myself."

"Bah!" Bill's hand flew up to bat at the air. "Bah! I jus' think she's crazy!" He sat back in his chair again, and David began to breathe once more with relief.

The can he had brought Bill was emptied, crushed, and discarded. The volume of the game was turned up. Bill's eyes became glazed as he focused on the TV again, and David realized that he didn't want to be here anymore.

He stood, and Johnson leapt up as well. "I gotta go call Genevieve," he announced. "You want me to grab you another one before I head out?"

A grunt and a nodded head were his answer.

"All right." David got Bill a fresh one, thumped his shoulder twice, and then turned toward him one last time before leaving. "You want anything else? A sandwich, maybe? I can bring one over for you; I haven't made dinner yet, anyway."

Bill didn't even look at him. "Nah," he uttered as he popped open the new can.

"Take care, Bill. Hope you get some sleep." David stepped outside, and quietly closed the door behind him. And then he and Johnson walked through the darkened courtyard before returning to apartment 1F for the remainder of the evening.

#  Chapter Nineteen

It was Monday morning, normally the time for clear-eyed organization and planning for the coming week. This Monday morning, however, David was in a fog. He'd woken up late, and thus had had to take Johnson on his walk before breakfast. He hadn't gone shopping for almost a week, so his first meal of the day was dry cereal with no milk or fruit. And Johnson wasn't coming to Culpepper Mills with him today, because David worried that Detective Ormsby's visit regarding his alibi for the previous Wednesday had ruffled more than a few feathers. The last thing he needed to do was to waltz in yet again with his dog, pester the staff with his usual arcane questions, and then discover that Johnson had shat on the already pissed off CEO's carpet while David was away from his desk for a few minutes.

At least Genevieve's animosity had downgraded from boil to simmer. David had finally texted her a bit after ten the night before, asking if they could have dinner again on Monday. At 11:45 his phone had lit up on the pillow beside him: "Fine. 7:00. You make the reservation." It hadn't woken him up; he had been unable to fall asleep until nearly two.

Johnson lay sulkily on the old couch after David told him he wouldn't be coming. It was incredible how animals could act just like humans in their petty reactions to circumstances they didn't like! But business was business, and David intuitively understood that he needed to toe the company line for the moment.

He closed and locked the apartment door behind him, and then rushed to catch the trolley that would hit Piston and Third in a few minutes. To walk to Culpepper Mills would only be fifteen minutes more, but he wanted to be inside the front doors before ten.

As the trolley slid north, David closed his eyes and attempted to compartmentalize the many rivers of silt muddying his thoughts. Clair, Janice and Genevieve, the primary branches. Bill, Heck and Ormsby, the tributaries dumping effluent into the system. Jess, Mrs. Rushen and Abby Lowell, bystanders on the banks whose roles were unclear, if roles they played at all in the drama.

And what about Todd, that perpetually invisible elephant in the room within David's relationship with Genevieve? Didn't he provide his own oozing, gurgling stream of negativity, weaving himself into so many conversations and wordless glances and recriminations?

But of course, the recriminations were mostly in David's head, and knowing this fact only caused him to brew up even _more_ recriminations regarding his utter lack of self-control.

He opened his eyes as Birch Avenue slid by. Should he go talk to Abby again? But what good could that do? She would merely repeat what she'd already told him, that he needed to give it more time, and allow Genevieve to work through her issues at her own speed, and in her own way.

Besides, David could already anticipate Abby's disappointment in him if he broached the same subjects again. Especially if the two of them had discussed him on Sunday when Genevieve had visited.

Which, of course, they had.

So why couldn't he navigate the course of his relationship with Genevieve without help? And why were the people from whom he sought aid always _her_ friends?

But David knew the answer to the latter question: he had no friends of his own. And as for the former? He shook his head in resignation. He had no confidence in his ability to sustain a relationship, so why should he be surprised when one was unable to be sustained?

The trolley's bell rang twice as it crossed Larch, and David stood, ready to exit at Willow. He could talk to Lydia, but that idea still bumped solidly into the fact that she worked for Genevieve, their friendship aside. As well, he couldn't help but acknowledge to himself that not-so-ignorable truth that Lydia's outrageous flirting catered mightily to his ego. Whether her attentions were in seriousness or not was quite another matter.

As he hopped onto the sidewalk and began taking brisk strides toward Fourth Street, his thoughts turned yet again to Clair. Clair of the shiny saddle shoes, and the strangely worded phrases, and the seeming inability to answer a single question with a straight answer. What was he to make of Clair?

The mullioned-glass doors of the Culpepper Mills offices loomed. It was time for David to get to work.

~*~*~*~*~

Two and a half hours later, David had slipped product details onto a score of web pages, built two more templates, and learned more about the inner workings of a warehousing floor operation than he'd ever desired to know. The knowledge did have some application to his chore, as he was the architect in charge of how orders would now be translated from consumer to company, but the long-winded manager with whom he'd met had been a virtual fountain of useless, rambling information.

David _had_ discovered that the search for Hector Vance's murderers was intensifying. John "Deke" Decatur and Lewis Allan Thickman were now considered prime suspects, according to the newspaper one of Culpepper Mills' vice presidents had brought in to show him, she being the unfortunate corroborator Detective Ormsby had found to question about David's whereabouts on the day in question.

"Poor Janice," he had muttered to himself as he'd skimmed the article before returning to his tasks. The suspected killers were thought to be hiding out somewhere in Greenville, and it had turned out that the 'sister-in-law' with whom Heck stayed while there was in reality another girlfriend, who'd been entirely unaware of the existence of Janice Templeton.

David backed up his morning's work, and then headed outside. There wasn't any point in visiting Gâteaupia, since it was closed, so he bought a sandwich and an orange juice, and then strolled south on Fourth Street as he ate his lunch. He'd work from home for the rest of the day, and hopefully Johnson would forgive him by the time the two of them took their afternoon walk.

While at Culpepper Mills, David had managed to keep his thoughts away from all that had occupied him before. But as he left the Shady Grove business district behind, the various conundrums began to descend once again. Genevieve, Clair, Janice, Ormsby.

But Ormsby was probably off chasing bad guys in Greenville. And Janice could take care of herself, was probably already shrugging off, in fact, Heck's latest duplicity as something _else_ she expected the men in her life to do naturally.

Which left Genevieve and Clair.

He crossed Gum, and briefly entertained the idea of turning onto Birch to drop by Genevieve's house for a few minutes.

But that was a terrible idea. She'd only be irritated with him, and would probably cancel their dinner engagement to boot.

David traversed Birch, continuing south. He tossed the last bit of his sandwich into a trashcan, and drained his orange juice before dumping the cup in as well.

A pair of women walked by with kids in tow, and David nodded to them as they smiled at him. Up ahead, a group of parents was crossing Fourth at Marion Avenue, all holding the hands of what appeared to be kindergartners, probably being let out after a half day of school.

Shady Grove Elementary was on Marion, one block east at Fifth. Clair was there right now, David realized, most likely at lunch with all of the other first graders. Could he spot her on the playground if he walked by?

But before he could weigh whether or not this was a good idea, he had turned onto Marion. More parents passed by him, all offering greetings of some sort, no doubt thinking that David was on his way to the school to pick someone up himself.

The playground was a riot of children. Eating, playing, running, shouting. David looked for Clair, but quickly realized that it would be close to impossible to pick her out among the hordes of moppets streaking about the asphalt. A teacher blew a loud whistle three times, and all activity slowed for a few seconds while she admonished a boy who had just kicked another. But almost instantaneously, the frenetic whirlwind had resumed at full force.

Was this Mrs. Jenkins? The wise, empathetic teacher who Clair so clearly admired? David didn't think so; this woman appeared to be in her early twenties, and her visage was already displaying the fine, harsh lines of the impatience that she felt for her youthful charges.

He entered the school's lobby.

"Can I help you?" An older, tired-looking civil servant rose from behind a counter.

"Hi. I was wondering if..." If what? If he could talk to someone about the strange little girl who lived in his building? "... if Mrs. Jenkins might be around."

"Are you a parent?" the woman asked.

"No," David replied. "It's a personal matter."

She stared at him for about six seconds with her eyebrows raised, and then picked up a phone, still standing erect with her eyes glued to the visitor. "Carol?" she said. "You got a few minutes for someone to see you on a personal matter?"

David heard the murmur of a response emerge from the receiver.

The mouthpiece was covered. "Name?" she asked him brusquely.

"David Wilcott," he answered, feeling even stupider than before.

This was repeated into the mouthpiece. And then a second later, the receiver was thunked down. "You know where her classroom is?"

"No. I know she teaches first grade, but I – "

A finger rose to point down a hallway. "One twenty six. Third door on the right. Eighteen minutes till lunch is over." Without anything further, the woman sat, returning her attention to whatever she'd been doing before.

David walked down the hall, smiling at the hundreds of art projects that lined the walls all the way up to the ceiling. None of them were of the quality he'd seen in Abby Lowell's room, but they were uniformly cheery, splashed with brilliant colors and bold lines.

The door to Room 126 was propped open. David knocked, and then stepped inside.

#  Chapter Twenty

"You would have to be David Wilcott." A woman sat at a colorful wooden desk at the front of the room, whiteboard behind her, classroom before her. The classroom itself was a mélange of brightly hued numbers, letters, animals, places, and elemental sentences.

"I am," David replied. "I'm sorry for bothering you during your lunch."

She smiled, a warm, engaging gesture that practically welcomed him to sit cross-legged on the plush red carpet that lay between the children's desks and her own. "You're too old to have been one of my students," she said, "and I know you're not one of my parents. No briefcase, so you're not a lawyer. What can I help you with?"

David liked her, instantly. She was in her late thirties or early forties, cute with a touch of plumpness. Her demeanor was frank yet accessible, and the friendly smile had remained on her countenance even as she waited for David to explain his business.

"You have a student named Clair in your class," he stated.

A hesitation, and then she nodded. "I do."

"I live down on Piston, at the Rainbow Arms. Clair lives there, too."

Her head tilted as her eyes grew more luminous. "I see. Mr. Wilcott, I have a feeling you might be here a few minutes. Why don't you grab that chair over there and sit right here at the desk with me?"

David moved to fetch the adult-sized chair that she had indicated with a grin. How many children had received the same amiable invitation over the years Mrs. Jenkins had been teaching here? "Please, call me David," he said aloud.

"Carol Jenkins," she replied. They shook hands over her lunch of carrots, sliced peppers, and crackers with a hummus dip. Her hand was soft yet firm, her grip solid and comfortable. "So tell me, what brings a neighbor of Clair's to Shady Grove Elementary School?"

David would have become flustered at having to yet again explain his curiosity regarding Clair, but there was something in Mrs. Jenkins' eyes that made him feel as though she were already somewhat aware of what he might say. Her gaze was even but rapt, belying her straightforward words.

"I suppose I just want to talk about her," he said. "With someone who knows her. Outside of our building, I mean. She can be a bit... unusual, for lack of a better word. The things she says, sometimes I find them haunting my thoughts. I know that things she's said to other people have made a... a difference. In their lives. In the way things happen to them." He shook his head. "Sorry! This is all coming out in a jumble."

Mrs. Jenkins hadn't shifted her gaze one jot. "What has she said to you?" she asked quietly.

His hands shot into the air. "Oh, lots of things! Starting from when I first met her. She knew my girlfriend's name, the pronunciation of it, which is unusual. I'd never seen Clair before, and she's never told me how she knew that. She never really answers _any_ question I directly ask her."

A knowing look melded with a touch of a smirk lit up the teacher's face. "She never does, does she? Answer, I mean."

"So she's the same here?" David asked eagerly. "Does she say things to you or to others that seem... profound? And yet at the same time, they're vague, and normal, and – "

Carol's hand had moved forward to gently touch one of his, breaking off his inquiry. "Let me tell you a story," she said, her voice quiet and earnest. "It will help you understand my own feelings for Clair. It might help you understand more about who she is, too."

David sat back in his chair. "Okay."

"My daughter died six years ago." And after uttering this, Carol closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. "A playground accident, right here at the school. Stupid, really. Nobody's fault. She just... fell. And because she fell on her head, at exactly the wrong angle, she... died. Instantly, thank God."

"I'm sorry," David muttered into the silence that followed this. "Truly. That's... terrible."

She nodded. "It is. It was." Her eyes fluttered open, and he could see beads of wetness in them. "I wasn't on the playground. I was right here, at this desk. Eating my lunch, just as I'm doing today. Two of the other teachers, they ran to come get me, but she was already gone. Her body was lifeless, dead." A tear began to roll down one cheek. "It was the worst day of my life. Ever. Nothing could... possibly be as bad as that day, as that day when I lost my angel, my sweet, sweet daughter."

David remained immobile, afraid to comment again, uncomfortable with the idea of leaning forward to offer the pallid comfort of touch, considering that he had only just met her.

"No one talks about it anymore. None of the other children even _know_ about it except for the few that might have heard from their parents or older siblings. But she knew. Clair knew. I could tell, from the first day she was in my classroom."

Carol opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out a box of Kleenex. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and then placed the used tissue in a wastepaper basket in the desk's kneehole.

"How did you know?" David asked in a low voice.

Her head shook. "I... I just did. The way she looked at me, it was as if... it was as if she could read everything there, see all of my thoughts." Carol's eyes met his. "I can't explain it, even to myself, but I knew. And sure enough, a couple of weeks later, she talked to me about it."

David found himself tensing, moving forward with a shiver of anticipation.

"She told me that the purple skies would bring relief. It was a few minutes after school had ended, and I was straightening up, putting things away. She had come back into the classroom without my even noticing, and I turned, and there she was. 'Clair,' I asked her, 'what did you forget?' But she just walked up to me and took my hand."

"And that is when she said it," David murmured, knowing that it was so.

Carol nodded. "Yes. Exactly. She had even drawn me a picture of what it would look like: a pale yellow moon rising over the hills above town, the sky a light purple, with stars blinking everywhere."

"And did it happen? Did you see it?"

Another nod. "A week later, on a Thursday night. Thank goodness the next day was a teacher in-service day. I don't think I could have come in if the students had been here. But I stepped outside around eight fifteen, looked up, and there it was. My husband and I live on Maple, just below downtown, and I'd wondered how she knew that I could see the hills, but... Oh, David. My heart just about stopped."

David inhaled, slowly, trying to take all of this in. "How did she... How did you know that the purple skies Clair mentioned were connected with your daughter?"

Mrs. Jenkins smiled, as simultaneously it appeared as if she were about to crumble. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "That was the other thing she said, when she was holding my hand. 'She's all right,' she told me. 'She's really all right.' And as I stood there, gazing into that beautiful, beautiful night sky, exactly as Clair had drawn it, I was truly and finally able to let go of all the pain I had held onto for six years. I began to cry, and it began to flow out of me, into the heavens, onto the grass. I fell to my knees, and the more I cried, the better I felt. She was really all right, and I knew it, _I knew it!_ The burden was lifted off of me. And even if my husband couldn't understand me or what had just happened to me, that night was the first night's sleep I'd had in years when I didn't wake up and want to just die in the morning, or just crawl back into bed and stay there until kingdom come."

Carol reached for another tissue, and David looked away from her, toward the windows that overlooked the playground. He couldn't see much more than the continuous bobbing of heads, but the muted cacophony from outside had been a constant since he'd entered Room 126.

"On Monday, when the children came back," she continued, "the first thing she did was smile at me. Just that. But I could tell that she knew it had happened." Carol blew her nose into the tissue, and David once again turned toward the desk. "She's a special girl," she added. "A very special girl."

The second tissue was tossed as well. She wiped her eyes, and then folded her hands about her lunch as she cautiously met his gaze. "She worries, you know. I believe she worries about her... gift."

David blinked. "How do you know?"

She glanced toward the ceiling. "It was a week and a half ago, I guess. Our discussion was about morals. Fables, and characters in the stories that face a choice. It's usually clear which choice is the correct one, but sometimes a little more effort has to be made. Especially when the children are this age. Clair... well, Clair raised her hand and asked how a person knows if they are good or bad."

"A fantastic question," David said.

"I agree. But this is the first time since she arrived in my class that she's willingly raised a hand, or spoken up without being asked something directly. 'What do you mean, Clair?' I asked her, trying not to give away the fact that my heart had begun to pound. She merely repeated herself: 'How can someone tell if they're a good person or a bad person?' "

"The crux of every fable," said David. "How the characters react to a situation relays to the reader whether their choices are good or bad."

"Exactly. A wise choice indicates that the character is good. A poor choice signals the opposite. Though obviously in some cases, the characters learn from their mistakes, and become good by the conclusion."

"So what did you tell her?"

Carol shrugged, exhibiting a wry expression. "I made a complete hash of it. A fifth grade class would have eaten me alive, but first graders? They're far more forgiving, fortunately. I tried to answer her question in regards to the fable we'd just been reading, _The Ant and the Dove_. But the whole time, as I kept looking at her, I just kept wondering how she'd known the things she had told me. After rambling on for a bit, I could tell that I'd lost the entire class, including Clair. But you can't ever let on to that. I wrapped it up, tied a bow on it, and then asked if everyone understood what I'd been saying."

"Twenty nodding heads?"

"Eighteen. The nineteenth was Clair, who looked disappointed in me."

David chuckled. And then his demeanor turned serious. "There was a murder in our building a few days after that."

"I know. She told me, and then it was all over the Courier."

"I..." But suddenly, David realized that he couldn't relay his suspicions regarding Clair, Janice and Heck to Mrs. Jenkins. "I was glad that she talked to you about it. That she was able to. Mrs. Rushen – the woman who takes care of her – I don't sometimes know if she's..." He foundered for a few seconds while searching for the right words. "...able to see all that Clair sees."

"I've met Mrs. Rushen," said Carol, "and I'm pretty sure that she can't see what Clair sees."

"Her first name is..." began David.

"Patricia. She's quiet, but she's gotten Clair to school on time every day, and she's waiting for her each afternoon at three. That's more than I can say for some of my actual parents."

"So she's not Clair's mother?"

Carol smiled. "No. But you already knew that. What you _didn't_ know was her first name, and I probably shouldn't have told you. But it slipped out before I could stop myself."

"Sorry," David grinned. "May I ask one more silly question?"

"This is certainly a good place for them."

"Is Clair's last name Rushen?"

Her head shook. "No. It's not."

"And I can't ask what it is?"

Another shake. "You can ask, but I've probably broken half the rules in the school code today, so I'm not going to go there."

"It's a game we play. Clair and I. She wants to know my girlfriend's last name, I always ask if she'll tell me hers."

An amused glimmer appeared in Carol's eyes. "Something tells me she's won that game, and a long time ago, too."

"Yeah." David nodded. "Yeah, I've had that feeling."

"May I ask what it was that she said to you? That brought you here to see me?"

Again, David understood that a simple response was undoubtedly the best response. "She told me yesterday that I would know myself. One day, soon. But what Clair says to people is anything but cut and dried. I'm not sure what to expect, but I'm hoping for something that's not... frightening, I suppose."

"You should expect to know yourself, David. And maybe it will be as simple as that," Carol said with a smile.

David stood, and placed his chair back where it had originally been. "I've taken up your entire lunch break," he said, "but thank you. Thank you for telling me so much, for talking with me."

She rose as well, and moved toward him. "Give me a hug," she ordered.

David complied, and was stunned by the strength with which she enfolded him. It was over almost as soon as it began, though, and she was again back by her desk. "It was good to meet you," she said. "I can see why Clair enjoys talking with you. Your girlfriend is a fortunate woman."

Embarrassed, David nodded goodbye to her, and then turned and strode out into the hallway.

~*~*~*~*~

Three-quarters of the way back to the school's lobby, a door opened on David's left. It was Clair, heading inside from the playground.

Nobody was with her. The pair was alone in the hallway.

"She's nice, isn't she?" Clair said as she halted before him. David noted that her saddle shoes looked entirely appropriate in this venue.

The door clicked shut behind her, but David discovered that he had no ability to reply. All he wanted to do was to ask yet again how she KNEW so many things that she shouldn't know, and to engage in a normal back-and-forth conversation seemed ridiculous.

"I knew you would like her," Clair added with a smile. Her right foot tapped once, twice, the sound echoing down the lonely corridor.

"How did... What are..." he managed to get out, but suddenly she was inches away, and her hand was gripping his once more. The heat that flowed from her was astounding!

"Four things that you love, you will lose," she said in that ordinary tone of voice that was so terrifying for its normality. "But one of them could be yours again. And I hope for that, David, I do."

And then a bell began to scream, and all around them, doors started slamming open as the hallway filled with children, practically pummeling each other as they scrambled toward their classrooms.

Clair and David were their own island in the center of this, all else flowing around them. And then the bell ceased, and she took one step backwards. Her smile returned, hesitant and frangible. "Goodbye, David," she said as she entered the stream. But it had been spoken so softly he hadn't been able to discern the actual words.

Within half a minute, the hallway was clear. David strode a bit unsteadily toward the street.

#  Chapter Twenty-One

"Shit," David muttered to himself. "Shit! Seriously?"

Detective Ormsby was in front of the Rainbow Arms, leaning nonchalantly against what was clearly his unmarked police car. He was working a toothpick around his mouth with fastidious pedantry, but pushed himself off the vehicle and tossed the toothpick onto the grass as David approached.

"Mr. Wilcott. You made it back."

"Excuse me?" David was still reeling from his encounter with Clair at the school. "What could you possibly need from me now?"

The detective smiled. The brightness of his teeth terrified David. "Just wrapping up a few details. Tying a ribbon around the box, as it were."

David halted a few feet away from him. "I read in the paper that you've got your murderers, and it's just a matter of time before you catch them. Shouldn't you be in Greenville? Shouldn't you be chasing some real criminals instead of pestering citizens who had nothing to do with it?"

Ormsby's smile only widened. He had obviously anticipated David's reaction to seeing him, and was ready to milk the antipathy until the well ran dry. "The newspapers are spewing trash, printing crap! It's how they stay in business, you know." He edged a step closer. "Let's go through some of my questions again."

David closed his eyes, wondering if the whole afternoon was going to be a nightmare. It had been bad enough walking home from the school, trying to keep his head from swimming after the emotional encounter with Mrs. Jenkins and the latest pronouncement from Clair. Now, he was being baited by a puffed-up authority figure who clearly had a rather large ax to grind with him, for whatever reasons.

"By the way, that _is_ your dog making all that noise in there," Detective Ormsby said. David opened his eyes to discover that his wish for the sidewalk to be cleared in front of him had not been granted. And indeed, he could hear the muted sounds of Johnson going more than a bit crazy inside apartment 1F. "I knocked. Several times," he added. "But I knew you'd be back soon if Mr. Johnson was left home all alone."

"Johnson," David automatically corrected him. "Just Johnson. Can I at least get him so he doesn't tear the door down?"

Ormsby's eyebrows rose. "If you feel you need him here with you."

And as his face tightened, David berated himself for even asking; he understood as unmistakably as the detective had that Johnson would only have been a crutch for him. "Ask your questions," he said aloud, his voice thick. "Let's get this over with."

Again, a smile. Ormsby was reading him like a book. "You know, I looked you up online," the detective said, his voice sickeningly pleasant as David's heart began to sink. "Quite a few hits for 'David Wilcott.' Not many folks out there with that name. There were images, too. A lot of them."

David licked his lips, wondering how far this humiliation would go.

"You were on quite a different career path then, weren't you?" Ormsby's head appeared to be growing larger. David could almost see the bristles sprouting from his nose and ears, the reddening of his eyes as they grew bulbous and malevolent.

"It was a long time ago," David replied, astonished at how calm he sounded. "It didn't work out. I moved here."

"It wasn't that long ago," the detective countered. "I'd heard about it, of course. It was part of every late show monologue for weeks! But to have a superstar like David Wilcott come to my little burg of Shady Grove, and no one seems to know about it? Shameful, shameful. _There's_ something the Shady Grove Courier should have covered. Not this tripe about Greenville, and alleged squabbles between lowlife drug dealers."

David breathed in, breathed out. Breathed in, breathed out. No response was a good response.

"Was that how you got Mr. Johnson? Oh! And my apologies," Ormsby offered with a gallant wave of his hand. "Johnson, I mean. I recognized him in a few of the pictures as well. And speaking of which, what a girlfriend you had!" He shook his head while puckering his lips as though he was sampling a delectable wine. "Quite a looker, if I do say so myself. Not exactly who I would have imagined you with, but still... Amber, right?"

"Camber," David corrected, knowing full well that the detective was purposely muffing the names so that he would respond.

"Camber," was repeated thoughtfully. "Camber D'Angelo. That was it. She's engaged to the first baseman of the Mets now, isn't she?"

David met his eyes evenly. "I wouldn't know. We haven't been in contact. Do you want to ask your questions now? Perhaps something pertinent to your case? Or would you like to cover who I dated in junior high as well?"

"Background information, Mr. Wilcott," Ormsby said, his whimsical air evaporated. "Background information is everything. It leads us to understand character, which allows us to determine motive."

"Motive for what?" snapped David. He couldn't stop himself from taking a step forward. "You know I didn't kill Heck. And it's great that you can quote a textbook from your junior college days to me, but what's _your_ motive? Alleviating the boredom brought on by writing parking tickets for most of the year?"

"Oh ho! A touch of the famous Wilcott wit!" Ormsby looked happy; his eyes were practically dancing as David once again attempted to clamp down on his ire. "You were the darling of the Internet world with that silver tongue of yours! How _have_ they survived without you? And how is the world a better place without Puppy Love 'n Friends? Dot com, that is. Was it _you_ who came up with that asinine gem, social petworking? God, how I _love_ that phrase!"

Social petworking. Social petworking. God, how David _hated_ that phrase. "It wasn't me," he intoned, hating himself as well for bothering to chase the bait. "I was the background guy. I built the website."

"You mean you were the _architect_ of the website," Ormsby taunted. "But you were hardly in the background when the money started rolling in."

Gobs of money, buckets of money. David exhaled heavily, and his eyes found the façade of the Rainbow Arms, its peeling stucco patches, the dingy lobby that was smaller than David's shoe closet had been a couple years before.

"You guys tore up the town. Facebook for dog owners, right? What a pack of animals you became. Probably a good thing it all came crashing down before you crashed any more fancy cars, eh?"

David's eyes moved slowly toward Ormsby again. The Maserati had been a rental for the one evening, thank God. But the image of an inebriated David doing a jig on the side of the road while his chocolate Labrador sat obediently nearby, the most exquisite quizzical expression on its face, had quickly gone viral. The background, the neatly wrecked, bright red GranTurismo, had been endlessly photoshopped to become a cliff on the Alps, the surface of the moon, an audience with Queen Elizabeth II, the deck of the Titanic with the iceberg looming.

The metaphors had been apt. Doubts as to the long-term financial viability of Puppy Love 'n Friends had already begun to creep into the news. The partying and antics of its founders had first brought in the investors, and then frightened a few off. David's unintentional foray into a telephone pole while driving drunk with his promotional puppy Johnson along for the ride had driven the final nail into the coffin of the venture.

"I hope you managed to put a few pennies by," Ormsby said as he pitilessly met David's hollow stare. "It would suck if this was all you had."

Once more, David closed his eyes, blotting out the detective as well as his malicious gloat. This _was_ all he had, Goddamn it, but it was enough, it truly was. What were all of his former friends to him now? Nothing! And, no doubt, he was nothing but an embarrassing memory to any of them. The money was gone, the attention, the incredible prospects, the egotistical heights... yet what had any of those brought him? Where could they have taken him that could offer a richer life than what he had right here in Shady Grove?

"What the hell're _you_ doin' back?"

David's eyes flew open. It was Bill, angrily mauling his unlit cigar as he stomped out of the Rainbow Arms' lobby toward Ormsby.

"Does nobody have respect for the law down here?" the detective asked as he turned. "I'm questioning a witness. Back off, Lo-pes!"

Bill's countenance became ugly. His fists balled, and David wondered if he were so hung over that he would actually do something as stupid as to hit Ormsby. He probably could have knocked him out more easily with the fumes coming out of his mouth.

"It's Lopes, you jackass," Bill snarled. "And why don't you take a flying leap off a really tall building?" He came to a stop, a foot away from the detective.

"You know, I spent some time doing research on Mr. Wilcott's background," Ormsby said casually. "I wonder what would turn up on you if I poked around."

A look of wariness flitted across Bill's face, and then evaporated just as quickly. "Clean as a whistle," he growled. "Have at it."

"I can't help but question," Ormsby continued, "how it is that a man got the life beaten out of him, yet you were only a few feet away and purportedly heard nothing."

The cigar was removed from his mouth. Bill inched closer. "You smug turd," he said in a low, dangerous rumble. "You know damn well what I was doin' at the time."

"Cleaning a fountain," Ormsby sneered. "A more ridiculous excuse for a grown man making a living I've never – "

"Hey, hey, _hey!_ " David interjected, stepping between the two men as Bill surged toward the policeman. "Cool it, cool it. Bill, let it go. It's not worth it."

Ormsby had barely even shifted. "Mr. Wilcott's had some experience with the police before," he said lightly. "Better take his advice, Lo-pes."

And this time it was Bill grabbing David as he tensed, desiring nothing more than to punch the pompous detective right in the teeth.

Instead, David forced himself to back away, from both of the men. "The fountain is in the courtyard, at least seventy feet away from Janice's door," he said, his voice strained and a touch shaky. "Bill cleans it in the middle of the day each week." He found that his hands were quivering as well. "You're serving no purpose here, Ormsby, except perhaps to provide yourself with some sort of sick amusement. Either tell one of us that we're under arrest or leave."

Ormsby appeared entertained. Bill was staring at David with his mouth hanging open.

David's voice grew stronger, the shake evening out to form a core to his words. "That's what I thought. You've got nothing. I don't have a clue what your _motive_ is for this sorry excuse for an interrogation, but I'm going to go let my dog out now, and Bill is coming with me." He stepped toward the lobby of the Rainbow Arms, roughly grabbing Bill as he did so.

"I told you he was an asshole," Bill muttered, as behind them Ormsby started to laugh, a raucous, braying chortle.

"You need to brush your teeth, Bill," David replied. "You could sterilize the entire fountain with a single whiff of that stench."

The laughter continued, becoming hollow as the men entered the lobby.

"Is it that bad?" Bill asked, actually sounding worried. "Sorry, David. I'll fix it up in a jiff. I mighta had one too many last night, I think."

David patted his friend's back. "More like ten too many, but I'm not gonna judge ya."

Bill smiled at him, keeping his lips closed. And then he aimed his next words away. "I bet I don't stink half as bad as that pig back there. That Ormsky's been dippin' into the squirrel stash."

"That's a truth," David replied with a grin. "That's a truth."

#  Chapter Twenty-Two

It was twenty-seven years earlier that David's parents, Ned and Penny Wilcott, first came into some good money. David had been four, his sisters Nancy and Fran six and seven, and with three growing kids eating them out of house and home, it was about Goddamned time that the Wilcotts finally figured out how to make the sales game pay off.

For two and a half years, the commission checks rolled in, rolled in, rolled in. Penny kept the books; Ned stayed out on the road, pounding the pavement and beating the bushes. David recalled most of his childhood as having taken place in a household populated solely by older females.

The kickbacks to buyers were eventually unearthed by the corporate mother ship, though, and Penny's books, beautifully cooked to a crisp, were dissected, reconstructed, and then buried. The Wilcotts moved right out of their brand new four-bedroom with a pool in suburbia, and back into an apartment.

This pattern repeated itself, with varying lengths, throughout David's formative years. The unraveling of what fortune had blown the Wilcotts' way was never due to identical factors, but unravel things did, over and over and over.

David, smaller than most of the boys his age while growing up, had been teased, bullied, and beaten up. His one weapon of counteraction had been his gradually acquired ability to make his tormentors laugh. If he could break through their determined harassment with his wit, he would usually be sent on his way with only a few sore spots as opposed to a bumper crop of bruises.

His repartee fell flat at home, though. Penny, worn, bitter, and resentful of all that the world had taken away from her, had no patience for her weakling of a son or his pathetic attempts at drollery. Fran and Nancy, desperate to move on to any pasture other than their own – greener or not – ignored David, became adults as fast as humanly possible, and bailed on the family unit at eighteen. Ned had rarely been around, but tended to find his underdeveloped male progeny irritating and strange.

David was strange because he was smart. Really smart. He picked up math so easily that by the time he entered ninth grade, he was already far beyond Calculus and Trigonometry. Sciences were a breeze. Computers were mere toys, begging to be taken apart and put back together again in newer, better ways.

It was no wonder that the other boys enjoyed giving him a good licking every so often.

Confidence. Confidence was one attribute of which David was in seriously short supply. Nobody seemed to truly like him. Not his family, not his peers, not even the occasional girls who would go out with him, usually around the time they had some project due that required more knowledge and skill than they possessed. Even his teachers hadn't found themselves overly enamored of this nerdy boy genius who without any effort at all could upstage them, or shred their authority with another perfectly timed zinger.

It was when he went to college that David finally began to come into his own. Surrounded by fellow geeks, inspired by the explosion of online companies that every day seemed to be taking the world by storm, he became an entrepreneur. At first, he was simply a go-to guy for quiet questions about shortcuts, or about access to servers not meant to be accessed. By his sophomore year, he was involved in three different undertakings designed to separate people from their wallets while purportedly bettering their lives. By the end of his senior year, his grades had tanked due to truancy, but David was receiving a cut of the action from some nineteen different websites, all of which he had had some part in creating.

He'd become popular. Really popular. Having money can do that for people.

Along with the popularity had come confidence. Confidence in himself, confidence in his abilities, confidence in his abilities with other people. The best part of this for David was that he found that other people liked him. A lot. He was helping to make them popular and confident, too.

He had a girlfriend for a while. Her name was Stephanie. After Stephanie came Julie. After Julie came Rosa. It was still a long, slippery slope upwards until Camber, but David's fears regarding what the opposite sex thought of him had begun to dissipate.

After college, he had set up shop. A three-story townhouse only steps from a bustling nightclub district became the center of his world. He was available for hire, and, because of his willingness to look the other way on occasion, always busy. He covered his tracks, covered his clients' tracks, and nobody appeared to be the wiser.

No matter what David did – or didn't do, to be more accurate – he always tried to be a nice guy. He remembered all too well the thrashings he had suffered, the loneliness at school, the coldness of being shut out at home by his family. He tipped generously. He made friends with doormen, janitors, and cleaning ladies. He made sure that he knew the names of all the kids in his neighborhood, as well as those of their parents and grandparents, too.

But he pined for more. He had done well, he could do better. When he turned 26, and was asked to be a principal in a new venture, an idea an acquaintance had had to combine social media and dog owners, just _thinking_ about the potential for advertising dollars had made David's head spin. He'd signed on within minutes. He ceased all work on other projects to begin building one of the most comprehensive websites ever, capable of efficiently handling the enormous volume of traffic that he knew this golden opportunity would generate.

It had been a fantastic idea. But the line between an undeniable success and becoming an easy punch line for comics mining other people's failures for material is sometimes a thin one. And David had found himself on the wrong side of that line, even before the heightened scrutiny of the enterprise brought his prior, less-than-blameless, dealings to light. The pressures of work, combined with the promise of unimaginable wealth, had delivered to him new friends, new pleasures, and new stresses.

David had lost himself. And then he had lost everything.

Other than Grandpa Wilcott and a single phone call from his sister Nancy asking for a loan, he had had no contact with his family in years. When the bottom fell out of his life, he had no one to turn to, nowhere to go. Messages weren't acknowledged, his former clients were understandably loathe to renew any association with him, his 'friends' couldn't remember ever having been friends with him.

Even Nancy hadn't called him back. He hadn't wanted her to return the money he'd given her, he had only wanted to talk.

David had wanted to disappear off the map. And so he had.

He had moved to Shady Grove.

#  Chapter Twenty-Three

"I'm sorry about Harvey."

"Harvey?"

Genevieve's eyebrows rose. "Your favorite detective."

"Oh. Oh! How did you..."

She rolled her eyes with a smile. "He stopped by the house this afternoon. I was a little surprised to see him, it's been so long. I actually thought it might be you, but when I answered the door, it was him."

David couldn't help but grin. "Harvey Ormsby. If he hadn't been such a complete jerk, I'd almost feel sorry for him with a name like that."

"He said he might have come down a little hard on you. Earlier, I guess, earlier today. At first I thought he meant on Thursday, or whenever it was you'd said he wasn't very nice to you."

"That would be every time I've seen him," David replied dryly. "I don't think he has any nice in him, anywhere. Ever."

She reached forward to take his hand. "He can be all right at times. He's just not very... sensitive, like you. He's less complicated, more..."

"Manly?" But David wasn't trying to make himself feel bad. The adjective seemed an appropriate descriptor for the obvious hunk of beef that was Detective Ormsby.

"Yes," Genevieve agreed. "But in the least complimentary terms that word can imply." She pulled his hand toward her. "Thank you for making a reservation here. Thank you for forgiving me for being snippy yesterday."

David wasn't sure if 'snippy' quite covered the way Genevieve had acted when she'd spotted him with Janice the day before, but it didn't matter. She was here with him, smiling at him, and, for once, pulling him closer to her.

"We've only come here twice," he said. "On our year anniversary, and with Abby that time. I was happy to manufacture an excuse for another visit."

She released him. "Well, if my behavior gives you a good excuse for this, we should be coming here weekly, right?"

"I could never afford it!"

"But aren't I worth it?"

She beamed at him, and David felt a flush of warmth infuse the whole of his being. In an elegant forest green dress with gold accents and radiant jewelry to match, with her hair done up in a fetching swoop and a lively pair of eyes that were right now focused wholly on him, Genevieve was that most beautiful of creatures on Earth, a woman in love.

He was glad that he'd chosen Longworth House for their dinner tonight. Situated in the hills above town, it was the former residence of the Dr. Longworth after whom the Avenue was named. Overlooking the eastern end of the Shady Grove business district as well as a good part of the town, the restaurant was luxurious, private, and renowned for its desserts, nearly all of which were quietly created by Gâteaupia.

David had walked to Genevieve's house, and then she had driven the two of them to dinner.

"You never really told me what you and Jess talked about," she said as their salad plates were cleared in preparation for the main course.

"She didn't spill all to you?" he asked, testing the wine that their server had just poured.

"Uh, uh! She told me that it was up to you to share. Is it good?"

He nodded. "Perfect for lamb. So am I supposed to detail all of my sinful questions to you now?"

She winked. "I already knew what they were. But in all seriousness, David, was it helpful to talk to her? I'd thought about it before, but never followed through, with either of you."

Again, he nodded. "I liked her. I think it was brilliant to have her just call me; I would have been totally scared out of my wits if I'd known about it beforehand."

"Should the fact that you answered her call without even knowing who it was worry me? When I can't ever seem to catch you myself?"

He laughed. "It was a fluke. I literally had just gone hunting for my phone, and as I picked it up, bingo!"

"A cute girl on the other end of the line."

"Exactly! Though I have no idea if she's cute or not. If she looks anything like you, you're in trouble when I meet her."

"Did you like her voice?" Genevieve asked. "I just complimented you by saying you're sensitive. I'd hate for that to be disproved so rapidly by your judging Jess solely on her looks."

"Hey! I said I liked her! Though at first I thought she was cold calling me, and I was prepared to chew her out for bothering me so late at night. But she's... she's warm. And funny. And she certainly knows you."

"Oh, that she does, poor girl," Genevieve snickered. "All about everything. I almost feel sorry for her!" She reached for her wineglass and took a leisurely sip. "Was she able to answer your questions about Todd?"

David looked down, fussed with his napkin, straightened the edges of the tablecloth. While stalling, he marveled yet again at Genevieve's seemingly endless capacity for bringing up Todd, discussing the subject with an almost clinical detachment, and then chastising him for obsessing over her former fiancé into the wee hours of the night.

Todd was a paragon. Todd was a selfish tool. Todd had managed to last seven years with the high-strung, controlling Genevieve.

David didn't know what Todd looked like either, but he was probably better off in the dark.

"She said he wasn't honest," David said aloud. "With you. For a lot of the time you were together."

"Mmm. An entirely accurate statement." Her hand moved toward her wine again.

"It's funny. After I got off the phone with Jess, it occurred to me that in all the times we've... talked about him, you've mentioned anger, heartbreak, desolation, occasional disgust, and drunkenness. But you've never once said the word 'untruthful.' Ever."

She had grasped her wineglass but not lifted it. "Shouldn't that have been obvious?"

"No." David shook his head. "No, it wasn't obvious. A lot of other things were, but that untruthfulness thing... it's kind of its own little island. I should know, Genevieve. I was untruthful with myself all those years. It's nothing like anger, or loneliness, or... well, any of them. I can't speak for you regarding what Todd may have done, but it was the worst part of what I went through, waking up one day and realizing that I'd been lying to myself, let alone everyone around me."

Genevieve was watching him, carefully, her gaze soft and thoughtful. Her hand retreated from the wineglass, and she began to rub a knife with her thumb. "It wasn't you Harvey wanted to punish," she said. "It's who you represent. He's hurt because Todd left Shady Grove, and he's only bothered to get in touch with him a few times since. He admired Todd, a lot. He was two years behind him in school, so Todd was the quarterback on the football team for two seasons running while Harvey played defensive end.

"No. Wait!" Genevieve's hand had come up as David began to open his mouth. "I know what he said to you. I know how completely and utterly terrible he must have made you feel today. It's all related. Let me just finish, please."

His mouth had already snapped shut. He nodded to her as her fingers returned to the knife.

"When Todd moved back to Shady Grove after college, Harvey was in heaven. He'd just joined the police department, and here came his idol, the former hero come back home to teach science at the high school and coach the football team. Harvey immediately signed up to assistant coach, and then persuaded Todd to become a volunteer on the force. They were best buds, pals through thick and thin, real men who knew without a doubt that they were superior to any ordinary sort of man."

Her head was shaking as she once again rolled her eyes. The knife was being lifted, dropped, lifted.

"So after almost a dozen years of this, this incredible, _manly_ friendship – with Harvey married to his job, and Todd finally engaged to his long-term girlfriend – Todd takes off. No warning, no warning signs. He at least waited until the end of the school year in June. But while _I_ certainly had an inkling that it was coming, that our engagement would never transition into marriage, Harvey was knocked cold with it when he stopped by the store one morning to ask why Todd hadn't come over the night before for brewskis and some b-ball."

Her eyes closed as she began replaying the scene in her head. " 'He didn't tell you?' I asked him. 'Tell me what?' he said back, looking upset because he probably thought that Todd had found another friend to hang out with. 'He left,' I told him. 'When's he coming back?' he asked. And then I made the mistake of saying, 'Probably never, if I had to guess.' And that was when Harvey lost it. He began to shout at me: 'What do you mean? What do you mean?' He was so furious, with Todd, with me. He had no idea what had just happened to him, and the few customers we had in the store right then could only stare at him as he railed and railed, smashing his fist down into his palm over and over. Lydia came over and, as always, saved the day, moving us outside in the most diplomatic way, walking us halfway down the block so we could 'talk more privately.' "

"Is Harvey gay?" David couldn't restrain himself from asking.

Genevieve's eyes popped open as she smirked. "Hardly. He's about the straightest straight guy on the planet. But he loved Todd. He still does, if his actions are any reflection of his thoughts. He's most likely entirely unaware that his worship transformed at some point. Blossomed, really, into a full-fledged love affair without any of the physical trappings. There's not even a remote possibility that he would understand it if anyone tried to explain it to him. But he blames me for Todd leaving him all alone here."

"You? How could he blame you? Todd's the one who bailed on him!"

Her lips puckered and twisted to the side. "Don't I know it. He bailed on me, too. But what Harvey's done is to shunt all the blame off of Todd. He wants to continue adoring him, so it can't possibly have been his fault that he had to leave." She looked down and picked up her knife again. "Which is why, by extension, he blames you, too. Why he's been acting as he has toward you."

"Me? But I wasn't even in town then! I couldn't even – "

Her hand, along with the knife, had risen once more, quieting him. "I know, I know. There were actually twenty-seven months that elapsed between the time Todd left Shady Grove and your arrival. But that isn't what Harvey sees. It's a small town, he's obviously been aware for some time that we've been dating. In his angry, heartbroken little mind, he's decided that you are the reason he lost his best friend. You replaced him, so you must be part of the cause. And when that man got murdered in your building, he found the perfect opportunity to take out some of his frustrations on you."

David wasn't even sure what sort of response this deserved. It was inane, crazy! The arrival of their rosemary braised lamb shanks, along with buttered peas and garlic mashed potatoes, was a welcome intrusion. Each of them ate a few bites, unhurriedly savoring the delicious meat and its accompaniments.

David's utensils were the first to be set down. "How come he hasn't gone after the new football coach at the high school then? He must be as guilty as I am!"

"Harvey _is_ the head coach at the high school now. He has been since the season after Todd resigned."

"Oh. I see." David's fork speared a chunk of lamb. "Well, maybe he could beat himself up once in a while, just to keep in practice. Why couldn't you just _tell_ him why Todd left so abruptly? While... while you've never entirely shared that reason with me, surely Ormsby would have understood, having been around at the time?"

But Genevieve's head shook slowly. "No. No, he wouldn't have understood."

And then her eyes sank, and she began to gingerly slice off bits of her lamb. David could hear Jess's words in his head as he watched her practically shrink in her chair: _She was hurt, David. Badly. It's hard for her, to trust anyone_. Did Genevieve still not trust him? Had he not yet proven himself worthy of her trust? Abby had told him that one day Genevieve would tell him everything, and she had hoped that he would then understand. David _wanted_ to understand, he _needed_ to understand!

"Do you want to know anything about me?" he asked quietly.

Genevieve looked up at him. Her knife was still cutting, but she wasn't paying any attention.

"I mean, about my past. Camber, or before her. Anything."

She glanced down again. The knife was set aside, and her fork began to swirl peas into her potatoes. "No. Not really," she answered. "You can tell me anything you feel you have to, though."

David blinked. The quid pro quo tactic clearly wasn't going to be a winner. "I just meant... we've barely scratched the surface of how my own relationships got scuttled. I just figured that as long as we were on the subject, you'd perhaps want to hear about them. Since we're discussing... well, Todd..."

But David already knew that he had lost her. The meager thread that had tied together everything she'd told him had already been snipped.

"I feel sometimes that there are walls between us," he stated, wondering why in the hell he was even bothering to attempt another approach. "At first, I didn't blame you. I told you who I'd been, and what I'd done. I didn't trust myself one bit, so it was entirely understandable if you didn't trust me either. But a year and a half into this, I would hope that we've reached the point where those... partitions wouldn't be arising between us all the time."

The fork was set carefully on her plate. Her eyes rose toward his at a lethargic speed. "Partitions?" she enunciated cautiously, as though she was sounding out the word for a diction coach.

"Yes. Partitions. In between you and me. Every time we come near to something... better. Closer. Each time we bond, it's almost immediate. Something changes within you, and then all of a sudden I'm out on the curb again. And we have to practically start all over again the next time we see each other."

Her gaze was hardening, her eyes narrowing. "That's not fair, you know."

David's pulse began to pick up. "What isn't? My saying that?"

She nodded as she sat straighter in her chair. "Yes. Your saying that. It was Jess, wasn't it? I don't think I've ever heard you use the word before. I most certainly didn't mean for the two of you to pull me to pieces, just so you could toss words like _that_ into our conversations."

"But..." David shifted about, trying desperately to think of a way to back out of this without incurring more damage. "It _was_ Jess's word. But what did you think the two of us would talk about? The décor in your house when she lived there? Of course we talked about you! And she didn't mean it in a bad way, it was just her way of describing how – "

"It was Todd's word." Her tone was sharp, the words thrust across the table at him. "And she knows that damn well. It was completely unfair of her to say that to you."

David's heart was pumping. His eyelids were fluttering so quickly that it almost appeared as if Genevieve and the room around her were lit by strobes. "I'm sorry," he offered stupidly. "I didn't know. How could I have?"

Her napkin came up off her lap and was tossed on the table. Her breathing was brisk with fury. "You couldn't! But I just can't take this. I can't stomach the idea of having the same fight over the same irritating word with you as well."

"We weren't fighting!" David tried to take her hand, but it was snatched away.

"If I stay here a minute longer, we will be!"

Other diners in the room were now glancing their way while trying not to appear as if they were drinking in the drama, though an older couple in one corner was actually staring, the gentleman visibly adjusting his hearing aid.

"And to think I actually persuaded her to come back here. To meet you, this July," Genevieve said tightly.

"Jess?" asked David. "I would love to meet her! And this is not her fault. It's mine. Please. Stay, Genevieve."

She stood. "No. I'm sorry, but I can't."

David rose as well, feeling his cheeks redden as what little conversation had still been taking place nearby dwindled and died. "Genevieve. I will do whatever I can to make this work. Between us, I mean. Isn't there any way we can end this constant... breaking up and starting over again?"

Her face became pinched as she obviously tried not to cry. She took a long breath that displayed just the finest of shudders. "I'll try, David, I'll try. But I just don't know. I really don't."

And a minute later, she had exited the restaurant. David sat once more, not hungry in the least for the delicious meal on the table before him, let alone the desserts from Gâteaupia that had been included with their prix fixe menu selections.

It would be a long, chilly walk back to the Rainbow Arms.

#  Chapter Twenty-Four

David remained at Longworth House for another hour and a half, time enough for every witness to his altercation with Genevieve to have finished their meal and departed. While the other patrons had carried on with their dinners as though nothing untoward had occurred, the serving staff had doubled their efforts: discreetly removing Genevieve's place setting, boxing up her leftovers, and even bringing David a generously sized Gin and Tonic, on the house.

David had left the largest tip of his life.

It had ended up being a far more pleasant walk back home than he'd anticipated. The sack of take-home boxes swung easily to and fro, and his pace was perky, mostly due to the fact that the first quarter of his journey had been straight downhill. Once he'd hit Willow, he'd jogged over to Sixth Street, and from there it was a mile and three-quarters-long direct shot down to Piston Avenue.

At nearly ten o'clock on a Monday night, he had run into no one except a man walking a dog, and three teenagers who had crossed the street when they'd seen him approaching.

David turned right onto Piston. And almost immediately, he halted. "Hey! What are you doing all the way down here?"

It was Janice, standing outside an apartment building two doors east of the Rainbow Arms. She was bundled up in a fleece coat with her arms crossed, smoking a cigarette.

A tentative smile crept onto her face. "I don't like to leave my ashes out front of our place," she said. "Bill sweeps the walk enough as it is."

David nodded, appreciating her reasoning. He gestured to her coat. "Is it really that cold out here? I guess I don't feel it."

She took a drag, and then blew the smoke off to one side. "Try being my size one day. Heat doesn't keep in these junior miss bones." Her eyes skimmed his sack. "You doin' the doggie bag trick?"

He snorted. "What's that?"

"Monday night specials. Most restaurants, it's their slowest night of the week. They do two-fers and such. A lot of people order more'n they need, so they've got extra meals for the rest of the week."

A grin had appeared on David's countenance. "I've done that before. Never heard it called that. No, this is the remains of a disaster. It's my consolation prize for sticking it out till the bitter end. I got double dessert, all for myself. And come to think of it – " He opened the sack, and pulled out a prettily wrapped white box. "I can't think of anyone more appropriate to give this to."

Janice didn't budge. "What is it?" she asked, looking at the box suspiciously.

"Cake. And in all seriousness, it's yours. I've got one of my own, and that's more than I need."

Her eyes rose to meet his. "What's a disaster have to do with it?"

The grin on David's face dimmed, but didn't wane entirely. "I had dinner with Genevieve tonight, up at Longworth House. You know it?"

She gave a curt nod. "Fancy schmancy. Way up top above Bargain Bin."

"Yeah. I actually walked right by that on my way here."

Her eyebrows rose. "Musta gone well. She ditched ya all the way up there?"

"You could said that," David replied. "About halfway through." He lifted the bag. "Most of her dinner's in here, too. But that'll be my own doggie bag trick. Here. Please."

She finally reached forward to take the box from him. "Is it chocolate? I can't sleep at night if I eat that right before bed."

He shrugged. "I don't know. They never brought it to the table, and I don't remember what was listed on the menu."

"Well, thanks. I, uh, hope it gets better. Was it 'cause of yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" And then he got it. Jesus, had that only been yesterday? "I... I don't think so."

"She seemed pretty mad. And you obviously had to do some serious patchin' over if you shelled out the big bucks for dinner."

Once more, he shrugged. "Let's just say I can't seem to get anything right lately."

She took one more drag on her cigarette, and then dropped the butt to the ground before grinding it out with her foot. "Sounds like the story of _my_ life," she mumbled. "Ya headed back now? I'm guessin' Johnson's at home."

"Yeah. He is." David began walking again, and Janice fell in beside him.

"Ya know how you were askin' me 'bout Heck yesterday?" she said in a low voice. "'Bout how I felt about it all?"

"Uh, huh?"

"I know the word now for what I am. What I... feel. Stacey knew it. She's the girl I told you 'bout, who I waited with at the bus stop."

"I remember. What's the word?"

"Ambivlent."

David almost chuckled, but tucked it right back inside.

"I'm ambivlent 'bout Heck being dead. Not happy. Not mad. Just straight down the middle."

He smiled at her, and while he thought about placing a hand on her arm, he didn't. "That's exactly what your answer was yesterday, Janice. But yes, that's the best word for it. If I'd had a better head on me then, I probably could've dug it out myself. I'm glad Stacey came up with it."

Janice met his gaze. "She's smart. Other than marryin' that peckerhead, she is. But who am I to judge someone else on their taste in men?"

They turned onto the front walkway of the Rainbow Arms.

"Early day tomorrow?" David asked.

"Nah. Day off, from both jobs." She smiled. "Maybe I _will_ eat this disaster cake, chocolate or not. I can maybe make it through Jimmy Kimmel for once, 'stead of fallin' asleep right after his openin'."

They paused as they entered the common area. David could hear Johnson, eagerly pawing at the door already. "Goodnight, Janice," he said. "And thanks. For letting me get it out of my system. It was good to talk."

She looked up at him, and pulled her coat tighter about her. The night was indeed cooling off. "I'll see ya 'round," she replied evenly. "And you've listened to me so much, it's just nice to balance things out a touch." She raised the box in her hand. "And thanks for this. I hope it's good."

David smiled at her. "It will be. It'll be the best disaster cake you've ever eaten in your life."

#  Chapter Twenty-Five

David arose at seven the next morning. Walking for an hour had helped him sleep through the night without waking even once. Or perhaps it had been all the alcohol he'd imbibed.

He and Johnson took an early morning constitutional, an hour-long stroll to atone for the previous morning's brief jog outside. Their breakfast was an improvement too, as David had popped into a market late in the afternoon the day before. English muffins and an apple for him, and fresh sausage for both of them.

Once again, though, Johnson had to remain at the Rainbow Arms while David headed to Culpepper Mills. Today, he had a progress meeting scheduled. And while he had no worries about the status of the website, since he was actually several days ahead of schedule, it seemed wiser to leave the dog at home.

David left at 9:25. And as he leisurely headed up Fifth Street toward downtown, he mulled over the frantic seesaw that his relationship with Genevieve had become lately. He had thought about Jess's role in their fight quite seriously the night before as he'd walked home, and had to admit that he couldn't attach any blame to her. The fault had been solely his for bringing up that horrid trigger word, 'partition'. Jess _had_ told him to keep her end of their conversation to himself, and he wished more than anything now that he'd listened.

But Genevieve's frame of mind had already begun to slide south _before_ David had uttered the fateful word. Her recounting of the friendship between Todd and Detective Ormsby had been more than odd. And then her tying together the detective's purported sense of loss with his treatment of David over the past week could only be considered disturbing.

As logical as she had tried to be, the entire scenario had clearly disturbed Genevieve as well.

David really did want to meet Jess. He had thought briefly about calling her the night before, despite the late hour. But he had understood that this would only add fuel to Genevieve's fire. And he was also aware that no matter how helpful talking to Jess might be, the real problems were something that only he and Genevieve could solve, individually or together.

As he crossed Marion Avenue, David glanced to his left, at the Shady Grove Elementary School. Clair was inside of that building right now, supposedly mastering her ABCs and the basic elements of sentence structure and numbers. Echoes of what Mrs. Jenkins told him had begun to sound again an hour or two after his confrontation with Detective Ormsby had ended, and he had found himself wondering if it would be appropriate to visit her again sometime soon. He wanted to comprehend more, he wanted to know how a little girl with such incredible powers could exist in a world of mundane learning, and mundane children. Were the other kids aware that she was different? Or did Clair become an ordinary girl in that setting, conforming to what was expected of her?

Birch Avenue loomed, and David's gaze slid automatically to the right, toward Genevieve's house. She had undoubtedly been at the bakery since seven, though, prepping for yet another week of frenetic activity. Had David been in her thoughts at all this morning? Or was he hidden behind a partition, out of sight until she found the time and energy to deal with him?

Gum and Maple Avenues passed by as David dwelt on this, this truth whose head he had so idiotically reared before her at dinner last night. Jess was right, Goddamn it! Genevieve _did_ partition off everything in her life. What had been so wrong about his bringing it up, except for the fact that _Todd_ had once brought it up before him?

Genevieve obviously lived her life following the same patterns, year after year. How peculiar was it that her boyfriends executed similar patterns as well?

At Oak Avenue, David was three blocks away from Culpepper Mills. He checked his watch: 9:56. Perfect timing for an hour of work before his 11:00 meeting.

At Larch, he purposely stared straight ahead of himself, refusing to even glance toward Gâteaupia, that bastion of phenomenal desserts, and phenomenally difficult girlfriends.

At Willow, he turned left, and then crossed to the north side of the street at Fourth. It was going to be a better day. It was going to be an awesome day!

~*~*~*~*~

The meeting had gone well. The suits had been more than pleased, both with David's progress, and with his concepts for how Culpepper Mills would be presenting itself to the world soon. David had returned to his desk buoyant, geared up for another hour or so of web page building before he returned to Johnson and an afternoon session spent at his apartment's computer workstation.

He exited the Culpepper Mills offices at 12:45 and, as he had the day before, headed south on Fourth. And then he saw it.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!" He fished in his pocket for a pair of quarters, and thrust them into the vending machine.

The Shady Grove Courier's front page was a stark, black-and-white scream: "SUSPECTED KILLERS FLEE!" Below this was a close-up shot of Detective Ormsby. "Detective Has No Doubts," was the header for the accompanying story.

David leaned against the side of a building as he briskly skimmed the array of articles related to Deke and Thickman's flight from not only Greenville, but also the state itself. Their guilt appeared more than evident: they had both been arrested before for assault and battery; unnamed witnesses had corroborated the information that Heck Vance was in hock to the pair for a serious chunk of change; Heck Vance had apparently decamped Greenville on Wednesday morning, fearful for his bodily safety if he didn't make at least the vig on the alleged debt by that afternoon. On Monday morning, Detective Harvey Ormsby of the Shady Grove P.D. had laid out at a press conference the detailed trail of evidence that led in only one direction, that of John "Deke" Decatur and Lewis Allan Thickman being guilty of having murdered one Hector Vance the previous Wednesday, in the kitchen of Apartment 1D of the Rainbow Arms apartment building in Shady Grove.

"Unbelievable!" David groused to himself. The detective must have headed directly for the Rainbow Arms after his press conference, specifically to lie in wait for David. Talk about a single-minded determination to inflict harm! If David had gone online or talked with _anybody_ who had known about the press conference, Ormsby would have appeared an even bigger fool than he already was.

He strode toward Larch Avenue, newspaper in hand. Ormsby's duplicity aside, this was an ideal excuse to stop in at Gâteaupia and jumpstart yet again his relationship with Genevieve. Why wait around for a day or a week for her to call him, or for David to timidly contact her? This ridiculous rollercoaster ride needed to get moving again, no matter _how_ hard they had gone flying off the rails.

He loved Genevieve, he knew that! And Genevieve loved him. It was obvious in the way she so frequently dumped him!

She always took him back. Just as she'd always taken Todd back, until he'd behaved so badly and flown so far away that _nothing_ could have resuscitated their liaison.

David flew past the bookstore, and then flung open the door of his girlfriend's incredible bakery.

And then his jaw dropped as he took in who was sitting across from Genevieve at one of the tables in the rear. _How did... What the..._

Was anything ever going to make sense anymore?

#  Chapter Twenty-Six

It was Janice. Seated in one of the scalloped back chairs, hands folded before her on the table, feet dangling about four inches off the floor. Her hair was bright, blond, and pulled back into a sassy ponytail. Neither she nor Genevieve had noticed his entrance; their heads were close together, and they were conversing quietly.

"Weird, isn't it?" Lydia had strutted straight up to him from the counter. "That's not at all how I imagined her."

"Who? Janice?" David asked, his focus still riveted by the bizarre tête-à-tête.

"Yep. How exactly is it that G never gets jealous of anything _I_ do or say to you, but she gets herself all worked up over that? I mean, seriously!"

David finally looked at her. "She's nice, actually."

Lydia performed an exaggerated goggle. "Nice is nice. She ain't got nothin' on G, in any department!"

And then David smiled. "I'm with ya. I _have_ tried to explain that, but..."

"I know, I know. She won't see reason."

"Exactly." He lifted the blazing newspaper headlines. "You guys see this?"

"Uh, huh. That's the other thing I can't figure about G and her: this girl's significant other was obviously a total douche. Girlfriends in different towns, I should be so lucky! But clearly, she exists in an entirely different world from you. It's just, you live in the same building is all. What's the whole biggie about you talking to her every once in a while?"

David's free hand came up, and he swiftly pulled Lydia toward him. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he'd planted a quick, firm kiss right onto her gleaming red lips. "I think I love you, Lydia," he said, "I really do. If things ever _completely_ go kerplooey with G, you and I are getting married and having tons of babies together."

Lydia was exultant. She reached forward, and her thumb began to wipe around David's mouth. "You go over there with my lipstick smeared all over ya, things'll go kerplooey in about three seconds." She struck a pose. "But don't let it stop ya!"

And then she patted his cheek as her voice became sultry. "And by the way, Victorian sponge wine cake, with a mocha tres leches frosting and an olive oil garnish."

David drew back, his countenance recoiling with disgust. "Sticky toffee banana brownie pudding cake," he retorted, "with a pink lemonade glaze and candied lemon peel stuck in the edges."

"Oh! That does have more than a touch of nasty to it." Lydia stepped back with a smile. "I think we might just have our first tie! Now. Get on over there and see what it's all about. I did my best to eavesdrop, but got shooed away within seconds. I suppose even _I_ wouldn't have believed that I truly wanted to tidy up the washrooms during my lunch break!"

David thought about kissing her again, but didn't. Their mutual attraction had been one of those irradiant constants in his life since his arrival in Shady Grove, and he didn't want to jeopardize that joy. While Lydia gazed on with uncloaked curiosity, he stepped toward the table where Janice and Genevieve sat.

"Hello." Both women looked up at him. Janice appeared guilty. Genevieve's face was a stony blank. "I just thought I'd stop in for a couple minutes." He almost held up his newspaper, but realized that while Genevieve might find it interesting in light of what he'd told her the night before, Janice had undoubtedly had enough of the whole thing by now.

Genevieve pushed her chair back and stood. She was immaculate, the bun in her hair nothing less than perfectly rounded, her clothing impeccably neat and clean. A hint of her brown sugar and cinnamon scent reached David, but it was an ill match for what he saw in her eyes. They were cold, hard, and clearly ready for the first day of her workweek to be over, done, and gone.

"Thank you for coming by," she said stiffly to Janice. "I do appreciate what you told me."

Janice nodded to her. "No problem. Sorry to drop in on you like I did." Her chin indicated the half-eaten piece of devil's food cake glazed with a dark buttercream ganache that sat on a plate before her. "And thank you for the cake. I've only had one other as good as this in my whole life."

David had to bury a smirk as his eyes shot to Genevieve's face, anticipating exactly what occurred: slightly flared nostrils, and the most miniscule narrowing of her eyes. "No problem," she mumbled to Janice. And then she pivoted and escaped to her kitchen. Not one word had she spoken to her boyfriend of over eighteen months.

Janice cautiously met David's eyes, and then her own sank. "I only meant to tell her that there was nothin' between us the other day. When she drove up, when you were touchin' my arm."

David slid into the seat so hastily vacated by Genevieve. His newspaper was laid facedown on the table. "Thank you for trying," he said lightly. "I told you on Sunday, you did nothing wrong. _We_ did nothing wrong."

She looked away from him, toward the washroom doors. "As my daddy used to say, she listened, but I don't know if she heard nothin'."

"She heard," David shrugged. "But the truth of the matter is, she knows full well that there's nothing to be mad about. It's just her way of deflecting from what's really eating at her. Which isn't you. Did the other cake that was as good as this one happen to be inside that box I gave you last night?"

Janice's head swiveled, and she met David's gaze. "Yeah. How 'bout that? Who knew one town could have two dessert places this good in it?"

David grinned in reply, amused by the idea that Genevieve had actually provided Janice with _two_ slices of heaven in a twenty-four hour period.

"Here ya go!" Lydia had swung by with a generous piece of the devil's food cake for David. Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. "I wasn't sure if it was cool with the boss, so I had her look this over before I brought it out. Extra icing on the house, if you catch my drift!"

David snorted. Janice's face remained blank.

Lydia smiled warmly at Janice. "I just love your hair. Seriously. If I'd been born with a lucky shade like that, I'd never have to keep changing mine up, trying to find something that works as natural as yours. You work at The Hot Spot, don't you?"

Janice nodded, her countenance doubtful as she obviously wondered where this was leading.

"I knew it!" Lydia beamed. "I come in there every few weeks with a bunch of girlfriends. We're the ones who always go through buckets and buckets of Long Island Ice Teas, and then have to start chowing down so we don't all get rolled home. You've waited on us several times. You're good! You always get everything perfect, no matter how toasted we are."

A real smile had broken out on Janice's face. "Hummingbird," she replied simply. "Right?"

Lydia nodded. "Yep!" She rolled up her sleeve a few inches to display it, and then winked at Janice. "I'll probably see you there this weekend. You could always join us, ya know, after work, maybe. We usually hit The Roadhouse down on Oak for a bit, just to cap the evening off."

Janice executed a careful nod. "Okay. I might like that."

"Cool!" Lydia bounced her head back and forth, and then lightly slapped David's arm. "Just don't bring any men along. They ruin everything! _This_ one's all right, some of the time, but God, the rest of them?"

The smile on Janice's face was upgrading to a beam. "Don't I know it?" she rejoined easily. "Got it. No men."

"Cool!" Lydia repeated. "All right! We'll see ya, then." And her hand squeezed David's shoulder just before she sashayed away.

Janice picked up her fork. "What's her name?" she asked David quietly. "I should remember, but..."

"Lydia," grinned David. "She's awesome. In every way. She's never invited _me_ to The Roadhouse or The Hot Spot. I feel like I'm missing out on all the fun stuff. Seriously, no men?"

Another smile. It was the happiest David had ever seen her. "Might not be such a bad thing for a while," she replied. Her fork came down, and she upended the newspaper. Detective Ormsby's smug visage eyeballed them from beneath the screaming headlines. "Ever see such a mess caused by women?" she asked.

David could think of a plethora of disasters that had been caused by women, historically as well as in the present day, but didn't think it the right moment to say so. Instead, he said, "Are you glad it's pretty much over? No more visits from this loser – " His finger gave Ormsby's manly chin a swift poke. " – at the very least. And I'm guessing that those two guys aren't ever coming back to Shady Grove."

But Janice's face had begun to cloud over. "I don't know," she said in a much lower voice. "I guess Deke and Lew mighta done it. But I'd hate for 'em to take the rap if it wasn't them. From what I've been hearin', they been claimin' they didn't do it. Even Bill's not so sure, now that it's all official and such." She toyed with her fork. "But they did skip out and all. So maybe all of 'em are just a pack of liars."

David shifted in his chair as he tried to follow all of this. "But it seems pretty clear," he said. "I mean, they drove all the way over from Greenville that morning, supposedly to confront Heck about money. And Bill saw them at the building, pounding on your door around twelve. And then when you came back that night, Heck had been dead for almost the exact number of hours that had passed since they'd been there. What's Bill not so sure about now, anyway? It was noon. He's never all sauced up in the middle of the day."

Janice's ebullience had evaporated entirely. "He's just... not sure. He said that something like this happened to someone he knew when he was a kid. That it was obvious who had done it, but then it turned out it was actually someone else. He said that the cops didn't even go after any of the killers, they were just so happy they'd left town."

David's thoughts had begun to spin. His head was spiraling, his mind was abuzz with a swarm of facts and suppositions, and snippets of stories to which he wished he had paid more attention.

Jim Frisk. Big Jim Frisk. Some guys he owed money to, they came for him one day and gave him a touch of his own medicine.

David stood. One of Genevieve's paintings, a delectable rendering of a layered cheesecake fronting a backdrop of falling rose petals, began to swim sideways on the wall. The table below him grew small and insignificant.

"David? You okay? David?"

He ignored Janice. The concern in her voice was touching but entirely useless. Did she know? Did she harbor any suspicions?

They went too far, though. His head was nothin' but bloody pulp when they got through.

How could he not have noticed the similarities? How had he missed such glaringly obvious parallels?

Ya knew he beat on her, right? My Mum, she lived for a bit with a guy just like Heck.

"David?" Janice had risen as well. "Do you feel all right?"

_NO_ , David didn't feel all right! He felt ill, sick to his stomach. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream. Was everyone and everything around him completely screwed up beyond all redemption? Was this just what most people truly were underneath all of the brittle coatings of civilized behavior?

And what about David himself? How had his attempts to forge a cleaner, better life for himself failed so stupendously? Wasn't he, to some extent, culpable for some of what had occurred? Didn't he own a responsibility for not only his own life, but also for the lives of those by whom he was surrounded?

"I have to go," he heard a robotic voice that sounded nothing like his own announce. "I have to go."

The door to Larch Avenue beckoned. The outdoor light was intensely bright. And as he pushed out onto the street, not only was it the first time in over a year that David had departed Gâteaupia without an exchange of banter with Lydia, it was the first time ever that his plate of cake had remained untouched.

#  Chapter Twenty-Seven

Left on Larch. Jaywalk across Larch. Right on Fifth Street.

Well, he got his. He got his.

Bill's words taunted David, slapped at him as his feet slapped at the pavement. Bill's drinking had definitely picked up as well over the past several days. He had been _immersing_ himself in alcohol!

Run across Oak. Almost to Maple. Crossing Maple.

Whoever did it, I hope they get away.

How could THAT not have been a giant freaking clue?

_I told 'em what I saw. They can follow it up and come up with their own conclusions_.

Jesus, David was blind!

Crossing Gum. Almost to Birch. Sprinting to beat a minivan that was pulling up at the stop sign.

And how about that look on Bill's face when Detective Ormsby had suggested poking into _his_ background?

Clean as a whistle. Have at it.

But his expression! And when Ormsby had provoked him with that comment about cleaning the fountain for a living...

Passing the elementary school. Almost to Marion. Clair!

David pulled up abruptly, his heart freezing even as it pumped more strongly than it had ever done before.

Clair! Clair and Bill! Was it even possible? Had she said something to him as well?

_That girl creeps me out_.

David gasped for air, sucking in humongous quantities of oxygen as he stared at the façade of the school.

He doesn't trust me.

Holy crap!

It's okay. He has his reasons.

And as Clair's words began to carom about his head as well, David was off and running again. He wanted to scream, he wanted to yell, _he_ _wanted to UNDERSTAND!_

Crossing Marion. Approaching Smithfield.

Who was she? _What_ was she? Or was David leaping to conclusions, tying everything together incorrectly just because the string was available to do so?

Flying across Dr. Longworth. One more long block south, and then it was Piston Avenue.

But he _knew_ Clair was involved, he knew it! She had told Janice to visit her mother, she had provided her with an ironclad alibi! Why would she do so, unless she needed her out of the way for some reason?

But could Clair be involved with Heck's murder?

Big business here yesterday. Big business, bad business.

A terrible business. But CLAIR WAS IN FIRST GRADE!

This was insane, it was all nuts. They had _all_ been dipping into the squirrel stash!

Right on Piston. Three buildings down was the Rainbow Arms.

David collapsed onto the grass. He had never run so hard so fast. A mile and three-quarters done in less time than it normally took the Shady Grove trolley to traverse the same distance.

He lay back on the lawn, his chest heaving, scalding rivulets of sweat running down far too many parts of his body. The Rainbow Arms looked sad, tired, and decrepit. Why did he live here? Why had he _chosen_ to live here?

But the answers to those questions were unrelated to what had been occurring lately. Detective Ormsby had already asked them, and they had been answered, honestly.

And suddenly, David knew that his time here at the Rainbow Arms was nearing its end. He had had enough of his tiny apartment and its spartan furnishings. He was done with ignoring the deterioration stalking steadily northwards from Easton Avenue. He loved the courtyard, as well as his occasional chats with Bill, Janice and Clair, but it was time to move on, it was time to move out. He had taught himself to live simply and to live well. Lesson earned, lesson learned. But right now, as of this moment, the absolute last thing he wanted to do was to spend another hour, let alone another night, in this antiquated, rundown excuse for a home, no matter _how_ much he had thrilled to discover himself able to thrive here.

The geranium bushes appeared weakly. The grass felt insubstantial beneath his hands. The Rainbow Arms itself looked shabby and battered, weather-beaten by the callousness of both time and circumstance. Its best years lay long in the past, and David could see this clearly now as he stared up at it in the stark, noonday sun.

His breathing had slowed, but it would be a while before it returned to normal. He smelled, but there wasn't much he could do to fix that just now. He rose, brushed off his hands and pants, and did what he could to straighten himself up.

And then David strode up the walkway to the lobby, and directly past his apartment door to the passageway that led to the courtyard. Johnson let out a couple yelps from inside 1F, but obviously wasn't aware that it was his master's footsteps he was hearing out there.

David stepped through the gate into the courtyard, unlatched the inner gate, and then knocked briskly on the front door of Bill's cottage.

#  Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bill opened the door himself. "Hey," he said. He wasn't exactly disheveled, but he wasn't exactly put together, either.

David eyeballed his friend, wondering if he'd gotten everything all wrong. Bill looked old, confused, and as if he'd spent the entire morning sleeping one off.

In, out, in, out went David's breathing, far faster than he would have liked. "Did you do it?" he asked, his tone harsh, his articulation crisp and even.

"Do what?" Bill goggled at him, clearly unaware of where David's thoughts had been traveling.

"Did you kill him? Did you kill Heck?"

Bill's face froze. He took an automatic step backwards, and unwittingly kicked over one of his spindly side tables. "Wha... Wha – " He didn't even glance behind him as the table, along with its contents, crashed to the floor.

David advanced to the threshold. "Was it you?" he challenged roughly. "Tell me! Did you murder him, like you murdered Jim Frisk all those years ago?"

Bill's hands had started to shake, and his countenance blanched. He grabbed hold of the back of a chair, and took one more reverse step. "I... How did you..."

A searing pain thrust through David's head, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he yanked his head to the side. It worsened for a few agonizing seconds, and then eased, gradually lessening to become a dull, throbbing ache.

He tentatively opened his eyes to see Bill moving toward him, concerned. "Hey, you okay, man?"

David tried to wave him off, but found himself falling uncontrollably forward. He grabbed for the doorframe, but it was Bill's hands that caught him instead. Seconds later, Bill had his arm around David's waist, and he was carrying him to his usual chair.

"Siddown. Don't try 'n move. I'm gettin' you some water."

The water was cool and delicious. David slurped it all down, never so grateful for the simple pleasure.

Bill refilled his glass, and then sat down across from him. David's color was better, but hadn't quite returned to normal. His breathing was still ragged, and he inhaled some more liquid before trusting himself to speak again.

"I... uh..." Bill looked away, toward one of the windows. And then he exhaled heavily, nodded to himself, and met David's gaze again. "I did. I did it. I did both of 'em." He drew in a long, quavering breath, and then swallowed, the sound grotesque and magnified in the dim, quiet room. "I ain't proud of it. But yuh, it was me. That what ya wanted to hear me say?"

David bit his lip. It was _not_ what he had wanted to hear come out of Bill's mouth, not in the least. "Why?" he choked out.

Bill closed his own eyes for a second. "Because," he answered, and his voice was edged with toughness. "Because they deserved it, that's why."

"How can you..." But David couldn't finish the question. He shook his head, stymied by both his physical discomfort, and the unwillingness to face the fact that Bill Lopes, his friend and drinking buddy, was a double murderer.

"Heck was a louse," stated Bill. "I hated that no-good piece of shit from the first time I laid eyes on him."

David could see the anger rippling through Bill's thoughts, spreading its power through his physical being as well.

"I didn't know he was hittin' her, but I shoulda," he went on. "She couldn't hide it no more that one day, but I'd figgered it out by then. I could just tell, the way he always swaggered in and treated her like a trash can or a mop. That's why I busted on him a few months ago. The door wasn't closed all the way, and I heard her cry out. So I just went right on in and broke it up."

David's eyebrows had risen to the sky.

"She didn't tell ya, huh?"

But his expression had answered for him. David eked out a "No," but Bill was already speaking again.

"He'd been grippin' her arms so tight they was turnin' purple. Holdin' her with her face down on the kitchen counter. 'Why not? Why not?' he kept yellin' at her over and over again. Well, I showed 'im why not. I kicked his legs out from under 'im, and got 'im right down on the floor 'imself, my knees stuck up in his back. 'Don't you ever hit her again!' I told 'im. And I told 'im again and again, givin' his stupid-ass head a good knock on the floor each time so he'd learn the message good."

David was almost petrified, imagining the hulking, furious Bill Lopes beating the crap out of Heck Vance while a terrified Janice Templeton looked on.

"And don't think I'm stupid," added Bill. "I told 'im that it would stay between us, what I did to 'im. No police, no nobody. I wasn't gonna rat on Heck, but I also didn't want 'im gettin' some of his asshole buddies together and comin' after me for shamin' 'im." One of Bill's hands flew into the air to wave the idea away. "Course, I also told 'im not to lay another hand on Janice, 'n you and me both know he didn't keep _that_ promise. Man like him, he couldn't. No way."

David understood. The Heck Vances of this world never could learn a useful lesson, no matter how well it had been taught.

"That day, he waltzed on by 'bout eleven thirty, jus' like I said. I was out front, mowin' the lawn. Janice, she'd been botherin' me to get at this leak under her kitchen sink for a while, but I'd been puttin' it off. So a bit later, as I was headin' back on in here, I hear him yell after me: 'Hey! Fix-it man. Ya wanna get in here and fix this Goddamn sink?' I turn to look at him, and there he is, just standin' there glarin' at me from her door like he was gonna come beat on me if I didn't jump to do his business. But I kept my cool and said sure, I'd be back in a couple minutes or so."

Bill had begun to grip the arm of his chair. His eyes were focused, his voice was taut. "I got my toolbox out, just pissed as hell. I ain't no servant, and if I was gonna be anybody's servant, I sure as hell wasn't gonna be his! But on my way past the fountain, I had an idea. I'd drained it before I did the mowin', cuz it's easier to clean up when it's empty 'n dry, and one of them stone pieces that hides the pump motor was sittin' on the ground, right in my way. I hoisted it, and slipped it into my toolbox."

David was rapt, knowing full well where this was headed. Bill wasn't speaking to him anymore; he was telling his tale to the room, or to himself. He didn't need David as an audience to continue.

"So I go on in to Janice's apartment, no way was I gonna knock politely on the door. And there's Heck, waitin' for me in the kitchen with his arms crossed and this shit-eatin' grin on his puss. I woulda belted him right there, but kept it steady. 'Where's the leak?' I asked him. 'Under the sink,' he said. 'What are ya, stupid?' So I get down on my knees and look, but pretend I can't see none of the water that sure 'nuff is drippin' ever'where in there. I stand back up and say, 'Show me.' And he gets all pissed off, 'n starts insultin' me again. But he's gotta prove his point, so down he goes. And by the time he's halfway up, still calling me a stupid, blind old man, I'd laid into him with the stone I'd picked up." Bill displayed what was almost a smile. "One smack probably took care of the job, but I gave 'im a few more, just to be sure."

And David could easily imagine Bill giving that chore his all, ensuring that at least _this_ boyfriend of Janice's would never hit her again.

"It's been harder than the other time," Bill said, his voice lower and pensive. "Maybe it's age. Or maybe I just ain't as sure of myself as I was then."

David didn't know if he should respond. He certainly didn't _want_ to. But Bill was once again looking at him, seeking, perhaps, some sort of reaction, condemning or not. "Did the other guys get blamed?" he asked hesitantly. "For Jim Frisk? Had they been there at all?"

A chuckle escaped as Bill leaned toward him. "Oh, they'd been there, all right. They'd done a good number on old Jim. I found him lying there, I wasn't gonna let _that_ opportunity go to waste. I finished 'im, went a quarter mile out back to bury the cookin' pot I did it with, and then ran back home and called the police."

"Like you had Janice do when she came home in the middle of the night."

"Yuh. I was actually hopin' she'd be comin' back the next day, but it worked out. Just ever'one lost a night's sleep, and we got that Ormsky all up in our faces."

David found himself unable to withhold his own chuckle. "Did they arrest or catch the guys who'd come after Jim Frisk?"

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Same deal, they skipped town. My Mum, she had her suspicions 'bout me, 'cause she knew how I could never stand 'im. But I was eighteen, and ready to get outta the nest anyways. I left a few weeks later. Saw her a few times more before she died, but she never asked. Probably shoulda told her, she at least woulda known I cared."

Another soft chuckle emerged from David. It was almost funny, sitting here and listening as Bill described how he'd offed two men, some forty-odd years apart. He had come to the cottage angry, worked up and furious for having been lied to and duped, and yet now he was closing in on calm, his still-heightened breathing aside. All he needed was a cold can of Miller Genuine Draft in his hand, and it could have been any evening of the week, with a game about to come on, and Bill and he shooting the shit.

"What did you do with the stone?" David asked aloud. The ache in his head was dissipating, slowly, slowly lifting away.

"Stone?" Bill seemed bewildered.

"From the fountain. The one you used to..."

"Oh. That." He almost looked embarrassed. "I cleaned it. That afternoon, when I worked on the fountain. I had hosed it down some right after, but then got to worryin' that some of the stuff had dripped off as I headed back here. It was when I was checkin' the common area that those two thugs showed up 'n began bangin' on the door, hollerin' for Heck to come out."

"So it's in the fountain now. Where it's been all along."

"Yuh. Nice and tidy, clean as a whistle."

David was pleased for some reason that Bill had stated this without a hint of pride in his actions.

"Bill," he said quietly.

"Yeah?" Bill had reclined in his chair, but now sat up again. He didn't look anxious so much as resigned.

"What about Clair?"

The bewilderment surfaced again. Clearly, it wasn't a question he'd anticipated. "What about 'er?"

But after he'd spoken, David caught just a shadow of the guarded wariness that Bill had demonstrated with Ormsby. "Did she... have anything to do with this?" he asked.

Bill's hand shot up again. He looked angry as he practically threw himself backwards. "They gave notice. Standard thirty days. Gotta start showin' the place again. You know anyone lookin', send 'em my way."

But David smelled the diversion, and it stank. "What did she say to you?"

Bill snorted. "That woman? That they'd be out by the end of the day. Broke the lease, but the owners'll nick the deposit."

"No. Bill. What did Clair say to you?" But David felt ill once more. The possibility of never seeing Clair again was worse than disturbing, for as much as he didn't know who or what she was, he felt an overwhelming desire to understand her, to understand how such strange profundities could keep emerging from the mouth of a little girl.

Bill's eyes had been plying the ratty woodwork above one of the windows, but they gradually lowered to meet David's gaze. "How'd ya know?" he asked gruffly.

"I just did. What did she say?"

But Bill didn't want to tell. He studied the television, the curtains, the floor, the piles of magazines that looked as though they hadn't been riffled through in decades, an unopened can of Miller Genuine Draft that had somehow escaped him before.

And then, yet again, he looked at David. "Fine," he said. "It don't make no sense, no how." His fingers, though, were working over the arm of his chair once more. "Ya know how I saw 'er take your hand the other day?" he asked.

David nodded.

"Well, she did that to me, too. A week ago. It's why I... why I was so curious about what she said to you."

"Oh. That makes sense." And it did. Bill had actually been pushy – for Bill – that day, but David got it. He'd felt the same determined need to know what Clair had said to Bill!

"I was comin' toward the courtyard after gettin' the mail, and she was comin' out. Or so it looked – I never heard the gate shut. I stepped back so she could pass, but the next thing I know, she'd taken ahold of me like she did you." He lifted his hand and stared at it. "Her fingers – they were hot, like they'd been in an oven or somethin'. It was like a power that flowed through her, and I couldn't move. I couldn't let go, even though it just seemed wrong, me standin' there holdin' this girl's hand in full sight of anyone that came by." Bill's arm sank to his chair again. "And then she said it. 'If you do it again, the same thing'll happen.' It was screwy. And when I asked what the hell she meant by it, that was when she smiled. 'You'll know, Bill. You'll know when,' she said. 'Everything'll be okay, just like before.' And then she let go of me, and ran on upstairs to 'er apartment."

David was riveted. Clair _had_ arranged everything! She had done nothing wrong, she'd taken no physical part in anything, but her prints were all over _everything_ that had occurred at the Rainbow Arms the previous Wednesday. Once again, he felt both awe and fear regarding the first grader from Apartment 2B. Once again, the stilted phrases that she had spoken to him while holding his own hand began to roam his thoughts.

Four things that you love, you will lose.

And if _that_ wasn't a completely screwy statement, he didn't know what was.

But one of them could be yours again. And I hope for that, David, I do.

Combine all of that with her pronouncement that he would know himself, and David could probably book a psychiatrist for the next ten _years_ just to explore the endless possibilities to which her utterances could lead.

Bill gently cleared his throat. David returned to the cottage.

"So..." began Bill, and then he looked down at the floor again. "I guess... I should ask..."

"It's not going anywhere, Bill," David stated simply. He had spoken quietly not only because he didn't want his headache to rebound, but also because it was a subject best addressed discreetly. "That's a promise."

Bill swallowed once more, and almost looked as if he were going to cry. "And I promise you, David. I'll never do anything like that again. Ever. Never."

As a tear actually stole its way onto Bill's grizzled face, David couldn't help a gibe. "Better not," he replied. "If you continue your pattern, you'll be well over a hundred the next time. I'd be seventy-something, but I'd still have to turn you over to Detective Ormsby."

A wet guffaw shook Bill's entire body. "He's actually next on my list," he said before stifling what could have been either a cough or a laugh.

"Not if I get there first," was David's response. "And on my list, he's number one through ten right now."

Bill closed his eyes as the tears flooded in, running in streams down his cheeks, spilling in great drops onto his pants.

"I'm going to go now, Bill," David said. He stood, and cautiously made his way toward his friend, grateful to find the dizziness gone, his control over his body restored. He placed a hand on Bill's quivering shoulder. "I'm not going to say you did the right thing. But I also don't believe you did the wrong thing. Either time." He gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "I'll see ya. Later this week. Beers are on me."

And then he turned toward the door of the cottage without looking back. And he let himself out.

#  Chapter Twenty-Nine

David stood for a few minutes in front of Bill's door, unwilling to return just yet to the claustrophobic confines of his apartment. Johnson would no doubt be more than eager to go out, but the idea of meandering the avenues of Shady Grove while he mulled over all that he had just learned was about as appealing as revisiting his college years, knowing all that he knew as an adult.

Had he just forgiven Bill? Did he have any _right_ to offer forgiveness to Bill?

David hadn't offered forgiveness, though. Only a type of solace based in understanding.

Would Bill take it overly hard when David handed in his own 30-day notice? Would he see it as a comment on all that had occurred, not to mention his role in it?

But how could what had occurred within the walls of the Rainbow Arms _not_ play into David's decision to move? Bill would understand, hopefully. He'd be hurt, but he would accept it, eventually.

David knew that a part of him would be sad to depart his cozy home on Piston Avenue. He had grown here, he had become his own person here. And yet he also knew that he had little choice in the matter. The time was ripe. The time was now.

He barked out a small, uncomfortable laugh. The time may have been now, but it was also impossible! Where could he move immediately? Genevieve's? She'd never even lived with Todd, and presumably the two of them had enjoyed at least a touch more stability in their seven-year relationship than she and David had experienced thus far.

Johnson would be happy anywhere, so that wasn't much of a concern. He had certainly handled with admirable aplomb the myriad changes that had led to their residency at the Rainbow Arms. Nary a complaint after his first foray about the courtyard, nary a whimper regarding the tight quarters in apartment 1F.

David smiled to himself as he moved toward the gate that led to the courtyard. They'd be all right. Everything would end up being fine. It was just another change for them, but a positive one. He knew what he wanted now, what he and Johnson needed to live, not to mention thrive. They'd been happy with less. Having more, at least in moderation, could only be an enhancement to their lives.

He pulled the gate toward him, and stepped into the courtyard.

And then David's heart froze for the second time in a single afternoon.

Clair was standing a few feet away, facing him. Her eyes were focused on his, her demeanor was calm but intense. Behind her, the water in the fountain played in the sunlight, burbling and spitting silvery tongues of spray into the various basins as though it were the most ordinary of days, as if the weapon that had been utilized to bash in the head of a man named Hector Vance wasn't right at this very moment a part of it, ironically protecting the engine that kept the water circulating.

"Hi, David," she spoke quietly. Her gaze hadn't shifted an iota, and as David began to breathe again, he studied her, seeking any hint as to what she could want of him. She was wearing a prim white blouse over a black skirt, her saddle shoes the perfect accompaniment for these, a simple velvet bow in her hair a fitting ornamental topper.

The gate had swung closed behind him. He reached to his side to grasp a fencepost, but didn't move toward her. Clair hadn't budged at all.

"Hi, Clair," he finally replied. His voice was thick, his two words laced with more than a touch of defensiveness.

A wan smile appeared on her face.

David wasn't comforted.

"Can we talk for a few minutes?" she asked him.

"About what?" he thrust back.

Her voice lowered. "You know," she said with that air of familiarity that had always both vexed and intrigued him.

David's hand fell from the fencepost, and he leaned back into the gate. His pose may have been casual, but he knew that he wasn't fooling her for even a second. "Actually, I don't know, Clair," he stated. "Truly, I don't. Why don't you tell me?"

As he'd spoken, her smile had begun to grow. "What would you like me to tell you?" she replied, almost sweetly.

But David was in no mood for games. This wasn't some elementary school version of _Guess Who?_ or _Simon Says_. When he spoke again, his tone was rough, his words forceful. "Why don't you tell me how you arranged for Janice's boyfriend to be murdered?" he demanded. "Why did you tell Bill he could get away with it?"

Her smile had disappeared. Her expression was sad, her eyes hurt. "It wasn't like that," she said faintly.

David took a step forward before he jerked to a halt again. He couldn't stop himself from practically yelling at her. "Then tell me what it was like, Clair! Tell me how it is that you got Janice to go visit her mother, you got Bill to murder Heck, and everybody seems to be chasing their tails around trying to figure it all out, when the center of everything always seems to be you!"

Her face was starting to crumple, but David wasn't buying it. "I didn't tell Bill to do it," she said.

"You did! You as good as did!"

"No, David. I didn't." She was pleading to him with her voice, her hands, her eyes.

"But you knew what would happen, didn't you? You knew what _could_ happen if Janice was away, if Bill was told that he could repeat the same crime he'd committed all those years ago without getting caught. You knew all of this before you said a word to any of them! How can you stand there and tell me you're innocent, when you know that everything I'm saying is true? Who are you, Clair? Who are you?"

Her hands had sunk back to her sides. A tear began to roll down one of her cheeks, followed seconds later by a counterpart on her other cheek. A breeze alit in the courtyard, toying with Clair's hair, lifting the tired bushes higher while pushing the fallen leaves about in circles.

"I don't know," she answered. "I don't know who I am." She sounded pathetic, lost. Her eyes were beseeching David, though he knew not what for.

"How do you know so many things about all of us, then? How can you know so much about everybody? Are you able to look into our minds? See the future? _Make_ the future?"

"No!" she answered immediately, shaking her head. Her countenance was becoming a crazy quilt of tears. "No, I can't do that."

"Do what?" David burst out. "You can't make the future, but you can do all the rest? _Tell_ me, Clair! Please, help me to understand what's been going on here!"

Clair's eyes closed for a few seconds. The breeze was dying down, and David steadied himself, inhaling deeply as he tried to tamp down his frustration and anger.

And then she was meeting his gaze again. A hand rose to swipe at both sides of her face, but her eyes never let go of his. "I've always known things," she said quietly. "Things I didn't want to know. They just... appear to me."

"Like the pronunciation of Genevieve's name." David was grateful to find that the edge in his voice was softening, flattening.

"Yes. I knew about that from the minute I started talking with you."

"Her last name is MacGuffie," David stated. "But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

A brisk shake of her head. "No," she answered as a guilty smile emerged. "Will you forgive me for continuing to ask?"

He nodded. "Yes. For that. How did you know about what Bill had done all those years ago? Or about Mrs. Jenkins' daughter?"

Her head tilted slightly higher. "Mrs. Jenkins wore her sadness up front. It was what she was always thinking about. With Bill, it took a while, but I think he could sense that I was reading his thoughts, and he tried to bury what he had done. Which only brought it right out into the open."

David was confused. "But Clair, knowing things about people isn't all that is... weird about what you do. Mrs. Jenkins told me what you said to her, about the purple skies. Did you make the sky purple for her that night, so she could set her grief aside?"

Another shake of her head. "No. I told you, I can't do that."

"But how did you know that her daughter was all right, how could you _possibly_ know anything about that? And how did you know that Mrs. Jenkins would go outside at all that night? Or that doing so at that exact time would make her feel so much better about everything?"

Clair's smile was back, albeit a paler version. "I don't know. Truly, David. As for her daughter, I just felt that she was at peace. I could perceive this. And I wanted Mrs. Jenkins to know, because it was important to her. I knew that that Thursday night would bring a rare color to the sky, and that she would step outside and see it. And so I said to her what I did."

"So you can tell the future. You can't make it, but you can see it."

"Sometimes. Not all of the time."

"And you tricked Mrs. Jenkins into feeling better, using this knowledge you have of the future to do so."

Her right hand took hold of a pleat in her skirt. "Was that so wrong?"

"How old are you, Clair?" Her grip on the skirt tightened along with the muscles of her face, and David felt the stirrings of the breeze again. "You never answered me when I asked you a few months ago."

"I'm young," she replied quietly.

"You're not seven, or eight, or nine. And your language today is far more complex than I've noticed before. You're using an adult's vocabulary, not words that a first grader would pick up in the classroom, or on the playground of an elementary school."

"I'm young," she repeated. "And I don't really want to talk about this."

The breeze gusted, and David winced as dust and dirt flew into his eyes. "Are you making this wind happen, Clair? Are you creating this?"

The wind instantly kicked in harder. "You are!" Clair exclaimed. "I'm not trying to create anything!" Her face was defiant, her chin jutting outwards as her fingers continued to maul her skirt.

"Okay, okay!" David appealed, holding his hands out toward her. "I'll ask about something else! We won't talk about your age."

The flurries immediately died down.

"I'm sorry," he said in a much gentler voice. "There's a lot I don't understand. There's a lot that I _want_ to understand. I don't mean to be so curious, but I can't help it."

"I don't really understand a lot either," Clair conceded as her chin lowered and the breeze calmed before ceasing entirely. "But this is part of the reason I like talking to you. You've come to understand so much about your own life in a very brief period of time. You... you've become a better person than you were. And you did so consciously."

"It's not as if I had much of a choice," returned David. "I couldn't have remained who I was. I offered nothing to the world. To myself, or to anyone else."

"But you do now."

He nodded. "I'm trying. I'm still trying. May I... may I ask you about a couple things, Clair?"

Her gaze was cautious. "Yes. I'll do my best to answer. This is good for me, to explore like this. With you. I've always told you that I like you."

David wasn't sure what to make of that, or whether he should even try to comprehend. "Why Heck?" he said. "Why him?"

Her eyes were keen; he hadn't needed to ask a more detailed question. "Because of Janice," she answered. "I didn't like what he was doing to her."

David looked down at the ground. "I guess I don't have to ask how you knew about it. But Clair... Bill will have to deal with the burden of what he did for the remainder of his life."

Her tone was clear as she answered: "I knew about it because it was obvious to anyone, not just me. You knew. You actually knew for longer than you think you did, but you had ignored the signs. Bill knew all along. And as for his burden, your talk with him just now relieved a good portion of it. Time will ease the rest, as it did for him the first time."

David looked up again with a sigh. It was as if she had been in the cottage with the two of them just now. But in a way, this was only fair: Bill had eavesdropped on at least two of Clair's conversations with others himself.

"What about Stacey?" he asked. "Janice's friend."

"Stacey?" She appeared momentarily baffled. "Oh, Stacey. Yes."

"How did you know to tell Janice to stay with her until the bus came? You hadn't met her, I'm assuming. So how could you know about her ex coming after her that night?"

But Clair's head was already moving from side to side. "I don't control it. I _can't_ control it. Janice was moving past me as she was leaving the building, and it just came to me, what would happen. I didn't like what I saw, so I told her to wait. I knew that it would keep it from happening. And it did."

"So you didn't cause Janice's mother to have her asthma attack?"

She winced. "No. No! That was going to happen anyway. You don't want to believe me, do you, David?"

She looked pained, and as the bushes began to sway again, David shifted gears.

"How many others have there been?"

The breeze fizzled out. "How many other whats?"

He expelled some air while doing some quick thinking. "People. Towns. Lives saved, lives taken."

She hadn't appreciated the last part of his question; a frown had appeared. "I've lived in a lot of different places. And I've known a lot of people."

Her inability to directly answer a question had not been affected by her desire to explore, David noted. "What I mean is, do the same things happen to you everywhere you go?"

A slow nod. "Yes."

"But do they end up as... complicated, for lack of a better word, as they have here in Shady Grove?"

Another nod, along with the wince again. "Yes. Not always. But... yes."

David kept working ideas over, unsure of how he could discover more explanations without stepping into the foxholes. "Is Mrs. Rushen always with you?" he asked.

A genuine smile came forth. "Yes. She takes care of me. She always has."

"Are you always in the first grade, though?"

She beamed. "Not during the summer! But for a while now..." Her visage was dimming, dimming. "For a while now, I've been in first grade."

"But why? You could easily be moved ahead! You could learn other things: math, or music, or other languages..."

"I would still see the same things, in any language," she replied sadly.

"But wouldn't you – "

"I like being in first grade," she interjected. "It's the life I wish I could have. A real life. A normal life."

And to that, David found that he had no response. It was what he'd wished as well when he'd been young, that his family could have been normal. No more distressing ups and downs, no more unsuccessful attempts to make friends. No more covert moves in the middle of the night, let alone the middle of the school year. Clair and he did have similarities, even if the two of them had little in common outside of those.

He phrased his next question with care. "What you've said to me, Clair. Here, in the courtyard, as well as at the school yesterday. What did you mean?"

"I've said a lot of things to you, David," she replied evenly.

He took a breath. He took his time. "About my knowing myself. About the four things you said I would lose. Four things that I love."

She studied him as he fumbled about for a better approach to this, a less cumbersome means of getting her to throw some light upon her own words.

"It will happen," she said. "All of it."

"But it frightens me," he returned, realizing that what he was telling her was entirely true. "After all that has happened, after all that you've just shared with me, how could I not worry? How could I not think about your words and wonder if what's in store for me is something terrible? Something far worse than what I could even imagine right now?"

She took a single step toward him, the first movement her feet had made since David's arrival in the courtyard. He wanted to retreat; every instinct he had began to scream at him to stay away, to _get_ away from this crazy, incomprehensible girl.

"They might be good things," she asserted, her eyes pleading with him to stay calm. To believe her, to believe in her.

But David was suddenly immersed in doubts. He saw Bill's face as he cried, the body bag containing what remained of Heck Vance being wheeled out of the Rainbow Arms on a stretcher, Detective Ormsby's sneer as he sadistically acted out his anger with David for something that had had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

"You don't know that," he stated to Clair. "You don't know where things can lead. You can't follow each action to see all of the reactions that occur when a person changes their behavior because of something you've said to them. You can't _know_ that what ensues will be good or be bad!"

The wind was back. It was instantly strong, kicking up clouds of dirt and pushing the falling water straight out of the fountain.

"I don't _want_ things that I do to be bad," Clair said, her voice strained with a tinge of petulance.

"But Clair, what you've done isn't all good!" David couldn't hide his irritability, and the growing turbulence in the courtyard wasn't helping matters any. "You can't turn men into murderers! You can't mess with people's lives just because you're able to! What you did for Mrs. Jenkins was incredible, but what if Stacey's ex had pulled out a knife that night and attacked Janice instead?"

"No! _No!_ " Clair shrieked. "That didn't happen!"

A gust so strong that it almost knocked David off his feet swept the length of the courtyard. A scraggly rosebush flew out of the ground and right over the back fence; the water in the top tier of the fountain appeared to be fleeing, streaming in fifty directions at once.

"But you don't know who you are!" David declared forcefully. And then a fragment of his conversation with Carol Jenkins slammed into his thoughts. "Are you trying to figure out if you're good or bad?" he shouted. "Do you have any idea at _all_ if you're good or bad?"

" _I DON'T KNOW I DON'T KNOW I DON'T KNOW!_ " Clair screamed.

The fountain toppled over, but any sound that it made was covered by the roar of the wind. David had once again grasped the fencepost, but this time with both of his hands.

" _Clair!_ " he hollered as an entire row of plants howled by on their way out of the garden. " _Clair! Clair, please stop!_ "

Eerily, Clair appeared to be having no problems at all withstanding the maelstrom. Only her hair was embroiled, careening in every direction, the velvet bow long gone. But her eyes were still locked on David's, and within seconds, the pandemonium had diminished.

The largest section of the fountain capsized once more, landing with a hollow thump on its rim. A dog could be heard barking frantically, and David knew that it was Johnson, undoubtedly trying to launch himself out the bedroom window, if he could have leapt so high.

"Do you know, David?" Clair asked, her voice querulous yet calm. "Does anybody?"

But David couldn't answer. Aside from his shock at the utter devastation of his favorite garden in Shady Grove, he knew that no one who owned a conscience could truly answer that question with outright confidence.

The gate that led to Bill's cottage was pulled abruptly open. David didn't have to turn around to be able to see the look on Bill's face. "Ho. Lee. Shit," he heard muttered in astonishment from behind him.

Seconds later, the gate that led to the common area was unlatched as well, and Mrs. Rushen stepped into the courtyard. Her bearing was staid, her face was blank. She was clad in yet another of her shapeless outfits that made it so difficult to determine where the woman ended and the costume began.

Clair's eyes hadn't left David's. She looked sad again, and David thought he could discern the tears welling up once more.

"It's time to go now," Mrs. Rushen said.

And that was when Clair blinked, and David saw that she _was_ crying. He had to admit that he felt a bit like bawling himself.

She took four steps, until she was less than a foot away from him. Once again, she reached forward. Once again, she took his hand.

"You'll know when," she said in a whisper as the heat from within her traveled through David's entire being. "You'll want to. Just go in."

And then she was moving away from him, slowly, unwillingly. She took hold of Mrs. Rushen's hand, but turned for a few last seconds to gaze at him. One more melancholy smile emerged. One more tear rolled down each cheek.

Mrs. Rushen nodded discreetly at David. And then the pair departed the courtyard of the Rainbow Arms. Never to return, never to return.

#  Chapter Thirty

A week passed. And while this standard period of seven days elapses at pretty much the same pace no matter where one is in the world, it seemed an interminable seven days to several of the residents of Shady Grove.

Bill Lopes began the laborious process of cleaning up the courtyard. The fountain was salvageable, although in an ironic twist, the one component that had shattered beyond all repair was the stone piece that had been used on Heck Vance's head. Only three small trees and a hardy pair of rosebushes had survived the freakish windstorm; the wooden benches had turned into kindling, and the remainder of the garden had emerged a wasteland. Only a few residents regularly visited the courtyard, Janice among them, but Bill informed anyone who asked that the building's owners had authorized an automatic sprinkler system to be installed, which at least somewhat explained why he'd needed to clear out most of the established vegetation.

Janice had bought this reasoning without question. She had only enjoyed coming to the courtyard to talk with David, and after their strange encounter at Gâteaupia the week before, she'd had an inkling that those amiable chats were nearing an end. She hadn't ended up going out for drinks with Lydia and her crew over the weekend, but had promised to do so the following Saturday night.

No replacement for Heck was on the horizon. Janice thought that she might see how long she could last before welcoming another man into her life.

Lydia missed David. A lot. She waited five long days before she finally texted him: "Creamed spinach dulce de leche surprise with a pine nut studded sugar drizzle. Want u back! Your counter girl L. xoxoxo."

David had smiled, smiled, and smiled. "You win w/out a contest," he'd replied. "Want to be back, let u know. But if u hear that the door has slammed for good, marry me?"

Lydia had smiled, smiled, and smiled as well.

Lydia's employer, on the other hand, had discovered that running her business, usually the activity that most thrilled and energized her, had become a drudgery. By Saturday afternoon, Genevieve was exhausted. By Sunday night, she was ready to close the bakery for a month. The website that David had architected for Gâteaupia had brought in a surfeit of extra business, but with her thoughts not centered solidly on the store, Genevieve had found work becoming... well, work. Like Lydia, she missed David. But she wasn't ready to decide what she wanted.

Genevieve didn't actually _know_ what she wanted.

At Shady Grove Elementary School, Carol Jenkins had had a premonition of her own: by the time Clair's third unexcused absence in a row had been marked off and sent down the hall to the principal's office, she knew that the odd little girl who had offered her such comfort with her words was never going to set foot in her classroom again. Carol was saddened by this loss, and yet at the same time felt at peace. Clair had given her a hug goodbye after school ended on Monday, and a surprised Carol had held her close for a long minute. After her emotional meeting with David Wilcott during the lunch break, she had found her eyes drifting over and over again to Clair, who had met her gaze frankly. Clair had obviously been saying goodbye to her that afternoon, and Carol was glad that she had done so. It added closure to an episode in which Clair had provided her with a different sort of closure. Mrs. Jenkins knew without a doubt that their interactions had altered the course of her life. She was content now. And even though she understood that she could never have her daughter back again, she was ready to live for herself once more.

Living, though, was something that Grandpa Wilcott was _not_ of a mind to do. David's visit with him on Saturday had been brief, and a disappointment for both men. After two complaint-laden rounds of Gin rummy, David had put down his cards, stood, and left. He wasn't in the mood for his grumpy Grandpa. He wasn't in the mood to be around people who had given up.

David himself had spent the seven days painstakingly attempting to make decisions. He knew that he wanted to stay in Shady Grove. He knew that he needed to live somewhere other than the Rainbow Arms. He knew that he wanted to be with Genevieve. And yet he wasn't prepared to contact her until both of them were entirely ready to give their relationship everything they had.

If they were _in_ a relationship anymore, that is.

David and Johnson had taken many long walks, and David had gradually come to acknowledge that he truly liked who he had become in Shady Grove. He wasn't important, he wasn't a critical cog in any machine. But he was accepted, and comfortable, and fulfilled. He could wish for more, but why? He had had more once, and it had brought him none of the happiness that he had experienced in this bucolic town.

On Friday night, exactly a week after their previous conversation, he had called Jess. "I suppose you're going to tell me that all of this is _my_ fault," was how she'd answered the phone. Nervous before he dialed, David had found himself perfectly at ease with her within seconds. They had chatted for over an hour, as though they'd been friends for years. David had declared that he couldn't wait to meet her in July. Laughing, Jess had replied that she expected him to treat her to Longworth House, whether or not Genevieve was in the mood to join the two of them for dinner.

Both had promised to keep their conversation to themselves this time. Both intended to keep that promise.

The Shady Grove Courier had experienced a plummet in sales, beginning on the Wednesday following the press conference that had featured Detective Ormsby. Deke and Thickman's whereabouts had remained a mystery. And while the newspaper's editors had done their utmost to stoke the public's curiosity and keep it stoked, the conundrum of where a small-time drug dealer's alleged killers had fled was not one to occupy the public's attention for long. A half-page write-up on the upcoming 'Lez Hang Out' LGBT meeting in June had been the most interesting article of the Saturday edition.

Detective Ormsby had heard from Todd, though. Saturday afternoon, half an hour before the start of the game that both of them had planned to watch. One of them ended up calling the other every commercial break – to bitch about the errors the teams were making, to discuss who should play quarterback for the Shady Grove Eagles next season, to knock around which brewski went best with the TV dinner each of them would be enjoying for supper that evening.

Harvey Ormsby went to bed a happy man.

A long seven days. But not for everyone, clearly.

The weather in Shady Grove cooled down a touch, for which Bill Lopes, for one, was grateful. Digging, hoeing and planting were harder chores than they had been forty years before, when he'd first begun caring for the courtyard garden of the Rainbow Arms. On Friday, he actually _did_ contact the owners of the building to ask about installing some automatic sprinklers, and they'd agreed. A lie come true, but Bill was grateful in a way for all the work that remained to be done. It kept him occupied. It kept his thoughts occupied.

Bill and David drank some beers together late Sunday afternoon, after David helped to trench the garden for the sprinkler pipes. Unfazed by the carnage, Johnson had accompanied them, chasing after insects and then furiously lapping up his water as though he'd been working his tail off alongside the men.

Neither Bill nor David brought up the subject of what had happened on Tuesday. Neither one of them uttered the name, 'Clair.'

Her presence was felt, though. Apartment 2B had been vacated, but the former occupants of that unit were still very much in residence to the two men.

Their friendship was solid. Their camaraderie was easy. David knew that Bill would remain a part of his life, no matter where he ended up. He was pleased about this. And he hoped that Bill would be pleased as well.

#  Chapter Thirty-One

Tuesday afternoon, and it had been drizzling steadily since before seven a.m. The streets of Shady Grove were slick with wetness, but it wasn't a dank wetness. It was a jot over seventy degrees, and the minor storm system whose edges were brushing over the town was only supposed to drop enough moisture to freshen the greenery and cleanse the sidewalks.

David Wilcott sat alone on the covered stage of the amphitheater in the public square. His legs were extended before him, with his hands propping him up from behind. He had just finished the sandwich and banana he had picked up after his morning stint at Culpepper Mills. Johnson had come with him on Monday, but this afternoon David had a meeting scheduled with yet another Shady Grove business that desired a more dynamic online presence. David was happy to oblige, and he was more than happy to leave Johnson at home for another day. This was his vocation now, and he knew that handling things correctly from the start was a good way to keep it his vocation.

Websites, however, were not what was on David's mind at the moment. He was thinking about Aishani, the girl who had once broken his heart. She had been his first crush, and then his first love. And he was wondering, as he had every so often over the past couple of years, if the path that his life had followed might have been different if things had not gone so wrong in that long-ago, bittersweet semblance of a romance.

Like David, Aishani had been a mid-year addition to the eighth grade class at Lincoln Heights Middle School. David's family had slunk into town in late September; Aishani's father had been transferred to the area in August, and two months later, he had brought his wife and four children to Lincoln Heights as well.

She was beautiful. Though with glasses, no makeup, and her lustrous hair always tied back simply, she attracted no friends or admirers during her first few weeks at school.

But David had noticed her. At fourteen he had hit puberty, but while the gears of growth were whirring, nothing in his physicality was responding yet. And for a small, lonely boy who was already getting picked on by some of the bullies at the school, a girl who was smart, different, and outside the established social sets was an automatic draw.

Their families had ended up living only a few blocks apart from each other.

"Hi," David had called out, jogging to catch up with her as she headed briskly for home after school one day. "I'm David. I'm new here, too."

She shot him a shy smile, but clutched the books she was carrying more tightly to her chest. "Nice to meet you," she said in a voice that he had only heard a few times, a voice that held an undercurrent of mystery, an alluring hint of foreignness.

"I know how your name is spelled," he remarked, "but I'm afraid I'll turn it into something horrible if I try to pronounce it. Would you mind saying it for me once?"

His pleasantry had earned him a genuine smile. "Eye-shah-nee," she replied softly. "And thank you. Most people don't ask at all. They just butcher it."

David nodded; he'd had little experience talking to girls his own age, and was glad to find that he hadn't fumbled the first pass. "You live off of Waverly, right?" he asked. And as she glanced over at him with concern, he plowed on: "I do, too. On Peach. You're always ahead of me when I walk home. I never know where you turn, though. I go left there, and we live about six houses down. On the right."

His barrage of unrelated facts had at least relayed to her that he wasn't a stalker. "We live on Portland," she stated. "Second house in, north side. I've never seen you behind me."

"You never look behind you!" he grinned.

So she turned to look behind her right then. Several groups of students were bobbing along the sidewalks, and beyond them were a few solo stragglers. "I guess I've never seen anybody on my way back," she admitted. "Perhaps I'm in too much of a hurry to get home."

"Oh, but the kids here are so nice!" David returned. "You should stay, hang out with them."

She made a face. "Maybe not. So you're new here, too?"

And thus had begun a friendship, out of which had sprung a fledgling relationship. Aishani was the oldest of four girls, and her parents were understandably protective of their daughters, especially in regards to local boys. David had eventually been invited to her house for dinner; he had played Monopoly with Aishani and her sisters, and had charmed their parents. Gradually, gradually, the two had been allowed to spend time together without the constant onus of parental supervision.

By Thanksgiving, Aishani was wearing light mascara and earrings. She and David had each experienced their first kiss, and they held hands, though never at school.

By Christmas, Aishani had begun to use contacts, and was taking more care with her hair. Other boys had started to notice her, and didn't appreciate David being constantly at her side.

By January, Aishani was developing a figure, as well as receiving invitations to parties. David was pointedly not invited anywhere, and the bullies had stepped up their ministrations toward him.

They had their first fight as the date of the school's winter dance approached.

"Why do you always have to do everything with me?" she'd challenged him at lunch, as he yet again set his tray down next to hers. Several girls, newer friends of hers, giggled to each other, food forgotten; the opportunity to watch Aishani strut her stuff had finally arrived.

"I always eat with you!" had been David's impulsive, not overly perceptive reply.

"Exactly my point!" she'd flung back. "Let me eat with my friends today. We'll talk after school."

Stung, David had remained inert for a long minute, unsure of whether he should do as she'd asked, or try to hold his position.

"Go, _go!_ " she'd then impatiently shrieked, flicking her fingers at him as though he were a mosquito or a pesky gnat.

He had eaten his lunch alone on the field, frightened by her casually uttered _let me eat with my friends_ rejoinder, unable to figure out what he had said or done wrong.

He waited for over twenty minutes after school ended before she finally strode out of the gates. She barely acknowledged him. Her head was locked in a forward position, and her pace was so swift that David found himself having to trot to keep up with her.

"Aishani," he pleaded, "what did I do?"

She rolled her eyes. "You just don't get it, do you?"

He stumbled over his own feet, and then scurried to catch up again. "Get what?" he asked. "Did I say something to make you mad? Is it something I did? Tell me!"

An explosion of exasperation discharged from between those lips that David loved to explore, loved to kiss, loved to dream about.

" _Please_ , Aishani! This isn't fair!"

And at that, she swung around to face him. Her head pivoted quickly left and right, and he understood with dismay that she was making sure that they had no audience for what was about to occur.

"I got asked to the dance by Jack Foley," she declared brusquely.

"But... but you're going to the dance with me!" David protested, the stern countenance before him blurring as he unwittingly began to cry.

"Not any more. He asked me at Cassie's party on Saturday night."

"But I wasn't even there! She didn't invite me!"

Another eye roll. "Did you think I wasn't aware of that?" And then she caught sight of his tears and softened, but just a bit. "David, it isn't working between us. It hasn't been, for a while now."

He couldn't think of a single way to reply to that. It was news to him; what had happened at lunch today had been his first clue that anything was wrong.

"I welcomed you into my life," she continued. "I included you, my family included you. But you've never included me in anything. How many times have you been to my house in the last two months?"

David had a bad feeling that he knew where this was heading, but he attempted to calculate anyway. "A lot. Twenty, thirty times. Maybe more."

"And how many times have I been to your house? Or been invited for dinner by your parents?"

He knew that the answer was 'once,' but he also knew that it didn't matter. Aside from the fact that he'd never wanted to have Aishani over to become better acquainted with his slutty older sisters or his bitter, inhospitable Mom, his intuition was telling him that this was a feint. She had undoubtedly been late in exiting the school because she'd been consulting with her 'friends' regarding the most expedient means of dumping him.

Which meant that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. It was over, no matter how many explanations he could conjure up to thwart her manufactured accusations.

He'd gazed at her bleary image for as long as he could, soaking in the disdain, and comprehending that the joy he had taken in nearly every aspect of his life for the previous two months had been both temporary and false. What was the point of his happiness, if it could be snuffed out on the most capricious of whims by this superficial girl for whom he had so wholeheartedly fallen?

Before Aishani could blink, or turn, or leave, David did all three of these himself. He walked staidly home, not looking behind him even once to see if she was following, or watching him, or perhaps even thinking of saying she was sorry.

And David had learned. For the rest of that school year, he avoided all of the girls in his class – not that after his humiliation with Aishani, any of them would have eagerly sought his company. When he hit high school a few months later, still in Lincoln Heights for part of a record-breaking three year stretch for the Wilcotts in one city, he found himself gravitating toward the dumber girls, the outcasts, the chubbies. They seemed to appreciate his humor and mild attentions, they accepted his help on their homework, they allowed him to fumble and feel his way through that whole sex thing in which he found temporal, if not emotional, satisfaction.

Only years later, from a solid perch within adulthood, could David recognize some of the truths he had missed.

For one, Aishani hadn't been superficial. She'd merely been normal, subject to the same social pressures and laws of the jungle that all creatures desirous of fitting in are required to obey.

For another, if David hadn't taken being dumped so hard, not to mention the beating that Jack Foley and a group of his buddies had administered a few days later, he wouldn't have aimed so low over the next several years. The girls he had dated after Aishani hadn't exactly been bottom feeders, but they would hardly have been considered the cream of the crop, in any field. David had chosen his own role as a slacker in the love department. It hadn't been anyone else's doing.

As well, his unconscious decision that 'good' girls were beyond his reach had led him over and over again to become involved with those who didn't bring out the best in him, or foster the numerous positive traits in which David had little confidence himself. His family had been bad enough, ignoring him to the point where they'd essentially become housemates who just happened to share a last name. The girls, and later women, with whom David became romantically entangled added little or nothing to his value, or to his sense of values.

Would he have chosen more wisely during all of the subsequent years if Aishani had remained his girlfriend throughout eighth grade, or perhaps even beyond? Resisting the pull of friends, of parties, of popularity?

Without a doubt.

Could he have had a better time of it, or perhaps emerged from the episode more whole if she had cushioned the blow, or at the very least explained to him _why_ she felt she had to end their relationship, and without plying him with falsehoods?

Possibly, but no guarantees.

Guarantees, though, were nonexistent in life, as David well knew. If his interactions with Clair had taught him anything, they had certainly underlined the fact that whatever David thought he knew about how things worked on Earth, he was sorely under-informed.

He stood, collected his trash, and picked up his umbrella. He had over an hour to pass before his meeting, but was done with sitting here, sorting through dusty memories.

A walk around the deserted public square would do him good. David hopped off the stage, and headed uphill toward the intersection of Willow and Second.

#  Chapter Thirty-Two

It wasn't until his second circuit about the public square that David began to actually notice his surroundings. The elegantly symmetrical town hall, the dated pile that was the Moose Lodge, The Restful Nook, its many large windows throwing out broad shafts of light into the dimness of the day.

It was when his eyes alit on the beautiful Episcopalian Church that David veered off from the public square to cross the street. How long had he lived in Shady Grove? And how many times had he intended to look inside? It had been over eighteen months since he and Genevieve had climbed the steps to try the doors, but not once since had the idea reoccurred to him.

His grandparents had gotten married in there, fifty-odd years before. And, undoubtedly, countless other events involving elder Wilcott generations had taken place as well in the building.

David climbed the steps, a melancholy smile creeping onto his countenance as he recalled that magical night early on in his relationship with Genevieve. The impromptu kiss on their way to a casual dinner of soup and sandwiches; the leisurely stroll along Willow Avenue; their arms linking as they sat close to one another on the steps of the Shady Grove town hall.

Such promise, so many hopes.

So many of those hopes realized, and then dashed as reality intervened to break the promise.

The door was unlocked this time, and he pulled it open. He furled his umbrella and stepped into the narthex.

The natural light filtering in from four highly set windows was muted due to the clouds. The floor was gray marble, the walls a burnished dark wood. David glanced around, but as the door eased closed behind him, shutting out the murmurs of the street, he saw nothing but a nicely appointed foyer.

He moved toward the doors that led to the nave. And as he caught his first sight of the interior of the church, he almost whistled in admiration. Ornately carved wooden crossbeams floated high above; a circular Rose Window on the west wall glimmered ethereally; the glowing golden cross on the high altar appeared to have been placed there by God Himself. The chancel was only a few inches higher than the floor of the nave, allowing a sense of connectedness between the pews where worshipers sat and the raised platform where holy activities occurred.

A single congregant was sitting in a pew, about halfway down the center aisle. Glad that he hadn't emitted any audible demonstrations of his awe, David moved quietly forward, continuing to look in all directions: at the vaulted ceiling, at the detailed scrollwork on individual pews, into the rounded transepts as he drew nearer to them. The church was indeed gorgeous. And in the rich stillness that precluded practically all outdoor sounds, David felt that he could be anywhere in the western world. London, Boston, or one of the thousands of other small towns that held a divinely built edifice such as this one.

As he closed in on the midpoint of the nave, the man in the pew shifted and began to turn toward him. And even before his face was entirely revealed, even before their eyes met, David had frozen in mid-step as a shiver that had begun in the deepest recesses of his brain thrust its way through every last molecule in his body.

Impossible!

But yet he was seeing him, he _knew_ without a doubt who this was.

This was absolutely insane!

And yet it made perfect sense, even if it was one hundred percent preposterous.

The spasm completed its journeys, and David felt faint. The man hadn't risen, but was studying him with an odd mixture of curiosity, amazement, and relief imprinted on his face.

"You'll know when," Clair had said to him a week ago today. "You'll want to. Just go in."

David hadn't even _thought_ about her words as he'd approached and then entered the church!

"You will know yourself, David," she had told him nine days ago in the courtyard. "One day. Soon."

And here he was. Two of him. The other David was older, far older, but yet...

David had to close his eyes for a few seconds. He was dizzy, discombobulated, and very nearly distraught. Calm, calm. Once he opened his eyes, he might find himself alone in the cavernous church, or perhaps gazing at the ceiling of his bedroom at the Rainbow Arms, the remnants of an especially vivid dream dissipating as swiftly as had his shivers of a few seconds before.

David opened his eyes. He was still in the church. And so was the other David.

And then the other David spoke.

"I know that right now, you're questioning your grip on reality. But I also know that the second I began to talk, you found that you could actually accept that we are both here, together. And that I do exist."

David nodded, slowly. He couldn't speak. He was correct, in everything.

The man smiled at him warmly. "It's been twenty-seven years since I stood in your shoes, quite literally, but I retain quite a memory of this day, as you might imagine."

Another lethargic nod. That voice was his! A little more crackle, a touch more definition to the delivery, but this was what he sounded like!

Or rather, this was what he _would_ sound like, twenty-seven years in the future.

"Why don't you sit? Please." The older David rose, and then made himself comfortable a few feet further down the pew.

David stepped toward him as though in a fog, his movements sluggish, his mind still reeling. He sat, cautiously, and then folded his hands in his lap as he scrutinized himself.

The man was wearing dark pants, a white button-down shirt, and an expensive-looking linen coat. He was trim, as was the younger David, and he appeared younger than he should have for his age. His eyes were sparkling, his face was confident. David had to admit that he liked what he saw of his future self so far.

A grin appeared. "It was easy to select my wardrobe for today," the man said with a glance down at his garb. "No worries, no fuss. One of the benefits of having been here before."

"How did you get here?" David asked. And of all the eerie experiences he'd undergone in the past two weeks, listening to himself ask himself a question in the same voice with which he'd just heard himself comment on his clothing was right up there with the most fantastic of them.

"How do you think?" was returned immediately, the grin undiminished.

"Do you... I mean, do I still live in Shady Grove?"

The man's hand slapped the top of the pew, and the sound echoed mightily about them. "The weird thing is," he said, "I already know what we're going to talk about. I mean, I've had this conversation before, obviously. Just not from the same perspective. But I also remember which questions were _not_ answered. And that was one of them." His hand then performed a brief dance in the air. "But I also recall my frustration at the lack of answers that I thought could easily be given. So I apologize! But you can understand my predicament?"

David found himself nodding again even as his jaw was still dropping. He knew he couldn't dwell too long on all of the permutations that could occur in the future because of what was happening right now, but still! This conversation had more than a dash of fun house mirror maze to it. He closed his mouth, and then clamped down on the whirlwind of paradoxical thoughts that were threatening to deluge his sanity. "So... you're fifty-eight, then?" he asked in the lightest voice he could manage.

An amused nod. "I am. So at the very least, you know that you make it this far."

David had to concede that that was an illuminating point. "And... you most likely live in or near Shady Grove. Which is good, I think?" He met the man's eyes, but his only reply was a fleeting glimmer. "Okay. So how did... how did you come here today?" he asked. "And how did you _know_ to come here today? Or rather, today in your own today."

The older David laughed at that, an honest, unforced reaction that yet again stirred in the younger David the realization that his elder self had matured, had become self-assured in ways that he himself had only begun to apprehend. The older man was relaxed, and comfortable with his confidence. He almost reminded David a bit of his younger self, when his career had been flying high. Except that what was _not_ evident in him were the immature swagger and false bravado that had been among the least admirable of his traits at the time.

"The easy part of that answer is that I was _told_ to come here at this time," was the man's jocular reply. "How I ended up sitting next to you – or rather, me – at this exact _moment_ in time is a somewhat different matter."

"Clair," David uttered simply.

"Yes. Clair," the other man agreed.

And then the two of them gazed at each other for a long minute, neither one in a hurry to explore, both wishing that they could concoct together an explanation of any sort regarding that extraordinary little girl who had once lived in apartment 2B of the Rainbow Arms.

"I received a communication," the older David eventually stated. "A date and a time. I already knew _where_ to go, obviously. And I'd known for a long time approximately which year. There was a message as well. Two sentences: 'Tell him about the four. Tell him what you already know you told him.' "

Another shiver assailed David, briefer than the first, but just as potent. "You knew what she meant," he said softly, suddenly afraid of what he would hear, not eager in the least to learn what four things that he loved would be lost to him.

"Yes. I knew," the other man replied gently.

"Did you ever see her again?" David asked, aware that he was procrastinating, aware that his other self was aware of this, too.

"No. Never." He rapped the top of the pew once more. "I've tried many times over the years to find her. Online searches, websites and groups that track strange phenomena, reading account after account about people who can supposedly alter weather or events with their minds. I have no idea if any of what I read was true. I only know that not a single one of them resembled Clair."

"What about Mrs. Rushen?"

"Oh, Patricia?" he asked with a smile. "She doesn't exist. She never did! There are several Patricia Rushens out there in this country, but so few that I was able to look them all up. Not her, not one of them was even close to her." His hand waved dismissively. "You'll see. You're the idiot who's going to ignore what I'm saying, and still go ahead with all the searches!"

David couldn't help but grin, taking in the eerie mirror image of his expression on the face of the man who was sitting a few feet away from him. He found himself eager, excited by the prospect of becoming this person, of spending the next twenty-seven years refining and improving, mellowing and maturing. "So... _why_ do you think we're here?" he asked aloud. "I mean, as amazing as this is, why us? Why now?"

And his older counterpart beamed. "Perhaps I am here just to reassure you," he said.

"Reassure?" David replied in confusion.

But the elder David had begun laughing again.

"What? What?" But David wasn't annoyed. He knew that he'd be let in on the joke; he was aware that if he had ever met anyone in his life who was solidly on his side, it was this man.

"It's just that... that's one of the few things that I can – I mean, that _you_ will – remember word for word." He shook his head in amusement. "It's not that everything I say is scripted or set in stone, it's just that... it's that I can't really make it come out in any way other than that which I heard all those years ago." His hands flew up into the air. "Even this! I can remember watching myself do _this_ while listening to me say these words!" He lowered his hands to his lap with a chuckle. "But I did recall that exact phrase. And I honestly couldn't wait to say it." His eyes bore in on David's as he smiled again. "Be reassured, David. Because after all these years, that's about the only explanation for this that I've been able to come up with."

The sound of a door opening jarred both men, and a second later, the pastor who had nodded to David from the front of the church nine days before stepped onto the chancel. He closed the door behind him, and then strode briskly toward the nave. A small leap brought him to the level of the pews, and he headed directly down the center aisle.

"I actually forgot about this," the older David whispered. "I think he nods to you first, then me. Then, he trips."

And within a quarter of a minute, all three of these had occurred.

"Whoops!" the pastor uttered with an embarrassed grimace as both of the men in the pew nodded back to him.

"He'll glance back at us once," came another whisper. "And then we won't see him again."

And sure enough, the pastor did look back, just before pushing open the door to the narthex. David waved goodbye, perhaps to atone for his lack of response to the invitation to come inside the week before. The pastor nodded once again in return, and then left.

The older David had a touch of a smirk on his face. "It's kind of fun being omniscient," he said.

"Then tell me who wins the next World Series," was David's rejoinder.

"Ha! That, I'm afraid would be considered bad sport." He waved his arm to indicate where they were. "Wrong place to ask, anyway. Look where cheating got us before!"

David groaned. "Tell me about it. Any chance I end up married to Camber?"

This elicited another laugh. "I don't think it's a deal breaker to let you know how fortunate you are not to have ended up stuck with _that!_ " He cocked his head. "Let's just say that hubbies number one, two and three ended up experiencing some serious buyer's remorse. And very publicly, too."

David would have heaved a sigh of relief, but for the fact that the days when he had found Camber attractive were long gone. "I actually came up with several questions I could have asked Clair at some point," he said. "And here I am with a second opportunity, and I suspect that you won't answer any of them!"

"Try me," was the equable response.

David thought about it, trying to wrap his head around all that had obsessed, bothered, or worried him over the past several weeks. He decided to start with the big one: "Why did Todd leave Shady Grove?" he asked. "What happened between him and Genevieve that ended their engagement?"

The smirk was back, and in full force. "We'll get to that, but not yet. Next question."

David felt his pulse pick up at the prospect of finally getting to hear a straight fact or two on that subject. "Would Lydia and I ever be able to make things work?" was his next query.

A smile. "You two will be close friends for at least twenty-seven years. Hopefully for another twenty-seven years as well! I'm not saying anything further than that, though."

David found himself wracking his brain. This was ridiculous! There were a thousand things he'd wanted to know; why was his head entirely empty right at the moment?

"How about this," the older David suggested. His arm rose to lie atop the pew. "I already know that you won't be able to come up with anything that I feel I can answer directly, so why don't I just tell you a few things. Things that might... well, reassure you, since I did take such pleasure in quoting my own line to you about that."

"Okay," David agreed. If his elder self was aware that he hadn't been able to come up with any legitimate questions when he was in David's position, there was little purpose in continuing to try.

"Dad is dying of cancer right now," was what he said next, though. And as David's stomach began to clutch, he went on: "Not a reassuring statement, I know. But you need to call him. And then visit him. He won't even find out about it himself for another few days. But it's something I've never regretted, re-crossing that bridge to see him and Mom."

"How did you know?" David asked, comprehending even as the words came out of his mouth that the answer was obvious.

"Endless loop," was the humble reply. "I told you, I told myself. I can't even fathom how that can work logically, but there it is. Call them. Soon."

"I will. How does Mom take it?"

A shrug. "Better than you'd expect. She became older, wiser. She has a scrapbook that she'll show you, with practically every article ever printed about you and Puppy Love 'n Friends, and... well, all the bad stuff that happened, too."

"Seriously? Great." David rolled his eyes. "I'm looking forward to it already."

"Try to act pleased. It'll make her happy. She'll surprise you, truly."

"What about Fran and Nancy?"

And now the older David rolled his eyes. "You'll never see them."

"No more requests for money?"

He chortled. "Nope! One thing about all those articles, in print or online: when everybody else thinks you're broke, don't ever fill 'em in on the fact that you're not!"

"Good advice."

"I knew I was going to give it."

David shook his head, chuckling as well. Surreal as this was, it was fun. No wonder he would remember so much with such clarity.

"Aishani will contact you in a few years."

David's mirth died away.

"I know you were thinking about her earlier, when you ate lunch in the amphitheater."

David blinked. Of course he knew. "Why tell me this now?" he asked quietly.

"Well, first of all, because I knew I would. Secondly, because it's something you need to hear."

"Why?" David felt small, weak. His body felt bruised, as though he had been dumped and beaten just this morning, instead of seventeen years previously.

"She will name her second child after you. After both of us. After she moved out of Lincoln Heights between eleventh and twelfth grades, she spent years trying to understand what had driven her actions during that time period. She will tell you that she lost herself, and is sorry. She'll want you to know that nothing was ever your fault. Ever."

"Sounds like what happened to me." Even David's voice sounded small at the moment.

"I think her spell of stupidity might have been a bit briefer than ours," was his older self's dry reply. "I'm just telling you this so you'll think about it. A little, not a lot."

"Okay." David nodded his head. "Thank you."

"So. Are you ready to hear about the four things yet?"

David wasn't, but he had a feeling he was going to be told, whether he liked it or not. "Four things that I love, I will lose," he intoned in an exaggerated imitation of Clair. "But one of them could be mine again."

"Is your hand warm?"

"Huh?" David said, and then he got it. "Ah. Clair. Funny."

"I try. So if you had to guess, what would those four things be?"

David expelled a puff of air. "Genevieve..." he began, but then halted as he tried to marshal his thoughts.

"I admit, she's got at least four sides to her personality," quipped the older David, "but if that's your only answer..."

"Are you able to come up with anything original, or is all of this material stolen?" David shot back.

"Is stealing from myself stealing?" was his reply.

"I guess it's difficult to be spontaneous if it's already been said," David admitted. "But let me have a minute. This is still fresh for me. You've had years to develop your end of this."

A raised eyebrow and a patient smile were his only response.

David once again enumerated to himself all that he loved. People: Genevieve, Lydia, Grandpa Wilcott, Abby Lowell. Things: his freedom, his newfound lease on a better life, his dog. Until a week ago, he would have counted his home at the Rainbow Arms as one of those as well.

"No, that dinky apartment at the Rainbow Arms doesn't come into this," stated the older David. "I remember this moment. I'm not Clair, but if this is what she felt like at times, I can tell you it's more than a little bit freaky."

David couldn't withhold a smile. "Johnson," he said steadily.

"Yes. That's number one. Don't worry, it's a long way off. Another guess?"

"Grandpa Wilcott."

"Strike one."

"Really?" David was taken aback. He loved him, he was old...

"He always promised that he would try not to be such a turd, right?"

"About every third time I visit him," David answered.

"Well, he couldn't do it. I won't tell you everything, but trust me, there weren't too many tears at his service."

David closed his eyes for a second, trying not to imagine how bad things could get with his irascible grandfather. "Will the service be here?" he then asked, looking about the interior of the church with curiosity.

"Maybe. Or maybe not," was his reply. "Another guess?"

"Abby," was David's next offering.

A nod. "Yes. That's number two. And, like Johnson, it's not soon."

"I _have_ noticed lately that I'm spending as much time visiting with her as I am with Grandpa," David mused. "I suppose that should have been a clue."

"The ratio of time you spend with each of them gets even more imbalanced this summer," the older man declared. "We had some good times with him years ago, but if Grandma could have seen what he became... She wouldn't have minded all the girlfriends, but to watch him turn bitter and hateful..."

"Do they bury him in the Barcalounger?" David couldn't believe he had just made a joke of it.

A guffaw. "I forgot I said that! No, that thing probably helped a family stay warm for an entire winter once he was through with it. Honestly, I never did ask where it went. Any more guesses?"

David had only two more legitimate possibilities, but he was afraid to ask again about Genevieve. It seemed reasonably obvious by now that she was the one he would lose that could once again be his, but it could always be Lydia, or even someone of whom he wasn't thinking.

But come to think of it, he already _had_ lost Genevieve, at least temporarily. They hadn't communicated even once since the disaster at Longworth House. Seeing her at Gâteaupia the next afternoon with Janice didn't count.

"Bill Lopes," said the older David quietly.

"Bill," David echoed with a frustrated shake of his head. He hadn't even thought to include him on his list.

"I know, you weren't quite sure if you would still want to spend time with him," the man said. "But it's funny, how something like what the two of you witnessed can bond two people. Nobody else would understand. Most people wouldn't even believe you."

"I helped him with the sprinklers on Sunday," David said thoughtfully.

"I remember."

"We didn't talk about it, even once. Does that change?"

A sly smile appeared. "I don't know. Does it?"

David smiled himself. He knew better than to ask again. "So did Clair make this happen?" he asked. "Did she arrange all of this, for lack of a better verb?"

The smile had slid away. "I think we both know that she did," was his response.

"But how? I mean, _how?_ This is huge, you and I sitting in the same place at different ages. How could she go about coordinating something like this, let alone figuring it all out beforehand?"

"Maybe she developed more powers as she matured. Maybe she figured out how to control and use the powers she had."

But this wasn't enough for David. "How old _is_ she, do you think? Right now, in my time. She was in first grade, but – "

"She could be any age. She could look exactly the same in my time."

"You mean, she could still be a little girl? That's impossible!"

"She indicated that she'd been in several different first grade classes, right? She could have been doing that for years. Wherever she is right now, I'd bet she's still wearing those ridiculous saddle shoes!"

David snorted.

"In any case," he continued, "she was obviously far older than she looked. So no matter what, she had a much slower growth rate than the rest of us."

"Do you think that she is... that she's an agent of..." David pointed upwards, and then swallowed. "I mean, we're here. In a church."

"Possibly," was his response. "It would seem logical. But it could also be a cover. This is certainly a convenient location: quiet, private, no one to bother us. Not many places like that outside of churches."

David mulled something over for a minute. "Does the fact that the pastor who came through saw both of us mean anything?"

"Only that I'm the visitor here. We both recognized him. He's from your time, not mine."

"Mmm." David was sifting, sifting. Such an unbelievable wealth of speculation, yet so few facts upon which one could hang a hat. "Do you think she was ever able to determine if she was good or bad?" he asked.

But the elder David had begun to shake his head even before the question was finished. "I would guess that, like us, she'll never know. You remember what she said, right?"

" 'Do you know, David? Does anybody?' "

"Exactly. Even now, all these decades later, I can't answer that question for me, for us. Sure, I've done my best to be a better person. I at least made _damn_ sure that I never headed back in the direction from which I started. But does that make me good? Do my later actions trump my earlier failures as a person? Can I be forgiven for all that I did wrong, just because I eventually cleaned up my act?"

David found himself unsure of what to say. If his older self hadn't discovered the answers to the questions, it was clearly hopeless for him. "Tell me about Todd," he said in a low voice. "You said we'd get to it. I'd like to know."

The older David hesitated. "You realize that I'm only going to tell you this because I already know I told you, right?"

"No. I hadn't thought of that."

"It's like Mom's scrapbook. You're going to have to pretend to be surprised when you actually find out. If you agree, I'll tell you."

"I agree."

"It's funny how I had a feeling you'd say that."

The two Davids smiled at each other, each liking what they saw. The younger David had nothing but admiration for the man he would become. And the older David could view his former self in mid-transition, just past the crossroads but not yet through the fire. The best was yet to come for him, and both of them knew it.

"Todd kept a few secrets from Genevieve," the older David began. "They aren't the most horrible secrets I've ever known. But I have to admit, if I'd been in Genevieve's shoes, I probably would have thrown him out of the house, too."

"Throw him out? But they never even lived together!"

"Genevieve might have held back a secret or two as well."

David could feel the knife twisting in his heart. She had _lied_ to him! Over and over during her 'explorations'. No wonder their relationship had repeatedly toppled, if the foundations were built on such flimsies!

"Don't hate her just yet," was said gently. "Let me continue. It gets better, not worse."

David took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. His older self waited until he had stopped biting his lip, until he had relaxed once more in the pew.

"She came home early one day from the store. It was a Wednesday, and business was slow. I don't know, maybe she got suspicious and did it on purpose. But when she went upstairs to her bedroom, there was Todd, lying on the bed in a corset, a bra and a dress. He was... um, taking care of himself, and was so occupied that he didn't see or hear her come in."

David wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. The image he'd had of the manly, football-loving Todd was shattering; the antipathy he'd felt just now for Genevieve was abating.

"He was wearing an old pair of her underwear, had barrettes in his hair and makeup on, and hanging on his feet – since there was no way they would ever fit him – was a pair of Genevieve's bright red pumps."

Now, David cracked a smile. This was moving rapidly from tragedy to farce.

"I don't know what she said to him. I don't think I even _want_ to know how the rest of that afternoon went for him. But that was it for their engagement. Kablooey, right there."

David could only imagine the uptight Genevieve's scorching reaction to such a scene.

"He stayed in the house for two months more. Separate rooms, separate everything. This was in April, and the school year ended in June. Genevieve was furious, but she wouldn't disgrace him. She understood that it would serve neither of their interests to have this trumpeted all over town."

Oh, if David had been aware of this, _everything_ in their relationship would have been different! He'd been working himself up all of this time over a cross-dresser!

"But during those two months, they spent a lot of time talking. And both of them realized that they wanted to remain friends. Seven years is a long time, and you know how Genevieve is... she doesn't leave a lot of extra room for making friends."

"Yeah. I'm aware. Partitions, remember?"

And at the very instant David finished enunciating 'remember', a third intense shiver swooped down on him. Every one of his nerve endings was tingling, every hair on his body seemed to have stood straight up.

"No!" he articulated in disbelief.

But the other David was nodding. "Yes," he answered with a smile.

"How the hell did I miss that?" David burst out. "Seriously? I must have been blind!"

The other man shrugged again. "Obviously, I was too."

"I just... I never put it together. The two of them were..."

"Partitioned off from one another?"

"Yes. Yes! I love that word, it's just perfect for everything Genevieve. Todd, Jess. Jess, Todd. Oh, how could I have been so stupid to miss the double consonants at the end of the two names?"

"Or the lack of pictures of either one?"

"Or the fact that neither of them has set foot in Shady Grove for years! Does Jess still come out this July? Do I get to meet her or him?"

The older David nodded, his smile still firmly in place. "Yes. You do. And you'll like her, too. She's a trip, as Abby used to say."

"Is she cute? I could never tell from her voice."

But the other man's eyes narrowed as his lips curled. "Not exactly. She's... handsome, you might say. Muscular for a girl. Tall, too. But she's gotten easier on the eyes as the years have passed. Better hormone treatments, most likely. And although Genevieve tried to help her with the makeup thing before she left Shady Grove, I believe it took a while before Jess actually got the hang of it." He chuckled. "You'll see. I remember trying to keep a straight face at first, but she's charming. Really. And Lydia would never have spoken to me again if I'd blown it there. She's always been very protective of those who have slightly different tastes from others, as you know."

David groaned as yet another aspect of Genevieve's community interests became clearer to him. "What about Ormsby?" he then asked. "Does my favorite detective have a secret stash of women's apparel in the closet as well?"

"Oh, no!" he laughed. "Ormsby is straighter than straight. But I'm not going to spoil that for you. Let's just say that his eventual reaction is well worth waiting for. And yes, you'll be present for it. And no, he never does get any more tolerable!"

The light in the church shifted, becoming brighter as a pinkish glow began to descend from the Rose Window in a pale shaft. David glanced at his watch, and was stunned to discover that over thirty minutes had passed already.

"You're not going to need that when you go outside," the man stated, pointing to David's umbrella. And then he stood, leisurely but resolutely.

"I guess not," David replied. He pointed to the faint, roseate column of light. "Was that your cue?"

His answer was a nod. "Yes. I remember it happening before. I remember that this is when we said goodbye."

David, though, could detect more than a hint of wistfulness in both his tone and his expression. He rose as well. "Has the actuality lived up at all to the anticipation?"

The elder David appeared to be fighting off tears. "Twenty-seven years is a long time to wait. It's a long time to keep a secret like this. I have no complaints, though. About anything."

David nodded as well. "Thank you. For all that you said. For... reassuring me, or trying your best to do so."

"I hope you can use what you learned in here."

"You already know that I did. Or will. Or however it's best phrased. I... well, I hope that things continue to be good for you. I hope you find Clair. I'd ask you to thank her for me, but you already will, won't you?"

"If I find her. You never know, she might want to be found. She obviously knew how to find me."

Both men looked up as a slight draft brushed over the tops of their heads. It was through almost before it started, though.

Their eyes found each other again.

"You think?" asked David, his voice catching in his throat.

"Probably not," replied the other man evenly. "But I'm not going to say it's not possible."

David glanced toward the narthex. "I'll see ya, then" he said as he began pacing toward Willow Avenue. "Or rather, I'll be ya."

"That you will," was called out from behind him. "Good and bad, blissful and sad."

David pivoted. "Oh, _please_ tell me that getting older doesn't involve saying things like that all the time!"

A beam broke out. "You're the one who'll say it, David. Feel free to polish any of the dialogue. Didn't work for me, but it's worth a shot, right?"

David grinned as he headed again for the doors. Good and bad, blissful and sad... how could he alter a pearl like that?

He turned once more just before exiting the nave. He waved goodbye, slowly. And David returned the gesture. He took one last long look at himself, and then left before the older man could see the tears that he undoubtedly remembered were in his eyes.

#  Chapter Thirty-three

David paused for a couple of minutes in the narthex. While part of him felt an urgency to pull open the door to the nave again – if only to catch a glimpse of himself one last time – another, more logical, part of him understood that all he would find was a church devoid of people. The other man was already gone. He was even right now making his way down the same center aisle that David had just traversed, only at a far different point in time.

He glanced toward the doors that led to Willow Avenue, but knew that he wasn't prepared yet to reenter the present-day world.

Clair, Clair, Clair. Would his memories of that wonderfully bizarre girl remain as strong over the coming years as they were now, only a week after he'd last seen her?

If what his older self had relayed to him was any indication, the answer to that question was an unequivocal yes.

But why would he search for her, or for the redoubtable Mrs. Rushen, knowing already that he would discover nothing, unearth no trace of the pair over the next twenty-seven years?

Because he would have to! All human beings pursued goals that were deemed impossible, unachievable, inane or unwise, no matter who or what informed them of the cold hard facts about their aspirations.

Even if their aspirations were as simple as desiring a relationship with someone who was considered beyond their reach.

What did David desire? Whom did David desire?

For all of his flirtations with Lydia, not to mention his ineffable delight with her returned affections, he wanted Genevieve. He _needed_ Genevieve. Truly, she was an amazing creature, rich with unexplored pockets of warmth, and uncharted depths of feeling. She was the woman with whom the man that David aspired to be belonged. And he wanted to be that man. He wanted to become that man.

But hadn't he just met the proof that his desires would be met? What was David the elder if not the distinct realization of the goals that David had already set for himself?

Yet knowing that he would eventually arrive at those goals was not the same as having undertaken the arduous journey to get there.

Was there a possibility that his older self had been a chimera? A delusion planted in his mind by weakness? By Clair? By his disintegrating hopes for the continuance of the better life that he had finally forged for himself here in Shady Grove?

But perhaps these agonizing doubts were why he had needed reassurance. He had needed to be told that things would work out, eventually if not instantly. He had required a shot in the arm.

Clair had done this. Clair had arranged all of this for David.

Why? To demonstrate that she bore him no ill will? Because she had enjoyed their occasional chats in the courtyard of the Rainbow Arms? Or to chalk up another purportedly good deed to place on the internal scales that she, along with nearly every other resident of this Earth, obviously spent immeasurable time and energy balancing?

David didn't know. And he suspected that he would never know.

The light in the narthex, already brighter than before, began to glow as the sun high above peeked out from behind the clouds. The storm was departing Shady Grove, its outskirts not having punished the town much beyond a few drizzly lashes.

David stepped toward the doors and pushed outside. Before him lay the public square, exquisitely framed by Willow Avenue directly ahead, and Second and Third Streets on either side.

He smiled as he wondered if the other David had stopped for a moment to savor the same view as well. Birds were singing, the damp tree limbs were crackling, and pedestrians had begun to stroll the sidewalks again.

And one of those pedestrians, striding directly in front of the church on her way toward the business district, was Genevieve MacGuffie. She too was holding a furled umbrella. Her hair was down, her footsteps were light.

"Genevieve!" David called out.

She looked up, and then immediately halted. "David? What are you doing here?"

He grinned as he started to jog down the steps. "I had some time to burn, so I decided I should finally see the inside of the church." His feet slowed as he came closer to her. "You were right. It's beautiful." He stopped. "You look good, Genevieve. Really good."

She smiled, and he noted that his honest compliment had brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks. "I forgot," she said quietly. "We were going to do that some day, weren't we?"

David shrugged. "Spending time with myself in there wasn't so bad. I just... I'm just glad to see you. I've missed you." His eyes dropped to the pavement for a second, but then rose to directly meet hers. "It's been a terribly long week. I've wanted to call, so many times. And each time I began to..."

Her smile was widening. "You were afraid," she finished for him.

He nodded. "Yes. Pathetic, I know. But I can't help it."

Genevieve was suddenly moving forward. Before David could even register what was happening, she had grasped the back of his head with her free hand, and was kissing him, almost savagely.

And then, just as swiftly, she retreated. And once again, they were in the same positions as before, though each now exhibited the same silly expression on their countenance.

"I love you, David," she stated. "I do. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just spent two hours with Abby, and that dear woman had to listen to me go on and on about something that she apparently has known all along. Which is that I love you, and I need you."

David remained silent. He gazed into her eyes, and did his best not to burst into tears again.

"She told me that I've been making life hell for you, for me, for both of us. That it was time for me to put a stop to my... endless tinkering with the recipe is what she called it. I don't really know _what_ it is that I'm always doing, but if _I'm_ tired of it, I can't even begin to guess how terrible I've been to you!"

"Genevieve, I..." But David didn't have a genuine demurral to offer.

"No. Abby is right," she continued. "When Janice came to the store last week to try and explain what I'd seen, I was already getting angry with myself. I'd been a complete bitch to you at Longworth House, and I knew I'd acted like a fool when I stopped by your building the day before. So when Lydia came into the kitchen to get me, and told me that Janice Templeton was out there, sitting at a table and wanting to talk to me, I just shut down entirely. I felt so ashamed that this poor woman had to come all the way up there to tell me something that I never should have needed to be told."

She reached forward to take hold of his hand. "I need to be better than that. I _want_ to be better than that. And I don't want you marrying Lydia, even if she _is_ wonderful, not to mention everything that I'm not!"

"She showed you my text?" David asked in astonishment.

But Genevieve shook her head before inhaling deeply. "No. She informed me just before we opened that if I didn't make up my mind, and either repair the damage I'd caused or end things entirely with you, she'd have no choice but to step in and carry you away for herself."

"Ouch." David grimaced as he desperately clamped down on his swiftly inflating ego.

She squeezed his hand. "I should have told her to go right home for saying that, but I ended up sending myself home instead. She was right, and it was what I'd spent all day yesterday trying to realize. I walked over to Abby's around eleven, and... well, obviously I received a second dose of the same medicine."

"Rough day," he said gently. "How's Gâteaupia going to function without you?"

"Oh, it'll just have to manage!" she exclaimed. "Last week was the most awful week ever. The store was busy to the point of insanity, but all I could think of was you. Of us. And all that has happened over the past year and a half. By Sunday night, I felt more exhausted than ever; I would have been perfectly thrilled if someone had told me that I'd never have to bake another cake in my life! I shouldn't have even gone in this morning, but... it's what I do, so that's what I did."

David squeezed her hand, then. "Can we walk?" he asked. "I actually have a meeting with Walter Smithfield in about twelve minutes, and... well, I can be a few minutes late, but..."

She was smiling as they swiveled in tandem toward Third Street. "You never should have built Gâteaupia such an incredible website," she scolded. "You're going to get as crazy as I am soon, if people keep discovering what you can do." Her hand began to swing, his going along for the ride as it had once done so much more frequently.

"Yeah, Walter mentioned that he'd talked to you," returned David. "And by the way, I've never regretted that offer. Remember, come what may, the cake keeps on comin'. I've got years left on that contract. Till the end of my life, I believe."

"Ha!" Genevieve burst out as they began to cross Third. "I don't believe we ever signed _any_ thing that states that! I might have to cut back on your fee. Less Lydia time too, if you're not always dropping in for a slice of the goods."

"We could always include her," David suggested amiably. "I'll raise no objections. All those meetings you two have attended, surely there've been times when you've at least considered trying out some new things just to see if they're fun! Why don't we all move in together for a month, and just let everything sort itself out on its own?"

"And deal with Isabel as well as Johnson in the house? Not to mention the histrionics two jealous women would bring to the table? No, thanks!"

"Ah, that's right," David replied with a straight face. "You've done this. At least the two women living together thing. How long were you and Jess housemates?"

But Genevieve didn't offer an immediate response. She clutched his hand once more as they began to pass the Culpepper Mills offices. And when she spoke again, her tone was cautious. "I guess we should talk about that some time. About Jess, I mean."

"Now's good for me!"

She glanced at him. "You've got your meeting. And it would take too long."

"A few highlights would do."

But Genevieve wasn't about to go down that road. Not in the middle of the Shady Grove business district, not with David about to meet with Walter Smithfield, and not until she'd managed to get at least _her_ end of their relationship sorted out and on a far more solid footing.

She halted on the sidewalk just before they would have crossed Fourth. Still tethered to her, David swung around until they were facing each other. "I love you, David," Genevieve said as tears began to build in her eyes. "Not many people deserve to be loved. But you do. You do."

And once again, but this time in full sight of the other pedestrians, the drivers on the street, and the entire late lunch crowd at a patio café on the corner, she kissed him, both arms locked around his neck, her umbrella swatting lightly at his back. David, shivers still running through him from Genevieve's echo of what Clair had said to him, kissed her back for all he was worth, knowing without even a scintilla of doubt that he had loved Genevieve, that he had lost her, and that she was now his again, with that love doubled, quadrupled, compounded beyond any measure.

Someone honked their horn twice as they passed by. "Nice!" a lady said appreciatively to her companion as they waited for the pedestrian signal to turn green. Several of the tables on the patio broke spontaneously into applause.

"I love you too, Genevieve," David managed to say as they unwillingly pulled away from one another, ignoring their audience. "I never want to be without you."

Her eyes brimmed over, but it was off of his cheeks that she gently wiped away the tears. "You can tell me that all you want," she said, her voice sultry, "but in a minute or so, we'll see how true those words really are."

He smiled as he clasped her hand within his and then brought the both of them toward his heart. "Are you going back to Gâteaupia?" he asked.

Her head shook as a smile pushed its way onto her face as well. "No. I'm going to go home. And when your meeting is over, I want you to get Johnson. And then the two of us together can broach the subject to him of whether he'll get to sleep from now on in the spare room or with us."

David blinked. And when he refocused his eyes on her, he found that the future he had hoped for was already unspooling before him, taking place sooner than he could have ever dared to dream.

Their lips met one more time. And then they headed their separate ways, David across the street and a half block down for his appointment, Genevieve south on Fourth Street on her way toward her home at Birch Avenue and Seventh.

Each continued to smile. Each was in love with the world.

The streets of Shady Grove continued to bustle in the mid-afternoon sun. The dissipation of the morning's drizzle had enlivened its citizens, and brought a sense of jubilance to the entire town. Raincoats were stowed away, and fresh plans were dreamt up for the remainder of the day.

The future could offer anything. And anything was possible in a time that was yet unwritten.

Why not aim for the stars? Why not aim for them, after all?
