Free The Last Refuge by Chris Knopf Page B

it with split red oak and opened up the dampers.
    “You want some coffee?”
    “You drink a lot of coffee.”
    “Yeah, too much. Want some?”
    “I drink too much coffee, too. Sure.”
    I built a five-cup pot of freshly ground Cinnamon Hazelnut. The rain was trying to beat in the windows, but the house started to feel warm. From the kitchen, I could look through the living room and out to the screened-in porch. Beyond the porch the bay was all in a charcoal gray and white-tipped uproar. The nearest buoy, a green can, was rocking back and forth like a dweeble. The only thing in the room besides the stove was a pull-out couch. I sat on it after Amanda sank down next to the stove and took a sip of her coffee, holding the cup with both hands. Somehow while I was fussing with stoves and coffee she’d managed to brush back her hair and smooth out her face. She wore Reeboks, clean, faded Wranglers and a chambray shirt under her cotton windbreaker. The shirt was opened to just below the top curve of her breasts. Her chest had seen a lot of sun—it was very dark with freckles that were almost black.
    “So,” I said, for openers.
    “I’m sorry I’m bothering you again.”
    “You mostly bother me when you say you’re sorry.”
    Self-effacement can be hard work on the receiving end.
    “You like your privacy. I’m making you uncomfortable.”
    “I’m just not used to other people sitting in my living room.”
    “I understand that. I’ve lived alone.”
    “Where’s Roy?”
    “He had to go to the City.” She looked up as if unsure I believed her. “HQ keeps a pretty tight rein, so he has to go in two or three times a month. I took off early. They’ll cover for me.”
    “Does he know you’re here?”
    She busied herself petting and cooing at Eddie. He didn’t discourage her.
    “Of course not. That bothers you?”
    “Not really. I’m just not much for company.”
    “I’m sorry. I should go.”
    “No, I mean, I’m not good company. Me. Obviously. You’re fine.”
    “I still should go. You’re probably busy.”
    She started to stand up. I waved her back down.
    “Nah. Drink your coffee. I got nothing else to do.”
    “When we talked about Regina Broadhurst it got me thinking about my mother again. Not that I ever stopped. It’s all I’ve done since she died. They’re all dying. Our parents. Yours, mine.”
    “It’s been five years since my mother went. I don’t think about it much.”
    Amanda leaned back against the wall and looked at me through frustrated, anxious eyes. Tears rushed up into her voice.
    “She was just a sweet, wonderful old woman. She made dolls for charity for Chrissakes.”
    The impossible tangle of her emotions created an attraction current that drew her legs back against her chest. She pulled them to her and rested her head on her knees.
    “I’m an engineer, not a shrink. But it looks to me like it all happened too quick for you and you got what they call unresolved issues.”
    A couple sessions of court-ordered therapy and I’m fucking Sigmund Freud.
    “I know. They have grief counselors, but Roy was really unhappy about the idea. Doesn’t approve of it.”
    “Can’t say he’s helping out too much here.”
    “No, you can’t say that.”
    Eddie found people down at his level irresistible. He tried to lick her face, from which she gently demurred. I told him to bug off, so he went out to the screened-in porch, a little put out.
    “It’s none of my business, but since you’re here in my living room, I guess I can say you should talk to somebody about this and to hell with Roy. With all due respect.”
    “Maybe I can just talk to you.”
    “Now I know you need help.”
    She smiled at me. “You want me to think you’re just an old burnout.”
    It’s amazing how pretty women who like you and wear rough chambray shirts and smell like fresh expectations can say anything they want and get away with it.
    “Too burned out to think straight, that’s for sure.”
    Even