Free The Orchard by Charles L. Grant

closed his eyes, set his mouth.
    “How did Les take it?”
    ”I don’t know. Really.” He chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “In the beginning, he wouldn’t let go of me for fear I’d leave him too. Now it seems to be the other way around. I can’t let go, and he wants his own place.”
    She gave him a look he didn’t quite understand. “You have to let go, Brett, you know. Sooner or later, you’ll have to let go.”
    “Yeah. But … yeah.”
    A long silence made him uncomfortable, made him think about living in that suddenly big house all alone.
    “You ever consider getting married again?” she asked.
    “It’s crossed my mind.”
    “Three years is a long time these days.”
    “You’re right. But I have Les to think of, too.”
    He paid the check and they walked down to the theater.
    “You love him, don’t you.”
    He looked at her, puzzled. “Of course. Did you ever think I didn’t? I mean, don’t I show it?”
    She wrinkled her nose at him. “Yes, if you’re worried about it. I was just asking.”
    Funny question, he thought, but said nothing more, though it kept coming back, even during the film. It made him nervous. Was she proposing? He had a curious feeling that one more word, one pleasant look, and she would think he was accepting. When he squirmed, she kissed his cheek and told him to knock it off before she called the usher and had him thrown out.
    And later, in the lobby, he walked over to the concession counter to get a pack of cigarettes, turned, and saw her talking to a woman a bit taller than she, white-blonde hair, tight jeans, and snug blouse. He swore silently and wished there was a back exit handy, forced a smile on his lips when they saw him and waved.
    Victoria Redding, the only policewoman on the force. He had taken her out several times over the past winter, enjoyed himself, and beyond their meetings at the station, hadn’t seen much of her since. From a large farm in Vermont, she fit right into village life with scarcely a ripple, and he was surprised when he wondered why he hadn’t taken her out again.
    “Brett!” she said happily when he joined them, and made no bones about giving him a kiss that lasted a fraction longer than politeness required. “You like the picture?”
    He talked at such length that the women started laughing, and he realized with a swallow how nervous he was, how he’d been expecting her to say something like, “Where have you been?” or “Call me sometime,” and then have to answer while Denise was listening.
    It bothered him, too, that he almost wished she would.
    They chatted as they walked outside; Vicky kissed him again quickly and headed for home, claiming early shift the next day. He watched her walk away, then took Denise’s hand and went in the opposite direction.
    “She always like that?” she asked at last.
    “Like what?”
    “Like every other word being ‘shift’ and ‘apprehension’ and ‘busts’ and stuff like that.”
    His smile was wry. “She’s trying hard, Denise, she really is. It isn’t easy being a woman cop in a small town like this, no matter where she came from. I think, sometimes, me and Stockton are the only ones who like her.”
    “That’s discrimination.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe. But some of the guys are too old to change and don’t trust her, and some of them just think she ought to go around naked.”
    A half a block later: “And you?”
    “I’m too old, and she’d look great naked.”
    She slapped his arm, hard, and it was difficult to produce a laugh to show her he knew she was kidding.
    They turned off the avenue and he slipped off his jacket. The temperature had begun to rise, and there was fog growing in the trees—little more than a thin mist now, just enough to haze the light and set dew on the grass.
    When they passed his house, the car wasn’t in the drive. He said nothing, but his hand tightened on her arm, and he watched the length of the street as casually as he could despite a