Free Dreaming August by Terri-Lynne Defino Page A

you here? No. Dumb. You looking for me or trying to beat the raccoons to the pickin’s? Dammit.
    “You invited me to the party,” she said. “Remember?”
    “The party was over hours ago.” Dammit again.
    “I see that.”
    Silence fell and lingered. Benny’s head didn’t come up, but she didn’t leave either. Dan steadied his heartbeat, and his hands, and thought about what Charlie might say, or even Tim. Just not Henny.
    “You want a beer?” Okay. Not bad.
    She lifted her head. “Beer? No, thanks.”
    “You want to come in? There’s still some food left—”
    “No. No, thank you.” She stood up. The balloons hit Dan in the face. He batted them away and caught Benny trying not to laugh. She bit her lip. Adorably.
    “Can I get some water?” she asked, pointing to the tub of melted ice where bottles of water and a few cans of soda bobbed. Dan grabbed one, wiped it dry on his shirt and handed it to her.
    “Thanks.” She cracked the cap. Dan tried not to stare at her lips on the mouth, at her throat as she swallowed. Benny gestured with the bottle. “It’s really pretty back here. You did all this?”
    “Mostly.”
    Benny took another sip. She fidgeted from foot to foot. “The walls?”
    “Yup. Every rock.”
    “This patio?”
    He tapped his bare foot on the pavers.
    “This too. It used to be a concrete slab. The arbor is pretty much the only thing I didn’t put in. It’s been here since before Evelyn and Paul bought the place.”
    “It looks old.”
    “Probably almost as old as the house. Evelyn says a Weller girl married an Italian immigrant back during the Depression. He built this house. I bet he did the arbor too. I found a press and some old barrels in the cellar when I did the renovations for my apartment.”
    “Really?” The uncomfortable fidgeting vanished. A glimpse of the old Benny before the cloud of grief doused her shined out of her like moonbeams. “That doesn’t sound like a Weller.”
    “I like to think she was a rebel. Evelyn says it’s because the Italian was good-looking and had an accent.”
    “How does she know?”
    “She doesn’t. Wishful thinking.”
    Benny laughed. The sound reverberated in Dan’s gut.
    “So,” she said, glancing at the ground, “this used to be a concrete slab?”
    He pointed to the French Doors. “Those used to be old cellar doors too. You know, the kind that pull up? The foundation of the house is mostly stone and dirt. No rec-room for the—”
    “The old patio isn’t under this, is it?”
    “No…why?”
    Benny took a long swig of water. Something was up. After telling him she was seeing someone just the other day, she was suddenly sneaking into his yard, and it wasn’t to discuss the landscaping. Dan crossed his arms, then uncrossed them before she noticed and took it the wrong way. Cut it, tool-bucket. She’s here. She’s talking. Don’t blow it.
    “The concrete was thick.” He flexed like a muscle-man in an old comic advert. “Took days to break it up.”
    Benny rewarded him with a smile. A real smile. She sipped her water.
    “Any bodies underneath?” she asked. “You know…Italian? 1930s? Maybe some mob connection.”
    “You’re such a racist.”
    “I can’t help it. It’s the way I was raised.”
    Silence fell. The easy kind that came as naturally as the banter back and forth. She had been his best friend’s kid sister, then his other best friend’s wife, not a romantic interest, and thus a girl Dan never felt awkward around. It hadn’t changed when his feelings for her did, and now the easy and natural banter coexisted as equal parts relieved and giddy. The warmth radiating up from his toes and out the top of his head made him feel like his hair was on fire. It took all his effort not to pat at it, just to be certain.
    “This is going to sound strange,” Benny said. “But were there…handprints in the concrete. Like, kids’ handprints?”
    Dan’s belly lurched. “How did…” He shook it off. “Come