Free The Tide Can't Wait by Louis Trimble Page B

had always been dependable as a shoulder to cry on. She hated herself for thinking of him that way. It wasn’t fair to him.
    In an effort to make herself feel that she was being fair, she said in a small voice, “Kiss me, Tommy.”
    He answered her so quietly that she thought he was angry. “You don’t have to pay me for my advice, Lenny.”
    â€œTommy!”
    He bent down, his face inches from hers. “I know you, Lenny. You aren’t really a conceited person in most ways, but in this one you are. You keep feeling sorry for me because I love you and you can’t reciprocate. It flatters you to have me hanging about. And now you want to repay me. Sorry.”
    She had never seen him like this. He was not angry, not really. He was very matter-of-fact. His bluntness made her feel an awful fool. She thought,
And now I’ve lost him, too.
    Weakly, she said, “You think it’s rebound from Leon, don’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    She winced again. She wanted to cry, but swallowed back the tears and sat up. “Can I have some more coffee?”
    Silently he got it for her, but he did not add brandy until she asked for it. It was the brandy she really wanted. She was losing her courage and, as she felt it slip away, she had a desperate desire to hang on to it. Oddly, after the way Tommy had just spoken to her, she felt more than ever that she had to tell him her troubles. She wanted him to understand why she was acting this way. He was really not the complete fool at all.
    Taking the brandy flask, she added more to the coffee. “It isn’t rebound, Tommy.” She moved so that she could look up at him without touching him. “You see, I found out about Leon.”
    â€œFound out about him?”
    â€œHe’s a spy.” There. It was out. How ridiculous it sounded. She hurried on, the words pouring out, trying to explain, bringing in everything—the Chief and Stark, Portia, even Barr, all her suspicions and fears.
    Her tongue kept getting thick, making her stumble over words, but her mind remained clear. As she finished, she realized that Tommy had not really felt his drinks at all. His expression told her that. He was listening intently and looking at her. He wasn’t as surprised as he should be, she thought. He neither answered her implied questions nor asked any of his own. He just looked at her, and his eyes reminded her of Barr’s last night at dinner. Watchful. Waiting.
    The fear came again. She rolled over, away from him, scrambled to her feet and began to run. She went in her stocking feet, scarcely aware of the grass and rocks and bits of twigs that she stepped on. She felt the little pond lap at her ankles and splash up as she started through it.
    He shouted, “Lenny!” in such a hurt, puzzled voice that she felt a great rush of shame. She stopped suddenly and turned. Her foot slipped on a mossy stone and she floundered. She knew that she was going to fall and she could not stop herself. The water was surprisingly cold, and it tasted of moss and mud as it went into her mouth.
    Tommy hauled her out and she stood before him, water dripping from her blouse and full skirt, even from her hair. She felt utterly wretched and miserable and wished that she could cry, but somehow she could not.
    Gently he reached out and plucked at her hair. He held up a thick strand of green. “Moss,” he said gravely.
    Lenny giggled. Then she sneezed. Tommy said, “Whoa! Od Doc Price to the rescue.” He scooped her up, damp as she was, and carried her back to the blanket. He tossed everything from it and rolled it about her.
    â€œNow,” he said, “wriggle those clothes off. I’ll wring them out and get you a little drier.”
    She wriggled and handed him, piece by piece, her blouse and skirt and slip. Her stockings were all ladders and she threw them aside. Tommy squeezed her clothing and draped it over branches in full