Close to the Bone by William G. Tapply

Author:William G. Tapply [Tapply, William G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-3628-2
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2013-06-28T21:56:00+00:00

16

ALEX WAS ON the balcony when I got home. She was wearing a pair of my boxer shorts and her own “Walk for Hunger” T-shirt. She was tilted back in one of the aluminum chairs with her legs up on the railing and her eyes closed.

I eased up her T-shirt to expose some smooth skin and kissed her belly. Her fingers moved in my hair. “Mmm,” she said. “Nice. What was that for?”

“Does it have to be for something?”

“It’s better if it isn’t,” she said.

“It’s because I don’t smell lentil soup.”

She grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled my head up, and clamped both arms around my neck. She put her mouth on my ear and whispered, “Hungry?”

“How do you mean that?”

She kissed my mouth, then sat up. “For now, I’m talking about dinner. Go grab yourself a beer and then stay out of my kitchen. I’ll call you to the table.”

“You’re awfully sexy when you’re bossy,” I said. “And you’re particularly sexy in my boxer shorts.” I snapped her a salute. “I will obey, sir.”

I changed into my jeans and took a beer onto the balcony, where I watched the setting sun splash colors on the cloud bank that was building on the horizon. Thoughts of Eddie Vaccaro and Paul Cizek flitted in and out of my consciousness. I willed myself not to focus on them, and had good success at it.

An hour or so later Alex called, “Come and get it.” I went to the table.

Grilled lamb chops, boiled potatoes doused with melted butter and sprinkled with parsley, stir-fried snow peas, avocado on beds of Bibb lettuce, a sweet German wine. “You’re an amazing woman,” I said to Alex. “Do you make your own clothes, too?”

“No, I steal them from men,” she said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Are you going fishing tomorrow?”

“I’d like to. I’m going to call Charlie.”

I did, and he was eager. We debated our options and decided on the Farmington River in Connecticut. We always found rising trout on the Farmington. I told him I’d pick him up at eight.

At six in the morning, when I woke up, an easterly wind was driving hard raindrops against the windows. They sounded like buckshot rattling on the glass. I stood there sipping my coffee and staring down through the sliding doors at the gray, churning surface of the harbor.

I felt Alex’s hand on the back of my neck. Then her arms went around my chest and I felt her breasts pressing against my back. “It’s a pretty lousy day,” she murmured.

“Too lousy for trout fishing.”

“I thought rain was good for fishing.”

“No. That’s a fallacy. This kind of rain ruins trout fishing. The Farmington will be high and muddy and the trout will be sulking on the bottom. Besides, it’s no fun getting soaked.”

“Macho-type men like confronting the elements, don’t they? Isn’t getting wet and freezing your ass off what it’s all about?”

“No. Enjoying a pleasant June day and catching trout on dry flies is what it’s all about.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

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