Sweet Water: A Novel by Christina Baker Kline

Author:Christina Baker Kline [Kline, Christina Baker]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction
Amazon: B003P2W1JI
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
Published: 2010-11-09T06:00:00+00:00

The next afternoon I went to work in a red silk shirt tucked into faded jeans tucked into cowboy boots I’d bought at a yard sale. I had made a ritual of getting dressed, laying clothes out on the bed, then taking a bath and wrapping myself in a towel to paint my toenails. Standing in my bra in front of the bathroom mirror, I anointed the hollow of my neck, my temples, the insides of my elbows and thighs with French perfume I’d found still packed in a box from New York. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d lavished such attention on my body. I slipped on a peach camisole trimmed with antique lace and rummaged through my makeup bag until I found a lipstick to match my shirt. When I left the house I felt invincible.

Cal whistled when I walked into the Blue Moon. “Whoo-ee, it’s somebody’s lucky night.”

“I hear you’ve been up to no good,” said Liz. She was sitting at the bar with a Perrier, reading the paper.

“You’re back,” I said brightly. “How was it?”

“It was scenic. I got restless.”

“How’s Ryan?”

“He got poison ivy. Turns out that rugged outdoorsy shtick that reeled me in is just an act.”

I smiled and started taking chairs down from the tables.

“But at least you had a good time,” Liz said.

“Cal’s got a big mouth.”

“I didn’t hear it from Cal. I heard it from your cousin.”

I slammed down the chair I was holding. “Alice has no business—”

Liz let out a laugh, throaty and deep. “Look, I already know what happened, so you can stop playing dumb. It’s no big deal—you’re not even technically related to him, right? Of course, it’s still a little weird. I mean, some people might think it’s weird. I don’t give a damn.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “Come on.”

“What are you saying, Liz?” I asked in a small, flat voice.

Her eyes dropped to the paper. “Oh, Jesus Christ. You don’t know, do you? That little bastard.”

Fragments of conversation and observation from the night before flashed through my head: the cadence of his voice, the lines of his face, familiar. “I grew up around here, but I only come back to visit.” He said he was a musician. He said I reminded him of someone he knew a long time ago.

“He said his name was Bernie.”

“It is Well, that’s what the band calls him. But his real name is Troy. Troy Burns.”

I felt sick. I couldn’t think straight. The dull hangover I’d woken up with in his bed that morning was burrowing its way through the aspirin I’d cloaked it in. “When did you see him?”

“About an hour ago, maybe less. He said he’d be back this evening.”

“I have to go.”

Liz nodded reluctantly. “It’s going to be busy tonight, but I guess I can’t blame you. I’ll call Patsy, see what she’s doing.”

I looked over at Cal, who was wiping down the bar. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Honest to God, Cassie, I didn’t know who he was.

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