Goldilocks by Andrew Coburn Page B

squirrels. In July and August the damage would be greater from larger animals snouting for grubs. He said, “What was your answer?”
    “I didn’t give him one.”
    “What would it have been if you had?”
    She smiled again, the smile unreadable, and he rested his eyes on her lax and loose legs, her bare heels pressed into the grass, her shiny ankles perhaps a shade too thick, for him an endearing flaw that increased her appeal the way an error on a coin added value. A blister glistened on her little toe, left foot. The pumps she had sloughed off were new.
    “How long will you be home?” he asked, implying that this was her real home and that her place in Boston was little more than a hotel room, though he was well aware that the bulk of her clothes were there, not here, and that all he knew about her life away from him was what she chose to tell, which sometimes was not much.
    “I’m not sure,” she said, holding her smile. “I never am, am I?” Her free hand reached out, and for a moment or so their fingers entwined. “For your information,” she said, “I missed you too.”
    He believed she might have, but scarcely as much as he had missed her. She was too active, too driven, to moon over anybody, least of all a small-time lawyer content to strive for no more than a decent living and to keep the dark out of his soul. He had met her less than a year ago at an alumni function of Suffolk Law and had held on to her hand longer than was appropriate, forcing her to give him a second look. Their first date was dinner at Locke Ober’s. He wanted to impress her, which fell flat when the waiter addressed her by name. A more serious date was in Lawrence, Bishop’s, where he was proud to show her off and she relished the Arabic plate and said casually, “I know I’ll never marry again.” “That’s silly, how can you know that?” he shot back, and she replied promptly, “The same way you know you’ll never be president of the United States. Pass the salt, please.” In his house for the first time she was a confident creature moving through rooms as if the light always tilted toward her. Later, in his bedroom, at ease with her nakedness despite ridges left by the pinching parts of her underwear, she was a pink monument to health and beauty. Before slipping into the sheets, she placed something on the night table. He thought it was a book of matches she had taken from Bishop’s for a souvenir. It was a condom in a discreet and dainty package. “I’m sure you understand,” she said with a sigh. “We’ve reached a point in civilization where no one’s word is good enough.”
    Now, rattling the ice in his drink and staring at the streaks in her blond hair, he said, “You could’ve phoned.”
    “Yes, I meant to a couple of times,” she said. “Why didn’t you call me?”
    “That would have annoyed you.”
    “It’s inconvenient only at the office,” she said with an aloof sort of compassion. “You could’ve called in the evening.”
    “You take the phone off the hook.”
    “Not all the time, only when I bring work home.” She looked him squarely in the face. “Tell me, Barney, are we arguing?”
    “I hope not.”
    “I wouldn’t want to.”
    Certain rules guided their relationship, and he had nearly broken some with his possessive eyes and insinuating tone. Sipping, he watched several blackbirds fly low over the lawn, the sound of their wings like the unwrapping of a package.
    She said, “About this Henry. Where did you get hold of him? Is he a client working off your fee?”
    “It’s a long story not worth going into.”
    “I don’t trust him.”
    “Neither does my secretary,” he said, drawing himself up some. “Tell me about the libel case.”
    “No, not now. It would hurt my head.”
    “Mine too, I would think. Your cases are more complicated.”
    Her flawless face tightened. “I’m good, Barney, damn good, but they’ll never make me a senior partner. They’ll never give me