Then I called her some things I probably shouldn’t have.”
“Such as?”
He shrugged. “Nothin’ good. She’s still with my daddy.”
“Where are you from again?”
“South. East. Not from here.”
This is a source of curiosity to me. Dwayne acts like he’s from somewhere in the south most of the time; his speech would lead you to believe as much. But he can turn it off so fast I sometimes wonder what’s real and what isn’t.
“What happened to your real mother?”
“Vamoosed.”
I could tell he was shutting down on me. I didn’t want the conversation to end, so I decided to sweeten the pot by throwing in my own dirty laundry. “My dad married his secretary. I have a passel of half brothers and sisters. I lost count at three. And I don’t know their names.”
“And you don’t wanna.”
“Damn straight.”
“So why did you agree to call this woman ‘Nana’?”
“I’m on a case. I’m playing a part.”
“Bullshit. You just didn’t have the cojones to tell her no.”
“She’s old and a bit confused.”
“Crazy,” Dwayne stressed.
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Like that’s something new.”
We lapsed into silence. Dwayne acts like he knows me so well, and yes…okay…he does…but there’s something so annoying about it that sometimes I just want to launch myself at him in full fight mode.
I pondered these simmering feelings as we pulled up to his place. Across Lakewood Bay I could see the lights of Foster’s On The Lake twinkling in strands around the trees. It was just starting to get dark. I didn’t want to be mad at Dwayne, but I wanted…something.
He tied up the boat and sat back down. We swayed in the soft lavender evening light, neither of us climbing out to his dock. With a deep, uncomfortable awakening I realized I wanted to be kissed. By Dwayne? No. Proximity doesn’t make things work. So he was right here. So what? I’m not an idiot…usually. Dwayne was off limits.
I had a raging internal argument with myself on the issue. Recognizing my feelings is not helpful. It makes me feel vulnerable and I just hate that. With an effort I pulled my eyes away from his chest. He was wearing some beat-up blue shirt that looked as if it had been laundered way too many times. The top button had given up the ghost and I could see the smooth, tan muscles of his chest. His jeans were even worse; typical Dwayne. He wore leather sandals that were a little out of character: Dwayne’s strictly a sneakers or boot man. But he had nice feet.
For some reason it was all a seductive combination.
“Are we going to Foster’s?” I asked.
“You hungry?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Jump out and we’ll fire up the truck. Forget Foster’s. I feel like a chili dog.”
I did as he suggested, more because I didn’t care than because I was eager to leave the lake. I climbed into the passenger side of Dwayne’s battered pickup. I hadn’t been inside it in a while but it hadn’t improved much over the last month. There’d been an incident where Dwayne had to pick me up at the hospital. He’d helped me inside but as a luxury ride it left a lot to be desired. I’d made it home and collapsed on my couch. Still, Dwayne had been there for me.
We drove to Lou’s, across the river in Milwaukie. It’s one of those institutions that’s been around since the dawn of time—a prefab building shaped like a trailer. It’s more about basic product than palate, more concerned with delivering up the same foot-long-chili-dog meal than worrying about an ultra-high rating from the health department. Not that they’re slouches. Their focus is just different.
Dwayne really knows how to eat this sort of food. We settled onto one of their indoor painted picnic tables, seated across from each other on long narrow benches. I watched him bite into the foot-long dog, stuffing enough into his mouth to make me marvel. And he can do this without looking like a pig or a slob. I, myself, do not share this talent. I bit into mine and immediately had to wipe excess chili sauce from my mouth.
“So, okay,” Dwayne said, chewing. “Tell me about ’em.”
“Jazz left me alone with Orchid.”
“Nana.”
“Yes, Nana.”
“And?”
“She was really nice. Kinda dotty. Some of the time, anyway. Other times she was really sharp.”
“That’s typical of dementia, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although she was pretty clear on current issues. Well…” I made a face. “And then she’d kinda go off track. But she knows the family wants control of the money. She’s bound and determined to keep their hands off it.”
“Because she wants control, or because she doesn’t trust them?”
“Maybe a little of both. I told her she needed an estate attorney.”
“What did she say to that?”
“Oh, at first she acted like she didn’t hear me. She kind of rambled about her husband, where they went on vacation, how they met. She wouldn’t stay on the subject. She lives in this suite of rooms, no phone, no intercom that I could tell. But the door isn’t locked, so it’s not like they’re keeping her prisoner.” I lifted my shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell Jazz about her. His son, Logan, is her favorite grandchild.”
I thought I was keeping my recitation objective, but Dwayne must have heard something in my voice, because he asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Logan? Nothing.”
“You don’t like him.”
“He’s twelve. What’s to like?”
Dwayne swallowed his last bite, looking like he could eat five more. “Lots of twelve-year-olds are likable.”
“Name one.”
“My brother’s son. Del.”
“You have a brother? How come he didn’t get mentioned when you listed your family?”
“I don’t like him much. He’s a stepbrother. Del’s okay, though.”
“Any other family members you haven’t mentioned?” I said dryly.
“Scores. We talkin’ about me, or the Purcells?”
“Both,
