he. Boys can be good cooks, too.” I tossed a handful of suds his way.
James buffed his nails on his shirtfront. “Yeah, just like his old man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh … yeah.”
Before we could disintegrate into teasing about James’s lack of culinary skills, the phone rang. I reached for it automatically. James took the opportunity of my distraction to knuckle my sides.
I was laughing, breathless, when I answered. “Hello?”
The crackle of static and silence greeted me. Then, “Anne?”
I fended off my husband’s wandering hands. “Yes?”
“Hello, Anne.” The voice was low, deep, thick. Unfamiliar yet something made me think I knew it.
“Yes?” I said, uncertain, glancing at the clock. It seemed rather late for a telemarketer.
“This is Alex. How are you?”
“Oh. Alex. Hello.” My laugh sounded embarrassed this time. James raised an eyebrow. I’d never spoken to Alex. “You must want to speak to James.”
“No,” said Alex. “I’d like to talk to you.”
I’d already been planning to hand off the phone to James, but now I stopped. “You would?”
James, who’d been reaching for the phone, took back his hand. His other brow raised, the pair of them arching like birds’ wings. I shrugged and raised a brow myself, using the subtle nonverbal signals we’d forged as our private marital communication.
“Sure.” Alex had a laugh like syrup. “How are you?”
“I’m … fine.”
James stepped back, palms up, grinning. I cradled the phone against my shoulder and turned back to the sink to rinse off the dishes, but James nudged me aside and took over the task. He waved a little, shooing me.
“That’s good. How’s the bastard you married?”
“He’s fine, too.” I went to the living room. I’m not much of a phone conversationalist. I always need something else to do while I’m talking, but now I had no laundry to fold, no floor to mop. No dishes, even, to wash. I paced, instead.
“He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I opted to assume Alex was teasing. “Nothing the whips and chains can’t take care of.”
His low chuckle tickled my eardrum. “That’s right. You keep him in line.”
“So … James tells me you’re coming for a visit?”
The hiss of static made me think we’d lost the connection for a second, but then he was back. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Unless you object?”
“Of course not. We’re looking forward to it.” A slight lie. I was sure James was looking forward to it. Never having met Alex, I wasn’t so sure about having him as a houseguest. It was an intimate proposal, and I wasn’t so good at intimacy on short notice.
“Liar.”
“Beg pardon?” I stopped short.
Alex laughed. “You’re a liar, Anne.”
At first, I didn’t know how to respond. “I—”
He laughed again. “I’d be the same way. Some rascal calls out of the blue wanting to be put up for a few weeks? I’d be a little concerned. Especially if half the things I’m sure Jamie’s told you about me are true. He has told you stories, hasn’t he?”
“A few.”
“And you’re still letting me come to visit? You’re a brave, brave woman.”
I’d heard stories about Alex Kennedy but assumed most of them were exaggerations. The mythology of boyhood friendship, the past filtered through time. “So, if only half of what he’s told me is true, what about the rest?”
“Some of that might be true, too,” Alex said. “Tell me something, Anne. Do you really want me in your house?”
“Are you really a rascal?”
“A ragged one. Running round and round that rugged rock.”
He surprised me into a laugh. I was aware of an undercurrent there, a slight flirtation he was offering and to which I was responding. I looked into the kitchen, where James was finishing up the dishes. He wasn’t even paying any attention, uncaring about my conversation with his friend. I’d have been eavesdropping.
“Any friend of James,” I said.
“Is that so? But I bet Jamie doesn’t have any friends like me.”
“Rascals? No. You’re probably right. A few scoundrels and a moron or two. But no other rascals.”
I liked his laugh. It was warm and gooey and unpretentious. The connection hissed and crackled again. I heard a flare of music and the murmur of conversation, but couldn’t tell if it was in the background or breaking through on the line.
“Where are you, Alex?”
“Germany. I’m visiting some friends for a day or so before I go to Amsterdam, then to London. I’ll be leaving for the States from there.”
“Very cosmopolitan,” I said, only a bit envious. I’d never been out of North America.
Alex’s laugh rasped. “I’m living out of a suitcase and I’m jet-lagged all to shit. I’d kill someone just for a bologna sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise.”
“Are you trying to win my sympathy?”
“Shamelessly.”
“I’ll make sure to stock up on white bread and bologna,” I said, the prospect of Alex staying in our house suddenly not as daunting as it had been before.
“Anne,” Alex said after a pause, “you are a goddess among women.”
“So I’m told.”
“Seriously. Tell me what you want me to bring you from Europe.”
The shift in conversation surprised me. “I don’t want anything!”
“Chocolate? Sausage? Treacle? What? I might have a hard time smuggling heroin or pot or prostitutes from Amsterdam, though. You’d better keep it legal.”
“Really, Alex, you don’t have to bring me anything.”
“Of course I do. If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll just ask Jamie.”
“I’d say treacle,” I told him. “But I’m not sure what it is … does it come from a well?”
