“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Somebody wants my daughter dead. She’s making a documentary that exposes some of Love Younger’s enterprises. What conclusion should I come to? In the meantime, this nutcase from Kansas is out there somewhere, and he’s probably got connections to the Younger family.”
“That’s not what you’re really trying to say, is it?”
Her hand rested on her plastic cup. There was moisture on the balls of her fingers, and he wanted to reach over and clasp her hand in his and warm it and protect her. But from what?
“I owe my kid,” he said. “Her father let her down. That’s me. Now I got a chance to make it right. I got the feeling I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
“Maybe you’d be doing a better job if you let go of me?”
She was wearing a peasant dress and a beret and tennis shoes and a thin jade necklace. She looked outrageous and mysterious, like an orphan girl who had wandered out of a nineteenth-century novel into the world of the rich and famous. Or was that simply an identity she had manufactured in order to turn a burnt-out bail-skip chaser into a sock puppet? If she was looking for a guy to use, why him? If you wanted a thoroughbred, you didn’t go to an elephant farm.
“I asked you a question, Clete. Do you want me to disappear from your life?” she said.
“Don’t say that.” The canvas awning swelled in the wind, popping loose from the aluminum frame that held it in place. The sunlight was blinding. “I care about you. I don’t want to let go of you. But I can’t forget that you’re married.” His face reddened when he realized how loud his voice was.
“You just noticed that I’m married? Somehow that got lost in your mental Rolodex?”
“You don’t want to leave him when he’s in mourning. I understand that,” he said. “But it doesn’t make me feel too good.”
She covered his hand with hers. “You haven’t done anything wrong. If anybody has done wrong, it’s me. I married Caspian because he was rich. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but that’s why I did it. It’s not his fault, it’s not yours, it’s not Love Younger’s, it’s not my father’s, it’s mine.”
“What are we going to do, kid?”
“I look like a kid to you?”
“Yeah, you do. I’m old, you’re young. You’re a gift that guys who look like me don’t receive too often.”
The color in her eyes deepened, and her face seemed to grow small and more vulnerable. He was sweating, even though the wind was cool; the sun seemed to be burning a hole through the top of his head. “We can go away,” she said. “Maybe for just a little while. Or maybe forever.”
“Go where?” he said.
“A friend of mine lets me use her ranch outside Reno. Her mother was an actress in western movies. It’s like going back to A
merica in the 1940s. The view is wonderful. In the early mornings, you can smell the sage and flowers that only open at night. We could have such a grand time together.”
“I got to take care of my daughter. I got to help Dave.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll always be my big guy.”
“Let’s go somewhere. I mean now. Maybe the DoubleTree on the river.”
“I can’t. I told Love I’d go with him to visit Angel’s grave. He’s not doing very well.”
“He was close to your daughter?”
“In his way. He’s a private man and doesn’t show his feelings. He thinks of the world as his enemy. His real tragedy is he tries to control the people he loves most, and he destroys them one at a time.”
“Why didn’t you eighty-six this bunch a long time ago?” Clete said.
“Greed, selfishness, anger, because my father’s ideals were more important to him than I was. Take your pick.” She rose from her chair with her purse. “I’ve got to go. Caspian was suspicious when I left.”
“I hate that word. It makes me feel like a bucket of shit.”
“I’m sorry for using it.”
“Meet me tonight,” he said.