Low Pressure

Yesterday, once she’d ditched the sunglasses, he’d noticed that her eyes were light blue, set off by black eyelashes. Her skin was fair, and he was really coming to like that sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheekbones, which was an impudent contrast to an otherwise solemn face. When the time was right, he would enjoy teasing her about those freckles, as well as her girlish blush.

He wondered what had gone wrong between her and her ex, and if their divorce had been as amicable as she’d claimed.

She returned to her chair across the table from him and, as though aware of his scrutiny and the track of his thoughts, she resumed immediately. “The barbecue was exactly as you described it. Susan was the life of the party, which wasn’t anything unusual. But that day she seemed to court attention.”

“She wanted to make sure I’d hear about it.”

Bellamy gave a curt nod. “She laughed out loud at everything and spread herself thin on the dance floor, dancing with every man who asked her, no matter how old or how young.”

“Allen Strickland.”

“Yes. But they didn’t link up until later in the day, after Susan had had quite a lot to drink. She and a group of older kids had left the main pavilion and had gone down to the boathouse. They were sneaking beer down there and Susan was swilling it.

“Being curious and, I admit, a bit jealous, I went down there to spy on them. Susan saw me sneaking around and threatened to kill me if I tattled to Olivia and Daddy. I told her that I wouldn’t have to tell them, that if she continued drinking like that, they would know by her behavior. She told me to get lost. So I did.”

“Did you tell on her?”

“No.” This time as she lapsed into thought, her fingertip followed the rim of the tea glass. “Later I wished I had told. If she hadn’t been half drunk, she never would have looked twice at a guy like Allen Strickland.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was so blue collar.”

“And I wasn’t?”

“Well, you… you were different.”

“I rode a motorcycle and flew airplanes. He drove a company truck. Appears to me that the difference between us was the vehicles.”

“In terms of boyfriends, that’s huge.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Where was I?”

“You were blaming yourself for Susan’s actions. You shouldn’t. She made her own choices that day.”

“But she was my sister. I should have watched out for her.”

“Was she watching out for you?”

She lowered her gaze and must have decided not to venture too far in that direction, because she moved past it. “I returned to the pavilion and tried to remain inconspicuous. Susan’s group eventually began trickling back from the boathouse. I became worried when she didn’t come back with the rest. I wondered if she’d drunk so much she’d gotten sick. I went back to the boathouse to check on her.

“Or…” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “Or am I confusing that with later?” She gave a small shake of her head. “It was so long ago that sometimes I have trouble piecing together the sequence of events.”

Watching her closely, he said, “You didn’t have trouble with the sequence when you wrote the book. The girl in it didn’t return to the boathouse until the tornado was on top of her.”

“Right,” she said vaguely. Then more definitively, “Right.” Still, frowning, she paused before continuing. “Susan was among the last stragglers to return to the pav

ilion. She looked more vibrant and beautiful than ever. Most women don’t hold up too well when they overdrink, but the alcohol had made her look… aglow.

“Allen Strickland asked her to dance. He was a great dancer. One of those men who can really move, make the steps look fluid and effortless. In full control of himself and his partner. You know the kind?”

“Not really,” he said wryly. “I usually don’t watch men dance.”

“Then take my word for it. He was good. Susan, too. One song segued into another, and Allen Strickland stayed her partner. The way they moved together was in-your-face sexy, and everybody noticed. His hands were all over her, and she wasn’t doing anything to discourage him. The opposite, in fact.”

She paused for a length of time, lost in the memory.