“Particularly to the female anatomy,” Parker said, ignoring the implied reproof. “They wouldn’t use the polite or clinical word for an act or a body part when there’s an off-color alternative. Now that your fussiness over the coarse language has been addressed, what did you think—”
“You didn’t go to the cotton gin today, did you?”
“What’s that got to do with the manuscript?” Parker asked impatiently.
“Does it have something to do with the manuscript?”
“You’re being awfully contrary this afternoon. Did you forget to take your stool softener last night?”
“You’re changing the subject, Parker.”
“Or is that lemonade spiked with Jack Daniel’s?”
“More to the point, you’re avoiding the subject.”
“Me? I thought the subject was my manuscript. You brought up—”
“Maris.”
“The gin.”
“The two are linked,” Mike said. “After months of preoccupation with that place, you haven’t been back to it since she left.”
“So?”
“So the fact that you haven’t gone back to the gin has nothing to do with what happened there between you and Maris the morning she left?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean… Shit. Whatever the hell you just said.” Parker hunched his shoulders cantankerously. “Besides, nothing happened.”
“Going there wouldn’t bring back memories either pleasant or disturbing? It wouldn’t remind you of her? Wouldn’t make you recall something that she said or something that you said that you’d rather forget?”
“You know what?” Parker tilted his head back and eyed Mike down the length of his nose. “You should have been a woman.”
“Let’s see. During this one conversation you’ve managed to accuse me of being a freak, then a closet drunk with bowel problems, and now you’re insulting my masculinity.”
“You’re as nosy as an old woman who has nothing else to do except butt into other people’s business.”
“Maris is my business, too, Parker.”
His sharp tone changed the character of the conversation and signaled that the banter was over. Parker turned away and stared out over the ocean. It was calm this afternoon, a mirror casting a brassy reflection of the sun off its surface.
As they did each day at about this time, a small flock of pelicans flew in formation just above the treetops toward their nighttime roost. Parker wondered if it was constraining or comforting to be part of such a closely knit group. He had been a loner for so many years, he couldn’t remember what it was like to be a member of a family, or a fraternity, or any community of individuals.
Mackensie Roone was beloved by readers all over the world. He resided on their nightstands and in their briefcases. He accompanied them to the beach, to the toilet, and on modes of mass transit. He was taken into their bathtubs and beds. He shared a rare intimacy with them.
But Parker Evans was known only by a few and loved by no one. That had been his choice, of course, and a necessary one. Recently, however, he had begun to realize the tremendous price he had paid for his years of reclusion. Over time, he had become accustomed to being alone. But lately he’d begun feeling lonely. There was a difference. That difference became evident the moment you realized that you no longer liked being alone as well as you liked being with someone else. That’s when aloneness turned to loneliness.
Staving off the threatening despair, he quietly apologized to Mike for involving him in his scheme. “I know you feel responsible to some extent, and I admire you for having a conscience about it.”
“I played along with that ridiculous test we put her through because you asked me to. Was that necessary?”
“Probably not,” Parker admitted in a quiet voice.
“I could have told her you were Mackensie Roone. I could have pretended that it slipped out. You would have been angry at me, but you would have gotten over it. Instead, I went along with the whole charade, and I’m ashamed of myself for it.”
“Don’t be, Mike. You’re blameless. This is all my doing. From start to finish, beginning to end—whatever the end may be—I’m the guilty party here, not you.”
“That doesn’t exactly absolve me for my voluntary participation.”