“Never better,” he said. “They may say the market is recovering, but I haven’t seen it yet. It really is a good time to be me in Miami.”
I smiled politely, mostly to show him what a really good fake looked like, and Rita hustled back in with a box of tissues.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the box at me. “Why don’t you just keep the box with you, and— Oh, damn it, there’s the timer,” she said, and she vanished again, into the kitchen this time.
Brian and I watched her go with very similar expressions of bemused wonder. “A really lovely lady,” Brian said to me. “You are very lucky, Dexter.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” I said. “She might think you sound envious, and she does have single friends, you know.”
Brian looked startled. “Oh,” he said. “Silly me, I hadn’t thought of that. Would she really try to, ah … I think the expression is, ‘fix me up’?”
“In a heartbeat,” I assured him. “She thinks marriage is man’s natural state.”
“And is it?” he asked me.
“There is much to be said for domestic bliss,” I said. “And I am quite sure Rita would love to see you try it.”
“Oh, dear,” he said, and he looked at me thoughtfully, running his eyes over my entire frame. “Still,” he said, “it seems to agree with you.”
“I suppose it must seem like it,” I said.
“Do you mean it doesn’t agree with you?” Brian asked, arching his eyebrows up high on his forehead.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it really does. It’s just that lately—”
“Lights seem dimmer, tastes are all duller?” he asked me.
“Something like that,” I admitted, although in truth I could not tell if he was merely mocking me.
But Brian looked at me very seriously, and for once he did not seem to be faking his expression, nor the thoughts behind his words. “Why don’t you come along with me some night very soon?” he said softly. “We’ll have a Boys’ Night Out. Rita couldn’t possibly object.”
There was absolutely no mistaking what he meant; aside from the fact that he only had one form of recreation, I knew that he had long dreamed of sharing a playtime with me, his only living relative, who had so much in common with him—we were brothers of the blade as well as in blood. And truthfully the idea was almost unbearably compelling to me, too—but … but …
“Why not, brother?” Brian said softly, leaning forward with genuine intensity on his face. “Why shouldn’t we?”
For a moment I simply stared at him, frozen between lunging at his offer with both hands and thrusting him away from me, probably with one hand to my brow and a loud cry of, Retro me, Brianus! But before I could decide which choice to jump at, life intervened, as it usually does, and made the decision for me.
“Dexter!” Astor yelled from down the hall, with all the fury of a very cranky eleven-year-old girl. “I need help with my math homework! Now!”
I looked at Brian and shook my head. “You’ll excuse me, brother?” I said.
He settled back into the sofa and smiled, the old fake smile again. “Mmm,” he said. “Domestic bliss.”
I got up and went down the hall to help Astor.
SEVEN
ASTOR WAS IN THE ROOM SHE SHARED WITH CODY, HUNCHED over a book at the little hutch that served them both as a desk. The expression on her face had probably started life as a frown of concentration, and then evolved into a scowl of frustration. From there it had been just a short jump to a full-blown menacing glare, which she turned on me as I came into the room. “This is bullshit,” she snarled at me with such ferocity that I wondered whether I should get a weapon. “It doesn’t make any sense at all!”
“You shouldn’t use that word,” I said, and rather mildly, too, since I was quite sure she would attack if I raised my voice.
“What word, sense?” she sneered. “ ’Cause that must be a word they forgot in this stupid book.” She slammed the book closed and slumped down in the chair with her arms crossed over her chest. “Bunch of crap,” she said, looking at me out of the corner of her eye to see whether she would get away with “crap.” I let it go and went to stand next to her.
“Let’s take a look,” I said.
Astor shook her head and refused to look up at me. “Useless dumb crap,” she muttered.
I felt a sneeze coming on and fumbled out a tissue, and still without looking up she said, “And if I get your cold, I swear.” She didn’t tell me what she swore, but from her tone it was clear that it wouldn’t be pleasant.