Strangers Read Free Page B

She’s got enough troubles without you making them worse.”
    â€œWhy don’t you mind your own business, Pop?”
    â€œThis is my business now,” I said with heat. “Cheryl made it mine by hiring me. One more crack about my age and you and I are going to have trouble.”
    â€œHah. Look at me shaking.”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Matt, that’s enough!” Heat in her voice, too, and exasperation. “If you don’t get out of here right now, I’ll never let you in this house again. I mean it.”
    He was bright enough to see that she did and it cooled him down. Bully boy and frustrated, jealous suitor—a bad combination.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “but you better be careful.” Then to me, and without the sneer in his voice, “You, too. Outsiders poking their noses into local matters get short shrift around here.”
    â€œSo I gathered.”
    â€œJust make sure Cheryl doesn’t get hurt,” he said. He didn’t have to add an “or else”; it was in his tone.
    When he was gone, not quite slamming the door behind him, Cheryl let out a heavy breath and said, “I’m sorry you had to put up with all that. I didn’t invite Matt here tonight, he just showed up like he sometimes does. I thought I could get him to leave by telling him about you, but it only made him want to stay. I should have known better.”
    â€œIt’s all right. The sooner I know about a potential adversary, the better.”
    â€œIt won’t come to that. Not with him. He isn’t always so unpleasant, it’s just that he’s … attracted to me. And worried about me.”
    â€œBut not so much about your son.”
    â€œCody, too,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
    I followed her into the living room. Prominently displayed on an end table next to a worn sofa were three silver-framed photographs, and I paused for a look. I didn’t expect any of them to be of her dead brother, after all these years and the pain and grief his suicide had caused her, but it was a small relief not to see Doug Rosmond’s face among the trio. They were all of the same young man, the two smaller ones candid full-body snaps at ages preteen and early teen, the third a posed head-and-shoulders portrait in a jacket and tie that he didn’t look comfortable wearing.
    I said, “Cody?” even though I knew it must be. He had a somewhat chunky body type inherited from his father, and his mother’s eyes, facial bone structure, and reddish-gold hair. But he bore no resemblance to Doug Rosmond. I wondered, fleetingly, if Cheryl had told her son how and why his uncle had died. I wouldn’t have, in her place.
    â€œYes. The largest was taken last year, just before his high school graduation. He’s … good-looking, isn’t he.”
    He was if you discounted the straggly soul patch and chin whiskers, the spiky disarray of his hairstyle, and a faintly sullen cast to his mouth. I said, lying, “He favors you.”
    The compliment got me a wan little smile. “I remember you like beer,” she said. Playing the good hostess, even in these circumstances. “I don’t usually keep any in the house, but Matt brought a six-pack with him.…”
    â€œThanks, no. Nothing.”
    She sat on the far end of the sofa, first switching off a fringe-shaded floor lamp—self-consciously concerned, maybe, that the bright light would be unflattering—and folded her hands together in her lap. I remembered that posture, not unlike that of a little girl, and it tugged at me. Seeing her again had been difficult after all. Not because of any lingering personal feelings, but because of what she was now—hurt, lost, afraid, edging toward the end of hope.
    The sofa was worn and the lamp’s shaft pitted; the rest of the furnishings had the same well-used look. Judging from that and the house