Whatever Lola Wants Read Free Page B

advise.”
    â€œI look forward to that advice, Ms. Magnussen.” For possible Montreal lawyers he had three other options: no problem. He stood. Again they shook hands. If all worked out, one day he might make her a small present, a unit in Terramac City. A two-bedroom place, say.
    As well as lawyers, John Cochan needed the law. He had called on the Sheriff of Merrimac County, Henry Nottingham; a well-balanced man, John had heard. On first hearing the Sheriff’s surname, John found it amusing. “Call me John,” he told the Sheriff. “They call you Hank?”
    Cochan recommended the Sheriff start an investigation company, his own business, on the side. Not in any conflict with his public role, that would always come first. But through a private company John Cochan could keep the Sheriff on retainer, just in case problems arose, the kind best solved by someone with Hank’s knowledge of the county, his sense of equity. So Merrimac Investigative Services was born, Rebecca Nottingham as President, Jed Larsen for assignments outside the Richmond area.
    Where snow touched the hood of the Silver Cloud, it melted. On the windscreen the flakes, big, slow, softened to a blurring curtain. White down covered the rear window.
    John Cochan sat inside the tent of snow, invisible to the world. Please, Daddy, can we go camping, you and me? He didn’t go camping with Benjie. Please, Daddy, take me down to Terramac! He didn’t take Benjie to Terramac. Under the snow he saw the boy’s face, waiting for an answer. Tears drained, thick and warm, along Johnnie’s cheeks and into his mustache.
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    Lola’s stare seemed searching far away, as if she herself actually saw John Cochan at the cemetery. I leaned toward her. “Are you okay?”
    She nodded, still gazing somewhere beyond.
    â€œShall I go on?”
    â€œPlease,” she whispered.
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    3.
    All equinox afternoon Sarah Bonneherbe Magnussen Yaeger looked forward to the evening. Staying over in Durham was a good thing, she’d spent the night any number of times after late parties or if the weather was bad. Nothing for her to go home to anyway.
    No, not quite right. Back in Boston there’d be their apartment. With Driscoll down in Washington tonight the apartment made few demands.
    But she’d rather be here, delightfully illicit, at Nate’s place in the woods. She too had a place in the woods, other woods, and a pond. Far away, up north, on her parents’ land, where she went once a season.
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    â€œMilton and Theresa’s other daughter?” A large smile, at once protective and wanton, came across Lola’s face.
    â€œThe eldest,” I said.
    â€œAh.”
    Lola intrigues me. When we first met I’d talk with her just casually, a quick clean phrase or two, and then be gone. It’s how in the main I deal up here, with Gods and Immortals both.
    Of course I’d noticed Lola long before we spoke. She’s stunning—a narrow face and oval eyes, green splintered with purple. Even while she lived they called that face divine. Her flowing chestnut hair when bobbed for her film Northern Heat sold for a thousand dollars a hundred-hair strand. When she died it was long again, falling like a polished brown shawl across her shoulders. In her early days here, each dress she wore fitted like a second skin and her form was our open secret. These days she wears flowing garb; more comfortable, she insists. When a breeze drapes her bodylines, she’s a glimpse of ancient perfection.
    The Gods stick mainly to their own kind, small cliques like those at the Near Nimbus. I’ve been over there a few times—my need to explore, though I despise God-sighting. Over several trips I’ve seen the God Maynard, the God Wang, the God Greta, the God Wilhelm, the Gods Jack and Bobby, the God Joan, the God Pierre, the God Edsel, the God Mfebe; not all together, of course. Once early on, the old God