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“Cut it out, Alafair. When are you leaving?”
“Tuesday. Lou has a private plane.”
“Have a good trip.”
I picked up Snuggs and put him on my shoulder and walked back to the house and opened a can of cat food for him and fed him on the step. Mon Tee Coon was nowhere in sight. Then I washed my hands in the sink and went out the front door without saying goodbye or telling Alafair where I was going. I walked down East Main in the twilight, under the canopy of live oaks, past the city library, counting cadence in my head, and went inside the Little River Inn and sat at a table at the back of the dining room, my mind filled with thoughts and desires that boded well for no one.
Chapter Nine
“YOU EATING TONIGHT, Dave?” the waiter asked.
“What do you have that’s cold?” I said.
“Iced tea?”
“What else have you got?”
“Whatever you want,” he replied.
“You have French vanilla ice cream?”
“Sure. Want anything on it?”
I gazed out the window, a fleeting tic in my eye. “What do you have?”
“Crème de menthe, brandy and chocolate, plain chocolate, butterscotch.”
There was an oak tree wrapped with tiny white lights in the backyard. The sky was purple, a sliver of moon hanging by the evening star.
“I don’t want anything,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just sit here a minute.”
“You got it, Dave,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
After the waiter was gone, I went to the restroom, then out the door. I kept walking through town, past the Shadows and across the drawbridge at Burke Street, and on up Loreauville Road to an Acadian-style cottage that sat on a one-acre green lot on the bayou. All the lights were on. I twisted the bell.
“Why, Dave. Come in,” Bailey said when she answered. She was dressed in sandals and stonewashed jeans and a shirt printed with faded flowers.
I stepped inside.
“Where’s your truck?” she said.
“I was out for a walk.”
“On Loreauville Road?”
The living room was immaculate. I could smell food on a stove. “I’m sorry if I caught you at supper.”
“No, join me.”
“I’ve already eaten. I’ll take just a few minutes.”
“Come in the kitchen. Is something wrong?”
“I was talking with my daughter this evening.”
She pointed at a chair by the table. The kitchen was bright and clean, every surface wiped down. Through the window I could see the long green sweep on the yard and the shadows of the trees on the grass and the reflection of lights on the bayou. My body felt strange, my skin dead, my ears humming. I did not know why I was there. My legs were turning to rubber. I sat down.
“Yes?” she said.
