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“Hmm. Well, you look like you could use a drink,” she told him.
The observation made him wonder how bad he looked. “I really could,” he replied.
“Come with me, then.”
After a brief pause, he got out of his car and followed Mrs. Harte into the building, then up to her apartment. Once inside, she led the way into the kitchen, where she grabbed two heavy, beautifully cut, Waterford crystal tumblers from a cabinet and set them on the counter, before turning to him and asking, “What would you like to drink?”
“What do you have?” he countered politely, deciding that no matter what she had—even if it was sherry or cognac, or whatever it was older people drank—he was going to have some.
She gave him a look that said he was trying her patience. “It’ll be easier if you just tell me what you want.”
“All right. Uh, bourbon, if you have it.”
“Woodford Reserve, or Knob Creek?”
Shit, she had the good stuff. “Knob Creek.”
“Neat, or on the rocks?”
“Neat.”
Mrs. Harte opened another cabinet and pulled a bottle of Knob Creek from it. After placing a large ice cube in one of the glasses, she proceeded to pour two fingers of the amber liquid into it, then poured double that into the other one.
When she handed him the glass without the ice cube, he took it with gratitude; he needed this drink more than he needed air. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, then held up her glass. “To William,” she said quietly, before taking a drink.
“To … William,” he repeated after a brief hesitation, and took a drink of his own.
She looked at him with a hint of amusement. “Do you know who William is?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then why are you toasting to him?”
“Because you did. I figured it was the polite thing to do.”
“William is my late husband,” she explained. “I always toast to him.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Still looking amused, she turned and began walking out of the kitchen. “There’s a hockey game on if you care to watch it with me.”
The weird and unexpected change of subject had him saying, “A hockey game?”
“What? Did you think I only watch Wheel of Fortune, or something?”
Despite the fact that their fledgling ‘friendship’ seemed to be holding after the dinner at Paige’s, a part of him still hoped he wasn’t walking into some sort of trap, where he was murdered with a letter opener and his body stuffed into a closet, as he followed her into the living room.
Expecting to see furniture covered in gingham or heavy floral brocade, he was surprised to see the couch and oversized chair upholstered in a gray chenille fabric, with coordinating gray and cream colored throw pillows, none of which sported cute sayings on them. It was a room that looked more Pottery Barn than Walmart, with tasteful pictures on the walls and knick-knacks on the coffee table and fireplace mantle.
The focal point of the room, though, was her book collection. Four 3x6 bookshelves lined one wall, each full of books, with some stacked on top. As David rounded the couch to take a seat, he read some of the authors: John Grisham, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Jackie Collins, Johanna Lindsey, Tom Clancy, Nora Roberts, Michael Connelly, Diana Gabaldon, V.C. Andrews, Jodi Picoult, and Danielle Steele, to name a few.
“This is quite a collection,” he told Mrs. Harte as she settled into the chair.
“That’s only half of it.”
“Damn. You must read a lot,” he said, only to wish for the words back because they sounded so stupid.
