Page 20 of Wrong Mail

David is on the road behind me.

He's come up from the house in his running clothes, breathing hard, sweating through his shirt. He got in this morning at eleven. He kissed me and asked about the party, then went out and ran eight miles. It's what he does when there's something in him he'd rather run from than say.

"There you are," he says to me. Then he turns to Henry. "David Grant."

He puts out his hand, so Henry has to take it standing where he is. It's completely civil. It's completely a move. And I watch my husband do it.

"Henry Westburn," he says. They shake. "You're at 5261."

"I am." David's hand stays out a half beat longer than it needs to. "New in?"

"A few days."

"How are you finding it?"

"Quiet," Henry says. "Watchful."

David smiles with his teeth. "That's Hunts Point."

There's a silence. Out on the water somebody's boat noses past and the wake reaches the shore a long time after it's gone.

"Your wife found my mail," Henry says.

"So she said."

"He's just invited me in for coffee." I don't know why I say it. It comes out of me before I've decided anything, and I hear how it sounds the second it's in the air.

"I've got a pot on,” Henry says it to David, evenly, without a flicker. "You're both welcome."

"Sounds great." David's smile stays exactly where it is. "Another time, maybe. We've got that dinner with Helen tomorrow and we still haven't done the shopping for it." He glances at me. "I forgot to tell you."

It's the first I've heard of it, but this isn't the place to ask. I nod and look back at Henry.

"Another time," I say.

"For sure."

David is already turning. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

His hand comes to the small of my back, warm and firm, and it isn't affection. It's a hand on a door. “Let the man unpack."

A part of me is glad to be walking away from that doorstep and back into the plain hot afternoon.

We're only ten yards on when Henry calls out.

“Oh, Mallory."

I turn. He's still in the doorway with the envelope in his hand, and he says it easily, as though it's nothing at all.

"Next time, I'll be sure to stand on your left. So you can hear me properly."

I nod and smile.

He goes in and shuts the door.

David is talking about parking, about the Helen dinner, about nothing.

We walk down Hunts Point Road. Heat rises off the asphalt. Cicadas grind in the cedars.