The Guardian

  It was what she'd most enjoyed about being married to Jim. It wasn't only the heady flush of emotions when they'd made love that had enthralled her; more than that, it was the lazy mornings they'd spent reading the newspaper in bed while drinking coffee, or the cold December mornings they'd planted bulbs in the garden, or the hours they'd spent traipsing through various stores, picking out bedroom furniture, debating the merits of cherry or maple. Those were the moments she'd felt most content, when she finally allowed herself to believe in the impossible. Those were the moments when all seemed right with the world.

  Remembering those things, Julie watched Mike eat, the corners of her mouth upturned slightly. He was fighting long strings of cheese that ran from his mouth back to the slice, making it look more difficult than it was. After taking a bite, he would sometimes sit up suddenly and fumble with the piece, using his fingers to keep the toppings from sliding off or the tomato sauce from dripping. Then, laughing at himself, he would swipe at his face with a napkin, mumbling something along the lines of "Almost ruined my shirt with that one." That he didn't take himself too seriously, or mind when she didn't, either, made her warm toward him in a way that reminded her of how she imagined old couples felt as they sat on park benches, holding hands. It was still on her mind a few minutes later when she followed him into the kitchen, both of them carrying the remains from dinner, and watched him find the cellophane in the drawer by the oven without having to ask where it was. As he took it upon himself to wrap the pizza and place it in the refrigerator, then automatically reach for the garbage when he noticed it was full, there was a moment, just a moment, when the scene seemed as if it weren't happening now, but as if it were taking place sometime in the future, just an ordinary evening in a long procession of evenings together.

  "I think we just about got it all," Mike said, looking around the kitchen.

  The sound of his voice brought Julie back, and she felt her cheeks redden slightly.

  "Looks that way," she agreed. "Thanks for helping to pick up around here."

  For a long moment neither of them spoke, and Julie suddenly heard the refrain she'd lived with the last couple of years start up, as if a recording had been switched on. A relationship with Mike? No way. Not a chance.

  Mike brought his hands together, interrupting the thought before it went any further.

  "I should probably get going. I have an early day tomorrow."

  She nodded. "I figured. I should probably get to bed soon, too. Singer kept me up last night for hours."

  "What was he doing?"

  "Whining, growling, barking, pacing . . . pretty much whatever he could do to bug me."

  "Singer? What's going on?"

  "Oh, Richard came by last night. You know how Singer gets around new people."

  It was the first time that Richard's name had come up all evening, and Mike suddenly felt his throat catch, as if someone were pressing a thumb to it.

  "Richard was here last night?" he asked.

  "No-not that way. We weren't on a date or anything. He just came by to leave a note on my car to let me know he'd be out of town."

  "Oh," Mike said.

  "It was nothing," Julie added, suddenly feeling the urge to clarify.

  "So what time was this?" Mike asked.

  Julie turned to the clock on the wall, as if she needed to see the position of the hands to remember.

  "I guess around two or so. That's when Singer started, anyway, but like I said, it went on for a while. Why?"

  Mike pressed his lips together, thinking, And Singer growled the whole time?

  "I guess I was just wondering why he didn't leave the note before he left in the morning," he said.

  Julie shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe he didn't have time."

  Mike nodded, wondering whether to say more, then finally decided not to. Instead, he reached for his toolbox and the faucet he'd replaced, not wanting the evening to end with something that might come across the wrong way. He took a small step backward.

  "Listen . . ."

  Julie ran a hand through her hair, noticing for the first time a small mole on his cheek that looked almost ornamental, as if it had been dotted there by a makeup artist looking for exactly the right effect. Why, she wondered, did she see that now?

  "I know-you've got to go," she said, cutting off the thought.

  Mike shifted from one foot to the other. Not knowing what else to say, he held up the faucet.

  "Well, thanks for calling me about this. Believe it or not, I'm glad you did. I had a great time tonight."

  Their eyes met and held for a moment before Mike glanced away. Julie felt herself exhale-she didn't even realize she'd been holding her breath-and despite herself, she found her eyes sweeping over Mike as he walked ahead of her to the door. The jeans fit snugly around his rear, and she felt her cheeks redden again, the blood rushing to the surface like silt stirred from the bottom of a country pond.

  Her eyes jerked upward as Mike turned the door handle. For a moment, she felt as if she'd been watching someone at a party from across a crowded room, someone she'd never seen before. In any other situation, at any other time, she would have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  But strangely, she couldn't.

  After saying good-bye, she stood in the doorway watching as Mike went to his truck. In the moment before he closed the door, with the dome light above him glowing like a filtered halo, he waved.

  Julie returned the wave and then watched as the red taillights of his truck receded into the distance. For almost a minute, she stood on the porch, trying to make sense of her feelings. Mike, she thought again, Mike.

  Why was she even bothering to think about it? It wouldn't happen. Crossing her arms, she laughed to herself. Mike? Sure, he was nice; sure, he was easy to talk to; and yes, he was cute. But Mike?

  The whole thing, she suddenly decided, was preposterous. A bunch of nonsense.

  Julie turned to go in. Wasn't it?

  Fifteen

  In his office the following morning, Henry set the Styrofoam cup of coffee on his desk. "So that's it?" he asked.

  Mike scratched the back of his head. "That's it."

  "You just left? Like that?"

  "Yeah."

  Henry's index fingers came together, forming a triangle that he rested under his chin. Though normally he would have ridden Mike about the fact that he hadn't taken the opportunity to ask Julie out, it wasn't the time for that.

  "So let me make sure I've got this straight. You hear a bunch of cryptic stuff from this Jake Blansen about Richard which might or might not mean anything but is definitely a little weird sounding, especially since he wouldn't say any more about it. Then you find out that Richard is coming around her place in the middle of the night and hanging around for God knows how long and you decide not to tell her that it sounds a little weird to you? Or even mention the fact that there might be something to be concerned about?"

  "She's the one who told me that Richard came by. It's not like she doesn't know he was there."

  "That's not the point, and you know it."

  Mike shook his head. "Nothing happened, Henry."

  "You still should have said something."

  "How?"

  Henry leaned back in his seat. "The same way I just did. Just tell her what you're thinking."

  "You can say it that way, but I can't," he said, meeting his brother's eyes. "She might have thought I was just saying it because of how I feel about her."

  "Look, Mike," Henry said, sounding more like a parent than a brother. "You're her friend and you'll always be her friend, whether or not anything ever happens between you two. The same goes for me, too, okay? And I don't like the thought of this guy hanging around her place in the middle of the night. That's creepy no matter what reason the guy comes up with. He could have left the note in the morning, he could have called her on the phone, he could have left a message at work. . . . What kind of guy gets dressed, hops in his car, and heads across town to
leave a note at two A.M.? And didn't you say that Singer kept her up for hours? What if that meant he was skulking around the whole time Singer was acting up? And what if Blansen was trying to warn you somehow? Didn't you think about any of those things?"

  "Of course I did. I didn't like it, either."

  "Then you should have said something."

  Mike closed his eyes. It had been such a great evening up until that point.

  "You weren't there, Henry," he said. "And besides, she didn't seem to think it was odd at all, so don't make this into something bigger than it might be. All he did was leave a note."

  "How do you know that was all he was doing?"

  Mike started to say something, but the expression on Henry's face made him stop.

  "Look," Henry said, "I'm usually more than willing to let you do your own thing even when you screw up, but there's a time and place for everything. This isn't the time to start keeping secrets from her, especially about stuff like this. Does that make sense?"

  After a moment, Mike's chin dropped to his chest.

  "Yeah," he said, "that makes sense."

  "Well, it sounds like you two had a good time," Mabel said.

  "We did," Julie replied. "You know how he is. He's always a lot of fun."

  Mabel swiveled in the empty seat as they were talking; no customers were scheduled for another few minutes, and they had the place to themselves.

  "And your faucet's good to go?"

  Julie was busy setting up her station, and she nodded. "He put a new one in."

  "Did he make it look easy? Like you wondered why you had to call him in the first place?"

  "Yep."

  "Don't you hate that?"

  "Every single time."

  Mabel laughed. "He sure is something, isn't he?"

  Julie hesitated. From the corner of her eye, she saw Singer sitting by the front door and staring out the window, as if wanting to be let out.

  Though Mabel's question didn't require a response, there was an element of seriousness to the possible answer, one that she hadn't stopped thinking about since the night before. She wasn't sure why the evening lingered in her mind. It wasn't exciting; it wasn't even all that memorable. But the night before, with the moonlight streaming through her window and moths beating against the windowpane, Mike had been not only the person she'd been imagining before she trailed off to sleep, but also the first one she'd thought about as her eyes fluttered open this morning.

  Julie's reply came effortlessly as she moved toward the door to let Singer out.

  "Yes," she said, "he is."

  "Mike," Henry called out, "you've got company."

  Mike poked his head out of the supply room. "Who is it?"

  "Take a wild guess."

  Before he could answer, Singer trotted up beside him.

  It was late afternoon by the time Julie marched over to the garage. Hands on her hips, she glared at Singer.

  "If I didn't know better, I'd think this was all sort of a plan to make sure I'd come over here," she said.

  As soon as she said it, Mike did his best to project his thanks to Singer telepathically.

  "Maybe he's trying to tell you something."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. Maybe that he hasn't been getting enough attention lately."

  "Oh, he gets plenty of attention. Don't let him fool you. He's spoiled rotten."

  Singer, sitting on his haunches, began scratching with his back leg, as if demonstrating his indifference to what either of them was saying. Mike was unfastening the snaps of his coveralls as they were talking.

  "I hope you don't mind," he said, "but this thing is driving me crazy. I got some transmission fluid on it and I've been breathing the fumes all day."

  "So you've got a little buzz going, huh?"

  "No, just a headache. I'm not that lucky."

  Julie watched as he pulled the coveralls down and slipped them off, balancing first on one leg, then another, before balling them up and tossing them into the corner. In jeans and a red T-shirt, she thought he looked younger than he actually was.

  "So what's on your agenda tonight?" she asked.

  "Just the usual. Saving the world, feeding the hungry, fostering world peace."

  "It's amazing how much a person can do in a night if he puts his mind to it."

  "So true." Mike gave a boyish grin. But as Julie ran a hand through her hair, he was suddenly struck by the same nervousness he'd felt the night before, when he'd first walked into the kitchen.

  "How about you? Anything exciting planned?"

  "No. I have a little cleaning to do at home and a few bills to pay. Unlike you, I have to take care of the little things before I set out to perfect the universe."

  Mike caught sight of Henry leaning against the doorjamb as he studied the stack of papers he was holding, pretending not to notice Mike and Julie, but making sure his presence was known, so that Mike wouldn't forget what he'd said earlier. Mike pushed his hands into his pockets. He didn't want to do this. He knew he had to, but he didn't want to. He took a deep breath.

  "Hey, do you have a few minutes?" he asked. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

  "Sure. What's up?"

  "Would you mind going somewhere else? I think I need a beer first."

  Though puzzled by his sudden seriousness, Julie couldn't deny that she was pleased he'd asked.

  "A beer sounds great," she said.

  A short walk up the street near the edge of downtown, Tizzy's was sandwiched between a pet shop and a dry cleaner's; like the Sailing Clipper, it was neither clean nor particularly comfortable. A television blared in the corner of the bar, the windows were chalky with dirt, and the air was filled with smoke that curled above the tables like the contents of a lava lamp. For those who visited Tizzy's regularly, none of those things were important, and there were half a dozen people who practically lived in the place. According to Tizzy Welborn, the owner, his bar was popular because "it had character." By character, Mike assumed he meant cheap booze.

  On the plus side, Tizzy wasn't a real stickler for rules. Customers needed neither shoes nor shirts to get service, nor did he care what customers brought with them. Over the years, everything from samurai swords to inflatable dates had been dragged through the doors; despite Julie's rigorous denials, it was in this category that Singer also fell. As Mike and Julie settled onto a pair of stools at the far end of the bar, Singer circled once before lying down.

  Tizzy took their order before setting two beers in front of them. Though not as chilled as they could be, they weren't warm, and Mike was thankful for that. In this place, a customer couldn't count on much.

  Julie looked around. "This place is such a dive. I always feel like I'll catch something contagious if I stay for more than an hour."

  "But it's got character," Mike said.

  "Sure it does, big spender. So what's so important that you felt the need to drag me here?"

  Mike wrapped both hands around the bottle. "It's something that Henry said I should do."

  "Henry?"

  "Yeah." He paused. "He thought I should have said something yesterday. To you, I mean."

  "About what?"

  "About Richard."

  "What about Richard?"

  Mike sat up straighter in his seat. "About him dropping off that note the other night."

  "What about it?"

  "Henry thought it sounded a little weird. You know, him coming by in the middle of the night to do it."

  Julie looked at him skeptically. "Henry was worried about that?"

  "Yeah. Henry."

  "Mmm . . . but you weren't."

  "No," Mike said.

  Julie took a drink of her beer. "Why was Henry so worried? It's not as if Richard were peeking in the windows. Singer would have gone through the glass if that happened. And the note did say there was an emergency, so maybe he left right away."

  "Well . . . there was something else that happened, too. The other da
y, someone from the bridge crew came into the garage and he said something kind of weird."

  "Like what?"

  While running his fingernails through the carved grooves in the bar, Mike told her what Jake Blansen had said and went into a bit more detail about Henry's comments. When he'd finished, Julie put her hand on Mike's shoulder, her lips curling slowly into a smile.

  "Oh, that's so sweet of Henry to worry about me like that."

  It took a moment for Mike to digest her response.

  "Wait-you're not mad?"

  "Of course I'm not mad. It makes me feel good to know that I've got friends like him who watch out for me."

  "But . . ."

  "But what?"

  "Well . . . uh . . ."

  Julie laughed, gently nudging Mike's shoulder. "C'mon, admit it-you were worried, too. It wasn't just Henry, was it?"

  Mike swallowed. "No."

  "Then why didn't you just say that at the beginning? Why put it all on Henry?"

  "I didn't want you to be mad at me."

  "Why do you think I'd be mad at you?"

  "Because . . . well, you know . . . you're dating the guy."

  "And?"

  "I didn't want you to think . . . well, I wasn't sure you'd . . ."

  Mike trailed off, not wanting to say it.

  "You didn't want me to think that you were just saying it so I'd stop seeing him?" Julie asked.

  "Yeah."

  Julie seemed to study him. "Do you really have that little faith in our friendship? That I'd just ignore the last twelve years?"

  Mike didn't answer.

  "You know me better than anyone, and you're my best friend. I don't think there's anything you could say to me that would lead me to believe that you're doing it just to hurt me. If there's one thing I've come to know about you, it's that you're not even capable of something like that. Why do you think I like spending time with you so much? Because you're a good guy. A nice guy."

  Mike turned away, thinking she might as well have called him a eunuch.

  "Nice guys finish last. Isn't that what people say?"

  Julie used her finger to rotate his face back to hers and met his eyes. "Some people. Not me, though."