"I know," she said, waving a hand at him.
He looked up in surprise. "You've played before?"
"I think everyone's played at least once."
Miles handed her the pool cue. "Then I guess we're ready. Do you want to break? Or should I?"
"No--go ahead."
Sarah watched as Miles went around to the head of the table, chalking his pool cue as he did so. Then, leaning over, he set his hand, drew back the cue stick, and hit the ball cleanly. A loud crack sounded, the balls scattered around the table, and the four ball rolled toward the corner pocket, dropping neatly from view. He looked up.
"That makes me solid."
"I never doubted it for a minute," she said.
Miles surveyed the table, deciding on his next shot, and once again, Sarah was struck by how different he was from Michael. Michael didn't play pool, and he certainly would never have brought Sarah to a place like this. He wouldn't have been comfortable here, and he wouldn't have fit in--any more than Miles would have fit neatly into the world that Sarah used to occupy.
Yet as he stood before her without his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up, Sarah couldn't help but acknowledge her attraction. In contrast with a lot of people who drank too much beer with their evening pizza, Miles looked almost lean. He didn't have classic movie-star good looks, but his waist was narrow, his stomach flat, and his shoulders reassuringly broad. But it was more than that. There was something in his eyes, in the expressions he wore, that spoke of the challenges he'd faced over the last two years, something she recognized when looking in the mirror.
The jukebox fell silent for a moment, then picked up again with "Born in the USA" by Bruce Springsteen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke despite the ceiling fans that whirred above them. Sarah heard the dull roar of others laughing and joking all around them, yet as she watched Miles, it seemed almost as if they were alone. Miles sank another shot.
With a practiced eye, he looked over the table as the balls settled. He moved around to the other side and took another shot, but this time he missed the mark. Seeing that it was her turn, Sarah set her beer off to the side and picked up her cue. Miles reached for the chalk, offering it to Sarah.
"You've got a good shot at the line," he said, nodding toward the corner of the table. "It's right there on the edge of the pocket."
"I see that," she said, chalking the tip and then setting it aside. Looking over the table, she didn't set up for her shot right away. As if sensing her hesitation, Miles leaned his cue against one of the stools.
"Do you need me to show you how to position your hand on the table?" he offered gamely.
"Sure."
"Okay, then," he said. "Make a circle with your forefinger, like this, with your other three fingers on the table." He demonstrated with his hand on the table.
"Like this?" she said, mimicking him.
"Almost.. ." He moved closer, and as soon as he reached toward her hand, gently leaning against her as he did so, she felt something jump inside, a light shock that started in her belly and radiated outward. His hands were warm as he adjusted her fingers. Despite the smoke and the stale air, she could smell his after-shave, a clean, masculine odor.
"No--hold your finger a little tighter. You don't want too much room or you lose control of your shot," he said.
"How's that?" she said, thinking how much she liked the feel of him close to her.
"Better," he said seriously, oblivious to what she was going through. He gave her a little room. "Now when you draw back, go slowly and try to keep the cue straight and steady as you hit the ball. And remember, you don't have to hit it that hard. The ball is right on the edge and you don't want to scratch."
Sarah did as she was told. The shot was straight, and as Miles predicted, the nine fell in. The cue ball rolled to a stop toward the center of the table.
"That's great," he said, motioning toward it. "You've got a good shot with the fourteen now."
"Really?" she said.
"Yeah, right there. Just line it up and do the same thing again...."
She did, taking her time. After the fourteen fell into the pocket, the cue ball seemed to set itself up perfectly for the next shot as well. Miles's eyes widened in surprise. Sarah looked up at him, knowing she wanted him close again. "That one didn't feel as smooth as the first one," she said. "Would you mind showing me one more time?"
"No, not at all," he said quickly. Again he leaned against her and adjusted her hand on the table; again she smelled the after-shave. Again the moment seemed charged, but this time Miles seemed to sense it as well, lingering unnecessarily as he stood against her. There was something heady and daring about the way they were touching, something... wonderful. Miles drew a deep breath.
"Okay, now try it," he said, pulling back from her as if needing a bit of space.
With a steady stroke, the eleven went in.
"I think you've got it now," Miles said, reaching for his beer. Sarah moved around the table for the next shot.
As she did, he watched her. He took it all in--the graceful way she walked, the gentle curves of her body as she set up again, skin so smooth it seemed almost unreal. When Sarah ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, he took a drink, wondering why on earth her ex-husband had let her get away. He was probably blind or an idiot, maybe both. A moment later, the twelve dropped into the pocket. Nice rhythm there, he thought, trying to focus on the game again.
For the next couple of minutes, Sarah made it look easy. She sank the ten, the ball hugging the side all the way to the pocket.
Leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, Miles twirled his cue stick in his hands and waited.
The thirteen ball dropped into the side pocket on an easy tap in.
With that, he frowned slightly. Strange that she hasn't missed a shot yet. . . .
The fifteen, on what can only be described as a lucky bank shot, followed the thirteen a moment later, and he had to fight the urge to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket.
Only the eight ball was left, and Sarah stood from the table and reached for the chalk. "I go for the eight, right?" she asked.
Miles shifted slightly. "Yeah, but you've got to call the pocket."
"Okay," she said. She moved around the table until her back was toward him. She pointed with her cue stick. "I guess I'll go for the corner pocket, then."
A long shot, with a bit of an angle needed to get there. Makeable, but tough. Sarah leaned over the table.
"Be careful you don't scratch," Miles added. "If you do, I win."
"I won't," she whispered to herself.
Sarah took the shot. A moment later the eight dropped in, and Sarah stood and turned around, a big grin on her face. "Wow-- can you believe that?"
Miles was still looking at the corner pocket. "Nice shot," he said almost in disbelief.
"Beginner's luck," she said dismissively. "Do you want to rack them again?"
"Yeah...I suppose so," he said uncertainly. "You made a few really good ones there."
"Thanks," she said.
Miles finished his beer before racking the balls again. He broke, sinking a ball, but he missed his second shot.
With a sympathetic shrug before she began, Sarah proceeded to run the table without a miss. By the time she'd finished, Miles was simply staring at her from his spot along the wall. He'd set aside the cue stick halfway through the game and had ordered two more beers from a passing waitress.
"I think that I've been hustled," he said knowingly.
"I think you're right," she said, moving toward him. "But at least we weren't betting. If we were, I wouldn't have made it look so easy."
Miles shook his head in amazement. "Where did you learn to play?"
"My dad. We always had a pool table in the house. He and I used to play all the time."
"So why didn't you stop me from showing you how to shoot before I made a fool of myself?"
"Well... you seemed so intent on help
ing me that I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Gee, I appreciate that." He handed her a beer, and as she took it, their fingers brushed lightly. Miles swallowed.
Damn, she was pretty. Up close, even more so.
Before he could think about it any further, there was a slight commotion behind him. Miles turned at the sound.
"So how are you two doing, Deputy Ryan?"
He tensed automatically at Otis Timson's question. Otis's brother was standing just behind him, holding a beer, his eyes glassy. Otis gave Sarah a mock salute, and she took a small step away from Otis, toward Miles.
"And how are you doing? Nice to see you again."
Miles followed Otis's eyes toward Sarah.
"He was the guy I told you about earlier," she whispered.
Otis raised his eyebrows at that but said nothing.
"What the hell do you want, Otis?" Miles said warily, remembering what Charlie had told him.
"I don't want anything," Otis answered. "I just wanted to say hello."
Miles turned away. "Do you want to go to the bar?" he asked Sarah.
"Sure," she agreed.
"Yeah, go ahead. I don't want to keep you from your date," Otis said. "You got a nice gal, there," he said. "Looks like you've found someone new."
Miles flinched, and Sarah saw how much the comment stung. Miles opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His hands balled into fists, but instead he took a deep breath and turned to Sarah.
"Let's go," he said. His tone reflected a rage she'd never heard before.
"Oh, by the way," Otis added. "The whole thing with Harvey? Don't worry too much about it. I asked him to go easy on you."
A crowd, sensing trouble, was beginning to gather. Miles stared hard at Otis, who returned the gaze without moving. Otis's brother had moved off to the side, as if getting ready to jump in if he needed to.
"Let's just go," Sarah said a little more forcefully, doing her best to keep this from getting any more out of hand. She took Miles by the arm and tugged. "Come on... please, Miles," she pleaded.
It was enough to get his attention. Sarah grabbed both their jackets, stowing them under her arm as she pulled him through the crowd. People parted before them, and a minute later they were outside. Miles shook her hand from his arm, angry at Otis, angry at himself for almost losing control, and stalked down the alley, out toward the street. Sarah followed a few steps behind, pausing to put her jacket on.
"Miles... wait..."
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Miles finally stopped, looking toward the ground. When she approached, holding out his jacket, Miles didn't seem to notice.
"I'm sorry about all that," he said, unable to meet her eyes.
"You didn't do anything, Miles," she said. When he didn't respond, Sarah moved closer. "Are you okay?" she asked softly.
"Yeah... I'm okay." His voice was so low that she barely heard it. For a moment, he looked exactly like Jonah when she assigned too much work. "You don't look okay," she finally said. "In fact, you look pretty terrible."
Despite his anger, he laughed under his breath. "Thanks a lot."
On the street, a car rolled by, looking for a parking space. A cigarette sailed out the window, landing in the gutter. It was colder now, too cold to stay in one place, and Miles reached for his jacket and slipped it on. Without a word, they set off down the street. Once they reached the corner, Sarah broke the silence.
"Can I ask what that was all about in there?"
After a long moment, Miles shrugged. "It's a long story."
"They usually are."
They took a few steps, their footsteps the only sound on the streets.
"We have a history," Miles finally offered. "Not a very good one."
"I picked up on that part," she said. "I'm not exactly dense, you know."
Miles didn't respond.
"Look, if you'd rather not talk about it..."
It offered Miles a way out, and he almost took her up on it. Instead, however, he pushed his hands into his pockets and closed his eyes for a long moment. Over the next few minutes, he told Sarah everything--about the arrests over the years, the vandalism in and around his home, the cut on Jonah's cheek--ending with the latest arrest and even Charlie's warning. As he talked, they wound back through downtown, past the closed-up businesses and the Episcopal church, finally crossing Front Street and heading into the park at Union Point. Through it all, Sarah listened quietly. When he was finished, she looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I stopped you," she said quietly. "I should have let you beat him to a pulp."
"No, I'm glad you did. He's not worth it."
They passed the old women's club, once a quaint meeting place but long since abandoned, and the ruins of the building seemed to encourage silence, almost as if they were in a cemetery. Years of flooding by the Neuse had rendered the building all but uninhabitable except for birds and other assorted wildlife.
Once Miles and Sarah neared the riverbank, they stopped to stare at the tar-colored water of the Neuse drifting slowly before them. Water slapped against the marlstone along the banks in a steady rhythm.
"Tell me about Missy," she said finally, breaking the stillness that had settled over them.
"Missy?"
"I'd like to know what she was like," she said honestly. "She's a big part of who you are, but I don't know anything about her."
After a moment, Miles shook his head. "I wouldn't know where to start."
"Well... what do you miss the most?"
Across the river, a mile distant, he could see flickering porch lights, bright pinpricks in the distance that seemed to hang in the air like fireflies on hot summer nights.
"I miss having her around," he began. "Just being there when I got off work, or waking up beside her, or seeing her in the kitchen or out in the yard--anywhere. Even if we didn't have much time, there was something special in knowing that she would be there if I needed her. And she would have been. We'd been married long enough to go through all those stages that married people go through--the good, the not so good, even the bad--and we'd settled into something that worked for both of us. We were both kids when we started out, and we knew people who got married around the same time we did. After seven years, a lot of friends had divorced and a few had already gotten remarried." He turned from the river to face her. "But we made it, you know? I look back on that, and it's something that I'm proud of, because I know how rare it was. I never regretted the fact that I'd married her. Never."
Miles cleared his throat.
"We used to spend hours just talking about everything, or about nothing. It didn't really matter. She loved books and she used to tell me all the stories she was reading, and she could do it in a way that made me want to read them, too. I remember she used to read in bed and sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and she'd be sound asleep with the book on the end table with her reading light still on. I'd have to get out of bed to turn it off. That happened more often after Jonah was born--she was tired all the time, but even then, she had a way of acting like she wasn't. She was wonderful with him. I remember when Jonah started trying to walk. He was about seven months old, which is way too early. I mean, he couldn't even crawl yet, but he wanted to walk. She spent weeks walking through the house all bent over so he could hold her fingers, just because he liked it. She'd be so sore in the evenings that unless I gave her a massage, she wouldn't be able to move the next day. But you know . . ."
He paused, meeting Sarah's eyes.
"She never complained about it. I think it was what she was meant to do. She used to tell me that she wanted to have four kids, but after Jonah, I kept coming up with excuses why it wasn't the right time, until she finally put her foot down. She wanted Jonah to have brothers and sisters, and I realized that I did, too. I know from experience how hard it is to be an only child, and I wish I'd listened to her earlier. For Jonah, I mean."
Sarah swallowed before squeezing his arm in suppo
rt. "She sounds great."
On the river, a trawler was inching its way up the channel, engines humming. When the breeze drifted in his direction, Miles caught the barest hint of the honeysuckle shampoo she'd used.
For a while they stood in companionable silence, the comfort of each other's presence cocooning them like a warm blanket in the dark.
It was getting late now. Time to call it a night. As much as he wished he could make the night last forever, he knew he couldn't. Mrs. Knowlson expected him home by midnight.
"We should go," he said.
Five minutes later, outside her building, Sarah let go of his arm so she could search for her keys.
"I had a good time tonight," she said.
"So did I."
"And I'll see you tomorrow?"
It took a second before he remembered that she was going to Jonah's game. "Don't forget--it starts at nine."
"Do you know what field?"
"I have no idea, but we'll be there. I'll watch for you."
In the brief lull that followed, Sarah thought that Miles might try to kiss her, but he surprised her by taking a small step backward.
"Listen ...I gotta go ..."
"I know," she said, both glad and disappointed that he hadn't tried. "Drive safe."
Sarah watched him head around the corner toward a small silver pickup truck and open the door, slipping behind the wheel. He waved one last time before starting the engine.
She stood on the sidewalk staring after his taillights until long after he was gone.
Chapter 12
Sarah made it to the soccer game the following morning a few minutes before the game started. Dressed in jeans and boots with a thick turtleneck sweater and sunglasses, she stood out among the harried-looking parents. How she could look both casual and elegant at the same time was beyond Miles.
Jonah, who was kicking the ball with a group of friends, spotted her across the field and ran toward her to give her a hug. He took her hand and dragged her toward Miles.
"Look who I found, Dad," he said a minute later. "Miss Andrews is here."
"I see that," Miles answered, running his hand through Jonah's hair.
"She looked lost," Jonah offered. "So I went to get her."
"What would I do without you, champ?" He gazed at Sarah.
"You're beautiful and charming, and I can't stop thinking about last night."
No, he didn't say that. Not exactly, anyway. What Sarah heard was, "Hey--how are you?"