Chat - Archer Mayor [20]
For her part, of course, he appeared like a fish out of water. He did nothing like his brother, had little here that belonged to him or would occupy him for long, and knew even less about the house’s organization.
Still, they managed, mostly with humor, sometimes with reservations, and were clearly relieved when the doorbell rang.
At that moment they were both in the kitchen, where she was giving him a crash course on product geography, as he mentally termed it, struggling to retain how she liked her groceries organized.
More to the point, since dinner was looming, they’d also been discussing the upcoming meal. Sadly, Leo was the house’s primary cook—Joe had no such talent, being of the opinion that all food should come packaged and ready to eat, preferably unheated—and it was becoming clear that the kitchen was where their cordiality might collapse.
“Who would that be?” Joe asked, the sound of a doorbell being a rare thing in a farmhouse.
“Maybe one of the neighbors,” his mother suggested, “seeing we were home and knowing my son was about to poison me.”
Joe moved toward the door. “Just trying to broaden your mind, Mom. We came out of the caves eating with our fingers. Sandwiches are an homage to a cultural heritage.”
“We came out of the caves eating other people, period,” his mother corrected him. “Go see who it is.”
The other oddity, of course, was that the doorbell belonged to the front entrance, which almost everyone knew to ignore in favor of the kitchen door, around to the side, where the car was parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp.
As a result, Joe was expecting either a salesman or a Bible thumper as he opened the door.
Instead, there was a tall, slim, long-haired woman, looking both expectant and nervous.
Joe stared at her in astonishment, his hand frozen on the doorknob and his mouth half open in a generic greeting he didn’t deliver.
He knew her, but not from around here. It was from a case a couple of years ago, when they’d met in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and he’d interviewed her in her capacity as a local bartender. She’d been helpful, aiming him toward someone who proved useful later on, but more importantly, in giving him a single kiss after a conversation laced with a subtle and meaningful subtext. That gesture had filled his head with thoughts, questions, yearnings, and possibilities that he’d retained ever since. By then, he and Gail had begun their slide away from each other, if only in small increments, and the woman now standing before him had loomed as an occasionally comforting fantasy to ease the transition.
But he’d never called her, had never thought of her except at odd moments, and had certainly never expected to lay eyes on her again. He didn’t even know her last name.
At his stunned befuddlement, her nervousness yielded to an embarrassed smile. She stuck her hand out. “Joe Gunther . . .”
“Evelyn,” he blurted, interrupting her.
She wrinkled her nose, the smile expanding. “You remember. I never figured how that got out. It’s my real name—Evelyn Silva—after my grandmother.” She added with a laugh, “But I don’t like it much. Wasn’t too crazy about her, either. Most people just call me Lyn.”
He was still processing her appearance. Names could come later. “What are you doing here?” he asked, the host in him hoping it didn’t sound too hostile, while the cop wondered if maybe it should.
“I read about your family’s accident in the paper,” she explained. “I wanted to see if you needed any help.”
He stared at her. “In the Gloucester paper?”
She shook her head, her cheeks flushing. “No, no. The Brattleboro Reformer. I live in Brattleboro now. I moved.”
“Who is it, Joe?” his