Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [38]
“I’ve seen you before,” Lewis said, pouring her a cup of coffee. “Frank slept in your car.”
She remembered vaguely that there were two men that morning, now months ago—the mahout and the trespasser—but she never would have pegged Lewis as the latter.
He tapped on her violin case. “Taking lessons?”
“I play.”
“In an orchestra?”
“In a band right now.” Was she imagining it, or did his face fall? Why was it that things considered so aphrodisiacal in a man—being smart and funny, self-sufficient, playing in a rock ’n’ roll band—are such turn-offs in a woman?
“Huh,” he said. “And you know Billie Fitzgerald, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Billie’s cool,” he said.
Libby was glad he mentioned Billie, who’d called an hour ago with a migraine and wanted Libby to pick up a prescription. “That reminds me, I gotta go,” Libby said. “I gotta get some medicine over there before her head explodes.”
He walked her out to the Falcon. He had an old car too, he said, as if this signified some deep psychic affinity. “Let’s have coffee again sometime.”
“Sure,” she said. “Well, maybe not that coffee.”
His laugh was good, if a little loud. “Drunks’ll drink anything. Listerine. Lemon extract. Aftershave. This coffee’s nothin’.”
“To tell the truth,” she said, “I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee since I moved up here.”
“Oh, I’m lucky,” he said. “Guy I work for has his joe sent UPS from Berkeley. Best coffee in the world. I could get you the address of the place. I’ll call with it tomorrow, if you give me your number.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“No, seriously. It’s nothing. I’d have to read a label, no big deal.”
She would never order coffee from Berkeley, and she wasn’t sure she’d go out with this man, either. But somehow, she found herself writing her number on the proffered matchbook. After nine years with Stockton, she’d forgotten that this part, the phone-number exchange, was accomplished so obliquely, as if it was about coffee, for crying out loud.
BILLIE was lying on the floor in the library with one ice pack supporting her neck, another covering her eyes. All the lights were out. Banked coals yielded just enough light to prevent Libby from crashing into furniture as she brought Billie a glass of water and two Vicodin. “Met your friend Lewis tonight,” she said.
“Do I know any Lewises?” Billie the lifted the ice pack. Blue hollows cupped her eyes. “What does he look like?”
“Tall. Black frizzy hair. Thin. Yogi thin.”
“I like the sound of ‘yogi thin.’ ” Billie put the pills in her mouth, gulped down some water, then pressed the ice pack back down over her eyes. “Oh, I know,” she said. “Grubby? Kinda sullen?”
“Grubby, yeah. Sullen, no. Good laugh, actually.”
“Yeah. That’s who it is,” said Billie. “Red Ray’s secretary. I’ve talked to him. We’ve seen him at Happy Yolanda’s.”
“We have? He’s not weird, is he? I gave him my phone number.”
“Tries a little too hard. Smart, though.” Billie pointed weakly toward the fire. “You mind sticking another piece of wood on that? This ice is freezing. But, you know, that gives me an idea. I should take you out to the drunk farm. Two dozen men at any given time, you’re bound to find something.”
“You mean to date?”
“Why not?”
“They’re alcoholics, for Christ’s sake.”
“You think you’d do better at the bars? At least at Round Rock, they’ve stopped drinking. And there’s always Red Ray, who’s adorable. I know you don’t think so, but …”
Libby most certainly didn’t think so. Ever since she and Stockton had separated, people had been offering to set her up, and it was always with someone they, the setter-uppers, wouldn’t be caught dead with: someone too eccentric or old or pathetic. Her mother’s best friend took her to meet a man obsessed with grandfather clocks. His living room and dining room were so packed with the clocks and their components, only a narrow path ran from room to room, and there wasn’t a single place to sit. Who, except her mother’s oblivious friend, would ever think this man wanted another person in his