South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [85]
“Hey,” a familiar voice said in her ear a few minutes later. She swiveled and slipped and found herself almost in Paul Garceau’s arms. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her and then instantly let go. “Careful. What’re you doing here?”
“What’re you?”
“I came to see how the Tigers are doing.” He lifted his chin Up at the TV that hung in one corner. “My set’s on the fritz.”
“So you’re a fan.”
He said yes, he was. He wasn’t overly friendly but he wasn’t Unfriendly either, so that was progress. She’d more than half-cleaned out her savings account to give him some of what she owed him (she didn’t have any idea how was she going to keep paying her bills if the apartment didn’t sell, but this was not the time to think about that), and she would get the rest. When the apartment sold, she would.
“Me, I’m a Cubs fan. Loyal, that’s how we are. Uncle Walter is a Tigers fan like you. I respect that, I do. They’re terrible. Worse than the Cubs.”
Paul ordered a beer and when he asked if she wanted anything—he was so polite, even though he hated her—she ordered another brandy. It was going down so easily.
Madeline ordered a fourth brandy while Paul was still sipping his first beer. She felt nervous, sitting with him, but she wanted to sit with him. Now that she was just slightly tipsy she could admit to feeling a burn of attraction for him. That was inconvenient. But he was very appealing, with that little goatee and that limp. What had caused that? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t that drunk.
“So how’ve you been?” he asked, and without really planning to she told him about the hearing. She grew very earnest and somber and shared with him a great deal of her sorry little story; her fears and hopes and dreams, the scene in the courtroom, all sorts of things. Toward the end of the last shot of brandy she began having a little trouble getting her words to cooperate.
“How about we take a little walk?” Paul said, pushing her shot glass away and shaking his head at the bartender when she made motions to order another.
“I’m a grown-up! I can order my own drinks.”
“Let’s just take a walk anyway.”
“I’m tired of walking around this stupid town,” Madeline said Under her breath—she thought it was Under her breath—but she let herself be steered out the door.
“I didn’t take you for much of a drinker,” Paul said as they navigated down the sidewalk.
“I drink alone!” This seemed witty and also quite sexy.
“Mmm. Not very often, I think.”
“Hey! I’m not a nun or anything, you know.” She tangled her feet and stumbled.
“I’m thinking maybe this walk idea isn’t working. How about I fix you something to eat?”
“Oh, no way. You’re always working. You gotta get up in a few hours, go down to that prison. Besides, why would you want me in the place? Nope, don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice gruff. Angry, probably. Always and forever angry at her. Well, so be it.
“Not hungry,” Madeline declared. “Hey. We’re at the hotel. Want to come in? I want to show you something.”
“Ah—”
Madeline fumbled in her pocket and brought out Gladys’s key and dangled it before him, then headed around the side to the back door.
Madeline lit some candles, put some Billie Holiday on the boom box she’d smuggled Upstairs, showed him the paintings she’d been working on during her secret visits. Later she knew she’d blathered on and on about Art and Life, maybe even cried a little. Revolting. And then—then it didn’t bear thinking about.
She sat Paul down on the horsehair sofa—no doubt Gladys Hansen’s mother’s best sofa once Upon a time, before it was relegated to the attic—and flung herself at him. The moment she leaned in toward him—possibly a kiss would happen, was she crazy to think that?—he shot Up off the couch and dashed down the stairs. She’d followed, suddenly quite a bit more sober. She played it cool at the door.
“Hey, no hard feelings, right? About this I mean. Because obviously you have, and have a total right to, hard feelings about the other—about