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By Root 651 0

them, hot and dusty, just off the course, and surprisingly irritable, complaining about his lousy game, his sore back, and Robin hopped up and began kneading his shoulders, while he leaned forward on the edge of the chaise, groaning with pleasure. And naïve Nora, stupid Nora, looking on, grinning foolishly, not suspicious in the least; pleased, in fact. Delighted. Such dear friends, weren't they all? Their children, as close as cousins. And how like a sister Robin seemed, the exuberant, approving sister she'd never had in caustic Carol. Don't feel like cooking, call up Robin and Bob, and they'd all meet at Ginzu, to watch the Japanese chef catching eggs in his toque and juggling knives while he prepared their dinner on the flaming stovetop, with Clay's and Drew's wisecracks making everyone laugh while Chloe fussed over Lyra, always braiding her hair, teaching her new songs. And deep down, Nora's juvenile pleasure in being the envied object of the most popular girl's attention. If you were going to invite the Gendrons, you had to invite the Hammonds, everyone knew that. Such fun couples, so close they finish each other's sentences. And all the while … all the while … no, can't think like this as she inches closer, slowly, so he won't know she's doing it. His rejection would destroy her.

“I'll be all right.” Silence. “But thanks,” he adds in a drifting, ragged voice.

“So where'd you run into that guy? The other one.” Don't fall asleep. Talk to me. Please, the way we used to. About anything. For hours into the night. Fill this emptiness, this stark aloneness. This secret well.

“Hmm?”

“The energy guy, where'd you run into him?” Her knee grazes his leg, and she feels him tense up.

“At this place. I forget the name. Dive, really. God, after Bailey, all I wanted was one beer in silence.”

“What's his name? The energy guy.”

“Ed.”

“Ed what?”

“Hawkins. I think that's what he said.”

“What did he want?” She can't move. Or breathe.

“Just to talk. He's only been back a couple weeks … well … anyway—” His voice fades, and her fingernails gouge her arms.

scape. Work, the last outpost of control. Safe at her desk since early morning, hours before Hilda, she is outlining articles for the Holiday supplement. Won't come out until November. Far enough away to keep her mind off Eddie Hawkins and not knowing anymore which is more real, that night in the desert or her memory of it. If hers is the only valid version, then what is his? The truth, or a lie? Only one can be right. And yet, however it happened, that is exactly the way she has always remembered it. Something violent happened in that car, a crime that stands as its own immutable reality, however inaccessible now with the passage of time. So in the end, the relative truth of both their versions may be the one undeniable fact here. One victim, two killers.

Eddie's meeting with Ken has dissolved any hope she had of getting past this. No matter how delusional or cunning he is, the force of his twisted tale taints everything. What else is false? Has it all been her own chimeric creation, the good wife, good family, her own decency? Because I'm so weak and scared, this poison seeps into my life, and there's no stopping it without destroying everything. My poor mother, even she had to suffer. My God, here I go again. I can't think straight. She's told Hilda that if he comes again, she'll see him. And this time she'll be ready.

She forces herself to thumb through previous supplements. This year instead of one or two cooking pages they will publish a booklet-sized insert of holiday recipes from local cooks. Hilda has spent the last few days calling and e-mailing local clubs and church groups, requesting recipes. The response is surprising, if not a little overwhelming. It suddenly occurs to Nora that all the recipes will have to be tested. In the past it was easy finding staff willing to try out the eight or ten they ran, but now there'll be twenty or twenty-five. And who will do that? She makes a quick note to discuss it with Hilda who loves to cook. It would mean overtime, and,