The Widow - Carla Neggers [40]
Mattie got off his bike thirty yards from his house and walked it to his driveway. His butt hurt from the hard seat. He wanted to get one of those gel seats.
What he really wanted was to have his license back.
Doyle had refused to pull any strings to help him or look the other way. He could have—Mattie hadn’t run over anyone or anything. His blood-alcohol level had been just over the legal limit. What harm would it have done for Doyle to give him one more chance?
As he dropped his bike onto the grass in front of his crummy rented house, someone darted out of the dark shadows. He jumped back, almost screaming.
Grace Cooper put a finger to her perfect lips. “Shh. It’s just me.”
“Grace—man, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want anyone to see me.”
Of course not. He nodded like a fool. “I understand. I’ll be at your place tomorrow to mow the lawn. Why didn’t you just wait—”
“This can’t wait.” She spoke in a controlled voice just above a whisper. “Mattie, the FBI’s here, on the island.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his denim jacket and tapped one out, noticing that his hands were surprisingly steady. “They are, huh? Daddy March knows them?”
“There are a lot of FBI agents. Abigail’s father can’t possibly know them all.”
“Bet he knows the ones sent here to check up on you.”
“They’re not checking up on me. They’re conducting a routine background investigation.”
She had on a long, shapeless sweater, its ice-blue color and the harsh light from the nearby houses washing out her face more. She wasn’t as plain as she thought she was, and she could be passionate. Mattie remembered just how passionate.
He knew she didn’t want to remember anything about their time together.
She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Long day today?”
“They’re all long days this time of year. What’re you doing, besides worrying about what people are going to tell the FBI?”
“My father and I took the boat out today. The little one.” She licked her lips, looking away from him. “It’s a good time to be away from Washington for a few days. Things are quiet.”
“I’d like a nice lazy day.”
“We used to have days like that. Remember?” She turned back to him, a spark of affection in her eyes, surprising him. “You’d keep a camera with you at all times. You had such hope.”
“So did you,” he said.
“I still do. This appointment means a lot to me.”
“And to your father?”
“Of course. He’s very supportive. Mattie—I’d never ask you to lie…” She trailed off. When he didn’t speak, she shook her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.”
“The FBI doesn’t know about our affair.”
She lowered her eyes. “No. I didn’t tell them.”
“It’d come back to haunt you, wouldn’t it? An affair with the town drunk. The yardman. A murdered FBI’s no-account friend.” Mattie couldn’t believe the bitterness in his tone, how fast it had infected him. “I’m the guy you had because you couldn’t have him.”
She gasped. “That’s not true! That was never true.”
“No?”
“Of course not. Mattie, don’t say such a thing.”
But he knew it was true. He’d known it seven and a half years ago, when he’d had five months of bliss—pure heaven—with Grace Cooper. He’d had such high hopes. She’d planned to rescue him from himself, clean him up, show him off as her brilliant photographer lover, her salt-of-the-earth Mainer.
And when her eyes were closed, she could pretend he was the man she couldn’t have.
By unspoken agreement, Mattie had never said aloud that she was in love with Christopher Browning. But she had been, and for all he knew, she still was.
“Who knows about us?” he asked.
She winced visibly. “No one.”
“What about your brother? He’s a sneaky little shit. He knows everything that goes on around here.”
“Linc doesn’t know. We did nothing wrong. I just don’t want to expose you to unnecessary scrutiny.”
He grinned at her. “That’s your story, huh?”
She stiffened, dropping her arms to her sides, as much of a display of emotion as he’d get from her. She’d always had remarkable self-control. A Cooper trait. Emotion