Public Secrets Part 129

something that had always seemed years off. Retirement.

It was a good life, Lou thought, drawing in scents of sausage and roses.

On impulse, he spun his wife around and planted a long hard kiss on her

mouth.

"The kid's going to be busy for at least an hour," he murmured as he

cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Let's go upstairs."

Marge tilted her head back, then grinned.

Michael turned the mower, enjoying the physical release and the light

sweat that was working over his skin. Not that he liked losing the bet,

he thought. He hated to lose anything.

But he missed a lawn, the look of it, the smell of it. His apartment

suited him with its postage-stamp pool and noisy neighbors. But the

suburbs, he mused, with their big, leafy trees and tidy yards, their

backyard barbecues and station wagons, were home. You always felt like

a kid again there. Sat.u.r.day-morning bike rides. Ricky Jones down the

street trying out his skateboard. Pretty girls walking by in thin

cotton dresses while you traded baseball cards on the curb and pretended

not to notice.

The old neighborhood hadn't changed much since his youth. It was still

a place where paperboys rode bikes on delivery and tossed today's news

into bushes. Neighbors still competed with each other over the best

lawn, the best garden. They borrowed tools and forgot to return them.

Being there gave him a sense of continuity. Something he hadn't known

he wanted until he'd moved away from it.

A movement caught his eye, and he glanced up in time to see the shade of

his parents' bedroom window go down. He stopped, openmouthed, the grip

of the mower vibrating under his hands. He might not have had his gold

shield, but it didn't take a detective to figure out what was going on

behind the shade. At nine o'clock in the morning. He continued to stare

a moment, unsure if he should be amused, embarra.s.sed, or delighted. He

decided it was best not to think about it at all. There was something

spooky about imagining your parents having s.e.x.

He steered the mower one-handed, unb.u.t.toning his shirt as he went.

Christmas lights might have been strung along the caves of the houses,

but it would be eighty degrees before noon. Michael sent a casual wave

to Mrs. Baxter who had come out to weed her gladiolas. She merely

frowned at him, so he went back to singing along with the

Bruce Springsteen number that played through his headphone. He'd sent a

long fly ball through Mrs. Baxter's picture window more than ten years

before, and she had yet to forgive him.

He had the backyard trimmed, and half of the front when he began to

wonder why his father had never invested in a riding mower. A trim

Mercedes convertible pulled up at the curb. Michael wouldn't have given

it more than a glance, except there was a blonde behind the wheel. He

had a weakness for blondes. She merely sat, dark gla.s.ses hiding her

eyes, as a minute stretched into five.

At length she slowly got out of the car. She was as trim and sleek as

the Mercedes, long, elegant legs beneath a thin cotton skirt. He

noticed her hands as well, delicate, tea-serving hands that clutched

tight on a gray leather purse.