Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

can to invite harm.” He wiped a bit of soup from the corner of his mouth with the barest flick of the napkin.

“I’m sorry.” He turned slightly in his chair. I don’t think Paul was breathing at all, even though Sondra probably hadn’t noticed he was hardly paying attention to her story about the South Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. “How about you tell me what you know?”

I breathed in and out three times as I considered this. Yes, I counted my breaths. I also counted to twenty while I was breathing. “How about you sit with Mother, Bailey and me later and talk through some ideas? I’ve, uh, ‘liberated’ some information from the campaign office, and Mother’s found some anomalies. We wanted to see what Bailey thought.”

“What do the Winters have to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing, but we’ve found some funny numbers, enough to take a look at. Plus, the photographs of Mary Ellen on Hetty’s wall connect the players to each other.”

I didn’t know yet what the DNA or Hetty’s affair meant.

“You bring me in, it’s official.”

“Listen as a friend rather than a police officer.”

“They aren’t separable like that, Clara.”

“Nothing we have is hard evidence. It’s all speculation.”

He took in the sideboard covered with silver serving dishes, the red and green candles flanking the holly, evergreen, and red apple centerpiece, the flushed faces of my friends. I wondered what it would be like with him as part of this little family, if he would be comfortable, or if he spent his life watching other people for transgressions.

He said, “I’ll think about it, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Richard whisked away Kyle’s soup bowl. Paul leaned over with the wine bottle. “More?”

Kyle shook his head. “I’ve got to drive.”

“Surely not for a while.”

Kyle looked at me.

I said, “We’re only on the first course.”

Kyle nodded, and Paul filled his glass and then mine. When Kyle wasn’t looking, Paul winked.

The scallop stew was followed by roast beef with crispy brown pan ­potatoes, gravy, braised leeks, Loretta’s corn pudding, and Brussels sprouts with bacon. A basket of homemade cranberry bread made its way around the table. Dessert was chocolate and white mousses twirled around each other in a clear wine glass and topped with fresh raspberries. Paul had made extra thin sugar cookies and rolled them in tubes. By the time the Godiva chocolates and port arrived, I was too stuffed to touch them.

Luckily, Kyle and I got off the subject of my bad behavior and discussed movies (we both liked comedies and political thrillers and disliked horror films), music (almost anything but Wagner and gangsta rap, he said), and free time activities (running, travel, reading, gardening and cooking found common ground). I’d even coaxed out a couple of smiles.

After dinner, Richard and Paul insisted on a game of Charades, which was nearly impossible to play in their tiny living room. Kyle and I lost and were tasked with the dishes. While he washed and I dried and put away, I decided to pursue the intuitive image I’d had of him patrolling in the muddy aftermath of Katrina.

Besides, I’d drunk all that lovely wine and it was Christmas, and my friends had given me the wonderful present of having Kyle here.

“What happened in New Orleans?”

“What do you mean?” He was washing a knife, and his tone sliced with the same sharp edge.

“You left after Hurricane Katrina, right?”

He rinsed it, then ran his finger along the edge of the blade, as if to test it. “Yes.”

“But your family’s still there?”

“My mother and sister.”

“Married? kids? Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“Okay,”I said, drawing out the O and the K.

He handed me another knife to dry. I slid the towel down the blade and inserted it into the knife block.

He grumbled to himself, then lifted his hands from the water and rested them on my shoulders, suds and all. “Clara, you’re not ready.”

I leaned forward and kissed him. I blame it on the wine.

He didn’t pull away immediately. Maybe things would turn around in my life and this nice man would like me and we could settle down and—the lips were gone.

“Look at your behavior over the past few days.” He pulled his hands away, leaving foamy damp spots.

“I am a rule-breaker.”

He shook his head, as if I didn’t get it and handed me another knife.

“You’re worried that my knowing a little about you and your sister will impact the town’s perception of your objectivity?”

“As far as my judgment goes, this town needs to perceive me as ­unimpeachable. I’m a black man in a white town in a position of leadership. I’m a target. It’s not that you’re a rule-breaker, Clara. You’re a loose cannon.”

The criticism stung. “Loose cannon” implied I didn’t know what I was doing. I set down the dishtowel. “I would think you’d want to hear our suppositions, just in case. Meanwhile, it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about your family. All you have to do is say so.”

Kyle started on the pots. I could hear the sponge scratching at the metal, the laughter from the other room, the Christmas carols that had replaced disco, even the snap of the fire. The kitchen was warm and cozy, the pile of dirty dishes and pans shrinking, the lingering smells of the dinner in the air. Kyle’s reflection in the window over the sink was fuzzed by the rising steam.

“I love red beans and rice. I miss the warmth and the sudden rain showers that come from nowhere and disappear just as fast. I miss the smell of the river and the lush landscape, the way smells are heavy in the heat and humidity. New Orleans was my home, until the hurricane took that away. I can’t go back, and it’s an ache, Clara. I did something that’s got me blacklisted, and while I can visit my family, I can never live there again, at least not…for now.”

A peace offering.

I leaned a hip against the counter. “Okay, then. How about a pact? When this is over—because