Ultraviolet. Nancy Bush

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      I had to stop by Dwayne’s before heading to Gigi’s though I was reluctant to learn what he wanted me to do about his friends across the bay. I brought Binkster with me because I feel guilty leaving her alone in the house too many days in a row, and I had an inner hope that I could talk Dwayne into keeping her for a few hours and that the dog might divert him from his new obsession.

      Binkster loves Dwayne. Just loves him. It could seriously hurt my feelings except I’m a bigger person than that…most of the time. I watched her race up the sidewalk to his front door and dig one paw at the wood, scarcely able to contain herself. As soon as I opened the door she charged inside straight down the hall to the gap in the sliding glass door and out to the dock. I heard Dwayne exclaim as he saw her and I purposely took my time joining them, letting their bonding ritual run through its paces. By the time I stepped onto the dock, Binks was on Dwayne’s lap, giving his lips some doggy licks. He was laughing and I think she tried to French him ’cause he scooped her up and put her on the ground, his laughter even deeper while she wriggled beneath his chair and began barking, her tail wagging furiously, totally into the game.

      The game is simple. For Binkster it’s: I will squeeze myself beneath your chair, the bed, the couch, the bar stool or whatever and then bark my silly head off like I’m stuck. When you come to rescue me, I’ll pretend to snap at your hands, not to hurt, just to be a happy idiot. You, in turn, will laugh and pretend to drag me out, but you won’t really, because then I’ll just have to squeeze back in somewhere else and start the game again.

      The game is dumb, but we all play it.

      “I got your text message last night,” I told Dwayne.

      “Took you long enough to respond.”

      “Didn’t know I was on the clock for Slot A and Tab B.”

      “Tab A. Slot B,” he corrected. “Basic human anatomy, Jane. He’s Tab A. She’s Slot B.”

      “I get it.”

      Dwayne always says that everyone has secrets they don’t want someone else to know about. I agree with him. I just wondered why he felt compelled to learn the secrets of the people across the bay.

      He stretched and levered himself out of his deck chair. I leaned forward but resisted the urge to help him. I find myself shying away from physical contact, which really pisses me off at myself, but for the moment it’s how things stand between us. At least how it stands for me.

      I said, “Ogilvy’s selling my cottage.”

      Dwayne tipped his hat back and gave me a penetrating look. “He tell you that?”

      “Kind of announced it. Called me up and dropped the bomb. Looks like I’m going to be hunting for a new abode whether I want to or not.”

      “Why don’t you buy it?”

      “Great idea. With all the money I have.”

      “You have enough for a down payment.”

      “Look who you’re talking to.”

      “I’m looking.”

      We stared at each other for a full ten seconds. By God, I wasn’t going to turn away first. I said firmly, holding his gaze, “Inactivity has addled your brain. I’m Jane Kelly. I have nothing. Half the time my refrigerator’s empty enough to use as an extra room.”

      “You’re cheap. You’re not poor.”

      I narrowed my eyes. “I’m luxury-challenged, not cheap. Since when do you get to call me ‘not poor’?”

      Dwayne smiled in that knowing way that sometimes intrigues me. I gazed over the bay, deciding I’d had enough of this meeting of the eyes. I wasn’t up to this challenge right now, and though I didn’t know where it was going, how it had begun and what it meant, I wanted to step out of it before something altered between us. Sometimes you recognize those moments when you’re in them with just enough time to save yourself; sometimes you don’t.

      “You own a fourplex unit with your mother in Venice. You horde every dollar you make. I’ve heard you barter with Ogilvy on the rent more times than I can count. You have enough for a down payment, and if you don’t, I’ll help you.”

      “I don’t barter with Ogilvy. I don’t even talk to him.”

      “Yes, you do.”

      That stopped me for a moment. “You’re thinking about years ago, when he was trying to jump the rent a hundred dollars a month. A hundred dollars!”

      “I believe you set him straight.”

      “You bet I did,” I harrumphed. I’m not sure what I think of rent control. My mother and I deal with it in our Venice four-unit. In some ways, it sounds great, but when costs spiral upward, repairs start becoming more and more expensive and pretty soon you realize you can’t afford the upkeep with the amount of rent you’re receiving. But I sure as hell didn’t want Ogilvy gouging me. There is no rent control in Oregon, as far as I know. There’s certainly none in Lake Chinook, and I don’t think it generally counts on single-family dwellings anyway. But if he was selling the place, none of it mattered. Any way around it I was screwed.

      “Did you say you’d help me?” I asked, reviewing our conversation.

      “Afraid of what that might mean?” He lifted one brow.

      “Yes.”

      “Tell me how much money you’ve got.”

      “Hell no,” I said. “It isn’t polite to ask, don’t you know that?”

      “Politeness ain’t my strong СКАЧАТЬ