Tom swings his pen in her direction. “It’s not as if you sleep much anyway.”
“You leave my sleeping habits alone.”
She sits down beside me, leans over behind my back, and runs her fingers over the Englishman’s head. “You’re getting lazy. When you first came, you used to shave your head every week.”
He ducks to avoid her hand. “And when you first came, you were just about engaged. And look what happened to you.”
“Engaged?” The word is out before I can stop it.
Ranna’s lips become a thin line. “It was a long time ago. And it’s nobody’s business.”
Tom laughs and turns to me. “I forgot: Ranna never talks about what happens between the four walls of her bedroom. And you can imagine how busy it gets in there.”
“Did you get up on the wrong side of your empty bed this morning?” Her words are light, but the tone is frosty.
Tom squares his shoulders, but before he can reply, the heavy wooden doors swing open. A man in a gray suit walks in and holds up his hand for silence. The air conditioner springs to life.
The minister and his entourage take their seats.
I battle to focus for the duration of his thirty-minute speech. Nearly engaged. What did I expect? A woman like Ranna is bound to have a past. And what makes me think there’s no one in her life at present? I’ve done absolutely nothing to find out. Or maybe I prefer not to know.
Last night she kissed my cheek at her front door to thank me for walking her home. There was no offer of coffee. What more do I need to know?
5
The minute I park behind Hardings the rain starts to pour down. I make a futile dash for the door underneath the yellow neon sign.
I’m soaked to the skin when I walk in. “Hi,” I say, but Maggie doesn’t reply, shaking her head disapprovingly at the muddy footprints I leave on the floor. Another black mark behind my name. She hasn’t forgiven me for Ranna and the beer.
I wrestle through the crowd to reach our table. Maggie’s handmade “Reserved” sign stands guard, so she can’t be too upset. I sit down, tug at my wet T-shirt, and nod at the man in the white cap, who’s in his usual spot at the counter.
Cheers, he salutes, raising his beer.
It’s ten past eight. Must Ranna always be late?
I ask the people at the neighboring table for their newspaper and page through it distractedly. Fifteen minutes later Maggie brings over a Kilimanjaro without being asked.
As I’m finishing it, she puts down another one. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thanks, Ranna should be here soon.”
“Ranna and time aren’t exactly on intimate terms, you know. You may have a long wait ahead of you.”
“Fine.” I give in. “Medium-rare steak and salad, please.”
When Maggie brings the food, I discover how hungry I am.
After a while she fetches the empty plate and shoots me a sympathetic look, as if I should know better than to think Ranna would show up—never mind on time.
She’s right. Bloody wishful thinking. “May I have the bill, Maggie?”
“I’ll bring it.”
I’m counting out the money when the tall, slender figure appears in the doorway. From where I’m sitting her rage is apparent. She looks like a caged animal, hurt and defiant.
Ranna’s eyes search out Maggie’s. Maggie shrugs, motions with her head in my direction, and gestures something I can’t make out. Ranna pushes her hands deeper into the pockets of her wet jeans and brushes past the bodies blocking the bar counter.
I smell a strange mix of sweat and lemons as she approaches. And something else, something familiar.
The metallic smell of blood.
My eyes search her khaki photographer’s vest and white T-shirt, but I don’t see anything.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late.”
There’s no regret in her voice.
She shifts her weight impatiently when I fail to react. Wipes her eyes and shakes the rain out of her hair. “Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“I have nothing better to do.” I get to my feet, suddenly furious. “I’m here because I wanted to see you. Fuck this, Ranna, find someone else to mess with.”
I reach for my car keys but stop when she puts her hand on mine.
“Please,” she says, almost inaudibly.
“Please what?”
She mumbles something I can’t make out.
“Please what?” I repeat. “What do you want me to do?”
“Sorry.” She pulls her hand away and jams it into the pocket of her jeans.
“That’s all? That’s all you’ve got?”
“What more do you want?” Her voice is raw and harsh. “What is it with men? Are we married? If there hasn’t been a honeymoon or a ring, I don’t owe you a thing. And even then . . .” She looks away.
“That’s not what this is about. It’s about common decency. You could have called to tell me you’d be late.”
“Decency,” she snorts. “The other day you didn’t want to know anything about being decent.”
My hand closes around her upper arm. I don’t want her to run away before I’ve had my say. “Yes, that’s what it’s called: decency. Good manners. Consideration. All those things the grown-ups are always going on about. Ever heard of them?”
She jerks her arm out of my grip. My eyes fall on the deep red stain on my palm.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
I manage to suppress a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, right.”
I try to open the vest, but she pulls free, steps back, and shakes her head, eyes blazing.
“For goodness’ sake, Ranna! I don’t want to hurt you. If you don’t want me to take a look, let me take you to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Ranna.”
“No. I’m not going to the hospital. It’s nothing.”
“Are you at least going to tell me what happened?”
She shrugs. “It’s a long story.”
“I have more than enough time. As you can see.”
“It’s a longer story than you can possibly imagine.” She bites her lower lip, as if overwhelmed by emotion. “Anyway, it’s in the past.” Her voice grows softer. “Let it go now, please.”
A light blinks on in my mind as two seemingly unconnected thoughts connect. I trust their origin. They come from that place deep inside where sometimes you just know.
“The man who called the other night? Our first night here. It was him, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes dart past me, toward the bar, the door. She says nothing.
“Ranna.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The first time we were here. The call while we were walking home. The one you didn’t want to take.”
“What about it?”
“Was that him? Was he the one who hurt you?”
I try to take her arm again, but she steps away from me. “I’m going home.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I was late.” She makes a half-hearted attempt to smile, turns away.