The couples linger over goodbyes in the entryway, promising to find another date before the summer ends. Alex makes an empty promise to give Rory private lessons in Jiu Jitsu as he and Diane make their exit. Susan and Peter wave goodbye as they back down the drive.
“Where’s your car?” Diane asks.
“In town, by the wine store.”
“I’m on your way,” she says. “Walk me home.”
Eight
Alex makes no attempt at conversation as he and Diane walk arm in arm down the empty street. She smokes and leaves him to his thoughts, having seen this shyness in her son, who craves silence after time spent in crowds. Diane wonders if she was too forward in asking him to walk her home, but then Alex slips his hand into hers and smiles down at her.
“This is me,” she says, stopping in front of a three-story Victorian. “Can I offer you a nightcap? Water?”
“I’ll take both,” Alex says.
The ground-floor apartment is hers, the kitchen perfumed by fat heirloom tomatoes ripening on a wooden butcher’s block. Diane hits the lights and puts on music, a man singing in falsetto over an acoustic guitar.
“I’m craving an old-fashioned.”
“That sounds great,” Alex says.
She gathers ingredients with swift, practiced movements: simple syrup from the fridge, bourbon and bitters from a shelf beside the stove, two ice blocks from the freezer. Alex spots the thrift store plates on the counter and wonders if her silver-rimmed old-fashioned glasses came from the same place.
“Cheers,” she says. “Did you remember Rory from your class?”
“No, but a lot of people come through that place. It’s less intense than he made it sound.”
“He’s a storyteller. Lindsay always says you should divide by two when he’s spinning a yarn. How’s that drink?”
“Best I’ve had in this town.”
“Would it kill someone to open a real cocktail bar?”
Alex stiffens at the sound of footsteps on the back porch, which Diane doesn’t seem to hear.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” she says. “Of course not. Why?”
A crash from the back of the house is followed a muffled curse. Alex takes a step toward the magnetic knife rack by the stove, eyeing a large Chinese cleaver. Diane sets her drink on the counter, hesitant but unconcerned.
“That,” she says, “is my son, who keeps his surfboards on my porch. Can I introduce you?”
“Of course,” Alex says, wondering how many left turns a single day can take.
At the back door, Diane speaks her son’s name into the darkness.
“Shit,” he says. “You scared me. Did I wake you up?”
“I just got home. You scared me too. Come inside for a second, I want you to meet someone.”
Tom Alison is still dressed for the office when he steps into the stairwell—polished wingtips, gray suit pants, white shirt open at the neck. He kisses his mother on the cheek, then runs a hand through his dark blond hair and strokes the patchy stubble on the smooth skin of his face. He’s been drinking; Diane recognizes the loose smile and unfocused intensity in his eyes. Her sensitive, sarcastic, workaholic son.
“I’m meeting someone?” Tom asks. “Now?”
“We’re in here,” Diane says, taking his arm.
They find Alex immersed in the photos on the fridge: a portrait of Diane in her twenties with bleach-blond, teased-out hair; Tom at his first Little League game with a bat over his shoulder; Tom at his high school graduation. Alex looks up with a concerned, perplexed expression as Diane comes through the doorway, followed by her son. When Tom steps into the bright light of the kitchen, Alex’s eyes go wide.
“Tom, this Alex Cassidy. Alex, my son, Tom.”
“Nice to meet you,” Alex says, shaking it off. “Sorry, you look just like this friend of mine.”
“I get that a lot,” Tom says.
“How was your night, honey?” Diane asks. “You look like you’ve been having fun.”
“That makes three of us.”
“Touché. Are you around tomorrow? Melanie invited us to brunch.”
“The waves look decent tomorrow,” Tom says, glancing suspiciously at Alex, who’s still staring unabashedly. “Just came by to grab some boards.”
“Rory was asking about you. He wants you to take his new assistant out next time you’re in the city.”
“When I have time to go out in the city, I’ll let Rory know. Tomorrow’s my first day off in months.”
“Well, don’t let us keep you,” she says. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Good to meet you,” Alex says.
Tom salutes and leaves by the back door. Alex drains half of his cocktail, palms his neck, and stares at Diane in silence as her son backs down the drive.
“What?” she asks. “Did I miss something?”
“You said Tom’s dad was never in the picture. Why?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he died?”
“Wha—Why are you asking me that?”
“Died young? In a shooting?”
Diane flinches. “That’s none of your business. Where is this coming from?”
“We met once before. Not at the Y. Or the farm. In Atlantic City.”
“When was this?”
“We were kids. Dock’s Oyster House. You left with my friend Clay.”
Shock seems to ripple outward from the center of her face, parting her lips and widening her eyes. “Oh my God,” she says.
Alex nods. A siren winds its way toward them and, having reached its destination, fades.
“You know what I remember about that night?” Diane says. “Besides meeting the father of my child? They made a good martini at that place. I thought you were from Miami.”
“I was born there. We moved to Atlantic City when I was six.”
“Which is how you know Clay. Did he tell you what happened, or did you figure that out when you saw my son?”
“Clay told me. And Tom looks exactly like him in those pictures.”
“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s scary, isn’t it? I used to wonder if he got any of my genes.”
“Clay told me you weren’t keeping the baby.”
“I wasn’t. Then I got a call from a homicide detective in Manalapan.”
“Detective Steven Rizzo,” Alex says.
“You remember his name?”
“We had a lot of conversations. I remember everything about that week. How much does Tom know?”
“That he was an accident, and that Clay passed away. I told him it was a car crash, which is half-true. I think he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I’m hiding something. That it’s not a good story.”
Alex considers this. He understands her reservations, but the secrecy strikes him as disservice to the memory of his friend.
“This goes without saying,” Diane says, “but I will murder you if you breathe a word of this to him.”
“No, of course not,” Alex says, amazed at how easily she can read him.