6

“I NEEDED TO GET INTO SOMETHING DRY,” a voice said from above, on Coltrane’s right.

He turned toward a stairway, seeing a bare foot appear on the landing. The voice was full-throated, making Coltrane think of similar-voiced actresses in films from the thirties and forties. In his memory, they were always in a sparkling evening gown, standing next to a piano in a nightclub, exchanging repartee with a handsome hero in a white dinner jacket.

But the woman who descended the white carpeting on the stairway wasn’t wearing an evening gown. She wore a cotton sweatsuit, the raspberry color of which enhanced her tan face, dark eyes, and even darker hair. Although the exercise suit was oversized, a dramatic opposite to the tight wet suit she had worn a little while ago, her present outfit was nonetheless almost as revealing. The loose seat suggested the trim firmness of the hips it concealed. The similarly loose top moved up and down in the front and suggested that the woman had not put on a bra.

Everyone watched as she reached the bottom. Coltrane had the sense that the men liked to see her bare feet touch the plush carpeting, but his own attention was directed toward her face: the broad forehead, high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, slender nose, curved lips, angular chin, and narrow jaw that were the elements of classical beauty and that Rebecca Chance had been blessed with. But a catalog of her features couldn’t communicate the animation of those features. Even in a sweatsuit, this woman had come down the stairs with the same fluid ease that Rebecca Chance had shown descending a staircase, wearing a sarong in Jamaica Wind. Her hair, still wet from having been in the ocean, was pushed back, clinging to her head, the way Rebecca Chance had pushed it back as she waded out of a river in The Trailblazer. That pose coming out of the river had been the same as the pose in Randolph Packard’s photographs of Rebecca Chance stepping out of the ocean, the same pose that this woman had assumed as she came out of the ocean onto the rocks not long ago.

Coltrane’s mind was aswirl.

“Hello.” She approached Coltrane, her gaze locked intimately on his as she held out her hand. “I’m Tash Adler, and I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”

Coltrane felt a spark when their hands touched. Only static electricity from the carpet, he told himself. And yet…

“I hope you aren’t hurt.”

“No, I’m fine.” Coltrane suddenly felt foolish holding the blanket around him. “A little cold is all.” He eased the blanket off him. “Nothing serious.” He repressed another shiver, his wet clothes clinging to him. “Tash?”

“It’s short for Natasha. You should get into something dry before you catch pneumonia.” The concern in her voice made him feel that at that particular moment he was the most important person in the world to her. “But where am I going to find dry clothes for you? I don’t think you’ll fit into one of my bathrobes.”

The fact was, she was only about three inches shorter than Coltrane’s six-foot height, and he might indeed have fitted into one of her bathrobes.

“I know,” Tash said. “Why don’t you go into the bathroom down the hall, take off your wet clothes, and give them to me. I’ll put them in the dryer.”

“I…”

“It’ll take only fifteen minutes,” Tash said. “We’ll leave the door ajar so you can be part of the conversation and not feel you’re in limbo. I’ll make a pot of strong hot coffee for everybody and hand a cup in to you.”

Coltrane’s face felt warm, only partly because his cheeks were losing their numbness from the cold water. “Sure.”

“This way.”

Tash gripped his arm, the feeling intimate, guiding him past the white stairway, down a white corridor, to the open door of a white bathroom. A white kitchen was farther along the corridor.

“I’ll wait,” Tash said.

Self-conscious, Coltrane entered the bathroom and shut the door. For a moment, his automatic impulse was to lock it, but he stopped himself, imagining how ridiculous the snap of the lock would sound, as if he was afraid she would barge in on him while he was undressing. He peeled off his wet sport coat, shirt, pants, and socks, took his belt, wallet, keys, and comb from his pants, hesitated, then decided that he didn’t want her to have to deal with his underwear. Even as things were, he didn’t feel comfortable that she would have to touch his wet clothes. He solved the problem by wrapping them in a towel. Despite the underwear he kept on, he didn’t think he had ever felt quite so naked as when he stood behind the door and opened it a foot, peering out at her.

“I’m sorry to put you through the inconvenience,” he said.

“Nonsense.” Tash’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m hoping that if I’m nice to you, you won’t sue me.”

Coltrane couldn’t help smiling.

“Be back in a jiff.” She carried his towel-wrapped clothes down the corridor.

Coltrane took another towel from the rack, dried himself, then sponged the towel against his wet underwear. That done, he combed his hair, folded his sport coat over the toilet seat, rubbed his arms to try to get warmth into them, and was surprised to hear Tash’s voice behind him.

“Maybe this will fit you after all.”

Turning, he saw her hand projecting through the gap he had left in the doorway. She was offering a white terry-cloth bathrobe.

“Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Coltrane said.

Instead of replying, Tash leaned in far enough to drape the bathrobe over the side of the tub, her head turned away from him. The next thing, her arm was gone, and her footsteps receded along the hallway.

Coltrane looked at the robe a long time before picking it up and putting it on. Tash was right. Although a little snug, it did fit him. The fragrance on it was possibly from perfume and not laundry soap.

7

EVEN WITH THE DOOR AJAR, Coltrane couldn’t hear what Tash and the men were talking about in the living room. Their voices blended. An echo distorted them. Frustrated, he waited, tensing as heavy footsteps came along the corridor. What’ll it look like if one of those guys comes in and sees me crammed into this robe? he wondered.

“Do you want a beer instead of the coffee?” Nolan’s voice asked.

“Yeah, with a straw.”

Nolan chuckled. By the time he returned, handing a Budweiser into the bathroom, Coltrane had gotten out of the robe and hung it on a hook. Nolan had indeed put a straw into the open can of beer. Coltrane shook his head in amusement, took out the straw, tilted the can to his lips, and drank half of it.

The indistinguishable voices in the living room filled him with increasing frustration. The hands on his watch didn’t seem to move. To distract himself, he looked for a magazine, didn’t find any, and examined the pump containers of hand soap and lotion that were on the counter. Curious, he reached to open the medicine cabinet.

“All done.” Tash startled him.

Turning in embarrassment, he saw her hand offering him dried clothes through the gap in the door.

“Thanks.”

When Coltrane took them, their hands happened to brush. He felt another crackle of electricity.

“Sorry,” she said from the other side of the door. “The air must be dry in here or something. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“I barely noticed.”

“I did. I’ve been doing it a lot lately. I even took off my socks so I wouldn’t generate static. No difference. It makes me self-conscious.”

“There’s no need to be.”

“It’s in my nature.”

“To give off static electricity?”

“To be self-conscious. See you in a few minutes.”

“Right.” Coltrane looked at the side of his hand where the crackling sensation lingered.

As quickly as possible, he slipped into his pants, shirt, and socks, enjoying their warmth, grateful to be dressed again. He tried to look natural when he entered the living room, the men looking up at him from the sofa and various chairs.