Reconcilable Differences

“Give her a refill.”

He watched Bernie amble down to the other end of the bar and fill the woman’s glass. They exchanged a few words and then she nodded toward Dave, picked up the glass and smiled again at him.

Dave stood up and reached for his glass. Nodding at the blonde, he raised it in a slight toast. Then he killed the Scotch, tossed some bills on the bar and left the barroom.

He was in no mood to make a connection. Lord knows he needed one. Seeing Trish again had tied him in knots. Knots the blonde wouldn’t be able to free, any better than any other women had in the past six years. They’d all been nothing but a necessary physical release and emotion never entered into the act.

When in hell would it end? It had been six years now. When would he be able to look at a woman and want her as much as he’d always wanted Trish every time he saw her? As much as he wanted her right now even knowing she was a married woman—knowing what she had become.

Looking back now, he realized his dad had been the same way. Even though his mom had died young, his dad had never considered remarrying. Dave couldn’t recall his dad even dating another woman—much less bringing one home. What about his needs? Female companionship. Sex. Was it like this for him, too?

The realization filled him with shame. He had never thought about his father’s needs while he was growing up. In fact, he and his sister had taken pride in knowing their dad had gone to his grave never loving any other woman but their mother. What selfish self-indulgence on their parts!

“Forgive me, Dad. Guess I deserve what I’m getting. I understand now what you must have gone through, but it’s too late to tell you.”

Pausing outside the bar, Dave took a deep breath. The fresh air felt good. The four drinks had begun to hit him, so he decided to hike the three miles to his apartment in the hope of walking off the effects of the alcohol.

Dammit! Seeing Trish again—and what she had become—dredged up memories he’d rather forget. He had good cause to get drunk—and stay that way—but he’d be damned if he’d start falling into bed at night in a drunken stupor.

He turned and strode down the block.

Trish felt a stab of pain the instant she saw Dave coming down the block. She’d recognize the shape of his head anywhere, the broad outline of his shoulders and the easy grace with which he moved through any crowd.

She’d been sitting in her car for the past hour waiting for him. Thank God he was alone. She would have driven away if he hadn’t been.

Her gaze fixed lovingly on his tall figure as she watched him enter the building and pause at the bank of mailboxes.

As he checked his mail, the firm features of his profile were spotlighted in the lobby’s brightness. Nothing appeared to have changed in six years. The same tanned face with its straight nose, sensual mouth and square jaw. He still wore his dark hair neatly clipped to his proud head. If anything, he was more handsome. Her heart ached looking at him. Would she ever get over this man?

She waited as he disappeared through the inner door. Shortly after, a light went on in a front apartment on the second floor.

Her courage began to falter again. What was she doing coming here? A dozen or more times in the past hour she had waged an inner struggle to turn on the ignition of her car and drive away as quickly as she could.

Before she could lose her nerve again, Trish got out of the car and crossed the street. The building was not secure, and she entered the inner door and started to climb the stairs to the second floor. Each step she took was like plucking the petals off a daisy—Should I go? Should I stay? Recalling the loathing in his eyes made it hopeless to ponder “he loves me, he loves me not.” He loved her not! So what had possessed her to come here?

She paused outside the door marked 2A.

Dave had just tossed aside his suit jacket and loosened his tie when a knock sounded on the door. It had to be Mrs. Graham from across the hall. What was her problem now?

Three years ago he had prevented her from being mugged and since then, whenever he was home, she had him doing odds-and-ends jobs, from loosening jar covers to taking care of her cat when she went out of town. Not only did he hate cats—their dander made him sneeze—but he was always on call. The squad could be sent out on an hour’s notice at all times.

Besides, if he wanted the responsibility of a pet, he’d have his own. He loved dogs. The vision of Ayevol, the buff-colored cocker spaniel he and Trish had had when they were together, flashed through his mind in a painful memory. He sure missed that little hound.

Nevertheless, as much a nuisance as Mrs. Graham could be, she was a sweet old lady and he never had the heart to turn her down. In addition, she kept him supplied with the best homemade chocolate chip cookies he’d ever tasted.

Anticipating her holding a plate of them, he smiled and opened the door.

“What can I do for you, Mrs.—” The words froze in his throat.

Don’t do this to me, God.

“Hello, Dave. May I come in? I have to talk to you.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Mrs. Manning. Besides, I can’t think of anything we have to say to each other.”

“It’s very important, Dave.”

He turned away. She followed him in and gently closed the door. Then she hesitated as if she was drawing strength from the feel of the solid wood.

Dave folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. “So what’s so important, Mrs. Manning?”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Does it matter? You usually do what you want anyway.”

He could see she was trembling. He wasn’t in the best condition himself. The walk and night air had worked off most of the Scotch, but he still was in no condition for a face-off with her.

“Sorry, I only have beer or Scotch to offer you. If I remember, your tastes run toward white wine. Of course, that was six years ago. It would appear that many of your tastes have changed since then.”

“I don’t want anything to drink. I need someone’s advice.”

“Daddy out of town?”

She flinched at the sarcasm. “Please, Dave, let’s not throw darts at each other.”

So what if the remark was childish and spiteful? Thanks to her he had stored up six years of bitterness and resentment. It was about time he got some of it off his chest.

“So what’s so important? Say what you came to say and get out of here.”

She bolted to her feet and headed for the door. “I can see this was a mistake.” She paused at the door and looked back accusingly.

“You used to be a nice guy, Dave. I’m sorry I bothered you.” She turned again to depart.

“That’s the kettle calling the pot black.”

She spun on her heel. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got a short memory, lady. Have you forgotten we walked in on that ménage à trois you were about to enjoy. Or were you too drunk to remember?”

“You don’t understand. That was happening against my will. I couldn’t stop them.”

“Yeah, right. And you weren’t stinking drunk either. They drugged you. Right? Look, Mrs. Manning, whatever bedroom games you and your husband like to play is not my business.”

“It’s true. They did drug me,” she cried out.

“You said you had something important to tell me. Does it relate to Colin McDermott?”

“I think Robert is mixed up in some kind of crooked operation with McDermott and bin Muzzar.”