The Life Of Reilly

“Unexpected quantum field collapse.”

He gaped at her. What language was she speaking? She made a visible effort to gather herself.

Then a recognizable word burst out of her. “Telephone,” she said.

“Telephone?”

“Telephone.”

“What about the telephone?” he asked.

“Someone was bothering me. I hung up on her.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you then.”

“No. I mean, it’s okay, it’s just that, well, I have an interfering aunt.” She gave him a weak smile.

“I have an interfering mother,” he said with genuine sympathy. “Treasure Island is just far enough away.”

Her smile was sickly. “Aunt Delphine is…never far enough away.”

“She can afford the international long distance, eh?”

She nodded. “It’s as if she were right in the room.”

He chuckled. “I’m more fortunate. My mother insists that I call her.”

“I wish Aunt Delphine would learn the same manners.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll just go back to washing my car then.”

“Thanks for caring.”

“Sure.” More polite smiles. He was halfway back to his Jeep when something made him look around. Lynn Reilly still stood in her doorway, behind the screen, watching.

Some impulse, born of the devil he later thought, caused him to say, “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Just a simple salad and grilled fish, but I have plenty.”

“Thank you! I’d love that.”

He thought her acceptance sounded awfully relieved for the circumstances, but he shrugged inwardly and returned to his car.

Then, through the open window, he heard Lynn Reilly say, “Just leave me alone!”

He winced, hoping she didn’t mean him.

CHAPTER TWO

“GOT A LADY COMING over tonight?”

The voice came from the yard next door, and it belonged to Zedediah Burch, aka Zed-the-Bait-Guy. Not that there were that many other Zeds on the island. None, in fact. But somehow it was always Zed-the-Bait-Guy, run together into a single word. He caught and sold fresh chum for the commercial fishermen and the few sport fishing boats the island boasted. You could always count on Zed-the-Bait-Guy for exactly what you needed to entice the kind of fish you were looking for.

Jack paused in the process of spreading out a tablecloth on the slightly rusted wrought-iron table on his small brick patio, a patio that rippled and dipped a bit because his predecessor hadn’t thought to make a level bed of sand to support the bricks, all of which looked like castoffs from a brickyard.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

Zed-the-Bait-Guy shrugged and moved a wad of chewing tobacco a little more firmly into his cheek. “Tablecloth.”

“Oh.” Jack looked at the oilcloth he was spreading, a sheet he’d bought from Hanratty’s general store a couple years back. It was already cracking along the folds. “You think this is fancy?”

“I think you wouldn’t bother for me.”

Jack had to grin at that. “You’re right, Zed. For you I’d let the rust show.”

“Rust adds to the taste,” Zed said. “So who is it?”

“The new teacher. I thought I’d be neighborly.”

Zed nodded and turned to spit into the spittoon he kept on his side of the property line. The wad landed with an audible ping that sent a shudder up the back of Jack’s neck. He had to remind himself that millions of viewers watched baseball players do exactly the same thing, dozens of times during each game. In glorious full-color close-ups, too. The reminder didn’t help.

Jack swallowed hard, then spoke. “Could you move that a bit farther away while we’re eating tonight?”

Zed shrugged. “Won’t be here. Big game tonight.”

“What are the stakes?” Jack asked. He didn’t have to ask what kind of game. Poker was the game on Treasure Island.

“Me and Fred Hanks are facing off with Mick McDonald and Joe Cranston. Winner gets to ask Hester LeBlanc out to dinner.”

“Ahh.”

Hester had been widowed nearly two years ago when her fisherman husband had gone overboard during a severe squall. There was some talk that he’d gone over on purpose, rather than face Hester’s anger, since she’d just learned he was sparking around with Camille Danza. Some went so far as to suggest that Hester…arranged…his untimely demise, although Jack saw nothing in her that would hint at such a possibility. Even on Treasure Island, sometimes gossip was just that—gossip.

Regardless, thus far the island’s middle-aged, would-be lotharios had respected her mourning. Apparently they had decided that long enough was long enough. “Good luck.”

Zed shrugged philosophically. “Winning only means you get to ask first. Doesn’t mean she’ll say yes.”

“True.”

“That schoolteacher though…” He smiled. “Quite a looker.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Liar! Jack felt instantly ashamed. He was a preacher for heaven’s sake. He had no business lying.

“Maybe you’d better get Buck Shanahan to fly you into Aruba to get your eyes checked then,” Zed suggested, with a twinkle in his eye that made clear he did not believe Jack one iota. “Whatcha making?”

“Just salad and grilled fish.”

Zed shook his head. “No dessert? No taters? Look, I got a couple of bakers you can have. They’re pretty good cooked on the coals. And I have some rum cake I picked up in Aruba. Ain’t been opened yet.”

Before Jack could say anything, Zed was hurrying toward his back door.