Page 77 of A Mean Season
“I take it you’re no longer married to Coach Carrier?”
“Coach Carrier… I haven’t heard that in a long time. Um, no, we’re still married. Why don’t you come in and tell me why you’re here?”
Sammy turned and walked away. She was wearing capri pants and a sleeveless top, both of which emphasized the fact that she was a girl without a lot of curves. Her figure was straight up and down. Not that I cared one way or the other.
“So, I’m writing a story about high school tennis—”
She gave me a disappointed look. “Yeah, why don’t you go out onto the deck and think up a better story than that one. I’ll bring some iced tea, unless you’d like something stronger.”
“Iced tea is fine.”
I walked through her comfortable living room out onto the very large deck. The view was stunning. We could see all of Long Beach—well, the part that was to the south. Below us was Cherry Avenue, thick with traffic. That had to be annoying. A million-dollar view and a soundtrack that was akin to a demolition derby. Looking at the horizon, I tried to pick out where my house was but couldn’t quite find it.
Sammy came out with a tray of iced tea and glasses. She poured a glass and handed it to me. After she poured herself one, we sat down on iron chairs, which were not especially comfortable. She took a pack of Merits out of her Capri pants and lit one.
“I only smoke on the patio. I can’t stand the smell inside. Weird, I know. So,” she said, looking me over. “If you were one of Bernie’s students it was a very long time ago. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Oh God, you’re not the father of—”
“I don’t have any kids.”
“That’s a relief. It happened once. Horrible. I don’t like to think about it.”
“If you didn’t believe me, why did you call?”
“There’s never anything good on television. Did you notice that?”
“I mostly rent videos. So… I work for The Freedom Agenda.”
“Oh, really. Well that’s interesting.”
“You’ve heard of us?”
“Yes. You got that Danny kid out of prison. A few months ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, we did.”
“How is he?”
“Danny? Free.”
She smiled and asked, “This has something to do with the Michaels boy, doesn’t it?”
“I believe Larry Wilkes is innocent.”
“He probably is.”
“Where is your husband? Will he be home soon?”
“He doesn’t live here.”
“You’re separated?”
“No. Not exactly,” she inhaled deeply, taking extreme pleasure in it. “Do you mind very much if I just tell you my story from the beginning? I don’t get to tell it very often.”
I doubted I had much say in the matter, so I nodded agreement.