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“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, meaning thanks but no thanks. Despite Boone’s looks, that doesn’t sound like a good time. I suck at Monopoly, and I prefer my drinks stronger than Swiss Miss.
Boone waves again and trudges through the trees on his way back to the Mitchell place. Watching him go, I don’t feel a bit of remorse. Sure, I might be missing out on a few nights in the sack with a guy way out of my league. If that was even his intention. But I’m not willing to accept what goes along with it—chiefly being reminded that I drink too much.
I do.
But with good reason.
I once read a biography of Joan Crawford in which she was quoted as saying, “Alcoholism is an occupational hazard of being an actor, of being a widow, and of being alone. And I’m all three.”
Ditto, Joan.
But I’m not an alcoholic. I can quit at any time. I just don’t want to.
To prove it to myself, I set the bourbon down, keeping my hand close to the glass but not touching it. Then I wait, seeing how long I last before taking a sip.
The seconds tick by, me counting each one in my head the same way I did when I was a girl and Marnie wanted me to time how long she could stay underwater before coming up for air.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
I make it to exactly forty-six Mississippis before sighing, grabbing the glass, and taking a gulp. As I swallow, I’m struck by a thought. One of those insights I usually drink to avoid.
Maybe I’m not looking for trouble.
Maybe Iamthe trouble.
The sun has slipped beneath the horizon by the time Eli makes his way over. Through the binoculars, which I picked up again soon after Boone departed, I watch him return to his truck carrying a bag of groceries before going back to his house for the cardboard box. When he climbs into the truck, I follow the glow of headlights as he drives the road circling the lake.
I put the binoculars down when the headlights enter the section of the road not visible from the back porch and walk to the front of the house. I get there just in time to see Eli pull into the driveway and emerge from the truck.
Back when he was on the bestseller lists, Eli cut a dashing figure in tweed jackets and dark jeans. For the past three decades, though, he’s been in Hemingway mode. Cable-knit sweaters, corduroy, and a bushy white beard. Grabbing the cardboard box from the back of the truck, he resembles a rustic Santa Claus bearing gifts.
“As requested,” he says, placing the box in my arms.
Inside, clanging together like tangled wind chimes, are a dozen bottles of various colors. The deep crimson of pinot noir. The honey brown of bourbon. The pristine clarity of dry gin.
“Pace yourself,” Eli says. “I won’t be making another trip until next week. And if you breathe a word of this to your mother, I’m cutting youoff. The last thing I need is an angry phone call from Lolly Fletcher telling me I’m a bad influence.”
“But you are a bad influence.”
Eli smiles in spite of himself. “It takes one to know one.”
Know me he does. During my childhood, Eli was an unofficial summer uncle, always in my life between Memorial Day and Labor Day, mostly forgotten the rest of the year. That didn’t change much in adulthood, when I visited Lake Greene less frequently. Sometimes years would pass between visits, but whenever I returned, Eli would still be here, quick with a warm smile, a tight hug, and whatever favor I needed. Back then, it was showing me how to build a campfire and properly roast a marshmallow. Now it’s illicit trips to the liquor store.
We retreat into the house, me burdened with the box of bottles and Eli carrying the grocery bag. In the kitchen, we unpack everything and prepare to make dinner. It’s part of the deal we made my first night back here: I cook dinner anytime he brings me booze.
I like the arrangement, and not just because of the alcohol. Eli is good company, and it’s nice to have someone else to cook for. When it’s just me, I make whatever’s fast and easy. Tonight’s dinner, on the other hand, is salmon, roasted acorn squash, and wild rice. Once everything’s unpacked and two glasses of wine have been poured, I preheat the oven and get to cooking.
“I met the next-door neighbor,” I say as I grab the largest, sharpest blade from the wooden knife block on the countertop and start cutting the acorn squash. “Why didn’t you tell me there was someone staying at the Mitchell place?”
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
“Of course I care. There are only two houses on this side of the lake. If someone else is in one of them—especially a stranger—I’d like to be aware of it. Is there someone staying at the Fitzgerald house I need to know about?”
“The Fitzgerald place is empty, as far as I know,” Eli says. “As for Boone, I thought it would be best if the two of you didn’t meet.”
“Why?”
I think I already know the answer. Eli met Boone, learned he was a recovering alcoholic, and decided it was wise to keep me away from him.