Page 47 of Cold, Cold Bones

11

Charles Anthony Hunt was a classmate at Myers Park High. He’d lettered in three sports. Of course, he had. His father, who was African American, played guard for the Celtics, later for the Bulls. His Italian mother was a champion downhill skier.

But Charlie was more than three-pointers and a pretty face. He’d led the debate team and served as president of the Young Democrats. Our senior yearbook predicted him as the grad most likely to be famous by thirty. I was voted most likely to do stand-up.

Following graduation, I’d left Charlotte for the University of Illinois, gone on to grad school at Northwestern, then married Pete. Charlie had attended Duke on a hoops scholarship, then UNC–Chapel Hill law. Over the years I’d heard that he’d married and was practicing up north. Then, following the tragic death of his wife, he’d relocated to Charlotte and taken a job as a public defender.

For clarification, I wasn’t a total slouch in high school. Like Charlie, I played varsity tennis. He was all-state. I won most of my matches.

I’ll admit. I found Charlie Hunt attractive. Everyone did. With hisemerald eyes, curly black hair, and skin a pleasant combo of Africa and Italy, the guy was leading-man handsome.

Change was sweeping the South back at the “gray dawn” as Edy would have phrased it. Still, old mores die slowly. Charlie and I didn’t date. But the Labor Day weekend before our collegiate departures, he and I swung a bit more than our rackets. The match involved tequila and the back of a Skylark.

To this day I blush recalling that episode. Embarrassment? Or? Never mind.

I recognized the voice immediately.

“Charlie Hunt?”

“The one and only. How are you, Tempe?”

“I’m good. How areyou?”

“Excellent.”

“Wow. Charlie.” I knew I was babbling. Couldn’t help myself. “How long has it been?”

“Years. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Let’s. Are you still working at the public defender’s office?”

“No, ma’am. In private practice now.”

“I’m still doing my thing with bones.” An expression he and I had loved to mock.

Charlie laughed. “I know. I’ve kept tabs.”

Oh?

“Still living in the same townhouse?”

“I am. I think about you often, Tempe. Do you remember that time, when was it, Labor Day weekend, right before we both headed off to college?”

As if lying in wait, the memory cells fired a volley. Me in shorts and a tank with bling on the front, hair doing a flippy Farrah Fawcett number, upholstery stinging my sunburned back.

Alone in the kitchen, my cheeks flamed.

“Mm,” I said.

During her period of “uncertainty,” Katy had clerked at the publicdefender’s office. For Charlie. Learning her boss was widowed, she’d tried fixing us up. Ryan and I were on the outs at the time, so Charlie and I had tried dating. Too much water under whatever. It hadn’t worked out.

To change the subject, I started to brief Charlie on Katy’s recent past and current status. He cut me off.

“I know. Katy’s the reason I’m calling.”

Was Charlie also keeping tabs on my daughter?

“Oh?”