Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,13
that.”
“I told him he shouldn’t hit or shove anyone. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s tearing around the house punching and kicking the air all the time.”
“Summer,” Amy said, “that’s what got into him.”
“We should have sent him to camp again. He said he wanted to stay home to make money cutting lawns, but he’s only done the Benedettis’. He just hangs around all day trying to make Casper disappear.”
“At least he hasn’t succeeded,” Amy said. “Be thankful for that.”
The River View Restaurant once lived up to its name, with the Kennebec flowing past its back windows, just fifty yards away. Now the view was of the red brick Riverside Luxury Condominiums, squeezed kitty-cornered into the once open space. They sat at a small table for two, one aisle back from the window, and sipped Molson ales. Whenever a man entered they looked at each other and shook their heads. Too passive, too cheerful, too unimaginative. Definitely not the revenge type.
Amy reached over and took his hands. “Even if nobody shows up, it’s nice to get out by ourselves.”
Simon surveyed either side of the River View—the steamy kitchen to the right behind a small partition, with the cooks chattering in some indecipherable tongue, and the pea green wall to the left, spotted with large fish photos. “I would have chosen someplace a bit more romantic for us than this.”
A young waitress came by with her notepad poised in her hand. “Still waiting for your third?”
Amy checked her watch. “It’s 7:40. We shouldn’t sit here any longer without eating, Simon. People are waiting for tables.”
“People waiting at the River View—that defies logic,” he said, then remembered the waitress. “I just meant it’s surprising your being so crowded on a Thursday night.”
“We’re crowded every night. Are you ready to order then?”
“I’ll have the meatloaf special,” Amy said.
“Very good. And you, sir?”
Simon scratched his head at her choice. “Meatloaf?”
“When in Rome.”
“Right, okay, make it two, I guess.”
“You’re disappointed,” Amy said as the waitress left.
“I just thought this might be something fun for a change. But here we’re sitting in the worst restaurant within fifty miles of Red Paint getting ready to eat a loaf of meat. That’s a pretty good joke somebody played on me.”
Amy looked around. “If it’s a joke, the person must be here watching. Otherwise how would he enjoy it?”
“Good point.”
They scanned the seats over each other’s shoulders.
“We can rule out all the families and couples, it’s probably a single guy.” Amy nodded behind him, toward the bar. “Don’t look now, but how about the man behind you with the bag on his lap? Maybe he’s got your thousand bucks reward in there in small bills.”
Simon glanced over as if looking at the wall clock. “No,” he said, turning back, “too …”
“Wait,” Amy said, “here he comes.”
The man walked up to their table, clutching a leather messenger bag to his chest, and nodded at Amy. “I couldn’t help noticing you were looking at me. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, “but it’s funny, because I thought you were looking at us, and I was wondering the same thing—whether we had met before.”
“I’m sure we haven’t.” The man tipped his head and left.
“I still think that could be him,” Amy said as she leaned into the aisle to see the man push through the exit door. “Maybe we should follow him, get his license plate.”
“And do what?”
“You could get your contact at motor vehicles to run the number.”
Simon drank the last of his water. “If that’s the mysterious card sender, he’s had his fun.”
He sits motionless in a maroon Chevy Lumina, the most nondescript of automobiles. The Register lies folded across his lap. As each man walks toward the River View, he glances down at the thumbnail photo accompanying the editor’s column, Setting the Record Straight. Shortly after seven o’clock a white Toyota pulls into the parking lot and turns into a space a few cars down. The driver steps out, tries to glimpse the river through the buildings. The waiting man doesn’t have to check the picture. Even from a distance he can tell. His face flushes, his pulse races. Can he do this? Do what exactly? He’s only planned so far ahead, to this moment outside an unremarkable restaurant, sitting in a forgettable rental car waiting for his invited guest to appear. What am I going to do now, God? Do You know?
A car door slams shut. Then a second one. He leans forward