he wiped it on his jeans as he tromped over the sand toward Brigid. She had on gym shorts and a striped bikini top. She was reading a fashion magazine.
“Looking to catch a little skin cancer?” he called, approaching.
She turned, shielded her eyes from the sun, and leveled her gaze at him soberly. “I think they’ve determined it’s not contagious.”
He hovered. “Still, you’re pretty pale to be lounging out, aren’t you?”
“Ah!” She clasped her hands at her heart. “Look at him! He cares!”
Gavin sat down in the sand beside her towel, legs bent out in front of him, hands on his knees. He looked over the bay. “How you doing?”
“Such attention! Hardly know what to do with myself.”
“You want me to go?” Gavin offered.
Brigid fixed him in her stare. “Now, what do you think?”
Gavin gave her a conciliatory smile but said nothing. They looked out at the water. After a minute Brigid said, “Not so bad, considering.” Then she said, “How are you, then?”
“OK,” he said. A pause. “You going out tonight?”
Brigid shrugged noncommittally: Make me an offer.
“You think it’s wrong to go out?” Gavin asked.
“Fuck if I know.”
“Yeah . . .”
“I never so much as laid eyes on the woman,” Brigid said.
“Yeah,” Gavin said, “but everyone who’s from here knew her.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder if they’ll even open the bar. I mean, it’s a pretty damn small town.”
“Pub or not,” Brigid said, “I’ll be fucking gumming for a pint by evening.”
“That worry you ever?” Gavin said, half-teasing. “That nationalistic need for beer?”
“About as much as your nationalistic need for cheeseburgers worries you, I’d say.”
“Touché.” Gavin smiled.
Brigid faced him then and nodded once. She was taking note of his challenge, registering it; he’d set out the ante and she’d met it. She didn’t raise him. She was waiting. Exercising some caution, for once.
“How are we on whiskey?” he asked.
She looked startled for a moment. “Out entirely,” she said, regaining composure. “Polished it off last night, Mr. Squire and myself, in fact.”
“Oh?” he said. “Oh, really?”
“He’s not such a bleedin’ maggot as everyone thinks . . .”
Gavin looked surprised. And skeptical.
“I mean, he’s desperate sad . . .”
“And losing your wife doesn’t make that any easier.” Gavin shook his head, as if he had a clue what Lance was going through.
“He’s just full of wind and—”
“Maybe . . .”
“I just think he’s maybe not so up entirely brutal as all that.” It was hard to condemn a thirty-eight-year-old widower, especially one who, it seemed, had garnered nothing but condemnation for much of his life. It was even harder when considering Squee, because you wanted to think that somehow Lance might be able to be a good father to the kid. You wanted to hope, however far-fetched that hope might be.
“Getting sweet on old Lance, now?” Gavin teased.
“Course I am,” Brigid growled. “I just love a man in mourning.”
“Jesus!” he said.
Brigid sighed. “I’ve not rapid endeared myself to you now, have I?”
Gavin laughed a little. “You’re not exactly delicate,” he allowed. “I think you take some getting used to.” He thought for a second. “You’re not so easy to figure out.”
“I’m not bloody easy!” she balked. “It’s not been me shoving people up against the wall and kissing them and then tearing off like a bleedin’—”
“I’m sorry ...”
“Oh, you are, are you? Sorry for kissing me, or sorry for tearing off—”
“Wait a second,” he said, his voice silencing hers. “Wait. Look: I’m sorry. I just . . . Look, I’m just really confused these days. I’m not really sure what I want, OK? I’m just—”
Brigid cut him off defiantly. “Well, put some manners on yourself then, but don’t be—”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Shut your gob with ‘sorry’ already!”
“Jesus—why are you so antagonistic with me? What did I ever do to you?”
“You haven’t done a thing, aside from shoving your tongue down my throat, which I quite enjoyed, so I won’t go on about it . . . Only you’ve pissed me off—”
“Look,” he interrupted her. “Look, can we just start over? Please? OK? Can we just start over from the beginning? Wipe the slate clean? Try this again?” His eyes entreated her; his hands were open in offering.
She let out a breath, an ironic laugh. She shook her head and, rolling her eyes, brushed the sand from her hand and held it out to him. “Brigid,” she said.
“Hi, Brigid, I’m Gavin,” he said, shaking her hand. “Really nice to meet you . . . So where’re you from,