He doesn’t ask me for an address, only sits behind the wheel and merges into traffic. I wonder if he would drive me somewhere else if I asked, or if he would call Rick and ask permission. It’s different being around Rick in the city. His money is more evident. I didn’t let him know it, but his penthouse impressed me, the size of it, the glamour. That he’d married a woman who belonged there... I prefer his lighthouse, the cozy space he made for himself.
He fits into both.
Maybe I could, too.
Anthony Kelly, Tony to his friends, lives in an older part of town, where the houses are two stories with hardwood floors, and the trees block out the sun and wind. Where children play after dinner, and families sit on the porch and talk to their neighbors as the sun sets.
Mack pulls the SUV alongside the curb, and he points across the street to a navy blue house with white trim, a large white porch hugging the front door. A rocking chair sits in the corner, and a package not yet retrieved sits on the mat.
“You’ll wait?” I ask, confirming what Rick told me.
His face is smooth like a statue’s. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks.”
I could have driven my own car, but I can imagine the tantrum Rick would have thrown. It would have fit in on the street better. People with money can’t hide they have it, and it’s the same for poor people too. I’m not either, and I think I would have liked living in a neighborhood like this.
I don’t have my recorder or the little notebook I brought with me to the site yesterday. I don’t want this to feel like an interrogation. Tony did nothing wrong, and he won’t talk to me if he thinks I’m gathering evidence against him. I didn’t call ahead, hoping he’d be home on a Thursday morning. If he’s not, I’ll have to try again, and if the second time doesn’t work, I’ll have to let it go. Rick won’t let me try a third time, and I can’t be stupid.
Pushing the doorbell and listening to it chime, I look over my shoulder. Mack’s standing in front of the driver’s side door, his feet spread, his hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead. His breath steams white in the cold.
The door opens, and an older gentleman peers at me through the storm door’s screen. I thought he’d be younger.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Are you Tony Kelly?”
A guarded look crosses his lined face, his eyes narrowing in suspicion behind gold-rimmed glasses. “I am.”
“I’m Devyn Scott—”
“I know who you are. You were a reporter for the Times.”
I blink. I’m not used to my fame, rather, my notoriety. Stevie Johansson did a number on my reputation and still, years later, people remember she ran me out of the city. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute.”
“Regarding what?”
“The accident.”
It’s all I have to say, and he knows exactly what I’m referring to.
“I don’t talk about that.”
“I’m not here as a reporter. I...” I decide to tell him the truth. “...I’m in love with Rick Mercer and I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions, for my own knowledge.”
Tony studies my face, and after a moment, he nods and opens the door.
“Thanks.”
He throws a newspaper he was reading onto a small hallway table and shuffles into the kitchen. I toe off my ballet flats and follow him.
“You can hang your coat on the back of a chair. We’re not too formal around here. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Please. Caffeine sounds great.”
“Not a morning person?” he asks, pouring coffee from a carafe half full into a plain black mug.
I hang my jacket on the back of a kitchen chair like he told me to and sit. “It’s not that. My sister’s in recovery. She was hooked on Sweet. We don’t keep anything in the house that can be addictive in any way.”