The Witness

topping off Roland’s coffee as she went.
    Roland sat, mulling. Nothing the cop said struck him as false. He despised the “nasty piece of work” himself. But as the wise and wonderful Kim had said, you couldn’t do more than your job.
    His was to find anything that might tip the scales in the client’s favor.
    He nearly choked on his pie when the vision walked in.
    He knew small southern towns could produce some beauties, and in his personal opinion, southern women had a way of nurturing that beauty like hothouse roses. Maybe it was the weather, the air, the chance to wear all those thin summer dresses like the one the vision wore now. Maybe it was the slower pace or some secret mothers passed to daughters.
    Whatever it was, it worked.
    He loved his wife, and had never in their twelve years together—ten-plus with rings on the finger—strayed. But a man was entitled to alittle fantasy now and then when possibly the sexiest woman ever created sashayed into his line of sight.
    She hip-swayed right up to Gleason’s booth, slid in, like melted butter on warm toast.
    “Not a good time, Sylbie.”
    In Roland’s world, it was always a good time for Sylbie.
    “I just have a question. I’m not going to try to get you back or anything like that. I learned my lesson back in March.”
    “I appreciate that, but it’s a bad time right here and now.”
    “You look tense and tired and out of sorts. I’m sorry about that. We were friends once.”
    When he didn’t speak, she looked away, let out a breath that had her delectable breasts rising, falling.
    “I guess we weren’t friends, and maybe that’s my fault. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I humiliated myself for your benefit.”
    “Let’s not go there.”
    “It’s easy for you to say, since you weren’t the one standing there naked.”
    Roland felt himself going hard, and mentally apologized to his wife.
    “It was a mistake, and some of it’s on me for not talking it out with you. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”
    “I can’t forget it until I know.”
    “Know what?”
    “Why her and not me? That’s all. I need to know why you want to be with Abigail Lowery—everybody knows you are—and you don’t want to be with me.”
    Roland wanted to know, too, and not just for the client. He’d seen Lowery’s photo, and she was attractive, sure. Pretty, maybe even beautiful in a quiet sort of way. But next to the stupendous Sylbie? She was no cherry pie à la mode.
    “I don’t know how to tell you.”
    “Just tell me the truth. Is she better in bed than me?”
    “Jesus Christ.”
    “That’s the wrong thing to ask.” On an impatient gesture, she pushed back a glorious fall of hair. “I wasn’t going to ask, even though I wonder. Just give me something, will you, that I can understand?”
    “She makes me happy. When I’m with her I feel like that’s where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve been wanting to be. And everything that matters makes sense. I don’t know why one person falls in love with another, Sylbie. They just do.”
    “You’re in love with her?”
    “I’m in love with her.”
    She stared down at the tabletop for a moment. “Can I have a sip of your coffee?”
    “Sure.”
    She took it, grimaced, set it down again after one sip. “You always drink it too sweet.”
    “Bad habit.”
    “Did you ever love me?”
    “I wanted you. There were times I craved you like I was starved to death. The first time around, we were too young to know. The second? Maybe we were both trying to know. I couldn’t make you happy. You couldn’t make me happy. And nothing that really mattered made sense.”
    “The sex did.”
    He laughed a little. “Okay, you’re right about that. But sex, even good sex, can’t be the start, finish and the whole in between.”
    “I thought I’d figured that out after my first divorce, but I guess I didn’t. And the second one … I never wanted to be the kind of woman with two divorces on her back.”
    She turned to stare out the wide window. “But I am.”
    “Maybe you should think of it as two marriages. I figure people who try marriage more than once, they’re optimists.”
    “Optimists.” With a half-laugh, she shoved his coffee away. “Sounds better than a loser.”
    “You’re not a loser, Sylbie.”
    “I’m sort of seeing Grover.”
    “You … oh.” Brooks picked up his coffee, gulped some down. “Well.”
    “I know. He’s not the type I usually aim for.