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that she was wearing only her tanned skin, noticed the six-pack abs, noticed that the only hair on her body was on her head. For a woman in her mid-fifties, she was in incredible shape. Seeing her that way was equal parts exhilaration and sadness, for apparently she had exchanged her soul for beauty. When we’d first met, she was guileless and honest, whereas everything Nancy did now seemed to come with a secret or not-so-secret agenda. The problem for me was trying to sort out if whatever was going on was about Nancy, or her daughter, or me.
    I watched Nancy long enough for her to be swallowed up by the water, then I headed over to the table and poured myself a cup of coffee. I buttered up a raspberry scone. The fire pit was going full blast and its heat blew at me in pleasant waves. I chose to watch the flames and not Nancy. I heard her step out of the pool, listened to her wet feet slapping the baby-smooth concrete as she walked. At least she had the good taste not to ask me to dry her off, though I would be lying if I said there wasn’t at least a part of me that wanted her to ask. She stopped by me, again only briefly, so that I might get a close-up view of her wet body glistening in the mid-morning sun.
    “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said and moved on to the cabana.
    Fifteen minutes or so later, she emerged: hair dry, face made up, a bottle of Irish whiskey in her hand. Now she wore a long, white, terry cloth robe tied at the waist. She didn’t say anything, not at first. Instead she busied herself with the whiskey and a cup of coffee.
    She waved the bottle at me. “Would you like some?”
    I held my cup out to her and she poured. “That’s fine. Thanks.” I sipped as she sat down close but at an angle to me. “So you wanna tell me what this tango is all about? Is your daughter even missing? And if she is, do you actually give a shit?”
    “Is she missing?” she repeated, shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe. She might be. I don’t know. She vanishes sometimes, but usually she gets in touch with me after a few weeks. This time it’s been about a month and I’m worried … a little. Do I give a shit? I do, because I failed her as a mother. Like I said yesterday, we aren’t exactly close, but I am her mom.”
    “That’s two outta three answers. What about the big question? What’s this dance about?”
    “You, obviously … and me.”
    I put my cup down. “What about us?”
    “Everything.”
    “Well, that clears it all up.”
    “Sarcasm. God, it makes me wet.” Nancy placed her hand over her crotch.
    “That was the pool water.”
    “More sarcasm.” She pulled a face. “Say something else and I’ll come.”
    I stood to go. “Look, Nancy, I don’t have time for this bullshit. I could be spending my time doing some serious drinking or, God forbid, working.”
    She grabbed my wrist with both hands. “Please, don’t go. I’m sorry. I really am worried about Sloane.”
    “Siobhan,” I corrected just to bust her chops.
    “I detest that name, but yes, Siobhan.” She still had my wrist. “Please sit down. Please.”
    And for the first time, even behind the contacts, I saw a glimpse of old Nancy. “If you give me my wrist back, I’ll think about it.”
    When I sat back down, she said, “I lied to you that time, the last time we saw one another before yesterday.”
    “In 2000? When I came about Patrick.”
    “I pretended not to know who you were. I knew about what had happened to Patrick, and I remembered you. Believe me, I could never forget you.”
    “What does that mean, you could never forget me?”
    “When I was in college and you came here to the old house to talk to me about Patrick, I kind of fell in love with you. You were older, not too old, and so handsome and you treated me like … like a person. You told me the truth and didn’t try to spare my feelings. I remember every word from that day. I told you things I wouldn’t have told anyone, like about the sex club and the