“Addie was able to talk about it?”
Kathleen nodded. “There was also the 911 call Melanie made.
Apparently she got trapped downstairs. Greg made it to the girls’ room and put wet towels over their faces to keep them alive until the firefighters arrived.”
“Smart guy to think about the towels,” I said.
“Addie originally thought the wet towels flew into the room by themselves. When they explained her mom threw them, her face lit up. Until that moment, she thought her mom had run away.”
We were both silent awhile.
“There was a lot of love in that marriage,” I said.
Kathleen said, “I haven’t experienced it personally, but I’ve always believed that during the course of a good marriage, especially when children are involved, husbands and wives often perform random acts of heroism that go largely unnoticed by the general public.”
“And in a great marriage,” I said, “when one spouse goes down, the other takes up the slack.”
Kathleen gave me a look that might have been curiosity, might have been affection.
“You surprise me, Creed.”
“These little bombs weigh in at 490 calories,” Kathleen Gray said.
I glanced at the paltry square.
“That number seems high,” I said.
“Trust me,” she said. “I used to work at the one in Charleston.”
It was 7:45 pm and we were in Starbucks on Third and East Sixty-Sixth. Neither of us had much of an appetite, but Kathleen said she always treated herself to a raspberry scone after spending time at the burn center. She took a bite.
“Yum,” she said. “Technically, it’s a raspberry apricot thumbprint scone.” She cocked her head and appraised me.
“You sure you don’t want to try one?”
I didn’t and told her so. “Plus there’s the other thing,” I said.
“What other thing?”
“The acronym for it is RATS,” I said.
She studied me a moment, a faint smile playing about her lips. I saw them move ever-so-slightly as she performed the mental calculation.
“You’re an odd duck,” she said. “You know that, right?”
I sipped my coffee and made a note of the fact that I had now met three of Ken Chapman’s women, and two of them had commented on my strangeness on successive days. The third of Chapman’s women was my ex-wife, Janet, and her opinion of me was beyond repair.
Someone pushed open the front door, and a rush of wind blew some rain in, lowering the temperature by ten degrees. Or so it seemed. Something behind us caught Kathleen’s eye and she giggled.
“The barista was talking to someone and pointing at you,” she said. “I think it has something to do with the venti.”
