Robert B. Parker's The Bridge

“Don’t know.”

“Maybe she ain’t gone.”

“She is.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

Virgil looked at me.

I saw Allie up the street. She was walking our way, carrying a box of groceries.

“Allie,” I said softly.

Virgil looked to her. We just watched her. The setting sun was shining on her. Her hair was a bit untidy and moving with the breeze as she walked. She looked almost angelic the way the golden sunlight was shining on her. She greeted a few folks on the boardwalk as she neared. She looked as happy as I’d ever seen her.

“Allie,” I said quietly again.

Virgil nodded.

She saw us as she crossed the street.

“Hey, boys,” Allie said with a smile. “It’s so nice out, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Virgil said.

“You need some help,” I said.

“No, no,” she said. “I got it.”

She walked up the steps, carrying the box.

“Just wait and see what I’m fixing for supper,” she said.

“Okay,” Virgil said.

I got up and opened the door for her.

“It will be scrumptious,” she said. “Oh . . . got you something, Virgil.”

Allie balanced the box a little on her knee. She retrieved a cigar from the box and handed it to Virgil.

“Don’t say I never got you nothing,” she said. “Mr. Sadler said it came all the way from Cuba.”

“Why, thank you, Allie,” Virgil said.

“You’re very welcome,” she said, as she continued on inside. “You know I’d have got you one as well, but thankfully you don’t have the habit . . . Just leave the door open for the breeze, Everett.”

Virgil looked back to me and smiled a little.

I picked up the bottle of Kentucky, refreshed our drinks, then sat back down.

Virgil looked at the band on his cigar and nodded a little. He bit the tip and spit it over the rail. He fished a match out of his pocket and dragged the head of it on the leg of his chair. He cupped his hand, keeping the flame from the breeze, and lit the cigar. He worked on it some till he got it going good, then flicked the match away and leaned back and looked at the cigar for a moment.

We heard the familiar clamor of pans from inside.

“You okay in there?” Virgil called.

“Oh, yes. Fine,” Allie said. “I’m fine, just, it’s fine . . .”

“You sure?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Virgil smiled a little. He sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigar for a bit.

We sat quiet for a bit, watching the very last piece of sun until it was gone.

“What is it?” Virgil said, tilting his head a little. “Where are we?”

“December,” I said. “Second day of.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

Virgil shook his head.

“What happened to November?”

“It came and went, Virgil,” I said.

—

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Much obliged to my crew of enduring construction workers for helping me get this bridge across the divide. First and foremost, Jan Griesenbeck, for allowing me to set up camp and bunker down in her Spicewood retreat—thank you so much, Jan! Outrider Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto, for keeping the bullethead blueprints in order, and Jamie “Whatnot” Whitcomb, for his continued supply of ammo. My ex–oil field pard Lowell Reed, for his knowledge in all things engineering, mountain guide Rex “Hook-em” Li

My deepest sympathy to all of those who carried the dynamite: Alison Binder, Steve Fisher, Josh Kesselman, Jayne Amelia Larson, Nat Toppino, Alice DiGregorio, Gabriel Marantz, my sisters—the Clogging Castanets—Sandra Hakman and Karen Austin, and as always, Julie, for everything . . .

And for Bob and Joan, for without them looking over this construction, Appaloosa would be but a memory.

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