light Yankee Stadium. I assumed I was the positive connector and he the negative.
Wrong.
He took me in his arms. It wasn’t hot and sexy—more like a friendly bear hug. He enveloped me, surrounded me and comforted me. I was consumed with a rush of emotions. What happened next wasn’t pretty.
I started to weep. Not simple tears. Lots of sobbing, snorting, and nose-running. My embarrassment wasn’t complete until there was the sting of red-hot blotches. Alas, a Barrett curse. All the females in my family broke into scarlet welts when they cried, gave speeches, or got excited. I mumbled a lame excuse, ran upstairs to the bathroom, removed my hearing aids, and threw torrents of icy water on my face. The red welts remained. I tried saturating a cotton ball with Visine because I’d read in a magazine that it took the red out of date-night blemishes. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Here I was in the most perfect situation with a man—a man to whom I was more than attracted—a man who’d made the first move, and I’d blown it. The wall I’d so carefully built, brick by brick, crumbled around me. I was Humpty Dumpty and I refused to let any of the king’s men put me back together again. Maybe my breakdown was a warning. What did I know about Cole? He was rude, condescending, and a possible murderer. With that thought, the welts traveled to my navel.
I crept downstairs. Cole was stretched out on my Sunday
New York Times
–reading chair, his eyes shut, his boots resting on a needlepoint piano stool.
Were killers this peaceful when they slept? Every murderer had once been an innocent child, someone’s son ordaughter. What made them cross that line between right and wrong? My father didn’t have the answer, even though he’d had enough experience dealing with them. As a city cop, Jeff Barrett’s high expectations continuously let him down. He’d arrest someone for petty larceny, the next time armed robbery, and then murder. Detectives in the Detroit Police Department were required to take classes on the psychology of the criminal mind. He told me the only knowledge he’d gained was that you had to think like a criminal in order to catch one. A person’s morals and ethics were as unique as their fingerprints. One day he told me, “I can’t do it anymore—see the good in these people. I don’t know how to rationalize someone who murders a pregnant woman for twelve dollars or wipes out an entire family because the ex-wife has a new boyfriend.” Even though he said this, he was given awards and accolades for the volunteer work he did with inner-city children at an East Side outreach program.
My father’s drinking in the early part of his career was more than likely a result of his disappointment in the human race, but his lifelong volunteer work was also a testament to his never-ending faith in that same slice of mankind. After my mother’s death, he stopped his wild ways and found something else to keep him busy—one I benefited from. He got an associate’s degree in the culinary arts.
I left Cole and stepped onto the deck. At the east end of the beach, a light, slightly brighter than a firefly’s, blinked.
The scent of Cole’s musky aftershave let me know he was standing behind me.
I leaned back and spoke softly. “Sorry for that little display. I guess I’ve been holding on to a lot of things and the dam just broke.”
Cognizant I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids, he turnedme around to face him. “No need to apologize. It’s beautiful here. A slice of paradise. Once you live by the ocean, it’s impossible to live anywhere else.”
We stood silent, the waves like our collective breaths—steady, rhythmic. Why didn’t he ask me about the day I found his mother? I wanted to ask him about North Carolina and his life there but didn’t want to break the spell.
“Let’s go down.” He grabbed my hand.
We maneuvered the steps side by side. The moon offered enough
Wrong.
He took me in his arms. It wasn’t hot and sexy—more like a friendly bear hug. He enveloped me, surrounded me and comforted me. I was consumed with a rush of emotions. What happened next wasn’t pretty.
I started to weep. Not simple tears. Lots of sobbing, snorting, and nose-running. My embarrassment wasn’t complete until there was the sting of red-hot blotches. Alas, a Barrett curse. All the females in my family broke into scarlet welts when they cried, gave speeches, or got excited. I mumbled a lame excuse, ran upstairs to the bathroom, removed my hearing aids, and threw torrents of icy water on my face. The red welts remained. I tried saturating a cotton ball with Visine because I’d read in a magazine that it took the red out of date-night blemishes. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Here I was in the most perfect situation with a man—a man to whom I was more than attracted—a man who’d made the first move, and I’d blown it. The wall I’d so carefully built, brick by brick, crumbled around me. I was Humpty Dumpty and I refused to let any of the king’s men put me back together again. Maybe my breakdown was a warning. What did I know about Cole? He was rude, condescending, and a possible murderer. With that thought, the welts traveled to my navel.
I crept downstairs. Cole was stretched out on my Sunday
New York Times
–reading chair, his eyes shut, his boots resting on a needlepoint piano stool.
Were killers this peaceful when they slept? Every murderer had once been an innocent child, someone’s son ordaughter. What made them cross that line between right and wrong? My father didn’t have the answer, even though he’d had enough experience dealing with them. As a city cop, Jeff Barrett’s high expectations continuously let him down. He’d arrest someone for petty larceny, the next time armed robbery, and then murder. Detectives in the Detroit Police Department were required to take classes on the psychology of the criminal mind. He told me the only knowledge he’d gained was that you had to think like a criminal in order to catch one. A person’s morals and ethics were as unique as their fingerprints. One day he told me, “I can’t do it anymore—see the good in these people. I don’t know how to rationalize someone who murders a pregnant woman for twelve dollars or wipes out an entire family because the ex-wife has a new boyfriend.” Even though he said this, he was given awards and accolades for the volunteer work he did with inner-city children at an East Side outreach program.
My father’s drinking in the early part of his career was more than likely a result of his disappointment in the human race, but his lifelong volunteer work was also a testament to his never-ending faith in that same slice of mankind. After my mother’s death, he stopped his wild ways and found something else to keep him busy—one I benefited from. He got an associate’s degree in the culinary arts.
I left Cole and stepped onto the deck. At the east end of the beach, a light, slightly brighter than a firefly’s, blinked.
The scent of Cole’s musky aftershave let me know he was standing behind me.
I leaned back and spoke softly. “Sorry for that little display. I guess I’ve been holding on to a lot of things and the dam just broke.”
Cognizant I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids, he turnedme around to face him. “No need to apologize. It’s beautiful here. A slice of paradise. Once you live by the ocean, it’s impossible to live anywhere else.”
We stood silent, the waves like our collective breaths—steady, rhythmic. Why didn’t he ask me about the day I found his mother? I wanted to ask him about North Carolina and his life there but didn’t want to break the spell.
“Let’s go down.” He grabbed my hand.
We maneuvered the steps side by side. The moon offered enough
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