Trust Me by Earl Javorsky Page A

before it happened? Did you keep in touch?” he asked her.
    “We were best friends. Like two schoolgirls. She kept me young. She told me everything, or at least that’s what I always thought.” Mrs. Fullerton looked out over the pool and her eyes narrowed for a moment. Ron just waited.
    “You know,” she went on, “I think she did have one secret. I think she was seeing someone she didn’t want me to know about. I don’t know why. It’s just a hunch. Never occurred to me before.”
    “Did she date a lot?”
    “Well, she was a beautiful girl, so, yes, there were boyfriends. But not for quite a while. You see, she had had a few experiences that weren’t good, so she told me she was taking a time-out from relationships. She started going to these meetings, some self-help kind of thing, where they talked about relationships. Significant others, self-esteem stuff. Psychobabble, I called it.”
    “Did you go to any of these meetings?” He helped himself to cheese and crackers.
    “Yes, I did. It was very entertaining. They had a funny name—SOL, stood for Saving Our Lives. Kind of a sad acronym, isn’t it?” She smiled and shook her head. “They were all so serious. But Linda, she was upbeat all the time.”
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    He drove down Chautauqua toward the beach. He and Ann Fullerton had talked for a while, finishing their ice teas and occasionally just listening to the suburban outdoor sounds—birds and insects, children playing in a neighboring yard. She was beautiful, smart, and affluent. He liked her and tried to imagine her carrying the weight of her daughter’s death. And the girl had gone to SOL meetings. Now there was a coincidence.

CHAPTER 18
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    The view from the restaurant was serene, except for a pack of surfers competing for waves in the August heat. Malibu Beach on a summer Saturday was in overdrive; kids on pointy little boards and middle-aged men on old-style longboards scrambled for wave after wave. The kids zigzagged all over the swells, crashing up into the whitewater and turning back into the green walls with frantic energy, while the older guys were content to move gracefully along the faces, cruising in the pocket where the wave was just about to break.
    “I’ve always loved to watch surfing,” Holly told Art.
    “Have you ever tried it?” Art looked up as the waitress brought the check for their lunch.
    “Yes,” she said, reaching for her purse. “I had a boyfriend once who pushed me into some waves on his board. He’d yell ‘stand up,’ and I would but then I’d fall off right away. Except once, when I rode all the way in to the sand. It was great.” She pulled her wallet from the purse.
    “Holly, please, I’ll take care of this. Don’t even consider it.” Art laid out a credit card and put it into the little leather folder that the bill had come in.
    “Art, we’re not on a date,” she told him. “I’d feel more comfortable paying my own way.”
    “Holly, you’re my friend. As your friend, I would like to treat you to lunch. I appreciate your company, and this”—he gestured toward the table—“gets charged to my business, so let’s just enjoy. Okay?”
    She shrugged, thinking it was not okay but not wanting to pursue it any further. “Okay. Well, thank you. It was very good.”
    The waitress picked up the leather folder and asked if they wanted any more coffee. Holly shook her head, and Art said, “No, thank you. Everything is just fine.” He smiled. The waitress was slender and attractive, with long legs and a short skirt. Holly noticed Art watching her as she turned and walked toward the cash register.
    They walked out the side exit of the restaurant and onto the pier.
    “Let’s go out to the end,” Art suggested, guiding her by the arm as he spoke. She brought her hand to her hair, as if to smooth it back, using the gesture to disengage herself from him. They walked side by side in silence.
    Fishermen stared intently into the water, their lines stretched