All Our Yesterdays by Robert B. Parker Page A

wainscoted in narrow pine boards, installed vertically, and stained a dark walnut. Above the daybed was a picture of Jesus holding his robe open to reveal his bright redheart. The room smelled of kerosene, and when the stove was in use there would be a periodic burp from the kerosene bottle as it fed fuel to the stove.
    Under the overhead light an easel was set up. On it was an unfinished oil painting of an idealized mountain scene, a small lake in a declivity among uniform mountains. The smell of the oil paints mixed with the kerosene; and the scent of cigar smoke insisted through both smells.
    The windows had been closed all day, and the house reeked with heat. Mellen hurried about opening windows.
    “You wouldn’t have a drink in the house, would you?” Conn said.
    “Yes. My father keeps some,” she said. “My mother doesn’t like it, but Pop likes his jar of whiskey.”
    She went to a broom closet on the wall near the dining room and rummaged behind some mops and brought out a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey.
    “We don’t have any soda,” she said.
    “Water’ll be fine,” he said. He went to the stained oak icebox and chipped ice off the big block in the top with an icepick. He put the ice in a water glass, added whiskey, and cold water from the water bottle in the icebox.
    “Would you care for a dram?” he said.
    Mellen shook her head hurriedly.
    “Oh, no, no. I really shouldn’t.”
    Conn looked at her with his head tilted and his eyes smiling.
    “Shouldn’t you, now, Goodie Two Shoes? And should I be drinking alone?”
    “I sometimes wonder, Conn, if you don’t do everything alone,” she said. “But …” She sighed a littleand got herself a glass and held it out while he put a splash of whiskey in the bottom. He added ice for her, and water.
    They took their drinks out onto the back piazza and sat on the spare kitchen chairs that furnished it. Below them was a small patch of board-fenced backyard. There was a little brown grass and a lot of bare spots. To the left at the end of a narrow driveway was a cinder-block garage. Across from them were the piazzas on the back of the three-decker on the next street.
    Pigeons who roosted under the eaves above them were still busy and the noise they made was comforting. The summer evening was coming on. It wasn’t dark yet, but there was a blueness to the light that softened the ugly houses and gentled the heat. They sat quietly. Conn put his hand out and she took it and held it in her lap. Conn raised his glass to her and she touched it with hers and they drank.
    The blue air darkened, and the sun went down, the sound of pigeons quieted. Conn refreshed their glasses. When they drank, the soft sound of the ice in the glasses seemed lyrical in the blue evening.
    “You date other men, Mellen?”
    “Of course, lots. But none since I’ve met you.”
    “I figured you were popular.”
    “Actually, what I said is not quite true,” Mellen said. “I dated lots of boys. You are the first man.”
    Conn smiled in the darkness.
    “There must be many women in your life, Conn.”
    “Not lately,” Conn said. He allowed a tinge of sadness to show in his voice. “There was a woman once, but …” His voice trailed off.
    “Did she hurt you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, Conn.”
    She squeezed his hand.
    “Was it a long time ago?”
    “Yes.”
    “In Ireland?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, Conn, you can forget her. I’ll help you forget her.”
    “Yes,” Conn said, his hand lying still in her lap. “Yes, you will.”
    He drank, and turned toward her.
    “You have.”
    She brought his hand up to her face and rubbed it against her cheek and kissed the back of it.
    “I’m glad, Conn. I want to make you happy.”
    She finished the small remnant of her drink.
    “I do make you happy, don’t I?”
    “Yes,” Conn said softly.
    He took both their glasses and went to the kitchen and mixed fresh drinks. As he chipped ice in the pantry he could see his face in the darkened