Nantucket Grand by Steven Axelrod Page B

for the New York 9/11 memorial. He had the casual air of having seen and done it all, and the irritating fact (you had to admit it) was that he actually had seen and done quite a lot. More than most people; much more than pudgy, plodding David Trezize, for example—as Patty took every opportunity to point out.
    â€œWhy can’t you be more like Grady?,” Patty would ask, after Grady had calmly but forcefully ejected a drunken heckler from a lecture at the Unitarian Church, hooked up their Blu-ray player to the television, or cooked them his famous Osso Buco.
    He had no good answer, so Patty divorced him and started dating Grady. It wasn’t quite that simple, but it seemed that way sometimes.
    This new rumor of cohabitation had pushed David over the edge, which was why he broke into her house and read her diary.
    â€œAre you sure you want to be telling this part to a police officer?” I asked him gently.
    â€œIt wasn’t breaking and entering! I used to live there! I have a key.”
    â€œI thought you told me she changed the locks.”
    â€œYeah, and she hides the new key under the same old shingle. That’s high security! Like putting your money in your shoe when you go for a swim at the beach. Come on.”
    â€œSorry. So you found the new key and let yourself in.”
    â€œI don’t even know what I was looking for exactly—some sign of Grady—an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, or his brand of beer in the fridge. He drinks Stella Artois. Maybe a bottle of some weird aftershave in the bathroom, or a Yanni CD. Anyway, what I found was Patty’s diary. It was in her underwear drawer. I was checking for new racy lingerie. Hey, that would be a sign! But she was still wearing the same old plain cotton panties, for what it’s worth.”
    â€œDavid—”
    â€œNo, no you might as well hear it all. If you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, do it right! That’s my philosophy. So, the diary was at the bottom of the drawer, kind of a pink-and-gray flowered cover held shut with an elastic ribbon. So there I was, alone in the house, with everything I needed to know about Patty’s state of mind lying there. What would you have done?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have been there at all.”
    â€œSo you wouldn’t have copied her passwords and hacked into her e-mail?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI kind of figured that. I didn’t know what I was going to do, myself. Really. I stood there, just kind of staring at the diary, turning it over in my hand. I knew I could never violate Patty’s privacy by reading it…and at the same time, I’m studying the elastic ribbon to be sure I can replace it exactly. Who was I kidding? Anyway, I don’t know how long I was stuck there, when I heard someone at the door. I totally freaked out. I had no excuse to be there, and no way out. I mean—my car was in the driveway. But it was just the mailman.”
    â€œSo you took the hint and got the hell out of there.”
    â€œNot exactly. I knew I was never going to get another chance to do this thing. I’d never get the up the nerve again.”
    â€œSo you read it.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMy grandmother always used to say, ‘Don’t eavesdrop—you won’t hear anything that makes you happy.’”
    â€œWell, your granny had a point on that score. But there was plenty of good stuff. And I’ll tell you something. Even the worst of it helped me. She described sex with Grady like a lapsed Catholic walking into a church after being born again. Can you believe that? She said something like ‘those cheesy stained-glass windows are suddenly illustrating miracles.’ So she never had an orgasm with me—yeah, that’s in there, too. But sex with Grady is religious experience! Thanks so much. There was a lot more, and it cured my stalking problem for good. Apparently I’m like an old smelly