Tiny Little Thing by Beatriz Williams Page A

parents’ house in six blinding rectangular patches. A slight figure in a berry-red dress sat at the top of the stoop, hands folded neatly in her lap. She rose at the sight of him.
    “I thought you’d never get here.”
    He slung his camera bag to the pavement and fished for his key. “How did you find me?”
    “The waitress told me. The dark-haired one.”
    “Em? Huh. Wonder how she knew.”
    Tiny didn’t reply. She stood on the top step, watching him as he climbed. He tried not to look at her, though his body was light with relief at the sight of her slim figure, the gentle swell of her hips beneath the fabric of her dress. He stuck his key in the lock. “Are you coming in?”
    “No, I just . . . I just wanted to have . . .” Her voice was breathless with nerves. “Have a word with you.”
    “More comfortable inside. You look like you could use a drink.”
    She paused. “I don’t really drink.”
    “A good time to start, I’d say.”
    Unexpectedly, she laughed. A beautiful laugh, deeper and heartier than you’d think, a tiny girl like her. Her brown hair had come a bit disheveled. The curls fell more loosely about her ears and the top of her neck, so you could run your hands right through them, testing for strength and silkiness, right before you leaned in and kissed her.
    As if she caught the drift of his thoughts, she lifted one hand to her head. The back of her arm was smooth-skinned and taut, an athlete’s arm. Honed by tennis, probably. Or golf. Girls like her played golf, didn’t they? In pink argyle sweaters.
    Her laughter faded, but the smile remained. “All right, Caspian. I guess you’re not going to bite.”
    He opened the door and stood back to usher her through. “Only if you beg me.”

Tiny, 1966
    T om waves away his wife’s anxious fingers and holds the bag of ice to his jaw. “You see? He proved my point. Just a killing machine, paid for by our own tax dollars.”
    I wipe my fingers on the kitchen towel and think, What tax dollars? Your trust fund’s in nice sweet tax-free municipal bonds, yielding three and a half percent, or I’ll eat my stockings.
    I say, “Actually, Tom, if he’d wanted to kill you, he would have punched a lot harder.”
    “Are you saying
this
isn’t bad enough?” Tom points to his jaw, which sports a thick purple bruise but appears otherwise intact.
    “I’m saying he could have done worse. A lot worse. I
assure
you.”
    Constance looks up from her fervid examination of Tom’s jaw. “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
    “I’m not. For one thing, my dinner party is ruined.”
Ruined,
I tell you.
    I wrestle down a smile.
    She turns back. “He’s a bully. He always was. For God’s sake, Tom, let me have that. You’re not supposed to
dab
it.” She snatches the pack of ice, braces the other side of his face with her hand, and smashes the cheesecloth against his jaw. “Anyway, good riddance. Between you and me, he never did fit in around here. Even as a kid, he didn’t.”
    “Good riddance?”
    Constance nods to the open door of the kitchen. “I saw him leave, just now.”
    I throw down the towel on the counter. “Excuse me.”
    Just before I cross the threshold, I remember something. I pause and turn my head over my shoulder. “Oh, and Constance? The two of you might want to start making sure you’ve locked your bedroom door at night, if you’re thinking of getting frisky.”
    •   •   •
    O utside, Fred and Mrs. Crane are still picking up the broken china, and the ocean crashes on regardless. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crane,” I say, “but did you see Major Harrison go by?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” She straightens. Her face is expressionless. “He came through a minute ago and went off that way.” She waves to her right, toward the old Harrison house.
    “His house, or the beach?”
    “I couldn’t tell. Is everybody all right, ma’am?”
    “Everybody’s fine, Mrs. Crane. Thank you so much for cleaning up like this.