Border Songs by Jim Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

retirement homes in Abbotsford, which was probably what sparked the speculation that she was a Canadianspy. And she was definitely either independently wealthy or selling more than massages. How else could a single masseuse afford such an extravagant home renovation? She was a former stewardess. No, a dental hygienist. She came from eastern money, right? Actually, a horse farm in Indiana. Or was it Austin? She had an accent, but it wasn’t exactly southern. Chief Patera insisted she’d been divorced at least twice and attempted suicide at least once, but it sounded like he was guessing. Others claimed she was a widow whose husband died suspiciously. And getting clear answers from her was impossible. She’d
moved around a lot
, and had some relationships end poorly. When she did offer something specific, it was oddly personal.
    “I had an unusual mother. When I was thirteen, I invited three friends over for the first slumber party I was ever allowed. Cleaned the whole house myself and filled the basement with balloons. I was so excited it was hard to breathe, and I had asthma, so I was hitting the inhaler. My mom was yelling at me to calm down, and my dad was yelling at her to quit yelling at me. Well, none of my friends showed up. They all forgot about it. That’s what they said, anyway. I couldn’t stop crying, which led to more yelling. So my mother left the house and brought me home a cake that had a miniature gravestone in the middle of it.”
    Usually, however, Sophie simply redirected Norm’s questions. And when she leveled her gentle green eyes on you, it was like your favorite sister asking you to please respect the privacy of her diary. Then she’d whisper a question, pull you closer, cock her chin and make you want to spill whatever guts you had left.
    Did her massages have
happy endings?
Norm wondered. Of course they did. He heard a crane in the distance stacking steel girders at the corner of Northwood and Halverstick. Yes, a brothel next door and—coming soon!—a Las Vegas-style casino a mile down the street. What would life feel like if it were built around pleasure and temptation? What would it feel like to not second-guess yourself at three fifteen every morning? Something beyond Sophie’s sympathetic eyes made him want to tell her everything and, worse, anything. Maybe it was assimple as those shapely lips, which he’d seen elicit whatever the moment called for—arousal, compassion, confession. Or perhaps she sensed he was that easy to split, like a roast so ready you could carve it with a fork.
    Norm heard more women laughing freely, as they often did when men weren’t around, and pondered again whether Sophie passed along what he told her. People blew through her house all day long getting what their bodies craved. Did she share his words?
    He kicked lumps of snow walking back to the barn, hoping for the thud of cash, delaying thoughts about his sick cows as long as possible, wincing at laughter that reminded him of ducks.
    Of course she did.

6
    A N HOUR LATER , Sophie Winslow’s living room windows were still vibrating with laughter from her party. Alexandra’s rapid-fire cackle—
hack-hack-hack!
—sounded like an animal trying to scare predators off. Danielle and Katrina were drinking more aggressively than usual, lipstick gleaming, consonants softening as they bullied the others to play
faster, fasder, fasda
. The only two who weren’t already somewhat belligerent were Ellen—who kept saying “That’s so funny” without smiling so as not to deepen laugh lines—and Wayne Rousseau’s younger daughter, Madeline, which made sense. Everyone had at least twenty years on her and she was the lone rookie, filling in for one of three Canadians who helped give Sophie the dozen players needed to keep her international bunco game alive for a sixth straight month.
    Danielle yakked about the upswing in Americans lining up for cheap Lipitor, Zoloft and Prozac at her Abbotsford pharmacy while