Twisted

place; she just couldn’t meet Dale there.
    So the Fishery it was.
    She thought back to their phone conversation last night. Dale had said to her, “I’m tall and pretty well built, little balding on top.”
    “Okay, well,” she’d replied nervously, “I’m five-five, blonde, and I’ll be wearing a purple dress.”
    Thinking about those words now, thinking how that simple exchange typified single life, meeting people you’d met only over the phone.
    She had no problem with dating. In fact she was looking forward to it, in a way. She’d met her husband when he was just graduating from medical school and she was twenty-one. They’d gotten engaged almost immediately; that’d been the end of her social life as a single woman. But now she’d have some fun. She’d meet interesting men, she’d begin to enjoy sex again.
    Even if it was work at first, she’d try to just relax. She’d try not to be bitter, try not to be too much of a widow.
    But even as she was thinking this her thoughts went somewhere else: Would she ever actually fall in love again?
    The way she’d once been so completely in love with Jonathan?
    And would anybody love her completely?
    At another red light Marissa reached up and twisted the mirror toward her, glanced into it. The sun was now below the horizon and the light was dim but she believed she passed the rearview-mirrortest with flying colors: full lips, a wrinkleless face reminiscent of Michelle Pfeiffer’s (in a poorly lit Toyota accessory, at least), a petite nose.
    Then, too, her bod was slim and pretty firm, and, though she knew her boobs wouldn’t land her on the cover of the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog, she had a feeling that, in a pair of nice, tight jeans, her butt’d draw some serious attention.
    At least in Portsmouth, Maine.
    Hell, yes, she told herself, she’d find a man who was right for her.
    Somebody who could appreciate the cowgirl within her, the girl whose Texan grandfather had taught her to ride and shoot.
    Or maybe she’d find somebody who’d love her academic side—her writing and poetry and her love of teaching, which had been her job just after college.
    Or somebody who could laugh with her—at movies, at sights on the sidewalk, at funny jokes and dumb ones. How she loved laughing (and how little of it she’d done lately).
    Then Marissa Cooper thought: No, wait, wait . . . She’d find a man who loved everything about her.
    But then the tears started and she pulled off the road quickly, surrendering to the sobs.
    “No, no, no . . .”
    She forced the images of her husband out of her mind.
    The cold water, the gray water . . .
    Five minutes later she’d calmed down. Wiped her eyes dry, reapplied makeup and lipstick.
    She drove into downtown Green Harbor andparked in a lot near the shops and restaurants, a half block from the wharf.
    A glance at the clock. It was just six-thirty. Dale O’Banion had told her that he’d be working until about seven and would meet her at seven-thirty.
    She’d come to town early to do some shopping—a little retail therapy. After that she’d go to the restaurant to wait for Dale O’Banion. But then she wondered uneasily if it would be all right if she sat in the bar by herself and had a glass of wine.
    Then she said to herself sternly, What the hell’re you thinking? Of course it’d be all right. She could do anything she wanted. This was her night.
    Go on, girl, get out there. Get started on your new life.

    Unlike upscale Green Harbor, fifteen miles south, Yarmouth, Maine, is largely a fishing and packing town and, as such, is studded with shacks and bungalows whose occupants prefer transport like F-150s and Japanese half-tons. SUVs too, of course.
    But just outside of town is a cluster of nice houses set in the woods on a hillside overlooking the bay. The cars in these driveways are Lexuses and Acuras mostly and the SUVs here sport leather interiors and GPS systems and not, unlike their downtown neighbors, rude bumper stickers or Jesus fish.
    The neighborhood even has a name: Cedar Estates.
    In his tan coveralls Joseph Bingham now walked up the driveway of one of these houses, glancing athis watch. He double-checked the address to make sure he had the right house then rang the bell. A moment later a pretty woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was thin, her hair a little frizzy, and even through the screen door she smelled of alcohol. She wore skintight jeans and a white