His eyes roved past me down toward the white pier projecting out into the bay. “Was she expecting you, sir?”
“Probably not.”
“I am sorry, sir. She is not at home.”
I thanked him, went down the steps slowly until he closed the door. Then I sauntered off in the direction of the pier as if I’d been there before.
I expected him to be watching me as well as he could; certainly he’d notice I didn’t switch on my car lights. But probably he wouldn’t follow me.
The path led down an easy slope to a boathouse beside the pier. I kept on the grass, off the gravel.
When I got where I could see the pier, I could make out two figures silhouetted against the reflected glow from the water.
A woman in slacks and halter. I couldn’t see what the fellow was wearing. But he had his arm around her shoulder, holding her as they strolled toward me. I kept still, when he got near enough for me to hear, I had another one of those jolts.
“... make an end to it, once and for all, Marge,” he was saying, “then we’ll get married.”