“Whatever it takes. So you’ll go?”
Maddie took a deep breath, followed by a gulp of the scotch. “Maybe.” That was the most she could concede.
Lonnie took it as a yes. “Okay. How can I help? What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
“What about Winks? Shall I arrange for someone to take care of him? You know I’d take him if I didn’t break out in hives.”
Everything was moving too fast. She hadn’t even committed to going. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Just leave a sheet with his schedule. I’ll pick up a sack of cat treats for the cause.”
“Who would you get?” She equivocated, thinking of all the reasons it would be impossible.
“I think Jeannie will do it. You know how crazy she is about animals.” Jeannie was a senior in Dexter High who helped out in the gallery on weekends and during showings. “Any idea when you’ll be leaving?”
She felt swept up in a current of Lonnie’s making. “Slow down, will you? Let me just think about this.” She finished the scotch.
Lonnie took the empty glass from her and gave her a hug. “I have faith in you. Now, get moving. Call if you want morale reinforcement. I’ll be here.”
In the car, she sat for a moment before starting the engine. Why the hell had she even gone to the gallery? Why had she confided in Lonnie, who would push her into doing something she honestly didn’t know if she was capable of doing?
Later she would wonder if that was precisely for that reason she had gone there. One bridge she hadn’t broken.
When she got home, she googled flights. With luck there would be no seats and she could tell Lonnie she had tried, but there was a flight that departed Logan at eight the next morning, which meant arriving at the airport around five. Add the hour and a half drive to Boston and she’d have to get up around three. Just the idea of walking through the gate and onto the plane, being confined during the flight—all of it made her skin prickle. She thought about what Lonnie had said. If you were missing, what would Kat do?
Anything, she thought. Kat would do anything. Her fingers were icy as she clicked on the “Buy” button, confirming the reservation. All that was left to do was pack a bag and write out detailed instructions for Jeannie about Winks’s care and feeding.
She stood in front of the closet, grabbing a few items suitable for a hot climate. As she flicked through the hangers, her fingers brushed against Jack’s shirt and froze. She paused and then allowed herself this single indulgence, this single regression, this hollow, brief, and foolish comfort of the scent of him: she put on Jack’s shirt. She should have been prepared but wasn’t. She was swept by memories of him. The crinkly lines that fanned out from his eyes. His tenderness. And patience. She steeled herself against them, but she did not take off his shirt.
The only way to keep going was to keep the escape route open: she could still change her mind at the last minute. This knowledge reassured her as she checked off tasks as if for someone else. It didn’t take long to finish packing. Her passport was in the desk. She hadn’t used it in years, but Kat, ever optimistic, had insisted she keep it valid. She took some cash from her stash to convert to pesos when she landed at the airport. She put together a zip bag with travel-size toiletries, remembering to add the vial of Xanax. Just the thought of being on the flight and having a bad attack was enough to bring one on. In the kitchen, she checked the refrigerator. She imagined she would be gone for three days, four at most, but remembering the cream turned sour in Kat’s refrigerator, she took out a few perishables, tossed them in the trash, and set the bag outside for pickup.
She took Winks’s food from the cabinet where it was stored, set it on the counter, and began writing the instructions, detailing the morning and late-afternoon feedings, the need to change his litter box every day. “Imperative,” she wrote and underscored the word. Russian blues were a breed notoriously fastidious about this. A doorbell interrupted her. She had not heard a car in the drive.
She opened the door and might as well have touched a live wire. “Jack?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He hesitated, testing the water, then smiled. “I think people normally start with a ‘Hey, how’s it going.’”
“What do you want?”
The smile slipped a bit at her coolness. He tipped his head to one side and regarded her. “You cut your hair.”
She brushed the wispy bangs aside, wondering if he liked it and angry that she cared. “It’ll grow back.”
“I like it. It suits you.” His gaze dropped and an expression she couldn’t read passed over his face. And then his smile returned.
It took a moment to understand, and then she was mortified. She’d forgotten she’d put on his damn shirt. He would think she was acting like a teenager mooning over a lost love. Struggling to reestablish control, to think of what to say that would erase his smile, she stepped back. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Lonnie sent me. She said you were looking for someone to take care of Winks for a bit.”
Lonnie. The traitor. It gave her great satisfaction to say, “I have someone. Jeannie, a girl who helps out in the gallery.”
“I know. Lonnie asked her, but Jeannie can’t do it. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
She scrambled to come up with a reason to refuse. “The thing is, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone or anything.” The urge to tell him everything was powerful. A momentary fit of madness—what else—made her long to throw herself at him. She evaded his eyes, hoped he couldn’t read her face or sense her agitation, the desire he always sparked in her, the confusion of emotions, one of which, she had to admit, was guilt for the sharp way she had ended their relationship. She allowed herself to acknowledge it. “Why are you being this way?”
He frowned. “What way?”
She searched for the word. “Nice,” she finally settled on.
“Would it be better if I wasn’t?”
She paused. He waited. “Probably,” she finally admitted.
He laughed. The exchange, her honesty, his response, all reminded her of how it had been, how easy things were, until that day and they weren’t.
At that moment Winks wandered in. Ignoring Maddie, he went straight for Jack and rubbed against his ankles. Jack picked him up and the cat relaxed in his arms, with a deep throaty purr that signaled complete contentment. Another traitor, she thought, but this time without an edge.
“Actually, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s for Olivia. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take Winks over there to keep her company.”
His mention of Olivia altered something in the atmosphere. Maddie softened. “Oh, Jack. I’m sorry. You caught me off guard. I should have asked. How is she?”
Jack looked out at a middle distance, lost for a moment. “It depends,” he said. “It varies. At first, she was optimistic. She was determined to beat it. You’re alike that way. Fighters.”
Maddie started to interrupt, to refute this vision he had of her, the one Lonnie had of her, but he continued before she could speak. “Now she’s more resigned. Some days she’s angry. Pissed, actually. Other days, she seems calm. Almost at peace with the idea of dying. Like an old monk or something. The truth is, we’re losing her.”
“Oh, Jack. I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry. Such empty words. Words she had heard so often after her parents’ deaths. Recalling the pain of that loss, the ache that never went away, her impulse was to reach out, embrace him. Instead, she shoved her hand in her pocket and cupped the quartz heart that she had taken to carrying with her, the smoothness of the stone oddly comforting. “Is there anything I can do?” Another thing people had said to her. And, of course, there was nothing. But still she couldn’t avoid the guilt that she hadn’t reached out to Olivia.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Lonnie told me about Kat. She said you’re going to Mexico.”
She held back for a moment and then surrendered to
the need to confide in him. “She pushed me into going, actually. I still question whether I should let the Mexican police and the American State Department handle it. What do you think? Do you think I’m crazy to go looking for Kat?” It was a relief to ask his advice.
He stroked Winks’s back, thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know, Maddie. What I do know is that if it were me and if Olivia was missing, I would go. I would go wherever I had to and do whatever it took to find her.”
It felt so natural to reach for his hand. “Thanks, Jack.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I made a reservation.”
He didn’t say anything.
“For a flight.” She withdrew her hand.
“Are you scared?” Concern flooded his voice.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I can do it.” She heard the weakness in her voice, how small it sounded, and hated how much vulnerability it revealed.
“You can. I know you can.” He stroked Winks and looked at her. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could go with you.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“Because I care.”
She was stunned into silence. After everything, he still would offer to do this for her. He didn’t push, just waited for her to decide. It was this, his lack of insistence and of course the idea of not having to go alone, that settled it for her. Maddie capitulated, sensing it signified something more, but she was unwilling to follow that thought.
“When’s your flight?”
“Tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”
“Airline?”
She told him.
He handed Winks to her and pulled out his cell. While he made his reservation, she paced the kitchen wondering what she was doing, what door she was opening, already having second thoughts, even as she tried to still the thrill of seeing him again.
He was on the phone with the airlines for some time. When he finally reached for his wallet to pull out a credit card, she gave him hers. He shook his head, but she pressed it into his hands.
“Want the good news or bad?” he asked when he hung up.
“Bad,” she said immediately. Always best to get it over with.
“They didn’t have an available seat next to the one you’d booked.”
“Oh.” She had already begun to rely on the idea of him sitting next to her, the comfort of it. She might as well go alone. “What’s the good news?”
“We’ve been upgraded to business. Adjoining seats.”
She wondered what he had told them to arrange for that.
“Okay,” he said. “That takes care of the flight. Where are you staying? What hotel?”
She realized she hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I haven’t made a reservation.”
“I can do that.”
“Wait.” She went to where she had scribbled notes from Kat’s credit charges. “The Hotel Molcas,” she said. “That’s where Kat stayed at least once.”
When he reached the hotel desk, he switched to Spanish. Of course he speaks Spanish, she thought. What didn’t he do? She wondered what other mysteries she hadn’t learned in their too brief time together. “Separate rooms,” she said, determination returning to her voice. “Reserve separate rooms.” She wanted it clear.
He eyed her with an expression impossible to interpret. “All set,” he said when he hung up.
“And we have separate rooms?”
“Yes,” he said with a show of exaggerated patience. “I reserved two rooms.”
She nodded.
“Well, let’s get the show on the road. I assume Winks has a travel case?”
“I’ll get it, and a bag for the food.” She handed the cat back to him. In the basement, she retrieved the case and took a few minutes before returning to the kitchen. If she was going to change her mind, now was the moment.
Usually when Winks spied the travel case, he disappeared, but now he stayed in Jack’s arms. She leaned in to stroke Winks, gave him one last nuzzle, and, while her face was in the vicinity of Jack’s chest, she tilted her face to his and their eyes met. She held it as if the gaze itself was an exchange of something, then broke it and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks. For everything.”
“Sure.” He settled Winks in the carrying case and took it out to his car. He returned for the bag of food. “I’ll pick you up a little before three a.m. Does that sound good?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Okay, then.” As he turned to go, he said, “You should keep it.”
“What’s that?”
“The shirt. Keep it. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
Her face flamed. He was out the door before she could think of a response.
ÁNGEL
On his way back to the ticket booth by the pier, Ángel spied María the maid watching him from a second-floor window of the Hotel Molcas. He gave no sign that he had seen her, but there was a slight shift in his step. He took a quick hop and flipped in the air, ending in a handstand. His gold chain and crucifix dangled against his chin, drawing a dart of sunlight. Balancing easily, he covered the remaining yards to the booth on his hands. A quick flip and he was upright again. Daring a swift side glance, he saw her raise a hand to her mouth to conceal a shy smile.
Still without acknowledging María, he disappeared into the booth. He dusted off his palms, tucked the crucifix into his shirt, and retrieved his comb from the shelf beneath the ticket window. It was a handsome comb, neon green, eight inches in length, with tiny sparkles embedded in the plastic. All in all, a comb worthy of the head of Ángel Morales. Bending forward, he eyed his reflection in the mirror wedged on the narrow shelf. He combed his hair back with a long sweeping motion, repeating the gesture until he was satisfied. He returned the comb to the shelf and pulled the tall stool to one side of the window into a triangle of shade and waited. A prince surveying his domain.
Even at four o’clock, heat shimmered over the square, slowing one’s step, sucking the breath from one’s lungs. On the veranda of the hotel the luncheon crowd had disappeared and waiters readied tables for the evening meal, covering them with linens, cloths so startlingly white that Ángel could not imagine what it must be like to eat on them.
Along Avenida Cinco, the federales strode back and forth, their carbines slung across their chests. The backs of their uniforms’ shirts were patterned with sweat. At the edge of the water a man ran, his legs pumping with exaggerated movements, his face twisted with effort. He dragged air into his mouth, gaping like a snapper stranded on shore. It was craziness to run in such heat. No one but a gringo would run beneath such a sun. Automatically Ángel cataloged the man’s clothes. Calzones cortos. “Shorts,” he said to himself. Zapatos. “Shoes.” He reached again toward the shelf and took a Spanish-English dictionary from its place next to the mirror. The paperback was water-stained and missing several pages. Víctor, the diver, had given it to him, and dreams had awakened in Ángel that day, yearnings that would have astonished his madre and padre had he ever shared them. He leafed through the pages until he located the words and smiled, pleased with the accuracy of his translations.
It had been his grasp of English, limited though it was, that had led to this job, that and his quick mind for figures. José, the old man who had sold tickets before, was always giving inexact change to the tourists. This was understandable, of course, an easy thing to do with the confusion over the old pesos and the nuevos pesos, but it often resulted in arguments and one time had involved the policía.
Ángel believed José’s mistakes were honest ones, but it was easy to cheat the tourists who, afraid of looking ignorant, often did not count their change. Ángel always gave the correct change to every tourist. He had learned a peculiar thing about them. They would yell for the policía if they believed you had cheated them of a single peso, but the same gringos would easily hand over five pesos if you politely gave them directions or an
swered their questions about the ruins or where to hire boats for fishing or diving, information they could have had for free. Nothing about the gringos made sense to him. They were always moving, like the man running in the hot sun. They swam, they ran, they ate and drank. They traveled to the ruins. They went horseback riding and snorkeling and they shopped for souvenirs. Still, he had observed that no matter how much they did, their eyes stayed hungry, wanting more.
A horn sounded on the far side of the square, and the bus from Cancún slowed to a halt, disgorging passengers. Everything about them suggested they were trying too hard to have fun. As he surveyed the passengers, one caught his eye. She had on loose blue pants and a cotton shirt with long sleeves, but these could not conceal her bony frame. Ángel preferred women who wore more meat on their bones, like María, the maid, who had breasts and hips that would cradle a man. Or Graciela, who, in spite of her age, had the curves of a woman.
He looked again at the tourist in blue slacks. She and her companion walked toward him. A long-billed cap shielded the woman’s face. They paused, as if to get their bearings. As they drew closer, he saw the woman’s scars that the long-billed cap had hidden when he had looked at her from a distance.
At that moment he saw another girl and immediately forgot about the thin gringa. “María Santísima.” He exhaled the words. In front of his eyes was Graciela. It had been three weeks now, and her family had been frantic with sorrow at her disappearance. Each night her padre drank too much and each day he slept in the seat of his taxi. Her madre’s knees were swollen from the hours she spent kneeling in the village church, praying for the return of her daughter. And in Ángel’s own house, his madre watched his sisters carefully, as if Graciela’s disappearance were contagious. The villagers also remembered Marisa Gómez, who had vanished months ago. Now, in front of his eyes, here was Graciela stepping off the bus from Cancún. His instinct was to turn away, to ignore her and hope she would cause no trouble. But almost at once, he saw with relief that this girl was not Graciela after all, but someone older. The girl darted swift glances at each face she passed, as if searching for someone. She held her woven shawl tight around her shoulders as she stepped closer to the square.
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