One tear fell, leaving its streak on her face. "I don't know what I'm going to do. It's so hard."
"It is," he said. "I know."
"I'm trying to do the right thing."
"I can see that."
"I should at least read his letters."
"That might be nice."
"But I'm still…" She stopped, looked at him, shook her head again. "I don't have any answers. I don't know what I should do."
"You don't have to decide anything today. How's that?"
She gave him a grateful smile. "Better."
"Okay, then," he said. "I think that's about enough philosophy for one day. Why don't we blow this pop stand?"
One of the landmarks of old San Francisco was Trader Vic's, the restaurant where the mai tai was purportedly invented and a favorite hangout for the famous columnist Herb Caen and his pals. The original Vic's had gone out of business decades ago, but a couple of years back, they'd opened a new one near City Hall. It had a great buzz and was the same kind of place-a Pacific-island-themed destination spot serving enormous "pu-pu" platters of vaguely Asian appetizers that could be washed down with mai tais or any other number of generous rum drinks, many of them served for two out of hollowed coconut shells.
Nolan and Tara had ordered one of these when they sat down and then had another with their dinner. Their relaxed sightseeing and later the intense conversations had drawn them closer somehow and blurred the distinction between date and nondate, and by the time the waiter cleared the dinner trays and left them the check, Nolan was beginning to let himself consider the possibility that this incredible woman might like something in him after all. Clearly, Tara had an ambiguous commitment, at best, to Evan Scholler, and she seemed to be enjoying his company-laughing, teasing, drinking. Not quite outright flirting, certainly not coming on to him overtly, but giving him a lot of her time and attention, her foot nowhere near the brakes. His personal code of honor regarding a fellow warrior wouldn't permit him to pursue her if she claimed any sort of allegiance to Evan, but she'd rather definitively avoided that, and if she responded to one of his overtures later, then that would be a clear answer in itself.
Nolan had known that they had valet parking at Trader Vic's, but as a general rule he wasn't too comfortable letting valet attendants get behind the wheel of his Corvette. So, keeping his eyes open, a few blocks before they'd reached the restaurant, he had spied a miraculous section of free curb and he'd pulled into it without much thought. It had still been warm, with a certain softness to the dusk light, and walking a few extra blocks with Tara had seemed both natural and appealing.
Now, outside, it had grown dark. In typical San Francisco summer fashion, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the past two hours and a chill, biting wind off the Pacific was scouring the dust off the streets and making the very air gritty. They were on Golden Gate Avenue, an east-west street that funneled the blow and intensified the unpleasantness.
Tara said, "How'd it get this nasty this fast?"
"The city got the patent on this weather back in the Forty-Niner days. It was supposed to keep out the riffraff. I don't think it's worked too well, but they've kept it up. Why don't you go back inside and I'll get the car and come back for you?"
"We don't have to do that. It's not that far. I can take it."
"You're not too cold?" Tara was wearing sandals and shorts and a T-shirt with the midriff showing- California summer gear. Now ridiculously inappropriate.
But she just laughed. "It's only a few blocks. It's invigorating, don't you think?"
Nolan, in civilian shoes, khaki-colored Dockers, and a Tommy Bahama silk shirt, nodded and said, "Invigorating. Good word. You sure?"
"Let's go."
At the first corner they hit, Polk Street, they stopped at the curb for the light. He noticed that her teeth were beginning to chatter. "It's closer going back to Trader Vic's than it is to the car. You're sure you don't want to do that?"
"You think I'm that much of a wimp?"
"I never said that. But you do seem cold."
"I'll be fine. Promise."
"Okay, then." He put his arm around her. "This is for warmth only," he told her. "Don't get any ideas."
Perhaps a little tipsy, she folded her arms across her chest and leaned slightly into him. "Warmth is good," she said, then added, "Come on, light, come on."
But just then, before the light changed, a break in the traffic opened up, and taking her hand, he squeezed it. "¡Vámonos!" And they darted out into the street. In the next block, and the one after that, the streetlights weren't working. Even though they were only a few blocks from City Hall, Nolan realized that they were entering the Tenderloin District, one of the city's worst neighborhoods, where services tended to need upkeep. They walked quickly, still holding hands, their footfalls echoing, and, at the next crosswalk-Larkin-had to stop again for traffic and the light. Behind them, a prostitute in a black minidress and fishnet top stepped out from the lee of a building. "Are you two looking to party?" From the voice, Nolan realized that the woman was a man. "I've got a place right here behind us."
"Thanks, but we're good." Nolan stepped between Tara and the prostitute. "Just going to our car."
"Isn't this the street, up to the left?" Tara whispered to him.
"One more."
They jumped the light again and moved into the next darkened block. Suddenly the glittering city they'd been enjoying all day had disappeared. The breeze carried on it the acrid smells of garbage and urine. In the passing cars' headlights, Nolan could see that nearly every doorway they passed held a person lying down, bundled up in cloth or newspaper. At a break in the traffic, they crossed over in midblock, all but running now with cold and adrenaline. They turned up Leavenworth toward Eddy, into the heart of the Tenderloin. But-the good news-they were now only a bit more than a half block from where they'd parked.
As it turned out, though, that distance wasn't going to be short enough.
The three young african-american men appeared out of nowhere and blocked their way. Tara whispered, "Oh God," and moved in a step behind Nolan. All of the men wore heavy, hooded jackets and as they fanned to surround the couple, the one in front of them flashed the blade of a knife. "Where y'all hurryin' up to?" he asked.
Nolan, following the flow as the men moved into position, one to the side into the street, and the other behind them, let go of Tara 's hand and put an arm protectively around her waist. "Our car's just up the street there," he said, pointing.
"The 'Vette, I'm guessing?"
"That's right."
"Nice ride?"
"Yes, it is. I'm hoping that it's still in good shape."
The leader spoke to his troops. "He hopin' it still in good shape. You hear that? Man worried about his wheels." Coming back to Nolan, he moved the knife to his other hand. "Thing is, we been watchin' it, make sure nobody mess wid it, you know what I'm saying?"
"I appreciate that," Nolan said. He turned now, placed the position of his other two assailants clearly in his mind, then moved sideways a bit with Tara so that he could see any movement from the man behind him in case he was getting ready to strike. Looking now directly at the three men, one at a time, he said, "But my girlfriend's cold and she really needs to get inside the car right away." He reached behind him, as though reaching for his wallet. "How much can I pay you gentlemen for watching over my car for me?"
"Ron…" Tara began.
"Just stay cool," he whispered, tightening his grip on her waist, holding her to him. Somehow he'd taken the keys from his pocket, and now he found one of her hands and pressed them into it. "When it starts," he whispered directly into her ear, "get to the car and get it running."
"When what starts? Ron, you can't…"
Nolan started to reply when, with no warning beyond a guttural obscenity, the leader suddenly lunged forward, leading with the knife. Nolan pushed Tara back out of the way, then ducked away from the attack, deflecting the knife, and kicked out beh
ind him, hitting the trailing man in the knee. The man screamed and went down. Nolan whirled, kicked again, and caught the leader in the hip, knocking him into the third guy coming in from the street. It was only a temporary holding action, but it gave the couple an instant's reprieve and, for Tara, a clear run to the car. "Go!" he yelled to her.
She ran.
Nolan saw the shadow looming up in his periphery, and he ducked away and slashed backward as he turned. Seeing the glint of the knife, he came down with a chop on the wrist above it, and it clattered away on the sidewalk. He no longer knew whether he was fighting the leader or the second guy, but it didn't matter. Close enough to smell him now, he lifted a knee into the man's groin and when he doubled over, followed it with a rabbit punch to the man's neck. Knowing that he'd killed him, as much by the way he fell as anything, he saw that there was still another knife in the equation. The other man swung a wide broadside at him and Nolan stepped back, let it pass harmlessly in front of him, then stepped inside and delivered a flat-hand uppercut to the base of man's nose, driving the cartilage back into the brain. The body straightened for an instant before crumpling back to the street.
Looking back at the first man whose knee he'd shattered, Nolan realized that while he was no longer a threat, he was a witness. And witnesses, Nolan firmly believed, were bad luck. A brief scan of his surroundings confirmed that there were no others-none of the homeless were huddling in doorways on this block. The man was still down, moving on the ground, pushing himself in a crablike fashion back and away from the fight. It took Nolan only a few steps, a couple of seconds, to get back next to him.
"Dude," he said. He was breathing hard, but his voice was almost apologetic, devoid of any emotion. "This was a bad idea. You got to stop this shit. Your leg okay? Can you get up? You ought to get that looked at. Here, let me help you."
The young man hesitated for a minute, but then took Nolan's outstretched hand and allowed himself to begin to be lifted. But as soon as he had the leverage he needed, Nolan reached his other hand around the man's neck, found his chin, and gave it a vicious snap back and sideways. Letting this last body fall back to the sidewalk, Nolan looked down at the carnage he'd wreaked. Satisfied, he broke back up the street at a jog, jumped over the fallen leader, and in a couple of dozen steps was where Tara had started the car and already maneuvered it out from the curb, ready to make a getaway. He knocked on the car's trunk as he was going around the back of it and then opened the passenger door and jumped in, breathless. "Are you okay?" he asked her. "Can you drive?"
She was holding the wheel, shivering, and managed a nod.
"Hit it, then. Now!"
Tara drove in silence for about six blocks before she pulled over and stopped the car. "I don't think I can drive anymore," she said.
"I'll take it."
She looked over at him for the first time since he'd gotten in with her. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"What happened to them?"
"I don't know. They got tangled up in each other and that must have slowed them down enough to give me a minute to come running."
After a minute, she said, "We could have been killed, couldn't we?"
"I don't know about that. I think maybe they were trying to feel us out, that's all. They didn't have guns. They probably would have just taken our money and other stuff if we would have let them."
She sat still and allowed the silence to gather there in the confined space. Then, letting out a staggered breath, she opened the car door and got out. Nolan took the cue and did the same on his side, waiting for her to get in the passenger seat before he closed the door behind her. Behind the wheel, he belted up and got back into traffic.
"God," she said after a while. "You're sure you're all right? I can't believe that just happened. It was so fast. Just suddenly they were there."
"Yeah. That's how it happens." He glanced across at her. "I shouldn't have parked there. I should have known better. I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry. It wasn't your fault. In fact, if you hadn't been there…"
But he shook his head. "Then you wouldn't have been there. You would have parked at the valet station like any other thinking human being."
"Well, still…" She hugged her arms to herself. "God, I just can't stop shaking."
"It's okay," he said. "It's just adrenaline." He took his right hand off the wheel and held it out. "If it'll help," he said, "here's a hand you can hold."
It took her a moment to decide. She took in a breath and let it out, then reached over and put her hand in his, bringing both hands over the gear-shift and into her lap, then covering them with her other hand. "Thank you," she said. "That helps."
There was no argument about whether he should walk with her to her door. She opened it, flicked on the inside light, and turned back toward him, her face reflecting her turmoil. Breaking a weak, somehow apologetic smile, she started to raise her hand then let it fall. "I was going to say, 'Thank you, I had a good time,' but"-she met his eyes-"I'm a little confused right now. Is that all right?"
"That's fine," Nolan said.
"I'm going to read Evan's letters."
"As well you should."
"I don't want you to think I'm being ungrateful."
"Why would I think that?"
"Well, for saving my life and everything. For being a warrior."
That brought the trace of a smile. "I wondered if that had occurred to you. But you don't owe me anything, Tara, and certainly nothing for that." He gently chucked her chin with his index finger. "Don't you worry about me. I'm fine. You've just had a trauma you're going to need to process. It's okay. You're home now. Have a good night." And with that, he came forward, quickly kissed her cheek, and backed away. "Close the door," he said. "That's an order."
Unable to sleep, she finally got to the letters.
They were from Evan's heart and soul. The way she remembered him came through loud and clear in every one-mostly chatty and irreverent, but then always there with the real stuff at the end. He missed her. He loved her and wanted them to try again when he got home.
When.
But it wasn't when, she knew. It was if. There was no certainty that he'd come back alive or in one piece. She couldn't shake the idea that even as she was reading his words, he might already be dead. She wasn't about to commit to him again and then have him die over there. There would be no commitment, she knew, until they were back together in person, until these philosophical issues had been resolved one way or the other. To give him hope before that would just be counterproductive and stupid.
Tara was reading in her bed with blankets over her, wearing pajamas and her warmest bathrobe against her continued shivering, even though it was a balmy night in Redwood City. Finally, she put down the latest letter-it was the fifth or sixth one she'd read-and closed her eyes, trying to picture the Evan she had known in her mind, trying to dredge up a feeling from the time when she'd thought they were the perfect couple, that they'd marry and have a family and a wonderful life together. It wasn't coming easy.
Part of her, perhaps most of her, still believed that she loved him, that he would come home from this war and they'd start over and work out all the issues. But he'd been gone now for several months and she'd spent the time putting him behind her. When he came back-if he came back-they'd see where they were. She thought that if she and Evan were in fact the perfect couple, if they were meant to be together, then nothing could keep them apart. But in the meanwhile she had her life and her principles. She wasn't going to remain in a relationship where those principles were compromised from the beginning.
But tonight's object lesson with Ron Nolan had shaken some of those core beliefs. They had been set upon by bad people who wished them harm, and without Nolan to defend her, she might very well…
Suddenly the memory of the assault came over her again-the men surrounding them with knives glinting in their fists. The utter lack of warning when the unexpected fi
rst thrust came at them. If Ron hadn't been there…or, no, more than that…if he hadn't been who he was, it could have ended so badly. It could have been not just a robbery, but the end of her life, of everything.
A fresh wave of adrenaline straightened her up in the bed.
Throwing off her covers, she went to the window in the bedroom and pulled aside the drapes a couple of inches, just enough so that she could see out. The blue-lit water in the pool down below was still. No shadows moved on the lawn, in the surrounding hedges. All was peace and suburban serenity. Letting the drapes fall, she crossed her bedroom and, turning on lights as she walked, she went out into the living room. She opened the closet in that room, the other one by the front door, then she turned and went into the kitchen. The window over the sink looked down on the parking lot and she turned out the kitchen lights so that she could more clearly see outside.
In the puddle of one of the streetlights, Ron Nolan's Corvette faced away from her apartment, toward the entrance to the driveway that led into the parking lot. The top was down, and it was close enough that she could easily see Ron himself still in the front seat, his elbow resting on the windowsill. She looked at the clock-he'd left her at the door nearly forty-five minutes before.
"Ron?"
He'd heard the footsteps coming up and had forced himself to remain still, facing forward, until she'd come abreast of him. Now he looked over at her, in her T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. "Hey." Low-key.
"What are you doing?"
"Just sitting here. Enjoying the night." She seemed to need more explanation and he gave it to her. "I was a little wound up earlier. I thought I'd decompress a little before braving the roads again. I thought you'd be asleep by now."
"No," she said. "I was wound up too." Pausing, she let out a small breath. "I read Evan's letters. I think he's still confused. I know I am."
"About what?"
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