Rosalie and Monica continued talking about their children as if there had been no interruption, but Jenna, who had not felt excluded before, found herself constrained by an odd shyness. She was relieved when Larry came back with another plate, piled with twice as much food. She gave him a smile and, gesturing toward her own plate, said, “Delicious.”
“Yeah,” he said and blushed. She could see that he was pleased by her attention—sophisticated older woman indeed!—but something else had crept into his manner. It was not exactly a swagger, but he was clearly conscious of the presence of another male, against whom his masculinity must be measured. Instead of sliding into the seat at the end near his mother, he stepped over the bench to sit next to Rick, almost jostling him, and asked, in a deeper voice than she had heard yet, if anyone had seen the coverage of the latest Patriot missile launch.
Her nerves crisped as she listened. She couldn’t bear hearing people talk about the Gulf War as if it were a football game. Hooray for our side, and people were dying. Larry, like so many others, was anxious for the ground war to begin. She managed to keep silent, eating her ribs and corn, until he expressed the age-old masculine fear that the war would end before he was old enough to join the fray.
“Thank God it will,” she said. “War is not a game, Larry.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not a kid.” But he was; he was so incredibly young, and she could imagine what his mother must feel, hearing him talk about risking his precious, promising life.
“You wouldn’t be a hero,” she protested, unable to censor herself. “You would be cannon fodder.” He bristled, ready to defend himself—oh, yes, no doubt he knew from movies what war was like—and she cut him off with, “You wouldn’t have a choice. You don’t know anything about it.”
He grabbed his plate and stood up, pale and angry. “Neither do you,” he said coldly and left with all the dignity he could muster.
An awkward silence, which Jenna was aware she was responsible for, stretched out until Rick said, “You’re right, but he won’t thank you for it.”
“Fortunately, he isn’t old enough to run off to prove you wrong,” Rosalie said.
One of the women, whose name Jenna couldn’t remember, laughed and pointed in the direction Larry had taken. “He’s found a more sympathetic ear,” she said.
They all looked, trying not to be obvious. He had joined the three men gathered around Barbara Raymond, and she gave him a welcoming smile.
“I heard she’s from L.A.,” Monica said. “Pretty enough, I suppose.”
“Gorgeous,” Rosalie said. “If you like that type.”
“Her haircut is really cute,” said one of the others. “We aren’t the ones to judge, but she certainly attracts a lot of male attention. What do you say, Rick?”
Rick, put on the spot as the only man at the table, didn’t hesitate. “She’s too beautiful,” he said. “Women like that are nothing but trouble.”
“Ah, you knew that was what we wanted to hear,” Monica said, laughing.
He shrugged and turned his back on Barbara Raymond. Jenna, who had thought he sounded perfectly serious, found herself meeting his eyes as the other women discussed Barbara’s dress and shoes with great relish.
“Rosalie tells me you made her kitchen cabinets,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“They’re beautiful. I wish I could afford something like that.”
“You could make better use of the space in your kitchen,” he agreed. “If you like, I could measure and see what we could work out.”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” she protested. She was afraid she was committing herself to something she couldn’t afford, and for what? To make conversation with a man whose silence made her uneasy? Why? He was handsome, in a stern, off-putting way, but she had seen his tenderness with Danny and knew he was no ogre. She groped for another topic of conversation, but the weather was trite, the war had proved dangerous, and she knew nothing about him except his work. What could she ask about his work that wouldn’t end up costing her money? “Oh, I meant to tell you the roof didn’t leak at all in this last rain.”
“Danny put your drawing up in his room,” he said. “It was very nice of you to give it to him.”
“He said he prefers trucks, though,” she said and won a faint smile in return.
“Preferring trucks to boats is heresy around here,” Monica put in, not having heard the context.
Aha, something she could ask him about. “Do you ever repair boats?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s a different kind of work.”
His indifferent tone made her ask, “Did you grow up around here?”
“No,” he said. “Los Angeles.”
That surprised her. He was more of an outsider than she was. “It’s a lot different here,” she said.
“Quieter,” he agreed.
She could think of nothing else to say, but Rosalie rescued her by pointing out that he wasn’t eating. “You’d better get in line before they run out,” she said. “Everything is delicious.”
“Violet never runs out,” he said, but he got up and headed in the direction of the food.
“The beans are terrific,” Jenna said. “What does she put in them?”
“The recipe is a secret,” Monica said. “Molasses I’m pretty sure of, but I’ve never been able to duplicate it.”
“Monica is an excellent cook too,” Rosalie said. “Her pumpkin pie is to die for.”
Monica waved a dismissive hand. “Anybody can make pumpkin pie,” she said.
Jenna, who bought hers frozen, wondered if Patrick’s new girlfriend could cook and if he would have stayed if she could make to-die-for pumpkin pie and baked beans like Violet’s. A second later she decided she didn’t care—or she wouldn’t care. Would she have met women as genuine as these in Patrick’s circle of friends?
Rick returned with a modest helping of ribs and beans. Apparently he hadn’t come for the food. He had no sooner sat down than Danny came running and climbed up beside him. The game was breaking up as hungry kids headed for the chow line. Danny leaned against Rick and smiled shyly at Jenna across the table.
“How’s your knee?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. He stretched a hand toward his father’s plate, and Rick shook his head.
“Get your own,” he said.
Danny looked toward the food tables, where some of the older children were jostling and laughing. “Come on,” Jenna said on a sudden impulse. “I want more pineapple.” She picked up her plate. Danny ran to join her and took her free hand with a confidence that surprised and charmed her. They joined the line, and Danny very quickly had a plate filled high with every variety of food available. He was obviously not a picky eater.
Violet, hovering over the grills, caught Jenna’s eye and called, “Save room for dessert, now!”
“Dessert!” she exclaimed. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Danny laughed, delighted, as if he’d never heard the expression before. They returned to the table, and he dug in at once, with little regard for neatness or manners. Rick ruffled Danny’s hair and said, “Thank you,” to Jenna with more warmth than the occasion called for.
She almost said the outsiders needed to stick together, but she hadn’t been made to feel like an outsider and didn’t know him well enough to guess what he felt. He was certainly more a part of the community than Barbara Raymond, who was now eating daintily at a distant table, surrounded by admiring males.
Dessert proved to be chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. “We are in heaven,” she told Danny after one bite. He grinned, but didn’t finish his. Violet had started organizing games, and he was eager to join one of the children’s races. Rick hung on to his arm long enough to get most of the chocolate and raspberry off his face before he let him go. He hadn’t taken any dessert and shoved Danny’s unfinished portion aside indifferently.
“Why don’t you finish it?” she ask
ed. “It’s delicious.”
“I don’t like chocolate,” he said.
“Heathen,” she said at once. “Philistine.”
The other women immediately chorused agreement with her, but it was to Jenna he gave his rare, dazzling smile. She felt as if she’d been blinded, but continued the joke by handing him a spoon. He good-naturedly sampled the sauce, but his verdict went unstated, as Violet chose that moment to announce the first race and the promised prizes.
Rick stayed at the table and watched until Danny won a large red balloon as third prize in the sack race, and then she didn’t see him again for more than an hour. Not that she was looking for him.
After the games the musicians warmed up, and square dancing began. She didn’t know how but caught on soon enough when first Mike Hayes and then Jim Kelly asked her to dance. They were both married, which didn’t seem to matter at all in this gathering. Everyone danced with everyone else with no apparent jealousy or favoritism, although she did notice Larry watching with a sulky expression while Barbara Raymond do-si-doed with his father.
When she was tired of dancing, Rosalie suggested a game of cards. Jenna had never played canasta, but she picked it up quickly and enjoyed the friendly rivalry. Monica was the best player—Jenna began to think she was the best at everything—but they all had a good time, talking and laughing and scoring points.
The cards had been laid aside, and they were talking casually when Rick Alvarez reappeared with Danny asleep on his shoulder. “Aww,” Monica said, and her hand rested lightly on Danny’s hair. “Somebody’s had too much fun.”
“He loves to come here,” Rick said. He glanced at Jenna, and she knew she should contribute to the conversation, but there was still something intimidating about him.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked and flushed at how blunt it sounded.
He gave her a curious look. “Mostly,” he said. “Did you come for the food or to get acquainted with everyone?”
“Both,” she told him. “The food was great, and I made a lot of new friends.”
“Good,” he said and nothing more, his expression as closed and forbidding as she had yet seen. He shifted Danny’s weight, raised a hand in farewell to Monica, and turned to go.
“Good night,” Monica called, and Jenna echoed her, feeling stupid.
The party was still going on when she made her excuses and headed home. It had been a good day, but she was tired. She swung into her own driveway with a strong sense of relief and homecoming.
She was a little afraid the stimulation of the party would make it hard to sleep, but after she had a quiet hour with a book and a cup of hot cocoa, she slept as deeply and peacefully as she ever had in her life.
Chapter Four
Sunday, February 17: U.S. and Iraqi troops clash in seven incidents along Saudi-Kuwait border.
Jenna woke up early to a crisply beautiful morning, took her steaming coffee and her sketchbook, and walked down the hill toward the harbor. The view was gorgeous. She sat on a rock and started trying to capture it. She was good at buildings and quickly sketched the pier and the boats and the suggestion of clouds in the sky, but the ocean was beyond her skills. It was beautiful in the early morning light, changeable and alive, its color as deep and dazzling as she had ever seen.
She caught her breath at the sheer beauty of it and reflected that if she had still been married to Patrick she would have missed this. If she had been married to anyone, she would be at home making his breakfast. She might have children like Danny or Nancy, but she wouldn’t have this incredible view. Unless she was married to a man with the sensibility of an artist, who would admire the ocean with her—and no, she wasn’t thinking of anybody in particular.
A single boat was visible on the horizon, the only sign anyone else was awake. It was Sunday, and even the fishermen were sleeping late. She enjoyed the peace and quiet for about twenty minutes before she noticed a stir down below.
Two men stood near the edge of the trees, looking down into the water. She couldn’t see them clearly, but they seemed to be searching for something. She was both curious and resentful of the intrusion. The sound of their voices drifted up to her.
Her quiet interlude ended, she got up and returned to the house. The salt air had given her an appetite, and she made bacon and French toast and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice. Her kitchen was as peaceful as the harbor had been—until she heard a clatter outside.
She opened the front door, a little apprehensive, but the noise was only Nancy Hayes dragging a stick behind her along the stepping stones. Jenna went out on the porch to greet her.
“H’lo, Miss Scott.” She sounded unusually subdued.
“Good morning. Did you come to visit me?”
“Uh-huh.” She stood for a moment, digging the stick into the grass, before she said glumly, “Mom and Dad had a fight.”
“I’m sorry. Have you had breakfast?”
Nancy considered the question as if it had unsuspected pitfalls. “Oatmeal,” she said at last. She twisted a lock of her hair around one finger and gazed hopefully at Jenna.
“Come on in,” she said, amused. “I’ll make more bacon and French toast.”
Nancy cheered up a bit. “Do you have maple syrup?” she asked.
“No,” Jenna admitted, “But I have raspberry jam.”
Nancy let the stick drop and followed her up the steps and into the kitchen. She picked up a piece of bacon, took a bite, and then looked guiltily at Jenna.
Jenna had to laugh. “You might as well go ahead and finish my breakfast,” she said. “It will only get cold.” She started a fresh batch, but she wondered if she ought to feed another woman’s child behind her back. If she were Rosalie, what would she want her to do? She had said not to let her be a pest. “Does your mom know you’re here?” she asked.
“No,” Nancy managed to say with her mouth full of French toast. “They went to church.”
“You didn’t go with them?”
“I wouldn’t. I hate it when they fight and then pretend everything’s okay.”
“Mm,” said Jenna, trying to sound sympathetic and not at all curious. “What about Larry—is he home?” Was Nancy old enough to be home alone? Perhaps in a small town like San Ignacio.
Nancy snorted. “He went to church. He always goes. Heather goes, so—duh!”
“Well, Heather seems like a nice girl. I can see why he likes her.”
“He lo-o-o-o-o-ves her,” Nancy corrected. “Yuck!”
“Just wait. You won’t always think love is yucky.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she had taken the conversation in the wrong direction.
“Do you have a b-o-o-o-y friend?” Nancy asked, and before she could answer, “Is there any more orange juice?”
“In the refrigerator,” Jenna said and almost held her breath while Nancy poured juice and gulped it down. But she hadn’t forgotten…
“Do you?” she asked.
“Do I what? Do you like your bacon crisp?”
“Yes. Yum, I love bacon. Are you a good cook?”
“Not very,” Jenna admitted.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I only moved into town six days ago, remember?”
“But did you before that?”
“Oh, lots of them,” Jenna said, keeping her tone light. “Haven’t you ever liked a boy?”
Nancy started to shake her head and then said softly, “One.”
“Aha. I knew you were a romantic at heart.”
“I never wanted to kiss him,” Nancy said indignantly.
“Of course not. You have plenty of time for that.” Before she could say anything more, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel out front. “See who it is,” she said. She began laying hot, crisp strips of bacon on a paper towel.
Nancy got up, ran to the front window, and then skipped right back and sat down. “Danny’s father,” she said and grabbed for the raspberry jam.
Jenn
a finished what she was doing before she reluctantly opened the front door. She couldn’t remember what had been said at the barbecue. He had said something about the cabinets, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t asked him to come by on Sunday morning to discuss them. Small town or not, this was a bit much, especially when he had been barely civil when he left the party.
She stood on the porch and waited while he got out of the pickup. She was cross enough to demand, “What are you doing here?” but waited for him to speak first.
“Morning,” he said. He was wearing his tool belt.
“Hi,” she said coolly.
“Looks good,” he said, gesturing at the shorn grass.
“Where’s Danny?”
“Sunday school,” he said. “I thought I could measure your kitchen before I have to pick him up.” He seemed perfectly at ease and confident, but when she didn’t respond, he slowed and added, “If it’s convenient.”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m cooking breakfast. But as long you’re here…” She turned and went back to the kitchen. He followed, saying nothing and again letting the screen door slam, which was starting to get on her nerves.
“Hi,” Nancy said. “Miss Scott makes great French toast. Want some?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll just—” He held up a measuring tape. Jenna said nothing.
There was an awkward silence before Nancy said, “We were talking about boys.”
“Ah,” said Rick and started measuring the cupboards.
“I’m a romantic at heart,” Nancy informed him.
“Good for you,” he said.
“Are you?”
“No, probably not,” he said, sounding a bit absentminded. He stretched toward the cupboard above the stove just as Jenna turned to get a plate, and they almost collided. “Sorry,” he said and backed up to let her pass. Nancy giggled, and Jenna knew they had exchanged a look behind her back.
She slid more bacon onto the girl’s plate and sat down to eat. She wished he would leave—he had declined food for himself, and breakfast was not a spectator sport. Living here, she would need to learn the fine art of setting boundaries she had taken for granted in the city.
Seventeen Days Page 4