“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll make you a decent breakfast. I’m out of bacon, but I have sausage.” She opened the refrigerator and took out eggs and milk.
“Jenna,” he said, “I’m really sorry I said all that to you last night. There was no need for me to tell you the ugly details.”
She set the food on the counter and faced him. “That’s what you’re sorry about?” she asked.
“Unless you’re planning to make me sorry about something else,” he said coolly. Sorry if I was out of line. But this time she had made the first move, and he had asked if she wanted to stop. He had availed himself of what she had offered, nothing more.
She returned to the refrigerator for bread and sausage. She put the sausage in her grandmother’s cast iron skillet and lit the burner. She was glad to have a job to keep her hands occupied, an excuse not to look at him, but she also felt a certain pleasure in the simple task of giving him something to eat, engaging in ordinary domestic details on his behalf, like any other foolish, unliberated woman. She knew breakfast was her culinary strong suit.
The sizzle of browning sausage filled a silence that had gone on too long. Were they going to address the elephant in the room or not? She wouldn’t say anything unless he did, and apparently he wasn’t going to. He had mentioned the story he had told her last night, so she asked, “When was she killed—your wife?”
“Three years ago.”
“Right before you moved here? What happened to the men who did it?” She was opposed to the death penalty, but open to making exceptions. Why was she asking for more details, when he had just apologized for what he’d already said?
“They made a plea bargain to avoid execution. Life, no possibility of parole. So we were spared a trial.”
“Better for everyone,” she agreed. “And then you and Danny came here?”
“I wasn’t running away,” he said. “I was trying to change our life for the better.”
“What can I say?” she asked. “I was running away when I came here. But if I were you, my first instinct would be to move somewhere where there were no people like them.”
“I did,” he said and added, reluctantly, “or I thought I did.”
“No,” she said, “I meant…”
It took him a second. “Oh, you mean people who look like them? No, that was the mistake they made.”
It was a gentle reproof, but Jenna blushed. She cracked eggs and began to beat them. “So now what?” she asked.
“Maybe Danny’s right,” he said. “Maybe I should marry you.”
“What, for my French toast?” she joked, but no, he was serious. “Oh, Rick, to make an honest woman of me? It’s 1991,” she reminded him. And yet, as little as she knew him, as little as she wanted to be married to anyone ever again, as bruised as she still was by Patrick’s desertion, she could imagine herself willingly, recklessly giving herself, body, heart, and soul, to this handsome stranger. Why? “I don’t even know you,” she said. “Anyway, technically I’m still married. My divorce isn’t final yet.”
“Oh!” She understood his surprise. As far as she knew, nobody in San Ignacio was aware of her marital status. She hoped he wasn’t Catholic enough to believe they had committed adultery. While he absorbed the news, she made a decision to tell him her most humiliating truth.
“My husband left me,” she said.
“Why?” he asked without hesitation. “Is he an idiot?”
Jenna laughed, and oh, it was good to laugh like that again. No matter what happened afterward—if he left town, spoke of this in hurtful ways, spread rumors about her, ignored her, lied to her, gave her a disease, hit her, got her pregnant, cheated on her, broke her heart, proved to have murdered Barbara Raymond—she knew she would always be grateful to him for this moment.
“I guess so,” she said. “He left me for a skinny blonde girl younger than me.”
“Younger than you? You’re what—twenty?”
“Twenty-five.” Flatterer. Or was that a comment on how little she had learned from Patrick?
“Definitely an idiot,” he said. She looked at him, laughing, and he responded with his dazzling smile.
“That’s better,” she said. “So where do we go from here?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “Wherever you want to go. Would you like me to break your husband’s neck?”
She laughed again. “No, better not. I’m not really this kind of girl, I’ll have you know. We got carried away last night, but nobody’s marrying anybody here. They say trying to rush a relationship is one of the signs of an abuser, and I don’t want to go from a cheater to an abuser.”
“An abuser?” Apparently that stung, but he said, “Okay, whatever you want. If you need me to back off, I will.”
“What about you? Considering what happened, three years is not a long time to grieve.”
“I’m still grieving,” he said matter-of-factly, “but life goes on.”
“Yes, it does,” she said, “and in case you were wondering, last night was…” She hesitated, lest she be the one to spoil it with words, and settled on “perfect.”
“You like dangerous men,” he suggested.
“Are you dangerous?”
“Ask Barbara Raymond,” he said. “You didn’t like me at all until you thought I killed her.”
“I never thought you killed her.” At least not in daylight. “I didn’t like you because you scared the hell out of me. You still do. If I hadn’t seen the way you were with Danny, I would have had you arrested for sexual assault when you kissed me.”
“Well, thank God for Danny,” he said. “But you still don’t trust me?”
She didn’t. She didn’t know if she would ever trust him, if she would ever again completely trust any man, but for the first time since Patrick’s betrayal, she wanted to try.
“You don’t believe I murdered anyone?” he asked. “But you’re afraid I’ll—what, break your heart?”
“Will you?”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If I do, you have my permission to shoot me.”
“I don’t have a gun,” she said.
“I’ll buy you one. When’s your birthday?”
Jenna laughed. Who would have guessed this man, who had seemed so grim and forbidding to her at first, would turn out to be someone who could make her laugh? At the risk of too serious a discussion, she asked, “Were you a good husband?”
“You’d have to ask her,” he said and sobered. “I didn’t cheat, but I never took her to Paris.”
“Paris is overrated,” she said. “I’m sure you kept the house in good repair.”
“We lived in an apartment. I painted the nursery—Danny’s room. She wanted turquoise, but I drew the line.” She heard a trace of wistfulness in his voice, as if he wanted to take back the refusal. “And then…I wasn’t there when she needed me most.” He spoke with simple regret. He would never forgive the bastards who had killed her, but perhaps he had forgiven himself.
“Where were you?” She was a little ashamed of her curiosity.
“I was at home. I was with Danny. She had an evening class. If I had driven her to school and picked her up…I told her to always park under the lights.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t dwell on that. I have better memories.”
“How long were you married?”
“Six years.”
“Did you remember your anniversaries?”
“Every one, but I don’t deserve much credit. We got married on the Fourth of July.”
“Oh, that was clever. Does Danny remember her?” She set a plate of sausage and French toast in front of him.
“Yes. I’m not sure how much.”
She poured the coffee and sat down across from him. “Tell me about her,” she urged. She is not my rival, she reminded herself. She gave him Danny. She taught him how to love. He had said she was strong and beautiful—why, then, would he be attracted to somebody as unexceptional as Jenna Scott?
“She
—her name was Celia.” He gave it a very Spanish pronunciation: SAY-lee-ah.
There, she thought, all anybody had to do was ask about her.
“She was very smart. She was a terrific mom. She was like Danny—mostly sunny.”
“Not prickly like me?”
“She’s gone, Jenna. This is a different chapter.” So no comparisons were to be made? “What about your husband?” he asked.
“Ex-husband. Patrick. Patrick Callahan. He’s a jerk,” she said, adding with a sudden rush of understanding, “He’s a silly, stupid boy. He’s not important. He didn’t deserve me.”
“Obviously not. You didn’t take his name?”
“I didn’t keep it,” she said, and an image flashed unbidden in her mind: Jenna Alvarez.
“This is very good,” he said. “Did you put cinnamon in it?” Oh, yes, breakfast. She was forgetting to eat.
“Yes, a little cinnamon. Do you want orange juice?”
He didn’t.
Presently she remembered something else. “Are you planning to leave town—because of the rumors?”
“No,” he said grimly. “Not unless I can’t make a living,” which of course was a real possibility.
“Good,” she said. “Because my house still needs painting.”
“Oh, yes, sure,” he said. “I can finish the trim today.”
“Not dressed like that,” she said. “You don’t want to get paint on your shirt.”
“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking about work this morning. I’ll go home and change.”
“You’re not very professional,” she chided. “You never even gave me an estimate.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t want to give you an excuse to change your mind.”
“What about the discount? Did you make up the story about owing my grandfather?”
“I don’t make things up,” he said.
“So…why did you owe him?” She expected a story about how her grandfather helped him out in the beginning by loaning him money or making referrals for him.
“He left the house to his granddaughter,” he said.
“You mean—instead of developers or undesirable outsiders?”
“No, I mean to you.”
She was a little slow on the uptake. “Oh, and I’m so irresistible,” she said.
“Something like that,” he agreed.
“Seriously, Rick…”
“Seriously, Jenna.”
She felt her neck and ears get hot. “You might have asked me out.”
“You were a little standoffish,” he pointed out. “I didn’t think you’d want to go out with the hired help.”
“You’re not hired help. You’re an independent contractor.”
“Jack of all trades,” he said. “Master of none.”
“I beg to differ,” she said and blushed again.
When they had finished eating, she got up to put the dishes in the sink, and he got up too. Was he ready to leave? He carried the empty coffee cups to the counter and put his hand on the back of her neck. Jenna dropped a fork in the sink with a loud clatter. Was this his idea of backing off? He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, a spot he had missed last night. “Behave yourself, Enrique,” she said. He pulled her into his arms. “Does anyone call you that?” she asked.
“Not here,” he said and kissed her forehead.
“But in L.A.? Did your wife?” She closed her eyes, giving in to a rising tide of feeling.
“Yes.” He kissed her closed eyelids.
“So would you rather I didn’t?” she asked.
“You can call me anything you like,” he said. “Just shut up when I’m trying to kiss you.” No, he wasn’t leaving yet.
He kissed her mouth, not aggressively but sweetly and as thoroughly as she had ever been kissed. It took a while. When she could breathe, she said, “Anybody ever tell you you’re a great kisser?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Barbara Raymond.”
“Not funny,” she said, but she laughed anyway. “Am I going to be able to get any work done today?” she asked. “I do have a deadline.”
“Not right now,” he said. He undid the top button of the blouse she had chosen for him. “This is very pretty,” he said, touching the fabric, touching her.
“What if someone comes?” Nancy was safely in school. Considering the rumors, would Rosalie barge in if she saw the pickup?
“Lock the door,” he said.
In the bedroom, as he undid the pearl buttons—and there were a lot of them—she complained, “I just put this on.”
“Sorry,” he said, laughing. It was a lovely beginning, laughter. They were friends now, not strangers. They knew each other’s secrets and had room for playfulness.
The eerie moonlight and shadows of the night before had been replaced by bright sunlight. She knew her every flaw must be revealed, but he touched her with his gaze and his hands with something so like reverence that self-consciousness vanished. He made her feel beautiful, cherished. He was beautiful: his smiling eyes, his capable hands, his warm brown skin…
“Breathe, Jenna,” he said teasingly, the intent silence of last night only a haunting memory. “Tell me what you like,” he urged, although he certainly wasn’t waiting for instructions.
It was just as before, in all the best ways, and it was completely different.
****
Rick was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, putting on his boots, with Jenna propped up against the pillows behind him, when he spotted the small carving on the bedside table. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
She ran her hand down his back and kissed his shoulder. She was on the edge of something that felt like hope. “I bought it from Megan,” she said.
“When?”
“Friday. Right after I heard the rumors.”
“Damn!” He leaned back to give her a kiss. “You are something, Jenna Scott.”
He picked up the carving, and she took it out of his hand. She ran a finger along the gentle curve of the kitten’s back. “It’s lovely,” she said. “It’s so real; you must have taken it from life. Do you have a cat?” She knew nothing about him. She had never even been inside his house. She had been too self-involved to learn the first thing about him.
“Danny has a cat,” he said, watching her stroke the smooth wood. “Or the cat has Danny. She comes and goes as she pleases.”
She liked that. “Does she have a name?”
“Danny named her Señorita. His mom was teaching him Spanish.”
Okay, she had been curious about one or two things. “Is that why you don’t want him to speak it?”
“I never said I didn’t,” he said, surprised. “I’d like him to be bilingual. We—”
“When you worked on the roof,” she reminded him.
“What? Oh, no, I just wanted him to remember to use English with—”
“Stupid Anglo women?”
He gave her a look, not quite amused, not quite disapproving. “—people who might not understand Spanish. And you were so scornful with ‘This is California, Mr. Alvarez.’ Like I said, irresistible.”
“You just like a challenge,” she said.
****
Eventually they had to return to the real world. Rick was heading home to change into his painting clothes, and she went out on the porch with him, her fingers linked in his. It was a nice day, sunny and only a little bit cold.
He stopped abruptly and let go of her hand. He gestured wordlessly toward the pickup. The tailgate was down, which it surely hadn’t been when he came in. He strode quickly to the turnaround, Jenna trailing behind. Bright spots of green paint dotted the gravel. One of the cans in the pickup bed was open, a brush protruding from the top.
He walked around to the driver’s side, and she followed. Painted across the full length of the pickup, in large dark green letters against the gray metal, was a single word:
KILLER
Jenna gasped. “Should I call the police?” she a
sked.
“No,” he said. “Go in the house and lock the door.”
“Why?” she asked.
“We didn’t hear a car. Whoever did this might have been on foot. He might still be around.”
She shook her head. “We might not have heard the car, and this is the act of a coward. I’m not afraid.” She was, though. Who would have done such a thing? Was this a childish prank, the senseless act of a hatemonger, or perhaps the murderer, trying to throw further suspicion on Rick?
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t be long.” He closed the tailgate and handed her the open can of paint. She held the handle gingerly—wouldn’t there be fingerprints? He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her, and for the first time she understood that this was serious, that he meant their connection to be real. Lovemaking, however skillful, however deeply felt, couldn’t promise as much as this casual, possessive, half-distracted goodbye kiss.
Her eyes stung with tears. “What are you going to do?” she asked, gesturing at the defaced pickup.
“I think I’ll keep it,” he said. “I like it,” but he got into the cab and slammed the door hard.
While he was gone, Jenna retrieved her sketchbook and studied the drawing she had made—was it only eight days ago?—when she sat on the porch while he showed Nancy how to scrape paint. It was a very poor likeness. She knew she could never do him justice in any case. What had bothered her about his face when she drew this? Whatever it was, she couldn’t see it now. Hadn’t she thought his nose was too wide? It wasn’t, of course; it was perfect—and he didn’t go around sticking it into other people’s business!
He drove back about ten minutes later. He parked the pickup as he had before, with the ugly word facing the road. He was wearing his paint-spattered white clothing and set immediately to work arranging drop cloths and putting up the ladder. Jenna went out to give him the open can of paint. If he didn’t plan to go to the police, the fingerprints didn’t matter. “You’re not really going to leave it like that?” she asked.
He was squeezing paint from the brush against the inside of the can and didn’t look up. “It’s only paint,” he said. “Sticks and stones.”
“But Danny,” she said. “Won’t he be upset?”
He hesitated, as if he meant to wear the word as a badge of honor and was reluctant to give it up. “Yes,” he said finally. “I can probably get it off, but it will take a while. I’ll paint over it before I pick him up. Kids change your whole world, you know?”
Seventeen Days Page 10