Larry, still sullen, slouched back and lifted the bicycle off the rack and started pushing it up the hill. Rosalie, poised to follow, said, “Thank you, Rick. We’ll take care of having the pickup repainted. If there’s anything else I can do…”
“Try not listening to gossip,” he said.
Rosalie, hurrying to catch up, was reading Larry the riot act. “I’m going to wring your neck!”
The police car pulled out, and Rick and Jenna went back to sit on the porch. She felt extremely fragile and was afraid she would disgrace herself by bursting into tears in front of him. What would he do if she did? Patrick had always hated it. What did Rick do when Danny cried? Regardless of who had killed Barbara Raymond, she had inadvertently set in motion this chain of events, which, she reminded herself, included the comfort they had taken in each other’s arms.
Rick understood. She put her head on his shoulder, and he put his arm around her and kissed her temple, and when tears began, he brushed them away. “Not your fault,” he murmured. Yes, Larry was responsible for his own actions, but still—she might have considered the consequences before she spoke so harshly to him. Now what might have been his first sexual experience would be forever linked to tragedy.
“Do you think he was right?” she asked. “The murderer was jealous because she was with him?”
“Maybe.”
“Larry hates me,” she said dismally. “Maybe the whole family. It’s not going to be comfortable living next door.”
“Come on,” he said. He stood up and took her hand to pull her up beside him. “Show me your work.”
It would not have occurred to her, but he was right. It would help her to focus on something positive, somewhere she had not failed. They went inside, and she laid out sheets for his inspection.
“These are amazing, Jenna,” he said and asked intelligent questions to prove it wasn’t idle flattery. “Do you have a degree?”
“MFA,” she said. “But this is all just technical skill.”
“Just?” he said. “The important thing is—do you enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. Yes. When you’re not distracting me—you know, climbing around on my roof, taking your shirt off in my yard.”
“Man, you are tough!” he said.
“But I wish I were better at the creative stuff.”
“I liked the portrait you did of Nancy,” he said.
“Thank you.” Because he’d been so nice to her, she dug out her sketchbook and showed him the one she had done of him.
“Oh, ugh,” he said, and they both laughed. He did know how to make her feel better.
They went back out on the porch, and when they had exhausted the subject of the still unknown murderer, told each other some of the things they needed to know if they were to have a future together.
He had never smoked, and although he had nothing against a beer or two on social occasions, he hadn’t had one since Danny was born. He wasn’t a gambler—very little money changed hands at the San Ignacio poker games—but he was a pretty good card player.
“I knew that one,” she said. “Great poker face.”
She already knew he was a loving father, punctual, and a hard worker. In short, he had no vices, no faults, unless she counted the baffling refusal to have a telephone, the inability to resist the urge to kiss Bill Scott’s granddaughter, and of course his cardinal failing—he didn’t like chocolate.
“What can I tell you?” he said. “I’m a pretty boring guy.”
He was a lapsed Catholic and sometimes attended San Ignacio’s nondenominational Protestant church. He was a registered independent voter with Democratic leanings. Most of his ancestors were from northern Mexico, but his family had been in the United States longer than hers. He had recently turned thirty-four, so she had missed his birthday. He rooted for the Los Angeles Dodgers but wouldn’t hold it against Jenna that her father was a Yankees fan.
He didn’t miss teaching; his present work suited him better. His mother didn’t want him to waste his education, but he didn’t feel it was wasted.
“Education is never wasted,” she put in.
His parents still lived in Los Angeles.
“And you never call them,” she said.
“I write letters, Jenna.”
“Are you going to tell them about me?”
“I already have.”
“Did you tell them I…have red hair?”
“Auburn,” he corrected. Oh! Was that what that was about?
“So they know I’m not Latina?”
“I think they’ll figure it out, yeah.”
“Congratulate them for me. They did a good job on you.”
“Well, thank you, but my mother would have given me hell about that first kiss.”
“As well she should. I’d like to hear that—your mother giving you hell. What would she say?”
He considered. “Enrique Carlos Alvarez! Ask for what you want. Don’t just take!” The words were unaccented, but carried a subtle hint of Spanish lilt. “May I kiss you, Miss Scott?”
“Certainly not!” she said. “What would you have done if I had slapped you?”
He shook his head. “It would have been a little hard to explain to Danny. I’m sure you would have left a mark.”
“You wouldn’t have hit me back?”
“No! My God—were you really afraid of me?”
“You are stronger than I am.”
“You stood up to me, though. I am so sorry, Jenna.”
“All is forgiven,” she said and kissed him to prove it.
He took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. “Did it ever occur to you I might be afraid of you?”
“No, never. You always seemed so sure of yourself… Were you?”
“I was.”
“Why?” She couldn’t imagine.
“Porque eres una mujer tan bella y tan feroz…” Her high school Spanish was up to the challenge, but he couldn’t have known that.
“You wouldn’t even let Danny say gracias to me and now—what? You don’t have the nerve to say ‘beautiful’ to my face?” He was smiling, amused. “Oh, stop smirking! You know you like it when I’m fierce. That never scared you. You were just afraid I’d get you in trouble.”
“No, I was afraid you were too much for me to handle.”
“That’s exactly how I felt!”
“And then I was afraid I’d blown whatever chance I had with you.”
“You came pretty close, Enrique Carlos… Did your mother give you that beautiful name?”
“I was named after my grandfathers. Danny was too—Daniel is Celia’s father’s name.”
She wondered if he realized how often he brought the conversation back to his pride and joy. “What about your father?”
“Martín,” he said, giving the name all its Spanish flavor. “Daniel Martín—it works in either language. He’s a great guy, my dad.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a carpenter. A very good one. You should have seen the crib he made for Danny.”
“Ah—that’s where you learned those skills…and how to treat women?”
“I’m sorry!”
Jenna squeezed his hand. “Your honor, the defendant has demonstrated real remorse. I recommend clemency.”
“Thank you. Who were you named after?”
“Nobody. My mother found it in a book. Your family is far more interesting than mine. Tell me more.”
He had a firefighter brother—“I won’t introduce you; you might like him better than me”—and a sister and didn’t want Danny to be an only child. He and Celia had been trying for a girl, but although he remembered every word of the confession, he hadn’t wanted to see the autopsy results and didn’t know if she was pregnant when she died.
“Oh, Rick, that’s so sad,” she said, leaning into him. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t seem to be damaged, scarred by the devastating loss he had suffered. What was the source of his strength? Faith, character, upbringin
g, work? No, her money was on Danny.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to having such a sympathetic listener. Now it’s your turn.”
Patrick was attractive, in a boyish, black-Irish kind of way. He tended to forget anniversaries but always remembered to pay the bills. He worked long hours, and she hadn’t suspected the real reason—until he called her by his assistant’s name in bed.
“Stupid bastard,” Rick said with feeling. “I hope you decked him.”
“No, but I threw a few things. He told me I was crazy and he was leaving me for her.”
He shook his head. “Were you happy before you found out?”
“I thought I was—or should be.”
“Did you want children?”
“Yes, I did, and he said he did, but we agreed to wait a few years, to be sure we were okay financially. I wouldn’t have waited much longer. Now Iris, his assistant—she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, Jenna! That must have hurt.”
“It did, but now I feel sorry for her. She’s stuck with him.”
“Did you take him to the cleaners?”
“No, all I’m getting is clear title to this place—and my self-respect.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I didn’t want fair. I wanted it to be over.”
“When will the divorce be final?”
“March—oh, it’s next week.”
“Well, that’s not so bad.” He sounded relieved. Catholic guilt? Or was he afraid Patrick would want her back? “Are you going to celebrate?”
“No, I’m going to ignore the occasion. I’m done.” Yes, now she really was.
Presently Rick said he had to do a few things before he picked up Danny and he should let her get some work done, and they parted with a kiss.
Not long after he left, Rosalie returned with fresh gossip and more apologies. “So,” she said, “You and Rick…?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She no longer cared whether Rosalie would repeat everything she said. Sticks and stones had done their worst. “You know, I meant to ask you, before these terrible rumors started, whether he had a reputation for…”
“He had a reputation for doing good work and keeping to himself. I always thought it was a terrible waste, but I guess he was waiting for the right one to come along.” It was a waste, Jenna agreed. It also made her feel a great weight of responsibility. Was she good enough, strong enough? Would she break his heart?
The latest news was that the boys who had been throwing rocks and accidentally broke a window had seen a car near the cabin. If someone had been there before the barbecue, it might or might not be relevant. Their description was vague, but the vehicle wasn’t Mrs. Raymond’s convertible and it was a car, not a pickup. Vince Allan was looking into it. As for the war coverage on TV, which at Rosalie’s was on all day now, the current situation was said to be “withdrawal by disintegration.”
“How’s Larry?” Jenna asked.
“He’ll survive,” Rosalie said. “Still spitting mad at you and Rick, though. He’ll apologize before I’m through with him. He’s grounded for the near future, and all his chore money will go to pay for the paint job. We didn’t raise our son to be a vandal. I think Mike was angrier about that than anything else. You know men and their macho pride. He didn’t even seem surprised about Mrs. Raymond. It was almost like he already knew.
“I’ll tell you the truth—I was a little bit relieved to know it was Larry who was with her. For a while I was wondering if it was Mike… I know I shouldn’t say this, and it’s just between you and me, but he is sort of a flirt, and it wouldn’t have been the first time he strayed. Don’t get me wrong—I love the man, and he’s been a good husband in every other way. He’s always been a good provider. He has a temper, but so do I. His flirting is the only thing we ever fight about.”
****
Not until much later, when she was getting ready for bed, did Jenna remember Nancy saying her parents had had a fight. She had refused to go to church with them because they had a fight and then pretended everything was all right. It would have been the same Sunday morning that the body had been found on the rocks, the morning after the barbecue. Had Mike and Rosalie been fighting because he flirted at the party, or because he was out late, perhaps with another woman?
Rosalie had said Mike wasn’t surprised, as if he had known about Larry and Mrs. Raymond, which didn’t necessarily mean he did know. If Larry had told him, wouldn’t he have told Rosalie and the police? Unless Larry had confided in him, man to man, on the condition that no one else would ever know. But promise or no promise, would he have withheld the information when his son was missing?
If Larry hadn’t told him, how could he have known? Could a witness have seen Larry there? Who could have told Mike? Nobody else could know what happened.
Except Barbara Raymond.
Something was wrong with her reasoning or Rosalie would have come to the same conclusion. If she even suspected such a thing, she wouldn’t have mentioned Mike’s flirting to Jenna. Surely it was by such idiotic reasoning that so many people had come to the conclusion that Rick had done it. Still…
She went resolutely to bed, wishing her neighbor had kept her marital problems to herself.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, February 27: President Bush declares suspension of offensive combat and lays out conditions for permanent ceasefire.
Jenna woke to the sound of rain on the roof. It was a sweet sound, rare enough to be fully appreciated, and she lay still and warm, savoring it. She was conscious of being alone, and yet she had someone in her life, someone of consequence. He was sending her mixed signals, though. He said he would back off—no, he said he would if she needed him to—and almost immediately took her to bed and then…backed off. Was it up to her to take the next step? Would she?
She had always subscribed to the romantic notion that she couldn’t help who she fell in love with, any more than she could keep from tripping and losing her balance. Now she saw clearly that it wasn’t true. She might not be able to choose the person she was attracted to, but people didn’t fall in love with everyone they were attracted to. She could trip and regain her balance. There was a space of time here in which she could actually make a decision—to resist the attraction, to draw back from the precipice, or to let go and fall—consciously, willingly, wholeheartedly—into love.
The rain was coming down hard now, blowing against the window. Now she remembered not only Rick’s comforting presence yesterday but the painful events of the day—Larry coming home in a police car and calling her “stuck-up bitch” and Rosalie confiding that Mike had been known to stray. From that she had somehow come to the conclusion that Mike had guilty knowledge of Barbara Raymond’s death. Which he kept from the police and went home and argued with his wife and to church the next morning with his family and behaved normally enough that nobody noticed?
Larry, meanwhile, was “sure mad at somebody” according to Nancy. She wanted to ask Rick’s opinion, but Rosalie had said the secret was between the two of them. She would not spread gossip.
Rain was still falling when she got up. She showered and dressed and made coffee and toast. Would she see Rick today? She wished he had a phone or she could ease him out of this small-town habit of not making definite plans. She should hope he wouldn’t come, that he would be too busy working, earning a living, that the rumors were fading and someone, Violet if nobody else, would hire him to do a substantial job. But she did want to see him. They had talked a lot yesterday, but her mind was full of a million questions she hadn’t thought to ask and some she wasn’t sure she could ask.
There was a loud knocking at the front door. She hadn’t heard the familiar crunch of tires on gravel, but the rain might have masked the sound. She hurried to the door. It was Nancy Hayes, sheltering under a large red umbrella, her pigtails askew.
“Miss Scott,” she said in an urgent whisper. “I’m not supposed to be here, but I had to
say goodbye. We’re going to stay with our Aunt Elaine, me and Larry. I mean Larry and I. Mom and Dad are fighting again. Everybody’s mad because Larry ran away, and he’s mad at you because he’s so stupid, and I don’t want to go, but I won’t have to do fractions, and Aunt Elaine is grouchy, but she has lots of books and she lets me read them. I’ll tell you all about them when I come back. Oh—and the boring old war is getting over.”
“Nancy!” yelled a furious voice, young and masculine, presumably Larry’s.
“Stupid!” said Nancy. “Bye, Miss Scott!” and she was gone, running into the rain.
She supposed Mike and Rosalie were wise to send the children away for a little while, and it would certainly be more comfortable for her without Larry’s seething anger next door. Nancy had been definite that only the two of them were going. Whatever Mike had known or done, he wasn’t running away.
A few minutes later she did hear the sound of the pickup in the driveway, muffled but recognizable. She went to the door. Rick was wearing a jacket but didn’t have an umbrella, and he ran up the steps to get out of the rain.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi—I just had a great idea. Where’s the—” He strode ahead of her into the kitchen, took the Scott Kitchen plan down from the wall, and spread it out on the table. “What if instead of this, we changed it so…” He groped for a pencil in his pocket, realized he didn’t have one, looked around the kitchen and finally at her.
“Good morning, Enrique,” she said.
“Oh, sorry, good morning. Do you have a pencil?”
Jenna wordlessly handed him a pencil and then asked, “Is this what you think about when we’re not together—my kitchen?”
“No, but this is what I do, Jenna. This is what I can give you.”
“You don’t have to give me anything,” she said.
“Okay, but give me a break here. It’s been a long time since I’ve done any courting.”
“Courting? That’s an old-fashioned word.”
“I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
“Which is not a bad thing,” she said. “Take off your jacket. You’re dripping.” He took it off, and she hung it from the shower rod in the bathroom. When she returned, he had altered the drawing, and yes, she could see it was better, but she couldn’t get as excited about it as he had. He was wearing a blue dress shirt, too nice to work in. “What are you dressed up for?” she asked.
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