Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  And there was a distance between them she didn't know how to bridge. They were the girls they had been and the women they had become, and due to one event out of their control, those women had drifted too far apart. Patty had been the fiery rebel. Tamara the soft hearted girl-next-door. And now?

  What did you expect, Tamara? And what is it that you want?

  She had no answers. She walked away.

  * * *

  Her hotel suite was large and luxurious. Patty had been right—she was very successful. Alone in Manhattan, she had become more than she probably would've been as Shawn's wife in Sedona.

  She didn't bother to turn on any lights. She stripped off her suit in the foyer and let bronze crepe de chine crumple to the floor. Her head was beginning to throb. Her left ankle and right wrist twinged even more than usual. She was in shape, she had a nice form, but she bypassed the mirror on her way to bed. On a night like tonight, she didn't want to see the jagged white scars covering so much of her stomach. The operation to remove her spleen and stop internal bleeding. The surgery to rebuild her pelvis.

  She collapsed onto the king-size bed, curled into a ball and hugged a pillow close. She should take a long, hot bath to ease tight muscles and sore joints. She was too tired.

  She found herself thinking of C.J., the way his thumb had brushed her cheek, how gentle his touch had been. How it had sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. He was probably at his bar now. The Ancient Mariner, he'd said. She pictured it as a comfortable kind of place with a traditional brass bar and lots of beer on tap. She bet he had a jukebox and it played rock 'n' roll or good country music. She imagined the people there laughed a lot and joked with one another good-naturedly. And C.J. grinned and flirted with the pretty waitresses and made everyone smile.

  You've seen too many episodes of "Cheers."

  She lay on her bed and replayed every second of his pulling her out of her Lexus.

  What if he had been there ten years ago? What if he had arrived and held her and saved her family?

  It didn't matter. What had happened, had happened. Her family and boyfriend had died. She had survived.

  And soon she would learn the truth. She would get justice for them. And maybe closure for herself?

  Her eyes drifted shut. Her fingers relaxed their grip on the pillow. She let sleep drift over her naked body like a blanket, and, as always, she tried to control the dreams.

  Shawn. The feel of his arms around her, the way he always made her feel so safe. The hushed reverence in his voice as he brushed her young cheek and whispered, "I love you, Tamara. More than anything. More than my own life."

  Hold me, hold me, hold me. Never let me go.

  But then he was gone, and she was alone beneath the Arizona night, twisted and ruined on the roadside. Hearing only crickets, no moaning, no begging, just the crickets.

  She was unable to move, unable to speak, trapped in the silence. Waiting and waiting and waiting. For someone to find them. Someone to help them. Someone to hold her and whisper soothing lies, because she could feel the blood seeping from her body and she knew that soon she would join her family in the unknown.

  No one came. No noise but the crickets. The sky so vast, the silence so deep. She was lost in it, sinking down deeper and deeper inside herself. While Shawn's hand, still clutched within her own, grew cold and stiff.

  Wake up, Tamara. Don't dream these dreams. Go back to the better moments. Remember the family you had. Dream of the life you've built.

  But as she tossed and turned on the king-size bed, she couldn't find the better days anymore. Shawn was too distant, a sweetness she'd journeyed too far from, and now she couldn't find her way back. His face was blocked from her, the memory of his touch barricaded away. She'd tried to recapture him, but found herself dreaming of Donald.

  His hand on her breast, his surgeon's fingers fine and precise. His voice muffled and hoarse as he peeled down her blouse. "You're beautiful. So beautiful."

  She let him touch her. She lay passive and unmoving while his hands brushed over her body. And she waited to feel anything. Relax, Tamara. Let yourself live. It's okay, it's okay. But she still didn't feel anything.

  His body labored over hers. She waited for it to end. And then he moaned and it was done and they both knew it wouldn't work out.

  Afterward, they lay side by side, not touching. She listened to the sound of his breathing as it returned to normal. She tried to summon any emotion for this man she'd dated for more than a year. He was intelligent. He was successful. He was patient. He was kind. Nine years after the accident, she still couldn't let anyone in. She still couldn't let herself feel. She was successful. She was strong. She was frigid.

  She said in the hushed darkness of his bedroom, "I'm sorry."

  "Maybe our relationship should take a break for a while."

  "Yes."

  "I'll call you…"

  "Of course."

  And then she knew the silence had won.

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "Mrs. Toketee? I'm Tamara Thompson, we spoke by phone, remember?"

  The old woman nodded her head. She looked at least seventy, and her features were weather-beaten and leathery from a lifetime beneath the harsh Arizona sun. An Indian, Mrs. Toketee had spent the last forty years living in this three-bedroom house with a yard filled with rusting automobile parts and a small menagerie of animals winding their ways underfoot. Her thick hair was the color of steel, and her figure had filled out generously. Around her neck, she wore a beautiful silver necklace bearing arrow-shaped pendants and red coral stones. Matching earrings and a bracelet completed the set. The silver was very shiny, giving Tamara the impression that this was nice jewelry brought out only for special occasions.

  Now Mrs. Toketee wiped her hands on the flour-covered apron tied around her waist and beckoned Tamara inside. Her house was old, and it wasn't large, but its expanse of bay windows captured the endless Arizona sky and gave the illusion of space. The sun would set in an hour, and the soaring red rocks were just beginning to deepen to a dark ruby. Through these windows, the winding road that had claimed Tamara's family was nearly visible.

  Tamara forced her gaze from the view. Carved out of wood and painted with vibrant vegetable dyes, kachina dolls loomed in every corner. Some were ogres, ugly little demons with hideous animal faces and human bodies. As a child, Tamara had been warned that ogre kachinas ate disobedient kids. Certainly, she'd gone to bed every night right on time and never uttered a bad word.

  A gray tabby rubbed against Tamara's leg, startling her.

  "Don't mind Cecil." Mrs. Toketee clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the cat. "You think you are the best cat, the king of animals." She scratched the tabby's ears with genuine affection. "Don't you, don't you?" she chastised.

  "It's okay. I like cats."

  "Cats are good. Keep away mice and rats. You want coffee?"

  "No, thank you. I'm fine."

  "I made bread."

  Tamara was about to politely decline, but then she saw the hopeful look on Mrs. Toketee's face. She smiled softly. "Bread would be nice."

  Mrs. Toketee's face crinkled into a toothless grin. "Zucchini bread, healthy stuff. My daughter sends me recipes. She worries about my health. I don't get visitors often."

  "You have a beautiful home."

  "Too cluttered. Too many things. You never realize how old you are until you look around and see so many things. I keep meaning to clear it out."

  "The dolls are gorgeous."

  "Kachina dolls are good."

  Mrs. Toketee disappeared into the kitchen, reemerging a few minutes later with a large tray piled high with slices of bread, a dish of butter and, despite Tamara's refusal, two cups of coffee. Tamara tried to assist with the heavy tray, but Mrs. Toketee would have none of it. In the end, Tamara took her seat on an old wooden chair across from the woman and was promptly joined by the purring gray tabby.

  "As I mentioned, I'm doing a piece for the S
edona Sun, a 'Where are they now?' sort of thing."

  "Uh-huh." Mrs. Toketee worked on pouring the coffee. Her movements were very slow but capable, like sap pouring from a tree. Tamara clutched her pen and notebook more tightly, wanting to help but understanding that it would insult her hostess.

  "Do you remember October 15, 1987, Mrs. Toketee? Do you remember the car accident?"

  Mrs. Toketee finished pouring the first cup of coffee. She shuffled it toward Tamara's side of the table. "Bad night."

  "Yes." Tamara's fingers were starting to tremble slightly. She forced herself to be calm. She was supposed to be a reporter, talking to a potential witness; the Toketee residence was the closest house to the crash site. It had all happened to strangers.

  "A family died, yes?" Mrs. Toketee murmured.

  "Three people. A mother, father and the boyfriend of the daughter. The daughter survived."

  "Happened down there. There's a cross in the road at the site. You like the coffee?"

  "The coffee is great." Belatedly, Tamara took a sip. It was good but very strong, and she hadn't eaten all day. It settled hard in her stomach. She set the cup back down.

  "Bread?"

  "Uh … well … yes, please. Mrs. Toketee—"

  "The accident happened late, yes? The family was there all night. I remember now."

  "What do you remember, Mrs. Toketee?" Tamara leaned forward. The sticky slice of zucchini bread was forgotten in her hand.

  "The road curves there. It is a very dangerous road. At night, people go too fast."

  "This family's car wasn't speeding."

  "But the other car was. Hit-and-run, the newspapers said."

  "Did … did you see anything, Mrs. Toketee? Did you hear anything?"

  Mrs. Toketee set down her coffee cup. Her weathered face creased into a deep frown. "That was a long time ago."

  "Yes. I understand that. Please…"

  "I think there was a moon that night."

  A full moon, like a globe up in the sky, casting the canyons into dark shadows, slashing across the man's face as he leaned over her. Illuminating his figure as he ran back to his car and sped away.

  "I heard something. Something loud. At first, I think it is something in my yard."

  "Yes?"

  "I wake my husband. I tell him to go look. He grumbles, he doesn't like getting up in the middle of the night. I make him go, anyway."

  "Your husband?"

  "He's dead now. Buried in the cemetery in town. The one where the caretaker was shot. It is no longer such a good place."

  "I'm sorry."

  "He comes back to bed, tells me there is nothing. We both fall asleep."

  Tamara nodded. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow. She felt at the verge of a precipice, and the tension inside her was almost unbearable. The woman was going to say more. She was so sure the woman was going to say more.

  "And then?"

  Mrs. Toketee sat back. "It's morning. We hear ambulances. We see the accident. My husband feels bad. If he would've searched harder, maybe gone down to the road. It bothered him for a long time. You don't like the bread?"

  Tamara looked down. She'd squeezed the heavy bread flat with her fingers. Belatedly, she released her grip. "Sorry," she murmured. "The bread is fine, I was just … caught up in the story." She set the bread down and spent several long minutes arranging it on the napkin. She concentrated on breathing deeply, then exhaling.

  "Did you go to the accident scene?"

  "My husband did."

  "Did he tell you anything about it? Did he see the car, maybe, or skid marks, or anything?"

  Mrs. Toketee shrugged. "I don't remember."

  "They never caught the man who drove the other vehicle."

  "The man?"

  "The … the person. The other driver."

  "That could be. The police, they questioned my husband, but he didn't have much to say. We didn't go down until it was too late. There was nothing to see anymore."

  Staring at the zucchini bread, Tamara nodded. By morning, her family had been dead and the other driver long gone. She'd gotten to read the police reports. Traces of red paint had been found on her parents' car. The force of impact indicated that the other vehicle should have been seriously damaged and the other driver probably hurt. But twelve hours later, when the search began, a damaged red car and hurt driver were never found. The police checked with auto body shops, car rental agencies and tow truck companies. They checked with taxicab businesses for anyone looking for a ride. They checked the local junkyards for the car and the local hospital for the driver. Nothing.

  Whoever had done it seemed to have simply disappeared.

  Or had the resources for a solid cover-up.

  "I'm not much help," Mrs. Toketee said. She was nodding almost in a rocking motion. "You're disappointed?"

  "A little," Tamara admitted, then summoned a smile. "But it was very kind of you to take the time to speak with me."

  "I don't get many visitors."

  "The coffee and bread were excellent."

  "Maybe if I think of something, you'll come again?"

  "Of course." Tamara gathered up her notepad and pen. She drained the coffee cup, though the strong brew made her stomach roll queasily. She needed to be better about eating. She needed to be better about sleeping.

  "Here, you take this." Mrs. Toketee was holding out one of the dolls. This one was a richly clad figure of a wolf dancing on a wooden block. It had been intricately painted with deep turquoise, yellow, red and blue. The detailing was incredible and had probably taken Mrs. Toketee a very long time.

  "I couldn't. It's too much." Tamara waved the doll away as gently as possible.

  "You know the kachina dolls?"

  "Not much. They're good luck charms, or something like that."

  "In the pueblo, we believe the kachinas are real beings. In the past, when our people needed them, they assumed human form and visited us. They brought gifts, taught us arts and crafts, how to hunt. But our people took them for granted, lost respect for their caring. Struggles broke out and the kachina stopped visiting. Their love, however, is better than ours. And though we mistreated them, they care for us still. When a person is sad or lonely, the kachina will come and dance for her. Make her understand that she is not alone. You take the kachina. The kachina will be good for you."

  Mrs. Toketee placed the doll in Tamara's hand. It felt warm and smooth. The wooden figure was so richly colored. It vibrated with the grace of the dance.

  "Thank you. You are very generous."

  Mrs. Toketee bobbed her head. "It fits you. Very nice."

  "Here…" Tamara jotted down the number of her hotel. "If you think of anything, please give me a call."

  A minute later, Tamara eased her car—with its new brake line—down the steep driveway. There would be no magical follow-up call; she understood that. After ten years, an eyewitness account was just too unlikely. Patty had been right—she was silly to pursue this. She should go back to Manhattan, return to the job she did so well.

  Buy another car. Take another trip to Europe. Get on with her life.

  She turned onto the highway and did her best not to look at the wooden cross protruding from the roadside as she drove by.

  * * *

  By the time she pulled into her hotel parking lot, she was lost in thought once more. She needed to know more about the mysterious red car. When the senator came into town, how did he get a car? Did he always sign up for a limo or driver? Or did he sometimes rent a car? Say a red car? Who would he rent from?

  And how could she ask such questions without arousing suspicion?

  Her head hurt. She pulled into a parking space, killed the engine and rested her bandaged forehead against the steering wheel for just one moment. When she looked up again, she groaned.

  C.J. MacNamara stood in the parking lot. He was leaning against the convertible black Mustang she recognized from two nights ago. His booted feet were crossed at the ankles, his trim
body resting quite comfortably against the door. His fingers threaded through the belt loops of his faded blue jeans, his arms akimbo and nicely sculpted beneath the short sleeves of his white T-shirt. Wheat blond hair rippled back from his face, looking freshly finger-combed. Of course, he was smiling, and that smile grew as he spotted her looking at him. That smile became smug.

  Damn, egotistical, overly persistent, misguided fool. She took a deep breath and climbed out of her car ready for battle.

  "No," she said firmly before he uttered a word. "It's Friday night. You should definitely be taking care of your bar."

  "It's only six-thirty. Even on Fridays, the bar doesn't get hopping for another few hours." He flashed a mischievous grin. "But thanks for being so concerned about my business."

  "I'm not going out with you."

  "You haven't heard my offer."

  "It doesn't matter. I've had a long week. My head hurts. I want a long bath and then bed."

  "Wow, and here I thought I'd have to at least buy you dinner first."

  She scowled, but he winked at her so playfully it was hard to maintain her ire. The man had obviously taken lessons from a puppy dog.

  "You look very nice," he said softly, and his blue eyes took on a warm, appreciative hue that let her know he meant it. For a moment, she thought she was going to blush. Flustered, she smoothed her hand down her suit. Today's ensemble was an olive green, safari-style pantsuit. The jacket buttoned all the way to her neck and ballooned out with four big pockets. A wide, dark brown leather belt clipped the jacket sharply at her waist. She'd bought the suit because it concealed well, as all her clothes did, but also because it emphasized her figure, which very few of her clothes did. A moment of weak vanity, particularly for a woman who knew better.

  "I had to work today."

  "Ah, that senator's a real slave driver."

  "Presidencies aren't built overnight."

  "No, I'm sure they're not." He cocked his head to the side. His hands were still resting comfortably on his lean hips. In contrast to her, he looked casual, relaxed and comfortable. His face and arms held a golden hue. When he looked at her, his eyes were bracketed by laugh lines, signs of a man who grinned easily and often. She found herself settling against her own car. Not stepping closer, but not turning and walking away when she really should.