Such a Pretty Face

by Gabrielle Goldsby

“Tell me about it. The inß ux of Californians is one of my dad’s favorite topics to rant about.” I mimicked his accent. “‘Pretty soon good working folk won’t even be able to buy a house anymore.’”

  “You can still Þ nd good homes if you’re willing to put some sweat into it.” Her voice got quiet, contemplative, and wishful.

  “Do you own a home here?”

  “Not yet. I’ve always wanted my own place, though. My mother’s rented for years. She could have paid off a mortgage by now.”

  “I know what you mean. I just bought a new home right off Northwest Twenty-third.”

  “I don’t know much about that area. Do you like it?”

  I hesitated before answering. It was a great area, an expensive area. But did I like it? I couldn’t really say. I hadn’t spent all that much

  • 48 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  time outside of my home other than to catch the public transportation to work. “Yeah, I haven’t lived there long, but I like it Þ ne.”

  The truck slowed and I realized with some disappointment that we were in front of Mrs. Margolis’s home. The front porch light had been left on despite the fact that at Þ ve thirty in early August there would be sufÞ cient daylight until well after eight.

  “Ryan.” I held out my hand and she took it. “Thank you very much for the ride. If I can ever return the favor…”

  She kept hold of my hand. Her expression held an odd intensity.

  “How are you getting home?”

  How had I thought her eyes unremarkable? I couldn’t imagine not telling the truth under the onslaught of those eyes. “I thought I could just take the bus.”

  Ryan Þ nally released my hand and I nearly closed my eyes in relief. She peered up and down the street. “I don’t see a bus stop. I’ll wait for you.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary, and I could be a while. I’ll take a cab if the bus stop is too far.” A ß icker of movement from Mrs. Margolis’s window drew my eye. “I better get going.”

  “Take your time. I don’t have anyplace I need to be.” Ryan unbuckled her seat belt and pulled off her jacket.

  “Look, I appreciate you staying, but I don’t want you waiting out here too long. Promise me you’ll leave if I’m in there longer than an hour?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope?”

  “I don’t make promises I won’t keep.”

  I felt strangely giddy. For some reason the fact that she was going to wait for me felt, well, intimate. It was the kind of thing people in relationships did for each other, or at least, the romantic in me thought they did.

  “You better get going before she calls the police about the strange truck outside her house,” Ryan said.

  I scurried out of the pickup and took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe she was waiting. I couldn’t believe I was happy that she was.

  As I walked up Mrs. Margolis’s steps, my back felt hot. I felt like each of my imperfections was being reviewed under a microscope. I rang the doorbell and refused to glance behind me to see if she was watching.

  Five percent of me hoped that she would be gone when I came back out,

  • 49 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  but the vast majority of me wanted to see those eyes and that wonderful mouth one more time before I went to sleep.

  Whoa, girl. Before you go to sleep in a bed that until recently you shared with Brenda. How can you be thinking of another woman in that fashion so soon after Brenda left? Mrs. Margolis opened her door at that moment and saved me from having to answer my own question and possibly breaking my own heart in the process.

  v

  “Would you like coffee, or is it too late for that? My husband always drank coffee at the oddest hours, and I guess I just picked up on the habit.” Mrs. Margolis looked nothing like what I had expected. Her husband had been quick on his feet; the only evidence of his age were the color of his hair and smile lines permanently etched at the sides of his eyes.

  Beth Margolis walked slowly, but her posture was perfect and the slacks and cardigan that she wore were impeccably pressed. Her hair, skin, and eyes had dulled with age. Whereas her husband had been bright and alive when I had met him, Mrs. Margolis seemed like a shadow. I wondered if she had always been that way. A shadow living in her husband’s sun, or had that happened after he passed away? Either scenario left me feeling sad and even more determined to make things as easy for her as possible.

  “Coffee would be great. Thanks.” I looked around as I pulled my jacket off. “You have a lovely home,” I said automatically. Those words were on page one of my mother’s guidebook for entering a complete stranger’s home. But in this case, I meant it. Mrs. Margolis’s walls were chock full of family photos.

  “May I?”

  “You go right ahead. That’s what they’re there for.”

  At a glance, I would have guessed that Mrs. Margolis had lined her walls with at least Þ fty or sixty pictures of family members, spanning at least three decades. All of them were in black and white and seemed so similar, they could have been taken by the same person.

  “Here you are, dear.”

  I tore my eyes away from a photo of Þ ve men with nothing but sailor hats on posing behind a fallen tree trunk.

  • 50 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  “That was my Tony, always looking for reasons to take his pants off.”

  I tried to reconcile this photo of a mischievous, barely twenty-year-old boy with the seventy-eight-year-old I had met in my ofÞ ce.

  “I’m sorry I only met him in passing. I bet he was an interesting person to talk to.”

  “He was.” Mrs. Margolis took a sip of her coffee. “I still can’t Þ gure out why the Lord was so cruel.”

  I kept my attention on the picture because I had no clue how to comfort her. I didn’t even know how to comfort myself.

  “I suppose I’m being a fool. God gave us Þ fty-two years. That’s longer than even your mother has been on this earth, I’d guess.”

  “Not quite, but she’d love you for saying so, I’m sure.”

  Mrs. Margolis laughed and I realized that she was the beautiful young woman in the photos. You’re turning into your mom and Christina, judging people when you shouldn’t. I shivered.

  “Are you cold? I suppose I could turn on the heat. I never get cold because Tony never turned on the heat or the air. He said he would never pay Portland General Electric one red cent more than he had to.”

  “Oh no, I’m Þ ne. The coffee’s already warming me up.” I had this vision of Ryan sitting out in the truck without the engine running. She was probably freezing out there. “Mrs. Margolis, I had a friend bring me over and it’s gotten cold outside.”

  “Oh, go and get your friend. I was going to suggest you invite him.

  I saw the truck pull up.”

  “Thank you. It’s a she, and I’ll be right back.”

  As I approached the truck, I could see that Ryan was leaning back, her arms folded in front of her, probably trying to keep warm. I felt guilty that I hadn’t thought to ask if she could come inside before this.

  Despite the chill, the driver-side window was half opened. I leaned closer, meaning to say her name softly, but my breath caught in my throat because her nostrils ß ared and her lips parted. I found myself both wanting her to wake up, so that I could see her eyes, and wanting her to continue to sleep so that I could watch her. A large invisible foot planted itself Þ rmly on my chest, and I grabbed the truck door in an effort to keep myself stable.

  She awakened. No ß icker of the lashes or gasps. She was just

  • 51 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  awake and staring at me. “Mia?” My name on her lips sent a thrill to the back of my neck.

  I think I was the one who blinked, maybe even gasped. At some point I had leaned into the truck because I was close, too close. “Yes?”

  I said like an idiot.

  “So
mething wrong?” She didn’t seem alarmed. I had to wonder how often she woke up with a strange woman hovering over her. I ß ushed at the visual and moved back a few inches.

  “Mrs. Margolis made coffee, and it’s cold out here.”

  Ryan smiled and did this squirming thing that for some reason made me want to look down at her crotch. I didn’t, but I damn sure wanted to.

  “I don’t mind waiting for you out here, it’s not too cold.”

  “I think it makes her nervous having a stranger sitting in a truck outside her house.”

  Ryan glanced at the house and sat up. Her hand went to her head and pushed the strands of hair back that never wanted to stay bound.

  When did I notice that about her?

  “I won’t be long, I promise. And she has some great pictures in there.” Ryan’s hand went to the door handle and hesitated. It took me a few seconds to realize that Ryan was waiting for me to step out of the way. I did so hurriedly.

  When Ryan got out of the truck I couldn’t stop myself looking from her boots to her denim-clad legs again. I imagined they would be just the right combo of muscle and smooth femininity. I traveled up her pant legs to her waist— I can’t ever remember having a T-shirt tuck that neatly into the waistband of my jeans— then Þ nally, to her face.

  She stomped her boots twice. “I’m a little dusty. You sure she wants me in her house?” Her forehead was creased by a frown.

  “I think you look great,” I said too quickly.

  “Thanks.”

  Her face darkened a little and I realized that I had probably embarrassed her, which in turn embarrassed me. What the hell was I doing? This woman was helping me out of kindness, and here I was ogling her and forcing her into a situation that she was obviously uncomfortable with. “If you don’t want to come in, I’ll make an excuse.

  I just thought…”

  “No, I would love to come in. I bet the house is beautiful inside.”

  • 52 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  Her voice sounded wistful and soft. Once again I felt an attraction, a curiosity that made me want to know more about her.

  “She’s got pictures all over the walls spanning at least three generations.” I walked back toward Mrs. Margolis’s house and Ryan followed. It was disconcerting to realize that not only was Ryan paying attention to me, she seemed to hang on my words.

  “Do you think she’d let me look around?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Beth Margolis appeared in the doorway. The smile I’d noticed in the pictures was on her face. I made the mistake of glancing at Ryan and almost stumbled. My God, she was so gorgeous. The wind blew a few strands of hair away from her face, displaying the scar clearly. Call me crazy, but it didn’t detract from her features. If anything, it kept her from being too perfect. Her long Þ ngers engulfed Mrs. Margolis’s hand as they introduced themselves.

  “Ryan? Unusual name for a girl.”

  “My mother was a Ryan’s Hope fan.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Margolis said as if that explained everything. I wished someone would explain it to me, because I hadn’t the slightest idea what the hell Ryan’s Hope was.

  “I was almost Hope.”

  “Now that would have been a travesty,” my client noted.

  Ryan gave her another one of those smiles that she was giving away freely now that we weren’t alone.

  Mrs. Margolis offered coffee and gestured toward a credenza that held small, delicate pastries. My mouth watered, despite the fact that I had Þ nished my mayo-laden sandwich about an hour before I had left work.

  “Nothing for me. Tha—” Ryan stopped speaking, her lips slightly parted and glistening in the soft light of the living room. She took in the pictures just as I had, then I followed her eyes upward and noticed for the Þ rst time that the home had white tin ceiling tiles that I had previously seen only in photographs. Ryan then walked over to the Þ replace, her hand outstretched, to touch the mantel. She stopped just short of it and turned toward Mrs. Margolis.

  My own Þ replace mantel was plain and unassuming. The only thing placed on it was a pair of ornate candlesticks that my grandparents had carried with them from Mexico. Mrs. Margolis’s mantel was obviously

  • 53 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  the focal point of the room. Someone had taken great care to make it. I understood Ryan’s reaction completely.

  “It won’t break. Go ahead and touch it,” Mrs. Margolis said with amused pleasure in her voice.

  I watched Ryan’s Þ ngers glide along the mantel’s surface as if caressing a woman’s body. I couldn’t see her face, but I imagined her eyes were closed. Muscles ß exed in the back of her arms as she leaned close to the mantel as if to smell the wood. She straightened and then faced me. Our eyes tangled and I felt the same jolt that had shaken me the Þ rst time I saw her.

  “Beautiful,” she said. Her voice sounded reverent and inexplicably sexual.

  Mrs. Margolis’s face ß ushed. Good Lord, surely she hadn’t picked up on it too?

  “Tony had his uncle carve that for me as a wedding present,” Mrs.

  Margolis said. “When I walked into this room on my wedding night, I cried so hard that he thought I didn’t like it.”

  “I think I’ve seen his work before.” Ryan’s voice was still quiet. “I rent an apartment in one of the old colonials off of Harrison. The house has similar woodwork throughout.”

  “It’s probably one of Ted’s. That was my Tony’s uncle. He did a lot of work in this area. Most of it was destroyed by the ß ood, or by Þ re, but you can still Þ nd some of it. And there’s this house. If you want to take a look upstairs, the crown molding is exquisite, especially in the children’s rooms.”

  Emotions played across Ryan’s face. Like a child offered freedom in a toy store, she asked, “May I?”

  “Of course you may. It’ll keep you from being bored while Mia and I go through Tony’s desk. But before you go, I have something else you might be interested in.” Mrs. Margolis sat down on her couch and lifted the lid on the trunk that also served as her coffee table. She pulled out a large coffee-colored photo album.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Ryan said as Mrs. Margolis’s arms quaked with the weight.

  “My Tony loved taking pictures. His whole family did.” She indicated the photos on the walls. “I never had much of a family myself, so I liked putting those up to remind me what a real family life should be like. I tried creating that for my girls.” She sighed. “There are pictures of Ted’s work throughout this album, if you’re interested.”

  • 54 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  “Yes, ma’am.” The enthusiasm in Ryan’s voice left no doubt that she was indeed interested. She sat down next to Mrs. Margolis and they studied the photos for a while. I was content to watch them until Mrs.

  Margolis said something so low to Ryan that I couldn’t hear it. Ryan chuckled and I felt a ping of something close to jealousy, which made me feel really odd.

  Mrs. Margolis patted Ryan’s thigh and stood up. “You head upstairs any time you want.” With a smile, she said, “Tony’s desk is right through here, Mia,” and I perked up at Þ nally being remembered.

  Ryan was so engrossed in the pictures that she didn’t look up when we left the room. As we entered Tony’s ofÞ ce, Mrs. Margolis said, “What a gorgeous girl.”

  “Yes,” I agreed and hoped she was content to leave it at that.

  Tony’s desk wasn’t the mess I had expected. Everything was neatly stacked in several cubbies, and I found myself wanting to call out to Ryan so she could see it too, but I didn’t. Each document had been left in its original envelope. I pulled one out and deciphered the postmark; it had been sent twenty-Þ ve years earlier from Tunica, New York.

  “I’m afraid he didn’t throw anything away,” Mrs. Margolis said.

  “Don’t apologize, that’s a good thing. At least we know the documents are here somewhere
.”

  “That’s what I thought too. I think I have his system Þ gured out: correspondence on one side, and Þ nance on the other.”

  “See, you already have it narrowed down. Why don’t we take a stack each and go back into the living room so we can have our coffee while we look for those stock certiÞ cates?”

  I was a little disappointed to Þ nd Ryan gone when we returned to the living room. For the next hour, as we located the documents I needed, I could hear her slow footsteps above us. At one point she stopped walking for so long that I feared she had fallen asleep up there.

  Mrs. Margolis sipped her coffee, seemingly unconcerned that a stranger was wandering around her home unescorted.

  When Ryan reappeared, she said, “Your home is amazing. The craftsmanship is just unique.”

  Mrs. Margolis beamed. “Thank you, I’m glad I’m not the only one that thinks so.”

  I made a mental note to add craftsmanship compliments to my mother’s list of things to say when entering someone’s home for the Þ rst time.

  • 55 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  “Did you have a leak near the window in the attic bedroom?”

  Ryan asked.

  “Yes, Tony had the roof repaired but I never got around to having the seal replaced.”

  “I could do it for you.”

  “Oh, Mia didn’t tell me you were so handy.”

  I blushed. I wanted to assure Ryan that Mrs. Margolis and I had not been talking about her in her absence, but she didn’t seem concerned, so I let it go.

  “Why don’t you work up a quote for me and I’ll see if I can swing it this month.”

  “I can do that, but it’ll just be the cost of parts. The labor will be my pleasure.”

  Mrs. Margolis started to protest, but Ryan held Þ rm and as we all walked to the front door they arranged a date for Ryan to return and do the repair. Mrs. Margolis stood in the doorway waving as we pulled away from the curb.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before I offered to help,” Ryan said.

  “Oh, don’t apologize. I think it’s fantastic.”

  “Really, then why were you so quiet in there?”