Paradise Found

by Mary Campisi

  Nothing like her little bungalow in the western suburbs of Pittsburgh with its hand-braided rugs and window boxes overflowing with petunias and impatiens. Her fresh-cut flowers came from the backyard. Tulips and daffodils in the spring and blood-red roses in the summer. All nurtured with love and sunshine as opposed to a greenhouse thermostat and humidifying system. And the artwork, well that was either her own humble dabblings or prints from the local craft store.

  She loved her house. It provided respite from the cold, sometimes cruel, world around her. She already missed the ancient overstuffed rocking chair where she'd sit at night and lose herself in a book, cuddled with the blue-and-yellow afghan her grandmother had made twenty years before. It was the only time she permitted herself to dream of what-ifs.

  Sara walked to the sliding glass door and glanced at the patio beyond. It was similar to Matthew's—same wrought-iron chairs and table. Same hot tub tucked in the far left corner. She'd counted four of them so far. The closest she came to something like that in her neighborhood was the rare aboveground pool. Did Matthew Brandon even know what an aboveground pool was?

  Probably not. He'd lived a life of wealth and privilege, though Jeff had told her he'd come from the Pittsburgh area. High-rent district, no doubt. The man didn't seem the type to be inconvenienced by anything and lack of money could certainly prove a major inconvenience. Not that she'd ever cared about money, because she hadn't. She had enough to live a comfortable life. All she'd wanted was a family and children. She'd ended up with neither.

  “Sara?” Adam's voice drifted to her from the hallway. “Supper's ready.”

  “Just a minute.” She ran her fingers through her hair and let the wisp of bangs settle on her forehead, minus the giant cowlick sticking out on the left side. When she was a kid, she'd tried everything to keep the big comma of hair flat on her forehead. It sprang back, no matter how much Dippity-Do she'd plastered on it, until one day she finally realized that some things were just part of a person and couldn’t be changed. She shrugged and pasted a smile on her face.

  When she opened the door, Adam stood waiting for her, looking stylish in a blue polo shirt and tan slacks. He smiled down at her, his gray eyes warm. “How did it go this afternoon?” he asked as they headed down the long marble-tiled hall toward the dining room.

  “Fine, actually,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “It went just fine.”

  “Really? That seems hard to believe.”

  Because it is. She couldn’t very well tell him she planned to trick his brother into verbalizing by becoming his friend so she simply remained silent.

  ***

  “Rosa, these enchiladas are delicious,” Sara said, munching around the edges of her second.

  The older woman looked up from her plate and murmured, “Thank you.”

  Sara went back to eating her food. It was the third attempt she'd made in the past fifteen minutes to start a conversation with the woman, and she'd gotten no more than a mumbled thank you or an ungracious grunt. Adam tried to cover up Rosa's rudeness by filling in the long gaps between Sara's questions and Rosa's answers. Even Rex kept the conversation going to avoid embarrassing Sara. Only Matthew remained silent.

  He sat at the round cherry table, eating with such grace and precision, one would never have guessed he was blind. Sara tried not to stare, but she couldn't help sneaking glances in his direction, waiting for a piece of food to miss his mouth. It never happened. She was the one losing shreds of lettuce and tomato from the bottom of her wrap.

  She stole another glance. The Pittsburgh Pirate ball cap was gone. So was the stubble on his face. He looked showered and fresh, his chestnut hair still wet and combed straight back, curling toward the nape of his tanned neck. He still wore dark sunglasses, which made her think of Jessie's comment about his eyes. Those beautiful silver eyes. Looking at you, into you, through you. Why had he opted for sunglasses when his eyes, sightless or not, were such a huge attraction? Maybe they’d been damaged during the accident. Or maybe he didn't want everyone staring at him, speculating. Pitying.

  “How about seeing the sights after dinner, Sara?” Adam asked. “Rex is a great tour guide. He knows all the hot spots and need-to-see places around here.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said, “Would you mind, Rex?”

  Rex shook his head and grinned. “Not at all. Did I tell you I was a tour guide?”

  “Yes, you did. Among other things.”

  “That's right. I can do just about anything, and if I can't I know where to find somebody who can.”

  “Isn't that the truth? And then you talk my brother into hiring them,” Adam said in a dry voice.

  “Matt's a great boss. Everybody loves him,” Rex said.

  Adam shot him a quick look. “And why shouldn't they? He pays them—”

  “Adam,” Matt cut in, his deep voice filling the room. “I really don't think Sara wants to hear about it.”

  Oh, but she did want to hear about it. All of it. She wanted to know about the kind of people Rex brought to him, wanted to know about their jobs and even what they got paid. Adam had implied his brother was generous, too generous, in his hiring and with his wallet. But that didn't fit the picture she had of Matthew Brandon and it certainly didn’t match the one she'd read about in all the tabloids and magazines.

  She was beginning to wonder if the Matthew Brandon the media was obsessed with and the man sitting across from her was the same person. Or was one nothing more than an image? Which one? The man was like one of those funky puzzles with extra pieces—just when you thought you had the perimeter worked out, you realized you didn't. The rest of the meal passed in relative silence with the exchange of benign comments and small talk. Matthew Brandon might be a shell of his former charming self, but he still commanded respect and he'd sent the message that intimate conversations were off limits.

  Rex was the first to rise from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I'll get the car ready,” he said. “Thanks, Rosa.” He winked at her. “It was too good, as usual.”

  Adam rose next. “Sara, are you ready?”

  “Sure,” she said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. She glanced at Matt as she rose. He made no effort to get up, his strong arms resting on either side of the ornate chair. “Matt?” she asked. “Are you ready?”

  He inclined his head in her direction, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Ready for what?”

  The silkiness in his voice rolled over her and her stomach jumped. She should not have eaten that second enchilada.

  “Sara?”

  There it was again. That voice, but several octaves lower. How did he make it so soft and sexy, like a breeze blowing over naked skin? She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “Are you going to answer me, or ignore me?”

  “I'm not ignoring you,” she snapped. “I just want to know if you're going with us or not.”

  “No, I'm not,” he said. “I've seen everything before and I can't see anything now, so what's the point?” His voice was still low and quiet, but the gentleness of a moment ago had vanished, replaced by strains of bitterness.

  “I just thought—”

  “No.” He clutched the edge of the chair until his knuckles turned white. This was the Matthew Brandon she expected. Angry, forceful. Him, she could handle. It was the other side she'd seen a few moments ago, the seductive, gentle one that scared her to death. Before she could think of anything else to say, he pushed back his chair, nodded a curt good night and strode from the room, maneuvering past the furniture, through the room, and down the hall, never slowing a step.

  ***

  The late afternoon sun followed them as they wound their way past the quaint little shops and boutiques of Laguna Beach. Sara peered through the tinted windows of the limousine, catching glimpses of artists weaving their craft on canvas, pottery, wood, and glass.

  Adam noticed her keen interest and promised, “We'll come back another day and you can take it all in until you've had your fill.”
/>
  She flashed him a quick grin. “Better wear a comfortable pair of shoes.”

  “Ridiculous,” Rex said as they rounded a corner and spotted a man painting plastic milk cartons. He had twenty or so finished ones resting on a pallet behind him.

  “They're beautiful,” Sara breathed, admiring the bold designs and brilliant colors that transformed an ordinary household object into a work of art.

  “Junk,” Rex muttered under his breath.

  “How can you say that?” she asked, as they passed a young woman painting PVC pipe. “The medium doesn't matter. It's what the artist does with it that counts.”

  “Right. So, you're saying I could take toilet paper rolls and paint some fancy little doodads on them and call it art.”

  “You probably could.”

  “And,” he continued, “I could probably sell them for fifty bucks a pop.”

  Sara tried to keep a serious face. “Or more, depending on how original it is.”

  “I'll tell Greta to start saving our toilet paper rolls for you, Rex,” Adam said and turned toward Sara. “That's profession number twenty-two, for our man, Rex.”

  “Who's Greta?”

  “Greta,” Adam said, letting out a long sigh, “is Rex's latest find.”

  “And she's a darn good find, too,” Rex added.

  They were on the highway now, heading south toward a place called Dana Point. Rex told her they could get a taste of native life there, watching experts and amateurs with surfboards, Wave Runners and fishing boats. Sara was content to see sun, water, and blue skies.

  “At dinner, you mentioned Rex's penchant for finding people,” she said. Now was her opportunity to get some answers. “What did you mean by that?”

  Adam inclined his head toward their chauffeur. “Rex has a habit of bringing home strays.”

  “Haven't they all proved very helpful?” Rex asked, shooting Adam a challenging look in the rearview mirror.

  “Helpful and necessary are two different things. I fail to see why Matt needs a cook, a cleaning lady, a window cleaner, a laundry lady, a plant man, and a gardener.”

  “You forgot the car washer and light fixture man.”

  “Oh. How could I forget them?”

  Rex grinned. “Matt just hired them last week.”

  “If he doesn't need them, why does he hire them?” Sara asked. Another interesting twist through the maze to discover the real Matthew Brandon.

  “Thank you, Sara,” Adam said. “It's nice to know someone else agrees with me. Matt and Rex, now they're a different story. Rex meets these people, from who knows where. They've all got a story. Somebody has a sick mother, or twelve kids, or is going to night school. You fill in the blank. Anyway, they come to Rex because word gets around that he's a sucker for a sob story.”

  “That is absolutely not true,” Rex insisted, honking his horn at a car cutting in front of him. “They come to me because I'm honest.” He jabbed his index finger at his chest. “Because they know I'll do right by them.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “You do right by them all right. And Matt's too much of a softy to say no.”

  Matthew Brandon? Softy?

  “I think we're pretty well staffed for the time being,” Rex said. “Though there is that little Mexican lady who—”

  “No.”

  “All right, all right.” Rex shrugged. “So we'll talk to her again in the fall.”

  “Rex—”

  “Winter then. Or next spring,” he amended in the same breath.

  Sara enjoyed the playful antagonism volleying between the two men. They were much easier to relax around than Matthew Brandon. He made her too jumpy. The easy camaraderie of the night continued and when they reached Dana Point, Rex pulled a large plaid blanket out of the trunk and went in search of the perfect spot to watch the water lovers. Adam and Sara kicked off their shoes and followed him to a sandy slope where he staked his claim and for the next few hours they enjoyed the surfers. When the sun rode low in the skyline, Adam leaned over and said, “There’s nothing quite like a California sunset. Matt loved to come here.”

  “Adam?” Now was the time to ask the question that had been plaguing her since Matt left the dinner table. “When Matt got up from dinner tonight, he walked right out of the room. How did he do that without falling flat on his face?”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “Practice. Lots and lots of practice. When he first came home, it was a nightmare. He refused to use a cane and had more bumps and nasty bruises than you can imagine.” He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the water in front of him, as if remembering those early days. “It went on for weeks. He refused to let anybody help him.” He gave her a wry smile. “If you haven't guessed, Matt's very proud. Too proud, sometimes.”

  “I've already figured that out.”

  “Yeah, that's Matt. Thinks he has to have all the answers. Can't ever depend on anybody else.” He frowned. “Not even me.”

  “Some people are just like that. They prefer to be self-sufficient.” She should know.

  “Well, it's damn hard on the rest of us.”

  Sara sensed the underlying anger in his words. She knew he cared about his brother and wanted only what was best for him. “Maybe tomorrow we'll go for another ride. Rex can take us to that fishing place you were telling me about and we'll talk Matt into going with us. What do you think?”

  If she'd sprouted three heads and an elephant nose, Adam wouldn't have looked at her any more strangely than he was now.

  “Sara,” he said, narrowing his gray eyes on her. “Matt would never come with us. He hasn't left the house in months.”

  Chapter 4

  Sara padded into the kitchen dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top at a little past ten the next morning. She never slept past eight o'clock, and usually was up and showered by seven. But then again, the last time she'd seen midnight was New Year's Eve four years ago. When Rex and Adam dropped her off last night, the clock on the microwave display read one-fifteen. If she factored Pittsburgh time into that, it was really four-fifteen. Four-fifteen! The only time she'd ever seen that hour in the morning was when she'd glanced at the clock on her nightstand after an occasional bathroom trip.

  “Hi, Rosa,” Sara said, picking up a black mug from the counter and heading for the coffee pot. “Where is everybody?”

  “Up,” the older woman mumbled from her place at the stove. She was stirring something with a long wooden spoon. “Out.” The smell of peppers and onions permeated the room.

  Sara poured her coffee, splashed a little cream in it, and walked over to her. Leaning against the counter, she studied the cook whose plump fingers worked the spoon, scooping and tossing a small mountain of peppers and onions in a huge frying pan. The extra flesh under her arms jiggled with each movement. Her breath came in short steady gasps, her small nostrils flared, thin lips pursed into a frown.

  She was upset about something. Again. “Rosa,” Sara said, her tone gentle, encouraging. “What's the matter?” The cook shook her head, eyes fixed on the food she was preparing. “I know you're upset about something. Please tell me what it is.” She laid a hand on the older woman's sun-weathered forearm. Rosa shot her a glance, her black eyes misted with tears. “Why are you crying?” Sara set her coffee mug on the counter and took the wooden spoon from her.

  “Onions,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “Onions do this to Rosa.”

  “I don't think so.” Sara moved the frying pan to the back burner. “You've been upset since you met me. Please tell me why. Have I done something?” Tears trickled down the older woman's cheeks, following the path of lines etched into her skin. They reached her jaw, hovered an instant, then fell, unchecked, onto her ample bosom. “Tell me.” What could she have done that would cause her this much distress? She hadn't even been in California twenty-four hours.

  Another sniff. Rosa pulled out a white lace handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “It is Mister Matt,” she said i
n halting syllables. “I worry for him. He say no more women. He go crazy last time with lady doctor. Make big scene. Very, very bad.” Her thick braided bun bounced back and forth as she shook her head.

  “I'm sorry, Rosa,” Sara said, amazed at the loyalty this man's employees showed toward him. First Rex and now Rosa.

  “Mister Matt take care of Rosa. Give me nice job, food to eat, place to stay.” She raised her eyes heavenward and blessed herself. “He say maybe hire nephew, Chico, in few months.”

  Did Adam know about Chico? Probably not.

  Rosa wiped her damp eyes with the corner of her printed apron. “Rosa want Mister Matt be happy. Too much sadness for him.” She sniffed again. “Too much pain.”

  “I want to help Mister Matt, Rosa, not hurt him. But he might not want my help at first and he may get very angry with me. But I won't hurt him.” She held the other woman’s gaze. “Okay?”

  Rosa eyed Sara a full fifteen seconds. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” Then she reached into the opening of her starched white shirt and pulled out a small gold cross. Holding it between her plump fingers she said, “You promise, Rosa, on this cross, that you no hurt Mister Matt.”

  Sara looked at the gleaming gold. This woman was willing to give her a chance, but only if she gained protection for her boss. The simple honest request moved her, and again, she wondered how he'd earned this kind of devotion. Sara reached for the shiny cross and said, “I promise you, Rosa, on this cross, that I will not hurt Mister Matt.”

  A half hour later, Sara headed down the hall toward Matt's study and the sliding door that led to his patio. From what Adam had told her, this particular patio was his refuge. He came here every day and spent several hours doing exactly what she'd seen him do yesterday.

  Nothing.

  Well, not today. Today was going to be different for Matthew Brandon, because in her own subtle way, she was going to get him to talk. About anything. The weather, the state of foreign affairs, the stock market. Why he wore a Pittsburgh Pirates ball cap. Nothing too personal. That would make him uncomfortable and alert him to potential privacy infringements. She'd work the safe zone for a few days and if she didn't show her hand too early and bluffed when necessary, she might just win the pot and get him to talk about himself.