by Billie Green
She glanced up and realized that they had left the row of hotels far behind. Why was she here, she wondered suddenly. She should be using every spare minute to accomplish the goal she had set for herself. She shouldn't be strolling along the beach with a self-admitted second-rate jazz musician.
It was that damn smile, she told herself. It was like a campfire on a chilly morning—one automatically tried to get closer to the warmth. And maybe part of the blame belonged to his crazy patchwork-quilt eyes. They were the eyes of a child, a little vulnerable, a little wistful, but always prepared for wonder and delight.
Yes, she thought with a frown, there was definitely more to Bill Shelley than what was on the surface. But why on earth should that disturb her?
As they walked, Delilah had been unconsciously listening to him whistle under his breath, and now something began to nag at her. "I know you said you weren't very good," she said slowly, "but what kind of musician can't carry a decent tune? That's not even jazz. It's—"
"Waylon Jennings."
She stared at his smile. "You're not a musician."
"Nope."
"Then you picked a really lousy time to vacation in Acapulco," she said, her tone admonishing. "The hotels are packed with conventioners. Why didn't you check, then put off your vacation until a better time?"
"Actually, I knew."
She raised one brow. "You must really like people."
He laughed softly. "Why do I feel I should apologize for that?"
"I haven't a clue," she said with a shrug. "It's no skin off my nose if you want to wade through miles of perspiring tourists on your vacation."
Judging by the quality of his clothes—and Delilah was a very good judge of quality—he could probably afford to come onty at a time when cheap packages were available.
"So you're not a musician," she said. "What do you do for a living?"
He was silent for a long moment. "I don't think I want to tell you."
"Why not? Are you a gangster? A porno star?"
"Nothing so exciting," he said, laughing. "Haven't you ever noticed how you . . . how we all size people up at the first meeting? First we look at their clothes and check their jewelry, trying to guess how much it cost. We see if their nails are professionally manicured, whether their hair was cut by a barber or an expensive stylist. Then for the clincher we ask what their line of work is. We use all that information to make a judgment of some kind."
"What's wrong with that?" she asked, trying not to sound defensive. She didn't like knowing her previous thoughts had been so predictable.
"It gets in the way. Your opinion of a person is, quite naturally, colored by extraneous things."
She frowned, considering his theory. "I don't think I would call my profession an extraneous thing. It's too much a part of me."
"A part of you," he agreed. "But it isn't you." He paused. "I know a man, a perfectly obnoxious man, who didn't have a friend in the world until he wrote a screenplay that became a hit movie. Now everyone thinks he's wonderful. They don't seem to notice that he's even more obnoxious than he was before. Even I, knowing how thoroughly unpleasant he is, wonder at times if there's more to him than I think, simply because of what he does for a living."
She could see his point, but she had never regarded the human trait of sizing people up by their professions as a bad one. She liked- the way people looked at her with respect when they found out she was a doctor. It put her on equal footing with anyone she met, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be without that advantage.
Don't be silly, she told herself. With or without the letters after her name, she was somebody. Why not play his little game? It might be fun to pretend to be an ordinary woman. A woman with no traumas in her past. A woman with no dark spots in her history.
Suddenly an unfamiliar yearning began to grow inside her. Compared to herself, Bill was almost an innocent. Just for a little while, why shouldn't she find out what it was like to be a normal woman having a lighthearted flirtation? It was the kind of thing that had been denied her in the past and would most certainly be denied her in the future.
She could pretend she was an ordinary woman with a loving family background. She could pretend that the world was a warm, pleasant place, and she was a warm, pleasant woman with nothing more on her mind than meeting a warm, pleasant man who might, in the future, be the center of her warm, pleasant life and father to her warm, pleasant children.
What a kick, she thought, her smile wistful. For today she would leave the image of hard-nosed, hard-hearted Delilah behind and see what the world was like for the women she had envied all her life.
"Let's do it," she said, unable to keep a note of excitement out of her voice. "For now we have no occupations. Well be two unemployed individuals." She kicked up a spray of sand as she swung around to face him, walking backward as she spoke. "Well be beach bums. I think I would make a sensational beach bum, don't you?"
He laughed, then picked up her hand to swing it between them. "Indubitably."
"Do beach bums say indubitably?"
"The ones with style do."
She liked him. This new, nice Delilah liked him a lot. It might just turn out to be a very interesting evening.
She glanced up at the mountains. "I didn't expect the mountains. They're wonderful. You said you've been here before. Tell me about them."
"They're the Sierra Madre del Sur. That's about all I can tell you, except that there's a village, Nuevo Oviedo, up there that's very special to me. It's about two hours from here and is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Generally, in Mexico, when people say unspoiled they mean cruelly poor, but Nuevo Oviedo is different. There's an old-world atmosphere about the place, and although its people are not wealthy, you see real pride in their faces. In the United States the town we live in is simply a place we got transferred to or a place we decided to move to because there are job opportunities and good schools for our kids. To the people of Nuevo Oviedo, their village is an integral part of their lives. Not only do they consider the other residents a kind of extended family, the village itself—the buildings and the earth under their feet—is a part of them."
He paused, staring up at the mountains. "The head man of the village, Tomas Fuentes, is a remarkable man. He studies each child who is born in the village. He watches that child throughout his childhood, then he decides what occupation is best for the child and best for the village."
"You mean they have no say in the matter? That's . . . that's barbaric."
He laughed. "You'd have to meet him to understand. What he does wouldn't be possible in North America, but for Nuevo Oviedo it works." He stopped walking suddenly and turned to look at her. "I'm driving up there tomorrow. Why don't you come with me and see for yourself?"
Tomorrow the game would be over, she thought. Tomorrow hard-hearted Delilah would be back on track. She shook her head slowly. "I sorry but I can't. I'm with friends, and they have plans for tomorrow."
"That's too bad." His disappointment sounded genuine. "Are they good friends?"
"They are the people who mean more to me than anything else in the world," she said quietly. Then suddenly she remembered the game of pre-
tense she had entered into. "Except for my family, of course. I'm afraid I take my family too much for granted. That's what they get for spoiling me."
"I know what you mean," he said, smiling. "Every once in a while it will suddenly hit me how terrific my family is—I have three sisters and two brothers—and how lucky I am to have them all. But most of the time I ride comfortably along, cheerfully assuming that they'll always be there when I need them."
She nodded knowingly. "I suppose your mother, like mine, slips you extra money every time you visit because she's positive you're starving to death. And Dad. The man amazes me. Hell call me about once a week and spend half an hour growling and grumbling about something IVe done that he doesn't approve of. I always think I'm being cagey, simply making repentant noises, then when I han
g up I realize he's somehow managed to get information out of me concerning every aspect of my life, including how much money I have in my savings account." She almost laughed at how easy she was finding it to plagiarize Addie's life. "I remember once;—"
"Delilah!"
She broke off and, turning, she saw Booger walking quickly along the beach, dragging an apparently reluctant man behind him. When she and Bill stopped walking, Booger left the man and ran toward them. By the time he reached them he was panting hard. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees, his head down as he tried to catch his breath.
After a moment Delilah said, "Bill, this is Arnold Schlumburger."
Booger lifted one hand in a halfhearted acknowledgment, then, drawing in a deep, wheezing breath, he looked at Delilah and gestured toward the man he had left behind. "Well, what do you think?"
Delilah looked at the man, smiled brilliantly, then said in a low voice, "Booger, my one and only love, the man is wearing red socks."
"What?" He glanced at the man. "Yeah, you're right. I didn't notice."
"That's because you're also wearing red socks," she told him with compassion.
He dropped his gaze to his feet. "Son of a gun, so I am." He grinned sheepishly. "Oh, well, as the Three Stooges, those masters of inverted irony, said, 'If at first you don't succeed, keep on sucking till you do suck seed.' "
When he walked away, Delilah turned back to Bill. "Where was I? Oh, yes, my father."
Bill, still staring after Booger, opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind and simply shook his head.
"One time," Delilah said, returning to the borrowed background, "my father somehow found out—don't ask me how; the man is omniscient— that I had cashed in one of my savings bonds because I needed extra money. For my next birthday, along with a gift from both of them, which my mother always buys, was not one but two savings bonds to replace the one I had redeemed. Do you believe it? He pretends I'm an adult with sense enough to make my own decisions, but he's always doing crazy things like that."
Bill smiled. "You don't sound too upset about his interference."
"He's an old poot," she said, copying the indulgent note she had often heard in Addie's voice when she spoke of her father.
"All fathers are old poots. It's some kind of rule. They have to take a test before they're allowed to bring the kid home from the hospital. My mother waits on my father hand and foot. Everything centers around him. And he never says one word of thanks, but I have a feeling something goes on between them when they're alone." He smiled. "There's a look in Mom's eyes when Dad's in the room. It's not adoration or worship; those things are more or less blind. It's some kind of knowledge, as though she knows all his weaknesses and they're part of why she loves him. That kind of thing makes for a secure childhood." He glanced at her. "You and I are lucky."
She avoided his gaze. "Yes," she said softly, "we were lucky to have had that kind of childhood."
"Enough," he said with a laugh. "Any more of this and I'll start feeling guilty about not calling my parents as often as I should."
"Do they live in Houston too?"
He shook his head. "They moved to a suburb of Phoenix when Dad retired. My brothers and sisters are scattered all over the rest of the country."
As he related the horrors of his monthly telephone bill, Delilah carefully observed his animated features. She couldn't remember ever having had a casual conversation with a man before now. In the past she had always been planning what her next move would be, deciding what she could say and do to achieve whatever goal was uppermost in her mind at the time. This was totally different. With Bill she felt a freedom that was strangely exhilarating.
As they talked they began to walk back toward the hotel. When they drew near the terrace, Addie suddenly appeared. She grabbed Delilah's arm and nodded toward a man who stood with several other people near the swimming pool.
"Him," Addie said bluntly.
Before Delilah could open her mouth, Bill said, "He's too short."
"No, he's—" Addie dropped Delilah's arm and stared at Bill, her brow creasing in doubt. "Do you think so?"
"There's no doubt about it," Bill said flatly. "I'd say he's a good three inches too short. Lila would never be able to wear heels."
Addie sighed. "I guess you're right. I didn't think of that. He looked tall to me."
"That's because you're so adorably petite. I could pick you up and put you in my pocket."
Delilah said, "Addie Howard meet Bill Shelley."
"Hello, Addie," Bill said, smiling.
"Adorably petite?" she said without acknowledging the introduction. "I like that. And I like you. I might just want to climb into your pocket."
When he laughed, Addie glanced at Delilah, obviously gauging her five-seven height. "Look for a giant," she muttered, then walked away.
After a moment Bill rested his hands lightly on Delilah's bare shoulders. "I know a cafe that serves the best arroz con polio In the civilized world. Will you share some with me? It's well away from the tourist traps as well as from matchmaking friends."
She laughed. "How did you know?"
"I'm afraid I listened in the bar. Plus I have too many friends of my own who have made it their life's work to 'find a nice girl for Bill.' "
She frowned. "How much did you hear?"
"Only that whoever finds you a date gets some kind of prize."
A date. Then he hadn't heard it all. He didn't know the real purpose of the search. Suddenly Delilah was glad. She didn't want him to be a part of her real life. She didn't want him to know about all the doubts, all the fears that had been behind the decision she had made before she flew to Acapulco.
Delilah never did anything on the spur of the moment. She looked at every detail and considered every possibility before making even the most minor decision. But now, with Bill, she didn't even stop to worry about the reason that without hesitation she said, "Let's go."
❧
The cafe was not at all what Delilah had expected. It was a busy little place, friendfy and noisy, but there wasn't a pihata or a brightly painted pot in sight. Nets and harpoons decorated the unpainted wooden walls, making it look more like a fish and chips place from back home than a Mexican restaurant.
After they had given their orders to a young waitress, Delilah glanced up to find Bill watching her intently. "What?" she asked with a tiny, self-conscious smile. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
"I can't seem to do anything else. Haven't you noticed?" There wasn't a hint of apology in his voice. "IVe been staring at you since the first time I saw you at the airport. Not just because you're beautiful, although heaven knows that's reason enough."
Bill leaned forward, eager for her to understand. He knew she must be used to men staring at her, men who were drawn to her looks but didn't care about the woman. He didn't want her to think he was the same. He didn't want her to think what was between them was the same.
"It's more," he continued, "It's something in your eyes, in your face. This is going to sound really foolish, but I recognized you."
She frowned slightly. "We're both from Texas. It's not impossible that we would have run across each other at some time in the past."
He shook his head emphatically. "No, I had never seen you before you stepped off the plane, but I recognized you. I told you it would seem foolish."
"Yes," she agreed, her voice more wary than she had expected it to sound. "It seems foolish."
Delilah glanced away from the sincerity of his expression. Earlier she had had the same feeling he had described, a feeling of familiarity, but she had ignored it, unwilling to place any undue importance on it. Deja vu happened every day, she told herself. There was nothing extraordinary about it. And fairy tales were for other people, not for Delilah Jones.
The silence at the table grew heavy for just a moment, then Bill smiled and said, "So tell me, how did you get to be Lila? Did you become you intentionally or did circumstances make you who yo
u are?"
She shrugged. "Both, I guess. When I was fourteen I decided that I would control my own life, but circumstances caused me to make the decision."
She smiled wryly. Circumstance seemed such an innocuous word. Too mild for the events that had shaped her life and character.
"Fourteen seems a little young to make life decisions. You must have been very mature for your age."
Although his words weren't phrased as a question, she knew he wanted to know more. Her mouth went dry as she searched for something to say. The lies had come so easily on the beach. But suddenly, because he was who he was, she didn't want to lie to him.
But she also couldn't bear the thought of telling him the truth. She didn't want this nice man to find out who and what she really was. Not yet. She wanted the pretense to continue for just a little while longer.
"I guess I was mature," she began hesitantly, choosing her words with care. "I had to be. It started when Buddy—Buddy was my brother. He was the most terrific kid." She glanced up. "You would have liked him. He called me Lila too." She smiled at the memory. "He thought I was perfect. I remember taking him to his first day at school."
"You took him? Where was your mother?"
Delilah took a sip of wine to buy time. "Mama? Oh, she was there, but she was terribly Indulgent. She knew I had my heart set on taking him, and she—well, she knew It would make me feel like an adult. I was ten then. Looking back, I can see that it must have been a great sacrifice on her part. She let me do everything for him that morning. I scrubbed him until he was shiny and dressed him, and—" She broke off and laughed. "He had this crazy little cowlick right at the front of his head. I sprayed it and sprayed it with hair spray-it's a wonder I didn't asphyxiate us both—but it kept bouncing right back." She shook her head. "I was more scared than he was that day. I didn't want to leave him with all those strangers. What if he needed me? I knew the teachers wouldn't let me leave class to go to him. You see, because he loved me so much, Buddy was my responsibility—"