Between Will and Surrender

by Margaret Duarte

  “I appreciate the invite,” I said, “but no way will I navigate that long, winding road I took getting here ever again, especially at night.”

  “You must’ve taken the long way in,” she said, “enough to test the nerve and patience of even the locals. There’s another road leading here from the opposite direction, without the cliffs and sharp turns. The concert starts at six-thirty. Just say I invited you, in case anyone asks.”

  Before heading back to the Jeep, I asked Marianne if she knew anything about the history of the local Esselen.

  “A bit,” she said, “but not nearly as much as my friend, Ben Mendoza. I’ll give you his number.” While scribbling the digits on the back of a wine label, she said, “Most people around here know Ben by his Indian name, Gentle Bear. He’s an eighth-generation descendant of the Esselen tribe and guides trail rides when he’s not busy on his family’s cattle ranch. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind talking to you.” She then instructed me on the alternative route back to town, and, after a warm thank you, I was off.

  Not far from the winery, I spotted a small general store tucked into a clearing on the right side of the road. Since the bottled water I’d brought along had run out about halfway through the mouth-drying, throat-swelling drive up, I pulled in to buy another.

  The entrance to the store was locked, but a neon sign next door flashed Open. After my eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, I realized that I’d entered a country bar with rickety tables and plastic folding chairs, arranged haphazardly, in a space no larger than a storage room. Three men pinned me with their stares—not especially friendly, not hostile either. They gave off an aura of suspicion and annoyance at the intrusion, hardly conducive to business from outside visitors. “What can I do for you?” the bartender asked.

  I ignored the rude leers of the two men sitting at the bar. “Bottled water, please.”

  He reached behind the counter and said, “That’ll be a dollar.”

  I paid the bartender, thanked him for his time, and headed for the door in quick retreat.

  “Did ya know you got a double in these parts?” one of the stool-straddling strangers asked.

  I glanced back, not about to snub these men and fuel a misunderstanding. “So I’ve heard.”

  The speaker was handsome enough, but his eyes were unpleasant in their vacancy. And the uninviting patches of stubble on his face—hardly the perfect five o’clock shadow—made it plain that he hadn’t bothered to groom himself in a while. I managed a smile and was nearly out of the door when he said, “Could be Vonnie’s twin, huh, Tommy Boy?”

  Something about the men in the bar put me on edge and weighed on me all the way back to the Inn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THANK GOODNESS FOR FITNESS CENTERS, I thought as I programmed the treadmill for a thirty-minute workout. No better way than exercise to work off the depressing after-effects of last night’s dream. The two men from the bar had been chasing me through the woods, barking out my name. I was searching for a place to hide, heart ramming in my chest like an out-of-luck game animal, when Veronica stepped into my path. I woke up drenched in sweat. What was it about those men that bothered me so, and how in blazes did Veronica fit into the picture?

  Even now, the fear still lingered.

  I began with a brisk walk on the treadmill until confident enough to close my eyes and block out all other activity in the room. Minutes passed, and just as I was beginning to feel my dream-induced anxiety decrease, a raspy voice startled me out of my reverie.

  “Who are you, my damned conscience come to life?”

  I opened my eyes to seek out the speaker and nearly lost my footing.

  Veronica stood at the treadmill next to mine, wearing shorts and a tank top that barely covered her flat belly. Didn’t she ever get cold?

  Though my mind remained clear, my body shut down as if it had taken a liver punch during a boxing match. Why was this woman, this replica of me, acting like a bitchy Disney queen, and why was she directing her bitchiness at me?

  “What are you hiding beneath those baggy pants?” she asked. “Hairy legs?”

  I ignored her and continued my walk, though at a slower pace.

  “My hair was blonde once,” Veronica said. “But I didn’t much care for the way it made me feel. Fortunately, it only took a little L’Oréal Black Sapphire to repair nature’s mistake. Going black was easy.” She stepped onto the rotating platform and went straight into a maximum-speed run—no panting, no heavy breathing. Who was she, Jane Fonda? “Couldn’t do anything about the color of my eyes, though.”

  I sighed, hoping this strange one-sided conversation would end soon, but even before she’d worked up a sweat, Veronica continued, “You know, blue eyes can be traced back to a single mutation, in a single person, along the coast of the Black Sea.”

  The girl was missing a few screws in her head.

  “So how do you deal with your blondness, Marjorie?”

  The question came so unexpectedly and sounded so ridiculous that I didn’t respond. As far as the color of my hair and eyes was concerned, Mom was Dutch, Dad Italian. I took after Mom. Period.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Veronica asked.

  I was hallucinating, caught in a nightmare, looking into a fun house mirror. “How’d you know my name?”

  “Morgan told me. Wonder what color he prefers.”

  Another comment that didn’t warrant a reply.

  “It’s like looking in the mirror,” Veronica said, “except you’re so squeaky-clean. I’d have to ditch the losers I hang out with before I’d be taken for a nice girl.”

  Her mention of looking in a mirror brought back my father’s words only weeks before he died. “Let the mirror broadcast the feelings you feel, my precious one. Let it help you look past the mask you hide behind.”

  I had all the signs of a dangerously high heart rate, thanks to Veronica rather than an intense workout: excessive sweating, shortness of breath, dizziness. “You consider Morgan a loser?”

  “Oh no, not Morgan.”

  Comments about mistakes of nature and nice girls and losers? Why wasn’t she addressing the important stuff, like how the exact same genes had combined in the exact same way at nearly the exact same time to produce two, nearly identical people? I mean, what were the chances?

  “Okay, twin stranger,” Veronica said. “Who do you think was adopted? You or me?”

  Her question came like a slap—swift and with perfect aim.

  “Well?” she said with amazing calm. You’d think the issue of adoption was no big deal, instead of a gut-wrenching topic that made me want to throw up. “We’re identical,” she said. “What are the chances we’re not related?”

  I hit the stop button on the treadmill console. “My mother’s name is Truus. My father’s name is Gerardo.”

  “Your birth parents?”

  “Of course.”

  “You sure?” Her voice was pitched low, almost kind.

  “Damn right, I’m sure.” They would have told me otherwise.

  Veronica presented me with a you’ve-been-had smile.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, stepping off the treadmill platform.

  I sensed her watching me as I picked up my bottled water and draped a towel around my neck. “I know you’re curious,” she said, “because I sure am.”

  I headed for the locker room on weak knees.

  “I’ve already texted Pop,” Veronica called after me. “If you don’t get an answer, I’ll clue you in on mine.”