Riverstar (3) (34 page)

The next day Alicia sat slumped in her seat, watching Mr. Ball explain an equation by scrawling it in messy handwriting on the whiteboard. Jack Ball was a new teacher, young, without the wary
defeat of the other teachers. He dropped his whiteboard pen and as he reached for it, his sweater sleeve inched up over his wrist. There was the angry red scar on the inside of his wrist again - this telltale sign of a sad man.

In the row next to her, Josh Wilson doodled a pattern like a
checkerboard on his folder. His brown hair was on the long side, cut in the way all the boys wore it now, brushed over their foreheads. He shifted in his seat and glanced over at her, and seeing that she watched him, raised an eyebrow and smiled. He was an athlete and his arm muscles flexed as he tapped his pencil on the side of the desk and his thigh muscles pressed against the fabric of his jeans. He was
considered good-looking but wasn’t the most popular boy because he was on the sweeter side. Would he be interested enough in her to have sex?

What had Lola said to her?
All boys will do it with you if you let them know you want to
. So she smiled at him, hoping he would understand -
I am available
. It must have worked, she thought, since
he grinned at her before he leaned back over his notebook, continuing his doodle.

After school, Alicia walked towards home with her hood pulled
tight against the slanted rain, her gaze focused on the tips of her soaked tennis shoes. Large drops of water dripped from the edge of her hood like a mini-waterfall. A car pulled up beside her and stopped. She lifted her rain hood. Water splashed her face and ran down the back of her neck. It was Josh, in his blue Subaru. Leaning across the passenger seat, he rolled down the car window and
grinned, his pale face flushed. “You wanna ride?”

She looked to the sky and let the rain fall upon her closed lids and her cheeks. When her gaze returned to Josh, he had one arm draped over the steering wheel, peering at her from under his fringe of hair. “Sure,” she said, taking off her backpack and sliding into the bucket seat. Accelerating with a lurch, he pulled out to the highway and turned up the radio. It was playing some kind of hip-hop music she didn’t like. Josh tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. She stared out the front window, holding her bag against her chest. “Don’t you have cross country practice?” she asked.

“Had it this morning.”

She nodded and licked her chapped lips, pulling lip-gloss from
the side pocket of her bag and running it over her mouth. “You
know where I live?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah. I didn’t have to work today.” She let it dangle out there, knowing he would catch it if he were interested.

His eyes slid to her and back again to the road. “You wanna go down to The Landing, listen to some music in my car?”

She stared out the window. The Landing was the state park. A lot of kids went down there for parties and to hang out, both in the parking lot and on the stretch of flat, sandy beach. “I guess.”

“Cool,” he said, tapping his finger on the steering wheel.

She played with the zipper on her backpack. Her pants were wet from the rain where her coat hadn’t covered them, and her legs were numb from the cold. “Could you turn up the heat?” she asked.

“No problem.” They passed the Dairy Queen, heading south. The heater blew hot air onto her lap, and steam began to rise from her thighs.

When they pulled into the lot, Josh parked at the farthest spot from the entrance and turned off the car. She was instantly cold again. Rain pounded on the roof of the car. There was the sound of waves crashing below and the occasional seagull. Josh pulled the parking brake. “You wanna mess around?” She looked up at the firs
surrounding the parking lot. They swayed from side to side.

“I guess.” She made her mind numb, watching the drops of rain make their way down the passenger side window.

He gestured towards the back. “More room in the backseat.”

They both climbed over the front seats to the back. Taking his wallet from his letterman jacket, he pulled out a condom.

“We don’t need it,” she said. “I’m on the pill.” She looked at a rip in the car’s ceiling upholstery. She hoped Misty remembered that the key was under the mat on the front porch if she decided to come home early from the library. She tugged at the wet jeans that stuck to her skin.

“Great,” he said, grinning.

She kept her eyes fixed on the ripped ceiling. “I’ve got to get home soon, make sure my sister isn’t locked out.”

He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and unzipped his
pants. “That’s cool.”

“This is my first time,” she said.

“Shit. Really?” His eyes searched her face. “You sure then?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“Totally uncool to kiss and tell, right? But why me?”

“I like the color of your skin,” she said, staring at the vein in his neck that bulged near the muscle there.

He grinned and put his hand on her left breast and squeezed. “Good enough reason, I guess.”

***

Afterwards, he drove her home. The rain had lessened and his windshield wipers were on intermittent. She counted two seconds between each swipe. “It only hurts like that the first time,” he said, turning down the radio. “I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

“Don’t worry about it. I figured.” One-one thousand, two-one thousand, she counted in her head.

“Wanna try again?” He stopped in front of her house.

Her hand on the car door handle, she looked back at him. “Tomorrow?”

“You bet,” he said.

CHAPTER ONE

DRESSED IN HER ONE COCKTAIL DRESS
and knock-off Spanx undergarment, Cleo Tanner stood near the bar at the annual fundraiser for scholarships for underprivileged children. The smell of tiger lilies in vases on the dining tables set around the Seattle Art
Museum made her eyes water. She dabbed at them with a cocktail napkin, wondering if her eyeliner was smeared. Her dress felt tight, like she was a mouse being ingested by a cobra. Why couldn’t she stick with a diet? Really. Five pounds. Did it have to be so hard? It was the Sierra Nevada Pale Ales that did it. She should tell Nick to stop giving her so many free pints during her frequent visits to Cooper’s. Who was she kidding? That would never happen.

It was the silent auction portion of the evening. Attendees perused the items displayed—gift baskets and a homemade quilt and weeks at vacation homes—on long tables covered in white
cloths, all procured by well-intentioned but slightly frightening mothers of Cleo’s little Montessori students. Late May, it was an unusually clear and warm night for Seattle, and the committee of mothers had decorated the room with blue and silver ribbons and sparkly things that hung from the ceiling.

She was about to head to the bathroom to adjust the torturous undergarment when suddenly there was a man standing in front of
her, carrying two glasses of red wine. He was handsome, she supposed, if one liked the slick type, which she never had, even before Simon. He had an olive complexion and brown eyes and his
hair was perfectly cut and blow-dried so that it gave the impression of being tousled instead of carefully groomed. He wore a well-draped, expensive suit, like Sylvia’s husband often wore.

“I saw you were empty handed,” he said, holding out the wine
with a small bow, like an offering to the gods. “Can’t have our best
teacher without a drink.”

She took the glass from his outstretched hand. His fingernails were manicured to a gleam.
Never trust a man with a manicure
, her father always said. But there was no reason to turn down free wine. “Thank you. Do I have your child this year?”

“No children,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Scott Moore.”

“Ah,” she said, keeping her voice light. “The big donor.”

“Guilty,” he said.

“Your scholarships are being well-used this year,” said Cleo.

He smiled, sipping his wine without taking his eyes off her. “I’m pleased to do it.”

“Am I right, remembering you’re an attorney, Mr. Moore?”

“Trained as an attorney but I run an adoption agency.”

She felt a pang, thinking of Sylvia. “Really? How interesting.”
Then a lie. “I have a friend contemplating adoption.”

He raised his brows, took another sip of his wine. “I should mention the fees at my agency are a bit steep.”

“My friend is a professor of music,” she said, tugging on the skirt of her dress. “But she’s from a wealthy Seattle family. Money is not a problem.” She felt defensive. Did he only help rich people?

“Really? Would I know them?”

“You would,” she said, keeping her voice cold.

“I see,” he said. He was trying to hide his curiosity, she thought, watching his eyes glitter.

Everyone in Seattle was familiar with the Holm family and their business enterprises that ranged from oil to timber to technology during a span of 100 years. Sylvia’s father was one of five sons, all of them successful in one venture or another, having inherited mass wealth from their oil tycoon grandfather, which they subsequently used to start ventures of their own. Her father was in biochemical engineering.

Scott Moore smiled and tapped his fingers on her bare wrist. “Come to my office sometime. I can explain how we do things. You can decide then if you want to pass the information on to your
friend.” This was the kind of man who made deals, who was skilled in the art of negotiating, Cleo thought. Someone who got what he wanted.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Or I’d love to take you to lunch,” he said. “Or drinks.”

“I don’t date,” she said, keeping her voice light, without
emotion, merely stating a fact. Just then a photographer came over to them, a “Press” I.D. around his neck.

“Pose for a photo, Mr. Moore?”

Scott Moore put his arm around Cleo’s shoulder. “Sure.”

The photographer snapped several photos of them before
thanking them and moving across the room to a different couple.

She shrugged away from his embrace, trying not to shiver. There was something disturbing about this man. Despite her aversion to him, she paused, remembering Sylvia’s puffy eyes two nights ago, after the fourth failed in-vitro procedure. “My friend would consider adoption. Her husband isn’t so sure.”

“What’s his hesitancy?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But you say she’ll consider it. What’s holding her back? Besides her husband?”

“She’s afraid she’ll be disappointed. Have a birth mother change her mind. It happened to other friends of ours.”

“It never happens in my agency,” said Moore.

“How is that possible?”

“We have ways of making sure a birth mother is certain before we commit to the adoptive parents.”

“Is there a long waiting list?” asked Cleo.

He smiled. “You go out with me, I’ll put your friend on the top of the list.”

She felt her mouth fall open. She stared at him. Surely he was kidding? She laughed. “Very funny.”

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, his voice low. “I’m
actually not kidding. I know it seems a bit unorthodox, but I want you to let me take you out. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

He raised an eyebrow, his voice calm, like she was the crazy one for even questioning it. “I mean no harm. And I’m happy to help your friends, regardless. She just won’t go to the top of the list.”

“Thank you for the wine, but I should join my teacher friends at our table.”

“I understand,” he said. He handed her his card. “But call me if you change your mind.”

***

She left the auction before dessert, slipping out the back after a
quick goodbye to her table. Driving home, the pounding rain seemed to come out of nowhere just as she exited the West Seattle Bridge onto Admiral Way. Although she tried to dismiss it, the thought of Scott Moore would not leave her mind. What kind of man was he? Obviously, he was controlling and demanding, a man accustomed to getting his own way. But he had another thing coming if he thought he could manipulate her. And yet, she wanted nothing more than for her best friend to be a mother. It begged the
question - how many times would she have to go out with him before he’d arrange an adoption? Would Sylvia and Malcolm even consider it? She didn’t know. But it was worth asking. If it was something Sylvia wanted and would ease her pain, what were a few dates?

She set the wipers on high. But they had almost no effect against
the Seattle downpour, and her shoulders tensed as she drove up the hill, winding up and around, past the main street of West Seattle
before turning onto a side street where her apartment building was located.

She waited for the parking garage gate to open and then drove in slowly, her tires squealing on the wet cement. She parked in her designated spot and climbed out of the car, exhausted, anticipating her favorite jeans and a soft T-shirt. What kind of music was she in the mood for? A little Nanci Griffith, circa 1989?

As she exited the elevator, she saw Mrs. Lombardi from 3C going into her apartment, her white hair plastered against her pink scalp. She wore a flimsy raincoat dripping with water, which soaked the cheap carpeting that lined the hallway. “Mrs. Lombardi, why are you so wet?”

“Oh hello, Cleo,” she said. “I couldn’t find a parking space close to the front at the grocery store and I’m chilled to the bone.”

“I wish you’d let me pick things up for you when you need
them,” said Cleo. “You know I’m happy to get whatever you want when I shop for my dad.”

“You’re a good girl, but I was out of cat food and you know how Stewie needs his food.”

Stewie was the meanest cat ever born, and also one of the fattest. Going a day without food surely wouldn’t cause him much harm, Cleo thought, stifling a smile. Sweet Mrs. Lombardi kept shrinking while her cat grew fatter with each passing day. It reminded Cleo of
the Danish folktale she often read to her Montessori students, about the cat who ate all the people in the village and grew so fat he couldn’t move.