Beautiful Stranger (14 page)

A sudden suspiciousness. “What're you asking all these questions for? Why not ask Crystal?”

“I'm asking you,” he said. Just this side of harsh.

“Eee, you don't have to get all mad. It's Trujillo.”

Robert tsked. Not quite the Spanish version of Smith or Jones, but close enough. “And his mother's name?”

She told him, and Robert went back inside to scribble down the little details that might help. The mother was in her late thirties, very heavy, the boy her only family. She'd come from somewhere else with a man from the neighborhood who deserted her when Mario was born. She did telephone work, mostly. “Telephone work, like solicitations?” Robert asked.

“No, you know, like the big places where you answer phones and take orders from all over? She had a good voice, real proper. It's a good job.”

Robert scribbled down a few more particulars, then hung up and stared for a long moment at the phone. It was obvious Alicia didn't even miss her daughter. How could she not? And how could she bear the guilt of kicking her out of the house over a man?

He scowled and shook his head. By now, Alicia had manufactured a scenario that would make her feel good about this arrangement, one that excused her entirely. Crystal, she rationalized, was happier, so Alicia had done the right thing.

Violence rose in him, hot and dark, and he wanted to smash a fist into the phone, kick the door. He did neither, only took a long breath and blew it out, let it go.

Looking at the notes, he recognized the monumental nature of the task that awaited him. Find Mario, Louise had ordered, and he shook his head, grinning ruefully. Mario Trujillo in the southwest. Sure, sure.

He peeked around the corner and saw that Crystal had fallen into a deep, slack-mouthed sleep. He turned dinner down to a low simmer and wandered into the alcove she'd created for his tools. Idly he sat down and picked up a drawing pad—thinking came easier to him when he had something in his hands.

Beside his knife was the photograph Tyler's wife had
found of the stained-glass window in the restoration project. Robert tugged it over and started outlining in colored pencil, letting his hand and eye take over as his mind puzzled over the problem of how to locate Mario. He'd hoped to simply make phone calls, but he saw now the best, fastest way would be to go down there, talk to neighbors. Someone knew something.

He could get down there and back in a day. Louise would certainly take care of Crystal, as she had last night, so he wouldn't worry about her. But Robert did not want to tell Crystal that he was going to look for her missing boyfriend. What if the kid had died? Or couldn't be found? Or worst of all, couldn't care less he had a baby on the way?

Crystal was very fragile right now—and this boy had obviously meant a lot to her. Robert wanted to discover the truth behind things before involving her. As it stood right now, she had illusions to hold on to, and as he'd learned all too often, there was a lot to be said for a good illusion.

As he mulled it over, he sketched out a section of glass in blue—that clean, wisteria blue of a Tiffany shadow. The color of Marissa's eyes. He scowled, skittered away from that and went back to the problem at hand. Mario, not Marissa. Crystal, not that snotty sister.

Mario and Crystal. He focused on the emerging sketch and the photo, and thought of the Indian church window he'd done a couple of years ago. In New Mexico. He'd tell Crystal that Tyler wanted him to do a new window for the restoration, and he wanted to get a look at the window at the church before he began. It wasn't a lie. He could make the rest of it true by actually stopping at the church, without obligating himself to do such an enormous project.

Abruptly Marissa flooded into his mind, a flood of sensation and color that bled through some chink in his armor. He worked his shoulders, shaking her away. It would be good to put a little distance there, too. Let the shattering power of last night fade a bit more.

 

Marissa felt snappish and wilted by the time she got home. Victoria was waiting for her, a glass of wine at the ready. She pressed the crisp white into Marissa's hand. “I've got dinner going. Chicken breasts and wild rice. Is that okay?”

“Wonderful!” Marissa hugged her. Victoria's spidery arms went around her neck, and for an instant, they were three and seven and ten, clinging to each other in the wilderness. Marissa breathed in her sister's smell, a bright, hot note, unique and dear, the color of lemons. She felt Victoria doing the same. “I am so glad you're here.”

Victoria let her go. “Me, too.”

Marissa showered and put on jeans, and she and Victoria ate the meal in the backyard, contentedly silent as the sun set over the mountains. Lazily stretched out, Marissa said, “This is two days in a row that I haven't walked. I need to take some homework assignments to Crystal—the little lost teen I told you about. Feel like walking with me?”

“Sure.”

They set out just at dusk, their feet falling into an easy rhythm. “What started your health regime?” Victoria asked, and Marissa told her. Victoria's story was much the same. “I woke up one morning and saw there was no flesh on my body at all. Just bones. I found a counselor that very day, who sent me to a nutritionist and a support group for anorexics and bulimics. Here I am,
thirty pounds later, almost a size eight.” She smiled. “I'm aiming for size ten.”

“Me, too,” Marissa said with a grin. “One more size to go. Maybe one and a half.” She narrowed her eyes, thinking of that thirty pounds her sister had gained. “You had to be wearing a one or something.”

“A zero,” she said, horror in her tone. “There are probably women who naturally wear that size, but I'm not one of them.” She looped her arm through Marissa's. “But here we are, childhood traumas healed at last. If we keep this up—and I certainly intend to—we can dress exactly alike and live each other's lives.” She laughed.

“Ick!” Marissa cried.

“Ick, indeed. I'd have to kiss your boyfriends.”

“And I'd have to endure your Goody Two-shoes types. Yuck.”

“We have certainly never agreed on men.”

“Not at all,” Marissa said. They'd never agreed on colors, either. Victoria liked the fire shades—orange, yellow, red—while Marissa preferred cool greens and blues.

“So,” Victoria said gingerly, “how long have you been dating Mr. Brooding Intensity?”

Marissa looked at her. “He's not like that.” Seeing the little purse on her sister's mouth, she grinned. “You didn't like him!”

“It was mutual, trust me.”

It wasn't uncommon. Victoria was often protective, maybe even a little jealous of any man Marissa dated. And although they didn't discuss these things as a rule, Marissa thought of Robert now, a taste in her mouth that had lingered all day. Chocolate. No, denser than that,
more substantial. Beef burgundy. Fortifying, substantial, delicious. “I really like him,” Marissa said.

“I know.” They walked in silence for a minute, then Victoria said, “We're always looking for the other one, you know it?”

“The other one?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I'm looking for you—someone neat and responsible and orderly. You're always looking for me—someone wild and creative.”

Marissa laughed at the insight, thinking of Robert's stained glass. “Well, that seems natural for twins, don't you think?”

“In a way.”

“Here we are,” Marissa said. Tossing a loose lock of hair out of her eyes, she knocked on the door. The air smelled of supper, and she heard the television playing inside. Robert opened the door, and she grinned. “Hi.”

There was a faint, bothersome hesitation as he looked from her to Victoria, then he opened the door. “Come in.”

“I brought Crystal's homework,” Marissa said, faltering under the soberness of his face. She frowned and asked quietly, “Is everything all right?”

For a moment they were close, bodies only inches apart, and the veil of whatever had been there last night shimmered, separating them from the rest of the world. A gilded sense of light moved through her, then shattered when he looked away. Almost dismissively.

Marissa didn't dare look at Victoria, who would see all too clearly what was in her heart. “Hi, Crystal,” she said instead. “How are you doing tonight?”

“A lot better. Ramona said I only have to stay down one more day.” She looked curiously at Victoria. “Wow. Twins.”

Marissa grinned. “This is Victoria. I've been dying for the two of you to meet—because guess what she does for a living?”

Crystal shook her head. “No idea.”

“She's a screenwriter. With what?” She looked at Victoria. “Seven movies produced now?”

“Eight,” Victoria said with a grin.

It was good to watch that flickering of emotions on Crystal's transparent face. “Oh, my God,” she said. “What movies did you write?”

Victoria settled easily on the ottoman near the couch, her limbs so long and ropy as she perched like a bird. She grinned and started rattling off the list. Happily, Crystal had seen several of them.

Marissa glanced over at Robert, who stood silently through this exchange, his presence exerting a thick pull on her attention, on her very skin. He did not look happy. Grimness marked his mouth, and she saw weariness around his eyes. And for one brief second, he met her eyes and there was yearning in them, very specific and focused.

She inclined her head toward the porch and he nodded. “We'll be back in a second,” Robert said.

Neither Victoria nor Crystal even acknowledged them. Crystal spilled out questions a mile a minute, displaying her prodigious well of knowledge.

Outside, Robert closed the door and went to lean on the post, patting his shirt in an automatic gesture for cigarettes that were no longer there. The streetlight shone through the pines in front of the house, dappling his face with shadows. He made no move toward her, and Marissa said, finally, “What gives?”

He didn't speak immediately. Then with a breath, he
said, “I have to go to Albuquerque, see if I can find the father of Crystal's baby.”

“I see.” She folded her arms. “When?”

“In the morning, I think. I talked to my sister and she gave me a little information.” Gruffly he added, “I don't want to tell Crystal what I'm really doing until I get back, so she thinks I'm going down to take care of some work things.”

“I see,” she said again. A sense of pressure made her lungs feel airless. “And…last night? Is that it? We're done?”

He bowed his head, and the light shone over the part in his hair, tied back neatly. She didn't help him, just let him work up whatever it was he had to say. Finally he did raise his head. “It was crazy to think it could be anything, Marissa. There's no place in my world for you. And none in yours for me.”

She wanted to hit him. Hard. “Whatever,” she said, and turned on her heel to go back inside.

He grabbed her arm. “Marissa, wait, it's not—”

She pulled free. In a low, fierce voice she said, “It wasn't a one-night stand? It wasn't something big? It's not me? It's not you? I guess it's just plain stupidity on your part, then.”

Unexpectedly he grinned. “That's possible.”

But the grin just made her remember a thousand things. “Don't try and charm me, Red Dog. I
saw
you last night. You showed yourself to me.” Her voice was low, nearly inaudible even a foot away. “And that's what's scaring you, not any stupid class difference that doesn't mean anything in this world.”

“You don't think it matters? You just don't know.”

She drew herself up. “Prove it.”

A frown. “What does that mean?”

She shrugged. “Prove it. Show me something I've never seen. Show me what I don't know. Show me how impossible it is that I could ever fit in your world.”

“Marissa—”

“Never mind,” she said, and pulled open the door before he could say another word. “Ready to go?” she said to Victoria.

Her sister stood up, patted Crystal's shoulder. “See you tomorrow. We can talk some more then.”

Crystal looked from Marissa to Robert, her eyes narrowing a little, and said, “Sure. Thanks, Ms. Pierce.”

Without another glance at Robert, Marissa left, stomping up the road in mute fury. Victoria was wise enough not to say a single word.

 

Marissa awoke before dawn, restless and depressed. She dressed in jeans and an oversize sweatshirt, made some coffee and carried it onto the front porch, where she had a view of the valley spilling down toward Lake Rosalie. It was cloudy and cold, threatening a storm before the day was over. This time of year, it could be rain or snow, probably both.

For the past couple of weeks, life had taken on a subtle, brilliant sheen. Every morning, she awakened with a sense of slight to middling excitement—and she recognized now that it had all been attributable to Robert. She had told her sister that she liked him, but the truth was, it was more than that. She'd acknowledged lust to herself, but it was more than that, too.

Something happened when they were together. Something good and rich and clean and real. It was almost as if she recognized him, or some part of him, his soul or heart or something, and in spite of that moment of
strange alienation when in her bed, that connection only reinforced her sense that this was important.

What did he fear so much?

The whisper of tires on the driveway made her raise her head. It was not really a surprise to see that it was Robert's truck. He parked and simply looked at her through the windshield for a minute, then got out and came around, wearing jeans and boots and a warm lumberman's jacket, blue and green. It made him look foreign, very Indian and distant, with that thick braid going down his back. She found herself looking at his long-fingered brown hands.