Butterfly Tattoo (12 page)

“Show me what each part is.”

With her pale hand, she gestures to one flagstone. “This is her big front porch,” she explains softly. “With the rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets. That’s her cat, Doldrums.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes bright and dancing. “My daddy named him that when he found him.”

That tells me so much about Alex’s sense of humor that I have to smile myself as I settle on the bottom step and listen as Andrea describes the whole house to me, every detail from the mansard roof to the wedding-cake latticework. It’s unbelievable to me that an eight-year-old could be quite so capable with a simple set of sidewalk chalk, and I tell her so.

She stares at the stones, twirling a shiny lock of red hair around her finger. “Well, we were just there, and all. In Santa Cruz, where my grandma lives.”

“Santa Cruz?” Michael’s “disappearance” over the past week is becoming much more clear to me.

Andrea turns away, reaching for a gray piece of chalk. I’m not sure I hear her right, as she bends over her picture and whispers, “My daddy died yesterday.”

My body stiffens and I want to say something. Anything at all, but I’m frozen, afraid of sending her scurrying away. This must be how Michael feels around her all the time. But I get brave. “So you went to your grandma’s house,” I venture cautiously, and she bobs her head.

“And we went to Daddy’s grave yesterday.”

“How did that feel?”

She stands, brushing off her hands, and gesturing toward her picture. “Look, all done.”

“I’m absolutely impressed. It’s beautiful.”

“You should see my Aunt Laurel’s paintings.” She mops her brow as she studies her own handiwork. “They’re great. We used to have some, but Michael took them all down after Daddy died.” My curiosity piques at that statement, but I’m smart enough not to ask.

I’m also smart enough to realize that she’s never going to answer my question about visiting Alex’s grave, so instead I suggest, “Let’s go find Michael and tell him I’m here, okay?”

She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to her, and slips right past the step where I’m sitting. For a few moments a bridge had formed, but it’s retracted just as quickly, which gives me a brief glimpse of one reason Michael stays in so much pain.

Venturing into their home, there’s no sign of anyone; only the chilly sensation of air conditioning and late-day shadows. Andrea must have vanished into her bedroom, so I call out, “Michael?” but there’s no answer. Wandering through the living room, I spy him sitting on the back deck, staring thoughtfully up into the mountains.
Rough weekend
. Talk about an understatement, I think, seeing exhaustion in his dark features. Then, feeling guilty for staring at him when he’s unaware, I urge the sliding glass door open. He glances up with a start, and flashes a dimpled smile as he stands to greet me.

“Didn’t expect you so soon,” he announces a little too cheerily, and I know that his good humor is forced on my account.

“Oh.” I wrap arms around myself. “Is that bad? Sorry.”

“No, no, not bad,” he rushes, taking a step toward me. “Just lost track of time, I guess.”

One glance at his wardrobe and I can see that he showered and dressed for my arrival. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt and nicely pressed khakis this time—the first occasion I’ve seen him out of blue jeans, and he’s absurdly handsome, with his dark looks and boyish smile. His hair’s still wet, too, curling slightly where he’s combed it along his nape. It’s obvious that if he’d let it grow, the curls would get out of hand, and I itch to lift my fingers and stroke the damp hair. To lean up onto my tiptoes and kiss him hello, right on his sandpapery cheek.

“I love your outfit,” he remarks, glancing at my sundress and denim jacket getup, one I lingered over nearly forever before walking out the door tonight. “Very Reese Witherspoon, gotta say.”

I wave him off dismissively, feeling embarrassed that he’s putting the focus on me. “Oh, it is so not.” But I’m still smiling inside and out, and he sees it.

He takes another step even closer. “Most people would consider that a compliment, Ms. O’Neill,” he says, voice whiskey-deep. “She’s blonde, she’s hot. You do the math.”

Swallowing hard, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, staring at my sandals. I’m about to joke that I might prefer a Naomi Watts comparison when the side gate to the deck opens unexpectedly, startling me until I realize it’s the Domino’s guy. “Hey, Jose,” Michael greets him warmly, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. No surprise that my single guy is on a first-name basis with the pizza man.

“Mr. Warner, how you doing?” The deliveryman places the insulated bag on the glass-topped table. “I got two large supremes for you.” Larges? He must be planning on leftovers.

Michael turns to me. “I went ahead and ordered. Hope that’s okay?”

That’s when I notice that familiar, bug-eyed look on Jose’s face, who begins stammering, “You’re… you’re… you’re… you’re.” He’s hung, like an old vinyl record skipping on a piece of dusty lint. So I do what I always do in these situations, and smile graciously. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Wow, man, I thought so!”

Michael watches this entire interchange, a mixed expression of wonder and mild embarrassment on his face as he hustles Jose back out the gate. Once he’s gone, Michael begins to laugh, shaking his head. “You get that a lot?”

“Not nearly so much as when my show was on, but yes.”

“Andrea says it’s in reruns on TNT.”

“Oh, God. Please,
please
, do not watch it,” I blurt, feeling this bizarre burst of embarrassment at the idea of Michael and Andrea cozying up on their sofa together, watching me frozen in the time warp of syndication. It’s a strangely mortifying thought, as if I’ve just been discovered trying on my mother’s bra, or doing something that I shouldn’t be. In the rush of a moment I feel exposed, my current life and my former one having collided violently.

“Why not?” He’s watching me, confused by my reaction.

“Because it’s a stupid show, for one thing,” I announce firmly. “And because…” Because why? Because then Michael will know what I
used
to look like, and realize what a disappointment this damaged version really is? My face flushes with instant shame at that thought. “Just don’t, okay?” I reach for the pizza box, ready to help. But my hands are trembling slightly from the unexpected emotion of the conversation, and that’s when it happens. The stupid muscle in my hand—the one severed by Ben’s knife that took so long to heal—gives out on me, sending the pizza flying to the wooden deck floor.

“Dang it!” I cry, as my hand spasms painfully, and I drop to the ground to try and scoop up the pizza. Clutching at my palm, I rub my thumb across the center. “I’m so sorry! God, how stupid!”

“Hey, now. It’s okay. No big deal.” Michael squats down beside me, reaching for my hand in concern. “What happened?” he asks, trying to get a look at it, but I won’t let him, and jerk it back protectively against my chest.

“Just my hand, don’t worry about it.”

“No, let me see,” he presses, still reaching. “Is it all right?” No, it’s not all right. It’s shaking, and all tightened up on me, something that still happens every now and then. Just one more bit of my broken body that hasn’t healed quite right, and probably never will. Ashamed doesn’t come close to covering how I feel, cowering like this on the floor of Michael Warner’s deck.

“Please,” he urges, reaching gingerly for my hand again, and this time, I let him. I let him get a little bit closer than I have until now, as one by one he uncurls my coiled fingers. That’s when the silvered scar is revealed, jagged through the center of my palm, like a terrible brand. There’s nothing mystical or Harry Potteresque about it, I can assure you.

He massages the thick band of tissue, tracing and rubbing his thumb over the length of the thing, and neither of us says a word. Not until I whisper, “I tried to stop the knife.” I extend my other palm in front of my face, demonstrating. “Like that. It severed the muscle and a few nerves in my hand.”

He nods, then gently lifts my open palm to his lips and kisses my scar. Not one kiss, but a soft trail of them along the slash mark. Tears fill my eyes, unbidden—unexpected, just like his tender gesture. Because in kissing that scar, I understand that he wishes he could kiss away the pain—all the pain that I’ve had to live with, ever since that fortuitous day.

The tears blur everything. “I’m sorry I didn’t… tell you more. The other day. It’s just hard to talk about it, when someone’s tried to kill you.” Then, I have to laugh at how utterly fantastic that sounds out loud.
Someone tried to kill me.

“You don’t have to talk about it, Rebecca.” He closes my smaller hand within his much larger one. “I want to know you, that’s all. Like I said.”

“I wish you could read my palm,” I say, the laughter dying on my lips. “You’d know everything that way.”

Staring down, he traces the scar with his fingertip. “It
is
kind of like a life line.” I’ve never thought of it that way, but it certainly puts an ironic spin on my near-death experience. We’re not so different, him and me, having gazed pointblank into the jaws of our enemy. That’s what I’m thinking when I notice the shiny glint of his commitment ring.

“How was Santa Cruz?”

His whole body reacts as his gaze darts upward to meet mine. I regret the spark of pain in his eyes, but not the question. Now that I understand what this weekend meant to him, I definitely need to know.

Continuing to massage my palm, he asks slowly, “How come you want to know about that?”

“Andrea told me you went to Alex’s grave.” It’s weird to speak of his dead partner by name, in such a personal way, but already I feel like I know him a little—as eerie as that seems.

“It was a year ago yesterday he died,” he explains hoarsely.

“Andrea told me that, too,” I say. “About the anniversary.”

“Reckon you’ll forgive me now? For not calling and all?” He’s trying to joke, but the smile fades on his lips before it even forms.

“Michael, you are so forgiven,” I assure him with a sympathetic expression. “I know how hard this weekend must have been.”

“Gotten used to going this alone, you know, but meeting you’s already playing hell with that idea. Not that I don’t understand being alone, ’cause I do,” he asserts, moody eyes shimmering. “Just not how I got here so easily.”

“Tell me, Michael,” I encourage, touching his arm. “Tell me what you mean.”

He blows out a heavy breath, looking up into the hills. “Well, Rebecca…one minute you’re in traffic, minding your own damned business, just driving home and looking forward to the weekend.” Hesitating, he gazes into my palm again, at the scar, tracing his thumb across it as he reflects, “Next, the phone rings and it’s all over. It’s over because some asshole stopped for drinks near your house, near your family, on an average Friday afternoon when you thought they were safe.”

“Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, feeling his pain physically. “You’ve been through so much.”

“Yeah, well that’s the thing about life,” he says with a sardonic laugh. “It’s those average days that get you.” He closes my fingers, one by one, until my scar is hidden again, adding, “
You
know about that.”

And suddenly I’m thinking of my own average night three years back, when Ben followed me home from the set. I was hurrying up the walkway to my apartment, rushing so I could catch the end of
ER
—ironically enough. It was a taping day, and it had left me bone-weary, which was probably why I never knew what was happening until Ben’s knife came down on me, even though I’d seen him loitering outside only the day before. I’d seen him and been frightened enough to consider calling the police, but then decided I was overreacting, and chose to ignore the way he lurked there on my street corner.

That thought drives me back into myself, hard. “Your pizza’s ruined,” I observe, wiggling my hand out of his. Frantically, I begin scooping the errant toppings back onto our decimated pie: anything rather than meeting his probing gaze. See, I’m more than willing to talk about
his
pain, so long as we don’t turn the lens on me. For a moment, he seems taken aback, kind of just blinking at me in stunned silence.

“I’m really sorry about all this mess,” I rush to say, and hope he’ll know I mean far more than the pizza.

“Nah, we’ll make it work.” He gathers up wayward pepperoni and sausage and a random onion that’s dangling from the box lid. “Five-second rule.” He laughs, a little too cheerily, working to cover the sudden wall of awkwardness that’s fallen between us.

But I don’t quite get the joke, so he explains, “It’s a parent thing. With little kids, most everything hits the floor. You just dust it off, and hand it back all over again. We always called it the five-second rule, though I guess this is more like thirty.”

What a nice tenet that would be for the rest of life; if something ended badly or didn’t work, we could simply declare, “Five-second rule!” and start all over again—well, if only all those “average days” weren’t potentially out there lurking over the next hill, ready to change our destiny.

“Maybe we could say that about the past few minutes,” I suggest hopefully, rising to my feet. “You know, five-second rule about all the awkward stuff since I got here.”

“That’ll work,” he agrees, though I see wistfulness in his golden eyes. He smiles again, giving me an appreciative once-over, gallantly ignoring my stained dress, as he announces, “Great outfit! Very…Reese Witherspoon.”

And this time, smiling so broadly that I feel the numb side of my mouth pull a bit, I answer, “Thanks for the compliment!”

“You know, Rebecca,” he says, rising to his feet, “never thought there’d be anything good about this weekend. But you’ve managed to change that.”

I turn to him, surprised, and he gives me a winning smile, one that’s quirky and sexy and a little ironic without even meaning to be. When Michael Warner smiles, it reveals a world of intelligence, even when he’s silent. His expression changes, becomes curious, and then I realize I’m standing there, pizza stain and all, gaping at him.