Forbidden Fruit (12 page)

“I won't be around long enough to call you anything.” He started to stand, making a sound of pain as he put his weight on his right leg. He swore and sat back down. The front bell pealed, announcing the doctor's arrival.

“Don't answer that.” He caught her hand. “Please…Lily.”

She squeezed his fingers, then stood. “I'm really sorry. But, you'll thank me for this, I promise you.”

He swore again. “And we both know how much your promises are worth, don't we?”

She ignored both his sarcasm and the way it made her feel. “I need to know your name.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Go to hell.”

The bell pealed again. “You must have a name. And if we're to pull this off, I have to call you something. I don't think go to hell is going to cut it.”

“Todd,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eyes. “Todd Smith.”

She nodded. “I'll be back, Todd Smith. I hope you're smart enough to still be here.”

A
s soon as Lily left the kitchen, Santos stood. He looked down at himself. “Dammit.” The old lady had thoroughly outsmarted him. How far could he get not only injured, but without his pants?

“Dammit,” he said again, picturing himself limping down River Road wrapped in a bath towel. He had to trust her.
Right.
He'd trusted plenty in the last year and a quarter, starting with those bumbling, good-for-nothing homicide detectives.
So much for trust.

Heart pounding, Santos sat back down and waited, a feeling of doom settling over him like a dark cloud. He closed his eyes, certain that in one minute a police officer would walk through the door and haul his butt back to New Orleans.

She wasn't going to do that to him, Santos thought suddenly and with certainty. This Lily talked tough, but she had kind eyes. Something about her made him trust her instinctively.

He called himself a fool. Whether he could trust her or not, he was trapped.

She hadn't lied. A moment later his
Aunt Lily
escorted an elderly man into the kitchen. Instead of a badge and a gun, he was carrying a black medical bag.

And true to her promise, the doctor played along with their story about Todd being her nephew; he asked few questions about how he'd received his injuries or about anything else.

Twenty minutes later, the doctor pronounced that Santos would live. “You'll have some nasty bruises in the morning. A lot of soreness.” He snapped his bag shut. “But, you'll be all right.”

He advised Lily to watch her “nephew” closely for six hours, to wake him every two hours if he slept and to call if anything about his condition changed.

She had said that she and the old doctor shared many secrets. What secrets? Santos wondered, watching as Lily Pierron walked the doctor to the door. She slipped her arm through the old doctor's and their shoulders brushed as they walked, suggesting a familiarity beyond that of neighbors or old friends.

A moment later, she returned to the kitchen, her expression all business. “Would you prefer the couch in the parlor or one of the bedrooms upstairs?”

He studied her a moment. “The couch.”

“Fine. Do you need assistance walking, or—”

“I can make it on my own.”

“Of course, you can.”

Without another word, she went on ahead. He scowled at her back as he limped behind her. When he reached the parlor, she was waiting for him, hands folded primly in front of her.

He frowned at her. “If you're waiting for me to apologize, you're going to have a long wait.”

“Did I ask for an apology? After all, I'm the one who hit you.” She motioned toward the couch, already made up for him. “I hope this will be all right.”

He shot her an annoyed glance. “If you had already planned for me to sleep on the couch, why did you ask which I would prefer?”

“I didn't plan for you to sleep here, I simply knew it was where you would choose to sleep. I gave you a choice, anyway.”

“Really?” he said, drawing out the word with obvious disbelief. Like everyone else he had come into contact with in the last year and a half, Lily Pierron was full of shit. “And how did you
know
I would choose the couch?”

“Because it's closer to the front door. Of course.”

Irritated that she was right, he glared at her. “So what's the story with you and the old geezer? He your boyfriend?”

“Smith,” she countered, softly but evenly. “That's a rather common name, isn't it?”

He cocked up his chin. “You don't believe me?”

“I didn't say that, now, did I?”

“You didn't have to.” He moved his gaze over the large, opulently furnished room. “It's kind of gaudy, isn't it?”

“It served its purpose.” She started for the door. “I've left an extra blanket, in case you get cold. I'll be checking on you every two hours, so don't be frightened if you awaken to find me in the room.”

Santos muttered an oath. He couldn't ruffle her. If there was one thing he had learned to do well during his tenure in the foster-care system, it was how to ruffle feathers and upset applecarts. At times he had felt it was the only way he had of fighting back, of exerting his independence and need to be left alone.

And now, more than anything, he wanted to fluster this woman. He looked the room over again, this time with deliberate slowness. He brought his gaze back to hers, then smiled thinly. “Do you live alone, Lily?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Yes, Todd, I do.”

He had expected her to lie. He had expected to see fear or distrust race into her eyes. He had seen neither. She had been honest. He looked away, denying the grudging respect he felt for her.

“Why do you want to know, Todd? Are you going to murder me in my sleep? Or just rob me?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out.”

She laughed then, the sound a haunting combination of amusement and despair. “Things are nothing, Todd. They mean nothing. And if you murder me, well, I really have nothing to live for, anyway.”

Without waiting for him to comment, she went to the parlor's double doors, stopping and turning back to him when she reached them. “Let's strike a bargain, Todd Smith. I don't expect anything from you, you don't expect anything from me. You don't ask me any questions, I won't ask you any. And if Todd Smith isn't your real name, I don't really care.”

 

Santos awakened to the succulent smell of bacon cooking. He opened his eyes and the events of the night before came rushing back—hitching a ride; being attacked; running, only to be pinned in the headlights of an oncoming car; being struck, then the sensation of flying.

Fear clutched at him as, for one awful moment, he allowed himself to consider what could have happened. If Lily Pierron hadn't come along, or if she had been going faster and had struck him harder. If she had called the cops. Santos shuddered. If he hadn't escaped the van and its driver's rope and knife.

He shook his head to clear it, fighting off the fear, willing his heart to slow. Today, tomorrow and every day after that he would have to take care of himself, he would have to fight to survive. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past and on what could have happened. He had to focus on his future. And for now, he was safe; he was free.

Santos drew himself into a sitting position and groaned. As the doctor had predicted, he was sore as hell. Each time he moved, another muscle group screamed in protest. His head and thigh throbbed. He felt as if he had been hit by a Mack truck instead of a twenty-five-year-old Mercedes sedan.

Santos swung his legs over the side of the couch. She had laundered his blue jeans. They were laid neatly over the back of the couch, along with a worn chambray work shirt. On top of them both sat a small, white box and a couple of rumpled bills.

His duffel. He'd left it in the van.

Santos moaned and dropped his head into his hands. He hadn't even thought of his bag until now. Most of his money and all of his clothes had been in it. Now he had nothing.

Except for six dollars, a five and a one.

And his mother's earrings. Thank God, he hadn't lost the earrings.

Santos stood and dressed as quickly as his aching muscles would allow. He limped into the kitchen, the smell of bacon causing his stomach to rumble. As his mouth began to water, he realized how long it had been since he'd eaten.

Miss Lily stood in front of a great, old-fashioned stove, turning bacon in a black iron skillet. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “I see you're still here.”

Last night, he hadn't thought much about the way she looked. He had noticed her eyes and her approximate age, but little else. This morning, in the sunlight, he wondered how he couldn't have. She was a striking-looking woman. Once upon a time, she must have been an incredible beauty.

Santos folded his arms across his chest. “And you're still alive. The family silver's still in place.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I knew you weren't going to kill me.”

“Yeah?” He moved farther into the kitchen. “And how did you know that?”

She shrugged. “Experience, I guess. It's given me a sense about people. Grab a plate, everything's ready.”

He shifted his gaze to the pile of bacon draining on paper towels, and his stomach growled once more.

She followed his gaze. “I had a feeling you would be hungry. We're having biscuits and gravy, too. And I warn you, my gravy is pretty special.”

Santos glared at her, pride warring with hunger. “You don't have to feed me.”

“No?” She took a pan of biscuits, big and golden brown, from the oven and set them on the stove top. “I rather think I do owe you something. After all, I did hit you with my car.”

Santos thought of the state. One of the social workers had told him the state owed him a family, since he had no one else. His second foster mother had told him he owed her and her husband because they'd taken him in. He didn't want to be owed anything. And he didn't want to owe anyone else. He told her so.

Lily stirred the pot of gravy. “Well, then,” she said thoughtfully, “you can pay me for the meal.”

“Pay you?” he repeated, thinking of the few dollars he had to his name. “For the meal?”

“Of course, I don't expect you to.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “But, if you really don't want to owe me for the meal…pay me for it.”

Santos set his jaw, frustrated. “How much?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I don't know, a few dollars. What does a home-cooked breakfast go for these days?”

He said nothing, and she turned back to the stove. “Or, you could work it off. There are some things I need done around here. Repairs to the garage. Ripped screens. Stuff like that. My regular man up and died on me. He'd been working for me for forty years.”

She split a biscuit, covered it with the white gravy, then added a heap of bacon to the plate. She turned and held it out. “You decide what the meal's worth. And if you want to stay a few days, get your strength back, I'll pay you a little something on top of room and board.”

Santos gazed at the loaded plate, his mouth watering. He hated to stay. He hated the idea of feeling beholden—to this woman or anyone else. But the truth was, he had no money, no clothes and nowhere he was expected to be. Lily Pierron's offer was a godsend. And he hated that, too.

He stiffened his spine and reached for the plate. “A couple days. Then I'm out of here.”

S
antos stayed. Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months. Now, three months to the day since Lily had taken him in, he sat on the steps that led to her first-floor gallery and stared out at the levee, wondering how it had happened. He hadn't planned to remain so long. As he had announced that first morning, he had intended to stay only a few days or a week, just long enough to save some money and get his strength back.

Santos picked up a piece of a shell that had, no doubt, been carried from the driveway on the bottom of someone's shoe. He turned over the broken bit in his hand. What was her deal, anyway? What was she getting out of this situation? He didn't buy that she couldn't find another handy-man to fix up her place. And he certainly didn't buy that she cared about him.

No, she had another reason for keeping him around. Experience had taught him that everybody had an angle, everybody wanted something from everybody else. He just hadn't figured out Lily's angle yet.

He frowned. Judging by her home and car, she was rich. And rich people had no use for poor ones—except as servants or to hold up as their
cause.

Santos narrowed his eyes. But Lily treated him in neither of those ways. She treated him as an equal and with respect. She didn't expect him to work out of a sense of obligation, but instead paid him a fair wage for any jobs she asked him to do. She gave him space, neither pressuring him with questions about himself and his past, nor suffocating him with sympathy and understanding that rang false.

What was she after?

Santos tipped his face to the purpling sky. He sensed in Lily a deep need for love and companionship, a loneliness so sharp he could almost feel it. And despite the great diversities between them, he sensed that she understood him. Understood him in a way no one had in a long time. And as much as he hated to admit it, he liked her.

Understood him? Liked her?
He scowled at his own thoughts. He was being ridiculous. Softheaded and too trusting. The fact was, Lily Pierron was just as he had first thought her to be—no different from anybody else, just working her angle, whatever it was. He would be a fool to forget that.

Santos looked down at the piece of shell in his hand, then flung it as far from him as he could. He didn't like or trust her. He hated that he needed her handout and despised himself for having accepted it for so long.

The time had come for him to go.

Lily stepped out onto the gallery behind him. She moved quietly, as was her way. He'd become accustomed to her stillness, her way of appearing as if out of nowhere. She was the most self-contained person he had ever known. She seemed to know who and what she was, and although he wouldn't say that she was at peace with herself, he sensed that neither was she at war with herself. She was resigned to her life.

A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed past it. Her life was her own damn business. Let her be resigned to it; he had nothing to do with it.

Lily crossed to him. “It's a pretty evening,” she murmured, gazing toward the levee and river beyond. “I've always loved this time of day. The color and smells. The hushed quality.”

Santos fisted his fingers, wishing she would go away and leave him alone. Wishing that, deep in his gut, he didn't long for her to sit beside him.

He didn't need her or her company. He didn't need anyone.

Lily sighed, obviously undaunted by his silence. “I remember being a girl and doing just what you are now.”

“And what was that?” he asked sharply, irrational anger surging through him. Anger at her intrusion, anger that he was here, on this porch, that he hated the idea of leaving. Anger that, despite his own self-assurances to the contrary, Lily reminded him how much he missed what he'd had with his mother. What he'd had—and lost.

She lowered herself to the step beside him. “Gazing out at the river, thinking of all the places I would rather be.” She laughed lightly. “Funny, how some things change so much and others change not at all.”

How did she know him so well? he wondered, as furious with himself as with her. How, in three short months, had she acquired the ability to crawl into his head and read his mind?

He swung to face her, ready to fight it out with the whole, fucking universe, starting with her. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

She met his gaze. “Shouldn't I be?”

“No!” Santos jumped to his feet. He strode to the other side of the gallery, then swung to face her once more. “No,” he said again. “You have no reason to be nice to me. Unless you want something. Just tell me, Lily. Just tell me what you want.”

She shook her head. “I don't want anything from you, Todd.”

“That's bullshit!” He took several steps toward her, then stopped. He clenched his hands into fists, frustrated. “You're using me. I just don't know what for.”

She stood slowly, using the stair rail for support. She crossed to stand before him and looked him straight in the eye. “Then, why don't you leave?”

He should leave. Go now and not look back.

He wheeled away from her, his every instinct fighting the thought. He crossed to the railing. Curving his hands around it, he gazed out at nothing for long moments.
He didn't want to go, dammit. He felt safe here. Safe and cared for.

Right. And at any moment he would feel a knife at his back.

Santos sucked in a sharp breath and swung to face her once more. “Why don't you have any friends, Lily?” She said nothing, and he crossed to stand directly before her. He looked her square in the eye. “You never have visitors, no one calls. Except for mass and errands, you never go out. Why is that?”

She folded her hands in front of her. He noticed they trembled, though she kept her gaze unflinchingly on his. “You have a point here, Todd?”

“Why are you treated like a leper, Lily Pierron? Why do children whisper behind their hands when they see you? Why do their mothers pull them to the opposite side of the sidewalk when you're near? Why do you always sit alone at mass?”

Pain tightened her features, but she didn't move or look away. She didn't strike out defensively at him. “Why don't you tell me.”

“Okay, I will.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. “This place was a whorehouse. And my guess is, you were the head whore.”

To her credit, she flinched only slightly. He fought the way that made him feel, and kept on, though even as he spoke the words, he regretted them, even as he flung them at her, he wished he could take them back. “Judging from the memorabilia I've seen around the place, you ran one hot little business here. No wonder you're so popular with your neighbors. And no wonder you want me around, no one else will have you.”

For long seconds she said nothing, just gazed at him, her eyes reflecting not just the wounds he'd inflicted, but a lifetime of wounds inflicted by others. “Is that all, Todd?”

He wanted her to fight back, to strike out at him. Maybe then he wouldn't have a knot in the pit of his gut. Maybe then he wouldn't feel like crap. He took a step closer to her. “No, it's not.” He hiked up his chin, “Where's your kid, Lily? I know you had one, I saw pictures. What, did she think you were a leper, too?”

Her pain, he saw, knew no bounds. “You're a good student of human nature,” she said finally, her voice thick with tears. “I'm just what you called me. A whore. Completely alone. And yes, even my daughter abandoned me.” She drew in a short, ragged breath. “I believe I'll go in, now.”

Without another word, she turned and walked into the house, her head held high.

Santos stared after her, his heart in his throat. He had deliberately hurt her. Because he liked her, because he was afraid of needing her, then being hurt himself.

He had done the only thing he could think of to push her away.

Santos swallowed hard, his eyes burning. All she had ever been was kind to him. She had allowed him into her home, she had given him a job, a place to stay and food to eat. She had expected nothing from him but that he do an honest day's work.

He hadn't even trusted her enough to tell her his real name.

He felt like the mangiest, low-life dog on the face of the earth. He felt as ugly and mean-spirited as anyone who had ever hurt him and put him down.

He had become as bad as those he had fought to escape.

Without pausing for second thought, Santos followed Lily inside. The large foyer was empty. He called her name. She didn't answer, so he went in search of her.

He found her in the front parlor, standing stiffly in the middle of the room, staring, it seemed, at nothing. For long moments he gazed at her back, hurting for her.

“Miss Lily?”

She didn't turn. “Please go away, Todd. I prefer to be alone now.”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Lily, please…I'm sorry.”

She bowed her head. “For what? Telling the truth?”

“It isn't the truth. I was just being—”

“It is the truth. You're right to despise me.” Her voice lowered; he had to struggle to hear her. “Even my own daughter despised me.”

He took a step toward her, then stopped. “But I don't. I—” His throat closed over the words as panic settled over him. He fought the emotion, though the thought of being honest with her, of exposing his real feelings terrified him. “I was just being mean,” he said finally, softly. “I'm sorry.”

“Go away, Todd,” she said again. “It's all right. I'll be fine.”

“It's not all right.” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You didn't deserve that. And you haven't deserved my lies.”

She turned then and met his gaze. He saw that she had been crying. He looked away, then back, ashamed. “My name's not Todd Smith,” he said softly. “It's Victor Santos. Everyone has always called me Santos. Except my mother. And she's dead.”

He drew a deep breath, his next words the most difficult, the most terrifying to admit. “I wanted to…hurt you. To push you away. Because I like being here. Because I like…you. And that—” Emotion choked him, and he looked away.

Lily crossed to him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. She gently touched his cheek. “It's all right, Victor. I understand.”

He lifted his gaze. In hers he saw understanding and real compassion, he saw the wisdom that comes with a lifetime of hard knocks. In them he saw himself.

How could her daughter have deserted her?

As if reading his thoughts, her eyes flooded with fresh tears. “My daughter wanted a new life. A clean life. One that had no part of the Pierron past. It didn't include me.” Lily drew a deep, shuddering breath. “She left me behind.”

“I think that sucks!” Santos exclaimed, angry for Lily. She had loved her daughter. The way his mother had loved him. He never would have done that to her. Never.

Lily shook her head. “I understand. I know what I am.”

Santos swallowed hard, stunned. Lily acted as if she thought she deserved to be hurt, as if she deserved to be abandoned. He drew his eyebrows together, recalling the things he had said to her, hating himself for them.

“You don't have to worry,” she continued quietly. “I don't want anything from you. And I'm not going to let you down.” She cleared her throat. “But I do like having you around. Maybe that's selfish of me, but…I've been so lonely.”

Santos covered her hand, feeling for the first time since his mother's death that he wasn't alone. Feeling as if there was someone who cared about him, someone he could turn to. A part of him doubted his feelings, a part of him warned him to be careful, disbelieving. He ignored those parts. He denied them.

He told her everything then. About his mother and father. About his mother's murder and his vow to avenge her; he told Lily about the foster homes he had been in and how he had run away from each. He shared with her his fears and his frustrations, the promises he had made to his mother and the ones he had made to himself.

He laid his heart bare; she listened and comforted him.

Santos talked long into the night, until he felt completely drained, but better for it—as if sharing himself with Lily had released him from some measure of his past, from a modicum of his pain.

And later, as they said good-night to each other, his eyes burning with fatigue, his throat raw, both knew by mutual yet unspoken acknowledgment that Santos was staying for good.