The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (130 page)

“I don’t care if you took on the entire football team,” he said.

She felt something tightly wound inside her loosen just a bit. “It wasn’t like I even wanted them. It was like …” she struggled to put it into words, “like the rest of the time I was invisible, and when I was with someone, I knew I was there.”

Lucien nodded slowly. “I know the feeling.”

She pushed his sleeve back, lightly running her fingertips over the angry purple scar on his wrist. This time he didn’t pull away. “Your turn,” she said.

“There’s nothing much to tell.” His voice was matter-of- fact. “It wasn’t like I decided to off myself because my parents got divorced. Honestly? It was better without them going at each other all the time.” He fell silent for a moment, staring up at the rafters, where motes of dust floated lazily in a shaft of sunlight. “Then, I don’t know, a year or so ago it all just sort of fell apart. You know the saying, that’s the way the cookie crumbles? That’s how it felt, like little pieces of me breaking off.”

Her fingertips moved up to his palm. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men—”

“—couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.” He gave a hoarse laugh.

“I saw someone die once.”

“Really?” He turned to look at her.

After all this time it seemed less a memory than a half-remembered nightmare. “My foster mom’s boyfriend. I watched him bleed to death and didn’t lift a finger to help.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“Yeah, I hated him.”

“Then he deserved to die.”

“Nobody deserves to die.” She was taken aback by the vehemence with which she spoke.

After a moment she stretched out beside him, listening to the measured beat of his heart and picturing the blood pumping in and out.

This should have been my first time,
she thought when they made love at last. Instead, it only felt like the first.

She knew it wasn’t the first time for him either, not just because of the condom in his wallet; she could tell from the careful way he moved inside her, as if not wanting to come too soon. After a few minutes she urged softly, “It’s okay.”

He drew back to look at her. “What about you?”

“I don’t think I can.” She hadn’t with any of the others.

He smiled. “We’ll see about that.”

He rocked against her. With her previous boyfriends it had been quick, but with Lucien it was more like a slow dance with their clothes off. The sensations mounted—not the surging tide of romance novels, more like warm water lapping against her in little waves. Then all at once she arched back with a gasp. “Oh!”

Lucien cried out too, and after a moment rolled onto his back. Lying beside him, drenched with sweat, her heart racing, she recalled the halfhearted murmurs of affection that would be followed by the groping for clothes and gotta-run-I’ll-call-you-in-the-morning dash out the door. But when Lucien stirred it was only to prop his head on one elbow and look down at her. “Just think, we could’ve gone swimming instead.”

“Very funny.”

His expression grew serious, and he gently brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to have to trust someone sometime,” he said. “It might as well be me.”

She thought about what he’d said as they were heading back down the hill. Did she trust him enough to share her hopes and dreams? “I heard from that lady,” she said cautiously.

“What lady?”

“The one I told you about—Lorraine Wells.”

“What did she say?”

“She wants to meet me.”

“When?”

“I was thinking of driving down next weekend.”

“We could take my car.”

She hadn’t anticipated that he’d want to come along, and was quick to reply, “It wouldn’t be much fun.”

“Beats hanging around here.”

She looked down, more grateful than she wanted him to know. At the same time a voice in her head cried that it wasn’t too late; she could still back off without getting hurt.

She paused, looking up at him. “You meant what you said before? This won’t change anything?”

Lucien pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and saying softly, “Why does change have to be bad?”

She arrived home that evening to find Laura and Hector seated on the sofa, holding hands and looking dazed. It was so rare to see either of them sitting still that Finch froze in her tracks, glancing apprehensively from one to the other, dire thoughts about Anna flitting through her head.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Laura looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then a dreamy smile spread across her face. “Nothing,” she said.

“The agency called.” Hector stirred as if from a deep sleep, his broad brown face tilting slowly upward.

“On Sunday?” Finch stepped forward, her foot coming down on a rubber dog bone that let out a strangled squeak.

“Susan couldn’t wait to tell us.” Laura’s voice trembled with emotion. “They have a baby for us.”

Finch felt a burst of relief—Anna was okay!—before it hit her: She was going to be a sister. “Omigod. Are you serious?”

“See for yourself.” Laura levitated off the sofa, wafting over to the battered rolltop on which the computer sat, colored cubes floating across its screen.

She clicked the mouse and the floating cubes were replaced by a photo of a smiling, fat-cheeked baby with a thatch of black hair that stuck straight up. Finch felt her heart swell.

“Her name is Esperanza.” Laura drew a finger across one of the baby’s fat cheeks as tenderly as if it were flesh and blood. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“When do we get her?” Finch asked breathlessly.

“Susan says it’ll be at least six weeks.”

“It helps that I speak Spanish.” Hector grinned like a proud papa, propping his dusty cowboy boots on the coffee table made from an old wooden shutter during what Laura referred to as her Martha Stewart meets Little House on the Prairie phase.

Finch stared at the photo. “She’s so cute.”
Esperanza.
Spanish for hope.

“I hope you’re as happy about it as we are.” Laura slipped an arm about her waist.

Laura didn’t want her to feel any less important, she knew. “Are you kidding? Now I’ll earn twice as much babysitting.” Finch didn’t trust herself to say what was in her heart. The last thing Hector needed was a pair of bawling women on his hands.

Laura laughed. “Lucky Jack. Now he’ll have
two
nieces.”

“Have you told Maude?” Finch felt a wet nose pressing against her leg and bent to stroke Pearl’s head. Though half blind and just as deaf, she seemed to sense the excitement in the air.

“We will as soon as she gets back.” Finch remembered that the sewing circle met at Mavis’s on Sundays. “Don’t you think she looks a little like Hector?” Laura had gone back to gazing rapturously at the screen.

“Who, Maude?” Finch teased.

Hector got up off the sofa and wandered over. “You know what they say—all us Mexicans look alike,” he said with a wink.

As if it were just now sinking in, Laura threw her arms around Hector with a whoop of glee. He lifted her off her feet, twirling her around and around until they were both breathless.

The thought of Anna crept in. How could they celebrate? Because life went on. You couldn’t separate the bad from the good anymore than you could the past from the future. Hadn’t she learned that today with Lucien?

Before she knew it, she was joining hands with Laura and Hector, the three of them dancing about the room while poor old Pearl stood there with her tail wagging, looking on in confusion.

“D
ID
I
MENTION THE
D.A. is up for reelection this year?” Rhonda frowned as she looked up from the papers strewn across the table, absently reaching for a cookie.

The reporters camped outside her office around the clock had forced them to find other places to meet, and when Anna suggested Tea & Sympathy, her lawyer had leaped at the idea. But Rhonda looked so out of place amid the flowered curtains and tablecloths, her teacup balanced in a hand more accustomed to hoisting saddles and tightening girths, Anna couldn’t help but smile.

“So?” She didn’t see the significance.

Rhonda set her cup down in its saucer with a decisive clink. “He’ll want to make his bones. A high-profile case like this? Made to order. He’ll milk it for all it’s worth.”

“Are you always this optimistic?” Anna was too weary to get worked up.

“Only when I know they’re out for blood. Speaking of which, let’s have another look at that autopsy report.” She shuffled through the files and papers spread in front of her.

Anna sighed. “We’ve been
over
it a hundred times.”

Rhonda’s head snapped up. “I have news for you, kiddo. Real life isn’t
L.A. Law
—no last-minute evidence that somehow got overlooked, no surprise witnesses popping up at the zero hour.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s about all the boring fine print and combing over every detail.
That’s
how cases are won,” Rhonda went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“What are the chances of its getting thrown out?”

“I’ll give it my best shot, but don’t get your hopes up.” At the preliminary hearing in three weeks, evidence would be presented to determine whether or not a trial was warranted, though Rhonda had warned that it was only in rare instances, usually involving a procedural screwup, that cases were dismissed. “It doesn’t help that our friend Mr. Lefevour has a restraining order against you.”

Anna winced at the reminder. What had seemed a stroke of luck at the time had bitten her in the ass big time. She and Marc had caught Glenn just as he was stepping out through the revolving door of his building. Taken off guard, he’d been civil at first, but quickly grew hostile when he realized why they’d come.

“You want to talk? Okay, let’s talk.” He’d whipped out his cell phone. “I’m sure Detective Burch would like to be in on this, too.”

“For God’s sake, Glenn, you
know
me! You can’t honestly think …” She was stopped cold by the seismic shift taking place in his face. He fought to control it, his jaw clenching and unclenching and a muscle twitching over one eye. It was then that she’d fully understood his love for Monica. Not romantic, but the love of the strong for someone in need of protecting—a pull she understood all too well.

His eyes burned like suns in a distant galaxy behind the graduated lenses of his Vaurnets. “All I know is you’re the reason she’s dead. Now if you’ll excuse me …” He’d pushed past them, striding toward his BMW idling at the curb, attended by a red-jacketed valet.

Since then Anna had refrained from further sleuthing, which wasn’t as easy as it had seemed in all those Nancy Drew books she’d devoured as a child. She was leaving it to the private investigator Rhonda had hired.

The autopsy report surfaced, and Anna sipped her tea as Rhonda studied it. “Here’s the thing I don’t get,” she said after a moment. “Toxicology results show a blood alcohol level of point one three five. Yet she put up a damn good fight.” She withdrew a batch of eight-by-tens from a manila envelope, selecting one and passing it to Anna. “Look at the bruising on her arms. It’s pretty extensive.”

Anna forced herself to look at it the way she might have subjected herself to a minor but uncomfortable medical procedure. However many times she’d seen these photos, the horror never wore off. This one showed only Monica’s neck, shoulders, and upper arms, the bruises standing out like ink smudges on pale blue stationery. A crumb from the cookie she was nibbling on caught in her throat and she coughed, reaching for her tea.

“I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her watering eyes. “This might sound strange, but I still have a hard time believing she’s dead. Every time the phone rings, I think it’s Monica.”

“It’s hard losing a sister.” From her tone, Anna didn’t doubt she spoke from experience. Yet Rhonda didn’t pat her back or offer words of comfort, which was a relief. What this ordeal had taught Anna was that there was only so much sympathy you could take.

“It’s not that I miss her—that’s what’s so awful. Most of the time I wanted to wring her neck.” She caught herself and winced, glancing about to make sure no one had overheard.

“Apparently you weren’t alone.” Rhonda gave a grim smile.

Anna was thankful for their table in a corner away from the window. It was just after eleven, with only a few holdovers from breakfast, and the lunch crowd not due for another hour. The only ones close enough to overhear were Tom Kemp and Vivienne Hicks, but they were too absorbed in each other. Anna had heard that they’d become engaged and wanted to congratulate them, but the conversation would naturally turn to her predicament. She didn’t want to rain on their parade.

“It’s ironic,” she said. “People hated her, but at the same time they wanted her approval.” Like Lenny Duckworth, the contractor who’d done some work at LoreiLinda last year and had sued after being stiffed on the bill. The other day he’d come up to Anna on the street and shocked her by bursting into tears. It seemed that for all his tough talk, he felt terrible that Monica had died thinking ill of him.

“Fame,” Rhonda observed archly, “is a double-edged sword.”

“It was like that even when she was a kid.” Anna recalled how Monica had sweet-talked her teachers into giving her special treatment. And who was the only one who could tame their dad when he was on one of his tears? “It was as if she always knew she was special.”

“Even dead, she’s in the spotlight.”

“Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s enjoying every minute of it.” Anna gave in to a small bleak smile.

They spent the next hour or so going over every detail of the report. Rhonda was even flying in an expert witness, a former county medical examiner, to testify at the preliminary hearing. They were winding up when Rhonda’s cell phone trilled its digitalized rendition of the
William Tell Overture.

“Yeah? Oh, hi.” She listened, jotting something on an envelope. “Thanks.” She hung up, informing Anna, “The results just came back on those prints—boys’ size eight Nikes.” Anna assumed she meant those belonging to the mystery trespasser.