The Jeweler (13 page)

“Thanks?” He waited to see where she was going with this.

“Yes, that was supposed to be a compliment.
Good
different. I like it. I like you.” She took his hand.

He led her into Acapulco House. His heart pounded.
Be cool, Fender. Don’t screw this up.
“Do you want a booth?”
I want a booth, so I can sit close to you.

“Fender?”

“Ginger?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” She made a break for the restroom at the back of the restaurant.

“Not what I thought you were going to say.” He said this to the spot where Ginger had been a minute ago.

And that was about it for the night.

G
INGER
A
WOKE
T
HE
N
EXT
M
ORNING
to a gray spring day. Molly had texted the night before, and Ginger knew she’d expect a full report—any moment now, though it was far too early.

Ginger heard Molly let herself in the front door. “Hello?” she called from the living room.

Ginger looked at the dog at the foot of the bed. “Are you gonna get that?” Zoë lifted her muzzle in polite interest, opened one eye in the direction of the front door, and relaxed again.

“Some watchdog,” Molly said as she entered the bedroom. She wore beaten-up jean shorts and a thin button-up shirt that smelled like the damp rain outside. “Aren’t you a layabed. Not hung over, are you?” She offered a coffee. Molly was living clean these days, having sworn off alcohol and pot and chocolate, and talking a lot about farm to table and slow food and vegan living. Coffee she couldn’t let go of, though. Molly had her limits.

Ginger crinkled her nose in distaste. “I’m not in the mood for coffee, I’ll tell you that much.” She sat up and took the newspaper from under Molly’s arm. “I don’t know. This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover. My stomach is rumbly, that’s it.”

Molly looked dubious. “You
are
hung over. That guy tried to get you drunk.”

“He’s Fender, not ‘that guy.’ And I was the one encouraging the tequila shots, not him.”

Molly straightened up, sitting tall on the bed. “He put the moves on you, didn’t he? Did you punch him? You’re supposed to go for the eyes. Gouge ’em good, right in the eyeballs.” Molly was apparently visualizing the attack, gouging the air with enthusiasm.

“Oh, Molly. He kissed me. That was it. It was great. I had a nice time, except for the puking part.” She rubbed her complaining stomach. “But I still feel crappy.”

There was a silence. Molly pretended to look at the paper for a moment. Then she put a small hand on Ginger’s elbow, gently. “It’s guilt, isn’t it? That’s why you’re tied in knots.”

“No, it’s not that. It can’t be. It felt so right last night.”

Molly stood and paced the bedroom in thought. She paused, facing the bed. “It’s one of two things. A, you’re just not ready. Or B, something about it isn’t on the up and up. Is there anything about the guy that’s fishy?”

Ginger combed at Zoë’s tail with her fingers. “That’s what it’s about, I bet.”

Molly brightened. “See? I knew I got a weird vibe off of him when I met him. What’s the deal? What’s wrong with him? Is he an ex-con? Although I think that’d be kind of cool. I once dated a guy who was supposedly a fugitive. Turns out he had a couple outstanding parking tickets, pretty boring.”

Ginger broke in. “No, Molly, honey, no. I haven’t been on the up and up, and I bet that’s why I feel so crummy about last night.”

“What?” Molly sat on the bed again.

“I haven’t told him about Brad—about dating Brad, or about his death. I didn’t want to seem morbid or hung up.”

Molly’s face clouded. “It’s been less than a year. That’s not hung up; that’s normal. Maybe you feel like shit because it’s not time to move on.”

Ginger felt as if she were being scolded. “Is that how you feel? You think I’m forgetting about Brad?”

“No. I’m sorry. That’s not fair.”

Ginger had a pillow in her hands now, twisting it into a ball. “I’m not going to forget about him. But we weren’t married. I was just a girlfriend, Molly. I didn’t know any of his friends; his parents acted like I didn’t exist…” There was more Ginger felt like saying. She didn’t. The room was quiet. Zoë breathed in and out, sleeping witness to the tense moment between friends.

“You know what? I’m going to go. You need to sleep; I need to run errands.” Molly started to leave the bedroom.

“Molly, don’t. Come here and read the paper with me. Come on, let’s not disagree. I don’t like squabbling.” Ginger grabbed Molly’s hand and made her flop back down on the bed.

The two hung out for another hour, reading the paper and listening to Zoë snore. Then Ginger walked Molly to the door and said good-bye.

She sat down on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. She wasn’t even sure she knew what made her feel sick right now. It felt like something strong, stronger than she was.

She got up to go take a shower. The feeling might go away then. She hoped she could wash it off.

“Did you get any last night?” Sam practically yelled into the phone from the other end of the line.

Fender couldn’t help but grin. “No. Not because she didn’t want it to happen, though.”

“What, you were the one to draw the line? I find that very hard to believe.”

“No, it wasn’t that. You know how I feel about her. One word: Pop. Okay, two words: Pop and tequila.”

Sam coughed hard. “That’s three words. And what the hell does your pop have to do with this? This isn’t some sicko father-son thing I don’t know about, is it?”

“Never mind. I have to tell you about it, and it’s too complicated for the phone. Where are you?”

“How could it be complicated? You kiss, you touch, you butter her up a little—the tequila was helpful, I bet, except that you said it wasn’t—you give her the old college try—”

“The old college try, Sam? Why so coy?”

“Oh, Fender, how cruel you can be to me. I’ll meet you at Astro Burger in twenty minutes. I just love our little girl talks.” He giggled for effect and ended the call.

Fender smiled. He liked thinking about being with Ginger.
This might just work out after all.

Eighteen minutes later, he arrived at Astro Burger to find Sam had taken over the biggest table on the sidewalk out front. He had his shit piled on the chairs and all over the open table top. He’d already gotten himself a guacamole burger with onion rings and was proceeding to wolf it all down.

Fender approached. “Hey, don’t wait for me; go ahead and order.”

Sam spoke through a mouth full of food. “Are you an idiot? I was hungry. This ain’t no rest home. Go get a burger.”

After Sam was fed, he wanted details. “So, how did this happen—or not happen, I guess. Were you close to success? She came to see you; that had to be a good thing. What did she want? Did she want to
talk
to you?”

“I’ve been to her house, and I had all those lessons. I think, yes, as hard as it is for you to believe, she wanted to visit with me. She likes my company.” Fender picked at the burger in front of him.

Sam chuckled.

Fender nudged his elbow. “What? What’s so funny?”

“No. It’s just, I was wondering what it’s gonna be like now when you give her that ring that old Dead Boyfriend got for her. You’ll be trying to get it on with her and then whip the ring out and be like ‘Surprise! This is why I know you!’ God, that’ll be weird, won’t it?”

Fender was never good at hiding guilt. He stared at the sign above Sam’s head, the neon burger, encircled by the rings of Jupiter.
Here it comes
.

Sam tossed his napkin down in disgust. “Shit, Fender, I know that look. What did you do now?”

He could barely say it. The words kind of made Fender nauseated. “I sold it.”

“What? What in the hell? You already sold it! You sold it? To who?”

“To Naomi and Jimmy. That’s what they bought yesterday. But I had a good reason. And technically, it hadn’t sold. I never cashed the check from Brad, so it wasn’t…I had a good reason.” It was too late for that. Sam was busy going off.

“That diamond you sold to the psycho woman of the year? What the hell were you thinking? And how are you going to explain this to Ginger? What the hell!”

“Yeah. Like Ginger is your best friend or something.” Fender knew he sounded like a nine-year-old.

“Now look, I didn’t say anything when you didn’t tell her at first. But, God, what are you waiting for? When she’s giving birth to your first son? ‘Push, honey, and breathe, and oh yeah there’s a ring, breathe…’ You are seriously messed up, my friend.” Sam stood and looked around for a moment. “I think I want to leave now.” And he walked away.

Fender felt lost. Where was this going? Two seconds before, he’d felt full of hope and love. He stopped, panicked. The world went cold, like ice trickling down the nape of his neck.
Love. L-O-V-E
. “Shit.” He said this out loud.
I don’t want to be in love. This is not good. This is bad.

Ginger made him feel fabulous. But he might have screwed it all up. Sam was right. He couldn’t live his life keeping this secret from her; he was too stupid, and he’d screw it up in no time. She’d wonder,
how come you were up skiing? You don’t like to ski. Was that the first time you saw me?
Or she’d tell the story of how they met, and Fender would stand there, arms wrapped around her, feeling the black center of his heart going cold because the woman he loved (he sat back; it stunned him to say that word, even in his head) was telling a lie, and she didn’t even know it.

Astro Burger and the surrounding streets had turned gray. He didn’t know what to do. Except he could do what he always did to women: he could leave. It’s not like he and Ginger were even together.
I have to get away before I hurt her and destroy her and before she finds out what a total fraud I am. I’ll leave; I’m good at that
.

He left his meal uneaten on the dirty white table and wandered off, chilled to the bone by his own deceit.

I
T
W
AS
A
PRIL
, and the wet spring days had started to dry out. Ginger waited for Fender to call, but he didn’t. It’d been a week since the afternoon at the jewelry store, and she decided whatever it was that had creeped her out must have creeped him out too. But she couldn’t help but feel hurt. She’d thought things had been moving along, going pretty great. Except maybe for the puking part.

When she could think of the night without too much awkwardness, she remembered his kiss. She did a lot of quality staring at the ceiling while in bed, and the feel of his kiss often came back to her then. She’d get up, feeling his mouth on hers, missing it. She’d get a glass of water and think about the wet of his lips.

One of those sleepless interludes brought her a new idea: what was with all this waiting around? She was a bad ass—Bode told her so. He’d been a witness to her bad-assery.
Bad asses don’t wait around. Bad asses go get what they want.

And she wanted to see Fender again. She needed to see him. She would tell him about Brad soon enough. It’d all work out. All she knew was that she wanted to see him, and she’d not felt so certain about anything in a very long time.

She tried calling him the next night. His phone went straight to voice mail. She was too chicken to text.

She decided to quasi-stalk him. He’d mentioned the bar where his dad held court, the Rendezvous.
I’ll check at his shop, I’ll check at that bar, and then I’ll try calling him one more time.

Zoë watched her get ready, looking confused about all of the fuss. Ginger put some curls into her hair. She remembered his hand in her hair, so maybe that was something about her he liked. She wore a skirt again. He’d noticed her knees, even if it was because of the scars.

She parked downtown and walked by Barnes and Son, but the storefront was dark. She peeked in and grinned, thinking about the kiss.

Bad asses get what they want. They go get it. Go get him, Ginger.
She chuckled to herself.
I’ve missed my calling as a motivational speaker. Maybe a life coach.

The Rendezvous had character, that was true. It was a skinny slice out of a city block. The façade of the bar was lipstick red and shiny chrome, the same as it’d been since the fifties. It wasn’t quite out of its dive-y phase, but soon enough some new owner would jump on its potential and turn it into a hipster hot spot.

Not yet, though. The smell of old grease and ancient cigarettes came to Ginger’s nose when she walked in. It was dim. She stood for a minute, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
Now I just feel stupid. He better be in here.

And then there he was. He stood tall from one of the booths and took long strides over to meet her.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes were bright blue. He looked surprised.

“Coming to get you.” She smiled.

“Let’s get out of here.” He took her hand and led her out of the bar.

Score one for the bad ass.
Ginger resisted the urge to click her heels together in celebration.

With her hand in his, Fender felt brave. And he didn’t care. He didn’t care if this wasn’t right. He didn’t care if he was a liar.
Life is too damn short. She’s here, she wants to see me, and I want to see her.

“Where are we going?” She followed close on his heels, didn’t let go of his hand. He loved the feel of it.

“My place? It’s not far. We can walk.”

“Okay.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. From time to time, he’d look over at her, just to make sure she was still there. He didn’t let go of her hand for fear that she’d evaporate into thin air. She seemed to hold tightly to his, maybe for the same reason. Something about the whole thing felt very urgent.

They came to his building. They slipped in the front door, and Fender led her up the stairs to his place.

He swung the door wide and pulled her inside. “Hi.”

She smiled. “Hi.” She kissed him. She leaned in, clasped both his hands with hers, and kissed him slowly and deeply.

He shut the door behind them. “I’m glad there’s no tequila involved tonight.”

“No throwing up, I promise.” She pulled him close again, kissed him.

“I know your head is clear. I like that.”

“I know what I want, Fender.” She let go of his hand and walked into the condo, her boot heels ringing on the wood floors.

He kind of hated not touching her. It made it real, when he had her in his arms. She’d gone through the kitchen, was in the living room, looking out at the night.

“What’s our plan, exactly?”
Shut up, Fender, you’ll ruin it. Women hate you when you talk.

She turned away from the windows to face him. “You could kiss me again.”

He came to her and kissed her again. He held her close in his arms, and his hands pressed her close to him. “Like this?” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, feeling her delicate bones under her skin, and kissed the hollow where her collarbones met.

“Yes. I want this, Fender. I want you.” She stepped back and pointed down the other hall. “Is that the way to your bedroom?”

Whatever I did to deserve this, thank God for it. Thank you, universe.
He nodded and took her hand. His heart pounded, his pulse echoing in his ears. He looked at Ginger, took all of her in.
I need to remember this, memorize it.
Her face glowed with desire, and the amazing thing was, she desired him.

The fact of it was stunning.

The sun came in through the windows too soon. All night he’d held Ginger in his arms, listened as she slept, her breath soft on his chest. Morning meant waking up, and in Fender’s experience, it usually meant finding some reason to make a hasty retreat. It meant reality. He hated reality.

And his reality with this gorgeous creature—the one sleeping so peacefully, her head resting on him—his reality with her was a castle built on the shifting sands of a big fat lie.

It was going to crush her. He had to get away.

But last night, it was so right. I can’t even think of a time close to that. Ever.
He stroked her strawberry hair, turned every detail of last night over in his head, as if he were eyeing each facet of an exquisite diamond.

And there he was, back to the problem at hand: the diamond.

Ginger stirred in his arms. She made a tiny noise, and it sounded like she was distressed. She trembled in his arms. Another whimper escaped her lips.

A nightmare. She’s having a nightmare.
His heart broke.
It’s probably about Brad, and when I wake her, I’ll lie and pretend I don’t know. This has to stop.

“Ginger? Wake up, sweet thing.” He rubbed her shoulder, patted it lightly.

She sat up, eyes wide. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

He touched her on the arm. “Are you all right?”

She put her hands to her eyes, rubbing the dream out of them. “Yeah.”

“Bad dream?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Yes, I think. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept very well.”

He sat up.
This is the last time I get to do this. I’m going to make it count.
He kissed her, ran a hand down her back, which was cold, bare and smooth in the morning sun.

She ducked her head. “I should get dressed.”

“Slip something on quick. I want to show you something.” He handed her the clothes piled on the floor on his side of the bed. They’d all come off in a rush last night.

She took his shirt from the pile and pulled it over her head. She still had her knee socks on, the ones she’d worn under her boots the night before.

She climbed out of bed. “What are you going to show me?”

I wish I could show you how exquisite a creature you are.
He looked at her, in his Polo and her knee socks, her long hair wild and splayed out over her shoulders, the sun catching the flyaway strands in its beams. “In the kitchen.”

She waited for him to pull on some pants, and then he took her hand and walked her through the condo. They were quiet.
Something is up, and it’s not just my guilty conscience.
Fender searched her green eyes for a clue but couldn’t find one.

“I found this when I moved in.” Fender took her to the wall behind the kitchen table. It was bare brick, original to the building. He touched a finger to the old crumbly mortar. “Look here.”

He pointed to the pencil marks he’d found the first night he’d been here.

The trouble in Ginger’s eyes seemed to clear, and her brows knit together in curiosity. “What’s it say?”

“John and Zeila. There’s a heart, too, and I think this—” he traced a shape on the smooth red brick “—is supposed to be a dove.”

Ginger came close to him, leaned into his shoulder, and traced the names and pencil markings with her finger, too. “I like that.” She pressed her lips together in a firm line. “I think I need to go.”

He felt his heart tighten. “Why?”

“I just…I think there’s stuff we don’t know about each other. A lot of stuff. Maybe we did this too fast.” She stared at the hem of the shirt she wore, pulled absently at a loose thread.

“I think we did this exactly right. I think this is the one thing I’ve done right in a long time.”

She smiled a little. “Inside this moment, inside last night, I think you’re exactly right. But I need to get straight with a lot of other stuff.”

He wanted to protest, but a voice inside spoke, cold and clear:
Whatever she thinks is wrong, she’s not even got the half of how bad it is. You’re a cold-blooded liar. Let her go before you crush her.
He swallowed hard. The bell that tolled was tolling for him, and maybe she could hear it ever so faintly.

“Ginger, maybe you’d better go. You may be right about us. You’re better off without being involved with me. I can give you a long list of women who’ll back me up on that.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s—”

“Trust me, it’s absolutely that.” He pulled her close, one last time.
Make it count, remember the details.

He stared into those green eyes. He parted his lips, just so, and kissed her slowly. She opened her lips and pressed her mouth to his. He wanted to be gentle, but she met him with raw need.

He found himself falling into the kiss, felt her hands grasping at him, slipped his hands under the mane of hair and down her delicate spine—

He stepped back. “Stop.” He heard it come out of his mouth. “If we’re ending this, you need to go. I can’t do this.” He wiped his mouth, tried to catch his breath.

She nodded. “I know.” Her eyes were wet with tears, but she looked at the ceiling. “I’ll go get dressed.”

She disappeared into his bedroom. He paced in the kitchen, and when she emerged, he was disappointed to see she wasn’t wearing his shirt anymore.

“I’ll go then. Thanks, Fender, for everything.” She held her hand up a little, in a halfhearted wave good-bye.

“It’s best this way. You don’t need to get mixed up with me, Ginger. I promise.”

She turned her back on him and left.

Another Fender Barnes disaster. Typical.
The day suddenly felt very long in front of him, and he was hard-pressed to find a point to it.