With an Extreme Burning (6 page)

Six o'clock. And Amy still wasn't home yet.

Cecca was in the kitchen with Owen Gregory, making a fruit salad for supper, trying not to worry. It wasn't that late, still broad daylight—but her eyes kept straying to the wall clock.
Do you know where Amy is, Francesca? Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute?
Subtle torture, without any foundation whatsoever. That was what these telephone freaks counted on, wasn't it? The victim torturing herself?

Amy said she'd be home around four. Why isn't she here yet?

Owen's presence should have helped keep her calm, but it was having the opposite effect. He'd stopped by at five-thirty, unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.

Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now—

“Cecca.”

She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.

“What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”

“Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”

“Where'd she go after work?”

“I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”

“Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”

“What does that have to do with her being late?”

“Nothing. I was making an observation—”

“My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”

“I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”

“Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.

Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”

“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”

“It's the heat.”

“Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”

“No, that's all right. Date tonight?”

“No. I just don't feel up to company.”

“I understand.”

No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”

“Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”

She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!

Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.

“There she is,” Owen said.

Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably come all over himself.

The back door banged and Amy slouched in carrying three bulging shopping bags. She looked wilted but pleased with herself. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. Oh, hi, Owen.”

“Hi yourself,” Owen said, smiling.

Amy dumped the bags on the kitchen table, dragged open the refrigerator. “Iced tea, good.” She took the pitcher out.

Cecca said, “Where have you been?” The words came out sharper than she'd intended.

“Oh God,” Amy said, “you're pissed.”

“I'm not. I expected you hours ago, that's all.”

“Well, it was crowded at the malls.”

“Is that where you've been?”

“Shopping. Me and Kimberley.”

“Kimberley and I,” Cecca said automatically.

“I know that.” Impish grin. “I'm a journalism major, remember?”

“Just the two of you? Shopping?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

“Amy …”

“School's about to start. Foxy new outfits this fall.”

Cecca tried to lighten her voice as she said, “Looks like you bought every one in stock,” but the words sounded forced even to her.

“Dad gave me a hundred dollars to match the hundred you said I could spend. I paid for the rest with my own money, don't worry.”

“When did your dad give you a hundred dollars?”

“When I saw him last week.”

“You didn't ask him for it?”

“No, I didn't ask him. He gave it to me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it was exactly cosmic news,” Amy said. “Why're you making such a big deal out of nothing?”

“I'm not making …” Cecca let the rest of the sentence die. She
was
making a big deal out of nothing. And Owen, standing there with his big ears flapping, was not helping matters. She said, “Owen, if you don't mind?”

“Sure,” he said, “I'm out of here.” He came over and kissed her cheek. Then he said to Amy, “See you later, foxy.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

The silence following Owen's departure had a strained quality. Amy poured a glass of iced tea, drank half of it. “Fruit salad,” she said then. “Is that all we're having?”

“Too hot to cook.”

“I guess. I'm going up and take a shower, if that's okay with you.”

“Amy, don't be angry. It's been a long day.…”

“For me too. What time are we eating?”

“I don't know, seven or seven-thirty.”

“I'm picking Kim up at seven-thirty.”

“Going out again tonight?”

“It's Saturday night, Mom. Just because you don't go out doesn't mean I have to stay home, too.”

“That's a cheap shot. I stay home by choice.”

“And I go out by choice, okay?”

“You have a date?”

“I told you, I'm picking Kim up. We're going to a movie.”

“Just the two of you?”

“What
is
it with you, Mom? You know I'm not seeing anybody right now. Not since Davey and I broke up.”

“You've had plenty of dates since then—”

“Dates, sure, big deal.”

“There's nobody you're interested in?”

“No. Who would I be interested in?”

“I don't know. That's why I asked.”

“Well, there's nobody.”

“There must be dozens of boys who are interested in you.”

“Boys,” Amy said, “my God. I'm tired of
boys
.'”

“Now, what does that mean?”

“It means I'm tired of boys, that's what it means.”

“You're not seeing somebody older—?”

“I'm not seeing
anybody
, for God's sake! How many times do you want me to tell you that?”

“Then why are you carrying condoms in your purse?”

The question surprised her as much as it did her daughter. She hadn't intended to ask it, it had just come spitting out. Amy was staring at her openmouthed, color staining her cheeks—embarrassed and angry. She had Chet's dark good looks and smoky eyes, and at moments like this she looked just like him. Acted like him, too: flew off the handle, became aggressively defensive. The time Cecca had caught Chet with the waitress from LeGrande's … his expression of flustered outrage had been the same as Amy's was now.

“You've been in my purse. How could you
do
that?”

“No, I haven't. You left it on the dining room table the other afternoon, right on the edge. I brushed against it accidentally and things spilled out when it fell.”

“Oh, sure, right. Accidentally.”

“I'm not lying to you. Now don't you lie to me. Why're you carrying condoms around with you?”

“What's the next question? Am I still a virgin?”

“That isn't the point—”

“Isn't it? Sure it is. But I'm not going to tell you. What I carry in my purse is my business and what I do with my body is my business. Okay? All right? And don't you ever go through my personal stuff again. Don't you
ever
!”

“Listen to me—”

“No,” Amy said, and grabbed up her shopping bags and stormed out of the kitchen.

Cecca sat at the table. She'd handled things badly; Eileen would probably say she couldn't have handled them any worse. It had taken so long to mend the painful rift that the divorce had caused, and now she'd let that damned phone call rip it open again. Why hadn't she just told Amy the truth instead of letting herself slide into the mother-from-hell role?

Too late to tell her now? Maybe not. She took another minute to compose herself and then went upstairs to Amy's room. The door was shut; she knocked and tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

Amy was in her bra and panties. The shopping bags and their contents were all over the room, as if she'd hurled them around in a demonstration of her anger. Glaring, she said, “Now what? You want to search my room, too?”

“No. I want to apologize.”

“Oh, you do? Isn't it a little late for that?”

“I don't mean about your purse. That really was an accident; I wasn't snooping. And you're right, your personal life is your own and you're entitled to your privacy. If you want to tell me about the condoms, fine, but I won't ask you again. Is that fair?”

“… I guess.” But Amy wasn't mollified. When she felt wronged she had a tendency to nurse her anger. Just like her father in that respect, too.

Cecca said, “I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry for that, too. But I had a reason.”

“What reason?”

“Another one of those calls this afternoon. Only this time he said something that upset me. Something ugly.”

“What did he say?”

Cecca told her.

“God, what a dickhead creep,” Amy said. She plunked herself down on the edge of her bed. “But you should have known it was just crap.”

“I can't help worrying. I love you, you know that. The thought of anything happening to you …”

“Nothing's going to happen to me. I mean, he
wanted
you to worry. That's how those weirdos get off.”

“I know that.”

“So don't let him get to you, okay? If he calls again, which he probably will.”

“If he does and you answer, don't say anything to him.”

“Why not? I'd like to tell him some things.”

“We talked about this before. Talking back will only provoke him. Promise me you'll just hang up.”

Amy scowled. But then she said, “All right. It's no big deal anyway. He'll go away eventually. Chris Ullman's mother had an obscene caller last year and he said all kinds of crazy things to her. And he went away after a few weeks. This one will, too.”

Will he? Cecca thought as she returned to the kitchen. Yes, probably. Except that he's not a random caller. He knows my name, he knows Amy's name, he knows where we live.

What if he's more than just a telephone freak?

What if he's some kind of psycho?

They went to the new Tom Cruise movie. Kimberley wanted to see it, she was a big Tom Cruise fan, and there wasn't anything else playing that excited Amy much. It was all right. Funny in parts; once Amy even laughed out loud. Lots of sex. But every other word was “fuck” or “shit,” like a lot of movies you went to, and it got to be pretty monotonous and silly. People didn't really talk like that, and if they did, who wanted to listen to them? It just wasn't very intelligent. Kids' stuff. She wasn't a kid anymore, even if Mom insisted on treating her like one sometimes. Like tonight. Big scene in the kitchen with Owen there, and then going ballistic about the rubbers. And all because the creep on the phone had upset her and she'd been worried. There wasn't anything to worry about, for God's sake. Besides, she could take care of herself. The divorce had turned her into an adult a long time ago, more than three years ago. The divorce, and then Davey Penner.