Ashes (13 page)

The words clanged in Jennifer’s mind. A new year. What about forgetting the old one? Well, perhaps she could do something about that. “Bottoms up,” she said, and drank down her champagne in one draught. It was the best champagne she’d ever had, not at all like the cheap stuff she remembered from college parties. This was honey-sweet on her tongue and went to her brain almost instantly. The knot of tension in her back and shoulders eased a bit, and though small, the relief was at the same time very great, and she longed for more. “Hey, Cammie,” Jennifer said. “I need a refill.”

* * *

A
lex Salto’s second home was on an enviable spread covering two acres. The driver skillfully negotiated his way up the mountain roads and along the circular driveway, past the cars already parked there. “We’re here,” he said.

The doors were flung open and the women tumbled out, gathering purses and coats. Cammie, Betty, Tracy, and Brandy all headed to the door. Jennifer stopped to tap on the driver’s window. He rolled it down, gave her his look of bored professionalism. “Yes, ma’am?”

Jennifer had three champagnes in her and a silly grin on her face. She couldn’t help it. She had the giddiness of an injured man whose morphine shot has kicked in, the goodwill of a paycheck-to-paycheck woman who has won the lottery. “I just wanted to thank you for the ride,” she said. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you too,” he replied. It was the first time in three years of New Years’ Eve driving duties that anyone had bothered to thank him.

Jennifer gave him a wave and ran to catch up with the other women, sliding a little on the icy pavement. The driver put the limo in gear so he could park, smoke, and listen to the radio until it was time for the return trip.

Jennifer was no architectural expert but even she recognized the style of Alex’s house as she walked inside and put away her coat and purse. It was Frank Lloyd Wright ripoff, post-and-beam with lots of open space and a rain forest’s worth of teak. A fire roared cheerfully on the hearth, and on tables by the bar she spotted tables laden with food. Smoked salmon pinwheels, sushi artistically prepared by some Japanese expatriate, chicken satay on skewers. Behind the bar was Alex himself, sleek and dark and smiling. “Hi ladies,” he called out. “I’m taking requests tonight. And I’m making my specialty. It’s a little number I invented, called ‘I Left My Heart In Wango Tango’.”

“You invent drinks?” Jennifer said as she sat on one of the bar stools. Her tongue was loosened by champagne. “Alex Salto, multitalented. Who knew?”

“Hah!” Alex grinned at her, the dancing light she’d seen in his eyes when they first met now back full force. “I knew there was a funny party girl hiding inside you, Jenny.”

“There’s lots about me you don’t know.” Jennifer took the cocktail he offered her, some fruity concoction with dark rum and maraschino cherries in Christmas red and green. Smiled at Alex, and why not? Fog had fallen over her mind, and it was such a relief to not think of anything beyond the pleasure of the moment. To not worry about when she would start to think or remember, and what she would do when that happened. It was a new year and she was newly born, blank slate, nothing had happened before the ride in the limo and its liberating champagne, and as for what happened tomorrow, well, she would worry about that tomorrow.

Somehow the Wango Tango was gone already and she pushed her glass toward Alex. “Cammie — no, Betty. Oh hell. Anyway. One of the girls said I need to ask you for the Blue Floyd.”

“Done and done,” Alex said, after a few minutes produced a drink the color of window cleaner and topped with a plastic sword impaling pineapple chunks and more maraschinos. “Anyhooo, Jenny, what’s your New Year’s resolution?”

She took a deep drink of candy-tasting Windex blue. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

It was the truth, but Alex thought it was wit. “I like it. ‘Haven’t thought that far ahead.’ That’s a good one. Well, if you’re interested,” he said, his dark eyes never leaving her face, “my New Year’s resolution is to have as much fun as possible as often as possible. After all, here today, gone tomorrow. Know what I mean? Now what if your old buddies down in the States figure they want to start World War Three? You want your last night to be spent doing something boring? Or having a good time? Hmmm, Jenny?”

She wondered, later, if he knew who she was. She had told no one. Not the realtor, not Suzanne, not any of the office girls, and not Alex. But perhaps he knew, for his talk of
here today gone tomorrow
slipped its way into her fogged brain like a hand slipping under a skirt. Because she knew how true it was.

Maybe it was just chance that he’d said the right thing. Or the wrong one. However you wanted to look at it.

“Having a good time. I’ll drink to that,” she said, and their glasses rang together in a toast.

* * *

S
he did have a good time, she could never deny that. The house filled with people and she laughed and made jokes and talked about inconsequential things, and none of the partygoers knew anything about her except that she was Jenny Thomson from the States, just moved up here a few months back and how did she like it here anyway? Oh, fine, really enjoying it. So nice to have snow for the holidays.

She mingled and had another drink, ate smoked salmon and sushi and those cute little mini-pizzas, danced with Darren from the office, and was Alex’s guinea pig for a “new drink I’ve been working on, something special, I call it the ‘King of Bongo’.” When the magic hour came round she stood with all of them, raising glasses high, yelling out “Happy New Year” and was too far gone to even feel happy that it was a new year, and she was here to greet it when so many others were not.

The party resumed but Jennifer remembered very little of it beyond a blur of dancing and food and drinks. She was sitting at the bar, nodding over another Blue Floyd, when Alex’s voice came through to her, asking something she didn’t quite hear.

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

“I asked if you wanted to dance.”

“Sure.” She slid off the barstool gracelessly, her velvet skirt slippery on the leather upholstery. As she walked to the space that had been cleared for dancing, the room seemed strangely quiet, and she realized as if from a distance that she and Alex were alone. She had the vague idea this was important but couldn’t think of why.

The song was one she liked. It seemed very natural to dance close to Alex, her left hand in his right, his arm around her waist, her hand on his back. Every time she looked up at him his eyes were locked on her face, and he was smiling as if he knew some marvelous secret. “I missed you in the crowd when midnight came,” he whispered. “Don’t I get a New Year’s kiss?”

“Just one.”

“I’ll make it count.” Then his mouth was on hers and oh God, it had been so long, almost a year since anyone had kissed her, she’d nearly forgotten. One kiss became several and then the number of kisses didn’t matter because there was no pause between them. The music had ended but they weren’t dancing any more, just stood with hands running over each other, mouths locked together. Somewhere in her brain a voice of sobriety asked her if she really wanted this, wanted where it was most certainly going to be heading in the next few minutes if she didn’t call it off, and then he got his hand under her skirt, between her legs, and that was it, she wanted this as she’d wanted the evening’s liquor and mindless chatter. It was sweet oblivion, losing herself and all her thoughts of past and future. Nothing mattered anymore, not the bombing, not herself, not the fact that Alex was a conceited jerk. And it was such a relief to not have anything matter.

She wasn’t sure how they got to the bedroom. All that mattered was that she was on her back in bed. What mattered was not Alex but what she felt as she lay under him, which was animal pleasure. Nothing more. Nothing less. It was like going up a spiral, up and up, until she was seized by the climax, shaken by it, and then she tumbled back down the spiral into sleep.

* * *

J
ennifer woke slowly, had plenty of time to puzzle out each anomaly as her hazy mind registered it. Why was the light so strange? Because these windows faced east, not west. Why did the bed feel so strange and squashy? Because it was not her bed, and it was a waterbed to boot. Why was she naked instead of in her nightshirt? Because she’d slept with Alex Salto. And now for the final round, who was that person snoring next to her? Take one wild guess.

So it was without surprise that she opened her eyes and saw not the familiar plaster of her own ceiling but the post-and-beam architecture of Alex’s. She peeped cautiously over at Alex; he was buried so deeply under sheets and blankets that all she could see was a tousle of black hair. Jennifer sat up, slowly, carefully, her head still swimming with liquor and too little sleep in an unfamiliar bed. She tried not to slosh the waterbed, made sure her body was shielded with sheets should he wake. But she needn’t have worried. Alex, hungover and satiated, didn’t so much as twitch as she slipped out of the bed. She stood, unsteady on her feet, her head reeling in one direction and her stomach in another, and started looking for her clothes. They were scattered in a Hansel-and-Gretel trail through the bedroom, down the hall, down the stairs. Underwear, skirt, tights, blouse, shoes. She dressed as she collected them and ended up fully clothed, more or less, in the living room. The room was strewn with glasses and their fruity-drink dregs, plastic plates, crumpled napkins, cigarette butts, and — oh,
there
was her bra.

She knelt to pick up the bra, felt the dizziness ease up, felt the beginnings of a monster headache coming on. Stood, put the bra in her skirt pocket. Tried to think. Coffee. In the fog of her brain she felt a brief flicker of interest. Yes, coffee. That would do the trick.

Jennifer shuffled into Alex’s kitchen, and was starting the not-inconsiderable job of finding the coffee and deciphering the workings of the coffee grinder and espresso maker when she caught a glimpse of the world outside. All thoughts of coffee left her as she stared out the window.

Christmas.

That was her first thought. Because it was how the world should look at holiday time, even a native Californian like her knew it. She walked, more quickly than before, to the living room and got her coat. After some fumbling with the locks she stepped outside.

She found herself in a world of silence and white. The sky gray overhead, a few errant flakes still fluttering down. No breeze, no sound of wind in the pines. No sounds of town or harbor, no TV from a nearby house, no dogs barking, no hum of wheels on asphalt. Sometime in the night, a white blanket had been nestled around the world, hushed it into gentle sleep.

Oh,
she thought, did not say it, reluctant to disturb the silence. She had been holding her breath without realizing it, and as she exhaled her breath smoked. Everywhere a carpet of white, untouched save for a few bird tracks. The branches of the pines were heavy with snow. As she watched, one branch surrendered its burden, sent snow to the ground in a soft shower. The branch waved as though saying farewell.

Jennifer stood hesitant, afraid to sully the peaceful scene but longing to be part of it, to feel the silence all around her. She breathed deep — the air’s coldness made it feel cleaner somehow, made her feel refreshed. Her hangover headache and nausea faded. Jennifer walked along the deck toward the back field. She had never walked in snow before and felt a child’s delight in the way her booted feet sank into the snow so effortlessly. She giggled, kicked one foot high in the air to send the snow high and feel it rain down on her.

She swung her foot down. It went through the snow and found not the deck but empty air and Jennifer pitched forward, arms flailing, and fell to the ground, rolling down the slope several yards. She came to a rest, spitting out snow, flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her, looking up at the gray bowl of the sky. She fought to get her air back and was back in Los Angeles. Back at the federal building. Back in the dust cloud, the roar of the collapsing building still ringing in her ears. Her mouth full not of snow but dust, coating her tongue and filling her nostrils. The silence of the Canadian woods was full of sound now, rending steel and peoples’ screams, police helicopters and a man’s voice calling out
Lady, lady, can you hear me? Move toward the sound of my voice.
She tried to answer but the dust was choking her, she tried to get to the voice but her legs failed her. She was falling to the ground, the world going dark.
Please, I really don’t want to die.
Then strong arms were around her and an oxygen mask was on her face, giving her air.

She took a deep breath, finally, and the winter air seared her throat but that was all right, just fine because she was back now, back in Canada. Back here, back home, but it wasn’t fine because she lay sprawled in the snow in Alex Salto’s back field, hungover, skirt tangled around her legs, suede boots slowly getting ruined, hair knotted and full of snow. Was lying here with no one who knew where she was, and if she had hurt herself badly in the fall she could stay here for hours, until the snow covered her from sight and become not a blanket but a shroud.

With a hoarse cry she sat up, gingerly moved her legs, wiggled her fingers and toes. Nothing but some bruises, but what did that really change? Nothing.

I am alone.
She sat in the snow, face almost as white as her surroundings. Because who was there to know or care anything about her? Alex? Don’t make her laugh. The office girls? They had left her behind, left her in a severely intoxicated state with a man whose intentions were written in letters a foot tall, and Jennifer knew with a chill deeper than that of the winter air that if mood and circumstance had been different, last night could have ended in a rape. And no one would have cared.

Why should they care? She had done nothing to earn anyone’s friendship. Her days were proceeded through as methodically as marking dates off a calendar. There was Suzanne, but when had her talk with Suzanne gone beyond the weather or the kids Suzanne watched? Even Suzanne knew nothing about her, had no reason to care. She had used Suzanne and Bill to feel like she was a part of life. Just as she’d used Amber LaSalle. And Alex.