Beautiful Stranger (10 page)

“Indian churches. A different thing. They wanted an Indian artist, didn't matter how good or not.”

Tyler inclined his head. He wasn't a man given to grinning, but the amusement shone in his eyes. “Give me a break.”

Robert shook his head. “I'm flattered, man, but I'm not the artist for this job.”

“Will you at least think about it? We've made inquiries, and no one can do the work for at least seven or eight months.”

A car pulled in, and Marissa jumped out, waving her blue-casted hand. She wore a simple white dress today, a completely ordinary, straight, sleeveless sheath with a demure neckline, and yet he felt a sizzle straight through his body.

“Maybe,” he said to Tyler, forgetting him as he stepped down to meet her. She looked radiant, her cheeks rosy, her hair mussed a little by the wind, but quickly smoothed down. “Hi,” he said, and heard the warmth in his tone. “What are you doing here?”

“It's
Titanic,
isn't it?” she asked. “Crystal's movie of movies.”

He grinned, putting his hands on his hips. “And I thought that big smile was for me.”

A flicker of uncertainty dimmed the vividness of her eyes. “I wish you'd get your signals straight. Or is that part of your game, to keep a woman off balance?”

“No game, Marissa.” Dangerous territory, that. He switched direction. “
Titanic
is right. She's almost sixteen. What else could have hit her that hard?”

She frowned a little. “I don't think that's it with Crystal. It's not the teenager thing with her.”

“Maybe not.” One part of his mind kept up the conversation while another, earthier part was imagining her small neat hands on his body, imagining all that enthusiasm focused on him.

And he realized this was exactly what Crystal was afraid of. That his interest in Marissa would end up leaving Crystal out. He crossed his arms. “When she showed up on my doorstep, she had a backpack with her. Three pairs of socks, four pairs of underwear, all the makeup she owns and a copy of that movie. She watches it over and over.”

Marissa grinned. “Thanks.” She turned back to her car. “I'm going to take her homework over to her now. See you.”

He nodded.

She popped back up. “Robert, one of the teachers asked me today if she's going to keep the baby. Has she said?”

“We haven't talked about it, but I'm guessing she will. Not a word.”

“I just wondered.” She got back in the car and, with a little wave, drove off. Robert watched her for a minute, then went back inside. “I'm knocking off for the day,” he said. “I'm going to go rescue your mother, take Crystal home.”

“Is that where Marissa's going?”

“Got a reason for asking that, bro?” Robert unbuckled the tool belt around his waist.

Tyler smiled enigmatically. “No reason.”

But even though Robert only stopped long enough to wash his face and hands, he wasn't quick enough to catch Marissa at Louise's. It was almost embarrassing how disappointed he was. Covering, he winked at Louise. “How's my girl this afternoon?”

Louise frowned. “She's sleeping right now. Why don't you come on in and have something cool to drink?”

But before they moved from the door, Marissa pulled
up and got out of the car with a big bouquet of flowers and a bag in her hands. When she got to the door, she said, “We have to stop meeting like this.” A glitter in her eye said she knew he'd come to try and catch her, and she liked it.

“Oh, aren't you a doll,” Louise said. “Such a pretty arrangement!”

Marissa brushed by Robert and he was enveloped suddenly in her scent, that expensive, exclusive cosmetic smell. It clung to her hair and her neck; he would smell it on her belly, on her legs. He found himself admiring the curve of her ear, and shook himself. “Is something wrong with Crystal?” he asked, more harshly than he intended.

Louise waved them to the kitchen, and repressing his impatience, he followed, along with Marissa, who was really much smaller than he. How was it possible he hadn't noticed before? Her head only came to his shoulder.

“It's not the physical thing I'm worried about,” Louise said. “There's something else going on with her.” She frowned. “Do you know anything at all about the boy involved?”

“Nothing,” he said. “She won't say a word.”

Louise sighed. “Can't say for sure, but that's where the big pain is, with the boy.”

“Maybe,” Robert said slowly.

“Is there any chance she was abused? Raped or something?”

A lump formed in his gut. “Of course there is. I like to think she'd say so, but the chance is she wouldn't.” It made him sick to even consider it.

“I don't think that's it,” Marissa said. “I think it's her friend. Somehow she lost him.”

“How do you know that?”

She lifted her shoulders. “If he ran away from the pregnancy, she wouldn't have that softness in her voice when she says his name.”

“Right,” Louise said. “She'd be grief stricken or full of hate.”

“I don't know what that changes,” Robert said gruffly. “He's gone, one way or another.”

“I don't know, either. But maybe you need to find out.”

 

Crystal heard their voices very plainly. The guest room was on the other side of the kitchen wall. She heard them talking, worrying about her, and in a way it made her feel pretty good. That anyone would spend that much time trying to figure her out. It made her want to tell them.

But lying there in the dark, cocooned with pillows and the lemon-scented coverlet, she thought of Mario, testing the possibility of talking about him, and she suddenly couldn't breathe. The thick tears that had threatened all day rolled down her cheeks, silent and hot, as she closed her eyes and thought of him.

Mario. Her best friend since she was six years old. The only one she could ever trust completely. His bedroom was across the vacant lot where a house had burned down three years before, and they'd learned Morse code to talk to each other in the middle of the night. At ten, they made a pact to stay away from the gangs and somehow get out of the neighborhood together. They watched each other's backs. He kept her fed when her mother spent all the food stamps on trades with her friends for cigarettes and booze. He hid her when the sicko from around the corner started eyeing
her. In return, Crystal helped him with his math, kept an eye out for Johnny Penasco who wanted to beat him up.

They had never intended to have sex. The kissing started a long time ago, when they were thirteen and fifteen. Just a natural thing, one day, obvious. They would get married someday, and keep taking care of each other—it was understood. They loved each other. And really, she'd thought about it so many times before he did it, finally, in the back stairway of her building. They'd run there to hide one night, because word on the street was that the 50s, the worst gang in the neighborhood, had a beef and had their guns.

Sitting in the dark, looking through the window to the moon, it was almost possible to believe they lived somewhere normal. Crystal put her head on his shoulder, natural as breathing, and finally he just bent down and pressed his lips to hers. They didn't really know how to do it, but they learned.

They didn't let anybody know. And they were careful to stop before they got too hot. At least for a long, long time. A long time.

But one night, Crystal's mother and boyfriend had a fight, a very loud fight, with broken glass and furniture turned over, and both of them were arrested. Crystal hid in her room, way back in the back of the closet, so they wouldn't put her in juvie for the night. And when everything was calm, Mario showed up.

She was shaking and scared and he settled her in her bed, then lay down beside her, the way they'd done a hundred times before. He smelled so good. He was thin, but strong, from lifting boxes at the grocery where he worked, and he smelled like oranges. He didn't want anything from her. He touched her, the way he often did. But it was the first time they'd ever been alone
anywhere warm, and it was awfully hard to resist the temptation of finally just taking off their shirts to lie side by side.

Crystal squeezed her eyes shut with a little cry. It was her fault. All of it was her fault. Because she was the one who'd kept going. Who wanted to feel all of him. They hadn't been much better at all of that than they had at the kissing at first, but they did practice. A lot. Over and over.

And it was like every boy in the whole neighborhood knew it, because they were on her like they never had been before. Mario had to fight sometimes. His mother started cursing the gangbangers, right in public, and everybody knew that was dangerous. Crazy.

Oh, Mario,
she thought, wrapping her hands around her belly.
I'm so sorry.

She buried her face in the covers, in the quilts, and never wanted to move. Louise would let her stay, Crystal knew she would. And somehow this was safer. Safer because she wouldn't gently lean down and say to her, like her uncle would, “I'll be here for you.”

How could he be? He wanted to. She knew that. But life didn't work that way. Even when you wanted to be there for someone, you couldn't always do it. She knew that better than anyone.

B
y the time she got home, Marissa was in no mood for a walk. Her arm hurt, more than she wanted to admit, and when Ramona called to cancel, citing an emergency, she was relieved. Restlessly she roamed the house, feeling as if her mind was filled with noise—the teacher who'd made her angry, and Crystal's sorrow, and…everything. She found herself in the kitchen, peering into the fridge for something delectable to eat.

It was a startling moment. She only became aware of it after a long minute, maybe two, when she'd been bent, staring restlessly at the contents long enough that her neck got cold.

She closed the door and took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Was it really food she wanted? She tested her stomach—yes, it was hungry. That interesting hollow feeling. She hadn't been feeling that well this morning and had gone light on breakfast. Lunch had been in the
cafeteria since it was a duty day—wilted iceberg lettuce drowned in dressing and a truly disgusting rigatoni.

What sounded excellent, then? She was tempted to turn around and look through the cupboards for ideas, but resisted, turning into her hungers instead. Avocados. Mmm, yeah. Cheese—a nice musky goat cheese, maybe. Yes. Wine. Oh, yes. A valpolicella, dense and red. And—oh, siren—focaccia dipped in olive oil.

She opened her eyes and grinned, then turned around to look at the calendar, checking off the days in her cycle. Bingo. In the middle of her menstrual cycle, she wanted this kind of food, dense with fat and nutrients. Resisting only caused a binge, but she also knew it would be a bad idea to go to the grocery store in this state. She'd come home with all kinds of weird things that would look strange tomorrow. Instead, she called the upscale grocer who catered to the ski-lodge set, put in her order and went upstairs to take a shower.

But the phone rang before she made it to the stairs. Raising her cast, with a smile, she picked up the phone and said, “You were right. It's broken.”

“I don't know why you don't listen to me.”

“I know.” With a pinch in her chest, she curled close, holding the phone next to her shoulder. “I guess it's because I haven't seen you in so long, and now you're really going to be here, but I miss you terribly all of a sudden.”

“Me, too. I have so much to tell you.” She laughed wickedly. “Show you.”

“So do I.” The doorbell rang and Marissa said, “That's my groceries.”

“Save some for me.”

“Will do.” She hung up and dashed to the front door, swinging it open and grabbing for her purse in one
smooth motion. “That was fast!” she said, and then registered who it was standing there.

His hair was down, a thick, glossy curtain falling across one shoulder and down his back, framing that intensely Native American face. He'd showered since she'd seen him last, and put on a clean white shirt, plain as bread, but somehow all the more compelling for that. A twist of silver twined around one wrist, making his skin seem very dark, his hand all the more elegant.

“Hi,” he said, as if he weren't sure of his welcome.

Marissa realized she was gaping at him. “Hi. Anything wrong?”

“Not really.” He tucked his hands in his front pockets, kicked out a booted foot. “Crystal wanted to stay with Louise. Thought I'd see if you wanted to get some supper or something.”

Or something. Yes, that definitely. “Truth is, I just ordered my dinner. It's sort of a strange collection, but I'd be glad to share. We can take it out in the backyard.”

He shifted, looked out toward the street. “I'd rather go out,” he said, and swung his gaze around to hers. A lift of one shoulder, acknowledging the chemistry between them.

Go out. In public. With the most heavily-lusted-over male in Red Creek. She grinned, and he gave her a puzzled expression. “What?”

“Don't suppose I could talk you into going to the country club?”

He got it. A quick twinkle in the dark eyes. “Thinking of a little revenge, eh?”

She raised her eyebrows. “One does hate to waste such a splendid opportunity.”

“Honored as I am to be a trophy guy for an evening, I'll have to pass on the country club.”

“Oooh, sorry. I didn't mean like that.” Marissa realized they were still standing on either side of the threshold. “I only… It was just—” She widened her eyes, sighing. “I'm only making it worse.”

He grinned. “I knew what you meant. I'm flattered.”

“Good.” She pushed open the door. “Come in and let me change.”

She opened the screen door and he took it. He came close, took a breath, shook his head, a faint grin on his wide, mobile mouth. “I come within five feet of you, princess,” he said ruefully, “and my heart starts pounding. That doesn't happen to me.”

It gave her a quick rush of emotion, that sudden, plain, honesty. All the details that electrified her came together—the blurry breadth of his shoulders at the periphery of her vision, that long, healthy, gleaming hair, his dark throat and sharply cut jaw, his long, dark eyes and high cheekbones. “Me, too,” she confessed quietly, lifting a hand to touch the tiny scars down the side of his face. She realized with a start what they were. “They were tears, weren't they? Tattoos?”

He flinched away. “Good guess.”

A car door slammed outside and the delivery boy from the grocer came up the walk, carrying the bags. She paid him, tipped him well enough that he grinned happily and turned back. Robert watched her intently. “What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said gruffly, and took the bags from her. “Go change. I'll put these away for you.”

 

Robert took her to a small Mexican restaurant, run by a family—the mother and father and kids all taking part. Marissa walked in, breathed in deeply and groaned. “Oh, this is a dangerous place, I can tell.”

“Dangerous?” He gave her a perplexed little smile. “How so?”

She closed her eyes. “I ordered groceries to be delivered because I am in one of those hungry moods and I was afraid to go to the grocery store. This is even worse.” She closed her eyes. “I smell enchiladas, smothered in cheese, and tortilla chips begging for salsa. And margaritas. Oh, I do love margaritas!”

Robert laughed. “I love a hungry woman. I was afraid you wouldn't like it.”

A young girl, maybe seven, under the tutelage of an older sister or cousin, led them to a booth by a window that overlooked the grassy center of town. Marissa settled. “There are not many foods I dislike,” she said wryly.

“You know, I didn't stop to think that you've been dieting for ages. Would you rather go somewhere else?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I can be sensible.” She opened the menu. “But I really must have one of those margaritas I smell. Do you like them?”

“Took the oath,” he said.

“Ah. Should I abstain then?”

“Nope.” He grinned at her over the big menu. “I can be sensible.”

“Good.” Marissa read the menu, her mouth watering—and stomach growling. Avocado had been on her mind already, so she decided on the guacamole tostadas. Beans for the fiber and nutrition, but no rice, which had very little of either. “And please hold the cheese,” she told the waitress. The chips were, dietarily speaking, expensive, as was the margarita, but she was pleased with herself for her order, and didn't even feel a twinge of envy when Robert ordered a monster burrito with the works. Sheepishly he said, “I worked hard today.”

“You work hard every day.” She picked three large tortilla chips from the basket, freshly fried, still hot, and put them on her napkin. “Put that basket on your side of the table, please, sir.”

“Gotcha.” He pulled the basket to his side of the booth. “Is it rude to ask you about that weight loss thing?”

“Not at all. What do you want to know?” She broke the chips into three pieces each and dipped one into the chunky salsa. “Oh, that's great salsa! I can't believe I've never been here.”

“I'm curious mainly why you started dieting. You always seemed to be really comfortable before. Had a long string of boyfriends, plenty of money—I mean, why bother?”

It wasn't the kind of question she was expecting. “I guess,” she said slowly, “I just got tired of myself. It wasn't healthy. I was twenty-four years old and couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for breath.” She found his gaze a little too attentive, and she plucked one of her chips from the napkin and looked at it, considering.

Then, thinking of his simple honesty at her house, made a decision to do the same. Just be herself. “I got sick of waiting for someone to ask me to dance. Waiting for that really gorgeous guy across the room to notice me. Waiting for someone to see beyond…the externals to the real me.”

“And did everything change?”

She looked over her shoulder to the room full of locals. “When we walked in, Robert, every woman in this restaurant took one look at you and wished she was me.” She raised her eyebrows. “That's a fat girl's dream.”

A frown flickered between his brows. “Doesn't really seem fair, does it?”

“No,” she said. “But it's real. You had tears tattooed on your face once,” she said, changing the subject to him. “Isn't that a symbol of grief or fallen comrades?”

“How do you know something like that?”

“Don't try to wiggle out of the question, Mr. Martinez. I just know. And you had them removed at some point. Why?”

“I was in the army,” he said slowly. “It was a great world to me at first—so orderly and disciplined. I loved the hell out of it. And an officer took me aside one day and told me I could probably advance in rank a lot faster if I got rid of the facial tattoos.” He lifted a shoulder. “So I did.”

“Reality,” she said, smiling. “People judge us by how we look.”

“So they do.” He leaned back lazily. “And I gotta say, babe, the new look is pretty hot.”

Marissa laughed. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head, speculatively, and his hair swished in a heavy, glossy spill over his arm. Unbelievably extravagant, that hair. She had visions of burying her face in it, of the way it might feel on
her
shoulders. Her bare shoulders. He said something, but Marissa was so lost in her little fantasies that she only caught the end. “…like a dieter.”

“What?” she said. “I'm sorry, my mind was wandering. I missed the first part.”

The long dark eyes tilted the slightest bit, that almost-smile she'd come to recognize, as if he knew where she'd let her imagination go. “I said, ‘You don't eat like a dieter.”'

She shook her head. “Diets don't work—and believe
me, I've been on every single one ever invented. Low fat, low carb, high protein, grapefruit twelve times a day, shakes—everything. The only things that work are the simple things. Move your body, figure out what the bad habits are and think up new ones. I changed one thing every week. Just one.”

“Like what?”

“Robert, this can't possibly be interesting to you.”

“Sure it is.
You're
interesting.”

She looked away for a moment, then back to him. “There are much more interesting things about me than my path to weight loss.”

His gaze was straight, direct. “You know, most people never make a really big change in their lives. They just stick with the program, like it's a big game of seven-card stud, never realizing they can get rid of a couple cards and try some others.”

She laughed. “Gambler metaphors! I love it.”

“A man goes with what he knows.” He winked, then polished off the chips and gestured to the waiter for more. “You tossed back a card you didn't like and took a chance on a new one. That's pretty brave.”

“Thank you.” She toasted him with her margarita.

“So, what kind of changes did you make every week? You never know, Crystal's probably right. My family runs to fat big-time along about forty.”

She picked up her heavy goblet, admiring the green color of the drink, and the look of the kosher salt around the rim. “One of the first things I did was to
look
at my food. Look at every bite, and think about it.” She lifted it to her lips, then paused. “This is going to look seductive, but I'm not trying to turn you on or anything.” She licked a little salt off the glass to get the salt in her mouth and then took a measured sip of margarita and
closed her eyes. “Salt and sweet and sour and that bite of tequila.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Perfect. But in the old days, I would have gulped it, feeling guilty that I even wanted it.”

He licked his bottom lip, slowly, and grinned. “Made my mouth water.”

“Me or the margarita?”

He laughed—that rough, unfamiliar, thrilling sound. “Both.”

In that instant, Marissa felt a stab of something hot and terrifying. She really
liked
him. There was a good helping of lust, she wouldn't deny that. She was dying to dive into his hair, kiss him until her knees would no longer hold her, but in that instant, when he laughed his rusty laugh, she felt a vivid shift. She liked
him.
Liked who she became in his company, liked the easy way he was himself without apology, liked even the slight vulnerability she glimpsed now and then.

He must have seen some of that in her eyes. “What?”

She shook her head, smiling lightly. “Nothing.”

 

They lingered a long time after their plates were cleared away. Robert told stories of his army days, making her laugh with all the absurd, strange, alarming things that went on in the service. He discovered that he enjoyed her amusement so much that he scoured his mind for more, finding himself grinning along as he watched the flash of her white teeth, admired the line of her jaw.

The margarita loosened her, made her cheeks rosy, her eyes as vivid as a blue jay's tail, and she grew more confident, more expansive. Not quite as expansive as the night he'd gone to her house the first time, but a man could hope. “Want another one?”