Chasing Chaos: A Novel (9 page)

He
reached his free hand over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He let his
hand rest on the curve of her neck. Still, she said nothing. Did nothing.

Marlon
let go of her hand. He stood. He gathered the dishes, the empty beer bottles
and the napkins to carry inside the house. He left her alone on the deck, and
she felt bereft. How could he not know what she was feeling, the emotions
bursting for him?

He
came out again and stood next to her chair. He lifted her to him, quilt and
all, wrapping his arms around her, placing her sock-clad feet on the deck. Then
he kissed her as though he hadn’t kissed anyone in years.

He
pulled back from her, studying her face. She recognized his expression of deep
consideration. This was not a man who made snap decisions. Maybe he could break
her curse. Maybe his supreme vigilance could overcome it.

“Come
with me,” he said, his voice rough. He guided her into his home. She followed,
holding his hand like a lifeline.

Inside,
the apartment was brightly lit, with floor-to-ceiling doors and windows
reminiscent of those in Sandy’s house. “You can leave the quilt there,” he
said, pointing to a brown leather couch by a fireplace.

She
folded the quilt carefully before draping it over the back of the couch. She
wanted to take her time, to give him the opportunity to change his mind and
tell her to go.

He
leaned against the kitchen island, watching her. She leaned against the couch’s
back, wary under his assessing gaze.

“Come
here,” he said, holding out his hand.

She
placed her feet carefully on the polished floors, not because she was tipsy,
which she had been earlier but was no longer. No, she stepped carefully because
she wanted each step to mean something.

She
took his hand, and he led her to his bedroom.

The
room was sparsely furnished. A bed with a metal headboard sat beneath a
painting that looked to have come from his own hand. The bed itself was covered
with another handmade quilt. A set of sliding doors opened onto the deck. There
wasn’t an item of clothing out of place, she noticed, wondering what he would
think of her own messy bedroom.

“Can
we open that?” She pointed to the door.

He
flicked the lock and slid the door open. Cool air washed into the room. She
wrapped her arms around herself and sat on the edge of the bed.

Then
he was behind her, and he was pulling her back to his chest, and he was
wrapping his arms around her. Their heads were on the pillows, facing the night
world beyond.

“Why
are you having a hard time right now?” His voice brushed her ear.

The
warmth of his body radiated along the entire length of her own. She pressed
closer to him, shivering.

“I
broke up with my boyfriend, and he’s being an ass—but you already know that.”
At the thought of Dan, of John, of how much she seemed to hurt men even without
meaning to, she pulled away from Marlon slightly. Cool air kissed her back
through the loose knit of her sweater.

She
didn’t deserve his warmth.

“I
get the feeling you can usually handle breaking up with a man.”

She
laughed. “Usually. But I’m off my game this week. I think Greta getting married
has affected me more than I thought it was going to.”

“You
usually know how things are going to affect you?”

“Yes,
actually.”

“I
guess that means you’re rarely surprised.”

“The
few times in my life I’ve been surprised have turned out terrible.”

Marlon
pulled her close again. He kissed her on the temple. Such a vulnerable spot.

“Take
a nap, Daphne. Let someone else worry about the surprises for a little while.”

She
shut her eyes. Cooled by the night air, warmed by Marlon’s arms, her feet
tucked under his shins, she fell asleep.

Daphne
opened her eyes. She was alone in a strange bed, covered by a quilt. She was
fully clothed, down to her socks.

The
memories came back. She sat up quickly, glancing at her watch. It was two
o’clock in the morning.

“Marlon?”
she called out.

“One
sec,” he called back from another part of the apartment.

He
came into the bedroom wearing a paint-streaked T-shirt and jeans. Both were
riddled with holes and fit him snugly from too many washings. She caught
herself staring at his upper arms a little longer than was appropriate.

What
was appropriate, though, given that she’d just woken up in his bed?

“Why
are you awake?” she asked.

“Inspiration
got a hold of me.”

“You’ve
been painting.”

He
nodded.

She
stood, then peered out onto the deck to where she’d left her shoes and bag.
They were gone.

“I
brought them into the house once you fell asleep,” Marlon said. “They’re in the
living room.”

He
led her through the open door to the kitchen, to where her things waited for
her on the leather couch.

She
pulled on her shoes, then slung her bag over her shoulder.

“That’s
a heavy bag,” he said. “You always have that much stuff with you?”

“Always,”
she said. “Just in case.”

She
followed him out onto the deck. But instead of heading left toward the stairs,
she went to the railing and leaned out, looking into the night. She glanced to
her right, past the dimly lit bedroom doors, and saw, at the very end of the
deck, another set of doors. Light poured from them. His studio, she figured.

She
turned to where he stood, leaning against one of the chairs with his hip, hands
tucked in his pockets. She thought about their bodies curled together on the
bed, of the warmth of him pressed against her. Of the single, blistering kiss.

“Why?”
she asked. “Or rather, why not? I would have said yes.”

He
rubbed his chin with his hand, considering. “It just didn’t seem like what you needed.”

“Are
you sure that’s the whole reason? Altruism?”

He
smiled ruefully. “Nope.”

“Did
Greta tell you precisely where I grew up?”

“She
did not.”

“She
wouldn’t have,” Daphne said. “She knows I don’t like to tell people. But you
can know.”

“Hit
me,” he said.

She
smiled. “I grew up in the manager’s cottage of the beach motel my parents
owned.”

“Owned?
Are they still there?”

Daphne
debated how much to tell him. Then she decided she had nothing to lose. “I
would imagine so. But I don’t know for sure. I haven’t spoken to anyone in my
family in years.”

“I
heard something similar about Greta’s father.”

“Yeah,
she doesn’t speak to him at all. But all Greta has is her dad. I have three
sisters and two parents.” Daphne took a deep breath—it still hurt her to speak
the words. “And ever since my birthday, two years ago, I’ve been dead to them.”

“They
abandoned you?”

“I
don’t want to make myself out as a victim,” Daphne said. “You could say that we
abandoned each other.”

She
wondered what Marlon would think about leaving behind such a large, living
family, when his family had all been taken from him. She wondered if he would
judge her.

“So,
you grew up in a motel?” he said, seeming to accept her words. But Daphne knew
better. There would be another conversation if Marlon had his way.

She
explained her childhood. “I worked the check-in counter from the time I was
tall enough to see over it. I met a lot of people. I took their money, and I
gave them keys,” she said. “After years of doing this, I learned to figure out
what they were there for.” She pushed away from the railing and stood straight.
“What they wanted.”

“You’re
saying you’re good at reading people.”

“I
told you I’m rarely surprised.”

“You
also told me I kept you on your toes.”

“I’ve
spent more time with you now.”

“Good
thing or bad thing?”

She
paused in consideration. “Good thing.”

“So
what have you learned about me?”

“Altruism
is part of why you left me alone to sleep tonight. You’re a good person, and I
don’t know many of those.” She nodded toward Sandy’s house. “I can see why
Sandy adopted you.”

“And
the other part?”

“You
don’t like to gamble. Not with anything. And I seem like a huge gamble to you.”

He
was in front of her in two strides, his hands wrapped around her shoulders.
“God help me, yes. You do.” His mouth was on hers, then, burning away the
evening chill.

When
he pulled away, she laid her palm against his cheek. “Congratulate yourself.
Your instincts are working. I am indeed a terrible bet.”

She
turned to flee, but he caught her hand.

“Wait,”
he said. “Answer one question, and I’ll let you go.”

She
nodded.

“Why
did your family abandon you?”

“You
don’t want to know.”

“I
really think I do.”

Daphne
looked down at her hand, still caught in his, then at his face. “My father hurt
me when I was a girl. He… sold me to a guest for a large sum of money. Our
family would have gone bankrupt if he hadn’t. I never spoke about it
afterwards, not for years.”

Shame
encased her. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked out over the canyon
instead. “Two years ago, I flew my mom and sisters out for my birthday—it’s in
March. I told them what happened, but it was like they didn’t believe me.
Except the weird part was, they did believe me. They were just angry at me for
speaking of it. They chose him over me.”

Marlon
was silent for a long while after she finished speaking.

Finally,
she looked at him, desperate to know what he was thinking. She’d never told
anyone this secret except for Greta. What had possessed her to tell Marlon, a
stranger? She started to panic. “Will you please say something?” she demanded.

“I’m
trying to figure out how you can blame yourself for your mom and sisters
cutting you off when you needed them most.”

“It’s
not their fault, not completely. My dad is very controlling and persuasive.
Plus, I was the most rebellious daughter.”

“Still
sounds like you’re blaming yourself.”

She
could sense his sympathy, and it scared her worse than his silence. “Marlon,
you have to let go of my hand.” She could hear the desperation in her voice.

He
did.

She
strode away fast, practically running down his stairs. She turned the knob to
unlock his metal gate, then held it so it wouldn’t clang shut behind her.

Once
in her car, she took the turns down the canyon as fast as she wanted, windows
down, wondering what it would be like to release her grip from the wheel and
fly.

~~~~

Twenty
minutes later, Daphne used her clicker to open her garage door, then pulled her
car into the parking space under her condo. She climbed the steps from the
garage to the metal gate that connected her garage to her front doorstep.
Closing the gate behind her, she jumped back, startled.

Someone
was asleep in her front porch alcove.

She
looked more closely and determined the person was a woman. She looked closer
still and realized she knew the person. The woman was dozing on a coat, her
head resting on a backpack.

“Miranda?”
Daphne said, amazed.

Miranda
sat up quickly, looking dazed. When Miranda saw Daphne, she rushed to her feet.

“Hey.
Crap. I didn’t mean for this to be so weird.” Miranda used her fingers to make
sure her dark blond hair wasn’t totally mussed, and rubbed her cheek where the
backpack had imprinted on it. “It just got so late, and everywhere was closed.”

“I
know what time it is,” Daphne said. “How did you find my house?”

Miranda
George lived in North Carolina just like so many of the other people Daphne had
left behind after college. Miranda wasn’t supposed to turn up in Los Angeles
uninvited. She wasn’t supposed to surprise Daphne, especially this week.

“I
just looked you up. Under Daphne, I mean. Did you change your name legally?”

“I
did it five years ago,” Daphne said. “What are you doing here?”

“I
heard this is where a person comes when her mother dies.”

Daphne
exhaled slowly. She took in Miranda’s stony face. Miranda looked bored sharing
the news of her mother’s death, in fact. Daphne’s instincts fired. Something
was very wrong.

“What
happened?” Daphne asked.

“Alcohol
poisoning,” Miranda said. “Again. But this time she died.”

The
way Miranda described her mother, it sounded like drinking was something her
mother had done a lot. Daphne had never known this tidbit about Miranda.

“When
did you get to LA?”

“This
afternoon. My mom’s funeral was this morning, and I drove straight to the
airport after.”

“Do
you have a place to stay?”

“Not
really.”

“Is
that all you have?” Daphne asked. Miranda’s backpack might hold enough clothes
for a week, but that was all.

“Yeah.
But you know I’ve never been one to wear a variable wardrobe.”

It
was true. In college, Miranda had tended to wear jeans and black T-shirts. Or
jeans and black tank tops. Or jeans and black sweaters. She could probably
survive a while on the clothes in that bag.

“Come
on,” Daphne said. “You can stay in my guest room till you figure things out.”

Daphne
unlocked the door, and Miranda followed her in. She led Miranda to the guest
bedroom, which Daphne always kept prepared even though she rarely had guests.
She also had a desk in the room where she could set up her laptop, but she
didn’t mind giving up that workspace. She rarely used it.

Daphne
pointed at the desk. “You can put your stuff here,” she said. “Everything you
need you can find in the bathroom cabinets.” She pointed to the guest bathroom
off the bedroom. “In the morning, you’ll tell me everything.”

Miranda
sat on the edge of the bed. “There’s not much to tell. After college, you took
off, and I didn’t. I worked in my parents’ law firm to make money, dodging the
law school question while writing freelance stuff to build a portfolio. I
actually have a lead on a job out here if I want to stay.”

“Do
you want to stay?”

“I
have no idea. I just know I don’t want to go back.”

Daphne
had a feeling that going back referred to a lot more than a geographical
location.

“We’ll
talk more after you’ve slept.”

“Thanks
for taking me in. I have nowhere else to go.”

Daphne
heard a nearly unbearable loneliness in Miranda’s voice. But she also knew
Miranda would reject any and all pity. “I figured,” Daphne said. “You look like
complete shit.”

“You
should smell me. Gross.” Miranda headed into the bathroom. Daphne heard her
turn on the shower.

Daphne
shut the guest bedroom door behind her. Then she grabbed her cell phone and
texted Greta: “Miranda George is here. Unexpected arrival. Call me when you get
up.”

Greta
would call in the morning as soon as she received the message.

Daphne
entered her own room, closing the door behind her.

She
listened to the shower running. Miranda was here. Memories from college flooded
back, especially the memory of a particular moment, when Miranda had asked for
Daphne’s help, and Daphne had failed her.

Daphne
couldn’t have known the stakes, then. Couldn’t have known what failing Miranda
would have cost. But the cost to everyone had been high.

She
and Miranda had been close friends once. She wondered if they still were, or if
Daphne’s home was just a place for Miranda to escape to.

Daphne
pulled off her clothes, tossing them to the floor. She glanced at her sweater,
crumpled on top of her jeans, then picked it up again, holding it to her face.
She inhaled. Yes. She could still smell him—mineral spirits, olive oil and
Marlon.

Wistful,
she climbed into bed. She and Marlon might have worked out in another time,
another place.