Desert Crossing (22 page)

I looked down at him uncertainly. “We'll get sunburned.”

He closed his eyes. “No, it's too late in the day. Come on, lie down. Let's take a nap.”

I swallowed, nervous. “I don't sleep anymore, remember?” I said.

He shifted slightly in the sun. “So? Lie down.”

His eyes were closed. He seemed almost asleep.

“Come on, Luce,” he said again, his voice drowsy. He reached out a hand and felt for my leg, tugging me down next to him.

“It's too bumpy,” I complained. I could feel pebbles, twigs, rough stalks pressing into my shoulders. “There might be bugs.”

“Shhh,” Kit said. “It's like the beach.” He shifted again, sliding his arm under me. I started to pull away. But his breathing was so slow and steady he had to be falling asleep. And besides, it was comfortable, the soft pressure of his arm behind my head, the warm sun on my face. I listened to the faint trill of the desert around us. Before, that sound had seemed threatening. But now it reassured me—the steady pulse of life where you'd least expect to find it.

I turned toward Kit and I felt him move slightly, accommodating me. Carefully, I leaned my head against his chest. Through the thin fabric of his T-shirt I could hear his heartbeat. For the first time since we'd come to New Mexico, I felt completely safe.

I closed my eyes and slept.

*   *   *

When I opened my eyes, Kit was already awake, squinting at the sky. I started to sit up but he said, “Stay here. This is nice.”

So I leaned back against him. “I can't believe I slept,” I said into his shirt. “I didn't even dream.”

“Yeah, you were out. My arm is completely dead.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, starting to get up again.

But Kit grinned and tightened his arm around me. “It's okay. It doesn't matter.”

I thought about all those high school girls. Maddie Dilworth, Kristi Bendall, Lara Fitzpatrick. The old girlfriends, new girlfriends, soon-to-be girlfriends. I tried to picture Kit passing me in the hallway at school, in a ragged band of senior boys, smirking and not really looking at me. It made me sad. The last few days had seemed like something outside of time.

“So this is it, right?” I said after a minute. “When we go home, it will be back the way it was. At school, I mean. And everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He turned to look at me. “It has to. You know?”

It had to. He was a senior. I was Jamie's sister.

Kit reached for my hand, sliding his fingers through mine. “I'm sorry,” he said.

I could see in his face that he was. Some people are good at saying they're sorry and some aren't. The ones who aren't say it in a way that makes excuses—“I'm sorry, but…”—or in a way that blames you—“I'm sorry you feel like that”—or in a rush, just to get it over with, because they aren't really sorry at all. But the people who are good at it let you know how bad they feel, and they don't try to protect themselves from how hurt you might be. When Kit said he was sorry, it was like that.

“Is it okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. And it was.

With one finger, I traced his face. Kit leaned closer, his breath soft on my hair. “I like you, Luce. I mean, I really like you.”

I smiled at him. “I'm going to tell people I slept with you.”

He laughed. “You do that.”

“It'll ruin your reputation.”

“That
is
my reputation.”

I put my hands on either side of his face and held it right above mine. I couldn't see anything but the flecked and speckled depths of his eyes. I didn't regret what had happened with him. Not any of it. With Kit, it was like I'd seen a different part of myself.

“So how come you and I will never end up together?” I asked him.

Kit looked right back at me. “Who says we won't?”

And even though I'd promised myself I wouldn't, I started kissing him again. I held his face in my hands and opened my mouth against his and filled myself with the smell and taste of him. We kissed and kissed. Despite the hard fact of the desert all around us, it was like drowning: a wave of feeling crashing over my head.

But I knew even then that kissing him wasn't what I would miss most. It was falling asleep with him. Somehow, that was the most intimate thing we ever did. And I knew—the way you sometimes sense the future with perfect clarity—that a long time from now, whenever I thought about Kit, that was the moment I'd want back.

38

When we got back to the house, Jamie's bag was on the porch. It looked forlorn and significant. Toronto lay beside it protectively.

Beth was in the living room, on her knees in her spattered work shirt, painting. It startled me to see her exactly as she was when we first met her. She didn't look up when we walked in. Her face was grave with concentration, focused on the work. In steady strokes she brushed turquoise over the metal. I remembered the muffler.

“Hey,” I said. “We got something for you.”

She looked up. “What?”

“It's in the car. Can you come?”

She set the paintbrush on the edge of the can and followed me outside. When I opened the back door of the car, she smiled. “Where'd you get this?”

“At a gas station, in a pile of junk. It looked like something…” I stopped, feeling shy. “Something you'd like.”

“It is.” She lifted it deftly from the foot well and banged it against her jeans. We watched the coppery flecks of rust flutter to the ground. I started to close the car door, but she stopped me. She was looking at my sketchbook, which had flopped open on the back seat.

“May I?”

It was the landscape I'd been sketching. I hesitated. “Yeah, I guess.”

Beth leaned the muffler against the car and took the sketchbook, studying the scene. She flipped a page. It was the sketch of Kit sleeping. I quickly reached for it, but she stopped me. She turned the drawing slowly, studying it. When she raised her eyes to mine, they were full of understanding. And something else: a kind of pity. “This is it,” she said finally, handing the book back. “You drew what you felt.”

We stood there, looking at each other, and Beth picked up the muffler, turning it over in her hands as if it were something fragile. “Do you think it's okay to do something stupid—really stupid—once in your life?” she asked.

She was asking me this? I swallowed and stared at the ground. “What do you mean?”

“Is it okay to do one stupid thing? Not because you don't know better, but because you do. And you still can't stop yourself. One mistake. One terrible, wonderful mistake.” Her voice was quiet but fierce. “Is that okay? Are people allowed that?”

It seemed such a small thing when she put it like that. In a whole long life, wasn't a person allowed one mistake?

“I don't know,” I said. “It depends on what it is. It depends on who gets hurt.”

She was silent. “You're right,” she said finally, turning away.

I thought of how Jamie looked at her, the blind, transforming happiness in his face. “Beth,” I said, touching her arm. I took a deep breath. “It wasn't a mistake.”

Her face softened. “Thank you,” she said, climbing the steps to the house.

*   *   *

Jamie was on the phone when we walked in. “It's Dad,” he whispered, making a face at me. I sighed. What would we tell him? Maybe the police had already taken care of that for us.

“Really?” Jamie said. “You can? But don't you have to work?” He looked stunned. “You did? Well, that would be … no, that's great. Okay. Yeah, we'll see you there. Here, talk to Luce.” He handed the phone over to me with an expression of disbelief.

“Dad?” I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Hi, babe. Listen, I was just telling your brother, I've made reservations for all of us at the Century Resort outside of Albuquerque. I'm taking the rest of the week off.”

This was so unexpected I almost dropped the phone. “You're taking off work? But you said you had meetings.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I changed things around. I'm on a flight out of Phoenix in a couple of hours. If you drive there tonight, we'll have the rest of the week together.”

“So we're not going to Phoenix?”

“It's too far. If you spend another day driving, you'll hardly have any vacation left.”

I felt a pang of longing for him, the sureness of his voice, his mind always made up. “Dad, did you talk to the police?”

“I certainly did.” He paused. “And your mother.”

Mom. I had to call her. And Ginny, too, who'd never believe everything that had happened. They were the lifelines back to my old life.

“It sounds like you've had quite a week,” my dad said.

I waited for the inevitable barrage of warnings and advice, the long list of things we should have done differently. But it never came.

“I'm just glad you're all okay. And listen, this is a nice place, babe. Tennis, swimming, golf. We can relax, spend some time together. Sound good?”

“Yes, really good,” I said.

“So I'll see you soon?”

“Yeah, Dad. That's great.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Jamie, who was shaking his head in amazement. “What's gotten into him?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe he misses us.”

*   *   *

Jamie gathered the rest of his things in silence. Kit's and mine were still in the car, so we stood awkwardly in the living room, waiting for him. When he came out of the hallway, his face had a stricken look, like he didn't know what to do next. Beth stayed where she was, painting. Jamie kept sending quick glances at her, but she barely looked up when we reached the door. I wondered what they'd said to each other.

“So.” Kit swung the door open. The dogs milled in front of it, eager to go out. He gestured at the sculpture. “Maybe we'll see your stuff sometime. At the airport.”

Beth finally looked at us. “Maybe you will,” she said. She tapped the muffler, which made an echoing clang. “And this, too. I'll find a spot for it.”

Jamie stood uncertainly, watching her.

“Drive safe,” she said, smiling a little.

She looked at me. “Keep drawing, Lucy,” she said. “Maybe I'll see your stuff sometime.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

“Yeah,” Kit said. “Thanks.” He looked at Jamie. “Let's go.”

Jamie still hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. Suddenly, he walked across to Beth and bent down behind her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his face against her neck. Her whole body went rigid for a minute and her paintbrush stopped midstroke. But all she did was lift her free hand and gently touch the side of his face.

Jamie got up, pushing past us, and Kit followed him into the darkening yard. I knelt for a minute by the two dogs, rubbing their ears. “Bye,” I whispered to them.

“Bye,” Beth called. I heard the quake in her voice.

*   *   *

And then we were on the highway again, the three of us. Kit and Jamie up front. Me in the back, staring out the windshield at the same dark road, through the empty desert, with the mountains hulking along the horizon.

We hadn't gone far when we saw something start to cross the road, just at the edge of the headlights. We all saw it at the same time. Jamie slammed on the brakes, harder than hard, and the tires squealed and the car skidded, angling into the other lane. We were flung forward. The strap of the seat belt cut into my chest. I gripped the back of the front seat, and in the dark I felt Kit's hand touch mine.

But the car stopped.

And there in front of us, frozen in the pool of light, was a coyote. He was thin and gray, scruffy-looking, one paw raised. His narrow face turned toward us, ears pricked, yellow eyes glowing.

He hovered there for a minute, poised in the light, floating like a ghost in the huge, dark desert. Then his foot dropped to the asphalt and he crossed the road, lightly touching the surface. He vanished into the night.

Nobody said anything. We started up again, and Jamie slowly turned the wheel, guiding us back into the lane. In the thick silence of the car, I knew we were all feeling the same thing: grateful for the narrow miss, for the shocking wildness of him, for that small, particular life crossing into the future.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to many people for their kind support in the writing of this book. My editor, Christy Ottaviano, is both a thoughtful critic and a staunch advocate, fearlessly encouraging each detour into new territory and helping me find my way. I feel equally lucky to have the support of the staff at Holt, from copyeditors to designers to sales reps, who have worked so hard and often invisibly to give my books their best possible face out in the world. My agent, Steven Malk, has offered helpful counsel throughout the process.

I burdened a handful of readers with a late draft of this manuscript—and little time to read it!—and their smart comments have everywhere improved it. For their diverse perspectives and insights, I'm extremely grateful to Mary Broach, Claire Carlson (and
in absentia,
Claire's mother, Barbara Streeter, for inspiration on the charm bracelet), Laura Forte, Jane Kamensky, Carol Sheriff, and Zoe Wheeler.

A special thanks to my two consultants on police matters: Officer Jack Toomey and especially Chief Fran Hart, who patiently answered endless queries about police procedure and who showed a delightfully unexpected grasp of the demands of the story.

Finally, I thank my family, the guiding stars in my night sky—my husband, Ward Wheeler, and my children, Zoe, Harry, and Grace.

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