Five O’Clock Shadow (4 page)

“Where am I staying?”

“East wing. Private bath, view of the Sandias. Sitting room/bedroom combination. A little over seven hundred square feet with private entrance.” Grams didn't miss a beat as she maneuvered the Lincoln through heavy end-of-the-day traffic.

Pauly thought of reminding her grandmother that she wasn't a potential bed and breakfast customer; she knew the rooms. But she realized with a jolt that her grandmother was thoughtfully taking Paseo del Norte and not driving her over the Alameda bridge. Pauly wasn't quite ready for that reminder, and for all Grams' strangeness she must have realized it.

“Hofer's fixed up a real nice work area for you downstairs, off the kitchen. Set up your computer, moved in some bookcases.”

“Sounds great.”

“You don't need to pretend with me. I detect a genuine lack of enthusiasm. Honey, you just have to give life a chance. Time alone is a powerful healer. Just don't fight it. Get involved. Take your mind off of what happened. You can't dwell on water that's already passed under the bridge. Oops, not a very good choice of words.”

Pauly smiled reassuringly. Then she pressed her cheek against the coldness of the car window and closed her eyes. Nobody had promised rehabilitation would be easy. And she knew her grandmother meant well. But Pauly's life wasn't going anywhere at the moment. Actually, for the time being it seemed stymied. She felt like she was treading water.

“Here we are, sugar.” Grams turned off Coors Boulevard and nosed the Lincoln down a dirt lane that wound back towards the river. They were just passing the huge windmill that marked the beginning of Grams' property when she slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

“Damn. I've told him to keep those things corralled.”

“What things? What did you see?” But Pauly, who had hit her head on the visor, was talking to empty space since her grandmother had hopped out and was bent over something by the side of the road.

“Big one for its type. I think this is an Egyptian albino something or other.” Her grandmother held a three foot, almost transparent, and completely lethargic snake away from her fur jacket as she climbed behind the wheel.

“Here, you hold him.” Grams gripped him behind his head with a tight-fist.

“Can't you put him in the backseat?” Pauly squirmed away.

“Oh, for pity's sake, he won't bite.” But Grams hopped out again, opened the rear door and tossed the snake across the dove-gray leather cushions behind the driver's seat.

“He looks dead.” Pauly leaned over the back of her seat to keep an eye on the snake, make certain that it didn't slither off its perch.

“Just cold-stunned. Sometimes they wander out of the garage.”

“You mean there's more?” She hated snakes but tried not to let her grandmother see how upset she was.

“Maybe a half-dozen. Snake acts are a big draw. Bigger the snake, bigger the audience. We own the world's record reticulated python. Eighteen feet. Can you believe that? Actually, there are a couple real doozys out there.”

“Out there” must mean the garage. One place that Pauly would make off-limits. But her wondering was interrupted when Grams jolted to a stop in front of the house and stepped out to yell at a tall, lanky, not-so-young kid who was loping across the yard.

“Harry, put this snake back where it belongs. This poor critter was almost road-kill. I've told you to keep an eye out.” The young man walked towards them, followed the wave of Grams' hand and opened the back car door, nodded at Pauly but didn't say anything, just scooped up the snake, tucked it inside his shirt, and headed towards the garage.

“Do you understand what I'm telling you?” Grams yelled after the disappearing man. “I told you to watch them. Keep those cage-lids tight.” There was no response and the nearest garage door thudded shut.

“Come on, let's get you into the house. The quicker we get you settled in, the better you'll feel.”

Pauly acknowledged that that was probably true, and she was ready for any change of scenery after a week of white walls. And she had to admit it was comforting to see her own bed, loveseat, TV, end tables.… She gave her grandmother a hug. It had been a thoughtful thing to do.

“Now, enough of this mush. Dinner in half an hour.” Grams walked to the door then turned. “Sweety, it'll be just great having you here,” and with a little wave was gone.

***

Dinner was strained. No, strange, Pauly thought. The big oak island in the center of the cobalt and yellow tiled kitchen overflowed with the fixings for tacos. It was a do-it-yourself meal. Go around the table single-file, fill your plate, then adjourn to the plank tables in the dining room. Buffet-style was probably the best way to feed the crowd gathered in the large kitchen. Sometimes the personnel from one of Grams' carnivals stayed for a month or so before traveling on, and Pauly couldn't keep her eyes off of the man beside her. Definitely carny material.

Every inch of his body, at least what was exposed, was covered with tattoos. The bicep on the arm next to her was large enough to show a complete sketch of the rape of Europa, bull and maiden frolicking among clouds, then the bull mounting.… She bent down slightly to see the completion of the coupling which curved under the elbow. Suddenly the arm flexed to give her a better view. She sprang upright realizing that her face was probably flame-orange and managed to stammer, “J-just curious. Actually, they're really well done.” And willed herself to try to regain lost ground by referring to it as body-art and appear to be a connoisseur and not a lech.

“Glad you like it.”

Looking upward, she paused at the sight of inked tendrils that licked up his neck.

“Nice stuff on the neck.” She waved her fork in the general direction of the tendrils. Art, she admonished herself, refer to it as art.

“Guaranteed camouflage for hickeys. Every teenager's dream.”

Shit. She'd left herself wide open for that. But she realized his eyes were teasing; this wasn't some kind of pick-up line and she relaxed, even managed a little smile as she distributed the lettuce across the top of the taco shell. She had moved on to the grated cheese before she realized that she was staring at the man again, watching as he filled a bowl with green chili stew.

The man was startlingly handsome. Once you got past Europa and the other doo-dads. Bodybuilder's physique, dark hair combed straight back, high cheekbones, dusty gray eyes, long lashes, permanent tan, could be her age or maybe early thirties. He was probably part of a strong-man exhibition.

“Snakes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thought you might be wondering what I do. I work with the pythons.”

And read minds. She couldn't think of another thing to say, so she just nodded and prayed that she'd find a table to herself in the dining hall. The thought of sitting next to him was somehow unsettling. It would mean that she'd have to carry on a conversation, be amiable, and admit that her interest was piqued. And that didn't seem exactly proper for a widow. A new one, at that. She set her plate down at a table just inside the dining room door and hoped that he'd sit with friends.

“Mind if I join you?” Snake-man scooted onto the bench beside her. So much for wishing he'd go away.

As the other tables began to fill, she realized that the group was large, maybe thirty people, and would stretch the room's seating to capacity. Grams had knocked out a wall to the living room in order to expand her dining facilities; then pushed the opposite living room wall a good twenty feet to the south, added a stone fireplace, brick flooring and vigas to support the ceiling and finished the two-foot-thick adobe walls in white plaster. Great room was not a misnomer.

“Lulu's really outdone herself—all the right Southwestern touches.” Snake-man's gaze seemed to be following hers around the room.

She blushed. This man could make her uncomfortable. “I'm probably not going to be very good company. I wouldn't know a python from a boa if it bit me on the elbow.” She said it sweetly but felt he couldn't help but catch the tone of dismissal. She wasn't going to let herself get dragged into polite chit-chat or anything else for that matter.

“I can tell. Neither one is likely to bite you. At least that's not their initial approach.” He was grinning. And other than being put off by the one tendril that had escaped to caress his ear, Pauly found herself smiling back. If the truth were known, she probably didn't want him to sit anywhere else and was honestly glad that he'd followed her with his loaded plate of six tacos, refritos, and salad. Grams might as well be feeding harvest hands. And if she offered three meals a day, this was a costly operation. Pauly hoped that the carnival business was booming.

“If you ever find yourself overcome with curiosity, I'd be glad to give you a tour of the garage. Snakes are an interesting sort.”

Was he serious?

“I may be able to restrain myself.” But she grinned. “You might say I'm the Pandora type, but smart enough not to start anything—most of the time.”

“Actually, I was hoping you didn't put too much stock in Freud. Snakes and—”

“I think I'm following.” She interrupted and knew she was blushing. And then found herself thinking how glad she was that he didn't seem to be an idiot. One of the nice body but nothing between the ears types that proliferated the midway. And, she realized with a start, he was keeping her mind off of things. She hadn't thought of Randy once in twenty-five minutes.

“Are we all here?” Grams' voice sang out from the front of the room. “Hofer will bless our food now. Let's bow our heads and give thanks.”

A tall white-haired man unfolded from a bench and cleared his throat as he gazed around the room. The benediction was short, made singularly interesting by the man's resonant voice. It had the quality of bells. Deep bass tones that reverberated around the room. Grams had hinted at a boyfriend sometime back, someone serious. “Altar material” was the term Pauly remembered. She could see why this man might be lined up as number six. He was striking, even with silver-white craggy eyebrows knit together for God. But a Bible-thumper? Hadn't there been that nasty incident with the Gideon people when her grandmother boycotted Motel Sixes? All things change in the name of love, Pauly guessed.

“…and we ask that you welcome our sister, Pauly Caton, into your warm and loving arms.…”

Pauly tuned out. Hadn't she been married even long enough to use McIntyre? She would have bolted from the table if the snake-man hadn't put a hand on her arm and mouthed, “He means well.” Then whispered, “You'll get used to him. Real Elmer Gantry without the deviousness.” And then he'd winked and sort of squeezed her hand and Pauly felt an electric surge, a tingling warning that told her to beware an attraction that she already knew pulsed between them. And then there was another little voice that said Randy had never made her feel that way. And she recoiled in shock, pulling away. But it was true.

“Are you okay?” He still whispered even though Hofer had sat down. And he looked genuinely concerned.

“I'm fine,” she whispered back. One of her bolder lies but she smiled broadly and kept her hands in her lap. “I can't refer to you as snake-man forever. Is there a name?” And please God, don't let it be Boa-Bob or Python-Pete, Pauly prayed to herself.

“Sorry. Stephen Burke. Steve, actually.” He held out his hand and Pauly took a breath before clasping it firmly.

***

“I think the sooner, the better.” Grams was busily buttering an Eggo before passing the toaster-waffle across the counter to Pauly. It was after ten. Pauly had missed the crowd that must have feasted on breakfast burritos from the looks of the pans in the stainless steel double sink behind her and the smell of green chili that hung pungently in the air.

“I'm not saying that they won't be fair, but you've got to have your wits about you. You need to tell them what you'll accept. And I don't want you dropping everything and running.”

“What constitutes ‘dropping and running'?” Pauly pulled the cork out of the jug of maple syrup. Real maple syrup. One of her favorites.

“Accepting their first offer. It'll be low. They're businessmen, and won't give anything away. But you own one third. We're not talking peanuts here.” Gram paused to lean towards her. “Their stock recently split and is going through the roof. That water project alone will keep them going another five years. Listen, sugar, this is your life now, your livelihood. You've got to make the most of it.”

“So, what are you saying? Not sell?”

“Exactly. My broker says to give it a year. Hang on. Get active in the business yourself. I have a feeling they'll welcome you once they realize they can't short-change you. Too many contracts give women-owned firms priority. I think you're going to get the old red-carpet treatment.”

Stock market. Money. Pauly would just as soon someone else handled those things—thought about them, for that matter, for her. It wasn't how she saw her life right now. Board rooms, tailored suits, a briefcase…and wasn't it money, a huge unexplained lump that had been found in Randy's possession,
their
bank account, that tipped the cops to suspect wrongdoing on Randy's part? The unexplained lump that she wouldn't touch, didn't want to think about because it might have caused his death.

But the business, Randy had left his share to her. And that one third was hers, legally, free of strings, and the only money, aside from insurance, that she could call her own. Roughly two million dollars. Not that she was in need, she wasn't. She could stay put for awhile. But maybe working wasn't such a bad idea…maybe taking part in Randy's life would make her feel better, hasten the healing….

“You need to protect your share.”

“What?” Pauly realized she hadn't been listening.