Five O’Clock Shadow (8 page)

“Give me a minute.” She slipped off her heels and rummaged in the trunk for a pair of running shoes, hiked up her suit skirt to Noralee heights, and climbed behind him as he steadied the machine. Even in late November, New Mexico sunshine had warmed the day to the low sixties. Snow one week, spring-like weather the next. Probably what drew people to the Southwest. She wound a scarf around her head and adjusted her sunglasses. She'd be comfortable
and
difficult to recognize, she hoped. She was glad she'd parked so far from the front entrance, but glanced back to see if anyone was watching just the same. All clear.

“I know just the place,” he said, before the roar of the bike put an end to conversation. She bent her head against his shoulder and leaned forward, arms hugging his waist. It felt good. Better than she wanted it to. She liked the leather smell of his jacket, the wind as it caught the scarf, swirling it around her face, and the feel of another human being, close, molded to her body, moving to balance, in unison, leaning into a corner, righting, then leaning again as he expertly moved through traffic.

The restaurant was on South Broadway. A Mexican bar and grill known for its posole. He helped her off and then said, “You're good.” She knew what he meant but fought back a cute remark with a sexual innuendo and simply said, “Thanks.”

They took a booth in the back. One of those cozy, orange naugahyde-slick padded back and bench arrangements with a Formica tabletop between that shouted intimacy even during the crowded lunch hour. Pauly found herself unwinding. Leaning back she tucked a leg underneath her, slowly sipped an ice-cold Negra Modelo, and munched tortilla chips with the realization that, just maybe, she didn't want to go back to Noralee, the former mistress, the hellish stack of boxes and a firm that felt it had to investigate her. Not for awhile anyway. She needed this. Someone paying attention, not gushing condolences. Someone who thought of her as Pauly Caton, not Act Three of a Greek tragedy. Maybe she was beginning to distance herself from Randy and the lies.

Steve insisted they have the posole and the choice was a good one. Homemade. Red-chili hot. She ordered another beer.

“Tell me about Randy,” he said.

The request didn't surprise her. And maybe it was the second beer, or the lulling cocoon-warmth of the restaurant, or the exhilaration of being with someone who made her feel so alive…valued…yes, and wanted. It wasn't just Grams' encouragement; it was his sincerity. And she was going to grab it. Grab it before he could take it back. She needed a friend. And with the first outpouring of words, she realized just how much.

She paused long enough to sample the steaming bowl of posole when it was set in front of her and then continued to describe Randy's death, the sharpshooter killing the pilot, the horrible descent of the balloon, the gondola crashing against the sandbar.

“This is terrible luncheon conversation.”

“I asked for it.” He smiled, giving her his attention as he buttered, then folded a tortilla and dunked it in his stew.

“The sadness of all this is how little time we had together. I met him, we married, he died. I never got to know him. Not really.”

“I'd think the knowing part would be a prerequisite for marriage.”

The comment didn't seem out of place. Hadn't she asked herself that?

“Maybe I was a little eager. I wanted to be married, have a family. My friends are married. I'd never had brothers and sisters. Randy and I shared that—we were both only children. Life seemed to be getting away from us. I hadn't done anything in particular, hadn't achieved anything, held a couple mediocre jobs. I lived like a nun to finish my master's in a year and a half.” She paused, then followed a gut feeling that said it was safe to share with this man and added, “I had been engaged for a couple years, but it didn't work out.”

“What happened?”

“The usual. We started to take each other for granted. He dropped out of school to work for his father. Eventually, I got dumped for someone new.”

“So, it was Randy on the rebound?”

“No.” She hadn't meant to say it so sharply; he hadn't said it unkindly. And, actually, she'd wondered herself. A whirlwind affair, a wedding—and now this. “I'm twenty-eight years old. It just seemed like the right time to get married. I wanted things in life like security, travel, a home and family, someone there for me. Things women are supposed to want. Randy could have given me all that. Or so I thought at the time.”

“You haven't mentioned love.”

She fished through the posole for a couple pieces of diced pork and didn't look up; she knew he was watching her. And what could she say? She thought she'd felt love because someone so overwhelmingly seemed to love her? But that had been a sham.

“Randy was unbelievably needy, emotionally needy. He had lost his parents as a teenager in some boating accident in the Midwest. His father had been a sales manager, traveled a lot. I think Randy had resented that. Relationships were difficult for him. Randy was a strange man. I don't deny that. I suppose the word nerd describes him best—a bit bumbly, but blisteringly smart. With so many hopes and dreams.” She knew she was about to cry but somehow that seemed okay, too. She found a packet of Kleenex in her coat pocket and took time to blow her nose. “I thought I could make a difference in his life. I thought he loved me so completely that we'd grow close automatically.” Her voice sounded small, choked.

Steve reached out and took her hand and held it and was quiet.

“It's tough when you have your chance taken away from you,” he offered.

She tried to smile, let him know the fit of tears was past, but couldn't pull it off. “He'd spent so much time in the field. One project or the other. Becoming a partner grounded him. He had gone to school with Archer Brandon. So when Archer contacted him about forming a company in Albuquerque three years ago, Randy jumped at it. It seemed to be the answer to a prayer. He could stay in one place for awhile, invest some money, settle down. Guess that's where I came in.”

“You met Randy through work?”

“Campus recruiter set up an interview. The company was looking for a technical writer. So, two days after I graduated, Randy interviewed me. He was attentive from the beginning. It was flattering. I got caught up in it. Marrying the boss was pretty exciting.”

“I'm still not sure I have a very good picture of who Randy really was.”

“I know. Maybe I don't either.” Pauly took a sip of beer. “He was so easy to please. So undemanding. Spent a lot of time in the second story.” Pauly tapped her forehead. “I had to remind him I was around. But I couldn't complain. It just seemed a part of being with this really brilliant man and I always thought I could change some of the relationship things—teach him how to be better in—” She looked up hurriedly, then dodged his eyes, finished her beer, and set the bottle on the table. She knew the red was creeping up her neck again. Had she said too much? She hadn't meant to share intimate details. But Steve didn't follow up, didn't make some inappropriate remark, and she was grateful.

“Can I get you another?” he said.

Her laugh was genuine. “Three?”

“I seem to remember I'm driving.”

“It's bad enough that I've knocked back two, cried on your shoulder, and monopolized the conversation, let's not add tipsy to the act.” She grinned. She suddenly felt good, and it wasn't a beer buzz.

“Now it's your turn. Why the tattoos? Why the carnival? Where's home? When—”

“Hey. Give a guy a chance.” He laughed. “The body-art started with a dare, a spider somewhere on my posterior when I was in the service. Then I got into body-building, got good at it, competed, won a few trophies, sank my life's savings into a gym in California, and bounced back to earth about the time my partner cleaned me out. And ran off with my wife.”

Steve paused while a waitress cleared their table and took his order for coffee.

“I learned a couple things about trust and my ability—or lack thereof—to manage a business. And then one night at a bar, I met Hofer and your grandmother, who sold me on how good carny life can be, and here I am, part owner in a Ferris wheel, bump 'em cars, various and sundry other midway rides, a couple snakes, and tents that seat hundreds. Hey, I'm a lucky man.” He paused to smile. “Actually, I do consider myself lucky.”

He was looking at her. Would he say something smaltzy about his luck at meeting her? But he went on. “Thinking I'd learned my lesson with the first business, I decided to be a working owner this time. So what you see are a few additional tattoos. Just part of the act.”

“Are there a mother and father somewhere who won't let you in the house anymore?”

“Yup. A mom in Iowa who thinks I'm certifiable.”

“And you? What do you think? Is the carny worth wall-to-wall tattoos and chasing around the country?” She said it lightly, out of curiosity. It wasn't meant to be judgmental.

He was slow to answer. “For now.” He looked up at her, and seemed to be weighing something, then leaned on his elbows, hands clasped to support his chin. “If I wanted to be truthful—and maybe I want that from our friendship…want it to be healthy up front—I'd tell you that I got in trouble. I lost the gym because I was pushing steroids. I lost my wife because I did time.”

Pauly caught the waitress's eye and ordered another beer.

Weren't body-art and prison synonymous? Couldn't she have guessed? What could she say?
Shit
came to mind.

“I'm sorry. I hope the truth hasn't cost me your friendship.” He was watching her, waiting for her reaction. And looked stricken. He cared for her. She felt that. He'd taken a huge risk to say what he'd said. To be truthful. And that was a lot more than the man she had married had done.

“The way my luck has been going, I should feel fortunate you're not an axe-murderer.” She grinned and heard the relief in his laugh as she held up her beer. “Here's to pals and the truth.” She clinked the bottle against his coffee cup.

“Thanks.” She knew he meant it. The confession had taken guts. “I guess I also want you to know that it isn't just your grandmother playing matchmaker, putting the screws to her partner to take out the poor, homely relative. I wanted to have lunch with you today.” The teasing smile again.

Pauly crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Big of you to suffer in the name of free enterprise.” She laughed and relaxed and tried not to think “ex-con.” It felt too good to be sitting here away from the office…and the memories. She didn't want to pick it apart, but she was curious.

“How long were you in?”

“Six months—reduced from a year for a first-time offender. I might have pulled a suspended sentence if some teens hadn't become users as a result of the stuff being too easily available, though I tried to limit access to the fifteen or twenty of us who were into competition. Steroids give you the edge at shows. As long as you stay away from ‘natural' contests.”

“And your partner? Was he into the same thing? I mean did he compete?”

Steve seemed to be giving his answer some thought. “Jonathan? Not exactly the narcissistic type. He's five years older and a general pain in the ass. Did I forget to mention that he's also my brother?” Rueful grin.

“So now your brother is married to your former wife?”

“Just one big happy whatever, as the saying goes.” He waited while the waitress filled his cup and brought another saucer of creamers.

“When I want to be truthful I admit that I knew the signs. And I also admit that they're better off together than Cathy and I ever were. Too young, too many dreams, not enough money…same old song and dance.”

“Where are they now?”

“Still in California as far as I know. I don't check in very often. We skipped exchanging Christmas cards the last couple years.”

“And carny life seems to be the answer?”

“For the time being.”

“Will you ever go back to competition?”

“No. Not interested anymore.”

“Maybe another gym?”

He shook his head, then asked, “How about you? You going to dive right into corporate life and make a career of boardrooms and fiscal planning?”

“God, I hope not. But there may not be anything else for awhile. And it's helping. The old saying about keeping busy seems to be the truth.”

“I think you're doing exceptionally well.” He touched her arm with his hand, left it there a moment, then drew back. “I didn't do half as well.”

“Really?”

“Really. Fell apart probably describes it.”

Pauly took another sip of beer. “It helps to be angry.”

“That's natural. One of the steps everyone goes through when they lose a loved one. It's easy to feel slighted.”

“No, not angry that way. Angry at the person, at things I've found out later. Things he'd done. Promises that could never have been kept.”

“Tell me.” Steve was sitting up straighter. She had his interest.

“I won't know whether I'm telling you the truth or not. I mean, I don't know what to believe anymore.” She took a deep breath. “The one thing I do know is he'd had a vasectomy.”

“I don't understand. Didn't you just say that you wanted children?”

“I thought we both did.” Then she told him about the hospital, how she'd found out in a pretty dramatic finale with the urologist and his tech with a crochet needle that she and Randy would not be making babies.

“He never told you?”

“Never. But please keep this just between us. I mean I don't want Grams to know. She didn't like him anyway.”

“No problem. It just seems that that's a pretty big thing to lie about. What could he gain by it?”

“Getting me to marry him.”