Like Sweet Potato Pie (28 page)

I held it up to the dim artificial light, curious, and then switched on the interior light for a closer look at the rows of intricate black kanji characters. Crinkling my way through the pages until a shaft of yellow landed on a square outlined in pen. Noted with little translations in the margin, in Carlos’s bumpy ink handwriting:
Boston. Alexandria. Fairfax. New York. Washington, DC.
Topped with the printed words
Northeast Fashion Month
and listing some Japanese designers and locations for shows. A couple of (mostly female) names and initials penciled in by the various cities.

Including mine. With a tiny note:
Maybe too far.
I leaned closer, trying to understand.
But
+
g.c.
=
perfect.

“Northeast Fashion Week?” I said out loud, eyes jumping from the newspaper to Carlos’s distant figure, partially illuminated in the glow of the bright windows. “What’s the big deal about that? And who’s G. C.?”

I started to fold up the newspaper in disgust, its beautiful, kanjilined pages retreating into an insipid black-and-white rectangle.

The dates. I halted, something ominous twisting at my stomach as a little square of paper fell out of the pages, notes and numbers scribbled in Carlos’s block handwriting.

Certainly not. Not Carlos. Not …

All at once it hit me.

I grabbed the newspaper and reached for my purse, slamming the car door behind me as I stalked toward the hotel lobby.

N
ortheast Fashion Week?” I said, waving the
Yomiuri Shimbun.
“Is this what you tried to hide from me?”

Carlos, who stood outside the glass door in a black leather jacket and navy-and-tan striped scarf, finally ended his conversation, phone bobbing in surprise, and faced me. “What’s that supposed to mean, amor?” But something awful darted across his face a second before he smiled.

“Did you decide if I’m too far away from Fairfax or not? Because I’d hate to make you miss the big event on my account—seeing as how you’re a model now and all. It’s a long drive out here to rural Virginia. You must want
something.
” My throat knotted, unable to swallow.

“Give me that.” His smile faded like the headlights of a passing truck, taking the sudden flash of brilliance with it. He stretched his hand for the newspaper, but I tucked it under my arm, just out of reach.

“You’re a stockbroker. What do you make now, six figures?”

“I don’t need to tell you my business.” His voice dropped to a growl.

“But that’s just it. You’re after something that all your money can’t buy. You think I didn’t figure out why you drove here to find me, apologizing and offering to make me dinner?” I poked him in the chest defiantly. “You thought you could get away with it. That I wouldn’t find out.”

“You’re crazy! Find out what?”

I stood on tiptoe to meet his eyes, surprising even myself. “That you want to use me for a green card. By marriage. So you can go on with your next venture. Start your own clothing line or something.” My words hovered there, frosty, in a breath of smoke. “But my house and my heart don’t come free, Carlos. I don’t take in boarders. Or freeloaders.” I forced my voice to hold itself steady, although something underneath wanted to crumble. “Spare me the love speeches. You left your green card notes inside the sports pages.” A sob caught in my throat.

He took a step forward, eyes snapping. A cold wind whisked between us, and the front doors opened and closed. We moved away from the entrance as a bellman rolled a shiny gold cart through, and we faced each other in the shadows.

“Are you accusing me?” Carlos’s eyes snapped, his voice raising a touch. “You’re calling
me
a freeloader?”

“Did you think you could buy me off so easily by flashing a ring and spouting all this ‘I love you’ nonsense?”

“Is that what you think? That my words are nonsense?” He jabbed a finger at his heart, breath loud and angry. “I wanted to see you, amor. That’s all that ever mattered to me.”

His eyes flickered away from me when he said it.

“I don’t need your help with anything.” His voice rose, cold and proud.

“I’ll bet.”

Without warning, Carlos caught my eye and dropped his voice to ice. “You’re just jealous because I’m doing something better with my life than you are, Shiloh. Look where you live—a small-town dump. Doing what? Waiting tables?” His lip curled up in a sneer, and he shook his head in disgust. “You don’t even have your master’s yet, do you?”

I opened my mouth in a silent cry, wrapping both arms around my middle to hold in the pain.

“You do what you want with your life.” My teeth chattered as I struggled to keep tears from rising. “But I won’t help you. But maybe Kristi can, in Boston, whoever she is.” I flung the newspaper at him.

“Ah.” Carlos threw his arms up, kicking the newspaper aside with his shoe like an old hamburger wrapper. “You’re despicable, amor. To think something like that about me.”

“Don’t call me amor. You never loved me. Whatever you had for me, it wasn’t love.”

“Love.” He spat out the word, gazing out over the darkened landscape. Trees, dark and spindly, spotted with snow. “What is love, Shiloh? Tell me that. I think it means something different for you than it does for me.”

“Maybe so.” I felt tears well up as wind stung my cheeks, and I put my hands in my pockets to keep back my emotion. “We’re done, Carlos. Go. Don’t try to call me. Don’t … anything.”

“You’re really serious?” Carlos laughed again, a bitter laugh, but it died out. Lost in the sound of wind shivering in the dry shrubs.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally Carlos let out a long sigh, throwing his head up to the cloudy night sky. “Why, Shiloh? Why do you have to be this way? We did have something special, you know. At least back then.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat with difficulty, remembering how not long ago I would have fallen into his embrace despite my misgivings, inhaling the painful sweetness of his cologne-tinged sweater: a warm scent of wool and comfort. And let his golden words fall soft in my ears, willing myself to believe them.

But this time I didn’t move, arms taut like ropes pulled painfully tight.

“You’re not Hachiko,” I whispered.

“What?” he cried. Obviously he didn’t remember the little statue of a dog in Shibuya, Tokyo, that moved me more than anything else in Japan. Every day Hachiko waited at the station for his master at the time of the evening train. Day after day, year after year. Until the day his master never came home.

And still Hachiko waited at the time of the train. For ten whole years, until they found his stiff, lifeless body on Shibuya streets.

Talk about love. Faithfulness. And I would never find it in Carlos Torres Castro, no matter how his radiant good looks cried out to me.

He sputtered in indignation. “What does an iron dog have to do with this?”

It was bronze, but I didn’t correct him. “Good-bye, Carlos.”

“Nobody’s going to want you, Shiloh! You’re washed up.”

“Then I’ll stay single.”

“You’re crazy! I’ve wasted too much time on you.”

“Please don’t call me or come here again. Ever.”

I picked up the battered
Yomiuri Shimbun
from the concrete and marched toward the desolate parking lot, turning my back on an angry flurry of Spanish. I wanted to weep, but no tears came. I had cried them long ago. Strips of snow had hardened like my resolve into little crystalline patches, sparkling under the tall parking-lot lights.

I ducked my head into the wind, my eyes barely seeing the shadows and frozen, snow-scuffed cars scattered across the parking lot as I trudged between the cars.

Everything dark, everything cold, everything terrible.

And then at the last minute as I turned toward my Honda, I lunged and gasped. Barely missing the dark shadow that seemed to appear from nowhere, between an SUV and a station wagon, heading toward the hotel. Inches from me.

“Sorry! I didn’t … Sorry!” I flung my hands up, almost dropping my purse and newspaper.

He jerked out of the way with a quick apology, which the wind snatched away, and I watched him go, sensing something uncomfortably familiar in that gait, that coat. Wishing the light would shine a little more clearly on his obscured face under its cap. His footprints left hollow marks in the blanket of snow.

I dug for my keys, heart pounding, as he paused a few feet away, turning abruptly back in my direction.

He swiveled his head between me and Carlos, who still stood at the door, laughing, blowing me a spiteful kiss.

A streak of light illuminated his arms full of newly printed flyers, sleek and colorful in a flash of overhead light. And without reading the print, I knew what those business cards tucked under the rubber band said:
Adam J. Carter, landscape designer.

G
ood! Now try that on.” I pointed, hands on my hips. “I’m telling you, you’ll like it.”

Becky regarded the bag skeptically. “Well, I’ll try it. But the jury’s still out on this’n.”

Becky Donaldson made me proud. She looked great these days, a little more polished and pulled together, and every few weeks she ditched something else: the oversized overalls, fuzzy pink ponytail holders that didn’t match anything, bulky sweaters and sweatshirts that made her look lumpy.

What she didn’t ditch, I hid. Simple.

“We need to make you look more girly,” I’d told Becky. “You’re a beautiful woman, not the Abominable Snowman!”

To her credit, she’d done the unthinkable. For the first time ever, Becky traded in her scuffed green Nikes for a pair of brown boots from Payless. NICE boots! With
heels!
And when she paired them with jeans—her new boot-cut jeans in trendy dark blue I’d practically forced her to buy—she looked fabulous.

But then my plan backfired. Becky wore them every … single … day.

“You need to wear skirts. Dresses.” I’d taken her to Goodwill, Target, and T.J.Maxx, where we did most of our discount shopping. Even Wal-Mart had a few surprising grabs every now and then.

“But I don’t got nothin’ to wear no skirt with! An’ I git too cold.”

“Long boots,” I suggested, pointing to mine. Knee length à la Tokyo, topped with tights and a wool skirt. “Longer than your brown ones. They’re warm.”

She shook her head. “It works on you, Shah-loh, but they ain’t my style. I ain’t all fancy like that.”

So we shopped, and I mulled. And finally had a breakthrough. I convinced her to buy a couple of things and rushed her home. Winter tights were delicate—so as much as I loved Gordon, he had to go. He sat outside the bedroom door mournfully, scratching his stinky collar and baying.

“I ain’t never worn a dress in the winter,” grumbled Becky, reluctantly opening the shopping bag. “It’s too cold, an’ doggone if I’m gonna freeze durin’ church on account a some frippy li’l dress!”

“Frippy?”

“Frilly. Whatever.” She held up the fabulous dress: a warm brown print that came just to her knees. Tiny pale blue flowers. Long sleeves. Brown satin ribbon around the empire waist.

“Trust me. Put these on.”

“Those are tights.” She glared at them and at me, like I was asking her to wear a hula skirt. “I wore ‘em when I was two.”

“Well, they’re back in style now. Put them on.”

I waited, hands on my hips, while she tore open the package and scrunched one leg in at a time. Nice, thick, ivory tights, soft and patterned. Then she pulled the tags off the dress with her teeth (even though I always scolded her to use scissors) and shoved it over her head. I tied the bow in the back and fluffed out the skirt. “There. Now the shoes.”

I always snapped into “bossy” mode when shopping with Becky. If I didn’t, she’d wind up in that same gargantuan Virginia Tech sweatshirt with one of Tim’s plaid button-ups over the top. The most hideous combination I’d seen yet.

“It ain’t so bad, I reckon.” Becky raised an eyebrow as she stepped into the shoes. Brown leather Mary Janes with an extra-thick sole.

“Ain’t so bad?” I muttered. “You’re gorgeous! Look at you!” I pushed her over to the mirror, and she turned around, smoothing the skirt. “The Fashion Nazi strikes again.”

“I reckon it’s kinda nice.” She gave a lopsided grin. “Tim’ll like it, won’t he? He always says I’m cute in a dress. I jest don’t wear ‘em much. But mebbe …”

“Told you.” I pretended to blow on my nails. “What can I say?”

“But what if I get cold?”

“Beauty hurts,” I said unsympathetically. “And you need to do your eyebrows again.”

“Again?”

“They grow back. Numb them with ice.” I surveyed her stock of wraps and sweaters, ignoring her ranting. “Now. Back to the dress. You can use one of those new cardigan sweaters we bought a couple of weeks ago. The light-blue crocheted one that ties in the front.” I riffled through her closet and held it up. “See? Gorgeous. Now all you need is a good winter coat.”

“I got one.” She pointed to a hideous army-green thing hanging in plastic. I jerked it closer for a second look.
Camo? Please tell me I’m not seeing …

“What? It’s real warm.”

Sheesh! Tim could use it during hunting season!
I snatched my fingers away. “Like I said, now all you need is a good winter coat.”

“I jest told ya—”

“Do you really want me to start? Because I’m not budging on this one.”

Becky laughed and rolled her eyes. “Yer awful picky, Shah-loh, fer somebody on a budget!” She punched me. “And hey, yer carryin’ a lotta cash these days. I ain’t seen ya use yer checkbook or cards in ages. Ya doin’ Tim’s envelope method?”

I swallowed hard, not wanting to blab about my bank lien. I just cashed my checks at a gas station and lived on the cash. “Just because I’m on a budget doesn’t mean I eat peanut butter crackers three meals a day,” I replied, breezing over her question. “You have to look hard for deals, but they’re there. Now the last one! Hurry up.”

The room chilled me. I pulled my sweater tighter, sniffling and rubbing my cold hands together. For a so-called Southern state, Virginia sure laid on the snow and frigid temperatures with all the gusto of upstate New York. I wouldn’t be fooled so easily next time.