Seems Like Old Times (30 page)

When she reached home, the front door wasn't even locked--
ah, Miwok!--and she walked right in. Miriam came out of the kitchen, a dish
cloth in her hands. Her eyes grew wide with astonishment when she saw Lee and
her suitcase, "What's this?"

"I missed you."

Miriam opened her arms, and in a moment Lee was getting a
tremendous hug. It did feel good to be home.

Miriam put her hands on Lee's shoulders. "Is anything
wrong?"

"Everything's fine. I just have some unfinished
business I need to take care of."

"I could have taken care of any business for
you."

"Not this kind."

"Tony's case?"
Miriam
asked.

Lee nodded.

Miriam patted Lee's arm. "Your room's waiting for
you. I’ll make a pot of tea while you get settled."

"Thank you, Auntie." Lee gave her a quick kiss
on the cheek. As she stepped back, she was surprised to see tears in Miriam's
eyes. "What's wrong?"

"You haven't called me 'auntie' since you were a
little girl. I'd thought you'd forgotten. It touched me,
that's
all. Good God, I must be getting old!" In her usual no-nonsense way, she
brushed the tears away and briskly walked toward the kitchen.

o0o

After tea, Lee changed her clothes to casual slacks and
blouse. As much as she wanted to visit with her aunt, that wasn't why she'd
traveled three thousand miles. She found, however, that it was a lot easier to
decide what to do while sitting in her apartment in New York than it was to
actually do it here in Miwok.

Before long, she told Miriam she was going to Tony's
house, and left.

As she neared the Circle Z ranch, her nerve failed her.
She slowed the car to a crawl. What if he's not home? What if he is home but
has Trish or some other woman with him? What if he doesn't want to see me? What
if, what if...

 Reaching the gate, she took a deep breath and swung
the wheel to the left, nosing the car onto the oak lined driveway that led to
his house.

His 4x4 and old Chevy pick-up were in the driveway, and no
other cars were there. So he was home, and probably alone.

As she got out of the car and walked to the front door her
heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe.

She rang the doorbell,
then
waited a long while before ringing it again. Where was he?

She knocked.
Still no answer.

He was probably working somewhere on the ranch--in the
company of his father or the foreman, or some of the hired hands. She dreaded
the thought of running into Vic Santos.

She hadn’t traveled across the country to give up now.

Tony might be in the back of the house. At the pool,
perhaps, unable to hear the bell or
her
knocks.

As she walked along the side of the house, she heard the faint
sound of a radio in the distance.

On the patio between the pool and the house were an
umbrella table, a couple of lounge chairs and a barbecue. Past the pool was a
field with apricot, plum and peach trees, and to one side, a small building
that looked like a workshop. The sounds of the radio were coming from that
building.

As she got nearer, she could hear the broadcasters
speculating on the World Series. Her spirit leaped--baseball. What else?

She stopped at the open doorway and looked inside. He stood
at a table, his back to her, bent over what looked like a small engine. Pieces
of it were spread over the table and onto the floor. The back of his white tee
shirt was damp from perspiration as he wrestled to loosen some bolts. His hair
flopped forward and his hands were black with grease. She watched the muscles
on his back and arms strain. Dark grease stains smeared the jeans that rode low
on his hips, hugging his legs, outlining the firm muscles that braced him as he
worked.

Bruce was right--he didn’t fit in with her New York City
crowd at all. Thank goodness.

Lee watched
,
waiting until a
commercial came on the radio. The broadcast ended with the statement that the
San Francisco Giants would finish in fourth place. She smiled at the choice
language Tony muttered. It could have been directed at the team or the stubborn
bolts on the engine.

"Hello, Tony," she said as casually as if her
heart wasn't racing a mile a minute.

His head jerked up and snapped toward her. Dark, tension
filled eyes met hers. They softened, and he slowly straightened, putting down
the wrench he had been holding. But almost immediately, his expression changed
and his brow furrowed with worry. He shut off the radio. "Has something
happened? Why are you here?"

She smiled. "I like it here, you may recall."

As he studied her expression, the truth struck him like a
fastball between the eyes. No, it couldn’t be. He had to be wrong.

She folded her arms, still grinning. "I’ve never seen
you tongue-tied, Santos."

His heart began to pound and he stood motionless in the
shed, grease smearing his hands and perspiration dripping from his brow. He
scraped a hand over his forehead, changing sweat for an oil smear. He’d spend
weeks telling himself he’d been a sentimental fool over her when she was here,
that he couldn’t love her, heck, he scarcely knew her. Then, when they began to
talk over the phone and he’d spend his days waiting for Friday nights, when
he’d chase Vic out of the house on those nights and saw that Ben was with
friends or playing a game or watching TV or somehow amused, when he would go
into his bedroom and wait for the phone to ring--all that time he told himself
he didn’t love her. It was liking, or lust, or nostalgia. Now, facing her, who
had he been trying to fool?

"Lisa." He moved toward her in long, purposeful
strides, feeling his pulse in his chest, against his temples. He glanced down
at his hands. "Christ, let me wash this stuff off. Then we can get out of
here."

There was a basin in the workshop, and he took a bar of
Lava and work at the grease on his hands and arms, building suds up his
forearms to the elbows before he washed his face and neck. As he bent over, his
silver crucifix slipped out from under his tee shirt and swung freely, rocking
back and forth against his chest. He splashed water like a five-year-old as he
rinsed the suds off, wetting the back and front of his hair in the process. His
eyes
shut,
he groped for the towel lying beside the
wash basin. He held it to his face a moment, his hands still, and he wondered what
it meant now, feeling as he did--admitting it--what should he do
now?

He came out of the brisk rubdown with the towel looking
like one reborn, a shiny glow on his chin, cheeks and forehead. As he ran the
towel over the back of his neck, his eye caught hers. She could scarcely
breath,
his gaze was that strong, that filled with need, and
more.

Their eyes held for several beats while she felt her color
heighten and she smoothed a stray hair back to her chignon.

Abruptly, he turned, tossed the towel aside and reached
for the blue and white striped shirt that hung on a hook next to a hacksaw.
Shrugging the shirt on, he folded back the sleeves to just below the elbow and
left it unbuttoned, the whole time taking care not to catch her eye. His sudden
discomfort spread over the workshop.

"Want to go in the house?" he asked.
"How about a soft drink?"

"Sounds fine."

They crossed the yard to the patio and entered the
kitchen. Taking two cans of 7
Up
from the
refrigerator, he put them on the counter, as if needing to avoid chance of
contact if he handed her the can. Then he opened the cabinet for glasses.

"Don't bother." She popped open a can.

He did the same.

They took the sodas outside and sat at the patio table.
"So tell me, Miss Reynolds, what brings you out to these hick parts so
soon? I thought it'd be at least another twenty years before I saw you
again."

She heard the sarcasm in his voice, but she also saw the
cautious hope in his eyes. He had learned over the years, as she had, how to
protect himself. She debated her answer. Tell him straight? Make jokes? Or
simply lie like hell? This was no joking matter, and she never was any good at
lying.

She took a deep breath. "I thought you could use some
moral support tomorrow."

Carefully, he placed the soda can on the table. Without
looking at her, he walked to the pool and stared down at the water.

She sat forward, her hands clasped. "I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to upset you. I just thought, perhaps, you'd like...I mean, I
wanted to do more than talk to you on the phone. I wanted to be here. To help,
if I could, in any way."

He kept his head bowed.

She stood. "I'm sorry, Tony," she whispered.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have intruded. I just wanted..."
I wanted to
be with you.
Didn't he want her there? Had she misread him so completely?
She watched him, hoping. When he didn't speak, didn't face her, with a shake of
her head she turned and hurried toward her car.

"Wait," he called, running after her. She stopped
and he spun her around, his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were soft then,
loving, yet his face was pinched and filled with worry. His strong, blunt,
man's fingers gently touched her jaw as if not quite believing she was real,
and that she had come here to be with him. He brushed back a strand of hair
caught by a slight breeze and blowing toward her mouth. "It'll be ugly,
Lisa. You don't know her. Her tongue's sharp, and she'll use it on me. If
you're there, you might get caught in the cross fire."

She held his waist. "I've been attacked by experts.
I’m not worried. If you'd like me there, I want to be with you."

"Are you sure?" He seemed to hold his breath
awaiting her reply.

"Listen, Santos, I just flew three thousand miles to
be with you and you ask me if--"

She couldn't say any more because his mouth pressed
hungrily against hers. His arms slipped around her back, pulling her closer, as
hers went around his ribcage, holding him tight.

His hands traveled down her back, over her hips, then to
her breasts, as if they were trying to remember all they had learned those
months ago, as if trying to convince
himself
that she
really had returned.

"Tony," she murmured, "Tony," and
raised a hand to his neck, feeling the damp strands of hair. He smelled like
strong soap and sunshine and engine oil, and where she touched him, his body
held the heat of the day and of his labors. He spanned her ribs with his large,
warm hands, then higher. He kissed her ears, her neck, as she ran both hands
into his hair, clutched it with her fingers, messing it even more than it
already was. He drew back and straightened, looking down at her, trying to
regain some control. Slowly, she moved closer, her eyes never leaving his,
giving no doubt what she wanted.

He led her back to the house, up the stairs and in a
moment he was lying beside her on his bed wearing nothing but his crucifix, and
she wore even less. The half shut blinds in his bedroom allowed in slats of
golden sunshine that cast an amber glow over the room. She didn't shut her
eyes. All she wanted to do was to look at him, and see that they were together
once more.

They made love quickly, desperately, their bodies aching
and ready, as if sharing a mutual fear that if they didn't seize the moment, it
would be gone and they would have to part again.

Even when their love making was over, and their breathing
drifted back to normal, they continued to keep their arms around each other, to
hold, to touch.

It was the first time they'd made love in daylight, and
she marveled at the beauty of his body, the tawny color of his skin, the firm,
muscular strength of him. She ran her fingers over his face, the face she knew
as well as her own, bringing back memories of the fifteen-year-
old's
face she'd touched so long ago. He was even handsomer
now, his face more interesting in its maturity--the lines, the toughening, the
wisdom and the sadness that came with living, feeling, loving.

Her hands lingered over his shoulders, his chest,
his
hips. "You've grown so handsome, Tony," she
said. "And I've only grown
more bony
."

He trailed kisses down her neck to her breast.
"You're a bony old hag, all right. But I wouldn't throw you out of bed for
eating crackers."

"Tony, I'm serious!"

"I know. You're also beautiful.
And
too thin.
Don't they feed you in New York?"

"Nothing worth eating.
There's not a Big Bob's in the whole city," she said with a weighty sigh.

He lifted himself onto his elbow and stroked her hair back
from her face, his eyes drinking in every feature. "God, I'm glad you're
here. Thank you."

She shut her eyes a moment and swallowed until she was
sure her voice wouldn't quiver. "Good," she whispered, then lifted
her hand to his neck and pulled him down to her once more.

The next morning, Lee was up at six. She puttered around
the house, looking at the homey touches Miriam had added indoors and the
beautiful garden she was creating in the yard. Miriam joined her soon after,
and they sat and talked, mainly about Tony, but also a bit about Gene, until it
was time for Lee to get ready to go.

She pinned her hair into a loose chignon and wore a navy
blue double-breasted suit with a red trim, conservative yet smart. Navy blue
shoes with three-tiny red buttons, a small navy clutch bag, and gold earrings
completed the outfit.

Lee drove alone to the county courthouse. At ten o'clock
the night before, she'd gone home to give Tony time to collect his thoughts and
try to get a good night's sleep. Since he'd be driving Vic, she suggested it
would be best for her to meet them there. Ben would be sent to school and
afterward, if Tony weren’t back from court when school let out, the ranch hands
would watch him. Tony didn't want Ben anywhere near the courtroom proceedings.