Blue Smoke (18 page)

“We will be.”

“I don't understand why she wasn't first on your list. Why you've dragged us down here at a time like this. Do you have any idea how much time and stress and energy are involved after you've had a fire in your home?”

“Actually, I do,” Reena said. “I'm sorry you have to deal with it.”

“I had several thousand dollars' worth of personal items destroyed, not to mention the damage to my home. I've had to cancel appointments, completely rearrange my schedule—”

“Ella.” There was a weariness in William Parker's voice, and it sounded habitual to Reena.

“Don't Ella me,” she snapped. “I'm the one dealing with all the details. Not that you ever—” She cut herself off, lifted a hand. “I'm sorry. I'm very upset.”

“Understandable. Can you tell us how often you go up to the attic?” O'Donnell asked.

“At least once a month. And I have—had—the housekeeper clean up there regularly.”

“Mr. Parker?”

“Two, three times a year, I guess. Hauling stuff up or down. Christmas decorations, that sort of thing.”

“Trevor?”

“Trevor's not allowed in the attic,” Ella cut in.

Reena caught the quick glance he shot his mother before he went back to staring at the table.

“I used to like to play in the attic when I was a kid.” Reena spoke casually. “All kinds of interesting stuff up there.”

“I said he isn't allowed.”

“What a boy isn't allowed and what he does are often the same things. According to our information, Trevor occasionally hooks school.”

“Once—and he's not allowed to play with the boy responsible. I don't see what business that is of yours.”

“Trevor wasn't in school on the morning of the fire. Were you, Trevor?”

“Of course he was.” Anger and impatience sharpened Ella's voice to a pinpoint. “My husband picked him up after we learned about the fire.”

“But you weren't in school until nearly noon, isn't that right, Trevor? You came in late. With a note that said you had a doctor's appointment.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Mrs. Parker.” O'Donnell spoke in his slow, patient drawl. “Any reason you can't let your boy answer for himself?”

“I'm his mother, and I'm not going to allow him to be interrogated or browbeaten by the police. We've been victimized, and now you're making some sort of veiled accusation involving a nine-year-old boy.” She pushed to her feet. “I've had enough. Come on, Trevor.”

“Ella, shut up. Just shut the hell up for five damn minutes.” William dismissed her, focused on the boy. “Trevor, did you skip school again?”

The boy jerked a shoulder, stared at the table. But Reena saw the gleam of tears in his eyes.

“Did you go up into the attic that morning, Trevor?” she asked quietly. “Maybe just to play, just to hang out?”

“I don't want you questioning him,” Ella said.

“I do.” Her husband rose. “If you can't handle it, step out of the room. But I'm going to hear what Trevor has to say.”

“Like you care. Like you care about either of us. You're so busy screwing your big-breasted blonde you don't have time to care.”

“I'm so busy trying to tolerate living in the same house with you, I haven't cared enough. About Trevor.”

“I didn't hear you deny cheating on me, you son of a bitch.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Trevor clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop yelling all the time! I didn't mean to do it. I didn't
mean
it. I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Trevor. What have you done? Don't say another word. I'm not letting him say another word,” Ella said to Reena. “I'm calling my lawyer.”

“Back off, Ella.” William laid his hand on his son's shoulder. Then he lowered his head, rested it against the top of his son's. “I'm sorry, kiddo. Your mom and I have messed things up good. We're going to stand up to it. You need to stand up, too. Tell what happened.”

“I was mad. I was mad because you were fighting again, and I didn't want to go to school. So I didn't.”

Reena handed Trevor a tissue. “You came back home instead?”

“I was just going to play in my room, and watch TV. But . . .”

“You were feeling mad.”

“They're going to get a divorce.”

“Oh, Trev.” William sat again. “It's not because of you.”

“You wrecked the house. That's what Mom said. You're wrecking it, so I thought if there was a fire, you'd stay home to fix it. But I didn't mean it. I got matches and lit the pictures and the papers, then I couldn't put it out. I got scared and I ran away. I had the note 'cause I wrote it on the computer before. And I went to school.”

“This is all your fault,” Ella spat out.

William took Trevor's hand. “Sure, why not? Enough of it is. We'll work through this, kiddo. It's good you told the truth, and we'll work through it.”

“If the house got burned down, you won't get divorced.” Trevor buried his face against his father's chest. “Don't go away.”

S
he got home late, and she got home depressed. There wasn't going to be any perfect, or even easy, ending for Trevor Parker. Counseling would help, but it wouldn't put his family back together. That, in Reena's opinion, was doomed.

Too many were as far as she could see.

For every Fran and Jack, every Gib and Bianca, there were failed couples on the other part of the scale. And the failures generally outweighed the successes.

The kid's home might not have burned down, but it was sure as hell broken.

She pulled up in front of her house, got out of the car, locked it. And saw Bo sitting on his front steps, nursing a bottle of beer.

She nearly ignored him—everything about him said complicated and time-consuming. Simpler, she thought, just to go into her own house, close the door. And close out the hardship of the day.

But she crossed over instead, sat down on the step beside him. She took his beer and had a good long drink.

“If you're going to tell me you've been sitting out here waiting for me, I'm going to get weirded out.”

“Then I won't tell you. But I can say that I've been known to take in a nice evening with a cold one on the front steps. Rough one?”

“Sad one.”

“Somebody die?”

“No.” She passed the beer back to him. “Which is a question that forces me to put today in some perspective. A lot of time someone has. One thing you can't come back from is death.”

“What, no reincarnation in your world? Where's the karma?”

She smiled, which surprised her. “I didn't deal with someone who may come back as a beagle today. Just some little kid who nearly burned his house down trying to keep his parents together.”

“He hurt?”

“Not physically, no.”

“That's something.”

“Something. You said your parents split when you were a kid.”

“Yeah.” He took a drink from the beer she passed back to him. “It was . . . unpleasant. Okay,” he corrected when she merely looked at him. “It was a nightmare. You don't want to add to the weight of the day hearing about my childhood traumas.”

“My parents have been married thirty-seven years. Sometimes they're like one body with two heads. They fight, but it's never ugly, if you get me.”

“Oh boy, do I.”

“I'd say they're glued together, but you know what? They are the glue. Somehow the solidity of them is intimidating. Because you never want to settle for less than that.”

“We could start out having dinner. See where it went from there.”

“We could.” She took the bottle again, drank contemplatively. She could smell his soap, and a trace of something else. Maybe linseed oil, she thought. Something he might rub into wood.

“Or we could just go inside and have some wild sex. That's what you want.”

“Well, rock and a hard place.” He gave a nervous little
heh-heh,
stretched out his legs. “I can't say no, because—hey, guy here. So yeah, having wild sex with you would suit me fine. I thought about making love with you for seven-seventeenths of my life.”

A quick, unladylike snort escaped her. “Seven-seventeenths?”

“That's rounded a little, but I figured it out. So getting to that in reality would be a big moment for me. On the other hand, I've thought about making love with you for seven-seventeenths of my life, so waiting a little longer won't hurt me.”

“You're a funny guy, Bowen.”

“Yep. I can be a funny guy. I can be a serious guy, or an astute guy, or a casual guy. I am a guy of many facets. We could have dinner, and I could treat you to a few of them.”

“Maybe. My partner ran you.”

“Ran me where?”

This time she laughed, stretched out her legs companionably. “Did a background check on you.”

“No shit?” He looked fascinated rather than insulted. “Wow. Did I pass?”

“Apparently.” Her forehead creased as she studied him. “Why aren't you annoyed? I was annoyed.”

“I don't know. I guess it's sort of interesting. I don't think I've ever been run before.”

“I have a big, noisy, irritating, often interfering, overprotective family. They're the center of my life, even when I don't want them to be.”

“I'm the only child of a broken home. Feel my pain.”

“You're not in pain.”

“Nope. Doesn't mean I'm scared of your family either. I just want to touch you.” He ran a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, then brought her face around so their eyes met. “You may not be what I've got in my head, but it's been there so long. I just want to find out.”

“Relationships don't stick to me. Maybe more accurately, I don't stick to them. Have you considered how irritating it would be to end up living next door to each other if we end up hating each other?”

“One of us would have to move. But in the meantime.” He reached behind him to open the front door, set the empty beer bottle inside. “Want to take a walk? I hear there's a really good Italian place a few blocks away. We could grab a meal.”

“All right.” She braced her hands on her knees and hoped she wasn't making a mistake. “All right, let's take a walk.”

Reena walked the baby around Xander and An's living room in their doll-sized apartment. Their packing-up process had already begun.

She'd moved out of the apartment over Sirico's, and now her brother and his little family would move in.

The windows—both of them—were wide open so she could hear the traffic, and the shouts of kids playing in a nearby park.

The baby had already burped, but Reena wasn't ready to put him down yet. “So we've had dinner at Sirico's. Twice. Sat out on his steps a couple of times. He drew up a design for a dining room table for me. It's great. In fact, it's perfect. I don't know what to make of him.”

“More to the point.” An continued to fold baby clothes. “Why haven't you made him?”

“Nice talk, Mommy.”

“At the moment, due to childbirth, child rearing, work and preparing to move, my sex life is at a low ebb. I've got to get my thrills somewhere. How's he in the kissing department?”

“I don't know.”

“You haven't kissed him?” An tossed down a onesie and clutched at her chest. “You moved in, what, three weeks ago? You're breaking my heart.”

“He works, I work.” Reena shrugged. “Even though we live next door, we don't see each other every day. Maybe we're making a point
not to see each other every day. He hasn't made a move. Neither have I. We're sort of . . .” She twirled a finger in the air. “Circling it. I keep expecting him to. And I think he expects I'm expecting so he lays back, which keeps me just a little off balance. I have to admire that.”

“Okay, you admire him, you've spent time with him, so you must enjoy him. You still have a pulse so you find him attractive. But you're not jumping him.”

“No.” Reena eased Dillon back so she could look into his face. “What's wrong with me?”

“Scares you a little, doesn't he?”

“I fear no man.” Could, would, not allow herself to. “Not even this one, who I believe has just filled his diaper admirably. Go to Mama, sweetie pie.”

An took the baby, carried him to the bedroom the three of them currently shared. She laid him on the changing table. “I think he scares you a little,” she continued. “Xander scared me a little at first. He was so cute and funny, and he's such a damn good doctor. I wanted to bite him in the throat. Then after we started seeing each other, I was really scared to meet your family. I had this image in my head. Sort of Sopranos—without the blood and murder and crime.”

“Good to know.”

“But the big family, the
Italian
family. How would a nice Chinese girl like me fit in with his family?”

“Like a lotus blossom, elegantly twined in a grapevine.”

“Hey, nice image. I love them, you know. I loved your family even before I loved Xander. I lusted for him, admired him, but boy, was I dazzled by them. Now look what I've got to show for it.”

She kissed Dillon on the belly, wrapped an arm around Reena's waist. “Isn't he the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?”

“Takes the prize.”

“I said no the first time Xander asked me to marry him.”

“What?” Surprised, Reena looked down at her sister-in-law's gleaming hair. “You said no to Xander?”

“Complete panic. No, no, are you crazy? Let's just keep everything the way it is. We don't have to get married. We're fine, let it alone. Which he did, for nearly an hour. He came back at me and told me to stop being stupid.”

“Romantic devil.”

“Actually he was. He was so revved up and sexy. I love you, you love me, so let's start building a life together. I said yes, and we did.” She picked up the baby, pressed her cheek to his. “Thank God. And the reason I'm telling you,” she added, “is just to illustrate it's okay to be a little scared. But it's better to make a move.”

Maybe she would, she mused on the drive home. What was stopping her? An had a point—as An invariably did. It was better to make a move. And the person who made the move, Reena reminded herself, generally had the upper hand.

She didn't
have
to have the upper hand in a relationship, but she didn't object to having it. And it made sense when she really thought it through. He'd been carrying a fantasy torch for her for . . . what had he said? Seven-seventeenths of his life. And how cute was that? So that meant, logically, he had all manner of ideas and images of her built up. Most of them, undoubtedly, exaggerated and inaccurate.

But if she made the move, they'd have a fresh playing field.

And she did like to play.

Sometimes you just went with the urge, she decided as she parked her car and grabbed her bag. No point in making a big fuss or overanalyzing.

So she walked straight to Bo's door and knocked. He took so long to answer she wondered if he was out in the back working as he did some evenings. But when he opened the door, she had a flirtatious smile in place.

“Hi. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought . . .” He looked shocky, she realized. Pale and punched. “What's wrong?”

“I . . . I have to go. Sorry. I need to—” He broke off, looked blankly behind him as if he'd forgotten what he was doing.

“Bo, what happened?”

“What? I have to . . . my grandmother.”

She took his arm, spoke carefully. She knew a victim when she saw one. “What happened to your grandmother?”

“She died.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. When?”

“They . . . they just called. Just now called. I have to go to her house. She's in her house. I have to go take care of things. Something.”

“Okay. I'll take you.”

“What? Wait, give me a second.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I'm messed up.”

“Of course you are. So I'll drive you.”

“No. No, that's okay.” He dropped his hands, shook his head. “It's way out in Glendale.”

“Come on, we'll take my car. Got your house keys?”

“My . . .” He stuck a hand in his pocket, pulled them out. “Yeah. Yeah. Listen, Reena, you don't have to do this. I just need a minute to get my head around it.”

“You shouldn't drive, trust me. And you shouldn't go alone. Lock your door,” she told him, then led him to her car. “Where in Glendale?”

He rubbed his face like a man trying to scrub off sleep, then gave her an address and vague directions. She knew the area well enough from her college days.

“Had your grandmother been ill?”

“No. At least nothing major. Nothing I knew about. A lot of little stuff, I guess, that you deal with when you're eighty-seven. Or -eight. Shit. I can't remember.”

“Women don't mind you not remembering their age.” She brushed a hand over the back of his as she drove. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or would you rather just be quiet?”

“I don't know. I don't know exactly. Her neighbor found her. Got worried because she didn't answer the phone. And she hadn't been out to get her mail this morning. She's—my grandmother, she's habitual, you know?”

“Yes.”

“She has keys. The neighbor. Went over to check on her. She was still in bed. She must've died in her sleep. I guess. I don't know. She was there all day, by herself all day.”

“Bowen, it's hard to lose someone. But let me ask you, when your time comes, can you think of a better way to leave than to slip away in your own bed, in your own home, while you sleep?”

“Probably not.” He took a long breath. “Probably not. I just talked to her yesterday. Call every couple days. Just hey, how's it going? She said her kitchen faucet was leaking again, so I was going to go by today or tomorrow, take care of it. I got hung up today and didn't get over. Oh, shit.”

“You took care of her.”

“No, I just fixed stuff around the house. I went by every couple weeks, maybe. Not enough. I should've gone by more. Why do you always think of that after?”

“Because being human we tend to beat ourselves up. Is there any other family around?”

“Not really. My father's in Arizona. Hell, I didn't even call him. Uncle in Florida. A cousin in Pennsylvania.” He leaned his head back. “I have to find the numbers.”

The picture was coming clear, and the picture told her he was on his own in this. “Do you know what she wanted? Did she ever talk to you about arrangements?”

“Not really. A Mass, I guess. She'd want a Mass.”

“You're Catholic?”

“She is—was. I mostly got over it. Last rites. Damn it. It's too late for that. I feel stupid,” he said with a sigh. “I've never done anything like this before. My grandfather died almost twenty years ago. Car accident. My mother's parents are out in Vegas.”

“Your grandparents live in Vegas?”

“Yeah. They love it. The last time I saw her, a couple weeks ago? We had really lousy iced tea—you know the kind you get out of a jar that's got fake sugar and lemon flavoring in it.”

“Should be illegal.”

“Right.” He laughed a little. “We had lousy iced tea and Chips Ahoy!
cookies out on her patio. She wasn't the kind who baked and stuff. She liked to play pinochle and watch those
World's Worst
whatever on TV. Like
World's Worst Pet Attacks. World's Worst Vacation Disasters.
She really dug on that crap. She smoked three cigarettes a day. Virginia Slims. Three. Not one less, not one more.”

“And you loved her.”

“I did. I never thought much about it, but I really did. Thanks. Thanks for talking me through this.”

“It's okay.”

Steadier, he guided her in the rest of the way, to a pretty brick house with a meticulous yard.

There were white shutters and a short white porch. She imagined Bo had painted them for her—had probably built the little porch as well.

A woman in her mid-forties stepped out. Her eyes were red from weeping. She wore a powder blue tracksuit and had her light brown hair pulled back in a short tail.

“Bo. Bo. I'm so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around him, and her body shook as she hugged him. “I'm so glad you're here.” She sniffled, drew back. “Sorry,” she said to Reena. “I'm Judy Dauber, from next door.”

“This is Reena. Catarina Hale. Thanks, Judy, for . . . waiting with her.”

“Of course, sweetie. Of course.”

“I should go in.”

“Go ahead.” Reena took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “I'll come in a minute.”

Reena waited on the lawn, watched him go to the door, go inside.

“I thought she was sleeping,” Judy began. “For just a second. I thought, well, for heaven's sake, Marge, what are you doing in bed this time of day? She stayed active. Then I realized, almost immediately, I realized. I talked to her just yesterday. She said Bo was coming by in a day or two, fix her faucet. And she'd have a list of little chores for him to do when he got here. She was awfully proud of him. Didn't have two good words to say at once about his father, but she prized Bo.”

She fumbled out a tissue, wiped at her eyes. “She really prized Bo. He was the only one who took care, if you understand me. The only one who paid attention.”

“You did.”

Judy glanced over, and the tears rolled again.

“Judy.” Reena draped an arm over the woman's shoulders as they walked toward the house. “Bo said his grandmother was Catholic. Do you know the name of her church, her pastor?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. I should've thought of that.”

“We can call. And maybe we can find numbers for her sons.”

D
eath might come simply, but its aftermath was invariably complicated. Reena did what she could, contacting the priest while Bo called his father. In a little desk in the spare room, papers were competently organized in a file drawer. Insurance, burial plot, a copy of the will, the deed to the house, the title to the aging Chevy Reena learned Marge Goodnight had driven to church and the grocery store.

The priest arrived so quickly, with a face so solemn Reena deduced Marge had been a prominent member of the parish.

She began to see more of Bo here. The tidiness of the house was certainly Marge. But its upkeep was undoubtedly his doing. There was none of the slapdash repairs, the jury-rigged details she often saw in the homes and apartments of seniors.

As Judy had said, he paid attention. He took care.

He handled the details, made the calls, spoke with the priest, made the decisions. Once, she saw him falter and moved over to take his hand.

“What can I do?”

“They, ah . . . They need to know what she should wear. For the funeral. I have to pick something.”

“Why don't I do that? Men never know what we want to wear.”

“I'd appreciate it. Her stuff's in there, in the closet. You could wait on it. They haven't . . . I mean, she's still in there.”

“It's okay. I'll take care of this.”

Maybe it was surreal, to go into the bedroom of a woman she'd never met, to go through the closet while a body lay in the bed. Out of respect, Reena stepped to the bed first, looked down.

Marge Goodnight had let her hair go slate gray, and had kept it short and straight. No-nonsense then, Reena decided. Her left hand, with its wedding ring set, lay outside the covers.

She imagined Bo had sat there, held her hand while he said his good-byes.

“It's too much for him,” she said quietly. “Picking a dress for you is just a little out of his scope. I hope you don't mind if I handle this part.”

She opened the closet, smiled when she saw built-in shelves and cubbies. “He built these, didn't he?” She glanced over her shoulder at Marge. “You like things organized, and he did the work. It's a good design. I may have to hire him to do something similar for me. What about this blue suit, Marge? Dignified, but not stuffy. And this blouse, with just a little bit of lace down the placket. Pretty, but not too frilly. I think I'd have liked you.”