Butterfly Tattoo (6 page)

Michael rises unexpectedly to his feet, sliding his baseball cap onto his head decisively. “Want to go grab some coffee?”

“Now?”

“I’m going over to Borders on La Cienega. We can get some there.” Again the winning smile, accented by a single dimple that I hadn’t noticed before, and I completely cave. He’s got me in the palm of his hand already, damn it. I can’t believe that he’s seen the visible scars, but he’s just asked me out anyway.

“I’ll follow you there.”

The trouble is, if I’m not careful, I know I just might follow him anywhere. Oh, please, please, don’t be married, Michael Warner.

***

"Heard this one's interesting." From the shelf, he removes a face-out copy of Julian Kingsley's recent novel
Beautiful, But Me
. What editorial genius thought
that
title was a good idea?

“I don’t care for the guy.”

He turns to me in clear surprise. “You know him?”

“Well.” I sigh, taking the book out of his hand, studying the expensively designed dust jacket, inlaid with gold foil. “Let’s just say he broke my best friend’s heart.”

“Guess she hates him, huh?”

“Actually,
he
doesn’t.” I flip over the book to reveal Julian’s disgustingly perfect author photo on the back of the cover. Another good reason to loathe him: no man should be so absolutely gorgeous. Who knows? Maybe this latest title’s directed to the world at large as a form of honest apology.

“Oooh, he does look like a heartbreaker.” He gives a strange kind of laugh that I don’t quite know how to read. I think of Trevor’s first assessment of Michael, that he was gay. Because I can’t imagine that most straight guys would describe Julian as a “heartbreaker”.

Once again, I cast a covert glance at his ring finger, curious. Only this time I don’t like what I see—a silver band glinting beneath the streamlined bookstore lights. “Would your wife think so, too?”

“I’m sorry?” The bushy dark eyebrows draw together in genuine confusion.

“Your wife,” I repeat firmly, this time gesturing toward his hand. “You are married, right?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. No guy’s going to play me, no sir. “You’ve got a wedding band on, after all.”

He stares down at his hand, extending his fingers as if he’s never noticed the ring before, and I’m cool as possible, proud of myself for having been a smart girl, until he answers softly, “Uh, widowed. Actually.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed and sad all at once. Sad because of the dark pain that fills his eyes. It’s so obvious, only a fool could miss it.

“No, I’m glad you asked.” He picks up another copy of Julian’s book absently. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was playing around or anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“’Cause I’m not that kind of guy,” he presses, offering me a gentle smile. The thing is, I don’t know precisely what kind of guy he is. A melancholy one. A beautiful one. My kind of guy… maybe. With that quiet realization, I give my ponytail an anxious tug as he leans close, lowering his voice. “But that doesn’t explain what
you’re
doing, Rebecca O’Neill.”

“Me?”

He gestures toward the floor, at my sandal-clad feet. “You’re clearly off the market.” I stare down, confused, until I realize he’s pointing at my silver toe ring, a series of hearts knit together, circling my second digit. “You’re wearing a band, yet you’re talking to me in a bookstore.” He laughs low and throatily. “Unchaperoned, at that.”

“We’re downright risqué.”

“So that is your ring toe?” he asks, studying me closely. “Like your ring
finger
?”

“Oh, the same general rules apply for feet.” I giggle, staring at the floor. “My foot is happily spoken for, thank you very much.”

“Who’s the lucky guy? He wearing a band inside his loafer? Did the pair of you
run
off to Vegas together?”

“Who says it’s a wedding ring?” I tease, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe Foot is only engaged.”

“True,” he observes. “Foot is very sexy, so I can’t blame the guy, but I do think she’s worthy of true commitment.”

I haven’t felt this beautiful in years.

I glance upward shyly. Lord, he’s tall, too—I hadn’t realized just how tall until now, when I find myself craning upward to meet his dark gaze. “Truth is,” I say, rising to my full five feet two inches of height. “Toe thinks she’s Cinderella, and she’s still searching for her glass slipper.”

“It’s good to dream,” he says, but sadness veils his eyes again despite our repartee. I wonder if his wife loved fairy tales. I wonder if she believed in happily-ever-after, like I used to once upon a time.

And I wonder if it’s still good for me to dream. Because standing here with Michael Warner, some lost part of me thinks that maybe it is.

“Do you?” I ask, surprising even myself with my directness. “Dream, I mean?”

A scowl forms on his face as he considers my question in silence. Moments spread out, long and eternal, until I wonder if he’ll ever reply.

He removes his baseball cap, slapping it again into his palm with a sigh. “I used to, yeah,” he answers thoughtfully. “But not anymore.” It’s all he says, and then he walks away from me, ambling toward the coffee bar, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such heaviness on anyone’s shoulders before.

For some reason, watching his retreat makes me recall a bit of wisdom my daddy’s always quoted to me.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

Daddy would say we’re two virtual strangers with the exact same disease.

Chapter Four: Michael

Standing here naked in my bathroom, hands clenching the edges of the antique porcelain sink, I just can’t believe a
woman
is coming to cook dinner for me tonight. To cook
us
dinner, Andrea and me—in less than an hour, matter of fact.
Now what would Mr. Richardson have to say about that?
I laugh to myself, until with an unexpected shiver I get the sensation of being watched. From some cloudless, ethereal world far above, which only makes me feel guilty and found out and impossibly straight.

Except, that’s ridiculous. We all know my fate was sealed a solid thirteen years ago by one sloppy, drunken kiss out on a gyrating dance floor. It was just supposed to be a joke, straight Michael tagging along with his queer best friend to one of the biggest gay bars in town. Some joke, all right; except that it turned out to be completely on me. Al kissed me that night, a soft, full thing that seemed to last halfway to forever, and all I can say in retrospect is that I never knew a redhead could taste so sweet. Especially not one of the masculine variety. Oh, I was a goner by midnight all right, because by then I doubt we ever could have stopped what we’d begun.

Toweling off my naked body now, it strikes me as strange that no one’s touched me in almost a year. That nobody’s held me or kissed me or made love to me in the middle of the night. I flash on the way Alex used to kiss my bare chest, the way he’d nuzzle up close sometimes when I was sleeping, after he’d been on a call at the hospital. How warm the bed would feel when he climbed back in beside me after being away, the scent of him at those times, impossible to describe, and just as impossible to miss when he came back to me.

With that thought comes the familiar ache for my lover, as this deep place inside of me constricts involuntarily for him; my missing heart, beating on alone without him.

Do you dream?
she asked yesterday in the bookstore. Such an easy question, with such myriad and complex answers.

Sure, I still dream, but I couldn’t tell Rebecca O’Neill that, because then I’d have had to admit that I dream endlessly of Alex. That he’s still alive, that he’s come home to me at last. And that I dream of Robert Bridges, smug look on his face as he walks out of the Los Angeles courthouse in his expensive suit, flanked by his even more expensive lawyers. He walks out, just like he did on that sunny day last fall, without having to spend one night in jail for killing Al. Oh, I dream all right—poisonous, heartbroken dreams that I wouldn’t want to tell anyone about.

Makes sleep something to avoid as much as possible, so it’s no wonder I drink myself into oblivion most nights, just to be sure the monsters won’t come prowling around again. Standing there in the bookstore yesterday, though, I wanted to talk about the good kind of dreams. I wanted to believe they could still exist; I even felt a little innocent, and I think that’s why I had to get away.

Explain to me, then, why I asked her over to the house? Because of Andie, that’s what I tell myself. Because somehow Rebecca’s gotten behind the fortress, infiltrated the sacred land. Andrea hasn’t talked to a soul about that scar. Not Marti, or me, or her counselor, or even her Grandma.

Just Rebecca O’Neill.

One last inspection in the bathroom mirror before Rebecca arrives and I’m looking all right. Clean-shaven, and I’ve even managed to comb my usually ornery hair into place. In fact, this is fresher than I’ve looked in days, maybe even weeks. So is my wardrobe: a crisp white polo shirt tucked into a creased pair of denim jeans. The shirt belonged to Allie, and just ’cause he’s gone doesn’t mean I have to stop raiding his wardrobe. In fact, it makes me feel a tangible connection to him, this soft cotton shirt of his against my body. A shirt I took off him on more than a few plum occasions, as a matter of fact.

Makes me feel a little better about having an attractive, single woman into our home, too. Less disloyal, more like I’m keeping him in the center of what we’re doing here. Since this is about our daughter, not about some kind of strange attraction that I feel crackling to life. I’m not straight—haven’t been in more than a decade—so it doesn’t even make sense to me, the way I find myself preening here in front of the mirror tonight. Besides, she’s going to know I’m queer within a few seconds of walking in our door; the evidence is all around this place.

Then how come I didn’t tell her the truth about my sexuality when she asked about my
wife
? I could have been honest then, when she mentioned my wedding ring. Damn, my ring! I touch my naked hand with a start, panicked to realize I’ve forgotten to slip the band back on my finger after my shower. Reaching for the soap dish beside the sink, I slide the familiar silver band into my open palm.

Alex put that ring on my hand on a sunny fall day in 1998, in an unorthodox chapel out in Malibu, a little seaside building, all white and gleaming in the sun like a bleached shell. I remember my heart was a gull that day, lifting upward and upward into the azure sky. Our future was wide open. We’d have children and dreams and a life together.

I stare down at the weathered band in my palm’s center. It’s taken a beating over the years, but it’s still beautiful. For a moment, I hesitate. Alex is dead, so maybe it’s time to put it away. Maybe I should just drop it into his jewelry box there on our dresser, lay it to rest beside his cufflinks and Rolex, and stop holding on.

Turning the silver ring between my fingertips, I study the inscription on the inside. October 10, 1998. Just a date, a marker back in our personal history, but I’ll be damned if I won’t still wear his ring. I slip it on my finger and turn off the bathroom light.

Cooking dinner had been her idea, not mine. I just asked if she’d spend some time with Andrea; try to make a further connection. We were sitting there in the coffee shop of the bookstore, me trying to ignore the strange jittery sensation in my chest every time she looked up at me with those moss-green eyes. Her eyes have it, no doubt about that. They’re almond-shaped, kind of aquamarine, like jewels that might change colors in the sun. Maybe there’s a little magic behind them, because they sure made something strange happen inside of me.

She has a kind of ingrained gesture of touching her scars, although I doubt she even knows she does it. The marks are noticeable, but I’m betting they’re not nearly so bad as she thinks they are. That’s the problem with Hollywood. Everything’s supposed to be idealized perfection. So what’s a gorgeous woman like Rebecca to do if she’s permanently flawed? Like a chipped vase at Tiffany’s, she’s been shifted onto the clearance rack. Or at least that’s what she probably believes.

Truth is she’s still lovely. Yeah, the pale streaking marks along the left side of her face take something from her looks, especially the one that runs the length of her jaw. Takes some getting used to, talking to her and not staring at them. Can’t deny that. But her eyes, with those dark lashes, and her face shaped like a heart, well it’s been such a long time since a girl’s had me feeling this way.

Of course, Alex always insisted that I was bisexual, but it just felt easier to categorize myself as gay. I never have been one for half-measures about anything. He loved ribbing me when we watched movies, though, because while he scoped the boys, I still watched the girls. That didn’t freak him out, it just made him laugh. Alex Richardson was nothing if not sure of himself about everything—most of all me.

I wonder what he’d tell me now, with this infatuation thing I’ve got going for Rebecca O’Neill. Would he be jealous, as I stand here in the kitchen, pacing around in my polished loafers and sipping my Heineken? Would he remind me that before him, I’d been with plenty of women, especially back in my army days? I think he’d give me a luscious kiss on the mouth and tell me to just relax. That she’s coming to see Andrea anyway, because I asked her to, and that it’s not even about me.

Alex is right; this is
not
about me. It’s about our daughter, and this stranger who has somehow forged a mysterious link with her. I just hope Andie won’t retreat when she discovers this plan of mine. I’ve been there too many times with her in the past year, on the outside, trying to force my way in. I really can’t handle being there again.

Rebecca shows up with bags of groceries from Whole Foods and a load of fresh spices I couldn’t possibly identify by name.

“I love to cook,” she tells me with a faint grin. She tries to hide her smile most times; I’ve already caught on to that. Her injuries have affected her mouth, so that the left side doesn’t turn up quite right. She tries to hide her face, too, always kind of moving the left side away from me, brushing her hair forward. Maybe when I know her better I can tell her to just relax. Funny, ’cause isn’t that what Alex would have said to me about tonight?

“Where’s Andrea?” She drops the paper bags in the middle of our small kitchen floor, and they thud against the old hardwoods. She glances over the bar, into the den, as I clutch my beer anxiously between both hands like a frat boy at a first mixer.

“She’s not here yet,” I explain, my voice hitching with blatant nervousness. “Um, she stayed at my friend Marti’s house last night, but she’ll be back soon.”

God, I suddenly feel ridiculous, with my freshly combed hair and neatly pressed shirt, like a refugee from some preppy detention camp.

Rebecca nods, and for a tense moment we stand eyeing each other. I clear my throat. “Look, I really appreciate you coming over like this,” I begin. “You know, to be with Andrea. She doesn’t have enough women in her life. I mean, there’s Marti, but…” How can I explain to Rebecca how she’s different than the other women, and not offend her?

She hoists a bag up onto the countertop with a bittersweet laugh. “Michael, I get it.” She begins unloading cheeses and spices and meat, and I get the feeling she’s avoiding looking at me. “Andrea and I have something important in common. You can just say it.” She keeps organizing her ingredients, busying herself too much, like she’s trying to defuse a bomb or something.

“Okay, yeah, you and Andrea do have something in common.”

“Where are your knives? Cutting board?” she asks matter-of-factly, turning to face me finally. I step close, reaching around her to open the utensil drawer, and as I do, my hand brushes against hers. She reacts, jerks backward a little, and I place a steadying palm on her forearm, feeling tensed muscle beneath my fingertips. Thing is, she’s feminine, but she’s strong, too.

“Just getting it for you,” I explain gently, and wonder what exactly haunts her past that’s left her this jumpy.

She stares down, nodding, and I see warmth creep into her rose-colored complexion. She’s wearing a clingy white T-shirt with khaki pants again—almost exactly what she had on yesterday. Different shoes this time. Another pair of sparkly, open-toed sandals, a mild racy touch in an otherwise conservative wardrobe.

“How’s Foot tonight?” I ask, and this time she does look at me. Like she’s surprised that I’m picking back up our little flirtation. I lean closer, and staring at her pink painted toenails, whisper, “Out on the town again, huh? Foot really gets around, doesn’t she?”

She smiles, a broad, genuine smile, and for once doesn’t even bother hiding the quirky way it turns up sideways. “She’s advised me to be a good chaperone, but yes, she’s out.”

“Foot is out?”

“Yes, on the town.” She stares at her feet, gesturing. “You know, like you said.”

“Hmm, I thought maybe Foot was gay or something. If Foot’s
out
.”

She rolls her eyes dismissively. “No way. She’s totally straight.”

I’m not.
I almost say it, but I bite back the words, and drain the rest of the Heineken from the bottle instead.

Andrea and Marti come clattering into the house, talking and laughing, and seeing my little girl smiling so easily is like catching air. Like dropping into a mammoth wave, the kind that leaves you unable to breathe at first.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I call out, and she looks around, her face clouding with confusion as she spots the meal brewing on the stove. Rebecca’s left me stirring the ground beef in a saucepan while she’s gone to the bathroom.

“Are you cooking?” Andrea’s auburn eyebrows furrow into a dramatic line. It’s an expression I’ve seen on Alex’s face countless times—funny how she mirrors him without even trying. It’s definitely in the genetics.

“You have a good time with Aunt Marti?” I ask brightly.

Marti, closing the door to the garage behind them, looks surprised. “You’re
cooking
, Warner?” she laughs. “Oh, my God. Not you, not really?”

“Uh, actually…” I stall a moment, glancing toward the hallway bathroom. “Well…a friend came to make a good meal for us.”

“A friend?” Marti’s green eyes widen as undisguised hope flits across her face.

“Who?” Andrea folds her small arms across her chest.

“
Your
new friend,” I say, a tad defensively, feeling ganged up on by the women in my life. “Rebecca O’Neill.”

For a long moment, Andie stays silent, and I fear this has been a lethal mistake, but then a small smile forms on her face. “Oh.” She nods approvingly. “Cool.”

Andrea walks toward her bedroom, towing her small suitcase with her, and Marti steps close to me. “I wasn’t aware that Andrea had made a new friend,” she whispers. “Especially not one who cooks in such style.”

At that precise moment, Rebecca enters the kitchen, her gaze moving between us. We snap apart and I give Rebecca a guilty smile. Guilty because I know that Marti knows
me
, which means she’s going to sniff out my secret attraction like the devoted bloodhound she can be.

Marti, God love her, doesn’t miss a beat, but extends her hand warmly. “Hi, Rebecca, I’m Marti.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rebecca bobs her head in that way I’ve noticed she does when things feel a little unclear. “I’m just… making dinner.”

“Rebecca works with me at the studio,” I interject lamely. “She and Andrea have spent some time together.”

“That’s great,” Marti chirps, then glances at her watch. “Oh, wow, I didn’t realize it was this late. Dave’ll kill me if I don’t turn right around and get home. I’m supposed to do the kids’ baths tonight.”