Chasing Sunsets (24 page)

“You provide just fine,” she said. She had already planned her speech, and so she spoke it quickly. “But I thought this might help . . . you have been looking at the little house on 4th Street, no? Wouldn’t you rather get there sooner than later? I am your wife, Hector. We’re a team, aren’t we? And no one in Chiefland has to know.”

Even in the dark, Eliana could see her husband relax. He reached for her wrist and pulled her up. His eyes—which were now visible to her—shimmered. “You’d do that for me, Eliana?”

She had to appease him, to soothe the pride she’d wounded. “I love you, Hector,” she said, wrapping her arms around his broad waist. “Of course I’d do that for you.”

The truth was, of course, that she wasn’t doing it for her husband. She was doing it for her friends, Ross and Joan Claybourne. Ross needed her. That sweet baby needed her too. And Joan . . . poor Joan. No wonder, she thought, Ross had wondered what drink had been in her glass all those months ago.

What she didn’t know—wouldn’t know for a little while longer—was that she would save Joan Claybourne’s life. “Joan,” she whispered that day to her friend, who lay curled like a child on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, six days into a drunk that seemed would never end. “You have to go get help, now.” Joan shook her head against the satin pillowcase. Her long blonde hair lay matted, the color had turned dull. “Don’t shake your head at me, Joan Claybourne,” she said. “These days, I know you better than you know yourself.” She swallowed. “You’re the strongest woman I know. And you have to be strong for your little girl, chica. Do you hear me?”

Joan’s bloodshot eyes fluttered open. “I’m not brave. You are.”

Eliana drew closer. The stench of stale alcohol assaulted her. “Not like you. I stay in my misery. But you . . . you are strong enough to go to the hospital and get well.” This time Joan nodded at Eliana’s words. “I’m going to get a bubble bath ready for you now, chica. I’ll get you cleaned up and then Ross will drive us to the hospital. We’ll have you all fixed up in no time.”

Joan clutched her shoulder. “You’ll take care of my baby while I’m gone?” Her voice cracked in a whisper.

“Of course.”

“And Ross?” Joan quivered. “Ross can’t do anything without me . . .”

“Yes, Joan.”

“Do you promise? Promise you will stay? You won’t go home to Hector? You’ll stay and take care of things?”

“I promise.”

Eliana started to pull away but Joan held tight. “He loves me very much, you know. He needs me. And I need him.” She blinked, then repeated, “He loves me very much, you know.”

Eliana smiled weakly. “Yes, chica,” she said. “I know. He loves you very much.”

That night, while Joan began her detox in the hospital, Eliana rocked little Kimberly-Boo to sleep. She sang a lullaby her own mother had sung to her years ago in Puerto Rico. “
Contigo, sí. Contigo, no. Contigo, mi vida, me casaré yo
 . . .” She hummed a little of the tune before returning to the lyrics, this time in English. “With you, yes. With you, no. With you, my love, I will marry.” After she laid the sleeping child in her crib, she turned to see Ross standing at the door, watching her. She smiled at him, and in turn, he smiled back. But even in the dark, she could see the anguish and grief etched on his face, the tearstains along his cheeks. His shoulders slumped, weighed down with his life’s burden. He released a long sigh and nodded once. “Good night, Ana,” he said, then turned and walked away, his footsteps cushioned by the thick wool carpets running the length of the hall.

“Good night,” Eliana returned, her voice inaudible to him now. As she stepped toward her bedroom, she returned quietly to the little tune she’d sung to the baby. “
Contigo, sí. Contigo, no. Contigo, mi vida, me casaré
. . .
yo
 . . .”

“Rosa.” I looked past her left shoulder to see if there were any others with her. There were not. “I was expecting—”

“Luis, yes, I know. I asked him to give me some time with you first.” She peered into the house. “May I?”

I took a step back. “Of course.”

As Rosa entered the house she’d practically called her second home during our childhood, I closed the door and then followed her into the living room. “It looks so different,” she said. She dropped her purse—a real-deal Dooney and Bourke if I’d ever seen one—onto an end table, crossed her arms, and allowed her eyes to give the room the once-over.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

She walked past me to take closer notice of a seashell wreath on the far side of the room. The scent of expensive perfume trailed behind her, making me suddenly aware of just how well-dressed she was in comparison to the JCPenney’s shorts set and insect bite ointment I’d donned earlier. “The work of your stepmother?” she asked. She looked over her shoulder at me. “The whole makeover, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“A get-rid-of-the-former-wife sweep?” She turned back to the wreath.

“I’m not sure I’d say it that way, but I do think Anise wanted a place that didn’t have Mom written all over it.”

Rosa turned fully to me then and jutted her thumb toward the wreath. “This is kind of tacky, though, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, even in my uneasiness about Rosa’s visit. “Well, that was Heather’s gift when Anise had finished redecorating.”

“Heather?” Rosa strolled back to her purse and then, without another word, casually slipped one ankle behind the other and dropped into the chair beside the table. “How is Heather? I haven’t seen her in . . . forever.” She smiled at me, and her expression indicated I should feel free to sit as well.

I took a seat on my father’s sofa. “Heather is . . . good.”

Rosa’s smile turned almost sardonic. “My mother told me that—some time ago—Dr. Claybourne had suggested she might be drinking too much.” She cocked her head. “Is she?”

“Dad told Eliana about Heather?” I ran my fingertips through my hair, from the forehead back, and felt it as it instantly slipped back into place. “I would say I’m surprised, but with what Dad has told me about his and Mom’s history with your mom, I guess it makes sense.”

Rosa’s lips pursed. “And what did Dr. Claybourne say, exactly, about my mother?”

I cupped my hands around my knees and allowed my eyes to focus on the action rather than the woman sitting so close to me, the one I’d happily grown up with and now felt to be only a menacing stranger. “That she was . . . instrumental in helping with
my
mother.”

“You mean when Joan was drinking so much.”

My head jerked up; my eyes locked with hers. “You know about that?”

“Mom told me all about it.”

“When?”

“After Joan died.” She shrugged. “Your father came by Mom’s shortly afterward. They spent hours together, talking. I’m sure about everything that happened . . . back then.”

I leaned over, replaced my hands with my elbows, and said, “What else did she say? Your mom?”

Rosa shook her head dismissively as her lashes fell and rose as though in slow motion. “No more than that, really. Any other questions I had were shooed away. But . . . Dr. Claybourne continued to . . .
employ
my mother, as you know. And I know, because of that, they talked from time to time . . . It was never just about the business of this house, you know. They were friends.”

“I know.”

“And Mom had some really nice things to say about your stepmother too.”

I smiled. “Anise is hard not to like. She’s been good for Dad.” When Rosa had no response, I added, “Manny seems like a nice man.”

“He’s the best.” The answer came almost too quickly.

Silence fell hard in the room. “So why are you here, then, Rosa?”

Rosa’s chest rose as she inhaled. I scarcely noticed her releasing the breath. “I want to talk with you about Steven Granger.”

I straightened. “What about him?”

“Just how serious are you, chica?”

Chica . . . I smiled. “He’s asked me to stay the summer.”

“And are you?”

“Yes. Dad and Anise will be here sometime next month. My sons too, so we’ll all be here and, hopefully . . . Why do you ask?”

I watched as her tongue slipped from between her lips, ran along the lower to moisten it. The matte mahogany lipstick shimmered in the sunlight, and I couldn’t help but think how different the girl—short and skinny and awkward—was from the sophisticated, voluptuous adult. “I think you should rethink your relationship with Steven.”

I felt my brow furrow. “What? Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because there are things you don’t know. Not only because of how wrapped up you were in him when we were children but also because you haven’t been here . . . in Cedar Key . . . for some time.”

My breathing became shallow. “Like what?”

She shrugged. “Where do you want me to start, chica?”

I felt white-hot anger pinging from one side of my brain to the other. “Just tell me what you came to tell me, Rosa.”

“Very well, then. Steven Granger is known as a player on this island. Did you know that?”

I didn’t answer.

“I see from your lack of response that you didn’t. Because the Kimberly I knew wouldn’t be so foolish as to share her man, at least not knowingly.”

The knot in my throat had started to grow, but I managed to find my voice around it. “Define ‘player’?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I bet you can’t name an unmarried woman on this island who he hasn’t dated and discarded once he’s gotten what he’s wanted from her. Oh, he’s suave, all right. When he wants what he wants. But when he gets what he gets, he’s . . .” Rosa flicked the fingers of her right hand as though she were pushing a nagging insect again. “Bye-bye, baby.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t sound right,” I whispered. “It doesn’t sound like the man I’ve gotten to know since I’ve been here.”

She shrugged the shoulder again. “And just how long have you been here? Never mind, don’t answer that. We both know the answer.” Her brows arched. “It’s fine if you don’t believe me, if you think you know him so well.” She reached for her purse. “Go ahead. Keep seeing him. Find out for yourself.”

I reached out a hand as though to stop her from leaving, or at least from appearing to leave. “Wait. How do I know you’re telling the truth? Why, exactly, should I believe you over Steven?”

“I can answer that with one simple name. Brigitte Granger.”

I raised my chin against the reminder. “He’s explained all that to me,” I said.

Rosa rolled her eyes. “All right then. Allow me to give you another name.” She smiled. “Rosa Rivera.”

I shifted until my back hit the sofa. “What are you talking about?”

She raised her perfectly manicured index finger. The nail looked like a claw. “Do you remember that time when we were on Atsena Otie, when you tried to get me to tell you who I was seeing?”

I shook my head. Of course I remembered, but I refused to believe what she was saying.

“It was Steven Granger I was seeing, chica.” She crossed her arms. “And I would have married him too, had Brigitte not gotten pregnant.” A half-smile returned to her lips. “Before I did.”

I stood. “I don’t believe you, Rosa.”

Rosa raised herself ever so gracefully from the chair. She took her purse by the strap and draped it over one arm before lowering her eyes and saying, “Yes, you do, Kimberly. Right now, your heart is wrestling with your head because you
do
believe me.” The eyes came back to rest on mine. “Take time to think about it. You and I were like sisters so long ago. We share so much. More than you know.”

“And what does
that
mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Finally, her chest fell and she said, “It means, we both loved and we both lost the same man.” Her fingertips grazed her chest, just below the strands of multi-colored crystal beads wrapped around her throat. “Now, I have married and moved on, so I have no reason to care about his present day antics. But you . . . Boo . . . you have a lot at stake. And now that I know your sons will be here, exposed to Steven Granger, a possible father figure . . . I have sons too, you know.” She walked toward me, placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, and said, “
Lo siento mucho
, chica.” As I stood unmoving, she glanced at her oversized watch and said, “I’ll show myself out. Luis and Fe will be here any minute, I’m sure.”

And with that, she walked out of my father’s house.

I managed to collect myself long enough to greet Luis and his younger sister Fe and to show them where Anise kept the cleaning supplies, the vacuum, broom, and mop. “I won’t stay underfoot,” I said, my voice shakier than I desired. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ll start stripping sheets, Luis,” Fe said. “Nice to meet you,” she said to me before making her way down the hall.

Luis, however, lagged behind, looked on me with his piercing dark eyes, and said, “What’s wrong, chica?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” But even to my own ears, it wasn’t convincing.

He jutted his chin toward the door. “My cousin. Did she say something? Do something to upset you?”

“No.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, I just need to run next door to check on the lady who lives there.” I started to walk toward the door, then turned. “First, I need my purse.”

Luis smiled, but his eyes remained somber. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

I had no reason to trust the man. After all, he was Rosa’s cousin. Even though he had known her when she claimed to have dated Steven, I couldn’t say for sure that he’d be honest with me. For all I knew, the two of them were in cahoots. She’d possibly planned all along to come here immediately before Luis was to arrive.

I smiled at him weakly as I passed him on the way to the front door. “I’ll be back shortly. Before you’re finished.” I reached for the door handle, but my hand shook so, I struggled with opening it. I dropped my hand, squeezed it into a tight fist, then flexed it. I attempted to open the door a second time, this time successfully. “Oh,” I said turning toward Luis. “If you hear scratching at the door, it’s my dog, Max. He’s allowed inside.”

“Sure, chica,” he said.

I closed the door behind me. My legs quivered as I took each step toward the shell-covered ground below. I clenched my purse’s strap so tight I felt my fingernails digging into the pad of my palm. If I drew blood, I thought, I wouldn’t care.

I walked across the lawn to Patsy’s, climbed the stairs, and knocked on her door. I took in a ragged breath and blew it out ever so slowly before she answered. “Why, hon,” she said with her first look at me. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Patsy,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you but . . . I need advice.” I swallowed. “Godly advice from a woman who is wiser than I.”

“Come on in,” she said, stepping back. “And I’ll see if I can’t fill that order.”

After making sure Patsy was feeling all right, I briefed her on what Rosa had told me. We sat at her kitchen table—a favorite place for her, it seemed to me. I gripped the sweating glass of iced tea she’d poured for me and stared at my fingers as I spoke. When I was done, she said, “Have you asked your young man about it?”

I looked up at her. “I don’t know if I can, Patsy.”

“I don’t know if you
can’t
.” She pointed an age-marked finger at me. “Many an argument I would have saved myself from having with my beloved if I had just asked instead of presumed.”

I shook my head. “I’m falling in love with him again.” Tears burned the back of my eyes. “How could she have done this to me?”

“Done what, child? Lay down with a boy all those years ago or come now to tell you about it?”

I had to think before I answered. Finally, I said, “Both.”

“Well, now,” she said. “There’s no accounting for the foolish things we do when we are young and impulsive.”

“Did you, Patsy? Did you ever do anything impulsive when you were young?”

“Did you?” she countered.

I thought back to that summer when I’d done everything within my power to make Steven mine and about the times I’d worked so hard to trick Mom. “Of course.”

“We all do. I did, you did.” She smiled. “And I’d be willing to bet your sons will and your grandchildren will too. This is the time of life when we test the waters, so to speak. We push against the boundaries just to see if they’ll budge.”

I smiled at her. “I can hardly imagine you doing that, Patsy.” Then I shook my head. “And I surely don’t want to think about my boys . . .” I sighed. “But I suppose they will.”

“Well, now, I don’t know what your boys may get into, but I can tell you that I got into plenty. I was angry and untrusting and—being that—I almost lost my Gilbert before I even had him good.” She reached over and patted my hand. “But that’s another story for another time. For now, you have to ask yourself why Rosa would want to hurt you so. Why does she want to pull the rug out from under your feet, so to speak, when she’s already got a husband?” She pointed the finger at me again, this time with a wink. “And I’ll tell you something else. Her sweet mother had a time with her, she clearly did.”