Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (26 page)

“I agree.” By now I’ve pretty much abandoned the Killer Sister theory myself.

The detective wants to think on my scheme. I hope she gives it the go-ahead.

I expect Mario to be back inside the house by the time my call is done. Instead I find the best-looking snow remover in the state of Minnesota still out in the cold, staring at a streetlight, his shovel abandoned and fresh snow making mock of all his hard work. I join him on the sidewalk.

“Mariela just called,” he tells me. “Boy problems. You remember Theo?”

“Do I ever.” He’s a teenage Adonis I found scampering around outside Mariela’s bedroom in his skivvies.

“There’s some new girl he’s paying more attention to than Mariela likes.”

I know how she feels. Jason’s altogether too chummy with Kimberly the Photographer for my taste. “What did you tell her?”

“Well, between you and me I don’t know that Theo’s such a great catch. But I told her to be the warm, funny, sweet girl I know she is. And if she does that, it won’t take Theo long to remember why he likes her.”

“That sounds like good advice.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not the only thing that’s bothering her. Her mother asked her the other day what she thinks of
her
new flame.”

“So Consuela
is
seeing someone new?”

“Some guy named Manny del Rio. He’s a developer. It’s gotten hot and heavy fast. Mariela thinks they’re pretty serious.”

I bet Consuela would move at the speed of light if she found a marriage-worthy man on her horizon. “You seem less than thrilled about it.”

Mario looks away. The streetlight shines full on his face. As usual I find him mesmerizing. I could watch him for a shockingly long time and never get bored.

“Consuela’s not the type to be alone,” he says. “And she’s been divorced for a few years now. But she can be impetuous. She doesn’t really know this Manny guy. And I hate that Mariela gets pulled into all her romantic drama.”

“It’s good that Mariela talks to you about this stuff.”

“I just wish I were there more. I don’t like these prolonged separations from her. Sure, we text, we talk on the phone, we Skype, but nothing is like being there.”

“Nothing is. I agree.” I turn away.

He shovels a bit more. Then, “So what are you thinking about?”

I turn back around. “What you said made me think about Rachel.” I pause. “And about Jason, too.”

He stops shoveling.

I keep talking. “Something happened that makes me worry about being away from Rachel. Jason got offered a job on a pit crew. It’s in Charlotte. He’s taking it. And I’m going with him.”

It all requires some explanation. I didn’t expect to get into this but now that I’ve started I can’t seem to stop. Mario stands the shovel in a snow bank and listens. Finally, “I’m happy for you,” he says. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I am happy.” Then I make a confession for the second time this week. “It wasn’t the easiest decision in the world to make.”

We stare at each other. I know he understands what I mean even though I haven’t spelled it out. I don’t have that kind of wordless communication with a lot of people but I have it with Mario.

“Any other decision would’ve been really hard to make, too,” he says. “I get that.” He retrieves the shovel from the snow bank and in silence we meander up the driveway to the garage.

It’s only after he stows the shovel and we’re standing there mindlessly watching the garage door close that Mario speaks again. “Maybe you were right, what you said the other night. That I shouldn’t be waiting for you.”

A car drives by. Out of the corner of my eye I see the upstairs lights in the house behind Damsgard switch off for the night.

“You shouldn’t be waiting for me,” I force myself to say. “It’s not good for you and really it’s not good for me, either.”

He shakes his head. “You know, it’s funny. Most of the time I just don’t think about Jason. I just don’t think about him. It’s the sort of thing Mariela would do.”

I smile even though by now I’m feeling pretty sad. I can see what’s coming and I know I shouldn’t stop it no matter how much I might want to. “Sorry to remind you.”

Mario reaches for my hand. I let him take it. I came outside so abruptly I didn’t even bother to put my gloves on. “Let’s go sit on the porch,” he says.

“Now? It’s like twelve degrees out.”

“Now.”

He leads me down the driveway and up the path he just shoveled, up the stairs, past the railing decorated with white fairy lights that twinkle like earthbound stars. They reflect in his dark eyes. Something tells me I’ll never forget those eyes of his. We stand in front of Damsgard’s cheerful red door adorned with its gorgeous holiday wreath.

“Hey, what do you know?” Mario points heavenward. “Mistletoe.”

He doesn’t lurch forward to take me by surprise. He stands absolutely still and watches me, giving me every chance to pull away, make a joke, kill the moment.

That’s not what I do, though. This time, for the first time, I move the teensiest bit closer. So it’s not just Mario kissing me. It’s me kissing Mario. Like I’ve dreamt of forever. And unlike a lot of those things you dream of, that could never live up to your fevered imaginings, this kiss does. It really does. This kiss is magic.

And then, too soon, it’s over.

Mario pulls back but we keep standing nose to nose. “So … I know you’ll solve Ingrid’s murder,” he whispers. “And after that I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. And a really, really great new year.”

He won’t follow me around the country anymore. I got used to that but I shouldn’t have because those days are over. I won’t see him again until I don’t know when.

For a moment I can’t talk. Finally, since I have to say something, I manage to croak out a few words. “I wish the same to you.”

“Don’t cry, beautiful girl.” A rogue tear has escaped, of course. Very gently Mario brushes it from my cheek. “I want you to be happy. I want you always, always to be happy.”

He won’t get his wish. I know that already.

He raises my hand to his lips, kisses it one last time, and then he’s gone.

The moment is over. All those moments that might have been? They never will. I guess I knew this would happen one day. One day the road would fork. And I’d have no choice. I’d have to pick a path.

It’s pretty much impossible to sleep after that. I don’t know why I bother trying.

But try I do. I dutifully wash off my makeup—that is, what little makeup I haven’t cried off—and moisturize my face and drink the last of my Nyquil and sit in bed reading the romance novel I’m halfway through.

Maybe that’s not the right genre for tonight.

A few hours of tossing later, I abandon the effort. I allow my hollow self to get out of bed and confront the depressing specter of five bleak hours until the break of dawn. After which I get to suffer through a really long day during which I must do my utmost to solve a murder that’s bedeviled me for a week while simultaneously forcing my rebel thoughts away from a tall, dark, and handsome stranger I never had any business fantasizing about and now really must forget.

I guess I know how I’ll be spending the new year.

I lumber downstairs in my pajamas without turning on any lights. I’m perfectly comfortable on Damsgard’s first floor in the dark, not to mention that the blackout echoes my mood. I decide that if ever there were a night for eating ice cream straight out of the carton, this is it. Fortunately for this melancholy beauty queen, the refrigerator is stocked with chocolate chip. I curl up on a velvet sofa in the living room, spoon and carton in hand, and try to take joy in the pine scent of the live Christmas tree and the beauty all around me. I can only vaguely see it in the dark but I know it’s there.

I should appreciate it while I’ve got it, I realize. I’ll be leaving Damsgard soon whether I solve Ingrid’s murder or not. It strikes me that my life is much the same as this gorgeous home cloaked in darkness. There’s an awful lot that’s good that’s packed into it, even if I’m not capable of seeing it right now.

All I can process at the moment is what I’ve lost. And what is that, really? A fantasy. A fantasy about a man I don’t really know; a fantasy about a life I’m not even sure I want.

That doesn’t keep me from weeping. After a particularly racking bout, I hear rustling behind me. I spin around to see my mother, wearing her favorite Christmas nightgown, ivory-colored flannel with red trim and an all-over print of Santas and reindeer. Her hair is set in pin curls beneath a net. Most Saturday nights while I was growing up she set it that way so it would look good for Mass on Sunday. She lowers the frying pan in her hand.

“Soon as I heard the crying, I figured it wasn’t a hoodlum,” she tells me. “Could have been a sad hoodlum, I guess.” She sits down next to me and pats my leg. “Mario?”

“How did you know?”

She looks away and sighs. “I couldn’t sleep, neither.”

“Pop?”

“That Maggie finally showed up at the hospital. Made a big deal of it, too.” She turns back to me. “What does that floozy think, that the rest of us love the place? But that’s no matter now. Tell me what that Mario did.”

“He didn’t do anything, Mom.” That almost gets me going again but I manage to stave off another crying jag. “It’s hard to say what happened. I guess what it comes down to is that even though we weren’t a couple, obviously, we sort of broke up.” Saying it out loud, it sounds so juvenile.

But my mother simply takes it in with a nod. And soon her light blue eyes look as forlorn as I’m sure mine do. “Why tonight?”

I might as well tell her. I have to soon anyway and we’re already both in lousy moods. Plus I feel bad that I told Mario about this before I told her. I suppose that just goes to show how out of kilter I’ve gotten.

I take a deep breath. “I told Mario that I’m moving with Jason to Charlotte. He got a job with a pit crew.”

Her eyes fly open. “Knock me over with a feather! So that husband of yours is finally going to make something of himself?”

“Mom, that’s not nice.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t be so amazed. Jason is a fabulous mechanic and he’s extremely athletic and he’s really motivated.”

“So that’s why he spent all those years working as a grease monkey for that Joe? And never wanted to do anything else? Except maybe watch football on the weekend?”

“Well, okay, so now he’s got a fire under him. Give him credit for that.”

“I’ll give him credit if he can keep that job. Then we’ll talk.”

There’s no winning with my mother where Jason is concerned. “So you’re not upset that we’re moving? Not that I want you to be but I was sure that you would.”

“How long have you known about this?”

“A few weeks. Jason just accepted the job today. Well, yesterday.”

“Rachel knows?”

“She thinks it’s good.”

“And your father?”

“He thinks that where my husband goes, I should go. Automatically.”

“That’s what he would think.” She sighs again. “That’s what I would think, too, normally.”

Meaning if her daughter’s husband were any man in the world but Jason Kilborn, who got her pregnant at age 17. We lapse into silence. I offer my mom the ice cream then rise to get a fresh spoon.

“Yours is good enough for me,” she says.

“But I’m sick.”

“You’re not that sick.” She dips the spoon into the carton. “So what does this Charlotte business have to do with Mario?”

I sit back down. I have to think about that. Then, “I think it just brought home to him that Jason and I are a couple. That where he goes, I go. That whatever Mario and I might have had, we can’t have.”

Because I’m married. And I’m not locked into some hellacious marriage, either. I’m married to a man I love, who loves me, and we have a daughter we both adore. So I should get a grip on myself and recognize that I have better things to do than indulge in schoolgirl fantasies about Latin hunks who host paranormal reality shows.

“That’s too bad,” my mother says. “I like that Mario.”

“I do, too.”

“That show of his is stupid but at least he’s got a show. Unlike some people.”

I throw up my hands. “Mom, you can’t get on Jason’s case for not being a Hollywood star! He’s on the cover of a calendar. He might even get a second calendar. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

She shrugs. “A calendar isn’t the same as a show.”

She’s infuriating. But I love her. “So tell me what happened with Pop.”

“Nothing. That Maggie showed up at the hospital as if she was the bravest thing anybody’s ever seen. And like it didn’t matter that she was six, seven hours late. She made a big point of saying that so-called Priscilla called her, too.”

“Really? Did she say what they talked about?”

“You think I asked?” My mother shakes her head. “Anyway, your father and I were having a good time until she showed up.”

“I’m glad about that. But I’m worried you’re getting your hopes up too much where Pop’s concerned.”

She spoons more ice cream and says nothing.

“You know,” I go on, “I’d like you to think about moving with us to Charlotte.”

“That’s not for me,” she says immediately.

“Why not? I hope not because of Pop.”

“Never you mind why not,” she says, which is how I know for sure that it is because of Pop. “Remember, your old mother has a way of getting what she wants. I got you, didn’t I?”

After I don’t even know how many miscarriages, my adoption came through. “I’m very glad you did.”

“I’ll say.” She sets down the ice cream so we can have a good hug. On my side at least, more tears are shed. And this time not for love lost but for love I will never lose. “I think you should get on with solving that murder,” my mother says when at last we let each other go. “So we can go home already.”

“I’m with you. I just don’t know how.” My angst over Jason, Charlotte, Mario, all of it, hasn’t helped my brain cells much. Most people would give them a poor rating in the best of circumstances.