The Secret of Everything (39 page)

“Jesus,” he said. “That’s so hot it makes me want to come over there right now.”

“They’re all beautiful, Vince, I’m not kidding. I could probably sell the ones of you.”

He chuckled. “Don’t you dare.”

“I would never. Just saying.” She clicked through them again. “Are the girls in bed, all safe and sound?”

“Yes. Jade and Natalie played jacks for two hours, so I think all is well.”

“And the blouse?”

“Practically good as new. Thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything.” She clicked through the photos. “I’m sending another one.”

“Is it a naked one of you?”

“Wait for it.” She smiled. It was the full frontal of him.

“Huh,” he said. “I have to admit I like this one. Show your friends.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t exactly have any friends, or I would. I can post it on the Internet, if you like.”

“Why don’t you have any friends?”

“I mean, I do. All over. But not close friends.” She flipped to the trio of their heads side by side on the pillows, looking up. The light caught their faces from the left, leaving the right in deep shadow. One eye each looked up. Hopeful. It made her feel airless. “I had a really nice time with you today, Vince.”

“I always enjoy your company, Tessa. Seriously.”

“Me, too.” She even liked having him on the other end of the phone, hearing his voice. “Tell me a story about your life.”

“What kind of story?”

“I don’t care. Winning a race. A happy day. Talk me to sleep.”

“I can do that,” he said. “Go lie down.”

Tessa carried the phone to her bedroom and did just that. “I really do mean a story story,” she said. “Not a sexy something. I don’t have any energy left.”

“No,” he said. “Me, either. This is about winning a race and landing an endorsement.”

“Perfect.” She closed her eyes. “I’m already getting sleepy.”

Vince chuckled, the sound like a warm breath against her ear. He told her a story and she drifted into sleep. Outside, the wind began to howl.

Saturday morning, Vita awakened out of a sound sleep and bolted upright in the darkness. For a long, long moment she held her breath, listening, but only the slight, faraway drip of a faucet disturbed the silence. Her heart pounded wildly, and she pressed her palms to it protectively—had she had a bad dream?

No. Only the velvet of good sleep came to her.

Flinging off her covers, she padded over to the window in her pajamas and pushed the curtains aside, looking out to the alley behind 100 Breakfasts and the trail that led to the river. It was raining softly, steadily, and there was no one about, not even a stray dog climbing into trash cans.

And then she heard the wailing, an eerie, familiar moan that rose up from the river on nights like this. Some said it was the wind whistling through the boulders and caves along the banks. Some said it was the voices of the missionaries slain by
the Indians, or the Indians slain by the soldiers, or the seven women who’d been stolen right out of the plaza by the Comanche during a wedding feast. It made the hair on her arms lift.

Tonight it sounded like a portent. Annie. It had to do with Annie and the man who skulked around town, hiding in plain sight, like an evil spirit. For the first time in decades, she remembered things that had been carefully boxed up and tucked away from view, dark things, sad things, things she regretted, things she mourned, things so far gone she could do nothing about them anyway.

Looking into the empty street, she rubbed her arms and then got dressed. It was only an hour early, and she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. Cooking would make her feel better.

She went down to the kitchen and, for the first time ever, just before she turned on the overhead light, she felt afraid, looking into the darkness for some hint of what might be coming. She peered apprehensively into the gloom, seeing only the bones of the stainless-steel counter and a ladle catching light from the other room.

In the air rose a scent of thyme, an herb that always made Vita think of the days when she first arrived at the commune. It had been planted along the paths and in the kitchen garden—parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like a song. She saw herself, weary and too thin, rubbing a stalk of thyme between her palms and bending into it, closing her eyes to let the fragrance fill her head. She had made carnitas with it, with thyme and cinnamon sticks and local chiles. It was a dish to steal a man’s soul, and whenever she made it at the café, there were always love affairs kindled, stories settled.

It was so adamantly pleasant that she found the courage to turn on the lights. Any ghosts that had been lingering scurried
into the shadows, and she started the coffee and flipped through her books for something special to make for this Saturday morning. She set a pot of oil to heat for carnitas, pinched marjoram for protection into the sausages, and sprinkled rue and black pepper along the doorways, all the while feeling that creeping sense of unease, as if some miasma were floating beneath the doors with the cold wind.

When Annie finally came in, at five, Vita said, “Are you okay?”

“Great.”

“It feels like there’s something in the air,” Vita said, shaking her shoulders, then she made a choice. With one hand on her hip, she looked right at Annie. “I didn’t want to scare you, but I keep seeing a man skulking around here, and I worry it might be your ex.”

The strangest smile moved on Annie’s mouth. “Not
my
ex,” she said. “When he killed my cat, I killed him.”

   S
am was waylaid in Gallup by a broken axle that took two days to replace, but it was finally fixed late Friday night. By then he was in no mood to deal with semis rocking their way through the mountains and delayed his start until morning. It wasn’t a real long drive.

About ten miles outside of Los Ladrones, he was overtaken by a fit of nerves and pulled into a rest stop to give the dogs an airing. The weather had followed him all the way across Arizona, and now the skies even in New Mexico, where the sun shone famously, were gray and dark. Rain fell in a light, steady mist. Cold. He’d forgotten how cold it could be at higher altitudes. He shrugged into a jeans jacket that was as old as Tessa and carried Peaches into the field. The trip had been kind of hard on the poor old thing. She was barely moving this morning, stiff and confused. Tonight he’d brush her good, and just seeing Tessa would make her feel better, too.

The other two dogs raced through the field, getting soaked by the low-growing stands of sage and long grasses. Along the rim of the world was a blue smudge of mountains, like pastels smeared beneath low gray clouds. It was very quiet, as if the trees were holding their breath.

It had been a long time since he’d come this way. More than thirty years. Even in the days when he and Tessa had traveled the Renaissance festival circuit, they’d never come through New Mexico, and given his choice, he would never have come this way at all, ever again. Too much drama. Too much trouble.

But he’d forgotten how beautiful it was.

As he waited for Loki and Wolfenstein to do their business, he leaned on the truck and let the air fill him. Clear, light, breathable. He thought of his old self, and “Born to Be Wild” played in his head.

Weren’t they all?

What he could see from the distance of forty years was how wrecked he’d been by his tour of duty. Nowadays they’d treat his post-traumatic stress disorder with drugs—proper drugs, not street stuff—and therapy. In those days, they self-medicated with heroin and pot and vodka. Learned to sleep under bridges. A lot of them were still there. Sam counted himself lucky on that score.

He wished, oddly, for a cigarette, despite the fact that it had been a couple of decades since he’d given them up. Even at the height of his smoking, he’d never been a hard-core smoker—maybe four or five a day, but he’d really wanted each one. Over time, he came to see that he’d used cigarettes the same way he’d once used drugs or booze or faceless lays: just a way to escape his own thoughts.

So what thought did he want to escape right now? Was there some long-delayed regret rearing its ugly head?

No. He’d made a bargain with himself at the end of his tour that he’d never again do a single thing he didn’t want to do. From that day to this, he never had. He had lived exactly in accordance with his beliefs. You didn’t spend your life amassing stuff and pouring poisons down the drains of the world. You
didn’t work all day and all night to live for six seconds on a Saturday afternoon every week. You did unto others until it came to the defenseless and weak, and then you defended them as required. You took care of the creatures—human, feline, and canine—who came under your watch until death you did part.

He had done what he needed to do. And he believed that any man who established his own code and lived with integrity shouldn’t have any regret. Even when other people judged you wrong.

This morning, however, he could use some courage. It was going to take all he had to walk into a town where everybody thought a little girl had drowned and smile as if he’d played a joke.

Picking up Peaches and carrying her into the truck, he whistled for the other dogs. “Time to face the music,” he said, and got into the car. He didn’t wear a watch on general principles, but, by the light, it was getting to be about mid-morning. He’d head for the café Tessa had been talking about, have something to eat, then chase down his daughter.

Tessa dreamed of a fire. There was a loud noise and a scream, and then a candle was knocked over, and the flames caught in the pine needles and rushed toward the forest.
“Run!”
someone said, and she grabbed her sister’s hand and they rushed away.

Someone came from behind them and scooped them up, one on each side.
“Mama, put me down!”
she cried, terrified. Her mother had done something terrible. Terrible.

—
a spill of blood coming out of a hole—

“Mama, no!”

But they were airborne, suspended in the dark, and then
they plunged into the icy-cold water that was rushing and rushing, sucking them under so fast that it shocked her. She broke the surface by luck and gasped, screamed, and was sucked under again. The river—the noise of it, rushing and roaring—drowned the sound of her cries. She bobbed up and was sucked under once more, and she splashed hard to get her head out of the water. And, again, blind chance lent a hand—a tree branch caught her wrist and she pulled her head out of the water and screamed,
“Help us! Help!”

Then there were hands hauling her out, but Tessa screamed,
“Rhiannon! Rhiannon!”

She jerked herself awake and sat up in the cool light of her bedroom. Her heart raced and she reached for a glass of water, taking a long, long swallow.

Not real. Or no
longer
real. Felix came over and nosed her shin. “I’m okay, baby.”

But she couldn’t shake the pall it cast over the day. She thought it might be a mistake to meet Vince and his girls at the café, but she hadn’t seen him since Wednesday, when he came over and took the photos. She washed and dressed and headed out on foot, Felix happily trotting along with her.

When she entered the café, Vince and his girls were sitting in a booth by the window. For a minute Tessa hesitated, slammed by the tableau of family they presented. He had his head bent sideways, listening to something Hannah was saying. Her chubby little hands were clasped as she explained some long and involved something, and Vince nodded seriously, encouraging her story. Jade sat next to him, coloring in her Cinderella coloring book, the pale river of hair falling down her arm. Natalie had her back to the door, and she was flipping through a book, swinging her feet cheerfully. Affection pinched Tessa’s
ribs at the crazy tumble of her hair, her falling-down sock, the scabbed-over mosquito bites on her calf. She deserved so much more than she’d been given.