Authors: Diane Chamberlain
Dustin’s thumb jerked up to his mouth, and he sucked hungrily, his eyes open, the corneas silvered over, like the milky backing of an old mirror. He made small humming sounds deep in his throat, sounds Chris had long ago decided were Dustin’s way of showing contentment. Chris rocked, shutting his own eyes, resting his chin against his son’s sweet-smelling hair. He began to sing, quietly.
Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twine
Tell me why the sky’s so blue
And I will tell you just why I love you.
When Chris stopped singing, Dustin pulled his thumb from his mouth and begin to rock—his agitated, frustrated rock—making wild sounds: “Nah! Nah! Nah! Unh! Unh!” Chris began to sing again.
Sometimes he stopped intentionally just to get Dustin’s reaction, just to feel as though there was some sort of communication between them.
“Would you like to know what your mother is up to?” he asked when he had finished his song. “She’s really cooking, Dusty.”
He remembered Carmen on
News Nine
the night before. She’d said that Jeff Cabrio refused to make a statement to the press—Carmen could make a “no comment” sound like a major news event—but that Mayor Chris Garrett reported “good progress” on the rainmaking project. No one had a clue what that meant, but it didn’t matter. From very little information, Carmen, in her old, inimitable style, was creating a mystique around Jeff. She described the long hours he spent in the warehouse, how he sent out for food to avoid seeing other people, how he returned home to his cottage long after dark and was up again before dawn.
“There was a blurb in the paper today,” Chris told his son. “It said that
News Nine
‘s ratings are up a bit on the nights your mom makes her
North County Report
. What do you think of that?”
Dustin was still. Nearly asleep.
“And I painted your old room the other day.”
Dustin’s head was heavy against his chest. Chris stood up slowly and lowered his son back to the bed.
“Unh! Unh! Unh!” Dustin sprang to life. And then the crying began, and with it the wrenching pain deep in Chris’s chest. He set his hand on the little boy’s back again.
“Dustin, don’t do that. Please, don’t.”
“I’ll stay with him.”
Chris turned to see Tina standing in the doorway. He looked down at his son, whose little shoulders heaved with his sobs.
“I hate when he does this,” he said.
Tina nodded. She pushed past Chris and began fiddling with Dustin’s covers, as though what she was doing was more important than anything Chris could possibly do right now. It was a game they played, Chris knew. A game designed to give him permission to leave, guilt-free. Although nothing regarding Dustin would ever leave Chris guilt-free.
IT WAS NEARLY THREE
o’clock when he arrived at Sugarbush. Carmen was about to get into her car as he was getting out of his. He was certain she knew where he’d been, that he went to San Diego to see Dustin every Saturday.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
She looked toward the cottages, squinting against the sun. “How long is the drive?” she asked.
“An hour and a half.”
“Oh,” she said, simply, disinterestedly. She said nothing more to him as she opened her car door and slipped in behind the steering wheel. But before she started the engine, she smoothed her thick hair back from her face, and in her huge eyes he could see the unmistakable shimmer of tears.
SHE WAS KNEELING IN
the rose garden, kneeling in the dust. Chris watched her from the edge of his bed, where the misleading early morning chill made a slow sweep over his body. Carmen’s tawny skin, tawny shorts and shirt blended in with the earth and brush of Sugarbush, and only the dark shine of her hair stood out against the muted colors of the yard. The sun lit up her hands and the white-tipped vermilion roses that had always been her favorites. She knelt near the one I leggy rosebush at the center of the garden. Those bushes farthest from her were dead and crumbling; those closer, still clinging to life, still showing some green in their stems.
Next to her was a beige bucket, so close in color to the earth that, until she picked it up, Chris hadn’t realized it was there. She poured water over the ground around the rosebush. Her gray water, he was certain. Carmen, breaking the law to save this one pinch of color in her yard.
The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up; she didn’t know anyone was watching. From this distance, though, Chris couldn’t see the scars. Even now, certain images from that long-ago morning remained vivid in his memory: the swirling pattern of blood on the floor and walls of the bathroom she had decorated entirely in white; the sharp precision with which she’d opened her veins. He’d pressed the thick white terry towels to her arms, pressed as hard as he could until his own arms shook with the effort, and the ambulance siren neared. They took her away, leaving him crying and shaking and sick, and wondering how, in such a short span of time, such a mere heartbeat, they had gone from happiness to the total destruction of a marriage they had both treasured.
Carmen stood up, leaning over to smell the fullest rose, straightening once again. She looked to either side of her, to all she’d lost, and she seemed to sag, her shoulders drooping. Reaching for the bucket, lifting it, seemed almost too much effort for her.
“Hang in there, Carmen,” he said softly to himself.
He watched her until she disappeared once again inside the house. Then he took a shower, saving his own gray water in a large earthenware bowl he found in the kitchen. And once Carmen had left for work, he carried the water outside and gave it to her vermilion roses.
HE WAS HOME. IT
wasn’t yet dark, and already he was there, kicking against the porch step to rid his shoes of dust before walking into the cottage. Mia could see him through the window of her living room, where she sat on the sofa, eating her steamed vegetables. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night she’d given him the kitten. He had intimidated her then, the way he saw through her, the way he seemed to know more about her than she knew about herself.
She was putting the leftover vegetables in the refrigerator when Jeff knocked on her door, and he opened it a few inches before she had a chance to get to it herself.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Of course.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel as he stepped into the room, carrying what looked like a yellow stool with a wide circular seat.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I made it for you,” he said. “It’s to save your back.”
He rested the stool on the plastic sheeting in the center of the living room and smiled at her confusion. He moved one of the kitchen chairs next to the stool and motioned her toward it. “Sit down,” he said. “I want to see if it’s the right height.”
She sat down on the chair, and he whisked his hand along the edge of the stool’s circular top, making it spin like a lazy Susan. “You put your work on here and you’re all set.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, pleased. “Thank you.”
“Will it be sturdy enough?”
She leaned forward, resting her arms on the circle of wood, and nodded.
“Good.” He put his hands on his hips, looked around the room. “It smells great in here,” he said.
“Have you had dinner? I have leftovers.”
He sniffed the air. “Onions. Carrots—no, sweet potatoes, right?”
“Both,” she said.
“And something else. Cabbage?”
“Close. Brussels sprouts. I’m impressed.”
“No meat?”
“Just vegetables. Would you like some?”
“Please.”
He followed her into the kitchen, where she took the bowl of vegetables from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave she’d brought from home.
“Vegetarian?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Moral or health reasons?”
She hesitated, turning away to take a plate from the cupboard. “I just think it’s better for all concerned.” She glanced at him and knew he didn’t quite buy the explanation, but he didn’t seem inclined to push her.
“Have a seat.” She motioned toward the small kitchen table. When the microwave beeped, she handed him the bowl of vegetables. “How’s the cat?” she asked.
“Smart. And fortunately very independent. He takes what I can give him and doesn’t ask for anything more. And he’s turning out to be a watch cat. He sits on the window sill and guards the place.” He took a bite of sweet potato. “So where are the pictures you took of me?”
“I’ll get them.” She walked into the living room and picked up the pictures from the coffee table, along with the sketches she was making of the pose she would use for her sculpture. Back in the kitchen, she laid the pictures next to his plate.
Jeff set down his fork, and his eyes widened. He picked up the top photograph, one of him standing, shirtless, next to the computer.
“My God,” he said. “I’m falling apart.” He touched his hair, his abdomen, just below the ribs, and she was surprised by his reaction, by the sudden vulnerability she saw in him when he had seemed so thoroughly invulnerable.
“You’re excellent,” she reassured him. “You’re a perfect subject.”
His face was still creased with worry. “It’s been so long since I’ve really gotten a look at myself. I need to do a few sit-ups or something.”
Mia shook her head and took the photograph from his fingers. “The real beauty in this body,” she said, “is that it’s not the body of some young student model paying his way through college. There’s a maturity to it. Your pectorals and abdominal muscles are still defined, but with a certain softening.”
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“It’s very subtle, the softening, and it gives you character. It makes you a lure to an artist, Jeff. It makes you irresistible.”
He raised his eyebrows, a half-smile on his lips.
“To an artist,” she repeated firmly.
“Well, Mia,” he said. “At least I know right where I stand with you, huh? All you want is my body, and you don’t even try to cover up your dishonorable intentions.”
She laughed, but she could see he was still disconcerted as he fanned through the rest of the photographs. “Who is this stranger?” he asked, more to himself than to her. “Who the hell is this guy?”
She showed him the nearly finished bas-relief of the window she planned to use as the backdrop for his sculpture. He admired her work, then suddenly looked up at her.
“Could you make a fountain?” he asked.
“A fountain?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t it be nice if—once there’s some water to spare—Valle Rosa had a small fountain to celebrate? Maybe in the little park next to Chris’s office?”
She smiled slowly. “You’re nuts, you know. Water to spare?”
“Could you do it?”
“It’s not the kind of thing I usually do, but it might be fun. I could do it in clay, then make a plaster mold and pour concrete into it.” She was as crazy as he was.
“That sounds great.” He pushed his chair back from the table, and stretched his arms above his head. “Do you know what time the coyotes start up?” he asked.
“Close to eleven, I’d say. Why?”
He looked at his watch. “I plan to tape them tonight.”
“You mean, on video?”
“Just audio.”
“From your cottage?”
He shook his head. “The canyon. I’ll walk out a ways.”
“It’ll be eerie,” she said. “Scary.”
“No. I like the way they sound. It’s a natural sound. It’s other noises I’m afraid of.”
She felt a surprising surge of envy at the thought of him walking in the cool darkness of the canyon.
“I can see the idea appeals to you,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”
She hesitated only a second or two. “All right.”
At ten-thirty she met him on the porch of his cottage and they set out in darkness, down into the canyon. From somewhere in the distance came the faint but unmistakable smell of smoke.
Jeff carried a flashlight with him, but he didn’t turn it on, not wanting to disturb the wildlife any more than he had to. The half-moon spilled enough light on the chaparral to help them negotiate the steep drop into the canyon. At one point, though, she began to slip and had to grab his arm to steady herself. She let go quickly.
“Here,” Jeff said finally. He climbed onto a broad flat boulder; white-lit in the moonlight, and nodded for her to follow him up.
The boulder still held some of the warmth of the day. She sat next to him as he stretched out on his back, resting the recorder on his stomach.
“Ah,” he said. “This is nice. This is complete freedom. Not a soul knows I’m out here. No one. Not even Miz Perez.”
“I know,” she said.
He turned his head toward her, and she could see the moonlight on the sharp lines of his temple, his cheek, his jaw. “Yes,” he said, “but you don’t count.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t count because you’re on the run, too.” He circled her wrist with his fingers, and although it sent a chill up her spine, there was nothing romantic, nothing suggestive, in his touch. He squeezed his fingers closed around her skin. “You value freedom as much as I do,” he said. “I don’t know your reasons, and I don’t need to know. But we’re kindred spirits, Mia.”
She drew her wrist away with the pretense of smoothing her hair from her cheek, but she lay down on the boulder, not too close to him. Above her, the sky was a dome of stars. “For me, though, it’s temporary,” she said. “It’s not my choice.”
He laughed. “It’s not my choice either. I didn’t decide one morning that I’d enjoy the life of a fugitive.”
“What will you do with the tape of the coyotes?”
“Take it with me wherever I go.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re free.” His voice was soft. Mia had to strain to hear him. “They’re adaptable. They can live where it’s fifty degrees below zero or a hundred and twenty in the shade. They’re loners, but they’re smart enough to band together to catch something fast and big, like an antelope or a jack rabbit. Which is why I’m not out here taping antelopes and jack rabbits.” He chuckled. “And they’re clever. When they dig a den for themselves, they always make sure to dig an escape tunnel out the back.”