Slightly Imperfect (36 page)

"I'd like to know your plans for Victoria." Zac tried to keep his voice steady around her name, tried to keep his eyes off the almost-life-sized oil portrait of her and Coby gracing the wall behind Pierce. "Other than not marrying me?"

"Whatever develops. A beautiful woman can be an asset—or a detriment—to a campaign. She ruined it for me the first time around. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again. I want her in camp when the opportunity arises to use her."

"And if she decides otherwise?"

"She won't." He smiled, his confidence threatening Zac's hope. "Apparently she's already decided in my favor. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here now."

"I'm prepared to spend every dime I have to keep you from getting those children, and to keep your hands off Marcus."

Surprise seeped into Pierce's eyes. "That won't be necessary once I have Victoria's compliance. Save your ill-gotten money for someone of your own kind."

"I'd rather fight you, sir."

"You'll lose." He looked less confident.

"Maybe. I don't think so. You're too old to have lived a model life. Somewhere you've done something. I'll find it."

"You didn't bilk Carron Fitzpatrick out of enough money to fight me."

"I'll start now, looking for that little error you made—while there's still fighting money. Jesus turned bad wine to good, and they served that last. I'll turn a bad deed into good usage. I'll have that little ace in the hole—the one I'll find—just in case I need it."

Pierce stood, frowning, glanced at his watch, at the door. "I think you're wasting your time, Abriendo. And mine. Ultimately it comes down to Victoria. Why don't we wait and see if she comes around to your way of thinking or if she adheres to mine."

* * *

Still parked in the circle drive before Chandler House, Zac left Victoria a message.

"I don't know if you're there, but I've been trying to understand how your father could scare you so much. Maybe it has something to do with Coby, not wanting to risk alienating him.

But then—I don't know,
novia
. Coby didn't seem threatened. He seemed willing to talk to Gerald. A little eager, maybe." He thought about it, summed it up. "It hurts to know you didn't trust me to understand what was happening—that I had to find out from Andrea. It wouldn't have been much of a marriage if you couldn't share your problems with me—especially when I'm the problem. I'll fight your father for you,
novia
. Just give me the word."

He waited, wondering if she would pick up the phone to comply with his willingness.

"I've done all I can. I won't call again. And you're right. It was a dream, but I liked thinking we had the same one."

"What's become of Victoria?" Gerald peered over the top of his glasses, across his broad, paper-strewn desk. "I miss seeing her. Is she traveling?"

Zac would be the last to know. An image of the
Andrea Elena II
wafted through his mind. "That's over. But thanks for asking."

Gerald frowned. "What about Marcus?"

"That, too."

"I hate to hear that."

The subtle tug of war between Gerald and Pierce had been lost when Zac played into the enemy's hands in Kerrville.

"Maybe it will work out," Gerald said.

He doubted it. Two weeks, still no word. He had read an account of a big blowout at the country club celebrating Victoria and Coby turning thirty. In the accompanying picture, Coby had flanked her on one side, Christian on the other. A tight blond circle.

"I'm on my way to pick up Papa. Was there something specific you wanted?"

"You're back fishing again. A lot."

"Every morning or afternoon." Each time they docked, he looked to see if Victoria was there. Then he got lost in remembering when Carron had waited that first time, how her presence had sucked his life into a greedy, downward spiral.

"Is there something I'm not taking care of, Gerald?"

"You're doing fine. Carron told me you were a perfectionist. You're right on track." Gerald measured him. "Must be hard though, covering all the bases."

"Carron told you?"

Gerald smiled. "She said the main pursuit of your life was perfection. If something wasn't perfect, you'd fix it. She loved that." Gerald looked away, pushed the glasses up. Tapping his pink, freckled fingers on the desktop, he remembered with Zac.

"Yeah. But I couldn't fix Carron."

That had been his first actual proof things could go beyond his control. Victoria added to the evidence. Maggie, adrift on a sea of singleness, trying to keep Angel's head above water, confirmed the notion. His subliminal bull's eye, the one marked perfection, was getting more illusive.

"I have a new project for you," Gerald announced.

"Good." Zac's mind seized on that.

"Not new, really. We talked about it before. Turning the
Irish Lady
into a casino. What do you think? Are you ready to take that on?"

"I'm ready." His indecision concerning the yacht had been consumed in flames of reality. "It's never going to be used for anything else." No honeymoon, at least. "Where do we start?"

"I'll make a potential list of interested parties. Men who'd like to have a share in a floating casino. Anyone you'd like to put on the list?"

"I don't run in that circle."

"You will, son. Are you ready?"

"As long as it doesn't interfere with fishing."

He guessed the philosophy classes, his dream of teaching, had gone into a deep, dark pit of oblivion to keep company with his relationships.

* * *

He rang Maggie's doorbell, peered through the cut glass door, then went searching for her. She looked up when he came around the corner of the house.

"I brought your car back." He had traded cars with her two days ago, pretending to have heard the starter in hers dragging. "It's fine now. Brand new starter. Good for another hundred thousand miles."

She stopped hoeing, watched him approach.

He smiled. "You know what they say, Maggie."

"What?"

"You have to have a gun to put a Subaru out of commission."

She leaned against the hoe, her gaze indecipherable before her mouth curved in a smile. "Thank you for taking care of it. That was a generous gesture." Glancing at Angel in the waist-high water of the nearby wading pool, she said, "Can you tell Poppie thank you, Angel?"

Angel pounded the water, making raveled noises. Her wet hair clung to her head in jet sheets.

"Did you catch that, Poppie? She said
gracias
."

Smiling, he lifted Angel, soaking his T-shirt. Water running down his cut-offs to his bare legs felt good in the sultry August morning. He glanced around the yard. Lilies abounded, bougainvillea trailed the fence, a sprinkler waved lazily back and forth in a far corner, nursing a patch of brown grass.

"We could get you a gardener,
querida
." He had learned, since moving onto Bay Shore, not to say
yardman
. "You don't have to do this."

"I like it. It's a little like fishing."

"You've done a good job on this house." He let himself wonder what it would be like to live here, what it was like for her. Did her footsteps echo on the newly restored hardwood the way his did at Bay Shore? Did she hear noises at night and have no one to share them with? Did she wake in the middle of the night—?

"Maybe I've done too good a job."

Angel patted Zac's face with the flat on her hand. He looked over the top of her head to inquire, "Why?"

"I've had an offer on it—A buyer."

"Great. That's what you wanted."

"It's not finished. It wasn't even listed. They want to take possession and let me work on it after they've moved in."

"That's a bird in the hand. A windfall."

She looked unconvinced. "It's premature. I don't have another house lined up to buy, and I'm so involved with Fischer's Landing I don't have time to look for the right one. It has to be another one I can make a profit on—"

"You can move in with me."

"That's sweet, Zac." She smiled impassively. "Would you like something to drink?"

"You could, Maggie. You could oversee construction of the new wing."

She eyed him closely. He could see questions whirling in her head.

"I'm in the middle of the new wing," he said. "I have to go on with it." Even if the reasons had changed, reasons neither of them would voice. "Sylvania and I could help you with Angel and you could take your time finding the right new house. You can get a bigger one to redo this time and we'll be partners again."

She leaned the hoe against a tree. "I'm going to get Kool-Aid for Angel and me. Would you like some?"

"Yeah." He remembered when Kool-Aid was all they could afford. Maybe it was still all she could afford. "Is it grape?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Great."

They sat on the grass, their feet in the wading pool. He envisioned the Bay Shore pool, recalling the sound of his nieces' glee on his birthday, Angel's delighted squeal as Maggie trailed her through the cool water. He wanted to hear it again, rather than the tranquil slap of water against the side when he pulled himself from a solitary swim each night.

Maggie extended her foot, flipping water onto their daughter's chest. Maggie's soft laughter at Angel's reaction to the cold water filled him with a sensation of rightness. The girls' purple mustaches made him wonder if he had one. A conclusion settled onto him gently, like weariness at the end of a full day, weighty and good.

"You know,
querida
, you're beautiful." When she spared him a dubious smile, he insisted, "You were
always
pretty. Now you're beautiful."

He guessed he did have a mustache when she licked at hers, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. "You were always beautiful, Zac. Now you're stunning."

He passed it off. "Soft. Your features run into soft perfection."

Her mouth hardened for a moment, ran back to gentle.

"A lot like Angel's features, almost childlike."

She frowned, pain rearranging the attributes he lauded.

"You don't want to hear all this."

"I don't trust you."

"I don't blame you."

He ingested his Kool-Aid along with well-rehearsed regret, then invited her out to the driveway to see the new car seat he had bought for Angel, who had been using Allie's old one. A new red Dodge van sat in the drive behind the red Toyota SUV he had loaned Maggie.

She looked at him, eyes wide, her smile suspicious. "Where's the car seat, Zaccheus?"

"Attached to the car, Magatita."

"A little extravagant," she murmured, inching forward, matching her gait to Angel's wobble.

He handed her the key. "Yeah. But it was the car seat I wanted for our daughter, and it only came with the van. Do you like it? Is the color all right?"

"It's perfect."

He was still on track, except inside where it mattered.

* * *

"Lizbett says—"

Zac quickly held up his hand, palm out. "I don't care, Josh." A lie. "I care, but I don't want to know."

"—that Mr. Coby is over there a lot now. That he does stuff with the kids. Sometimes Ms. Victoria doesn't get out of bed all day, and she's behind on her drawing.">

Zac shot him a critical look, but he kept going.

"Marcus doesn't have anyone to talk Spanish to. The twins cry when Mr. Christian comes to pick them up, and Ariana says your name all the time, and Alex draws pictures of you."

Zac ran the short, steel rake through the mound of shrimp on the floor of the
Ramona Tres
, tossed a soggy plastic bag to the side. Looking out across the Gulf, he viewed instead the picture Josh painted.

"Thanks, Josh. Thanks a hell of a lot."

"And Ms. Victoria cries a lot. Most of the time."

"She's a woman. God endowed them with that luxury."

"Not like us men. Huh, Mr. Z?"

"Not today," he murmured. "Yet."

Josh laughed softly, knowingly.

Zac's eyes smarted, but then he heard his own faint laugh. For the first time he felt he could breathe again, felt the pain ease the slightest bit, and recognized a thin veil of relief.

* * *

Zac watched the clock, waiting for a considerate time to call. Maggie answered on the third ring. "Hi. Did I wake you?" He thought of all the times he had, and how. "Is Angel up?"

"We just got out of the shower."

"Both of you?"

"It's quicker, Poppie. Some days need quickening."

"Could we have dinner tonight?" He hadn't seen her in a week, or Angel. Their ships had eluded one another in the night.

She was quiet.

"I should have called sooner. Rude. Huh, Maggie?"

"Would you like to come over? It's haircut time again isn't it?"

"No—I mean—yeah, I would. But I want to take you to the Wentletrap. Remember that?" This time he'd had Gerald call to make a reservation for two guests, in the name of Fitzpatrick. No more sitting by the kitchen, no matter what tricks he had to employ.

"Yes. I remember."

"Wear your red dress,
querida
."

"I don't have it anymore. It was nine years old. I gave it to Tita to play dress up in."

Nine years old
. "It doesn't matter. You'll be the most beautiful woman there."

"And you'll be—"

"Yeah. See you at seven?"

"Seven. Is this a date, Zac?"

"I just want to see you. Through candlelight."

"Seven." She hung up.

The shrimp jumped into the nets all morning. He had to beat them off. There was no garbage, not a single plastic bag in the bunch.

* * *

"Champagne?" she whispered once the waiter had set it up and sauntered away to an ideal lurking position in the shadows.

She was wearing the dress she had worn to Fischer's Landing. Black, sedate, sleeveless, showing a lot of bronze-toned neck and chest, shortened from ankle length to just above her well-defined knees now. She wore tiny gold-hoop earrings, no other jewelry. Her hair swung loose and free, cupping in at chin length, sweeping back from her smooth forehead.