True Colors (11 page)

While she was trying to figure out what to say, someone knocked on the door. She knew who it would be. “Did you tell him?” she asked her sister.

“Half the town was there, Vivi,” Winona said, and she should have looked angry, but in that strange, surreal moment, as Vivi Ann’s panic poked through, she thought Winona looked pleased. And she hadn’t answered the question, not really.

The door opened and Luke stood there, dressed in his Dockers and a plaid flannel shirt, as if this were an ordinary morning visit. But his hair was damp and unbrushed.

She moved toward him, desperate suddenly to undo all of this. “Tell them none of this matters, Luke. You know we love each other.” When he said nothing, her panic increased. “We’re getting married. Tell Daddy there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re engaged?” Dad said.

Vivi Ann turned to her father. “We were waiting for the right time to tell everyone.”

Dad finally smiled. “Good. This is over, then. Our first jackpot is startin’ in two hours and we got plenty to do to get ready. I’ll go talk to our new man, tell him what’s what. He’d best mind his
p
’s and
q
’s from now on or I’ll fire him. I don’t care about no contract.”

As soon as he left, Vivi Ann started to pull away from Luke, but he took hold of her hand and wouldn’t let her leave.

“Did you kiss him back?” he asked.

“Of course not.” She felt Winona watching them from across the room.

He tilted her chin up. She knew the second before she saw his face that it would be creased with worry, that those clean, honest eyes of his would be colored by doubt. She knew, too, that he would believe her because he wanted to.

“Are we okay?” he asked.

“We’re fine.”

“You’ve made me the happiest man in Oyster Shores.”

It should have been a romantic moment.

But already she knew she’d made a mistake.

You’ve made me the happiest man in Oyster Shores
.

The sentence kept coming back to Winona, playing and replaying. She saw the whole tragic scene in slow motion: Vivi Ann coming down the stairs, her beautiful face registering surprise when she realized what was happening . . . Dad, turning on Vivi Ann for once, telling her he was ashamed . . . and then Luke walking in, his eyes shadowed with doubt and heartbreak.

Winona had wanted to go to him, say,
She always breaks hearts,
and be there for him. She’d even dared to imagine that, to hope for it. Then . . .

We’re getting married
.

Three words that turned everything around, three words that returned the luster to Vivi Ann’s reputation, three words that made the old man smile.

Winona sat in the living room, still as a stone, hearing their conversation but not really listening. She could get the drift of it without the words. They were no doubt exchanging the honeyed words of new fiancés everywhere. Stuff about love and ceremonies and dreams.

They seemed to have forgotten she was here, or they didn’t care. She was just another piece of bulky furniture in the room.

She got up slowly, schooled her face into impassivity, and went to them. She almost paused, almost uttered a wooden congratulations, but as she approached them, Luke pulled Vivi Ann into his arms and kissed her.

It was the first time Winona had seen them really kiss, and she stopped, unable to look away.

And then she was moving again, across the living room, onto the porch, and to her car. She drove too fast up the driveway, surprised to find that she was crying as she came to Orca Way. She wiped her eyes impatiently and turned right.

A block later she hit the brake and came to a sudden stop, right there in the middle of the street.

We’re getting married.

How could Luke and Dad be so stupid? Couldn’t they see that Vivi Ann was acting out of desperation, chewing off her foot to get free of the trap of their disappointment?

“Don’t think about it,” she muttered aloud. She had to find a way not to care. Aurora was right. Winona had always known that. Sisters trumped men. She
had
to stop wanting Luke or it would destroy them all. But how did you go about such a thing? All the rationalizations in the world hadn’t worked. A seed of discontent had been planted deep inside of her, and even now she could feel it putting down roots.

Hours after the roping had ended, Vivi Ann sat on the arena’s rail, staring down at the loamy brown dirt. The last twenty-four hours had been among the worst of her life. Gossip about her behavior last night had swept through town like a brush fire. News of her engagement to Luke had put out the flames, but people were watching her closely, whispering as she passed.

“Hey.”

She glanced to her left.

Dallas stood in the barn’s open doorway, a tall shadow against the tangerine evening light behind him. In the muddy bog of this day, she’d almost forgotten about him. Almost.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

Easing down from the rail, she walked toward him.

“Anyone ever tell you you don’t know how to run a jackpot?”

She sighed. That should be obvious to everyone by now. “Did you get something to eat?”

“Yep.” He tipped his hat just enough so that she could see his eyes. They were gray as the Sound in winter. Unreadable. “So who’s gonna fire me? You or Daddy?”

It had been one day and already she was sick to death of hearing about that kiss. “It’s 1992, Dallas, not 1892. I’m the one who is in trouble for it, not you.”

“I tarnish your shiny reputation?”

“Something like that. I actually figured you’d quit after that fiasco at the bar.”

“I look like the kind of guy who quits?” He moved toward her. “Or maybe you figure all Indians are shiftless. Is that why your friends came after me for kissing you?”

“No one cares that you’re In—Native American. It was about me. I was Pearl Princess, for gosh sakes. Four times. And everyone likes my boyfriend. You could have been as white as Dracula and they still would have wanted to kick your ass.”

“Pearl Princess, huh?” He moved closer, smiling. “You must have some special talent, then, like tossing flaming batons or singing elevator music?”

“What I have is a boyfriend. A fiancé,” she corrected, tilting her chin up. “Did you get that part?”

“This fiancé,” Dallas said, whispering now, leaning close. “He know you kissed me back?”

Vivi Ann pushed past him and walked away, saying over her shoulder, “Tomorrow is Sunday. I don’t suppose you go to church, but we do, so I don’t make breakfast, and it’s the only day I feed the horses. Come to the house at four p.m. sharp or I’ll toss your supper to the gulls.”

When she got into the house, she found her father waiting for her. “Perfect,” she muttered, taking off her boots and setting them by the door. She definitely did not want to talk to her father. What would be a good topic? The gossip about last night? Her engagement? The botched roping? Dallas?

“I’m going to bed, Dad. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Keeping her head down, she headed for the stairs. She was halfway up when she heard him say:

“You stay away from that Indian.”

She said nothing and kept moving. In the bathroom, as she brushed her teeth and changed her clothes, she remembered his admonition.

That Indian
.

She’d heard the change in her father’s voice when he said it, the distaste and the prejudice, and for the first time in her life, she was ashamed of him.

Still, she knew it was good advice.

May came to the Canal in a burst of sunshine. All along the shore, preparations were made for the coming summer. Awnings were unrolled and washed and readied for use, barbecues were repaired, and trips to the nursery became commonplace. Overnight, the planters on porches and decks bloomed with color. Everyone knew it was illusory, this palpable proof of the coming heat, but no one cared. A couple of sunny days in May could tide the locals through a rainy June.

For the first few days, Vivi Ann did her best to ignore Dallas Raintree. She woke earlier than usual and set out breakfast for the three of them, but she made sure not to be there at six when Dallas stopped by. Each morning she left a list of chores on the kitchen table for him, a list she knew her dad added things to, and by suppertime (which she also avoided) those chores were always finished. Even her father, who judged people harshly, had to admit that Dallas “knows his way around a ranch.” By the end of the week, amazingly, no one cared about Vivi Ann’s tavern transgression anymore. The tidal surge of her wedding plans had washed all that away.

Oh, people still gossiped about it, pointed to Dallas when he walked into the Outlaw Tavern or the feed store, but none of it mattered anymore. Henry Grey had accepted him as the new ranch hand, and that ended any discussion. When asked in town, Dad was heard to say,
Coulda surprised me, but the Injun turned out to know ranchin’,
and that was the end of that.

Vivi Ann wished she could forget it so easily.

He was in the barn now, on this bright afternoon, standing in the open doorway, sweeping dust and dirt and bits of straw into the sunlight.

It was too late to pretend she hadn’t looked at him, so she smiled—more a gritting of her teeth, really—and walked toward him.

“Could you go to the feed store and get some psyllium? We’re out. Chuck will know what to give you and he’ll put it on our tab. Do you need my truck?”

“A truck I got.”

“Good,” she said, meaning to walk away.

He smiled.

She hesitated a moment longer and then forced herself to move. She thought she heard him laughing softly behind her, but she refused to turn around.

Just then a big black SUV pulled into the lot and parked. Six preteen girls tumbled out, giggling and talking all at once. Mackenzie John ran toward her. “Are we late?”

“Nope. Go get saddled. I’ll meet you all in the arena.”

The girls rushed off.

Vivi Ann heard the car door open and close behind her and she knew what that meant.

Julie John sidled up to her, bumping her hip to hip. She was a tall, beautiful woman with spiky blond hair and a ready smile. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Christian Slater. Who do you think?
Him
.”

Vivi Ann knew it was pointless to pretend confusion, so she tilted her chin a little, just enough to indicate direction.

Dallas was by the shed now, forking cedar shavings into a rusted wheelbarrow.

“Wow.” Julie paused, maybe even sighed, then said, “You be careful, Vivi.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

“Yeah, well. I’d listen if I were you. Your engagement is the talk of the town. People thought you’d never settle down, and Luke is a great guy.”

“I hardly need you to tell me that.”

“Really? Because I know about that wild streak of yours. Remember when you were all hot for that transfer student in tenth grade? The guy who got in trouble for drinking at the homecoming game? What was his name?”

Vivi Ann pulled away.

“Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I will. Thanks.” Vivi Ann left Julie standing alone in the parking lot. As she walked toward the barn, she could feel both of them looking at her—Julie and Dallas—but she didn’t glance at either one. Instead, she strode purposefully into the arena and began her lessons.

“Your posture is lovely, Mackenzie,” she said. “Keep your heels down, remember? And Emily, today we’re going to work on your lead changes for the fair. So I want you to collect your mare. You remember how to do that? First you sit deep in the saddle . . . Good. Now bring her head in by drawing back the reins . . .”

One lesson followed another all day, and the constant activity kept Vivi Ann focused. When the last lesson had ended, she rubbed the crick in her neck and walked back to the house, where she made a pot of spaghetti sauce, put it in a Crock-Pot to simmer, and went upstairs to shower.

She was downstairs pouring herself a glass of wine when someone knocked at the door.

He was right on time.

Steeling herself, she opened the door. “Hello, Dallas.”

She waited for him to say something, but he just stood there staring down at her. It was the first time she’d really allowed herself to look at him, and she noticed a jagged, nearly invisible scar that ran along his hairline, from temple to ear. It was crooked and uneven, as if a drunk seamstress had stitched it up with an ordinary needle and thread; she couldn’t help wondering how he’d been injured. Without thinking, she traced the ragged lines with her fingertip. She was about to ask him how he’d gotten this scar, but before she could ask the question, he said quietly:

“Be careful, Vivi Ann. I might touch you back.”

She jerked her hand away from him.

“You sure you want to stop?” he said. There was laughter in his voice, and something else, a knowing that irritated her.

She turned away, walked into the kitchen saying, “There’s spaghetti sauce on the stove and noodles in the strainer in the sink. Help yourself.”