by Brenda Gayle
Seeing her now, reminded him that he’d never properly ended things with her. He’d simply taken off to New York for eight years, and since he’d come back he hadn’t made any attempt to contact her. Obviously that course of action had been ineffective.
Taylor had a predatory look in her eyes as she gazed at him. Though he had moved on, she obviously hadn’t. And to make things even worse, her father, Frank, owned the Roundtree Santa Fe, the hotel where his restaurant, Prime, was located, as well as the executive suite where he was currently living.
“She doesn’t really fit in, does she?” Taylor said, nodding over at Nora.
He turned to watch Nora, again. Her face and hands were animated as she drove home her point to poor Chris Pritcher. Hunter couldn’t believe the difference letting her hair down had made to softening her appearance. Add some high-heels, a little more feminine clothing—like getting rid of that ugly jacket she’d insisted on wearing over the camisole—and she’d rival any of the beauties he dated.
He felt his groin tighten as an image of her naked in his bed flashed into his mind—her soft butterscotch skin, her rich coffee brown eyes, and all that glossy thick hair fanning his pillow. He quickly stepped back from Taylor.
“Nora’s in a class of her own.” He suddenly felt protective of her. He wasn’t dating her—although technically she was his date for the evening—but he didn’t want Taylor to think he found Nora undesirable.
“She doesn’t seem your type,” Taylor said. “Too old.”
Oh boy, I’m not going there. “I promised Nan I’d check on the kitchen. I should do that. It was nice seeing you again, Taylor.” A bold-faced lie, but at least a believable one, he thought as he disengaged her arm and resisted the urge to dash out of the room.
To the casual observer the kitchen would seem to be in a state of utter chaos. Hunter knew the truth and it was like a balm on his soul to see the cooks and servers strut and weave around one another as though engaged in a complicated dance.
“Ah Mr. Big-time Chef, come to make sure we know what we’re doing?”
“Estella, what could I possibly teach you?” Hunter said to the elderly Hispanic woman who came to greet him. “I’ve come to give you my compliments, and to steal a few more of those empanadillas. If you ever get tired of my grandmother’s mistreatment you can always come work for me.”
Estella had been his grandmother’s cook and housekeeper for as long as he could remember. She had been the one who had initially fostered in him a love of cooking. Although she should have retired years ago—he knew Libby had offered her a generous pension—she had refused to give up her kitchen.
“Gracias, no. I’ve seen what you do to a kitchen. Such a mess.” She frowned at him.
“Sorry about that, Estella. I hope it didn’t take you too long to clean up.”
Her expression remained stern for a few moments and then she winked playfully at him. “I didn’t clean it up. That’s work for the jóvenes unos not me.” She went to the doorway and looked out into the hallway. “Is that her? Your Miss Cross?”
Hunter looked around the large woman. “Yup, but she’s not my Miss Cross.”
“Harumph,” Estella said. “She’s younger than I expected, considering...”
“Considering what?”
“Considering what she’s done for all los niños—the children.”
“You know about that? About her organization?” Hunter was surprised. Estella lived an insulated life, one that focused solely on her own family and his grandmother.
“My sister’s grandson, Alonso—”
“Your sister Benita?” She had six sisters, but Hunter knew she was closest to the youngest, Benita.
“Sí. Alonso was always a terrible student. But los profesores—the teachers—they didn’t discover he couldn’t read until grade six. Grade six! It was a crime.”
Hunter tsked in sympathy and nodded for her to continue.
“Anyway, someone at the school told Alonso’s mama to go to the Children’s Action Network for help. The school could do nothing. Miss Cross found a program that would help teach Alonso to read. But she didn’t stop there. No, Miss Cross forced the school to start testing students to make sure they could read and write. No more students falling through these cracks. She is a great woman.”
“And how is Alonso doing now?”
Estella beamed at him. “He is finishing twelfth grade this year and will be going to college next year. He’s going to be an electrician.”
“That’s wonderful, Estella. Your family must be very proud.”
“That’s why I don’t care about the mess in the kitchen. I tell you, mi muchacho, if your Miss Cross wanted to burn down the whole of Casita Hunter, I’d give her the matches.”
Hunter chuckled and hugged her. “Yes, she’s in a class of her own.” He was surprised to find himself repeating the phrase he’d used with Taylor, but this time his meaning was different.
He hadn’t really thought about Nora’s job or the impact she made on people’s lives. It couldn’t be easy doing the work she did, trying to get on the agendas of time-strapped politicians and harried business people. Perhaps he shouldn’t be critical of her for seizing opportunities where she could.
But still, this was a cocktail party, not a business meeting. She needed to learn to relax and have some fun. Maybe he should reconsider his grandmother’s challenge—for Nora’s sake.
He went to the cupboard and took down a tumbler, filled it two-fingers full with iced tea—he hated the questions he got when people realized he wasn’t drinking and the iced tea would be mistaken for whiskey by most guests—and added two ice cubes. Then he liberated a glass of champagne from the tray Sara was about to carry out to the guests, and went to rescue Nora from herself.
“I brought you some champagne.” Hunter forced the glass into Nora’s hand. “Please excuse us, Chris, but there are some people I’d like to introduce Nora to.” He could barely stop himself from laughing at the look of enormous relief on Pritcher’s face as he took Nora’s elbow and steered her across the great room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered harshly. “We haven’t finished talking.”
“Oh, you’re finished all right.”
“But I’ve been trying to get hold of him for weeks. I need to get him to—”
“This is a cocktail party. You’re supposed to socialize.”
“But what if he won’t take my calls again tomorrow? How am I supposed to get through to him? You’ve just blown a perfect opportunity.”
Hunter stopped and looked down at her. “You don’t understand the concept of small talk,” he said. “People don’t come here to openly do business. It’s more subtle than that.”
“Really? And how am I supposed to get anything accomplished if I can’t talk business?”
“The purpose isn’t to conduct business here. The purpose is to build a personal connection so you can conduct business in the future. Let me demonstrate.”
For the next forty-five minutes Hunter moved them from group to group. He introduced Nora to each person they met and made certain they knew who she was and what she did. They engaged in small talk for a few moments, and then moved on to the next group.
As they made their way around the room he was careful to ensure their path never crossed Taylor’s. He wasn’t prepared to deal with her yet, and he was positive Nora wouldn’t know what had hit her if the two women met.
“All right, shall we go?” Hunter asked.
“Go? Now?”
“Never talk to anyone for more than five minutes, and never outstay your welcome.”
“More cocktail party rules?” she said.
“More like guidelines.” He smiled. He could tell she had enjoyed herself. Hopefully, she had learned a thing or two so she wouldn’t sabotage her next social outing.
“Okay. I just need a few more minutes with Representative Pritcher and then we’ll go.”
“Absolutely not.” Hu
nter didn’t mean to raise his voice, but her suggestion surprised him. Maybe she hadn’t learned anything after all.
“What if I keep it to five minutes?”
“No. Nora, leave it. You’ve lost him. Find a way to accept it and move on.” Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. They said goodbye to Libby and left.
Neither talked on the drive home. Nora seemed lost in her own thoughts and Hunter decided it was best to give her some space.
He escorted her to the door of her apartment and wondered if she’d expect him to kiss her goodnight. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind tasting her full lips and holding her soft body against his.
Better not. The way his body was responding to the images in his mind, it was unlikely he’d be able to keep it to a chaste peck, and he definitely didn’t want things to go any further. He was simply fulfilling his end of a made-up obligation to her powerful sister. Still, to feel the silky weight of her hair wrapped around his fingers...
“Why did you say that?”
His attention whipped back to the present. “Say what?”
“That I had lost Representative Pritcher. What did you mean?”
“Oh, that.” Hunter sighed. She wasn’t going to like it, but he owed her the truth, if only to stop her from repeating the same mistake in the future. “If you had simply engaged in small talk with Pritcher he would remember that the two of you had a lovely conversation, and he’d be happy to take your call tomorrow. Instead, all he’s going to remember is a crazy stalker-lady, and by tomorrow he’ll probably have directed his staff to screen out your calls.”
“I did not stalk him.” She stomped her foot and glared up at him.
“You might as well have. He’s not going to remember anything you told him tonight, and I can pretty much guarantee he won’t talk to you tomorrow.”
Her eyes were almost black as frustration warred with anger. Given her stubborn bull-in-a-china-shop approach to human relations, it was hard to believe she was as successful as his grandmother and Estella said she was. Probably sheer force of will. She had her agenda and she pushed and pushed until she got what she wanted—wore down any opposition. Someone should have told her long ago that it was easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar.
“You think I’m a real screw-up, don’t you?” Nora said.
Impossibly, her eyes grew even darker. “It was my sister wasn’t it? She was pissed off about the way the cooking lesson went and somehow threatened you if you didn’t ask me out. You knew I wouldn’t go out with you after the other night, and so you got your grandmother to invite me to a party.” She stared at him accusingly. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
He was shocked. He couldn’t believe she had seen through his perfect plan. “I felt badly about the way things went the other night, and I knew you wanted to meet Nan. But she wanted to meet you, too. She’s genuinely impressed by your work.”
“So you both took pity on me? Too bad, I screwed up this evening, as well.”
“You didn’t screw anything up.” They were still standing outside her apartment and he could hear voices coming from the stairwell. “Can we go inside?”
“I don’t think so.”
He sighed. “Okay. Look, Nora, from everything I’ve heard, you’re a fantastic children’s advocate. You’ve created this amazing association and you’ve accomplished a lot. In a business setting, you’re probably formidable. Scratch that: after seeing you with Chris Pritcher tonight, I know you’re formidable. But socially...?” He shrugged, aware he’d likely overstepped.
“Socially what?” she insisted.
Shit. Well, he couldn’t back-pedal now. “Do you have any friends, Nora? Do you ever just hang out with somebody? Have fun?”
“Of course I have friends. What do you think I am? A hermit? I have friends. I have fun.”
Her words were spoken forcefully, but he noticed she hesitated slightly before she said them. He doubted very much that she did much more than work and sleep.
Was that his concern? He should just walk away and leave her to her delusion. But she could have so much more. He remembered Estella’s happiness that Alonso had been saved from a life of illiteracy. Nora had done that. And there were probably many others she had helped, too. She did deserve more.
“Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he said, surprising himself.
“You don’t believe me. You think I’m some poor shut-in who doesn’t have a life, and so you want to charge in on a white horse and rescue me. Well let me tell you something, Mr. Hunter-Rancho-Tres-Hermanos-Graham. Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Not all of us have the luxury to play all the time. Not all of us think only about our own pleasure.”
He watched, dumbfounded, as she searched her purse for her key and fumbled to get it into the lock. Thinking she was done speaking, he tried to find something to say to defend himself.
She turned and looked up at him. “Some of us work hard to get to where we want to be,” she said. “Some of us want to make this world a better place. Some of us want meaning in our lives. The fact that I’m not out on the town every night with a different gigolo on my arm doesn’t mean I don’t have fun. I do not need rescuing. And I sure as hell don’t need you.”
She then disappeared into her apartment. He expected her to slam the door in his face as she had the last time. She didn’t.
****
Senator David Begay stood on the balcony of his hotel suite and took in the clear starry night of Santa Fe in February. After twenty-five years in the New Mexican Senate he probably should have invested in his own apartment by now, but the legislature only met for an alternating thirty or sixty days at the beginning of each year. He spent the rest of the time back home in his district.
He took a long sip of bourbon and savored the burn trailing down his throat. Why didn’t Libby serve something decent at her parties? Champagne wasn’t a man’s drink. Hell, when Stewart was alive, there’d been real drinks. That Libby’s grandson had managed to snag himself one hadn’t escaped David’s notice. He had been going to pin the kid down and ask him where the stash was, but that would have meant running into Nora Cross again, and he wasn’t prepared for that.
Seeing her had been a shock and he knew he’d responded badly, scaring her away with all his questions. But he had to be sure. He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced she was the child, but it certainly created a dilemma.
He sighed, drained his glass, and walked into the small sitting room.
Thomas King. That was a name he hadn’t thought about in over thirty years. And now, it had come up twice in less than two weeks. He wasn’t a particularly spiritual man, but he did believe there was no such thing as coincidence. Something was telling him he’d better pay attention.
He should have remembered Ronnie Stokes was being released from prison, but seeing him shuffle into the office last week had been a big surprise. In his late fifties now, his health had obviously suffered from his thirty-four years in the slammer.
But there was still something about him, a charisma that sucked you in and made you trust him. But trusting him was a big mistake.
Their conversation had been pleasant at first, but it hadn’t taken David long to recognize that prison hadn’t mellowed Ronnie. The hatred was still there—hatred, and a need for vengeance against the man who had put both him and John in jail. The snitch, Thomas King.
He shouldn’t have allowed Ronnie to bring up the old days. He should have just wished him a good life and shown him the door. David had never been involved. By the time the whole mess had started he’d already left home and was making a name for himself in the band council. He had been the responsible one. Not like his brother, John.
John had been a hothead, a thrill-seeker who had gotten in with the wrong crowd and run wild. David had secretly been relieved when it had caught up to him. John, along with Ronnie and a bunch of others, had been sent to jail for extortion, drugs, and a number of other crimes. Ro
nnie had got the worst of it. He’d been found guilty of murder, too, and sentenced to a much longer prison term.
David closed his eyes. It was so difficult to think about those times. The news that John had been killed in a prison grudge-match had devastated their mother. She’d taken her own life shortly afterward. His father had begun drinking more heavily. One night he had gotten so drunk he drove into a tree, killing himself and the twenty-four-year-old girl that he’d picked up at a bar.
He should have shown Ronnie the door, not listened to him.
Ronnie had told David that he believed King had been seeing a non-Native girl from Farmington by the name of Cross, and that there might have been a child. King may have gone into witness protection, but the girl hadn’t.
Once the penitentiary had gotten Internet access, Ronnie had been able to track her down very easily. And sweet Jesus, she was now married to the state’s attorney general. Sweat broke out on David’s forehead whenever he thought about it.
Thankfully, Ronnie had the good sense not to try to go after her. But he was fixated on the possibility of a child.
Nora Cross had said Karen Cross was her sister, but given her age and society’s attitudes when it had all gone down, it wasn’t inconceivable for the family to hide a teenage pregnancy. Nora Cross could very well be the child Ronnie was looking for.
The question was: what was David going to do about it? It wasn’t his fight. He had kept his hands clean of this mess for thirty-five years. And yet, John’s death and those of his parents could be directly traced back to the betrayal by Thomas King.
Was it coincidence that Nora Cross had appeared before him tonight, or was there greater meaning to it? If he told Ronnie about her he’d be handing her a death sentence. But maybe that was the point. The elders believed that life is a constant cycle of growth, death, and new life, all flowing in a circular motion.
