BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

by Ruth Wind

  "Yes, sir." She saluted.

  "You really love cleaning, don't you?"

  "My mother thinks it's crazy, too. She never stuck to routines—but it makes things so cheerful when they're clean, don't you think?" She looked around with a little smile.

  Robert straightened and looked at it through her eyes. Sunlight streamed in through the clean windows with their pressed, clean curtains. No litter of beer bottles or ashtrays sat on the coffee table, only a nice arrangement of plastic fruit that appalled him, but Crystal had picked out. She washed it every week and patted it dry.

  He'd rented the place because it was the right size for him, a little box with a kitchen and two small bedrooms and a living room that opened on to a small wooden porch. It sat at the outskirts of town, so he didn't have to deal with neighbors much or any lawn to speak of, just the omnipresent meadowlands with their offerings of columbines and long-stalked grasses. "Yeah," he said. "It's a great house."

  "You should have a cat or something." She plumped her pillows vigorously and slid one into a crisp pillowcase.

  Aside from little requests like the feather duster she'd gone nuts for at Kmart, and the plastic fruit, it was the first time she'd even obliquely asked him for anything. "You want a cat?"

  A shrug.

  It struck him forcefully that he was no longer alone. After years and years and years of eating dinners by himself in front of the television, and getting up to everything exactly the way it had been the night before. He had somebody to talk to when he was blue. He had someone to say, "Hey, look at this," when there was something on the news. Somebody to share chores with, eat meals with.

  He'd only done what was necessary when Crystal showed up; he'd made room for her, done the best he could. But now he realized how much she'd done for him. "Maybe we oughta go see if they have any at the pound."

  Her face glowed. "Really?"

  "Sure." He tugged on the end of her braid. "I like cats. Maybe we can get two, one for me and one for you."

  "They have to be inside cats, though. No going outside. I don't like that."

  "Okay." He wandered to the door, pulling his T-shirt over his head. "I'll jump in the shower, then you can have it. Maybe we could have lunch first somewhere."

  "McDonald's?" she asked with hope.

  "Ugh. No. Someplace better."

  She grinned, looking impossibly young and pretty and sweet, the way she should. "Grown-ups are so boring."

  He tugged the rubber band out of the bottom of his braid and shook out his hair. "Look who's talking." He threw his T-shirt at her. "McDonald's is not high cuisine."

  "Yuck!" She threw the T-shirt back at him. "And don't use such fancy language."

  "It's good for you."

  The doorbell rang, and Robert picked up his shirt from the floor. "Get ready and we'll go." Probably the paperboy, who showed up at the dot of eleven every second Saturday. He stuck his hand in his pocket and found he only had a five. "Hang on!" he called, and went to the bedroom for a ten.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Marissa had a routine on Saturday mornings. She liked to get up early and walk downtown, pick up a latte from a café she liked, then walk through the pleasant side streets that branched off Main, to look at garage sales. It was a homey tradition in Red Creek, a homey tradition she enjoyed right along with everyone else. She also hit the big, three-county flea market that was held at the fairgrounds once a month, and although she enjoyed the social angle as much as everyone else did, her true purpose was related to her avocation: art glass.

  She was a minor expert, specializing in Art Nouveau. She collected several items herself, and stayed in touch with an honest dealer who could sell the pieces in which she had no interest. It had amazed her at first, how often she found rare and not-so-rare pieces in Colorado, but there had been a huge amount of mining money here in Red Creek, and more in Denver. More than once she had spared a vendor from making a big mistake in selling the 1908 Van Briggle vase they'd grown tired of for two dollars and fifty cents instead of the thousands it would command in the open market, or letting the Louis Comfort Tiffany inlaid bronze dish go as an ashtray.

  This morning, she'd come out especially early, scenting possibility in an "Attic" sale on one of the oldest blocks in town. Three families had come together for the sale of an old woman's Victorian mansion. Tables had been set out on the lawns between two houses, and Marissa browsed happily among the old records and books, tickled when she found an old, hardbound Donna Parker she remembered, the one in which Rickie's mother died. So sad. She tucked it happily under her arm, and around the crotch of an old tree, spied the kitchen and glass-wares and costumed jewelry, all spread on a huge Arts and Crafts buffet in exquisite condition. Aha!

  Furniture wasn't her usual area, but she examined the piece intently, trusting her instincts. It was in perfect condition, save a very small chip on one corner, and she knew it was worth far more than the fifty-dollar price tag stuck on it. She took out a notebook she carried for this purpose and scribbled notes about it for future reference. The drawers were open, holding ropes of old costume necklaces and rhinestone earrings. The top was cluttered with extraneous kitchen supplies, among them an enormous collection of vases in every shape and form available, along with plates of carnival glass—that carried price tags commensurate with its value. Marissa didn't collect it, but was pleased to see that the sellers did know the worth.

  Most of the rest of the glass was flawed or worthless—a fairly good example of milk glass was badly cracked, and a promising cameo glass proved to be an imitation. She was about to go find one of the sellers to let them know they needed to have the buffet appraised before letting it go when her eye caught on a soft glow in one of the drawers. Hesitantly she moved a tangle of Mardi Gras beads out of the way to reveal a small, opalescent statue of a woman in a circle of glass. Marissa's heart pinched as she reached for it, drawing it into the light—it was! She held it up to the sun, laughing at the glow it cast. It was a miraculously unchipped, uncracked and perfectly whole perfume bottle stopper by Lalique, with the design of a naked woman in a twist of branches.

  "Oh!" she said, turning to the woman in a jumper who approached pleasantly. "Let me ask you a question."

  "Of course." A bright, tanned smile. "Are you interested in the buffet?"

  "No, but is it yours?"

  "Yes, all of these came from my aunt's house. She died recently and we're remodeling."

  "Well, the vases are all junk and the jewelry, but the buffet needs to be appraised. It's worth at least a couple of thousand."

  Her lips turned down in surprise. "Really? I have always hated this thing. So clunky. I don't much like anything from that era, so I won't keep it anyway, but I appreciate you letting me know."

  Marissa opened her hand, letting her treasure glow in her palm like a beacon. "And how much for this?" She held her breath.

  A shrug. "Pretty. How about fifty cents?"

  Marissa smiled, and pulled out her purse and carefully set the piece down. "I'm going to write you a check for this, but there's a rule. You may not look at it until I leave."

  "A check for fifty cents?"

  "No." Marissa completed the check, tore it out and folded it in half. "Considerably more than that. This is," she said, picking it up with reverence, "a wonderful and rare antique. If your aunt has more of this kind of thing, I really want to see it, and if you have more glass in the house, you should have it examined."

  The woman looked concerned, and waved toward some clothing on a rack to one side. "Do you want to wrap that in something?"

  "Great idea." She took an old silk hair scarf from a hanger. A collection of soft, airy dresses in bright India cottons had caught her eye, one in a cranberry shade, one in a beautiful green. They were maternity dresses, with the tags still hanging from the sleeves, and very tiny. She pulled one out and thought of Crystal's dark hair against the fabrics. "How much?" she asked the woman.r />
  "A dollar each."

  Marissa bought them, and feeling buoyed by the little yelp of the woman when she opened the check, she drove to Robert's house. The happy mood carried her all the way up the steps and she gave a quick, strong knock to the screen door—then courage deserted her.

  Suddenly she felt like an idiot. Women must think up excuses to see him all the time. How would this look? She frowned, looking at the dresses again, and worried that Crystal would never wear such things. Robert would probably be offended that she thought he wasn't taking care of the girl's clothes well enough.

  Oh, bad idea. She nearly bolted, but a voice called from within, "Hang on a second!" and she couldn't move. Anxiously she looked down again at the dresses, simple summery things that would be so much more comfortable for Crystal over the last month or so of her pregnancy. The colors were still as beautiful as she thought, and she sighed.

  "Marissa!" The word held surprise.

  She looked up and saw Robert, dimly, through the screen.

  Shirtless.

  And his hair was down. "Hi," she said weakly.

  He stayed where he was, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head and tugging it down over his flat, brown belly before he crossed the room and opened the screen door to her. A wicked twinkle lit his eyes. "You look like you've come to the wolf's door," said that slightly hoarse voice.

  Marissa could not summon a single word to her lips, mainly because every thought in her brain evaporated, splatting like water on the heat he generated just standing there in a pair of very old jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt that clung to his torso like a layer of oil, showing every muscle, every sleek line, every indentation of his body. It was inside out, and she wondered vaguely why he'd been in such a rush to cover his chest.

  But it was his hair that made him dangerous. She'd never seen it down like this. It streamed over his shoulders, each strand as glossy and healthy as every other, the mass of it not nearly as black as she'd thought, but laced with warmer browns and even a few glitters of lighter brown.

  She didn't like long hair. She liked razor cuts and army styles, even crew cuts. Long hair said a man hadn't grown up. It said he didn't give a damn about what the world thought. In Colorado, it often said he was a redneck with a shotgun in his truck and a ready six-pack of beer.

  On Robert, long hair was right. It was a rejection of the mainstream culture, but he had that right, didn't he? She thought, suddenly, of the upside-down American flag on the jean jacket he wore sometimes.

  "Cat got your tongue?" he said, and a slow, sly grin turned up the edges of that wide mouth. His eyes crinkled the slightest bit at the corners.

  "Um." She looked at the dresses in her hands, and wished for a long, painful minute that she had never had a single impulsive impulse, and especially that she'd never had this one.

  She felt her cheeks redden with total social humiliation, and flailed around for some explanation as to why she was here. Helplessly she lifted the dresses, as if they might tell him, and suddenly her tongue came unstuck. "You know, I had an idea, and maybe it was a bad one, and I'll just … um…" She backed away, her free hand fluttering up as if to grab some intelligent word from the air. "I'll let you go on with whatever you were doing."

  He grinned, showing those straight white teeth, and kicked the screen door wider, propping it with one foot. A bare foot. His naked toes gave her a jolt. "Wow," he said conversationally, folding his arms casually over his chest. "Think the teacher's a little flustered." His eyelids fell just the slightest bit, lending him a suggestive, seductive aspect, and he wet his bottom lip with his tongue. "Scared of me, white girl?"

  The answer was yes. He looked like a hot summer night. Like a motorcycle ride. Like two o'clock in the morning. She took a breath, blew it out, regained a little dignity. "I didn't think I liked long hair," she said.

  He laughed. With exaggerated vanity, he tossed his head and sent the mass swirling over arms, chest, back. With an arched brow he said, "Want to brush it?"

  She smiled. "Pass."

  "So," he said, lifting his chin, "what d'you have there?"

  "Oh." Still a bad impulse, but what could she do about it now? "I found these, and thought they might work for Crystal. I bought them at a garage sale, but they still have their tags—I know a lot of people don't like used stuff—and they were so pretty and it's going to get warm enough that she's not going to be able to stand that coat, and they just looked like her somehow."

  He waited through the long spill of words. "That was a nice thing to do." One long brown hand touched the fabric. "I don't know if she'll like them—you know teenagers—but it's worth a try."

  She relaxed. "Oh, well." She waved a hand. "They were only a dollar apiece, so I took the chance."

  "Come on in." He cocked his head, pushed the door wider, led the way into a bright, clean, sweet-smelling room. "Crystal," he called. "You have a visitor."

  "I do?" She came around the corner, perplexed, and halted dead. She wore a pair of jeans and a simple, oversize white shirt. The hair that usually hid her face was swept back. Marissa was struck by the very painful thinness of her body, except for her breasts and belly, and by the sweetness of the makeup-less features.

  To Marissa's relief, she didn't look upset. "Hi, Ms. Pierce. What are you doing here?"

  She almost started stuttering and explaining too much, but a single glance at Robert's amused face put her straight. In the same spirit with which she picked up the dresses in the first place, she held them out. "These made me think of you."

  Instant wariness in the dark eyes. "Really?"

  "If you don't like them, it won't hurt my feelings. I know I'm a boring adult and don't get the fashion thing, but I was at a yard sale and they were cheap, and brand-new. Couldn't stand to leave them there."

  Crystal came forward slowly, put a hand on the skirt, just as Robert had. "I could try 'em."

  Marissa let her take them, pleased when Crystal said, "Can you wait, tell me if they look good?"

  "Of course."

  She slid away, holding the dresses up to her body. She almost skipped. Marissa let go of her tension and smiled at Robert. "You never know, do you?"

  He lifted his eyebrows, a funny expression in his eyes. "I guess maybe I haven't thought too much about the clothes angle. Got her a few little things when she first got here." A rueful grin. "I forget about that girly stuff, you know?"

  "You're allowed."

  "Can I get you something? Crystal makes really great limeade. She learned to make it in home ec."

  "I'd love some, thank you. I've been checking out garage sales this morning."

  He gestured for her to follow him into the kitchen. "Excuse me for saying so, princess, but that doesn't seem like your style."

  "You never know. I had an outrageously great morning."

  "Yeah?" Moving efficiently, he put ice in three glasses and poured a pale green liquid from a glass pitcher. He gave her a glass, and carried two others into the living room and put them down on the coffee table. "Oh, damn. Forgot the coasters. She'll kill me." He turned, whipped three out and put them on the table, winking. "I haven't been that civilized before, you know."

  Marissa smiled around the tiny knot he put in her chest. However she had imagined Red Dog living, this tidy hominess was about as far from the fantasy as it could get.

  "So," he said, settling in a chair across from her. "What did you find, besides the dresses?"

  A little burst of light filled her chest and she smiled as she reached into her bag to pull out the silk-wrapped prize "Are you familiar with antiques?"

  "Not really." But he whistled when she unwrapped the perfume stopper, his eyes going wide as he accepted it as gingerly as it deserved. "Very pretty. What is it?"

  "A perfume stopper from the turn of the century."

  "It's great," he said, and sounded sincere. He turned it slowly, admiring the shifting light, and Marissa found herself admiring his hands. They were beautiful, stro
ng and lean and long fingered, but they were also scarred. Little white scars, most very old, tattoos, new marks from working. Letters marched across the middle joint of each finger, and she grinned. "What do your fingers say?"

  "You don't want to know," He gave her the stopper.

  She raised amused eyes. Her last boyfriend had been a biker, after all. "Bet I already do."

  "I seriously doubt it."

  Marissa only smiled. She did know, but she'd let him keep his secret.

  Crystal came out, shyly. "Well, what do you think?"

  "Oh, it's beautiful! I was right." Marissa stood up to admire her properly. The soft fabric draped lightly around the swell of belly, and swirled around her calves. "That color is perfect for you. It makes your skin look so warm."

  "I like it." She twirled around. "Feels good—like Ginger Rogers or something." She looked at Robert. "You like it, Uncle?"

  He whistled, low and long. "Very pretty. Guess you womenfolk know stuff we guys don't."

  "Duh." Crystal sobered as she looked at Marissa. "Thank you, Ms. Pierce. It was really nice of you."

  "Don't mention it."

  Robert chuckled. "Yeah, Crystal, she got the pleasure of seeing me with my beautiful hair down."

  A ripple of recognition moved on Crystal's face. Uh-oh, Marissa thought.

  "All the women like his hair," Crystal said. "They all like him. But he doesn't like any of them back."

  "And we all cry in our beer every night over it, too, I can tell you," Marissa said lightly. "I understand that every Thursday night, there's a special pagan dance in the woods where the single women throw herbs on a fire and sing special chants to capture his heart." She tsked, spreading her hands. "So far, he's proven immune to everyone but you."

  Crystal knew she was being appeased, but she gave Marissa a rueful grin anyway. Rolling her eyes, she said, "Thanks again, all right? I'm gonna take a shower now. I have a date with Mr. Perfect, you know."