by Ruth Wind
Marissa realized suddenly—once again—how much her life had altered the past eighteen months. Two years ago, she would have huffed and puffed across this lawn. She might even have had to rest. She would have been sweating profusely by now, and felt self-conscious over her arms. Her arms had always bothered her a lot—not the sight of them, because she never allowed them to show, but the slight way they angled out from her body, never truly relaxed.
And she had done it. All by herself. One step, one day at a time. Last night had been a triumph, but in a funny way, her annoyance and worry that Robert might be after her body—not her money or her influence—was even more of one. She laughed softly. He'd been lusting over her in a big way.
She wanted to tell Victoria all of this. Soon.
But an odd, soft pain lingered. He had seen her, even then. But what would have happened if they'd had a chance to get to know each other then? Would his eyes have filled with that heat she so enjoyed? Would he have been tempted to kiss her?
Marissa didn't think so. Why should it hurt? It was just reality.
At home, she gingerly slid the left wrist guard off her hand, keeping it straight. It was tender and beginning to swell, but she could move it without severe pain, so she filled a bag with ice and hunted down a stretchy bandage.
The phone rang and Marissa grabbed it happily. "When are you going to be here?"
"Thursday. Is that good?"
"Yes! The turret room?"
"I called. It's not open. I got the suite instead."
Victoria always stayed in the ski lodge where they'd spent so many happy weeks as children. Every winter, for three weeks in February, they came to Red Creek to ski. They'd both learned the sport here. It had been one of the few places they'd been given freedom to run like other children. "I can hardly wait!" Marissa said. "I'm dying to tell you about a million things." She turned her hand too fast and winced. "I have to go wrap my wrist. I banged it up a bit. Talk to you."
"Ought to have it X-rayed. I broke mine three months ago and didn't do anything with it."
"It's just a sprain." No way she was going to miss the afternoon she had planned. "That reminds me—I really want you to meet one of my students. She's almost sixteen, adorable and lost—pregnant—and absolutely has the best movie sensibility I've seen in a long time. Victoria, she's seen everything. You guys will love each other."
"No kidding. What kind of movies?"
"Literally everything. She's very bright and hasn't had many breaks, and I bet she's going to get a real kick out of meeting you."
"Has she seen any of mine?"
Marissa chuckled. "I don't know. I'll be sure to find out."
"Ah, this wretched ego. Don't tell me if she hates them. Don't tell her they're mine if she hates them."
"It's a deal."
"See you Thursday, gorgeous."
"Ditto."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Robert got Crystal settled on the couch with her movies, a remote and big bottle of water handy at her elbow. Her orders were to stay down completely for three days, only rising for long enough to go to the bathroom. She could sit up for short periods, but Ramona insisted it should mainly be a reclining position, so he'd shifted her to the couch to make it easy for her to look at the television, and propped her up with pillows.
Crystal was remarkably cheerful about it, but then she had a giant stack of movies to watch. "Do you think Ms. Pierce will really come over?"
"Yeah," he said. "She said she would, so she will." He retreated to the little alcove in the kitchen to work off some of his restlessness. His skin felt like it didn't fit right. Taking out his tools and some small pieces of leftover colored glass, he thought about the Tiffany screen, that gradation of color that was so extraordinary.
On a blank piece of heavy paper, he sketched a small design, abstract, and started cutting and fitting.
As he worked, he slid away from himself, into that other land where nothing existed except color, a place where color represented all the sounds and smells and sights that had ever existed in the world. In that place, he did not think in words at all, only images, this shade overlying this tone, this sliver changing that hue. Tension eased from his neck, from his chest.
The release in color had been with him as long as he could remember. As a small boy, he had loved the giant boxes of crayons and would spend endless hours layering stripes of one shade against others, trying the combinations to see how they worked. He saved any money he could earn by running errands or walking dogs in order to buy cheap watercolor sets and colored pencils and coloring books. He adored the ones with little dots that you painted with water to make color appear—they seemed like the ultimate magic, making color where there had been none.
And even then, he'd loved glass. At the St. Vincent de Paul's near his elementary school where his mother bought most of his clothes, he ambled along the junky aisles full of chipped dishes and stained silver, always looking for something beautiful. A blue vase, a little cracked, but of such an elemental blue he gladly paid the quarter for it; a red glass statuette of a dog. Hokey, but breathtaking when he put it in a window to catch the light.
When he was in the seventh grade, wandering far from his house to avoid his cocaine-frenzied mother at all costs, he discovered stained glass in a cathedral. He spied it from outside, dully glinting in the afternoon. A single shard of deepest ruby caught his attention, and he'd gone inside to see it.
The window had been enormous, covering most of one wall. It depicted the stations of the cross, though Robert had no idea what they were at the time. Stunned, he crept into the church and slid into a back pew to absorb it. Hours later, he had emerged feeling like he'd eaten a fantastically rich meal. His retinas were transformed.
And now, twenty years later, he could still lose himself in the pleasure of it. Glass held color in a way that nothing else could. Held it and reflected it and shimmered with it, the deepest hues, the most delicate.
When the doorbell rang, he had no idea if it had been twenty minutes or two hours. Blinking, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was three. No wonder his neck was tired. Stretching happily, he went to the door, seeing that Crystal had fallen fast asleep on the couch. Not even the doorbell had awakened her.
It was Louise on the other side of the door, not Marissa as he'd expected. He grinned at the casserole she was carrying. Putting a finger to his lips, he pointed at Crystal and gestured for Louise to follow him to the kitchen. Once there, he released the swinging door between the rooms and took the dish. "This is fantastic, Louise. Thanks."
"You know it's my pleasure." She tossed an unruly silvered curl from her forehead. "How is she doing?"
"Really well," he said. "Ramona said it's not unusual for young girls to go into labor early, and the drugs should take care of it. She moved something heavy yesterday."
Louise tsked. "It's tough for such a young thing to understand all there is to know about this. I had to stay in bed for most of the time with Tyler." She crossed her arms, and Robert found himself bracing for … something. "I reckon she has to stay down for at least a few days, and I know you have to work, so why don't you let her come on up to the house during the day so I can make sure she's not doing more than she should?"
"I appreciate the offer," Robert said. "But it's not necessary. I'll take off for a day or two."
"Well, if you want to. But I happen to know you're working by the hour, sir, and it seems plain foolish to give up a few days' pay when there's somebody who can lighten your load." She gave him a little space by shifting a little, her attention caught by the tools and glass on the table. She pursed her lips and wandered over for a closer look. "You'd really be doing me a favor, Red. In case you haven't noticed, all my sons and grandsons are male except that little tiny baby girl. I enjoy spending time with my own sex now and again."
"Louise—"
She picked up a round of stained glass. "This is your work?"
<
br /> "Yeah. It's just a hobby."
She put it back down again. "Mmm. Listen, at least think about it. You're a good uncle and all, but a woman likes to have another woman around now and then when she's in this condition."
He hadn't considered that. He grinned. "Don't know why I'm arguing. You always get your way."
"That I do." She poked him lightly in the arm. "And don't you forget it." Tossing the long strap of her sturdy purse over her shoulder, she said, "Put that dish in the oven at three hundred and fifty degrees for an hour and you'll have a nice hot supper."
Looking down at her, at the bright blue eyes her sons had inherited, and the comfortable kindliness that surrounded her, Robert felt suddenly very grateful. He'd not had many mother figures in his life, and neither had Crystal. Impulsively he bent a little and gave her an awkward little half hug. "Thanks, Louise. I'll ask Crystal how she feels about spending time at your place while I work."
"You do that, son."
He walked her out, finding Crystal sitting up again. He willed Louise not to say anything about spending time at the older woman's house, but she saw Crystal and turned abruptly. "There's the sleepyhead!" She settled on a footstool and brushed Crystal's hair out of her face, a gesture that Robert would have expected to make her cringe. "How you doing, sweetie? Scare you good enough?"
Oddly, Crystal didn't seem as defensive with Louise as she was with many adults. She nodded ruefully, touching her belly. "It still doesn't feel that good."
"I know. Tell the truth, this last stretch ain't all that much fun, no matter how strong and healthy you are." She folded her hands. "Is he kicking you good yet?"
"All the time."
Louise looked over her shoulder. "You mind giving us girls a little privacy here?"
Robert lifted his brows at Crystal, who gave him a vague nod. "No problem." He went out on the porch, inhaling the crisp day and patting his shirt pocket and smiling softly to himself. Beware the force of mothers, he thought. And Louise Forrest was the Queen of Mothering—nosy, meddling, stubbornly nurturing, reliably kind. Within weeks of knowing her, she'd known his favorite meal—a rare steak with a big potato and butter but no sour cream—and cooked it for him. Her sons had been very blessed indeed. What would his life have been like if he'd had a mother like Louise?
A car turned into the long drive, Marissa's surprisingly modest, dark blue sedan. A solid, fairly new car, but nothing extravagant or unusual. Millions of teachers across America must drive one just like it. He thought of her house—a perfectly, lovingly restored bungalow, and even though he knew renovation on such a place could cost well into hundreds of thousands, by Rich Girl standards it was pretty damned modest.
Like the car. Like the exquisitely tailored clothes, expensive but not designer. She'd chosen to live in Red Creek, in a bungalow, hiding her Tiffany screen in plain sight because not many people would ever dream it was the real thing, or even that there was a real thing.
With a pinch, he realized she wanted to fit in.
And how could she? Ever?
She got out of the car, wearing a plain oxford shirt, tucked neatly into the waistband of her jeans. Ordinary-girl clothes. Except there was nothing ordinary about those hot, hot curves or her heavy swing of hair or the eyes blue as pure glass. He grinned.
"What big teeth you have, Grandma!" she called, opening the back door and reaching inside. Belatedly he saw that her wrist was bandaged and he rushed to help her.
"All the better to eat you with," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. Smoothly he took the grocery bag out of her arms. "Let me take that. What did you do?"
"In-line skating accident. Just a minor sprain."
"You skate? Where do you go?"
"The park. There are zillions of concrete sidewalks. Do you skate?"
"Love it, man. Pure freedom. Call me the next time you go."
"I will." She halted, narrowing her eyes at the white Lincoln in the driveway. "Louise is here?"
"She brought over a casserole. Why?"
A bright flash of amusement crossed her face. "Oh, you'll see." Louise came out on the porch and Marissa smiled. "How's the patient?"
"Just fine. We had a nice little talk, and, Robert, she is going to be coming to my house in the morning. Just drop her off on your way to work."
"Louise, you really—"
"Shhh." She waved a hand. "Not a word. We have an understanding, me and my girl." She winked at Marissa and got in her car. "We on for walking tonight?"
"Always."
Louise waved as she drove off, and Marissa waved, too, then tucked her hands in her back pocket, or at least started to, and winced, taking the left back out. Still, it was a nice posture in Robert's opinion, showing the nice straight line of her shoulder, the neatness of elbow to hand. And well … yeah … putting her breasts in relief against the dark green pine tree behind her. For one hot, long second, he remembered that transparent blue bra, the darkness of nipples—
"You're staring, Wolf," she said without altering her posture.
He winced. "I am. Sorry." He lifted his eyes to her face, grinning ruefully. "That's … uh…" He shook his head. "I'm usually a leg man, I gotta say."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"I think so."
She looked at his face, as if trying to piece something together. "Maybe it's because I haven't been looked at in the past, but I think I kind of like it. How sick is that?"
He laughed. "Babe, it's the rules that seem skewed to me. Haven't you ever eyed a guy's … jeans?"
"Not I." Her eyes glittered, that red mouth quirking up in a smile that admitted the truth.
"We're animals, no more, no less. Natural to look at those areas that are part of mating."
"Really." She slid her gaze down his body, boldly letting it linger just below his belt.
Electrifying. He expected her to look up, maybe even to blush, but she took her time, and only after a long, long moment during which he forced himself to think about those beads of glass on his table, did she look up. "I see what you mean." Her nostrils flared in amusement.
"Let's go inside," he said a little gruffly.
She laughed.
* * *
Marissa had brought popcorn and tortilla chips for the two skinnies, and for herself a huge pile of broccoli fibrets, zucchini and summer squash sticks, her beloved celery sticks, apples and a skim-milk-based dressing with no fat and lots of flavor. She could pig out on it all day and never feel a moment of guilt.
It had been a great surprise to her to discover that she loved veggies. As a child, she thought she hated them because Victoria did, and had simply made a habit of avoiding them. She'd adored the fruit sections of the market, all those piles of beautifully shaped apples and pears and bananas and melons, and splurged on whatever was in season, but the vegetable section bored her.
But the weight-loss plan she'd eventually settled on had insisted on up to five servings of vegetables and fruits per day, and to her amazement, most vegetables didn't count at all. She was a grazer, nibbling all day long, and had started trying various experiments with vegetable nibbles.
So far, she hadn't met a vegetable she didn't like. They were—unlike meats—infinitely varied and beautiful in color, texture, flavor.
They all kicked back, Crystal on the couch, obviously not feeling tip-top, but pleased to have company for the moviefest. Robert slumped in a much-used easy chair, and Marissa got a cozy little chair with a footstool.
"Okay," Crystal said. "What do you guys want to watch?"
Marissa said, "It's up to you, sweetie. You're the one stuck on the couch."
She rolled her eyes. "And you're the ones stuck here trying to pretend there's nothing you'd rather do than hang out with me."
Robert jumped up. "Wow, you mean I don't have to? Come on, Marissa, let's go find something better to do."
"Very funny," Crystal said, but Marissa could tell she was pleased. "Let's vote, then. Braveheart, Cruel Intentions, Lone
ly Street or—" she turned the movie sideways "—Casablanca?" She made a face. "Yuck, uncle."
He lifted a shoulder. "What?"
Crystal looked at Marissa. "Do you like it?"
Marissa pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. "Not really, to tell you the truth." She closed her mouth to keep from insisting they watch Lonely Street, a bittersweet tale of misfits, a movie that had done modestly well at the box office. It was one of Victoria's early works, the first that had illuminated the quick humor mixed with pathos that had become her trademark.
He flopped back in his chair in mock disgust. "Cretins."
"I've seen all of them except Cruel Intentions. Have either of you seen it?" Crystal asked. "I'd kinda like to see what they did with it. Remake and all, you know."
"Remake of what?" Robert tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and tried to catch it with his mouth. It bounced off his lip and fell on the floor.
"If you make a mess with that, I'm going to be very unhappy with you."
A kitten dashed out from under the chair and slapped the popcorn with a tiny black paw. "Not a mess. It's a toy."
Crystal shook her head. "It's a remake of Dangerous Liaisons."
"Hmmm. Never saw it."
Marissa grinned at Crystal and nodded. "Let's do it. Don't tell him the end."
"I don't think they'll do the end the same, do you? How can they?"
"I guess we'll find out." Marissa shifted, thinking vaguely that she needed to find out who Crystal's English teacher was.
But her pleasure in the movie—silly, in her opinion, and by the scowls on Crystal's face, she thought so, too—and the good company was slowly undermined by her aching wrist, an ache that grew from mildly throbbing to quite distracting in two hours' time. She needed ice, but waited until the credits rolled before standing up with a little smile. "Interesting," she said.
Robert scowled from his chair. "I hate that ending."
"You field this, Crystal," Marissa said. "I need to get some ice for this wrist."
