Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘And after years of hiding it, now you want to confront me?’’ I said.

  ‘‘No, I want to tell you I’ve been a big boob.’’

  I stared. ‘‘Don’t say that. You’re begging for a bad joke.’’

  Her hard eyes stared at me in the twilight. And then she did not meow. She tossed her head back and laughed.

  ‘‘You’re a peach. Now ask me in. I have groveling to do.’’

  My stomach had tied itself into a half hitch. ‘‘Five minutes, Harley. Jesse’s coming over, and I’m not up to a three-way chat.’’ I unlocked the door and held it for her as we went in.

  She said, ‘‘The photos were intended to blackmail Cassie. These people thought they’d catch us in a clinch, threaten to wreck her endorsement deals.’’

  ‘‘These people—you mean i-heist. I have to talk to you about that.’’

  She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘‘Jesse looks like a whipped dog.’’

  Stomach into full hitch. She’d seen him.

  She said, ‘‘I’m talking serious misery, gal. I haven’t seen him look this bad since rehab.’’

  I didn’t need Harley arguing in his corner, but that’s not what yanked my chain so hard. ‘‘Rehab. I didn’t know you were still seeing him—’’

  ‘‘Oh. He didn’t tell you.’’ She cast her gaze down. ‘‘Of course he didn’t. I behaved carelessly.’’

  I couldn’t find words to answer. I felt as if someone had poured gasoline on my tender little heart and lit a blowtorch.

  ‘‘Okay, I was a shit,’’ she said.

  She was misunderstanding my reaction, but I was caught in my own jealousy and couldn’t speak. Rehab was when I started spending time with him. That she was still seeing him then . . .

  ‘‘The whole thing was winding down before he got hurt,’’ she said. ‘‘And I was seeing Cassie, and— Jesus wept, will you stop looking at me like that? He was paralyzed. I acted selfishly, but I couldn’t handle it.’’

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  ‘‘Evan.’’ She grabbed my arm. ‘‘You’re the better woman here. I treated him badly. But things weren’t the same as before, and I couldn’t pretend they were.’’

  I opened my eyes. ‘‘You might want to keep your voice down. He’ll be here in a minute.’’

  ‘‘He’s not afraid of this conversation. He and I have made our peace. It’s you who’s the emotional fire-cracker. ’’

  My head was humming like an electrical transformer. Everything I wanted to ask her, all the questions about i-heist and Mako, were drowned in the buzz.

  She put her hands on my shoulders. ‘‘We had an affair. That’s all. It was a rush, like skydiving or heroin.’’

  ‘‘This is what you call groveling?’’

  ‘‘I’m trying to say it was a physical thing, not love. Girl, get a grip.’’

  Harley on the chaise by the pool, fingernails clawing his back . . . yeah, get a grip was the operative image, all right.

  Out on the street, a car door slammed.

  ‘‘That’s him,’’ I said.

  She stared at me. It was her game face, her hardball face. ‘‘I thought you were tougher than this.’’

  ‘‘I’m a rusty nail. But you’ve heard about camels and straws?’’

  I heard the latch lift on the gate. If I had to watch her be with him in my house, I would puddle.

  ‘‘Good night, Harley.’’

  Her shoulders dropped. The hard light in her eyes dimmed.

  ‘‘You know I love you, kid,’’ she said.

  She walked out, leaving the door open. I listened to her footsteps, sandals on the flagstone. They stopped. Her voice murmured, and I heard Jesse’s voice in reply.

  Don’t look, don’t.

  This almost felt like a bad flashback to puberty, but that would be crediting myself with too much maturity. I had turned into a full-grown two-year-old. I walked into the kitchen and got a glass and filled it with ice. And then with Glenfiddich. They don’t make baby-bottle nipples to fit cocktail tumblers, so I drank it straight.

  A rap on the door, two taps, his code.

  ‘‘Ev?’’ He was in the doorway, looking uncertain. ‘‘Harley said you’re ready to throw knives at me.’’

  I went into the living room and sat on the couch, pulling my knees up to my chin. ‘‘You can come in.’’

  He approached the far end of the couch, but no nearer. ‘‘What is it?’’

  I drank, trying to bring myself back to adulthood. Say something mature. ‘‘I just wish you had been honest from the start.’’

  ‘‘So do I. You have no idea how much I wish that.’’ He was trying to read my mind, my face, my body language. He couldn’t like what he was seeing.

  I said, ‘‘The affair. I can’t hold that against you.’’

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  ‘‘But you still haven’t been open with me. About you and Harley. And . . . about after the hit-and-run.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘If there’s more, I want to hear it from you, not from her. Or from i-heist.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’ He took a risk, moving onto the couch. ‘‘What did Harley tell you?’’

  ‘‘About breaking it off when you were in rehab.’’

  ‘‘She did?’’

  ‘‘It wasn’t a pretty story.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He looked strangely fretful. ‘‘She really told you?’’

  ‘‘It’s okay. I’m sorry for you; that’s all.’’

  ‘‘Sorry . . .’’ The question mark was in his voice.

  ‘‘Her attitude. She was honest about it, but what can I say?’’

  ‘‘You’ve lost me.’’

  ‘‘She said . . .’’ I looked away. I loathed talking about this. ‘‘She broke it off because you were paralyzed.’’

  A strange expression began forming on his face. ‘‘Hold it. She broke it off?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry—’’

  ‘‘Jesus, I hate that word. Stop saying it.’’

  My mouth snapped shut. Neither of us spoke. He said, she said . . . In my book of bad conversational techniques, rerunning the gritty details of a breakup is right up there with burping ‘‘Jingle Bells.’’ I did not want to get into it.

  ‘‘Jesse, I don’t care who ended it. But the other night I asked you how long it went on, and you didn’t tell me this.’’

  ‘‘In rehab, Harley said?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘You sound hurt.’’

  ‘‘I feel hurt.’’

  His blue eyes were chilly. ‘‘What’s really bothering you? You’re sorry. You’re hurt. What’s got your goat about the idea that Harley saw me in rehab?’’

  ‘‘When did this turn into a cross-examination?’’

  ‘‘You want honesty. So do I. Tell me why it bothers you so much.’’

  He was supposed to be cowering before me. Instead he was trying to drag my unconscious onto the witness stand. I looked at the coolness in his eyes. Deep in my brain the worker ants sensed danger and started scurrying in all directions.

  ‘‘What are you getting at?’’ I said.

  ‘‘You sound like you want to keep rehab all to yourself. Why, would that give you special status as the only woman valorous enough to keep dating me?’’

  ‘‘No, never.’’

  ‘‘Selfless Evan, willing to put up with my injury and with the stigma of being seen with a gimp. You like thinking you’re the only one, but now Harley’s told you she was seeing me in rehab.’’

  I went stiff as a door. ‘‘Are you saying she’s the one who—’’

  ‘‘Right, I knew it. That’s what this is about. You think she broke my cherry after the crash, when all this time you’ve been counting on it being you.’’

  He stared at me, his eyes glacial. ‘‘Didn’t mean to disappoint you. Spoil your chance for brownie points. How many do you get for screwing a crip, ten thousand?
’’

  ‘‘You’ve got it wrong.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Dear Diary, what a special day. I helped Jesse—’ ’’

  ‘‘Stop it.’’

  He pulled the wheelchair close and hopped on. ‘‘You’re sorry, always so sorry. What is it, you get off on pity fucks?’’

  He could not have hit me harder if he had used his fist. ‘‘That’s low.’’

  ‘‘I’m feeling low.’’

  He backpedaled, spun, headed for the door. I went after him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘‘Stop being such a jackass,’’ I said.

  He jerked away. ‘‘I’m not a project, Evan. I won’t be your damned cause.’’

  ‘‘How can you say that, even think that?’’

  He stopped, looked up at me. His expression was beyond anger, beyond hurt. It was astonished and broken.

  ‘‘Take a look in the mirror. A hard look, and think about what you see.’’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘‘Until then . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘No, I can’t do this. There is no ‘until.’ I can’t be with you. All bets are off.’’

  He left.

  27

  Two days, no word. It finally hit me when the dress-maker phoned.

  ‘‘Miss Delaney, you missed the appointment for your fitting. If you want the gown to be ready for the wedding, you need to come in.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I stammered. ‘‘It’s just . . . I don’t know if . . . I can’t tell you when . . .’’

  All bets are off.

  There wasn’t going to be any wedding.

  Jesse was hurt. I had battered him in a place I had no right to.

  Do you trust me? How many times had he asked me the question? But he’d never had to assert his trust in me—that had been a given. Not anymore. I had squandered that trust. I had hurt him in the worst way. I made him think I didn’t respect him.

  After the crash, I was the one who treated him normally. I was the one who didn’t cringe or patronize or let him get away with things. I knew, because he’d told me so. And now I had made him feel small and weak, made him think that he was a cripple in my eyes. Made him think that I wanted it that way.

  My stomach turned. Did I feel that way—did I consider myself virtuous for staying with him? No, I couldn’t believe it.

  I looked at his photo on the mantel. That wicked grin, the sun on his face. My God, how I loved him. I couldn’t lose him. I had to fight to recover his belief in me. Even if I had to beg or crawl. Being an optimist, I felt sure I could do it. And, being an optimist, I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

  Walking toward the courthouse, I had my face in a legal pad. The day was balmy and bright, the Sunken Gardens vibrating green across the street, tourists wall-to -wall in the clock tower, taking in the view. I had a meeting, actual work, but with my mind full of marbles I was struggling to think in two-syllable words. I crossed the street, distracted.

  I didn’t pay attention to the car idling at the light. But when I stepped onto the sidewalk it pulled to the curb next to me. The driver honked. I looked up. It was a white Jaguar XJ8, so new that you could practically smell the English accent . . . Jag-u-ahh. Mari Vasquez Diamond got out.

  ‘‘You,’’ she said. ‘‘Don’t walk away.’’

  She picked the wrong moment to jab at me.

  I said, ‘‘My God. You take offense if pedestrians passing on the street don’t stop and kowtow. Have you informed NASA about the size of your ego? They’ll want to add it to their GPS system, so jetliners can avoid it.’’

  From the expression on her face, she’d just swallowed straight pins. Her bony bronze legs tottered on stilettos. She looked like a human swizzle stick.

  ‘‘You’ve been libeling me,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You’re off your perch, parakeet.’’

  ‘‘That’s a second count. I’m adding it to the lawsuit.’’ She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. It bore a photo of her Chihuahua.

  ‘‘You have several misapprehensions about tort law,’’ I said. ‘‘First, spoken defamation is slander, not libel. Second, denting a prima donna’s feelings doesn’t give rise to a cause of action. Third, get your ass out of my face.’’

  I walked past her.

  ‘‘You told Kenny Rudenski I’m a slut,’’ she said.

  Turning, I gave her a quizzical look. ‘‘Not remotely close."

  ‘‘You interrogated him about my sex life. You insinuated that I sleep around, and that I married Cal for money.’’

  ‘‘No, I didn’t. But Kenny did.’’

  Her lips parted. ‘‘You tricked him. You’re a reporter; I know you.’’

  ‘‘Where’s Franklin Brand?’’ I said. ‘‘Is he staying at your place? The police would like to know.’’

  She rocked back. ‘‘You’re a liar.’’

  ‘‘You were with him the night of the hit-and-run. You were in the car when he ran down Jesse and Isaac. You’re the one who called the cops and turned him in.’’

  Her face puckered. ‘‘You sent Cal the photos, didn’t you? You left that envelope at our gate. You’re the person who screwed my marriage.’’

  Oh, baby. ‘‘What photos? Of you with Franklin Brand?’’

  ‘‘See. See. It was you. I knew it.’’

  ‘‘Photos of you with him from the night of the hit-and -run?’’

  ‘‘Print that, anything close to that, and I’ll take you for every penny you have.’’

  I had a flash, and I fired at her. ‘‘Why did you turn Brand in? You couldn’t take the idea of him getting away with it, not a second crash, after your sister died and the driver ran away.’’

  I saw the gooseflesh rising on her arms. She started shivering. The bag on her shoulder was shaking. Her Chihuahua popped its head out of the bag and yapped at me, all teeth and frantic eyes. It was joined by barking from the Jaguar. I glanced past Mari’s shoulder and saw two Dobermans in the backseat, faces to the window, chewing the air.

  I said, ‘‘I’m sorry about your sister. But maybe you should think about Adam Sandoval, who lost his brother in similar circumstances.’’

  ‘‘You leave Kenny out of this.’’

  I stepped back mentally, wondering at the nonsequitur.

  ‘‘He had nothing to do with this. Dragging his name into this won’t help anything,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I don’t—’’

  ‘‘Throwing Kenny in my face is as base as you can get. You make me sick.’’

  She really had lost me now. The dogs kept barking. I took a harder look at her and saw real pain in her eyes.

  ‘‘Mrs. Diamond, if I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry. Kenny told me about the car accident, and your sister. I—’’

  ‘‘He was sixteen years old. He was afraid. Comparing what Kenny did to this other accident, it’s crazy.’’

  What Kenny did. The negative developed.

  ‘‘Kenny was in the car with your sister?’’ I said, and saw her mouth crimp. She thought that I already knew. ‘‘Kenny was driving the car?’’

  ‘‘He had a concussion. He was in shock. He went looking for help.’’

  He left Yvette to die.

  ‘‘Back off,’’ she said. ‘‘Back off of me, and off of Kenny. If I hear his name in connection with this again, I’ll ruin you.’’

  The Chihuahua lunged, scrabbling out of the shoulder bag and diving at my arm. I ducked back. It fell to the sidewalk.

  ‘‘Caesar!’’ Mari gasped and bent to grab it. ‘‘Look what you’ve done. You bitch. You bitch!’’

  I walked away. I didn’t think she was talking to the dog.

  I went to Sanchez Marks, but Jesse wasn’t there. Lavonne said, ‘‘I sent him home. The Fibbies are throwing their weight around, and it isn’t good for the firm to have federal agents arguing with Jesse here in the foyer.’’

  I rubbed my eyes.

  ‘‘He’s overwrought. Go talk to him,’’ she said.

 
When I got to his house the stereo was pounding. Hendrix, a portentous sign. Taking a long breath, I knocked on the door and waited until he called, ‘‘Come in.’’ He was stretched out on the couch staring at the television, remote in one hand, beer in the other, one in the afternoon. Watching NASCAR.

  He said, ‘‘I’ve been sent to the corner.’’

  ‘‘Lavonne mentioned it.’’ I walked into the living room. ‘‘Was it Van Heusen?’’

  He pointed to a letter on the coffee table. I picked it up, saw FBI letterhead and a lot of jargon. Under Title 18 of the U.S. Code, section 981, any property, real or personal, traceable to proceeds obtained from money-laundering activities is subject to forfeiture to the United States.

  ‘‘Van Heusen’s leaning on me,’’ he said.

  He raised the remote, upped the volume. The whine of stock-car engines clashed with ‘‘Purple Haze.’’

  ‘‘Want to talk about it?’’ I said.

  ‘‘No. Talking got me the afternoon off.’’ He drank from the beer bottle. ‘‘And now I don’t need any more suggestions. The meter’s pegged. I’m at maximum shit-bearing capacity.’’

  He wasn’t telling me to leave, but he wasn’t asking me to stay, either. The chill couldn’t have been colder. I knew we were both nuked to the point of emotional meltdown, but I couldn’t walk out the door and leave this.

  ‘‘Jesse, I don’t want us to fall apart like this. I respect you more than anybody I know. I don’t care what happened with Harley.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t keep it going on with her after the crash. That’s not what happened.’’

  My inner brat did a somersault, chirping, Hooray, but I looked at him, seeing the gravity in his eyes, and my stomach dropped.

  ‘‘What did happen?’’ I said.

  He stared at the ceiling as though weighing something heavy. Finally he said, ‘‘I would never do this, break a confidence, if Harley hadn’t just taken you to Las Vegas.’’

  A confidence? He had a deep and heavy confidence to keep for Harley? But, of course, he was a person people confided in and trusted.

  He said, ‘‘I broke it off with her because she’s an addict. A compulsive gambler.’’

  The room seemed to refocus.

  ‘‘You don’t look surprised,’’ he said.