He’d never expected to see her again after Rudy’s funeral. There was so much going on then, so many people, they had only a few minutes to speak. Long enough for him to say how sorry he was, what a great guy Rudy was, how much he would be missed. He remembered the look in her eyes, a fear he’d never seen before, not in all the dangerous situations they’d encountered. Like a wild cat he’d caught once in a trap back in Kansas. That same glossy, panicked look.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said. “Del, I’m so sorry.”
She’d grabbed his hand with both of hers for a second, her look as intense as a lover’s, and for a moment, he remembered those hands on his naked back and his brain sizzled in his skull.
He didn’t go to the house afterward, though her brothers had invited him. He was smart enough, wise enough, he thought, to avoid that situation. He loved Benni. She possessed his heart like no woman ever had. He had no business dwelling in a past he wasn’t especially proud of.
But seeing Del brought back memories of a time when he was young, when he felt powerful, invincible. When the only thing that meant anything was the cat-and-mouse game of undercover narcotics, the feint and jab of psychological fencing between buyer and seller, between bad guy and good guy, when sometimes you almost couldn’t tell who was who and all that mattered was the game of “gotcha.”
When Del had walked into his office yesterday, a flood of physical memories had hit him in the stomach like a fist. Of nights that he’d long since relegated to the dark corners of his brain. Nights only half remembered, of the drive back to her place and later his, after Lydia had left taking Sam; half remembered because they were punctuated with that crazy, hysterical euphoria brought on by a successful buy and the “choir practice” they attended afterward in bar after bar, drink after drink, all running into each other like one long highway of blurred neon signs. Lydia could take him stumbling in drunk and exhausted at 4 A.M. for only so long. He couldn’t blame her. But he also couldn’t explain to her how alive he felt after a successful buy, how it brought back the adrenaline high of combat, which he inexplicably missed. He could never tell her how narcotics work felt like a war, the planning of a buy like the planning of a battle. And like Vietnam, it didn’t seem to matter who won and who didn’t. How, at the moment he was doing it, when the buys went down, the sellers in cuffs, and he survived, it felt like he would live forever.
And Del was a big part of that. She was just as crazy, maybe crazier, than the rest of them. Would try anything, go anywhere. No matter how many times her tits and ass were grabbed by the sellers, no matter how crude their remarks, she never lost her cool. Practically every buy she and Gabe made were good ones. Yes, Del Hernandez was as crazy and committed as they come. Would not back down for anyone. And they all loved her for it. Gabe, most of all.
Everyone knew she was his from the moment she joined the squad. She made that clear to any guy who hit on her. She’d waited a long time for Gabe and wasn’t about to waste a second with anyone else.
He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock on his desk. She would be here any moment. He closed his eyes, feeling for a moment as if the world were tilting. He wondered what Benni was doing, felt irrationally guilty for a past that did not include her, did not even touch the life they had now. An image of the pale, downy skin on the back of Benni’s neck came to him and his heart felt enlarged and throbbing. There was so much about him she didn’t know, so much he never wanted her to know. He wanted to remain in her eyes as she first saw him, in control and strong, a man of integrity, a man to be admired.
Like he remembered his father. For some unexplainable reason, he had started thinking about him a lot this last year or so, though he’d been dead for twenty-eight years. Every time Gabe looked into Sam’s face, he missed his own father with an ache inside that felt almost physical.
He glanced at the clock again. Only ten minutes before Del arrived. She would be on time. She was always good about that. He would give her a tour, brag a little, endure her teasing. They’d have lunch in a public place . . . they had nothing to hide . . . and she’d be on her way. No talk of the past. He would make sure of that. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Think about something else, he commanded his brain. Think about the master’s thesis you still haven’t finished. Philosophy. What had possessed him to contemplate getting a master’s degree in philosophy? Who did he think he was? What did he ever expect to do with it? Time was running out. He needed to finish it.
He locked his fingers behind his head. The back of his neck was damp with perspiration. A flash of a remembered image. Del’s long legs wrapped around his waist . . .
Think about something else.
He forced himself to remember what he’d read last week. Kierkegaard had claimed that Providence watched over each man’s wandering through life and in the process provided two guides. One called forward to the good, the other called backward from evil. The philosopher believed that both guides were needed, that to make the journey of life secure, one must continually look forward and backward. That without remorse, a man traveled too lightly into the future, that he did not use his experience and repentance to wisely live in his new life.
Oh God, Gabe thought, an almost earnest prayer, when Del walked into the room. Desire coursed through his veins hot as the coffee he’d poured and didn’t drink. He stood up and came around the desk, Kierkegaard and all his agonizing wisdom pushed aside as Gabe’s almost forgotten past moved swiftly toward him.
7
BENNI
“HI, BENNI,” LYDIA said. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Scout, familiar with my husband’s ex-wife, trotted over to her, tail wagging.
“Hello, sweet boy.” She bent down and scratched under his chin. She looked up at me, her attractive, copper-colored face friendly and calm. “I was hoping we could go to lunch or something. I . . .” She stopped for a moment, faltering, her dark brown eyes, the beautiful eyes she’d passed down to her son, Sam, widened slightly and I caught a nervous twitch under one of them. That surprised me. She was a prominent defense attorney in Santa Barbara, a piranha in the courtroom, I’d been told, and she had always slightly intimidated me with her self-assurance. She was dressed for court in a dark green tailored suit. Though my jeans and plaid flannel shirt were clean, next to her magazine perfection, I felt like I’d just come in from mucking stalls.
I straightened my spine, hearing Dove’s voice inside me reminding me that I was a Ramsey and Ramseys weren’t no less than no one else, thank you very much.
“What can I do for you?” I said, rescuing her from her unusual lapse into wordlessness. That alone made me feel a little more in control. “Is everything okay with Sam?”
He was the common denominator that had formed the fledgling relationship between us. She loved Sam, Gabe loved Sam, and I loved Sam. On that we all could agree. And she was secure enough as a parent to know that a person could never have too many people caring about them. If she was jealous of my friendship with her son, she never showed it to him or me. For that, I had a great respect for her.
She nodded over at one of my visitor chairs. “May I . . .”
I jumped up saying, “Where are my manners? Please, sit down.”
I closed the door behind her and, instead of retreating behind my desk, sat in the visitor’s chair next to her. Her face visibly relaxed at my equalizing gesture.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked. “Or a soft drink?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said, smiling at me gratefully. “And I know it’s only ten-thirty, too early for lunch. That was just . . . I’m just trying to break the ice. I need to talk to you.”
I leaned back in the chair, my stomach rumbling in anxiety. Was there something wrong with Sam? “Is Sam—”
She broke into my sentence. “It’s not Sam, don’t worry. Well, it concerns him, but it concerns you more. He called me last night.”
I nodded. “I saw him at the station yesterday. He seemed agita
ted. Was it about school?”
“We’re okay on that,” she said, settling into the chair, her stiff posture relaxing slightly. “He told me about changing his major. As far as I’m concerned, if he’s happy, not on drugs, and still in school, I don’t care what he studies.”
“Good,” I said. “He was afraid . . .” I stopped, suddenly realizing that I’d revealed that he’d talked to me about it before her or Gabe. I bit my lip, feeling like a fool.
She laughed and touched my arm. “Don’t worry, Benni. I know he talks to you about these things before me and Gabe. That used to bother me, but these days he’s so happy, so all right, how can I be angry?”
My respect for her was growing by the minute. “So, what brings you up to San Celina?”
This time, she bit the corner of her lip. Lydia disconcerted. That was something I’m sure not many people saw. “Actually, it’s you. I’m . . . we’re . . . that is, me and Sam, are concerned about you.”
I jerked my head back. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I asked the question even though I suspected I knew what she was about to say.
“It’s Del Hernandez. Sam told me she’s back in Gabe’s life.”
I stared at her dumbly for a moment, a little annoyed that she and Sam would get involved in what was definitely none of their business, but also curious. This Delilah Hernandez was obviously someone more than just Gabe’s ex-partner. And here was a person who would probably know more about that than anyone. The question was, how much did I really want to know?
I looked down at my nails, picked at a hangnail before looking back at Lydia. “They were lovers, weren’t they?” I asked bluntly, wanting and not wanting to know the answer.
She nodded, her face sad, obviously recalling painful memories. “More than that. She was the reason I left Gabe.”
I contemplated that piece of information. Though I’d known that Lydia had left Gabe, I’d never known why. I just assumed from the hints he’d dropped that she couldn’t live with the wild, unpredictable life of an undercover cop, that at the time, he had aspired to be nothing else and that she’d wanted a man who fit better into her idea of a successful, upper-middle-class lifestyle.
Another woman had never been mentioned. I could feel my heart start to beat rapidly—the flight-or-fight response.
“We were having problems before he met her,” Lydia said, her voice low and even. “I don’t want to imply she came in and broke up a good marriage. We might have—probably would have—split up anyway. But she set her eyes on him from the time she was teenager at the police department picnics, and the first opportunity she had to seduce him, she took. That’s the kind of woman she is. I just wanted you to know it.”
Her face blushed a deep red under her coppery skin. This was hard for her, this intimate woman-to-woman confessional talk, and I thought it spoke a lot of her integrity to attempt it.
I licked my suddenly dry lips, wishing I had some Chapstick on me. “I appreciate you telling me,” I said, not certain if that was entirely truthful. “But I’m not clear about what you think I should do about it. I mean, I knew Gabe had a life before he came to San Celina and that sometimes that life overflows into ours, but I trust him.”
“Benni, I know how much Gabe loves you. I see it every time he looks at you. I feel really foolish coming to you like this, but Sam was so upset that I felt I had to do something. And trust me, I’m not being all that noble. I don’t want her anywhere near my son, and frankly, I’d rather you have Gabe than her.” She didn’t hide her bitterness on that last word.
I waited for a moment. An uncomfortable silence hung heavy between us. Were her motives really that aboveboard? Or was she trying to get back at Gabe by ruining his happiness with me? She’d just gone through another painful divorce and there was one thing I’d learned in my short years on this earth, that there were some people who, when they were in the midst of bad times, did everything they could to bring you down with them. Was Lydia one of those people?
The apologetic, embarrassed expression on her face led me to believe she wasn’t. This time, I chose to believe that she was sincere.
“Thanks for telling me this. I do appreciate it and I’ll keep an eye on the situation. Please assure Sam that I’ll be okay.”
She nodded, her luminous eyes still troubled. Then, as if some unseen puppeteer had pulled her strings, she stood up, back as straight as a two-by-four, transformed back into the controlled, every-vowel-in-its-place attorney who could intimidate a prosecution’s witness with one cynical, dark-eyed glance.
“I have an appointment in three hours,” she said. “I just thought this was a situation better dealt with in person.”
“Thank you,” I said again, just wishing she’d leave now so I could mull over what I’d just learned.
“You’re welcome.” She held out a hand and we solemnly shook.
“Take care,” I said, not knowing what was the appropriate goodbye to your husband’s ex-wife who was warning you about his ex-girlfriend. Did Miss Manners have a chapter covering this modern situation?
“You too,” she replied.
I sat for a moment in the visitor’s chair, scratching behind Scout’s ears, a bit dazed at what had just taken place. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with two showers, two weddings, and the Mardi Gras ball, I now had this uncomfortable situation with Gabe’s past. He and I would definitely have to talk about it tonight, something I wasn’t anticipating with any pleasure, but knew was necessary if we wanted to keep our still fragile relationship from imploding.
Scout picked up a tennis ball he’d hidden in his bed and dropped it in front of me, making me laugh out loud.
“Ball? You want to play ball at a time like this?”
His tail thumped on the braided rug in front of my desk. He picked up the ball and dropped it again. It’s always a good time to play ball, he informed me.
I picked it up and led him out into the big, still empty main room, where I tossed the ball across the wide floor, bouncing it off the cabinets and tables. When no one was working in here, there was nothing in this room that could be harmed, and Scout and I had many lively games of ball here. I sent a grounder that he missed and it rolled under an oak credenza one of the woodworkers had made for the quilters to store their extra supplies.
After laughing at Scout’s unsuccessful attempts to try to squeeze under it, I gave in to his whining and got on my hands and knees and reached for it myself, hoping that D-Daddy had recently sprayed for spiders and complaining out loud to Scout that he needed to take up Frisbee tossing. I was in that compromising position when from behind me came a great, booming laugh then a low wolf whistle.
“My sweet mama in Dallas,” he said. “It is so good to see you again, Benni Harper.”
8
BENNI
OH, GREAT, I thought, immediately abandoning the ball and scrambling up to face my visitor in the most dignified way I could manage. How long had he been standing there?
Detective Ford Hudson of the San Celina Sheriff’s Department grinned at me with his ingratiating Tom Sawyer smile, no doubt thrilled to the tips of his garish Texas boots at having grabbed the upper hand so quickly. “Have you been working out? You look great. Especially the part you were waving at me.”
“What do you want?” I asked more than a tad ungraciously because I’d been caught in such an embarrassing position and because he was crass enough to mention it. Next to me, Scout wagged his tail, his canine memory never faltering once a person was deemed a friend by me, a reluctant concession I’d given to this man a few months ago when he and I had, unwillingly on my part, worked together on a homicide case. We’d fought and thrown barbs like it was a rodeo event with a silver belt buckle prize and, in the end, agreed to disagree on what we thought would happen to the suspect in the crime.
He was loud, cocky, flamboyant, and as Daddy would say, full of Texas piss and vinegar, which according to Texans is, of course, stro
nger and better than anyone else’s. A Houston native who claimed to be half Cajun, he’d moved out here after his divorce to be near his five-year-old daughter.
“Now is that any way to greet your ole buddy?” he said, his Texas drawl still thick as homemade banana pudding. “Aren’t you just as thrilled to see me as I am you?” He rested his hands on his hips. “I’m crushed.”
The grin got bigger, assuring me he knew he was entirely full of bull pucky and enjoying every minute of it. He wore beat-up Wranglers, a dark green plaid flannel shirt similar to mine, and plain tobacco brown Ropers. We could have posed for a Shepler’s Western wear ad.
I stared for a moment at his boots, determined to keep my cool around him, something he never made easy. He normally wore expensive cowboy boots made of exotic leathers and hides, more often than not in what I called “white trash” colors. He claimed to have twenty-five pair. A girl collection if I ever heard of one.
“What’s with the plain boots?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“I’m working,” he said.
Before I could ask him at what, Edna came into the room.
“Benni! I see you’ve met Hud. He’s the boy I was telling you about. A real genius with wood. I bet if you talked real nice to him, he might make those cabinets you’ve been wanting. And guess what? After he heard how busy you were and how long it would take you to get to it, he’s very graciously agreed to help you catalog the contents of the murderess’s trunks. It’s kind of up his alley too, since he’s a crack detective with the sheriff’s department. He’s a very busy man, but he says he always has time to help out the historical society. Isn’t he just the sweetest thing in the world?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Just the sweetest,” I managed to say, then added, “You know, Edna, as much as I appreciate the offer of help, I’ve managed to clear some time—”
“No, no, no, my dear girl,” she said, shaking her head. “It was thoughtless of me to ask you to take on that job when you’re so busy. Hud says he has plenty of free time and all you have to do is show him how you want it cataloged. He’s a pretty sharp cookie, this one.” She gazed up at his tanned, boy-next-door face with grandmotherly adoration.
Steps to the Altar Page 6
