Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  Paloma peered up. Deanne’s nostrils flared, and she paused only briefly before reaching around to smooth one hand against the small of Paloma’s back and drive the other one into the side of her hair. She pulled Paloma against her body. Deanne’s gaze touched her lips first, but her mouth was quick to follow.

  The kiss attacked like a Rocky Mountain zephyr wind, unexpected and all-encompassing, leaving Paloma disoriented and breathless and wanting. Dee’s tongue controlled her mouth, caressing, tasting, probing. She molded Paloma’s curves against her much firmer runner’s body, the not-so-subtle thrust of her hips a striking reminder of their earlier discussion.

  Paloma’s limbs went heavy and numb, and her body readied for Deanne in a flash of heat and moisture. Starved for Deanne’s touch, Paloma didn’t even think of pulling away until Dee already had. As Dee released her, Paloma stumbled forward, stunned to see Deanne widening the distance between them as if nothing had happened.

  “W-what are you doing?” The words were a gasp.

  “Leaving. Because that’s what will make you happy, and I am listening. Though you may not believe it, everything I have ever done, wrong or right, baby girl, was to make you happy.”

  Deanne turned toward her. The back of her hand went gently to her mouth, but her eyes never left Paloma’s face. When she spoke, her voice was shaky with sexual desire. “I wanted to make love to you, P, all those months. I ached with it. Still do.” As if to emphasize the point, she glanced down at her own hardened nipples, then back at Paloma. “I’m only sorry I didn’t do it when I still had the chance.”

  Deanne didn’t let her respond, and Paloma jumped when the door slammed, squeezing her eyes shut. She sank to the floor and tucked her knees to her chest. Her skin hummed and her brain buzzed. She wanted to hurt, but couldn’t feel a thing.

  She had never been more confused in her life.

  Chapter Four

  Voicemail message from Paloma for Deanne, left on her brother Ruben’s answering machine, Friday, September 14

  Hi, Deanne, and, uh, Ruben. It’s Paloma. Anyway, Dee I made an appointment with the mediator. Monday morning, ten o’clock. Unless I hear otherwise, I expect you’ll be there. Just, um, meet me in the office. The address is on that paperwork I sent. Thanks. Bye.

  *

  An unsent letter from Deanne to Paloma, dated Saturday, September 15

  Dear Punky:

  You’ve been avoiding me for almost a week now, ever since we kissed. I understand you want space. I’m trying to respect that, but it’s not easy.

  I got your message about mediation, but I want you to know something. I agreed to go only because you’re holding all the cards. I’m afraid if I say no, you’ll serve me with some sort of papers that will keep me from the boys, so fast my head will spin. I don’t want to go, P. Mediation sessions, lawyers—anything that brings me closer to losing you forever is a bad idea in my book. I’m not ready to give up on us. I’ll never be ready.

  Look, things went sour. Okay? I see now how wrong I was to think that ignoring the tension would make it go away. And, yes, I sensed it, but, I didn’t know what to do. You never gave me a warning. I can apologize until my throat’s sore and make promises you’ll never believe, but where will that get me?

  I’m going to find a way to make things right between us. Somehow. I’ll win you back if it kills me, I just have to find a way. We belong together, baby girl. I cannot bear the thought of life without you. I love you. So much.

  God, who am I kidding? I can’t send this. You’d just fight me harder if you read it.

  Damn, Punky…

  I always did love your fire.

  Deanne pulled into Ruben’s cracked driveway at eight thirty on Monday morning, looking, feeling, and probably smelling like roadkill. She’d spent a tumultuous weekend wasting tanks of gas and sleeping in her car when the exhaustion took over, feeling so desperate and heartsick, she couldn’t face Ruben or anyone.

  It began as aimless driving, sucking up pavement and waiting for the pain to subside. But around dusk on Saturday, it occurred to Deanne that she’d systematically visited all the old haunts that jogged happy memories about Paloma.

  She traced the route she used to walk Paloma home from school. Parked by the weeping willow in old Harold Fitzmiller’s yard—the site of her and Paloma’s first kiss. It had tasted like bubblegum lip gloss and felt like heaven, and even though Paloma had giggled during the most serious moment in Deanne’s life to that point, she’d never recovered. Paloma had ensnared her with a velvety laugh and one sweet kiss.

  Dee lunched at the pizza joint where they’d go after football games, remembering those stolen back-booth kisses that made her teammates cup hands around their mouths and holler, “Get a room, Vargas!” Paloma’d always hated that.

  As darkness fell, Deanne drove to the secluded parking spot overlooking the Denver skyline where they’d first made love. In a fucking car. Such a cliché, but damn, what a memory. They were just kids then, the summer before their senior year. Too young to be making love, but too blinded by emotion to refrain. The pope himself couldn’t have kept them apart that sultry July night. The moon had been their candlelight, the crickets their music. Afterward, Deanne knew her life’s goal was to claim Paloma as her partner and make love to her until the day she died.

  Parked in their spot, Deanne had reclined her seat and allowed memories of Paloma smiling up through her tears that night flood her veins. She felt Paloma’s shaky fingers tracing her lips, heard her tremulous voice whispering, “I love you, Deanne Vargas. Forever and a day.”

  And then, Deanne wept for all the magic she so desperately didn’t want to lose. Paloma might not have a tear to shed over their love, but Deanne had a river of them.

  Her grief finally spent, she wrote her the letter, then realized she couldn’t send it. So she’d slept until Sunday morning, then filled the day with more of the same. Now, after five hundred miles of wear and tear on the Chevelle’s tires and two nights sleeping cramped behind the wheel, Deanne resigned herself to the damnable mediation meeting. She couldn’t see another maneuver around the obstacle. Even the wildest horse could only buck so long before breaking.

  Deanne wrenched out of the Chevelle, groaning as she straightened. She let herself into the kitchen door off the side of the house. Ruben, her oldest brother at thirty-nine and the only divorced one out of the five, sat hunkered over the table eating Cocoa Krispies and scanning the newspaper. Some bobbed blonde chattered in the background, a boxed American smile to keep lonely people company in the morning.

  Ruben peered up. His thick brows dipped. “The hell you been, Dee?”

  “Nowhere.” Deanne rustled up a mug and filled it with her brother’s lethal brew. “Driving. Trying not to lose my mind.” Glancing over her shoulder, Deanne noticed her brother wasn’t wearing his usual construction site attire of jeans, a T-shirt, and steel-toed boots. As the owner of a small but growing concrete contracting company, he usually worked six on, one off. So, why the sweats and slippers on a Monday?

  Deanne gave a jerk of her chin. “What’s the deal—you off today?”

  “Yeah. Waiting on permits, but those jokers from the county are sitting on their hands. I won’t mention where their thumbs are.” He shook his head. “No sense paying the guys to play Old Maid for eight hours.” A pause. An assessment. “What about you? Haven’t seen you in the blues for a while.”

  “Off until further notice.” Deanne sipped, grimaced. “Sergeant doesn’t want me back until I get my life worked out.”

  Ruben snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

  One corner of Deanne’s mouth lifted. Her brother had been really patient with this extended, brooding silence. She owed him an explanation. “You mind sticking around while I shower?” Deanne walked toward the basement stairs. “I need to talk.”

  “No prob. I’ll be here and all ears.” Ruben indicated the answering machine with a disinterested flick of his spoon. “You have some messages.”r />
  “Okay.” Deanne took another tentative sip of the black, bitter coffee her brother revered, and grimaced. “Shower first, messages later. I can’t stand myself a moment longer.”

  “I second that emotion, sis.”

  Half an hour later, Deanne emerged from the basement feeling like a new woman—at least hygienically speaking. In deference to the mediation meeting, she wore brown slacks and a green, navy, and brown plaid shirt Paloma had bought her last Christmas. As promised, Ruben still sat at the table, engrossed in the crossword puzzle. He looked up, the edge of the paper rustling in his hand.

  “What’s a five-letter word for postulate?”

  “Hell if I know.” Deanne pointed at her mug. “You mind if I make a fresh pot? This motor oil is apt to kill us both.”

  “Go for it. Wuss. But if it looks like herbal tea or tastes like French vanilla, you’re dead. Fair warning.”

  Deanne smirked, then crossed to the cupboard, hunting for the filters and grounds.

  Ruben tapped the tip of his pencil on the paper. “You had another call, too.”

  Dee looked from the machine to her brother, hope blowing through her like bubbles. “Paloma?”

  “Nope.”

  Ah, well. Then she didn’t care. She set her jaw and turned to the coffeemaking task with a new heaviness in her chest. What did she think? That Paloma would suddenly have a change of heart and beg her to come back? About as likely as Dee coming up with a five-letter word for postulate off the top of her head.

  After setting the pot to brew, Deanne walked to the table and pulled out a chair with her foot. She sank into it, raking fingers through her hair, then regarded Ruben over the annoyingly cheery cereal box. Of all her brothers, Ruben might understand Dee’s plight. His wife, Merrilee, had left him two years earlier because he “didn’t communicate.” Whatever happened to the appeal of the strong silent type?

  Ruben had persevered through the pain, but Deanne had noticed her stoic brother had been even quieter since Merrilee had shattered his world. The Vargas siblings were all too tenderhearted for their own damn good.

  His eyes focused on the puzzle spread out before him, Ruben sniffed. “I’m listening, Deanne.”

  “She kicked me out.”

  Ruben’s crossword concentration didn’t waver, but he nodded sagely. “Not a news flash, genius, since you’ve been camped on the hide-a-bed from hell for two weeks. Didn’t entertain any illusions that I’d suddenly become more fun than Li’l Bit.” A pause. “Does Mom know?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ruben’s brows flicked up and back down. “You hope.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her brother hiked one meaty shoulder. “Mom’s pretty sharp. Can’t pull too much over on her. I would’ve thought you learned that back in high school. She knew you and Paloma were together before you knew you were together.” He thrust his chin forward, scratching the fleshy underside with nonchalance.

  Deanne blew out a tired breath. “I can’t make myself believe it’s true, Rube. I keep thinking Paloma will come to her senses. Mom was so angry with Merrilee. I don’t want that to happen with P. They get along so well.”

  Ruben blinked at her. “Which is why you oughtta tell her before she hears it from my nephews or tricks me into spilling it. That’d hurt her, you and Li’l Bit keeping such a big thing from her like that.” His eyes dropped to the puzzle. “Just a suggestion. I’m no expert. You gotta do what feels right.”

  “Going home would feel right.” Deanne paced to the coffeemaker and filled her mug. Turning back, she leaned against the counter and braced her hands on the edge, spread wide. She crossed one ankle over the other. “I don’t want to lose my family. Telling Mom makes it…more real.”

  The chair legs squeaked beneath Ruben’s stocky form as he leaned back. “Take it from me, kiddo, denial won’t make it go away.”

  Deanne knew he was right. “Want to know the worst part? I’ve known something was bothering Paloma for months, maybe longer.” She tried to smile through her chagrin, but only one half of her mouth cooperated. “Thought if I ignored it, things would improve.”

  Ruben’s eyes looked baleful in his round face. “I hear you, Dee. Like a freaking echo.”

  “Yeah.” All Deanne’s brothers lived nearby, but she hadn’t thought twice before coming to Ruben’s. She wrapped cold fingers around the warm mug and returned to her seat. “What should I do?”

  “My honest opinion?” Ruben leaned in, his tone adamant.

  “Brutally.”

  “Fight for her, Deanne. Whatever it takes, whatever you sacrifice, go the distance.” He pointed one thick finger. “Don’t give up or back down, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” Ruben’s chubby face fell.

  Deanne ached for him, for his loss of Merrilee. “You miss her, Rube?”

  “Constantly. If I had just one more chance to get her back, I’d blabber on till I lost my voice. But I don’t.” He paused. “You still have a chance with Paloma. Don’t let it slip away.”

  Deanne shook her head slowly. “How’d we wind up like this?”

  Ruben pursed his lips, thinking. “You’re the youngest. I’m the oldest. For whatever reason, I think we took what happened between Mom and Victor more to heart than Tony, Frank, and Randy did, and it shaped us in certain ways.”

  “And that’s bad?” Deanne shrugged. “I thought I’d learned from Victor’s mistakes so I wouldn’t repeat them.”

  Ruben lumbered up from his chair and got a cup of coffee. “We didn’t repeat his, sis. We made our own. Hell, I hold everything inside. You’re a workaholic—”

  “You think I’m a workaholic?” Deanne frowned.

  Ruben’s droll glance had “duh” written all over it.

  Deanne traced her finger over a scratch in the oak tabletop and considered this. “Huh. I never thought of myself that way. After how Victor left Mom, I never wanted that kind of heartache to touch my family. So I work hard, yeah, but only because I know it’s what he wouldn’t have done.”

  “Rationalize it all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact you’re a workaholic.” Ruben hooked one foot over the other. “Victor is a big part of who we turned out to be, like it or not.”

  The thought sickened her. She hated to wonder if she’d driven her wife away in a blind attempt to keep her. How fucking ironic would that be? She glanced at the clock, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “I’ve got to hit it. But…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Suppose I fight so hard that it only pushes her further away?”

  Ruben held her gaze for a long time, just shaking his head. “What’ve you got to lose? You’re at rock bottom, kiddo. Claw your way up or lie there and die, your choice. I’m just experience talking, and”—he indicated the liberal gray shot through his black hair—“it ain’t pretty.”

  The phone rang. “You get it,” Ruben said, pushing off the counter. “Damn thing never rang until you started shacking here.”

  Deanne smiled as she stood. “You know I appreciate you listening, everything.”

  “I just hope some of it got through.” Ruben reached over and knocked on Deanne’s head. “Aside from being a workaholic, you’re also pretty thick.” He jerked his chin toward the phone as it rang a third time. “And I’m not your damn social secretary, little sis. Answer the phone.”

  Deanne watched her brother leave the room and scooped it up on ring four. “Hello?”

  “Vargas? It’s Nora.” Her voice held notes of relief and exasperation. “Why haven’t you called me back?”

  “Sergeant O, I—” she glanced at the clock. She hadn’t figured work would call during this imposed vacation. “I was gone all weekend. Just got in. What’s up?”

  “Where was your pager? Your cell? No, forget it. You’re on vacation. Have you forgotten what today is?”

  Today? Deanne leaned her hip against the counter. Hmmm, well, it was Monday. Possibly the first day of the end o
f her marriage, but Obermeyer wouldn’t call for—September 17—goddamn it! Urgency jerked Deanne to attention. She back-hammered her fist against the cupboard door. “The sergeant’s test. I completely forgot—”

  “Well, don’t stand there stammering. Get your ass in the car and blaze down to headquarters. If you don’t take it today, you can’t take it again until next year.”

  Horror washed through Deanne like cold poison. The exam. The mediation. “But—”

  “You want the promotion or not? I’ll meet you there with your paperwork. Leave now or you’ll never make it.”

  Deanne couldn’t reply.

  “Vargas?”

  War waged inside Deanne’s heart and mind. Granted, she didn’t want to wait until next year. She’d been studying for the difficult test for months. Then again…Paloma. And the mediation appointment.

  An appointment to end their marriage.

  The realization struck Deanne like an uppercut, leaving her dazed with its wrongness. She was surrendering way too easily, exactly what Ruben had warned against. She didn’t want to start the process of permanently destroying their family, be it mediation or obtaining lawyers. Dee didn’t dare take even one step toward that unfathomable end.

  Don’t give up or back down, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

  Her fist clenched. Ruben was right. Deanne had to fight Paloma’s “why prolong the agony?” excuse. P was running scared, that’s all. They had so many opportunities to work things out before it came to all the legal, formal crap, and Deanne wouldn’t back down until she convinced her of that.

  Resolute, she set her jaw. “I’ll meet you at headquarters. Just let me grab my cell phone. I need to make a call on the way.”

  *

  “I’m sorry to make you drive down here. I just didn’t know what to do.” Truthfully, Paloma couldn’t summon the energy to get in her car and drive away. Instead, she and Emie sat huddled in uncomfortable chairs in the stark waiting room of the mediation offices.