“Ryan?” She blinked, her face slack with exhaustion. Courage made the words that I was thinking come easily to my lips. “Would it be uncomfortable for you if Pepito and I stayed with you tonight?”
Gratitude ß ickered in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. I do have to get up and work out in about three hours, but I’ll try not to wake you.” Ryan opened the door and before I could take a step into the room, Pepito scampered in and jumped onto the bed.
Ryan bit her bottom lip and took a deep, shuddering breath. She stepped into her room and held the door open. When I walked past her I thought I felt her inhale, but I wasn’t sure.
“I want to take a shower Þ rst. I feel dirty.” She seemed hesitant, uncertain of herself. “I haven’t had to tell the whole story since it happened.”
“I’m glad that you felt comfortable enough to talk to me.”
She didn’t speak for quite some time, and when she did, her voice sounded warm and caressing. “You’re a real sweet person, Mia Sanchez.”
There are so many things I wish I had said, but words eluded me.
She saved me from any embarrassment by heading for the bathroom.
Feeling warm and a little bit bewildered, I sat down on the edge of her bed and absently smoothed the cover. My grandparents had shared this bed for most of their married life. Anytime I’d mentioned the possibility of sleeping in it, Brenda had objected. She never understood how magical this bed was to me. It represented the kind of marriage I wanted for myself—sixty years of living, loving, and being together.
Was that too much to ask? “Take as long as you want. We’re not going anywhere,” I called after her.
• 190 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When she came out of the shower, we were shy at Þ rst. Pepito and I were already in bed, and I had thrown one corner of the covers back. Ryan got in without hesitation. I wasn’t so bold about holding her, but Þ ve minutes later when I put my hand on her waist, she instantly moved into the curve of my body. I wrapped my arms around her and closed my eyes.
At my request, she had set her cell phone to wake me up no later than Þ ve thirty. I wasn’t asleep when the alarm sounded, but Ryan must have been exhausted because she didn’t move when I had to reach across her to disable it. Pepito grumbled from the foot of the bed and opened one eye to glare at me.
She was lying on her side. The black band that usually held her hair back had come off while she slept, and I picked it up off the pillow and tossed it onto her nightstand. With trembling Þ ngers I moved her hair back from her face. Her mouth was open slightly and her face was relaxed in sleep. Her skin was so fair that her eyelids were pink from crying. Something warm and painful settled in my chest. And when I went downstairs to work out, it was more to escape what I felt happening to me than to see the screen say three miles again.
Ryan was still sleeping when I left the house, so I left her a note about calling to check on her and shut the door quietly. I spent most of the ride to work thinking about the things Ryan had told me the night before, and I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the pain and sadness she must carry around with her. Her father had scarred her in more ways than the obvious, and her family seemed to want her to pay for it for the rest of her life.
• 191 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
v
Ryan looked wonderful in her button-down shirt and blue jeans.
There was something about the way she was sitting, her eyes focused, her back straight, her hands ten and two on the steering wheel, conÞ rming how nervous she was. I felt very protective.
“Relax, they won’t bite,” I said, but I was lying and I think Ryan knew it.
“I don’t want to make a bad impression.”
“I don’t care about their impression of you. I just don’t want them to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You don’t like them much, do you?”
Startled, I said, “Of course I do. They’re my family.”
Ryan said nothing and I settled back in my seat. I was in a mood.
I would clobber another bird and split my pants in public all over again if it meant another reprieve from this particular Sunday brunch.
We pulled into the driveway and I was relieved that Hector wasn’t there to give me a message from his daughter. Ryan was quiet when we approached the house.
“You doing okay?” I was stalling, and not very well.
“I’m Þ ne. Should we ring the doorbell?”
“No, haven’t you heard? The door to hell is always wide open,” I said as I walked in.
I could clearly hear whatever sports game my dad was watching as it traveled down the hall. I sniffed and grimaced . Déjà vu. Dad and Ned were sitting in their La-Z-Boys, black-stocking feet raised, staring intently at a soccer game. Ned was wearing a black patch over his eye.
“Hey,” I said. If I had been speaking to people with pulses, I might have worried that my voice revealed how much I dreaded having to be there.
“Your mother and Christina are in the kitchen,” my father said in lieu of a greeting.
“Yeah, I Þ gured. Dad…Ned…this is Ryan.”
“Whoooaa, did you see that?” my father yelled and Ned grinned.
His teeth were as abnormally white as Selena’s had been. I steeled myself for the chest ogling, but he barely even acknowledged me before
• 192 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
turning back to the TV screen. Hmm, maybe the humiliation of having popped a button was worth it.
“How’s your eye?” I asked out of guilt. “Christina said you only had to wear the patch for a few weeks.” I left out the fact that I was surprised that he would wear it long after he had to, but I’m sure he got my implication.
“Doctor just wants to make sure my cornea’s healed.” His tone was defensive as he turned in our direction and seemed to notice Ryan for the Þ rst time.
My mother came bursting through the door from the kitchen, saving me from having to respond. “Mia, good, you’re here, and Christina said you were bringing a little friend.”
“Yeah, Mom, this is Ryan.” I glanced sideways at Ryan, who although slender-looking on Þ rst examination could only be described as “little” by my mother. “Ryan, this is my mother, Ardis Sanchez.”
“It’s nice meeting you, Mrs. Sanchez,” Ryan said.
My mother took in Ryan’s jeans and shirt. Ryan wouldn’t know it, but she had already been categorized. No one had ever worn jeans to Sunday brunch. My face felt like a block of ice. This woman had birthed me, raised me. I knew what she would do. What the hell was I thinking bringing Ryan here?
“Mia, you look a little gaunt. Have you been sick?”
“No, not really.” I hoped Ryan remembered my warning about not mentioning the bike incident. My mother would go off on a tangent about the dangers of bikes.
“Why don’t you girls come into the kitchen with us? We’re just about ready to serve,” my mother said with that little thrill of excitement in her voice that should have disappeared over the Þ ve years we had been having Sunday brunch, but hadn’t.
My father and Ned did what they always did when told that food was about to be served; they ignored whoever was speaking.
Ryan and I followed my mother into the kitchen, and much to my surprise Christina came around the center island and gave Ryan a hug.
“Hey, I’m glad you could make it.”
Ryan looked surprised and I raised an eyebrow, not knowing what the hell the hug was about but somewhat glad for it. If my mother thought that Christina was also Ryan’s friend, she might lay off. Who am I kidding?
• 193 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
“So, Ryan,” Mom said in that voice she only used for company, the one that had no trace of an accent and was as nondescript as a prerecorded telephone message, “what do you do for a living?”
; “Ryan’s in construction,” I said before Ryan could answer.
“Ah, I see. One of Mia’s cousins owns a construction company.
Trino Sanchez?”
“Mia told me she had a cousin in construction, but I didn’t realize it was Trino Sanchez. He’s doing all the new construction down by the waterfront, isn’t he?”
Ryan must have gotten a brownie point for knowing about Trino, because my mother looked pleased. “Yes, all those beautiful new condos. Trino is going to take my sister and me through them when they’re done. I keep telling Mia’s father that we should sell this big house now that the kids are gone and move into one of his condos.”
I raised an eyebrow at Christina, but she refused to play and continued her chopping.
“So, Ryan, do you cook?” my mother asked.
“Not very well, I’m afraid.”
I reached out and touched Ryan’s wrist. “Not true, you’re a great cook.”
Ryan smiled and looked shy. My mother frowned at me and I was tempted to drop my hand, but I didn’t until she looked away.
“You must be doing something right, because Mia doesn’t look like she’s gained any weight since I saw her last.” Just take that as a backhanded compliment and let it go. “So what kind of things do you cook?”
Now, you’d have to know my mother to realize that this is one of those conversations I didn’t want Ryan to have. She would Þ nd fault with anything Ryan said.
“I cook pretty much anything. Chicken, some Þ sh, though I don’t like it much. Beef.” Ryan looked confused, so I jumped in.
“Mother, Ryan didn’t come over here to talk about her culinary skills.”
My mother Þ nally looked Ryan up and down and said, “I bet your family eats a lot of red meat, huh?”
“Yeah, yes. Some.”
“Where are you from? Christina didn’t say.”
I looked from my mother to Christina and back again. Why would Christina say where Ryan was from? I don’t even remember it coming
• 194 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
up in the card game. The only reason my mother would make such a comment was if they had been discussing Ryan.
“I’m from Texas,” Ryan said.
“Oh, I believe we have some relatives still in Texas.” My mother said it as if Texas was the homeland and those relatives, and therefore Ryan, were backward and not something one talked about often. “We don’t really have much contact with them, though. They’re just distant relatives.”
Ryan watched my mother struggle with a jar of olives and held out her hand. “Can I help you with that?”
My mother hesitated and gave the jar to Ryan. Normally she would have taken it out to my father, who would have opened it without tearing his eyes away from his TV set. My mother’s thank-you sounded almost annoyed when Ryan handed the open jar back a second later.
“I’m done, Mother,” Christina said.
“Good. Mia, why don’t you go out and tell Ned and your father that brunch is ready. Ryan, you can help me set the table.”
I met Ryan’s eyes to see if she had a problem with being forced into this role, but she seemed willing enough, and as I walked out the kitchen door she was gathering up the napkins and silverware.
Ned and my father dutifully moved toward the dining room though it was clear that the game wasn’t over. One thing about both of them was that they reacted well when being herded toward a meal, as was evident by the full girdle paunch my father wore and Ned’s smaller, but catching up fast, one.
“So, where is it you said you worked, Ryan?” my mother asked as she dished salad onto her plate.
“Ryan is self-employed,” I said before Ryan could answer. This time I could see the question in Ryan’s eyes as she looked at me, but I looked down at my own plate instead. I was just trying to make life easier on her. I would explain later.
The table was silent for a while as everyone ate their salad, and I hoped dinner would pass as uneventfully as possible. “So does Brenda know you’re living in her house?”
I almost choked on a piece of romaine at the question. “It’s not her house, Mother.”
“Her name is still on it. Isn’t it?”
“She isn’t here. She’s not paying the mortgage.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t still partly her house.”
• 195 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
“I don’t know if Mia’s talked to…Brenda, Mrs. Sanchez,” Ryan quietly but Þ rmly interrupted.
“If you must know, Ryan is staying with me while she Þ nishes some work on the house.” I glared at Christina, who promptly looked down at her plate. Thanks a lot for inviting Ryan and not helping me defend her. I owe you one, Christina.
My father and Christina were concentrating on their food. Ned was studying the side of Ryan’s face with interest. It took me a moment to remember that he was probably looking at her scar. I hit the side of my plate with my knife loud enough to get his attention and casually rubbed my thumb over my left eyebrow, the one that corresponded to his good eye. I glared at him until I was sure he understood. You want to keep the other eye healthy, you leave her alone.
I didn’t resume eating until he did. My stomach was in knots. I supposed it could be worse.
“Where’d she say she was from again?” My father leaned toward my mother as if Ryan wasn’t sitting a few feet away from him.
“She said she’s from Texas, Emanuel.”
“Ah, I was stationed in Texas.”
Of course you were stationed in Texas.
“They had a lot of pretty girls in Texas. I’m surprised they let one of you go.”
Ryan ß ushed at the sexist comment and I looked gratefully at my father. He wasn’t a bad man, he knew a pretty girl when he saw one. He just liked to make up stories. We all have our foibles, right?
“They still got that grassy knoll in Texas?” he asked Ryan.
“Yes, I believe they do,” Ryan said quite seriously.
“You know, a friend of mine wanted to ride up there on PTO to see the president, but we didn’t make it. It would have been something to be able to say I had been there when the president was shot.”
This time next year you’ll have yourself sitting atop the grassy knoll with a picnic lunch when the gunÞ re starts, I thought unkindly. I looked to my mother for help, but she seemed to think the conversation was entirely appropriate and was moving on to her main course. I had just decided to relax and enjoy my meal when my mother paused, her serving spoon in midair as she studied Ryan’s face intently.
“With your coloring, Ryan, you should think about putting highlights in your hair. I bet Regis down at the salon would be happy to take a look at you.”
• 196 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
Regis was my sister’s hairdresser up until my mother went to him; now she had taken him over.
“Ryan doesn’t need highlights, Mom.”
“Ryan can speak for herself, Mia.”
I looked at Ryan, who had been diligently eating her food. She looked pained. “I suppose there’s no harm in getting a consultation.”
My mother looked like she was about to stick her Þ ngers in her ears and yell neener-neener, but that would be too damn undigniÞ ed for her.
“Good, it’s settled. You can come with me next weekend and we’ll see if he can squeeze you in. While we’re there, we can swing by Macy’s. They should be having their twice-yearly sale. Christina, you should come too. We can make it a girls’ makeover day.”
I could see Ryan’s hand moving out of the side of my eye. I only had to turn my head slightly to get a better look at her face. She was barely chewing, looking down at her plate as if it were hypnotizing her. The Þ rst bright licks of anger had ß ickered the moment my mother felt it was her duty to point out that Brenda’s name was on the house.
Her insistence that Ryan needed highlights fanned my anger into a full blown inferno.
“Tha
t sounds like fun,” Christina said dully.
I said, “Ryan doesn’t need highlights.” The whole table grew so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Or a button ß y off a dress.
“Maybe she would like highlights,” my mother said tightly.
“If she wanted highlights, she would have them by now. And she certainly doesn’t want some sixty-year-old drag queen making her look like…like you.”
The insult hit home and my mother inhaled too fast and something went down the wrong way. The table erupted with the sounds of coughing and my father slapping at my mother’s back. My sister was holding a glass of water and Ryan had placed her fork neatly on her plate. Ned was the only one who seemed oblivious and kept eating.
“Mia, that was uncalled for,” Christina said sternly.
“I don’t think it was. Mother already has you to play dress-up with. She doesn’t need Ryan.”
“If Ryan wants to go shopping with us, she can.”
My mother tried to speak but dissolved into more coughing. Ryan was staying quiet, and rightly so. This really had nothing to do with her, and everyone at the table knew it.
• 197 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
“She has a way of convincing you that what she wants is what you want, doesn’t she, Christina?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mom just invited Ryan to come with us. If you don’t want her to go…”
“Ryan, unlike you, can do whatever she wants. But I will not have her bullied.” Silence resulting from my words was as loud as a clap of thunder. “I’m sorry,” I said under my breath, too afraid to look at Ryan.
I was sure she would be angry and embarrassed—hell, maybe even fearful based on the choking raspy quality my mother’s coughing Þ t had taken on. I felt Ryan lean toward me and I did the same without removing my gaze from my mother.
“Does Regis do bikini waxes?” she asked under her breath.
I whipped my head around so quickly that a sharp twinge of pain shot up the side of my neck. I was horriÞ ed. The idea of Regis anywhere near her bikini area just made me want to projectile vomit. Ryan was steadfastly refusing to look at me even though I was boring holes into her quivering jawline.
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