by Camy Tang
Olivia’s words about burning her bridges made sense. It probably wouldn’t be enough to convince Venus, but it would be something symbolic for Trish. She just wasn’t sure what she had to burn. How to commit herself completely to her new course? How to prove to Venus — well, and to God, too — that she wasn’t going to turn back?
Her new church was the biggest step. Maybe she could formally have her church membership transferred. Was that enough?
No, she wanted something big, dramatic, bridge-burning.
Burning . . .
Her gaze strayed to her open closet door, to the psychedelic colors of her wardrobe. To all the too short, too low, too transparent, too skimpy clothes.
She got up and started pulling blouses from the hangers. Then skirts, then dresses. That blouse showed too much cleavage. The slit on that skirt was too high. That dress was slightly, well, backless.
This blouse exposed too much midriff, but oh, it was that delicious cherry bubblegum color she loved . . . Those pants had too low a waist, but they had the really cool embroidery on the sides . . . Her gold dress wasn’t as backless as the other one, was it?
She ran her fingers over the rich fabrics. It was like throwing away her close friends. For some of them, she didn’t even have the excuse that they didn’t fit her anymore. She sighed and held the blouse up in front of her. She faced the mirror.
She looked like a prostitute. A cheap prostitute. The realization gave her a disgusted feeling like rotting flesh infested with beetles in the center of her stomach. Had she really looked like this?
She pitched the dress.
Okay, her closet was depressingly empty. She reached in and chucked a few granny dresses and some outdated slacks with waists up to her ribs.
Would her life be that empty, too? Being a good Christian girl hadn’t been uneventful so far, that’s for sure, but it hadn’t been as fun as her old life. Then again, if the high road was easy, more people would take it.
Nothing. Her closet had nothing. Her life had nothing. She needed to fill both.
Good thing she loved shopping.
“Spenser, I need more work.” Trish nudged the door open and strode to her desk.
He looked up from his computer. “Good morning to you, too. I had a lovely weekend. How was yours? Fine, thanks. I spent most of the day watching college basketball — ”
“I would never watch college basketball.”
“You’re not following the conversation close enough. That was my response. Here’s yours: I would never watch college basketball — ”
Trish rolled her eyes. “Doofus. Pay attention. I need more stuff to do at church.”
“Oh, you mean you weren’t volunteering to do my assays today?”
She gave him a How stupid do I look? face. “Hmm. Let me think about it . . . no. ”
He sighed. “Can’t blame me for hoping.”
“You’re lazy enough as it is.” Which wasn’t really true, but it was fun to rile him.
He gratified her with the expected defensive response. “I’m not lazy. What are you talking about? I’m busting my butt for you— er, this project.”
“Well, bust your butt for me another way — I want more stuff to do at church.”
“That’s right, you mentioned that before the whole ‘lazy’ crack.” He leaned back in his chair and raised his arms above his head, which unfortunately — or fortunately, if she was being brutally honest with herself — set off his nicely honed biceps and triceps and that lovely wide expanse of chest straining against the knit fabric of his Calvin Klein shirt —
Whoa! Slow down! Remember rule number one — no looking. No looking means no looking. Trish snapped her head forward and stared at her blank computer screen, which actually wasn’t a great idea because then she saw that muscled torso in her mind’s eye . . .
“Worship team.”
“Huh?” She cast a quick glance at him, then away. The man was too handsome for his own good.
“You could serve on the worship team.”
She snapped out of her dazed daydream about his dimpled smile. “Didn’t we already have this conversation? I can’t sing.”
“Can’t play anything?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm.” He looked away. He muttered something under his breath, but she didn’t catch it.
“Anything else?”
“Sunday school.”
“Children’s Sunday school?” The thought made her pause. Could she really help children? With her past? God wouldn’t strike her with lightning for corrupting kids, would He?
The old has gone, the new has come.
A cool wave washed over her soul, sifting the sand, leaving her heart feeling sparkly like water reflecting the sunlight. Maybe it wasn’t an issue.
But kids? She’d held one of her cousins’ babies once. Did that count?
“Preschoolers. There’s only one teacher, and they could use another one.”
That was okay. Kids that age liked games, right? Trish was terrific at games. “Will I be by myself?”
“No, it’ll be you and the other teacher, at least until you feel comfortable.”
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why the sudden rush to serve more? You haven’t even done the Seniors’ Potluck yet.”
“Uh . . .” Telling him she needed references for her MDiv seemed kind of selfish. “It’s part of my new resolve. Rule number two — tell others about Christ.” Yeah, that sounded reasonable, right?
“Okay. Speaking of the potluck, here’s the information I got.” He clicked his mouse and brought up a document. “I’ll print out a copy.”
“Good.” She leaned over his shoulder to read while it printed. Something light — something very male and very nice — tickled her nose. Trendy cologne, but not doused in the stuff. A sharp, refined, James Bond type of smell.
It was . . . quite heady. And not in a bad way.
She could see the curve of his cheekbones, the light sheen of oil from his skin, as well as a few pimple scars. She smiled to herself. The imperfections made him more appealing, somehow. Kazuo’s face had been so perfect —
“Trish.”
She and Spenser both jolted at the sound of the husky male voice behind them. The familiar way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine — a very excited shiver, which was bad because she didn’t want to be attracted to him.
She straightened and turned. “Kazuo! What are you doing here?”
TWELVE
Spenser automatically turned his head to look when Trish stood to face Kazuo, but her body blocked most of his view. Good thing, too, because he didn’t want to see that pale face again.
Because he’d pulverize it.
He turned back to his monitor.
“I told you not to come to work to see me.” Trish’s voice had become strident. It also sounded like she was walking toward the open doorway. “You never listen to me.” The end of her sentence was muffled as she went into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind her.
Spenser hadn’t heard Kazuo’s name in years, until Trish had mentioned it last week in her phone conversation with her grandmother. He’d been startled, but thought she must be talking about a different Kazuo. After all, it wasn’t an uncommon Japanese name.
But hearing his voice, seeing that glimpse of his face — it was the same man. He gripped the armrests of his chair, and the rubber groaned as he pressed his fingers into them.
Had he seen Spenser? Probably not, or else he might have said something. Both of them always bristled when they met. Old territorial responses.
It was stupid, Spenser knew. It was over and done with. So why did seeing Kazuo still bother him? There was a busted connection between his rational mind and the rage coursing through his veins.
So Trish had been involved with someone like Kazuo. It occurred to him that her moral about-face — including her three rules and her refusal of Spenser because he wasn’t Christia
n — might be a knee-jerk reaction to breaking it off with her slick ex-boyfriend.
Then Spenser realized he could hear snatches of the conversation.
“I don’t . . .” Trish sounded as if she’d run a five-minute mile. “I don’t want to get back together with you.”
“You are the beauty in every line from my brush.” Kazuo’s voice had a deep, smooth resonance. “I need you.”
Kazuo wanted her back? She didn’t want him, according to what she’d told her grandmother, but she had a mesmerized quality in her voice. Kazuo was weakening Trish’s resolve.
The idea came into Spenser’s head like a whisper. Soft, not fully formed, but there on the edges of his mind. Trish. Kazuo. Their push-pull.
What if a wrench came in between them?
Someone to distract Trish from Kazuo. He knew she didn’t have any other guys calling her — at least in the past few weeks. Maybe if she had someone to compare Kazuo to, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard to simply tell him to go away.
Spenser had wanted to go out with her once. Why not again?
The part about her assuming he wasn’t Christian had cooled his interest. But she was still fun to talk to, fun to banter with, fun to annoy. She knew now he was Christian, so he was acceptable to her stupid rules. Was that in her rules, that she could only date Christians? He couldn’t remember.
Regardless, Kazuo would be livid if Spenser could turn her away from him. He could do it.
He could go after Trish.
Trish whirled through the apartment, clearing, dusting, wiping, and vacuuming. Her head spun, but she got everything ready for Marnie, who was returning that afternoon. She even demolished the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.
She coached herself as she did a last-minute swipe of the counter. Marnie had sounded her normal quiet self on the phone, although a little fragile. Don’t alarm her. Don’t say anything stupid or irrelevant. Be happy to see her, but not overwhelming. Be —
A key turned in the lock.
She stuffed her dishcloth into the handle of the refrigerator and sprinted to the door. She swung it wide with a flourish — but not too exuberant. “Hi.”
Marnie hesitated on the doorstep but didn’t respond. Trish then realized she blocked the doorway. She stepped aside.
Still silent, Marnie shuffled into the living room and set down a covered basket along with her duffle bag. She shed her jacket while her eye lingered over the unusually clean living room.
She smoothed back her hair, shining gold-brown in the light from the picture window. Trish damped down a sigh of envy. Not quite as long as Trish’s cousin Mimi’s — the bane of her life, that little tramp — and not as smooth and kink-free. When Marnie turned to face Trish, the light silhouetted her plump form. Her eyes, large and velvety dark beneath angled brows, glinted with a strange hint of triumph.
“Welcome back.”
Marnie’s full lips curved into a mirthless smile. “I’m finally free.”
Her husky voice flowed like molasses, but her odd sentence made Trish blink and straighten. “Huh?”
“From him.”
Her ex-boyfriend, she guessed. “Oh. Good.” She didn’t know how else to respond to that. Her nose itched. Strange, she thought she had dusted.
Marnie hauled her basket and suitcase into her room.
Trish hesitated in the doorway and reached up to play with her earring, feeling pressure to fill the silence. “So where did you go? No, no, you don’t have to tell me. You, uh . . . look good.” What was that silver thing Marnie pulled out of her pocket? “Did you see? I cleaned the living room. I didn’t get a chance to clean the kitchen, yet, though — Wait, are those cigarettes?”
Marnie’s sidelong look brimmed with disdain and a swirl of defiance. “So?” She drew the word out like a challenging drawl from a Wild West gunfighter.
Whoa. This was a different Marnie. “No smoking in the apartments — that’s general policy. You know that.” Marnie’s expression made Trish feel like a stuffy Sunday school teacher. “You could smoke out on your balcony.” She gave a weak smile, then a resounding sneeze. Hadn’t she vacuumed the living room enough?
Marnie glared balefully at the tiny, rickety balcony. She inhaled deep, then snorted out a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, all right.” She turned fierce eyes at Trish. “I would have thought you’d be more understanding.”
Trish recoiled from her vehement complaint. “Uh . . .” That was the longest sentence she’d ever heard from Marnie.
Marnie turned away to unlatch the basket lid. As Trish started hacking and wheezing, she realized she was mistaken. She had dusted and vacuumed perfectly.
Marnie had brought home a cat.
“Marnie! A-choo! No roving — a-choo! — pets — a-choo! — in the building. A-choo! ” Trish scrambled from the room to snatch a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table. She gave a resounding honk as she blew her nose.
“No . . . pets?” Marnie lengthened and enunciated each word like a kindergarten teacher. Instead of putting the black and grey feline back in the basket, she stood like a statue while it squirmed in her vicelike grip, sending cat hairs flying in a cloud around her.
Tears streamed from Trish’s eyes. “Put the cat away, Marnie —a-choo! ”
Marnie’s basilisk eyes speared Trish as she dumped the cat back in the basket amid yowls and mewls. Her full pink lips pulled together in a sulk. “What am I supposed to do with him? Drown him?” Her sarcasm bit like a length of barbed wire. She stood with arms crossed, glaring an insolent challenge.
“You know the rules. If they find out, we’ll be evicted. You’ll have to give him away or move out.” She ruined the effect of her firm comment with a piffling sneeze.
Marnie’s mouth narrowed. Then she turned around and addressed Trish over her shoulder. “Fine. I’ll give him away.”
Trish blinked. She felt as if her stomach had been stretched tight and then deflated. “Uh . . . good.” She marched out of Marnie’s room and shut the door behind her.
Oh, she had been real smooth. She’d handled that brilliantly.
But she couldn’t be blamed, could she? This was a completely different Marnie than the woman who’d run out the door last week. That Marnie had been quiet and considerate, if a little taciturn. This one talked back and smoked and brought a cat home.
Trish escaped to her bedroom and flopped backward onto her bed. She traced the faint stains on her ceiling while she heard the rustling sounds of Marnie unpacking and crooning to her cat. Would she really get rid of it?
Oh, well. She’d wait and see.
Spenser leaned back in his desk chair and tried to peek around the cubicle wall between them. “Trish — ”
Her telephone rang. Again.
He glowered at his monitor while she answered. He had been trying to oh-so-casually start up a conversation all morning, but she kept getting phone calls. If it wasn’t the representative for the cells she had ordered, it was Diana, who was writing an IND report and needed clarification on some study.
“Hello? Oh, hi Mrs. Navarre.” Trish’s desk chair squeaked as she swiveled back and forth. Then the chair screeched as she jerked to a halt. “Uh . . . what smell? No, we haven’t smelled anything in our apartment . . .”
Spenser heard a faint gag, then silence. After a few seconds, it started to concern him. It didn’t sound like she was breathing . . . Oh wait, there was a gasp. Huh. That sounded like a croak.
“Cigarette smoke?” Her voice had jumped an octave and cracked at the end. “Your nephew smelled it in your bathroom? Oh, that’s terrible. No! Don’t tell the manager. I’m sure, um, that the smell will go away soon . . . maybe the guys in the apartments upstairs . . .”
Then her panicked tones calmed down. “Oh yes, I’m sure they’re doing something illegal . . . Yes, they do look like gangsters . . . Well, thanks for calling . . . Yes, I’ll tell you if I start smelling it, too. Bye.”
Spenser jumped in before her phone hit the cradle
. “So, Trish, I was wondering — ”
But she picked up the handset and dialed. “Marnie, it’s Trish. Are you smoking inside the apartment?”
She had ignored him. Not to be conceited, but girls never ignored Spenser.
“Don’t lie to me. Our neighbor called me complaining about a cigarette smell in her bathroom, which shares a wall with your bedroom and shares a vent hole . . . How should I know? I didn’t design the building . . . You need to smoke outside . . . We had this argument yesterday. It’s the apartment rules . . . Excuse me, but I didn’t write those, either. You have to stop or else Mrs. Navarre will call the manager, and he’ll come and smell the smoke and know it’s from our apartment . . . Because we could get evicted, that’s why! . . . Okay, fine. Bye.”
“So Trish, I was wondering — ”
The phone trilled again. “Hello? . . . No, Marnie, we don’t have any more spoons . . . No, they didn’t disappear. We only have eight and you used seven between yesterday and this morning. You’ll have to wash one . . . Well then, just stop using spoons. Bye.”
“Spenser, you were saying?” Trish’s head popped around the cubicle wall.
He glared at her.
“What?” Her brow furrowed.
Spenser, don’t irritate her. You’re supposed to be pursuing her, not letting her get to you. He impressed himself with his self-control as he forced his face to relax into a smile. “Um, so have you seen the trailers for that new movie Beowulf ?”
“Oh. Yeah.” The annoyed glitter in her eye dulled to blankness. “But I hate epics.” She drew back into her cubicle.
He did a double-take and stared at the empty space where her head had been a second ago. What happened? That was quick.
Okay, bad move. He hadn’t even started turning on the charm, and he alienated her with his movie choice. Huh. Trish wasn’t like the other girls he knew. She wasn’t about to give him the time of day if his conversation didn’t interest her.
He’d have to figure out her preferences, then. He heard her yakking on the phone. Well, I guess tomorrow . . .
