by Nola Cross
He drew back and straightened, running a hand through his gold curls. Then he gave her a tight smile. “Maybe next term?” Before she could respond, he waved to a group of students across the parking lot and took off in their direction.
“Wow.” Tracy made a fanning motion. “I can’t believe you just turned down Tim McBeautiful. Again. You okay?” She put a hand on Desi’s forehead as if checking for a fever.
Desi shrugged as she started the little car and headed out of the lot. “I meant what I said. I’m too busy.”
Her friend scowled. “Yeah, and last week you were too busy to go to the movies with Jake What’s-His-Bucks, the guy with the hot car. What is your deal, girl?”
Desi didn’t answer, pretending she was preoccupied by the traffic zooming past as she waited to pull out onto the busy street. She hated Tracy’s pep talks about her love life...or lack thereof. Those conversations always eventually boiled down to one factor.
“Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for that mythical Native American stepbrother of yours.” Tracy snorted with derision.
And there it is.
“Hawk is not a myth.” Desi heard the hard edge of real irritation in her own voice. “And he’s not my stepbrother. His mom and my dad had a thing for a while. The two of them lived with us for almost a year. Then he left and pretty soon she moved on too. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well didn’t you tell me there was some big scene on your porch where he told you not to trust guys and promised he’d come back for you?”
Desi grimaced as prickly heat spread over her chest. “Something like that.” She should never have told her best friend the details of that day.
To tell the truth, these last few months she’d begun to doubt her own recollections, especially since Dovie refused to discuss anything about Hawk or his mother with her. Was it possible he was a complete figment of her imagination, like Tracy thought? She struggled right now to bring to mind the color of his eyes, the smell of his skin, the way the sun glinted on his ebony hair. She used to know those things about him. Hadn’t she?
Okay, so maybe he was a real person, but just not the intense, handsome renegade etched in the memory of her ten-year-old self. Maybe little Desi had been so desperate for a friend, she had turned the passing kindness of a young male acquaintance into something more than it was. Yeah, that was more probable.
“I still don’t get it. If he was really like your stepbrother, for a while anyway, why won’t your grandmother talk about him?”
Good question. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what does your dad say about him?”
“Let’s just say my father’s memory is not the best.”
“Right.” Tracy had been to the house a few times and met her dad. Even though he’d cleaned up his act two years ago, it was clear to everyone that some impairment remained.
It pained her to admit her father was a burned-out shell of a man who worked when it suited him and spent his free time on the couch watching the military channel or whatever sports happened to be on.
They parked in front of Tracy’s apartment building. Her friend got out and grabbed her bookbag. “See you Thursday in chemistry.”
“Yep. See you.”
Tracy leaned in. “And if Hawk-the-Perfect ever decides to show up, feel free to send him my way.” She waggled her eyebrows, and Desi burst out laughing.
“Yeah. I’ll do that for sure.”
Chapter 2
Hawk let the hood of the ’65 Mustang drop closed and signaled Miguel to kill the engine. The powerful car went silent and in a moment Miguel joined him at the sink in the front bay of the garage while Hawk cleaned the grease from his hands. Even though he owned the place, he still loved getting under the hood himself.
“Nice job,” he said, throwing his lead mechanic a smile. “You got her purring like a cat.”
“I like to say she’s humming like a woman who’s been righteously fucked.”
Hawk threw his head back and laughed. “I get that. Just don’t let Pauline Thomas hear you say that about her prized car. She might take it the wrong way.”
Miguel grinned. “Maybe. But then again, maybe she’d like it. You never know.” The Latino man’s black eyes danced with amused confidence. His sexual exploits were legendary around the South Bay Classics garage, and for a second Hawk could indeed picture the uptight Ms. Thomas falling hard for Miguel’s swarthy machismo.
“Maybe you’ll let me in on your secrets with the ladies someday, eh Miguel?”
“You don’t need my help, boss.” His grin got wider. “My sister Rosa is always after me to set you up with her.”
“Rosa, huh? Pretty girl.” Hawk was careful to remain respectful. At the same time, even though Rosa was voluptuous and sweet, he wasn’t the least bit interested. Running the business consumed all his time and energy. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d taken a woman out. Last year some time?
When he’d gotten home from the Middle East four years before, he had let loose with a vengeance. Part of it was a sense of relief at making it home in one piece, but most of it was a way to forget everything he’d been through, all he’d seen and heard while stationed in Gardez, Afghanistan, where some of the worst fighting had occurred early in the campaign. Though he’d been assigned to the transport maintenance detail, he’d been close enough to that fighting to see the results firsthand. It was bad. Real bad.
So yeah, after getting back to the States, he’d been kind of a hound dog for the first couple of years. One girl after another, lots of meaningless but gratifying sex. Looking back, he wasn’t proud of that period. It seemed a lifetime ago now.
The intercom came on with a series of clicking noises. Both men turned toward the speaker.
“Hawk. Um. You have a visitor. Here. At the service counter.” Their receptionist, a middle-aged woman named Bonnie, always sounded as if she had just run a mile.
Only mildly curious, Hawk dried his hands and then made his way through the labyrinth of service bays and back hallways leading to the small customer service area at the front of the building. The room was furnished with several plastic chairs, an old television, and a tired vending machine that dispensed what passed for coffee and hot chocolate. At the far end, a large window looked out on Trager Street. A woman stood there with her back to him. She was dressed in a gray trench coat against the wet January weather, and her long, black hair shone under the florescent lights.
He walked toward her with a hand outstretched. “May I help you?”
She turned, and Hawk took a wrecking ball right to the gut.
Desiree!
She looked much as she had last summer as she’d walked across the auditorium stage, except that today her lovely face was drawn, her eyes rimmed with red.
“Hello, Hawk.” She attempted a smile.
Stunned, he blurted, “Desiree. What’s happened? Why are you here?”
Her eyes—how could he have forgotten their amazing amber color?—filled with fresh tears. Suddenly he was thrown back eleven years to another morning. Odd, hot rushes of emotion shot through him. Feelings he hadn’t let himself experience since he’d left her there on the porch so many years ago. Raw fear. Emptiness. Dread.
“Is everything all right?” He stepped forward and gripped her shoulders.
She shook her head. “It’s Dovie. She passed.”
He was shocked at the stab of pain to his gut. “No! What happened?”
“She had a massive stroke. The doctor says she went quick, didn’t suffer.” Tears coursed down her face.
“Well, that’s a blessing at least.” He felt so helpless, his words seemed so hollow. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned in against him, laying her head on his chest. It was natural to shelter her there while she cried. After a long minute or two she raised her eyes.
“Can you come?”
“Come?”
“To her funeral. It’s this Saturday.”
He stared
. Today was Wednesday afternoon. This must have just happened! What was the crazy girl doing driving the freeway to Tacoma when her loss was still so fresh? No doubt there were arrangements to be made and details to be settled in the next two days.
His mind flashed back seven years to his mother’s cremation and simple service. Even that small affair had meant jumping through dozens of hoops. He guessed that experience gave him a leg up on Desi when it came to knowing what to expect. He’d been stationed overseas when he received notice that his mother’s health was failing, and he’d rushed back on emergency leave to see her. He’d made it with just a few hours to spare.
He rubbed the spot on his chest where his mother’s silver amulet rested beneath his shirt. “Of course I’ll come. In fact, I can be there tomorrow if you need help with anything.”
She gaped. “For real? You would do that?”
He nodded.
“Oh, thank you, Hawk. Thank you! You don’t know what that means to me. You really are a brother to me.” She grabbed him in an awkward hug and held on, her body in its padded coat pressing against him from chest to knee. Her scent—something fresh and powdery—rose around him as he hugged her back.
“But listen, Dez, you shouldn’t be driving right now while you’re so upset. It isn’t safe. Stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning I’ll drive you home and we’ll tackle things together, okay?”
She nodded, her soft hair tickling his chin. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
* * * *
Desi pushed her empty salad plate to the side, amazed that she’d managed to eat something. In the two days since Dovie’s death, food had been the last thing on her mind. But sitting in this homey café in Tacoma, across the table from her brother Hawk, she’d found that her appetite had returned with a vengeance. Now the waiter approached with two steaming plates of food.
“The New York steaks here are the best. Thick and juicy.” Hawk smiled at her with forced joviality, his concern for her creating a telling crease between his brows. “Try the horseradish sauce.”
Wanting to please him, she cut off a bite of meat and swiped it through the little cup of white sauce. He was right. The divine flavors melded in her mouth and enticed her to chew; the steak was tender and cooked to perfection. She smiled and nodded and cut another bite.
It was hard to believe she was really there. That the man who sat across from her was not, after all, some figment of her ten-year-old imagination. As she ate her meat and thick-cut fries, she studied him from under lowered lashes. He looked much as she remembered, but heavier, more filled out. His skin was not as tanned as it used to be, maybe because he now spent more time indoors, but the Native American genes from his mother’s side were plain in his black eyes, thick brows, and high cheekbones. He wore his hair long now, neatly banded in a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. She couldn’t remember which tribe his mother had been affiliated with. Maybe someday she would ask him. For now, she found herself feeling shy.
“I was sorry to hear about your mom. Dovie told me she read the obituary in the paper. I would have sent you a card if I’d had your address.”
A momentary wince of pain flashed across his face and then was gone. “Thanks,” he said, cutting another bite of meat.
“I remember her as being such a nice person.”
He nodded, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Yeah, she was way too nice for...”
At his abrupt silence she dropped her gaze and nodded. “For my dad. I know. You can go ahead and say it.”
Instead he poked the bite of steak into his mouth.
“She used to tell the best stories. Remember the coyote tales? I loved those.”
“Yeah. Good times.” He scowled. After a moment he wiped his mouth on his napkin and leaned back in the booth.
“So. Desi. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I can be a support for you right now. But I gotta know. How did you find me?”
Desi reached down and opened her handbag and took out a stack of envelopes. She set them on the table between their two plates.
“I found these this morning in Dovie’s bottom dresser drawer.”
“Ah.” His gaze rested on the envelopes as if they were a pile of venomous snakes. “So she kept my letters.”
“As soon as I read them I knew you would want to know about her passing.”
“Uh-huh.”
She took a deep breath, screwing up her courage.
“And I guess I also wanted to know why she kept these a secret from me all these years.” Her eyes began to sting again as she recalled the sense of betrayal she’d experienced when she found the letters. “When you first enlisted, I remember a few letters coming from you. Dovie read them aloud to me. But then they stopped coming. Or so I thought.”
“I’m sorry. There came a point when I had to make her promise to keep them a secret.”
“And you sent money too. Didn’t you?” She couldn’t keep the accusatory tone from her voice.
He nodded, his gaze meeting hers. As she looked across the table into the depths of his soft, black eyes, an odd whirling sensation began in her belly. It felt a little like swooping around on a carnival ride at the county fair.
It must be the horseradish sauce.
He sighed. “Look. The reason I asked your grandmother not to share the letters—and the money I sent—was because of your dad.”
“You were afraid he’d take the money and use it to buy drugs.” The truth was bitter, but it made sense.
“Yes, partly. But also she wrote that he got real mad whenever a letter came from me, and I didn’t want him taking that out on you.” His hand closed over hers where it rested on the table. A strange warmth flooded her body. She could feel it rising in her cheeks too.
“He’s clean now,” she said.
Part of her wanted to drag her hand back, to put a stop to all the odd sensations washing through her. But that would be rude, wouldn’t it? Especially when he had been so kind to her and to Dovie all these years. Like a real brother would have been.
“I know, Dovie wrote me. And I’m glad.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze and released it to take hold of his fork again. Desi took the opportunity to gather the envelopes and put them back in her purse as her pulse caromed through her veins.
“So I guess you pretty much paid for me to go to college these past three years.”
He shrugged. “I helped out. Your dad hasn’t worked regular for a long time. Dovie had just social security coming in, and I knew your part-time job wouldn’t pay for it all. No sense in you going into debt by taking out a bunch of student loans.”
She stared at him. “Wow. I hope you know it will take me decades to pay you back.”
The scowl that had lifted once again scored his brow. “I don’t expect you to. The money I sent was a gift, not a loan. My business is doing well. I can afford to help you out.”
“But why?” She was almost afraid to look into his eyes again.
“Why do you think?” He leaned forward and put his hand on her head. Lovely goosebumps thrilled down her spine. Then he tousled her hair. “’Cause you’re my little sister, silly-head.”
* * * *
Hawk stopped in the guest room doorway, watching Desi as she stood next to the bed in the little alcove under the eaves. She set her purse on the antique dresser and looked around.
“It’s a perfect room. I love the way it’s decorated.” Her gaze shifted from the oval braided rug to the old-fashioned floral wallpaper.
“Good. I’ve been wondering if maybe I should update it.”
“Oh no. It’s charming. You should leave it just the way it is.” She sat down on the bed. “So this Walt guy, your old boss, he left you this house as well as the business? That’s amazing.”
He nodded as he took another step inside the room. He sat down in the rocking chair across from her, but in only a moment he felt ill at ease, as if he’d invaded her privacy. He rose and went to the window, pretending t
o check and see that it was closed tight and locked against the pattering rain. As he stared out into the dark street, he looked past his own reflection.
“Yeah. Walt was a great guy. He took a chance on me. Gave me a job right out of the Army. Of course, I knew my way around the workings of transport vehicles and jeeps. It took me a few months to translate what I knew to classic car engines.”
“But you learned.” He heard the smile in her voice. “You must be very good at it. And he must have thought of you as more than an employee. Maybe like the son he never had?”
An old ache moved into his throat. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He remembered the sick feeling that had overtaken him when he’d learned that Walt had succumbed to chronic emphysema, a disease the older man had battled for years without telling anyone. He’d been down for a couple of days with what he told Hawk was a bad chest cold, and then he was gone, just like that. A surreal phone call came three days later from an attorney in Seattle, advising Hawk that he’d been named as Walt’s only beneficiary.
The whole thing had blown him away. Sure, he’d taken the old guy fishing a few times, and enjoyed staying late on Friday nights to have a beer and listen to stories about Walt’s gig in Vietnam. But he hadn’t done anything extraordinary, for sure nothing that warranted Walt bestowing on him all his earthly possessions. Both the 1940s Cape Cod style home and the commercial building housing South Bay Classics were paid for free and clear. Hawk had become a relatively well-off businessman overnight. Now he had plans to add two more service bays in the back parking lot and two additional lifts. It excited him to imagine expanding his business, and he was sure Walt would have approved.
“He never had his own kids?”
“No. His wife died years ago.”
Hawk had no memory of his own father, who had never married his mother and had deserted the two of them just after Hawk’s second birthday. For years Lillian Ironcloud had entertained her son with a series of wildly creative, Lakota-themed tales about his conception. Her favorite one involved the South Wind blowing through her bedroom window one cool autumn night. Then, just before she died, she’d told Hawk the man’s real name, writing it on a scrap of paper he still carried in his wallet. But after thinking it over, he decided he didn’t need to do anything with that information. The truth was often overrated. He’d much rather imagine his father to be a man like Walt—honest, hard-working, kind in a gruff way.
