For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Breaking someone’s finger is considered excessive force. Can we talk about something else?”

  “She came at you with a knife. She stabbed the shit out of you. What were you supposed to do, ask her to be your valentine?”

  “It was a meat fork, and I’m hanging up now, asswipe.”

  “No, wait! Wait! Sorry. Where are you? Still with your sister and her kids?”

  “No. I’m in Santa Fe, having lunch. I’ll be home afterwards.” John drank a little tea.

  “Good. We’re coming to your house for dinner tonight.”

  “You are? Did I invite you and forget about it?”

  “No. Our stove died, it’s too cold to use the grill, and my wife doesn’t want another night of serving her brother take-out. She’s bringing some stuff to your place to make Indian curry. Can you pick up two jars of tikka masala curry paste?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate this. Uh, by the way, in case you didn’t get that, including you, there’ll be five for dinner. Sean and his wife are staying with us.”

  “I’ll be sure to make your pain-in-the-ass brother-in-law feel welcome.”

  A snicker came down through the phone. “Thanks. Eat your lunch. Enjoy your enforced leave. I’ll see you later.”

  John closed his cell and tucked it back into his pocket. Enforced leave. That’s exactly what it was. And it was driving him nuts. A simple arrest had turned into complicated bullshit that kept him from the job he loved.

  Growling, he shoved the ridiculous lawsuit out of his mind, reached for the corn chips and noticed how filthy his hands were. There was a black smear of brake dust on the inside of his wrist and red grime under his fingernails. Had he left smears of dirt all over Sofia when he’d hugged her goodbye?

  With a sigh, he scooted his chair back, left his jacket on the seat, and headed for the men’s room to wash up, humming ‘Ska8erBoi’. His absentminded thoughts were a music video filled with images of windblown white hair that was a cloud of spun sugar glittering with snowflakes.

  Damn, he’d really wanted to comb his fingers into that tangled nest of hair, but a man couldn’t go around shoving his hands into a woman’s hair simply because it was a mess that needed fixing—or because he was curious about how all that white would feel.

  She said catch you later boy, her hair was white like Christmas snow, John made up new ‘Ska8erboi’ lyrics as he soaped and washed his hands. He shook off the excess water, wiped his palms on his shirt instead of using a paper towel, and headed back to his table.

  Of course he was only assuming Queenie’s hair color was natural. She could have bleached it the way Gwen Stefani, Jean Harlow and that other woman did. Who’s the other girl with hair like that? Scarlet Johansson? Christina Aguilera? Sofia likes Christina Aguilera.

  A distasteful image struck him as he took a seat at his table, food steaming on an oval plate. Sofia was a tiny, eye-lined, platinum blonde eight-year-old cross between Avril Lavigne and Christina Aguilera, and she was singing about a ‘Candyman’ who ‘made her cherry pop.’

  Holy hell. His beginning fantasies of Queenie had turned into nightmares about his niece. He attacked his waiting lunch with a fork, closing his eyes, groaning as he shoved a piping hot bite of chile-coated enchilada into his mouth.

  “Blow on it, Uncle John,” he heard a little voice suggest.

  Christ, he was suffering from platinum blonde on the brain. He was freaking out about his precocious niece, obsessing over the color of Queenie’s hair, and hearing things.

  Chewing, he opened his eyes and looked down at his meal. Lunch wasn’t pretty. Stewed green and red chiles sat atop a mound of purple-blue corn tortillas. A thicket of shredded lettuce was stained by black bean juice. Cheese had melted over everything in a gooey cream-colored veil.

  God, he loved this food.

  He filled his fork again, adding a bit of everything to get the maximum of flavor on the next bite, lifting it to his lips.

  “Let it cool off before you cram more into your mouth and burn it again.”

  His over-active imagination was not responsible for that suggestion. It had come from a few feet away, and John’s head snapped left in time to see salsa drip off a chip. Red and green speckled sauce landed on the front of her pink turtleneck. He watched bits of tomato slide off her top and plop on the tiled floor, one red chunk landing next to her small foot, just missing her shoe. She’d changed out of the hot pink Converse sneakers she’d worn fixing the tire. She had tiny feet and boy howdy suede heels did something fantastic to her legs.

  He leaned his forearm on the tabletop and smirked. “Maybe you need to wear a bib.”

  She leaned across the open space between their tables. “Maybe you need to get your sleeve out of your enchilada sauce.”

  John lifted his arm and gazed at the spicy stain just near the gauntlet buttons on his cuff. He sucked it off. “What are you doing in my restaurant, Your Majesty?”

  “Having lunch. And Tortilla Flats isn’t yours. It belongs to Dean Alexis.” She sat back and drank the last bit of beverage in her glass then set it on the table.

  “I meant this is my favorite place. I come here regularly. I can’t get enough of the green chile.”

  She watched him suck on his sleeve and pointed. “So why not save some of that stuff on your shirt for later?”

  “Is that what you’re going to do with the junk on your top?”

  “I was thinking about having it for breakfast tomorrow.”

  John chuckled and stretched into the aisle to get a look at her food. “What do you have there?”

  “Tortilla soup.”

  “Yeah. It’s a good day for soup.”

  “And not much else.”

  “You seem to be doing a decent job on those corn chips and salsa.” He raised his eyebrows. Then he sat back to let the restaurant’s hostess by with a group of patrons.

  Willa snagged a chip and peeked at him between a couple preparing to be seated at the table to his right. “Did your niece get to her party on time?” She bit into the crunchy corn triangle.

  John shifted to see past the large Hispanic man who was peeling off a Navy pea coat. “Yes, and it was the most frightening thing I’ve ever witnessed. Twelve screaming eight-year-olds dressed like…” —” He huffed and gave his beard an agitated rub. “Let me get your opinion on something.”

  Angie the waitress squeezed in behind the fat man. “Here you go, Officer John,” she said, placing a basket of steaming hot sopapillas in front of him.

  “Thanks, Angie.” He gave her a little wink and inclined sideways again. “So your opinion,” he said. “Is it me, or is the fashion for little girls just too mature lately? Do we really need to have a five-year-old wearing a leopard-print bra top and makeup?”

  “Ah. Your niece’s eyeliner—the end of civilization as we know it.”

  “You think so too?”

  “Well, you tell me,” Willa rested one hand on the seat of her chair and leaned closer, “in your professional opinion—”

  “My professional opinion?”

  “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “Detective. How’d you know?

  “The waitress called you ‘officer’, and you called me ‘ma’am’. I figured you were either law enforcement or military, but your beard made me lean towards cop.” She had to sit up to make way for a bus boy carrying a load of used dishes.

  “So, my professional opinion?”

  Willa glanced at her watch and reached for another corn chip. “Does makeup and bad fashion lead to organized crime among pre-teen girls?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard of the ’Tween Mafia?”

  “They’re an offshoot of the Gambino Crime Family, aren’t they?” she said, cocking her head. “My point is, people get so wrapped up in appearances they fail to see beneath the exterior. Your niece was well mannered and sweet, despite the five pounds of eye make up. Okay, yes, I admit I think makeup and revealing clothi
ng is inappropriate for girls under eighteen, but every generation since Socrates has always believed that younger people will be the downfall of civilization, you know, with the rock and roll and all the dancing.”

  “Well, someone just watched Footloose.”

  “Let’s hear it for the boy.” Willa grinned and stuffed one last chip into her mouth.

  “You look different, Queenie.”

  “I combed my crown.” She waved her hands around her head like a game show model. Her once-snarled nest of hair was a neat, smooth bob that curved about an inch beneath her chin.

  John nodded. The hairstyle suited her better than the messy mop had. As tidy as her hair was now, he still wanted to shove his fingers into it. He also wanted to bury his nose in it. “Can I ask you something?”

  Willa sighed. Damn. For some reason she’d expected him to be different, but it always came down to the same question. She sighed again. “Because I like it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t dye it because I like how it looks. It turned white when I was twenty-two. I liked it then. I like it now”

  A laugh puffed out his nose, sniff-sniff-sniff. “I wasn’t going to ask about your hair, which by the way, I like too. I was just wondering if you’d care to join me.”

  “Join you?”

  “Yeah. You know, have lunch with me so we can continue this witty banter and eat at the same time, without leaning across and getting in the way of the wait staff.”

  “You think this is witty banter?’

  “Just like something out of an old Tracy-Hepburn feature.”

  “So which one are you, Tracy or Hepburn?”

  “See? Witty banter. Hot dog!”

  That was her cue. Willa knew she’d dawdled long enough. The flirting was surprisingly fun, surprisingly easy too, but she had to get moving. She made a face and rose from her seat, shaking her head. “You were doing pretty well there. Right up until the ‘hot dog’ bit.”

  “Too much? Did I blow it?”

  She reached for her jacket and oversized purse.

  “Wait a second. You’re not going to have lunch with me because I threw in a little Jimmy Stewart?”

  “Is that who that was?”

  He reached sideways and pulled out a chair at his table. “Come on, Queenie, sit down with me.”

  “Sorry,” she shrugged and took a long brown wallet from her bag, “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. You just bend your knees and let your butt hit the seat across from me.”

  She smiled lightly. “Let me just say, while it’d be fun to sit here with you and tell you why your Jimmy Stewart impression blows, I’m done with my soup, I have things to do and somewhere to be.” She took some money from the billfold. “Thanks for your help today. I’d like to buy your lunch. You and your niece were very kind to go out of your way like you did.” Willa set a fifty on the table. “This should cover the bill here and pay for the gas you used.”

  “I took you five miles to Madrid. Steve from Steve’s Gas-n-go took you back to your car. The air in your tire was free. So was my help.” With a funny grin, he exhaled and pushed the money towards her.

  “You’re a very nice man, Uncle John.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to stop being nice. It’s not getting me anywhere.”

  Willa laughed. “Take care.”

  “You too.” For the second time that day he offered his hand and she took it. When they’d shaken hands previously, her fingers had been so numb with cold, all she’d noticed was the welcome warmth of his skin. This time Willa felt a live, sparking wire.

  When their eyes met, it was plain he’d felt it too.

  Startled by the sensation, one she hadn’t felt in years, she jerked free from his grip and stepped back. Then she hurried from the restaurant and outside into the blustery snow.

  Cold and crisp, the air was scented by piñon burning in fireplaces. The wind had died down while Willa had been inside the supermarket, but snow was still falling. About an inch of fresh accumulation had joined what was already on the ground and plowed into mini-mountains at the edges of the parking lot.

  Next to Starbucks, the Mari Mac Shopping village was the busiest retail area in Los Alamos. Shoppers looking for a place to park close to Smith’s Food & Drug circled the lot like vultures. A chubby brunette in a champagne-colored SUV rolled along behind Willa, like a bird of prey. The snow crunching beneath the tires couldn’t drown out the shrill sound of a toddler screaming in the back seat, even with the windows up.

  Willa almost didn’t hear the cell phone ring in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out and checked the number, expecting Oscar.

  Isabel.

  Willa ignored the call from her sister, just as she had two hours ago, and last week, and the week before. And the week before that too. Any conversation would just be a rehash of the same old crap that always followed the same script.

  Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

  No. You don’t. A divorce isn’t the same thing, Isabel.

  The stages are similar.

  Since when have you had a doctorate in Psychology?

  I’m just trying to help.

  I don’t want your help, Isabel. I want you to fuck off.

  One of them always wound up saying the eff-word. The discussion wouldn’t be any different this time. Willa had enough to deal with; she didn’t need to add her guilt or Isabel’s opinions and suggestions to the mix of life’s current complications.

  Dusty white patches of snow sat on the trunk of the Volkswagen. The stark color stood out against the blue and accentuated curving dimples she hadn’t noticed when she’d taken out her suitcase, the tire iron and the spare tire. Odd, considering the dent was the same size as Alicia’s foot.

  During the last round, the one that put the two craters in the hood, Alicia had gone for the bowling ball Miles had kept in the garage. She’d dribbled it on the Volkswagen like a basketball. Now it seemed she’d taken to jumping on it with her heavy-soled Doc Marten Maryjanes.

  Those damn shoes. Willa knew those shoes well. She’d given them to Alicia the Christmas before last. Yesterday, when Oscar had dropped her home after their meeting, Willa found muddy Doc Marten tracks across the kitchen tiles.

  Alicia only ever came to the house for three reasons: to pilfer supplies, ask for money, or wash dirty clothes when she couldn’t be bothered to use the laundromat near the dorm. Yesterday, she’d taken the Tide, used all the Woolite, spilled fabric softener all over the dryer, and hadn’t bothered to clean it up. The toaster was missing and the jar of peanut butter was empty. When Willa had started to pack toiletries for this job away from home, she found another mess in the bathroom. Alicia had rooted around the soap and shampoo in the cupboard, helping herself to a box of tampons—the last one Willa had—and two bottles of body wash. Whatever she didn’t want she’d left on the bathroom floor.

  At some point during the raid, Alicia had jumped on the Volkswagen’s trunk.

  The woman in the champagne SUV leaned on the horn. Over the sound of the still-shrieking baby, Willa heard yelling, something along the lines of ‘come on lady, hurry up and move,’ but she went on staring at the indentation. She saw the outline of Alicia’s boot and recalled the other sorts of footprints Alicia had left in her life.

  Willa knew the tire hadn’t gone flat by accident. She would bet her pension that the spare had been punctured on purpose too.

  Swearing, she opened the trunk’s lid and tossed in the bag of peanut butter, tampons and laundry detergent, wondering what other things her stepdaughter had left a mark upon.

  She slammed the trunk closed. For a moment she stood with both hands on the back of the VW and tried, for the ninety-millionth time, to understand why things with Alicia had turned so ugly. The truth was, Willa understood. She’d accepted it was as it was. Nothing would change Alicia’s single-mindedness. After a time, it no longer seemed to matter. It made no sense to care. Frankly, she was used to it now. A person could get u
sed to all kinds of things.

  But there were times she wished her stepdaughter’s ire and misguided sense of vengeance didn’t have to include the car.

  Willa shook off the snow in her hair. There was a positive thing that came with living in Los Alamos again. Alicia and her hostility would be safely contained on the campus of the University of New Mexico, two hours away in Albuquerque.

  The impatient SUV mother honked again. Willa held up a hand. “I’m going, I’m going. Just give me one second.” She turned away from the trunk and the SUV was gone. In its place was a Subaru. The bearded, boyish smirk peering out the rolled-down window was handsome and full of mischief, like Bruce Willis in his Moonlighting days.

  “So this is where you had to rush off to. Of all the supermarkets in Los Alamos, is this a coincidence or what?” he said.

  “This is the only supermarket in Los Alamos. And I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Neither do I. You know there are laws against stalking, Queenie?”

  A thrill bounced around Willa’s brain. Then it shot lower. A lot lower.

  There was that one instance, three months after Miles had died, but that night with the Interpol guy hadn’t been about desire for either one of them, and since that occasion, guys had registered a big fat zero on her lust-o-meter. Being human and alive, she had urges that she took care of herself, but the men she’d met, the dates she’d gone on … nothing had ever happened, nothing had registered.

  Until now.

  This guy was one big gasping breath of fresh, lusty air.

  Her mother would be so mortified. Her sister on the other hand…

  Willa pushed aside irritation and guilt and felt her mouth curve into a smirk like his. “Yeah, where’s a cop when you need one?”

  “Want to see my badge?”

  “Are you trying to turn this into an I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours thing?” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Now do I look like the kind of idiot who’d do that?” His chin settled on the back of the hand he had resting on the window ledge.