Covet

Chapter 21

  The problem was, he had no reason and no right to feel sucker punched.

  As Vin stared at Marie-Terese, taking note of the flush on her cheeks and the fact that she didn't have any lipstick left on her mouth, he shouldn't have felt a thing. Same deal when that guy had come out of the bathroom with a smile on his face and his shoulders set like he was so the man - there should have been nothing unusual going on in the center of Vin's chest.

  This was not his woman. This was not his business.

  "I need to go," he said, standing up from the wall and turning away. One look at the thick crowd and he headed for the back of the club, for the hallway that, thanks to last night, he knew had a door at the end of it.

  All the way along, his father's drunken voice dogged him: You can never trust a woman. They're sluts, every one of them. Give them a chance and they'll fuck you every time - and not In a good way.

  Marie-Terese caught up with him about a third of the way to the exit, her high-heeled shoes clipping over the tiled floor. Grabbing his arm, she tugged him to a halt. "Vin, why are you - "

  "Behaving like this?" Damn it, he couldn't look at her. Just couldn't do it. "You know, I don't have an answer for that. "

  She seemed nonplussed. "No, I was asking. . . why did you come? Is there something wrong?"

  God, where to start with that one. "Everything is fine and dandy. Just frickin' perfect. "

  As he started to walk off again, he heard her say loud and clear, "I wasn't with him. That man in there. I was not with him. "

  Vin glanced over his shoulder; then marched back up to her. "Yeah, right. You're with men for a living - or do you think I've forgotten what a prostitute does for money. "

  While he watched her pale, he felt like a total bastard. But before he could backpedal, she filled the silence.

  Lifting her chin, she said, "It's the truth, and whether or not you choose to believe it is your problem. Not mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to change. "

  As she brought up her hand to push her hair over her shoulder, he saw that she had something gripped in her fist. . . a rumpled paper towel with smudges of red all over it.

  "Wait. " He stopped her and glanced at the thing. "You took off your lipstick. "

  "Of course I - Wait, I guess you assumed that man kissed it off me, right?" She pivoted around and beelined for the locker room door. "Good-bye, Vin. "

  Now it was his turn to drop a newsflash: "I broke up with Devina this afternoon. My girlfriend is now an 'ex. That's what I came to tell you. "

  Marie-Terese halted, but did not face him. "Why did you do that?"

  He traced the back of her with his eyes, from her small shoulders to the proud set of her spine to the dark hair that fell below her shoulder blades. "Because when I looked at you across that table at the diner, no one else existed. And whether or not anything happens between you and me, it took meeting you to show me what I was missing. "

  She looked over her shoulder, her spectacular blue eyes astonished.

  "It's the truth," he said. "The God's honest truth. And it's why I was so upset outside of that bathroom. I'm not saying you're mine. . . I just wish you were. "

  As the moody, depressive music from the club filled the air between them, he scrambled to put together the magic combination of words that would keep her from taking off on him.

  Although not channeling his father was probably the first place to start, he thought.

  She turned around and he felt the measure of her stare. "I'm going to go get changed and tell Trez I'm quitting. Will you wait for me?"

  What. . . had he heard that right? "You're quitting?"

  She held up the paper towel. "I've known for a while I couldn't keep doing this. . . I just didn't know tonight was the end. And it is. "

  Vin stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her carefully so she could pull back if she wanted to. She didn't though. As their bodies met, she took a deep breath. . . and hugged him back.

  "Yes. . . yes, I will wait for you," he whispered. "Even if it takes hours. "

  As if he knew precisely the right time to appear, Trez walked out of his office at the far end of the corridor and strode toward them.

  He extended his hand to Vin. "So, you taking her out of here?"

  Vin lifted his brows as they clapped palms. "If she'll let me. "

  Trez looked down at Marie-Terese, his brown eyes impossibly kind. "You should let him. "

  Marie-Terese blushed the color of a Valentine's Day card. "I. . . ah. . . listen, Trez I'm not going to come in anymore. "

  "I know. And I'll miss you, but I'm glad. " When the man held out his huge arms, the two of them hugged briefly. "I'll tell the rest of the girls, and please don't feel like you have to keep in touch - sometimes a clean break is the best. Just remember, if you need something, anything - money, place to stay, shoulder to lean on - I am always here for you. "

  Okay, Vin liked this guy. A lot.

  "I will. " She glanced at Vin. "I won't be long. "

  After she ducked into the locker room, Vin dropped his voice, even though it was arguably unnecessary, as no one was in the hall with them. "Listen, she told me about how tight you're being with the police. I appreciate it, but if it costs you or her anything, you open right up, okay?"

  The guy smiled a little, his self-confidence palpable. "You don't worry about the cops. You just take care of your girl and everything'll be cool. "

  "She's not my girl, really. " Although if he had half a chance. . .

  "Can I give you a piece of advice?"

  "Yeah, sure. "

  As the guy stepped in close, it was unusual for Vin to have other men meet him square in the eyes given how tall he was, but Trez sure as shit didn't have a problem with that.

  "Listen to me carefully," the man said. "There's going to come a time, maybe sooner rather than later, that you're going to have to trust her. You're going to have to have faith that she's who you know her to be and not what you fear. She did what she had to here, and maybe she'll tell you the whys. But this kind of shit, it doesn't get left behind in either of your minds for a long time. . . if ever. Let me assure you of what you already suspect, though. She's not like some of the other girls here. If life hadn't been what it was, she never would have been here, got it?"

  Vin totally saw the guy's point - except he wondered just how much the club owner knew. Given how he was looking at Vin, it was as if he saw. . . everything. "Yeah, okay. "

  "Good. Because if you do a head job on her" - the guy put his mouth right next to Vin's ear - "I'm going to make a meal out of the meat on your bones. "

  As Trez straightened and flashed another one of his small smiles, Vin wasn't fooled in the slightest as visions of hot-dog rolls, hamburger buns, and BBQ sauce swirled in his head.

  "You know," Vin murmured, "you're okay, big man, you really are. "

  Trez bowed a little. "Feel the same way about you. "

  When Marie-Terese came out about ten minutes later, her face was free of makeup, she had on jeans and another fleece, and her duffel bag was nowhere in sight. "I just threw out my stuff," she said to Trez.

  "Good. "

  They all walked down to the exit, and when they got to the door, she hugged her boss again. "Trez, about the police - "

  "If they show up here looking for you, I'll let you know. But I don't want you to worry about it, okay?"

  She smiled up at him. "You take care of everything, don't you. "

  A dark shadow passed over the man's face. "Almost everything. Now run along, you two. And don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I never see you again. "

  "Bye, Trez," Marie-Terese whispered.

  He reached out and brushed her cheek softly. "Goodbye, Marie-Terese. " As the owner opened the back door, Vin put his arm around her waist and led her out into the night air.

  "Can we go somewhere and talk?" he said as their footfalls
echoed around in the stillness.

  "The diner?"

  "I was thinking. . . somewhere else. Actually, I have this place I want to take you to. "

  "Okay. I can follow you?"

  "How about I just drive us both?" As she glanced back at the club, he shook his head. "Actually, follow me, please. You'll feel safer with your own car. "

  There was a pause, as if she were testing her instincts. Then she shrugged.

  "No. . . that's not necessary. " She looked up at him. "I really don't think you'll hurt me. "

  "You can bet your life on that. "

  Vin escorted her over to the M6, and after she was settled in the passenger seat, he got in behind the wheel. "We're going to the Wood. "

  "What's that?"

  "A residential part of town where every single street ends with 'wood. Oakwood, Greenwood, Pinewood. " He started the engine. "It's like the city planners just ran out of inventive names at that point, and you have to wonder why there isn't a Woodwood Avenue over there. "

  She laughed. "I've been here for about a year and a half. I should probably know where it is. "

  "It's not far. Just about ten minutes. "

  Five blocks over from the club, he eased onto the Northway and went up one exit, getting off at Caldie's northern suburbs. As they passed street after street of postage-stamp lots, the houses were small and became even smaller as he went on.

  He had memories of these neighborhoods, but not the Norman Rockwell, squeaky-clean, happy-family kind. More like him sneaking out of the house to get away from his parents and hooking up with his friends to go and drink and smoke and fight. Anything was better than being home back in those days.

  God, how he'd prayed for them to go away. Or for him to leave. And he'd gotten his wish, hadn't he.

  "Almost there," he said, although Marie-Terese seemed perfectly content next to him, her body relaxed, her head back against the seat rest as she looked out the window.

  "I feel like you could just keep driving for hours," she murmured, "and I'd be happy just to sit here and watch the world go by. "

  He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "When's the last time you had a vacation?"

  "Forever. "

  "Ah. I know how that one is. "

  When he got to 116 Crestwood Avenue, he pulled into the driveway and up to a tiny two-bedroom with aluminum siding and a concrete walkway to the front door.

  The place where he'd grown up had never looked so good, the bushes around the foundation trimmed and the big oak tree free of dead branches - and when there was grass growing on the ground, it would be mowed every week. He'd also replaced the roof two years ago and had the siding redone and the driveway resurfaced. It was the best-kept house on the street, if not in all of the Wood.

  "What is this?" she said.

  He was abruptly embarrassed, but then that was the point. Devina had never been here. No one who worked with him even knew about the place. Ever since he'd started making it, he'd shown people only what he'd been proud of.

  He opened his door. "This. . . is where I grew up. "

  Marie-Terese was out of the car by the time he came around, and her eyes were going over every inch of the house, from stoop to flashing.

  He took her arm and led her up to the front door. As he unlocked and opened the way, the scent of artificial lemon rolled out like a welcome mat, but it was a false greeting, as fake as the chemicals that were approximating the smell.

  Together, they stepped through the jambs and he flipped on the hall light, then closed the door and cranked the heat on.

  Cold. Damp. Disordered. In contrast to the exterior, the house inside was a mess. He'd left it exactly as it had been the day his parents had fallen down the stairs together: an artifact of ugliness.

  "Yup, this is what I grew up in," he said roughly, looking down at the only fresh stretch of rug in whole the house - which was at the foot of the staircase. Where they'd landed after they'd fallen from the top landing.

  As Marie-Terese looked it all over, he went into the living room and clicked on a lamp so she could also see the ratty sofa with the bald patches on the arms. . . and the low coffee table with the cigarette burns. . . and the bookshelves that were still filled more with his mother's empty vodka bottles than anything you could read.

  Man, the light was not kind to the orange-and-yellow drapes that hung with wilted exhaustion from their wrought-iron rods or the faded rug that had a worn track leading from the couch into the kitchen.

  His skin was crawling as he walked over to the archway and hit the light switch for the fixture over the stove.

  What should have been Betty Crocker awesome was even worse than the living room: The Formica countertops were stained with circles left by cans that had sat for weeks, bleeding rust onto the surface. The refrigerator with its loose handle was harvest gold, or probably had been when it had been bought - now it was hard to tell how much had been intentional color choice and what was decay and dust. And the pine cabinets. . . what a mess. Originally they'd been glossy, but they were now dull, and the section of them that was under the old leak in the ceiling had strips of varnish bubbling up from the wood like streaks of poison ivy on skin.

  He was so ashamed of it all.

  This was his real estate Dorian Gray, the rotting reality he kept locked in his proverbial closet while to the rest of the world he presented only beauty and wealth.

  Vin glanced over his shoulder. Marie-Terese was wandering around, her mouth slightly parted, as if she were watching a scene in a movie that had shocked the shit out of her.

  "I wanted you to see this," he said, "because it's the truth and I never show it to people. My parents were both alcoholics. My dad worked as a plumber. . . my mom was a professional smoker and that was about it. They fought a lot and died in this house, and to be honest, I don't miss them and I'm not sorry. If that makes me a bastard, I'm okay with it. "

  Marie-Terese walked over to the stove. Sitting on the cooktop, between the gas burners, there was an old spoon cradle which she picked up and dusted off. "'The Great Escape. "

  "An amusement park up north. Ever heard of it?"

  "No. As I said, I'm not from here. "

  He came over, looking at the cheap, touristy thing with the red logo on it. "I bought that on a school field trip. I thought maybe if the other kids saw me getting something homey for my mother, they wouldn't guess what she really was like. For some reason, the lie was important to me. I wanted to be normal. "

  Marie-Terese put the thing back with more care than it deserved and stayed where she was, staring at the thing. "I go to a prayer group every Tuesday and Friday night. At St. Patrick's. "

  Her revealation caught his breath. . . and he had to force himself to be cool. "You're Catholic? Me, too. Or at least my parents were married in a Catholic church. I'm lapsed and then some. "

  She tucked some of her hair behind her ear and took a shuddering breath. "I go. . . I go to the meetings because I want to be around the normal people. I want to be. . . like them again someday. " Her eyes flashed up and met his. "So I understand. I understand. . . all of this. Not just the house, but why you don't bring people here. "

  Vin's heart thundered in his chest. "I'm glad," he said hoarsely.

  Her eyes drifted around. "Yes. . . every bit of this, I get. "

  He held out his hand. "Come with me. Let me show you the rest of the place. "

  She took what he offered, and the warmth of her palm in his was transformative, lighting up his whole body, showing him just exactly how cold and numb he usually was. He'd been hoping she'd accept him even with this in his background. Praying.

  And now that he saw she did, for some reason he wanted to thank God.

  As they went up the stairs, the steps squeaked under the fetid carpet cover and the banister was about as steady as a drunk on a boat. At the top landing, he bypassed his parents' room, went down pa
st the single bathroom, and paused in front of a closed door.

  "This was where I slept. "

  After he opened it up, he turned on the overhead light. Tucked under the eave of the attic, his old twin bed was still covered with a navy blue quilt, and the single pillow at the head was still flat as a slice of bread. The desk where he'd done his homework, when he'd actually worked on the stuff, was still under the window, the goosenecked lamp he'd studied by cranked up to the ceiling. Over on the bureau, his Rubik's Cube and his black Ace comb and the 1989 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition with Kathy Ireland on the cover were where he'd left them last.

  Above the dresser, his mirror had various ticket stubs, pictures, and other shit tucked into its cheapo, fake-wood frame, and as he stepped forward and caught his reflection, he wanted to curse.

  Yup, still the same. He was still staring at a face with bruises on it.

  Of course, this trip, his father hadn't been the one who'd put them there.

  Vin walked over to the window, and as he cracked the thing to let some air in, he felt like talking. So he did.

  "You know, I took Devina to Montreal on our first date. Flew her there in my plane and we stayed in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. She was as impressed as I meant her to be, and even today, she doesn't know where I come from. Most of that was my choice, but the thing was, she never cared about the past. She never asked about my parents after I told her they were both dead, and I never volunteered. " He turned around. "I was going to marry her. Had the ring all bought - and what do you know, she even found the diamond this afternoon. "

  "Oh. . . my God. "

  "Great timing, right? After Jim dropped me off, I went up to my place, opened the door, and there she was, all thrilled, the box in her hand. "

  Marie-Terese put her palm up to her mouth. "What did you do?"

  Vin went over and sat on the bed. As a fine spray of dust rose up, he grimaced, stood again, and gathered the quilt in his arms. "Hold on a minute. " Out in the hall, he shook the bedspread out, turning his face away from the cloud. When it wasn't throwing off as much dust, he went back into the room, covered up the bare mattress, and sat down again.

  "What did I do. . . " he murmured. "Well, I took her arms off my neck and stepped away. Told her that I couldn't commit to her, that I'd made a mistake and that I was sorry. "

  Marie-Terese came over and sat down beside him. "What did she say?"

  "She took it with a glacial calm. Which if you knew her, wouldn't be a surprise. I told her she could keep the ring and she went upstairs with it. Came back like fifteen minutes later with a bunch of her clothes packed. Said she'd move the rest of her stuff out right away and leave the key behind when she did. She was totally unfazed and in control. Fact was, she didn't seem surprised. I wasn't in love with her and I never had been and she knew it. "

  Vin pushed his ass back so he could lean against the wall. From the heat vent overhead, warm air drifted downward onto his face, a counterbalance to the cold-and-fresh ambling in across the windowsill.

  After a moment, Marie-Terese followed his example, only she curled her legs up and linked her arms around her knees. "I hope you don't mind me asking. . . but if you didn't love her, why did you buy the ring?"

  "It was one more thing to acquire. Just like she was. " He glanced over. "I'm not proud of it, by the way. I just didn't care before. . . "

  "Before?"

  He looked away from her. "Before now. "

  There was a long silence as the two sources of air mixed together, the heated and the cool blending into a comfortable temperature.

  "My son's name is Robbie," she said abruptly.

  As he glanced over, he saw that on her knees, her knuckles were white from tension.

  "It doesn't have to be a quid pro quo," he murmured. "Just because I tell you things doesn't mean you have to return the favor. "

  She smiled a little. "Oh. I know. It's just. . . I'm not used to talking. "

  "That makes two of us. "

  Her eyes moved around the room and then stayed on the open door. "Your parents argued a lot?"

  "All the time. "

  "Did they. . . fight? As in more than just verbal. . . you know. "

  "Yup. Most of the time my mother's face looked like a Rorschach test. . . although she gave as good as she got - not that that excused in anyway my father's punches. " Vin shook his head. "I don't give a shit what goes down, a man should never, ever raise a hand to a woman. "

  Marie-Terese laid her cheek down on top of her knees, and stared over at him. "Some men don't share that philosophy. And some women don't fight back like your mother did. "

  When a growl sounded out in the room, she sat up in surprise. . . which confirmed that, yeah, the low, dangerous sound had come from him.

  "Tell me that wasn't your experience," Vin said darkly.

  "Oh, no. . . " she replied quickly. "But it was rough getting out of my marriage. After I told my now ex-husband that I was leaving him, he took our son and went all around the country. I didn't know where my child was or what had happened. . . three months. Three months and a private investigator and then lawyers to get free of the marriage and away from him. Everything I did was to make sure my son was and is safe. "

  Now her picture was becoming clear, Vin thought. And he was relieved that however bad it had been, she hadn't been battered on top of all of that. "Must have cost a lot of money. "

  She nodded and put her head down again. "My ex was a lot like you. Very wealthy, powerful. . . handsome. "

  Okay. . . shit. It was great she found him attractive, but he didn't like where this was invariably leading. How could he convince her that he wasn't -

  "Mark never would have done something like this, though," she said quietly. "He never would have let himself be this. . . exposed. Thank you for this. . . It's actually the nicest thing a man's ever done for me, in a way. "

  As Vin lifted his hand, he did it very slowly, so she knew exactly where it was. And when he brought his palm to her face, he gave her plenty of time to move back. She didn't. She just met and held his eyes.

  Moments expanded into minutes, and neither of them looked away.

  As the silence thickened, Vin leaned in and her lips parted, her head shifting up off her knees as if she wanted to meet his mouth as much as he wanted to meet hers.

  At the last second, he just kissed her forehead, though. And then he drew her into his arms, wrapping her up close and holding her. As her head rested on his chest, he smoothed his palm over her back in slow, big circles. In response, the shudder she let out was a surrender more complete, more profound, more intimate than if she'd given her body over to him for sex, and he accepted the gift of her trust with the reverence it deserved.

  Resting his chin lightly on the top of her head, Vin looked across the room. . . and had the answer to the question he'd been asking himself since he'd first seen her.

  Tucked into the frame of the mirror, just one among the other things, was a picture of the Madonna on a stiff card. In the depiction, she had jet-black hair and brilliant blue eyes and she was beyond lovely, her face tilted down, her golden halo a circle above her head, the aura around her whole form glowing.

  He'd gotten the card from one of those evangelical types who'd shown up at the door here a long, long time ago.

  As usual, the only reason he'd answered the knock was because his drunken mother had been on the verge of doing so, and he couldn't bear the shame of anyone seeing her in her dirty housecoat and with all that ratty hair. The guy on the other side of the door had been dressed in a black suit and had looked like what Vin had wished his father did - neat, tidy, healthy, and calm.

  Vin had lied about his parents being home, and when the man had looked beyond into the living room, Vin said that was not his mother, but a sick relative.

  The evangelist's eyes had filled with sorrow, as if he weren't unfamiliar with the situation, and the guy
had skipped his spiel, just handing over the card and telling Vin to use the number on the back if he needed shelter.

  Vin had taken what was offered and gone upstairs to sit with it in his palms. He'd instantaneously loved the lady on the front because she'd looked as if she never got drunk and never yelled and never hit anyone. And to make sure she was protected, he'd hidden her picture from his mother and father by making it obvious and placing it in full view on the mirror - usually when his mother ransacked his room, she just went for the drawers and the closet and whatever was under the bed.

  Now he had his answer.

  As he stared at the card, he realized Marie-Terese looked exactly like her.