Darkest Fear

  I smiled at her hyperbole.

  “Are you going back home for Thanksgiving?” Jennifer asked.

  I hadn’t given it a thought. “You’re going to be up there, at your aunt’s, right? So . . . there’s kind of no one at home to have Thanksgiving with. I don’t know.”

  “It’s like you’re making a whole nother life without me,” said Jennifer.

  “You’re kind of doing the same thing without me,” I acknowledged. “It sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Jennifer sighed.

  “Have you met any nice girls?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

  Jennifer gave a little smile. “There’s a girl, Amy, in the Columbia B’nai Brith. There might be something there.”

  “Oooh,” I teased her, and she smiled bigger.

  “I have to get to class,” she said. “Take care—call me soon, okay?”

  “Will do,” I said, and blew her a kiss. “Gotta fly.”

  • • •

  “Oh, Lord Jesus,” Talia muttered, looking at the front door.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I need to go reorganize every single thing in the kitchen,” she said, heading through the doorway behind the counter. “Yell if you need me.”

  I was still wondering what she was doing when a sharp rap on the glass case made me jump.

  “Girl!”

  There was no one there. Then I saw a shadow through the glass case and peered over it. A tiny old woman, maybe in her early eighties, dressed all in black, was about to rap her cane against the glass again.

  “Please don’t do that!” I said quickly. “I’m sorry—what can I get for you?”

  “Make me a cup of coffee, and not that fancy bilgewater my grandson serves!” she snapped. “Fix me a cup of coffee and chicory with hot milk! Café au lait! You know how to do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, grabbing a thick ceramic coffee cup and saucer. Gods, this must be Rafael’s grandmother, the crazy old woman people kept talking about. Great. Thank you, Talia. The view from beneath this bus is great.

  Fortunately, just last week, Rafael had given in to my almost daily requests that we get some regular New Orleans–style coffee on hand, since I was now addicted to it. He’d agreed, and already enough people had started requesting it that he’d bought several French presses so I could make it fresh.

  “Don’t lie to me!” the old woman snapped as I reached for the electric teakettle, and I almost jumped again.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can’t!” she said, and I expected to see fangs at the corners of her thin, wrinkled mouth.

  “Can’t make you coffee?”

  “Can’t make me good coffee!” She was practically howling, and people were turning to watch. My cheeks got hot.

  “I can try,” I said. Weeks of working here had toughened me up a bit, and I no longer got as rattled when faced with a difficult customer. Now, as the old woman scowled fiercely at me, I took one of our small, three-cup French presses and put it on the counter in front of her. She frowned at it suspiciously. Then I took a can of CDM and carefully measured three and a half scoops of coffee into the glass carafe. The old lady’s black-beetle eyes flared when she saw the can, and her lips pressed together tightly.

  I poured in boiling water, then took a wooden chopstick and stirred the coffee and water until there was a fine tan foam on top. I let it steep for a moment while I zapped a small pitcher of whole milk in the microwave. Finally I eased the press down, trapping all the grounds of the coffee at the bottom of the carafe. Inhaling deeply, I couldn’t help smiling—it smelled so good.

  Now for the au lait part. I poured the hot coffee into the cup until it was half full, then filled it up with the steaming hot milk.

  “Do you want sugar?” I asked.

  “One sugar! Regular sugar from sugar cane!” she barked. “Not that fake rat poison! Not brown sugar! Not sea sugar hand-dried by organic virgins! Regular sugar!”

  Dixie Crystals it is. “Yes, ma’am.” I added one scant teaspoon of white sugar, then pushed the cup toward her.

  Frowning at me so hard that her overgrown and overblack brows almost met, she reached out a slightly trembling skeletal hand. Slowly she took the cup by its handle as I watched her. Talia came in very quietly from the back and waited on another person who had come up.

  The old woman took a tentative sip. Her lips pursed as if a frog or snake would slither out. Then, completely unexpectedly, her face rearranged itself into a kind of scary semblance of a smile.

  “Why, that’s lovely coffee,” she said.

  Next to me I felt Talia’s eyes about to bug out of her head, felt her hand freeze as it reached for a rugelach in the case.

  I smiled back at the woman, who was surely Mrs. Fontenot. “I’m so glad. Can I carry that to a table for you? Do you want a scone or something to go with it?”

  “Only this. This is good.” Almost cackling, the old woman walked surprisingly quickly to a small table and sat down. She was tiny, with thin, light bones like a songbird, and I felt like a giraffe next to her. In case she wanted a refill, I carried the rest of the coffee and the small pitcher of hot milk to her. She sipped again, making a happy humming sound.

  Back at the counter I grinned at Talia, who wasn’t even pretending to not be shocked. Very subtly I did a small who’s your daddy dance.

  “Girl, I’m going to call you David from now on,” Talia murmured. “ ’Cause you just knocked down Goliath.”

  “So that’s the famous Carlotta Fontenot,” I whispered. “The one who owns this place?”

  Talia nodded and put a slice of coffee cake on a plate for a customer. “I’ve never heard her say a nice word to anyone. Except Rafe. She loves that boy.”

  “Coffee with chicory soothed the savage beast,” I murmured. Then the words “savage beast” made me think of, you know, my family, and I let out a sigh.

  Down the hall, I heard the back door swing shut with a bang and hoped that it was Rafael so he could see my victory. And it was. My skin felt electric with anticipation, and when he appeared, my eyes drank him in. He smelled like heat and sunlight and wore a black T-shirt and an old, soft pair of chino shorts. His legs looked strong and tan, and for me they tipped him into the perfection category.

  “Hey,” I said, praying that he couldn’t see the schoolgirl crush in my eyes.

  “Hi,” he said. “Everything okay?” He pushed a paper grocery bag onto the counter. Inside were three gallons of milk, and I took them out to put them in the fridge.

  “Looka there,” Talia said quietly to him, and gestured to his grandmother.

  “Grandmère,” Rafael said, sounding surprised.

  She smiled at him, and he looked even more surprised as he walked over to her. They kissed on both cheeks, and he sat down in the chair across from her.

  “That girl makes good coffee,” said Mrs. Fontenot, pointing a gnarled finger at me.

  Rafael looked over at me, and I smiled. For just a moment our eyes locked, and I realized I didn’t usually look directly at him. More like, watched him when he wasn’t looking. Finally I tore my eyes away and put the milk into the counter-high front fridge.

  “Huh,” said Talia, watching me.

  Please don’t say anything inappropriately personal, I wished silently. Like about my appearance, or her hope that I would meet a nice person to date. After she’d torn apart my looks I’d felt unsure about her, but she’d acted like nothing had happened and was so obviously not a mean person in general that I’d gotten over it. With my new clothes, I’d never be a teen model, but I did look less sloppy.

  “Huh what?” I asked.

  Talia threw a dish towel over her broad shoulder and looked at me. “You and Rafe.”

  She saw way too much. My eyebrows rose innocently. “Whaaat?”

  Leaning over, Talia grabbed the busing bin. “No one’s ever been able to please that old lady,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You’re the only one. I think he’s going to h
ave to marry you.”

  Okay, teasing was teasing, but I’d known I could never get married since I was thirteen years old. My face fell and I said more shortly than I intended, “Well, he’s out of luck.”

  Talia looked taken aback and opened her mouth to say something else, but I grabbed the window cleaner and some paper towels and went to the front doors, where I vigorously spritzed glass that didn’t need cleaning.

  I stayed busy for the next hour, and when I looked up again, Mrs. Fontenot was gone and Rafael had gone back to his office. Talia tried to be friendly, chatting with me, but I was preoccupied and not in a good mood.

  Still, I was surprised when she called, “Night, honey! See you Tuesday!” at ten o’clock and swished out the back door to the parking lot. I frowned—was it bingo night? I couldn’t keep it straight. I hoped Rafael was still here—I hated being anywhere all by myself. There hadn’t been any more weird attacks or even an inkling that I was being followed. But it wasn’t over, I was sure of it, and I wasn’t about to relax.

  When Rafael came out from the back with his wooden box of paints, I let out a tense breath.

  “You’re almost finished,” I said, gesturing at the huge wall mural. Over the past few weeks it had become a vibrant, living thing: a dense, detailed painting of a rain-forest scene, but with New Orleans plants and people and animals woven into it. His grandmother, sitting primly in a straight-backed chair, was painted by the right edge. A vining fuchsia plant made sort of a crown around her delicate white-haired head.

  The banana trees and the wild ginger that grew out by the parking lot were painted next to huge ferns and primeval palms that shaded an unlikely assortment of bush babies, birds of paradise, canaries, deer . . . Now there were just a couple of smallish spots that were still white, and every day I checked to see if they had been filled in. Maybe tonight was the night.

  Because Rafael was there and I was in no hurry to leave, I didn’t kick the customers out right at midnight. The more people the better. I took my time cleaning everything, and swept instead of vacuumed so I wouldn’t disturb anyone.

  Around twelve thirty I looked over and saw Rafael on the ladder, adding details to something near the ceiling. I headed in his direction, wiping down tables as I went, and had to stand almost right next to him to see what he was working on.

  My heart almost stopped. He was painting a jaguar.

  I mean, of course, right? The whole thing was jungle—anyone would have put in a jaguar or tiger or something. It just took me aback, is all. The jaguar was gracefully stretched out on a wide, rough-barked branch, reminding me uncomfortably of the night I had done just that, and not that long ago. Its eyes looked out of the painting as if considering what to do next. I could practically see the powerful tail lashing back and forth, almost feel the jungle pulsing around it. I moved to the left and the eyes followed me. I moved closer to the ladder and the eyes still followed me.

  Rafael looked down at me. “Good kitty,” he said, and I stared at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DID HE MEAN—HE DIDN’T mean—he pointed at the jaguar with his paintbrush. “Isn’t it?”

  Oh. “Uh-huh,” I said, nodding. “It’s beautiful.”

  Leaning in, Rafael carefully traced a thin black line around one of the jaguar’s eyes. That was when I noticed that they were green, with a gold rim around the iris. I thought of my mother’s golden eyes. Why did these look familiar?

  Then I got it. My breath caught in my throat as I realized that the jaguar’s eyes were Rafael’s. He’d painted his own eyes into the mural, in a jaguar. Solemnly I looked from the painting to him, and he glanced down at me. I looked back at the painting, and now the large cat actually resembled him quite a bit. Like “Self-Portrait of the Artist as a Large Cat.” The cheekbones, the shape of the forehead, the straight nose like an arrow, the eyes . . . It was unmistakably Rafael.

  Oh my gods, was he a haguaro? Heading back to the counter, I wondered what on earth it all meant. Why else would he do that? Except—he couldn’t be a haguaro. That would be too much of a coincidence, even in New Orleans. And wouldn’t I feel it if he were, the way Aly said I could? I saw him at work at least three times a week. Surely even I would be able to pick up on it? But I mean, he’d painted a jaguar to look like him. That was an awfully big clue. Wasn’t it?

  The last two customers finally left. I was in the back kitchen putting away the last load of clean crockery when Rafael came in and washed his hands at the sink. I realized that he and I were alone here, which had happened before, of course, but now I wondered if he was a haguaro and if he should be on the suspect list for the attack on Tink.

  I watched him wash his hands. He was definitely beautiful enough to be a haguaro. And I knew so little about him . . . Maybe I should get out of here.

  “How tired are you?” he asked.

  “Um, tired,” I said.

  “Too tired to sit for me?”

  Um . . .

  He must have seen the confusion on my face, because he gave a half smile and said, “I always do portraits of the people who work here. If you’re not too tired, I could do it tonight.”

  The idea of Rafael drawing me was tantalizing. Lamely, I told myself that if he intended to attack me, he would have done it before this. He’d had plenty of opportunities. So either he was a haguaro but not the attacking haguaro, or he wasn’t a haguaro at all. Plus, the portraits he’d done of the others were amazing, and I’d love to know how he saw me.

  I was excellent at rationalizing things. “Okay,” I said.

  “Great,” he said. “I know it’s late, but I don’t have many chances to grab an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was thinking maybe you could sit in one of the armchairs in the window?” he suggested, and I felt a tiny thrill that he had thought about me that much.

  I nodded and went to the window closest to the mural. A pair of faded pink old-fashioned armchairs made a cozy nook in the bay window, and I sat in one stiffly.

  “I don’t know how—” I said. I’d been about to say “how you want me” and then felt a sixth-grader’s giggle rising in my chest. Ruthlessly I pushed it down.

  Rafael stood there and looked at me, clearly seeing me as shapes and shadows, lines and curves. A still life. When he suddenly looked into my eyes and smiled, I almost fainted. If only. If only he were a haguaro and I wanted to be with a haguaro, which I didn’t. But wait—if he wasn’t a haguaro, and I didn’t want to be with a haguaro, didn’t that mean . . . oh. No. Because I myself was still a haguara. Never mind.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Get comfortable. And make sure you can sit like that for a long time.”

  Feeling goofy, I tried various positions while he pulled a chair over for himself and set up a small wooden easel. I could not get comfortable. Finally he was ready and he looked at me around his sketch pad.

  “Vivi.”

  I loved the way my name sounded on his lips. He couldn’t be a haguaro. I’d be able to tell, right? And he would have defended himself against the muggers. And his grandmother—I couldn’t picture that tiny, proper old lady as a fierce jaguar.

  “Vivi.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I weren’t here, if you weren’t posing, if you had to kill an hour, how would you sit?”

  That was easy. I leaned over, stretched one arm out on the table, and rested my head on it. I could sleep like this.

  “Okay,” he said, sounding distracted. “Maybe . . . take your hair down.”

  This was actually feeling pretty sexy, despite the fact that I smelled like coffee grounds and sugar syrup and cleaning liquid. Reaching up, I pulled out the elastic holding my braid and then combed my fingers through my hair. If I were more secure and less painfully self-conscious, I would give my head an abandoned shake like in a shampoo commercial, and then he would be overcome and—

  “Okay, now get into whatever pose you wa
nt,” he said.

  I slumped over the table again, pushed my hair out of my face, and got comfortable. Rafael adjusted his sketch pad slightly, looked at me intently for several minutes, and started working.

  After a minute and a half, my back started aching. After approximately four minutes, my feet went numb. I wished I had thought to curl them under me or something. How could I possibly do this for an hour? Why had I slumped over on the table? I was going to look like a big shapeless lump, like Quasimodo. If I had sat up, I could have tucked my shirt around my waist.

  Just relax. Relax. Relax.

  Surprised that my brain came up with something so useful, I paid attention to it and slowly forced myself to let go of all my frantic thoughts. It had been a long day and I’d been on my feet since five o’clock. Breathing in and out, I deliberately relaxed all my muscles, starting with my toes and working my way up. Without realizing it, my eyes slowly closed, my breathing slowed, and I kind of . . . fell asleep.

  I knew where I was, could feel the ache in my back, but was sort of dozing off and drifting into fantasies about making out with Rafael, holding hands, smiling at him in the sun, sharing a peach with him and watching the golden juice run down the dark stubble on his chin . . . I leaned over and licked it off, inhaling his scent. He smiled and kissed me, and then my hair fell over my face and his strong fingers brushed it back.

  Blinking, I realized that Rafael was standing next to me, and his fingers were brushing my hair back.

  “Your hair slipped a little,” he said, his fingers leaving a trail of heat on my skin.

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve been doing a good job of being really still,” he said, walking back to his easel.

  “Oh, good.” I brought my left hand up and shook it so I could read my watch. “Is it really two thirty?”

  Rafael looked around his sketch pad at me. “Yep. Time flies, et cetera.”

  “Are you almost done?”

  He looked at me again, those dark slashes of eyebrows angling downward. “Bored?”

  “Yep.”

  It was startling when he grinned—it happened so seldom—and it made his striking, angular face astonishingly more attractive. I blinked dumbly a couple times, then let my mouth curve into a grin also.