Extreme Denial

  “Right on time.” Decker hoped that he sounded natural. “Did you have a good lunch?”

  “It was even better than you led me to expect. The courtyard made me think I was in another country.”

  “That’s what Santa Fe does to people.”

  “Northern Spain or a lush part of Mexico,” Beth said. “But different from either.”

  Decker nodded. “When I first came here, I met someone who worked in the reservation department at one of the hotels. He said he often had people from the East Coast telephone him to ask what the customs restrictions were, the limit on duty-free goods that they could take back home, that sort of thing. He said he had a hard time convincing them that if they were Americans, there weren’t any customs regulations here, that New Mexico was part of the United States.”

  This time, Beth’s laughter made him think of champagne. “You’re serious? They literally believed that this was a foreign country.”

  “Cross my heart. It’s a good argument for the need to teach geography in high school. So did you have a chance to study the listings I gave you?”

  “When I wasn’t devouring the best enchiladas I’ve ever tasted. I can’t tell which I like better—the green or the red salsa. Finally I combined them.”

  “The locals call that combination ‘Christmas.’” Decker put on his jacket and crossed the room toward her. He loved the subtle fragrance of the sandlewood soap she used. “Shall we go? My car is in the back.”

  It was a Jeep Cherokee, its four-wheel drive essential in winter or when exploring the mountains. Decker’s color preference had been white, but when he’d bought the car a year earlier, his long experience as an intelligence operative had taken control of him, reminding him that a dark color was inconspicuous, compelling him to choose forest green. A part of him had wanted to be contrary and choose white anyhow, but old habits had been difficult to put away.

  As he and Beth drove north along Bishop’s Lodge Road, he pointed to the right past low shrubs and sunbathed adobe houses toward the looming Sangre de Cristo Mountains. “The first thing you have to know is, real estate values here are based in large part on the quality of the mountain views. Some of the most expensive houses tend to be in this area, the east, near the Sangres. This section also gives you a good view of the Jemez Mountains to the west. At night, you can see the lights of Los Alamos.”

  Beth gazed toward the foothills. “I bet the views from there are wonderful.”

  “This will make me sound like a New Ager, I’m afraid, but I don’t think houses belong up there,” Decker said. “They interfere with the beauty of the mountains. The people who live up there get a good view at the expense of everyone else’s view.”

  Intrigued, Beth switched her gaze toward Decker. “You mean you actually discourage clients from buying houses on ridges?”

  Decker shrugged.

  “Even if it costs you a sale?”

  Decker shrugged again.

  “... I’m beginning to like you better and better.”

  Decker drove her to houses she had found appealing in the listings he had shown her: one near Bishop’s Lodge, two on the road to the ski basin, two along Acequia Madre. “The name means ‘mother ditch,’ ” he explained. “It refers to this stream that runs along the side of the road. It’s part of an irrigation system that was dug several hundred years ago.”

  “That’s why the trees are so tall.” Beth looked around, enthused. “The area’s beautiful. What’s the catch, though? Nothing’s perfect. What’s the downside of living around here?”

  “Small lots and historic regulations. Plenty of traffic.”

  “Oh.” Her enthusiasm faded. “In that case, I guess we’d better keep looking.”

  “It’s almost five. Are you sure you’re not tired? Do you want to call it a day?”

  “I’m not tired if you’re not.”

  Hell, Decker thought, I’ll drive around with you until mid-night if you want me to.

  He took her to a different area. “This one’s out near where I live. On the eastern edge of town, near that line of foothills. The nearest big hills are called Sun and Moon. You ought to hear the coyotes howl on them at night.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “This is my street.”

  Beth pointed toward a sign on the corner. “Camino Lindo. What’s the translation?”

  “ ‘Beautiful road.’ ”

  “It certainly is. The houses blend with the landscape. Big lots.”

  “That’s my place coming up on the right.”

  Beth leaned forward, turning her head as they passed it. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And envious. Too bad your house isn’t for sale.”

  “Well, I put a lot of work into it. Mind you, the house just beyond mine is for sale.”

  3

  They walked along a gravel driveway past the chest-high sagebrushlike plants that Decker had been intrigued by when he first came to Santa Fe and that he had learned were called chamisa. The attractive house was similar to Decker’s—a sprawling one-story adobe with a wall-enclosed courtyard. “How much is it?” Beth asked.

  “Near your upper limit. Seven hundred thousand.” Decker didn’t get a reaction. “It’s had a lot of improvements. Subfloor radiant heating. Solar-gain windows in back.” Beth nodded absently as if the price didn’t need to be justified. “How big is the lot?”

  “The same as mine. Two acres.”

  She glanced to one side and then the other. “I can’t even see the neighbors.”

  “Which in this case would be me.”

  She looked at him strangely.

  “What’s the matter?” Decker asked.

  “I think I’d enjoy living next to you.”

  Decker felt his face turn red.

  “Do you think the owner would mind being interrupted at this hour?”

  “Not at all. The old gentleman who lived here had a heart attack. He moved back to Boston, where he has relatives. He wants a quick sale.”

  Decker showed her the front courtyard, its desert flowers and shrubs looking stressed from the July heat. He unlocked the carved front door, entered a cool vestibule, and gestured toward a hallway that led straight ahead toward spacious rooms. “The house is still furnished. Tile floors. Vigas and latillas in all the ceilings.”

  “Vigas and ...?”

  “Large beams and small intersecting ones—it’s the preferred type of ceiling in Santa Fe. Plenty of bancos and kiva fireplaces. Colorful Mexican wall tiles in the three bathrooms. A spacious kitchen. Food-prep island with a sink. Convection oven. Skylights and ...” Decker stopped when he realized that Beth wasn’t listening. She seemed spellbound by the mountain view from the living room windows. “Why don’t I spare you the list. Take your time and look around.”

  Beth walked slowly forward, glancing this way and that, assessing each room, nodding. As Decker followed, he felt self-conscious again—not awkward, not uneasy about himself, but literally conscious of himself, of the feel of his jeans and jacket, of the air against his hands and cheeks. He was conscious that he occupied space, that Beth was near him, that they were alone.

  At once he realized that Beth was talking to him. “What? I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that,” Decker said. “My mind drifted for a moment.”

  “Does the purchase price include the furniture?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  4

  Decker clicked glasses with her.

  “It’s such a wonderful house. I can’t believe the owner accepted my offer so fast.” Beth took a celebratory swallow from her margarita. When she lowered the globe-shaped glass, some foam and salt remained on her upper lip. She licked them away. “It’s as if Fm dreaming.”

  They were at a window table in a second-floor Hispanic restaurant called Garduño’s. The place was decorated to look like a Spanish hacienda. In the background, a mariachi band strolled the floor, serenading enthusiastic cust
omers. Beth didn’t seem to know where to look first, out the window toward one of Santa Fe’s scenic streets, at the band, at her drink, or at Decker. She took another sip. “Dreaming.”

  In the background, customers applauded for the guitarists and trumpeters. Beth smiled and glanced out the window. When she looked back at Decker, she wasn’t smiling any longer. Her expression was somber. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do much. All I did was take you around and—”

  “You made me feel comfortable. You made it easy.” Beth surprised him by reaching across the table and touching his hand. “You have no idea how much courage it took to do this.”

  He loved the smoothness of her hand. “Courage?”

  “You must have wondered where I got seven hundred thousand dollars to pay for the house.”

  “I don’t pry. As long as I’m confident that the client can afford it ...” He let his sentence dangle.

  “I told you I was an artist, and I do make a living at it. But ... I also told you I wasn’t married.”

  Decker tensed.

  “I used to be.”

  Decker listened in confusion.

  “I’m buying the house with ...”

  Money from a divorce settlement? he wondered.

  “... a life-insurance policy,” Beth said. “My husband died six and a half months ago.”

  Decker set down his glass and studied her, his feelings of attraction replaced by those of pity. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s about the only response that means anything.”

  “What happened?”

  “Cancer.” Beth seemed to have trouble making her voice work. She took another sip from her drink and stared at the glass. “Ray had a mole on the back of his neck.”

  Decker waited.

  “Last summer, it changed shape and color, but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. Then it started to bleed. Turned out to be the worst kind of skin cancer—melanoma.”

  Decker kept waiting.

  Beth’s voice became strained. “Even though Ray had the mole cut out, he didn’t do it soon enough to stop the cancer from spreading Radiation and chemotherapy didn’t work. He died in January.”

  The mariachi band approached Decker’s table, the music so loud that he could barely hear what Beth said. Urgent, he waved them away. When they saw the fierce expression in his eyes, they complied.

  “So,” Beth said. “I was lost. Still am. We had a house outside New York, in Westchester County. I couldn’t stand living there any longer. Everything around me reminded me of Ray, of what I’d lost. People I thought were my friends felt awkward dealing with my grief and stayed away. I didn’t think I could get more lonely.” She glanced down at her hands. “A few days ago, I was at my psychiatrist’s office when I came across a travel magazine in the waiting room. I think it was Condé Nast Traveler. It said that Santa Fe was one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. I liked the photographs and the description of the city. On the spur of the moment...” Her voice trailed off.

  A colorfully dressed waitress stopped at their table. “Are you ready to order now?”

  “No,” Beth said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “We need more time,” Decker said.

  He waited until the waitress was out of earshot. “I’ve made some spur-of-the moment decisions myself. As a matter of fact, coming to Santa Fe was one of them.”

  “And did it work out?”

  “Even better than I hoped.”

  “God, I hope I’ll be able to say the same for me.” Beth traced a finger along the base of her glass.

  “What did your psychiatrist say about your sudden decision?”

  “I never told him. I never kept the appointment. I just set down the travel magazine and went home to pack. I bought a one-way ticket to Santa Fe.”

  Decker tried not to stare, struck by how parallel their experiences were.

  “No regrets,” Beth said firmly. “The future can’t possibly be any worse than the last year.”

  5

  Decker parked his Jeep Cherokee in a carport at the rear of his house. He got out, almost turned on a light so he could see to unlock his back door, but decided instead to lean against the metal railing and look up at the stars. The streets in this part of town didn’t have lights. Most people in the area went to sleep early. With almost no light pollution, he was able to gaze up past the piñon trees at unbelievably brilliant constellations. A three-quarter moon had begun to rise. The air was sweet and cool. What a beautiful night, he thought.

  In the foothills, coyotes howled, reminding him that he had earlier mentioned them to Beth, making him wish that she was next to him, listening to them. He could still feel her hand on his. During their dinner, they had managed to avoid further depressing topics. Beth had made a deliberate attempt to be festive as he walked her the short distance to the Inn of the Anasazi. At the entrance, they had shaken hands.

  Now, as Decker continued to gaze up at the stars, he imagined what it would have been like to drive her from the restaurant, past the darkened art galleries on Canyon Road, past the garden walls of the homes along Camino del Monte Sol, finally arriving at Camino Lindo and the house next to his.

  His chest felt hollow. You certainly are messed up, he told himself.

  Well, I haven’t fallen in love for a very long time. He searched his memory and was amazed to realize that the last time he had felt this way had been in his late teens, before he entered the military. As he’d often told himself, military special operations and his subsequent career as an intelligence operative hadn’t encouraged serious romantic involvement. Since coming to Santa Fe, he had met several women whom he had dated—nothing serious, just casual enjoyable evenings. With one of the women, he had had sexual relations. Nothing permanent had come out of it, however. As much as he liked the woman, he realized that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her. The feeling had evidently been mutual. The woman, a Realtor for another agency, was now seeing someone else.

  But Decker’s present emotions were so different from what he had felt toward that other woman that they unsettled him. He recalled having read that ancient philosophers considered love to be an illness, an unbalancing of mind and emotions. It sure is, he thought. But how on earth can it happen so fast? I always believed that love at first sight was a myth. He recalled having read about a subtle sexual chemical signal that animals and humans gave off, called pheromones. You couldn’t smell them. They were detected biologically rather than consciously. The right person could give off pheromones that drove a person wild. In this case, Decker thought, the right person is absolutely beautiful, and she definitely has my kind of pheromones.

  So what are you going to do? he asked himself. Obviously, there are problems. She’s recently widowed. If you start behaving romantically toward her, she’ll find you threatening. She’ll resent you for trying to make her disloyal to the memory of her dead husband. Then it won’t matter if she lives next door—she’ll treat you as if she’s living in the next state. Take it one day at a time, he told himself. You can’t go wrong if you act truly as her friend.

  6

  “Steve, there's someone to see you,” the office receptionist said on the intercom.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  “No need,” another voice said on the intercom, surprising him—a woman’s voice, whose sensuous resonance Decker instantly identified. “I know the way.”

  Heart beating faster, Decker stood. A few seconds later, Beth entered the office. In contrast with the dark suit she had worn yesterday, she now wore linen slacks and a matching tan jacket that brought out the color of her auburn hair. She looked even more gorgeous.

  “How are you?” Decker asked.

  “Excited. It’s moving day.”

  Decker didn't know what she meant.

  “Last night, I decided I couldn’t wait to move in,” Beth said. “The house is already furnished. It seems a shame to leave it empty. So I teleph
oned the owner and asked if I could rent the house until the paperwork was done and I could buy it.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “He couldn’t have been nicer. He said I could get the key from you.”

  “You most certainly can. In fact, I’ll drive you there.”

  On the busy street outside his office, Decker opened his Cherokee’s passenger door for her.

  “I tossed and turned all night, wondering if I was doing the right thing,” Beth said.

  “Sounds like me when I first came to town.”

  “And how did you get over it?”

  “I asked myself what my alternative was.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t have one,” Decker said. “At least not one that didn’t mean the same as surrendering to what was wearing me down.”

  Beth searched his eyes. “I know what you mean.”

  As Decker got in the car, he glanced across the street and felt something tighten inside him. A stationary man among a crowd of strolling tourists made Decker’s protective instincts come to attention. What aroused his suspicion was that the man, who had been staring at Decker, turned immediately away as Decker noticed him. The man now stood with his back to the street, pretending to be interested in a window display of southwestern jewelry, but his gaze was forward rather than down-turned, indicating that what he was really doing was studying the reflection in the window. Decker checked his rearview mirror and saw the man turn to look in his direction as he drove away. Medium-length hair, average height and weight, mid-thirties, undistinguishable features, unremarkable clothes, muted colors. In Decker’s experience, that kind of anonymity didn’t happen by accident. The man’s only distinguishing characteristic was the bulk of his shoulders, which his loose-fitting shirt didn’t manage to conceal. He wasn’t a tourist.

  Decker frowned. So is it review time? he asked himself. Have they decided to watch me to see how I’m behaving, whether I’ve been naughty or nice, whether I’m any threat? Beth was saying something about the opera.

  Decker tried to catch up. “Yes?”

  “I like it very much.”

  “I’m a jazz fanatic myself.”