MacNamara's Woman

  The volume of the bar grew steadily. The jukebox never stopped pumping. The people never stopped talking. He poured beer. He mixed cocktails. He popped popcorn. He loaded dishwashers and started the process all over again. And he refilled Tamara’s wineglass again, watching her eyes melt to a liquid gold while her cheeks filled with a slow burn. By one o’clock, she was standing in front of the jukebox with good old Walter, arguing whether Elvis or Eric Clapton was the greatest musician who had ever lived. In the end, the conversation was a draw and the bar got a song from each of the rock ’n’ roll masters.

  Tamara’s jacket somehow became unbuttoned. She wore a solid black satin camisole beneath it, covering enough and shifting enough to drive a man crazy. More tendrils of hair broke loose, and more men seemed to find a way to pass by her corner. C.J. had never realized before just how many men came into his bar, and by God, he was beginning to resent each and every one of them. He wanted to hang a sign on her chair: Taken. No, nothing territorial or possessive about him. No way.

  A little after one, Tamara was on her third glass of wine and the crowds began to thin out. Before long, C.J. was announcing last call and kicking out his customers with more haste than necessary. He wanted the evening to end. He wanted this flushed, smiling, subtly glowing woman all to himself.

  “I should go,” Tamara said at last, but she was leaning over the bar, her feet propped up on the rim of the stool, and making no effort to leave.

  “Absolutely not. I just need a half an hour to close things up, secure the place.”

  “I sleep here tonight,” Gus said from behind the bar. She was stacking more glasses into the dishwasher.

  “You don’t have to,” Sheila said automatically, wiping off the last of the tabletops.

  “Don’t want to drive home,” Gus said shortly.

  “You’re sweet, Gus. You really are.” Sheila began piling chairs on top of the table.

  “Should I help?” Tamara asked from her corner, earning a surprised glance from Gus. Her face was still flushed. She looked more relaxed than C.J. had ever seen her. He suspected she was just a little bit blotto.

  “No, you’re fine,” he assured her, drifting down her way. He needed to close out the register. He leaned against the bar, instead, and gave her his most charming grin. Her lips twitched. Her smile grew. And kept growing. It became a big, goofy smile.

  “Yep, you’re blitzed.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too.” He tweaked her nose. “But you’re a cute drunk.”

  “I never get drunk.” She was trying to pull herself up with indignation, but that made her sway slightly. Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said after a moment, clearly surprised.

  “Oh,” C.J. agreed. “And how many bottles did you drink?”

  “Three glasses. That’s it. I’m a three-glasses-of-wine woman.”

  “And how much dinner did you eat?”

  “Ooooh. Dinner. I knew I forgot something.”

  “Yeah, that probably did it. Here, I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. Nurse that, and we’ll get this show on the road.”

  C.J. worked fast. Not that it was hard to close up the bar. After all these years together, he and Gus moved like a well-oiled machine, and Sheila blended with them nicely. By three a.m., everything was shipshape and ready for noon opening on Sunday. Gus and Sheila said their good-nights and disappeared upstairs with the usual complaints of tired feet and aching backs.

  C.J. turned off the main lights. Now the shut-up room glowed with just the track lighting. It illuminated Tamara’s face gently, casting the rest of her into shadows. He walked over quietly. He leaned against the bar beside her, so close he could catch the musky scent of her shampoo. It reminded him of sandalwood, of being outdoors. He stood there, letting the silence envelope them, content to gaze at her profile as she twirled her empty coffee cup absently.

  “I don’t generally get drunk,” she said after a moment, the words carefully enunciated, as if she had to concentrate on forming each syllable.

  “You’re not that drunk. Just tipsy.”

  “I don’t get tipsy.”

  “It’s not so bad, Tamara. I don’t recommend anyone make a habit out of it, but take it from a marine: everyone has their days.”

  “Yeah,” she said at last. “Yeah.” Her gaze was focused on the wall behind his bar. By the dim glow of the track light, she looked unbelievably delicate. She also looked vulnerable.

  “Did you have one of those days, Tamara? Is that why you came here?”

  “No. Yes.” She twirled the coffee cup again, her expression pensive. “I don’t know.”

  He leaned closer. He brushed back a loose strand of hair, letting it slide like heavy silk between his fingertips. She didn’t flinch; she didn’t pull away. This time she looked at him, and he saw her gaze drop to his lips and linger. Her mouth parted slightly. He was keenly aware of the change in her breathing, how it went from normal to shallow, how her gaze remained on his lips.

  “Tell me what you want,” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. You came here for a reason.”

  Slowly, her eyes came up to his. They were no longer golden. They’d gone dark, filled with shadows he didn’t understand. “I don’t know myself anymore,” she said abruptly. “I get so angry. . . . I never used to get angry.”

  “Maybe you should have.” He took her hand. “I loved my mother very much,” he said quietly, stroking her slender fingers, watching them tremble on his palm. “But when she died, I hated her for a while. And when Max died, I hated him for a while, too. I spent a few years as a very angry kid.”

  “I can’t imagine you angry.”

  He smiled. “Ah, sweetheart, you should’ve known me then. I thought there was no one in the world tougher than me. I swore. I swaggered. I disrespected my elders and I disrespected myself. I was hell on wheels. There wasn’t a fight I wouldn’t pick or a loved one I wouldn’t reject. Ask my grandma sometime. She’d love to tell you about the brat she inherited. The things that woman put up with qualify her for sainthood.”

  “You’re not so angry now.”

  “No, I’m not. I got over it.” He shrugged. “Some things you can’t fight, Tamara. Some things you can’t control. You just have to experience them. You probably need to experience them to get them out of your system. You don’t hate your family now because you never liked them. You hate your family now because you loved them so much.”

  Her eyes grew luminescent. He could see her conflict, the need to understand mixed with the need to shut it away, the need to grieve mixed with the desire to be strong, invincible. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her it would be all right. But he couldn’t protect her from her loss. That was something everyone had to work through on their own.

  Her gaze fell. She focused on the coffee mug, turning it around and around in her hands, as if her world counted on turning that coffee mug. After another moment, she pushed it away. “I’m drunk,” she said softly. “That’s all.”

  “Sure, sweetheart. Sure. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  She didn’t protest and she didn’t say much. She was lost in the tumultuous world of her own thoughts—he respected that. They drove in silence, not speaking again until he pulled into her hotel parking lot.

  “If you’d like, I’ll pick you up again around eleven and you can fetch your car.”

  “All right.”

  “Good night, Tamara. Sweet dreams.”

  She remained sitting in the passenger’s side. “You don’t . . . you don’t want to . . . come in?”

  He closed his eyes, searching for willpower. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand. You don’t . . .” Her voice broke off. She abruptly bit her lower lip and grappled with the door handle. He caught her wrist before she could go any farther.

  “Tamara, if you only knew how much I want you.”

  “You don’t
have to lie.” She was still trying to open the door.

  He took both her hands, the only way he knew how to keep her from bolting. Then he gave in with a groan and claimed her lips. It was earnest, it was eager, and he pulled away even though it killed him. “I want you,” he said again, his voice ragged. “But not like this, Tamara. Not on a night like tonight. You and I are going to make love. And when we do, it will be slow, it will be perfect, and you will be so aware of each and every second that years from now when you replay it in your mind, you’ll want me all over again.”

  Her breathing slowed. Her eyes lingered on his face. In that heartbeat, he felt the connection with her. He felt her tentative desire, her hesitant need, her fragile hunger. Then her eyes closed, the moment passed, and just as clearly, he felt her retreat.

  She pulled her hands from his grasp. “No,” she said quietly. “It won’t be like that. I’ll never want anyone that much. I don’t want to.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Good night, Tamara. Dream of me.”

  “No,” she said, and climbed out of his car. “I don’t do that anymore, either.”

  She slammed his car door shut. Then she walked away proudly, and the night swallowed her whole.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m returning to Manhattan. It’s time to go home.”

  It was seven in the morning. Patty stood in the doorway of her four-bedroom house, looking at Tamara with shocked eyes while she tightened the belt of her simple navy blue terry-cloth robe. That robe wasn’t right. Patty should be wearing the bloodred silk dragon kimono she’d bought when they were fifteen. That robe had been wild, fierce, a bold statement of budding sexuality and rebellion. Tamara had looked at it with awe. This robe Tamara resented, even if it was stupid to resent a bathrobe. In this robe, she saw the yawning gap between her and Patty, between the innocent girls they were in her mind and the reserved, world-weary women they’d become. She wished Patty still wore bloodred silk. How silly.

  “Why don’t you come in?” Patty said at last. “I’ll get us both cups of coffee.”

  Tamara nodded. She was shivering unconsciously on the doorstep, clutching her trench coat for warmth. The cab that had delivered her had already come and gone.

  This early, the sun was just beginning to burn the haze from the sky, and dew still glistened on leaves of mesquite trees and the fine needles of saguaro cacti. Patty lived outside of Sedona on a large tract of land. Despite what she’d stated earlier, she seemed to be making a very nice living. Her house was surrounded by a luxurious oasis of emerald green grass, expensive to maintain. Sturdy yucca soap trees and bundles of barrel cacti fringed the perimeter, helping conceal the black wrought-iron fence guarding the backyard. Her stucco walls had been freshly whitewashed and her red-tiled roof, recently cleaned and well maintained, gleamed darkly beneath the rising sun.

  The inside looked the same, tastefully upper class. Huge vaulted ceilings and a rising expanse of windows revealed the kidney-shaped pool and lush garden in her backyard. Ceiling fans stirred the air. Jade green marble framed a decorative fireplace and glossed over the kitchen floor. Cream-colored leather sofas sat on plush white Berber rugs, while tasteful landscape paintings of Arizona sunsets hung neatly on the walls.

  The room was elegant, without reproach, and lacked a single spark of life. It depressed Tamara even more.

  “How would you like your coffee?” Patty asked politely, filling the void.

  “Cream. A little sugar.” Generally she drank it black, but the thought of straight caffeine already made her stomach roll. When had she eaten last? Twelve, sixteen, twenty-four hours ago? She had no insides left.

  Patty crossed to the adjoining kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a green-tiled bar. “Tamara, are you all right?”

  “I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.” That was an understatement. She was exhausted and overwrought. She’d tossed and turned since C.J. had dropped her off at three, dozing off to sleep twice and suffering horrible nightmares on each occasion. Right around six, she’d given up on sleep and she’d given up on peace. She’d made her decision and called Patty.

  “I think I was wrong about the senator,” Tamara said abruptly.

  Patty froze, her hand suspended over the coffeepot. Then, after a moment, she resumed spooning in the freshly ground beans and turning on the pot to brew. “Orange juice?” she asked. “Bagels? You look like you need to eat more.”

  “I know. I . . .” Tamara didn’t know how to explain it. She leaned against the green-tiled bar, and for a long time, she just looked at her best friend. At this time of the morning, Patty wasn’t wearing any makeup. Her pale, redhead’s complexion was as fresh and unmarred as a young girl’s. Her luxurious, flame-colored hair tumbled thickly down her back. Tamara remembered the nights they’d stayed up late, giggling and braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys. And Tamara would ooh and ahh over Shawn until Patty would push her off the bed. Funny how far away those days seemed. So simple, so easy. So much laughter, so much ease.

  Now Patty shifted from side to side, clearly uncomfortable beneath Tamara’s scrutiny. Her gaze was guarded, her face uncertain. And Tamara understood. She felt the same way.

  “I made a mistake,” Tamara said softly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were right, Patty. You were. I came here thinking I could change things. I don’t know . . . I guess I expected us to be the same. And Sedona would feel the same and . . . I was naive. Hopeful, I suppose.” Desperate, lost, lonely. Realizing how empty my life in Manhattan was and not knowing how to fill it. “I don’t belong here anymore. I should go back to New York.”

  Patty frowned. Her shoulders were hunched up, tense. “But what about the senator?”

  “What about the senator? I’ve checked around all I can, and there’s absolutely no evidence that the senator was involved with the accident. He’s never owned a red car; he’s generally driven around by a car service. I’ve been grasping at straws, obsessing over nothing, looking for someone to blame. And it’s just prolonging the inevitable. My family is dead. No one knows who killed them, but hopefully what comes around goes around. As for me . . .” As for me, I have to learn how to sleep at night. How to eat again. How to forget, because maybe then I can at least have my cold, sterile peace back. “I need to go home.”

  Patty, however, appeared uncertain. Maybe she was just confused, given how vehemently Tamara had defended her decision to return to Sedona. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what are you going to do? Pack up and drive away this afternoon? Disappear, just like that?”

  “Tuesday, probably. I’m committed to helping prepare the senator’s announcement. I should see that through.”

  “Why? If you’re ready to leave, then you should go. Face it, Tamara, you don’t even like Senator Brennan. You’re not planning on voting for him. Working at campaign headquarters at this point would be hypocritical.”

  Tamara shrugged. “Leaving them in the lurch seems unfair.”

  “Who cares?” Patty said bluntly. “If you really don’t think it’s him, if you really want to get on with things, then if I were you, I’d just hit the road, drive straight through to Manhattan. You don’t owe them anything, Tamara. They don’t even know your real name.”

  The vehemence of Patty’s words startled Tamara. For just a minute, her friend sounded the way Tamara remembered her—the strong, rebellious girl who thought more of herself than others. Tamara didn’t know whether to smile or shake her head. “Midweek,” she said. “That will give them a few days’ notice.”

  “It gives you time to give a few other people notice, too. You know, like C. J. MacNamara?”

  Tamara sucked her lips against her teeth. “How . . . how did you know?”

  “In a town as small as Sedona? With a man as sexy as C.J.? It’s all I’ve heard from the locals when they come into the
gallery. ‘C.J.’s found himself a city woman.’ ‘C.J.’s chasing some executive skirt.’ Tammy, he’s not your type.”

  “I know,” Tamara said immediately, but her voice wasn’t firm. How would Patty know what her type was? a little part of her cried. She quashed the voice ruthlessly.

  “He just likes the chase.”

  “I know.”

  “The minute he thinks you’re interested, that will be the end of it. Ask around, Tamara. There isn’t a red-blooded woman in a fifty-mile radius who hasn’t had her sights set on C. J. MacNamara at one time or another. He’s a nice man. He’s a sexy man. But he has the attention span of a two-year-old.”

  “I know.”

  “I just don’t want to see you hurt, Tammy.”

  “Then stop bringing up his name!” Tamara snapped. Immediately she caught her lower lip with her teeth, as if she could bite back the harsh words. Too late. Patty had recoiled a step. Now her face was clearly masked. “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Tamara said weakly. “I’m not sleeping well. I’m on edge.”

  The silence still felt tense. After a moment, Patty pushed a coffee cup in Tamara’s direction. Then the cream. Then the sugar. Now Tamara could see that her friend’s hands were shaking. And for the first time, she took notice of the shadows staining Patty’s green eyes, the gaunt lines of her cheek. The past week had taken its toll on her as well, and Tamara had never appreciated that. She was ashamed.

  “You know, Tamara,” Patty said stiffly, clutching her white porcelain coffee cup, “it’s never been easy being your friend. You were like this little princess with two perfect parents who doted on you, and Shawn, who adored you. Even before my mom got sick, my parents were always going at each other. And boys . . . well, what boys wanted from me wasn’t a relationship. I was the popular one, the fun one, but you, Tamara, you were the one everyone loved.”

  “That’s not true—”