Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

She thought about that for a moment. What an ironic choice of words. And he had no clue. She could tell from his face. He was just talking about flowers. His mind was hardwired that way. Completely straightforward. Calling a flower a flower.

She didn’t know how much of a chance the two of them had to root. Not much, maybe. But she was going to give it a shot, by God.

She sat up. “Yes,” she said, reaching for her skirt. “Let’s go plant those little guys right this very minute. They deserve a shot.”

This thing of theirs was not going to wither away for lack of trying. It was just too damn beautiful and rare for such a sad and stupid end.

Chapter

7

Jack patted the earth down after setting out the last seedling and rose to his feet. “There you go,” he said. “Now we just watch, and hope.”

Vivi’s smile made him feel so strange and good. Charged with energy that crackled and glowed like a bonfire.

“Would you show me your other flowers?” she asked, hesitantly. “Margaret told me they were beautiful.”

“Sure.” He brushed earth off his hands, looked at them. He wanted to hold her hand, but it didn’t seem right, with all that dirt.

She resolved his dilemma by grabbing his hand herself.

They set out toward the river, through a clearing on the hillside that glowed with wildflowers lit from the side by the setting sun so that they glowed, dancing and flickering like flames. She hardly seemed real, wafting next to him, in that floating skirt. Something from a dream. So pretty, she hurt his eyes, bright hair streaming, cheeks so pink, lips so red. Eyes that glowing gray. Already, he felt the hot tingle of a brand-new boner coming on.

They hadn’t bothered to shower, just pulled on the minimum of clothing. Vivi seemed urgent about planting, as if something bad would happen if they lost any time. He’d seen no reason not to indulge her.

He kept looking at her, ogling, marveling. It was official. His brain had melted. He’d never even dreamed of sex like that.

After they’d gotten past the scary stuff, of course. His free hand clenched at the thought of her evil ex. How a man could hurt any woman was beyond him, let alone one like Vivi. So beautiful and scrappy and strong. She’d probably scared the shit out of the bastard. Given him a huge inferiority complex so that the dickhead felt compelled to use the one pathetic advantage he had—his greater size. Classic. Not that it was an excuse. He would pay. Jack intended to see to the matter personally.

Vivi stared up at the trees, the rays of sunlight slanting through them. Jack gazed at the perfect curve of her arched neck, the angle of her jaw. Then they stepped out of the pine thicket, into another world.

The floor of the little valley was covered with spires, buds, blossoms of wildly contrasting colors. Edna yelped and readied herself to plunge into a bank of Kniphofia. Vivi caught her collar and held her fast. “No, girl. You stay right here. Sit!”

A branch snapped in the forest, and Edna twisted out of Vivi’s grasp and bounded off into the woods to investigate.

“Come out into the field,” he offered. “I’ll show you around.”

He led her out into the field, between the beds, and pointed. “These are Kniphofia, otherwise known as red hot pokers. The Lilium auratum on the other side are almost ready. Down there are Oriental poppies, and Anthoxanthum odoratum, which is a type of ornamental grass. There’s some Centaurea cyanus and Stachys byzantina on that rise over there. Bachelor’s buttons and lamb’s ears, in common English. And see those white and blue ones? Campanula aurita. Bellflowers. And columbine, at the far end.”

She looked enchanted. “Who taught you to grow flowers?”

He hesitated. “My uncle Freddy,” he admitted. “I lived with him for a while. Until I was fourteen. He was heavy into organic gardening.”

“He grew flowers, too?”

“You could say that,” he answered.

She lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean? He did or he didn’t.”

“Uncle Freddy specialized in cannabis. Various strains of specialty marijuana. Very profitable for him, for a while. It was a different era.”

“Oh,” Vivi said. She looked startled, but not unduly so.

“The principles are the same,” he said. “He loved plants. He knew how to give them what they needed.”

“Oh,” she said again.

“I prefer flowers,” he went on, blandly. “More color. Less stress.”

“Is your uncle still…um, never mind.”

“It’s okay. I doubt if he’s still in business. It’s more dangerous these days. And he had to leave the country one night twenty-some years ago. Haven’t seen him since. Don’t even know if he’s still alive. He’d be pushing seventy by now.” He kept his gaze averted and stroked a Campanula aurita bud. They were gearing up to bloom at any minute.

“That was when you were fourteen, you say?”

“I’m thirty-seven now. That would make it twenty-three years ago.”

“Were you there when he ran away? Was it a drug bust?”

His discomfort surged up, turning into irritation. “Yeah.”

“How awful,” she said. “What happened to you?”

He walked into the fluttering poppies. “Nothing happened to me.”

“Did he just vanish?” she persisted, following him.

“I’m fine now,” he said tightly. “Let’s leave it.”

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

Fuck. He felt like shit, but he did not want to talk about it. He was a dick-for-brains for bringing it up. Ruining their excellent mood.

A distressed yelping came from the trees. Vivi picked her way hastily through the flower beds toward the pine thicket. He caught up with her as she plunged into the trees. Her dog was whining and pawing at her muzzle.

Vivi grabbed her collar and knelt down, holding the trembling dog still. “Easy, girl,” she soothed. “Oh, God.”

Porcupine quills stuck out of Edna’s nose and jaw, like long, crazy whiskers. Jack crouched down and took the dog’s shivering head in his hands, examining it. “Only twelve,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”

Vivi bit her lip, searching through Edna’s coat for more quills.

“Let’s go to the house,” he suggested. “I’ve got scissors. Pliers.”

“I don’t want to bother you with this,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve got pliers in my jewelry toolbox. I’ll deal with it.”

He gave her a look. “Get real.”

Edna slunk between them, tail down, through the woods. Their camaraderie, that perfect elusive glow of joy, gone. Such a fucking mystery. He wished he knew how to hang on to it.

When they got back to the house, he led her and her dog into his front room, and got the scissors and the pliers out. He knelt down beside them on the floor. “Hold her,” he said.

Vivi held her dog firmly as he snipped off the ends of the quills. Edna made high-pitched whining noises in the back of her throat.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked.

“I’ve been told that if you trim the end of the quills, the vacuum inside collapses and the barbs should let go more easily,” he explained. “Theoretically.”

Vivi blinked, and swallowed, hard. “Oh,” she whispered.

They clenched their teeth and powered through the unpleasant job. It didn’t take all that long to pull out the quills, but it felt like forever. Vivi winced with each shrill yelp and jerk, although her low voice never stopped murmuring low encouragement.

Jack tried to be brisk, but by the time he was done, Jesus. He sagged back against the side of his sofa, limp as a wet rag. Inflicting pain on an innocent animal was fucking horrible, whether it was for the animal’s own good or not. Thank God he worked with plants.

Edna curled up in Vivi’s lap, still trembling. Vivi was bent over her, her face hidden against the dog’s silky golden shoulder.

Leaving him all alone, with memories that were coming back, weirdly sharp and clear. Taking over his whole goddamn mind.

That June night when a wild-eyed Uncle Freddy had slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, kid. I’ve got to run. They got Pete, and Pete’s such an airhead, he’ll give me up for sure. I gotta leave the country.”

Jack’s stomach heaved. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not going to tell you where. It’s safer that way. Here.” He thrust a handful of limp, grimy bills into Jack’s nerveless hand. “Take this. I wish it was more, but it’s all I can spare.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“I wish you could, Jackie, but you don’t have a passport. Shit, I don’t even think you have a birth certificate. I’ll be an outlaw, see? I can’t have a kid. Keep your head low and your mouth shut, okay?”

“Sure,” he said bitterly, pocketing the money.

“We shoulda drilled for this, but it was going so well. I got sloppy.” Freddy gripped Jack’s skinny shoulders in his big, work-stained hands. “Lemme give you some advice. Don’t mix it up with the police, the social workers. Hit the road, go out and seek your fortune. You can do better for yourself outside the system.”

“Like you did?” Jack muttered.

“Hey, don’t hold this against me. Come on, chin up. You’re, what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ll be fine. You’ll land on your feet.”

“Fourteen,” Jack corrected, in a toneless voice.

“Fourteen? Jeez, kid. I thought you were older.” Freddy tugged on his beard, looking annoyed that Jack was not older. “Tavia’s number is on the fridge. And your mom—where is your mom, anyway?”

“The ashram. In India,” Jack reminded him.

“Oh, yeah. The ashram. Damn. I guess Tavia is your best bet, kid. Oh, hey. You could always call Mrs. Margaret Moffat. Your mom and Tavia and I stayed with her one summer when we were kids, in Silverfish. Dad was working the carnival, and Mom had to go into the TB hospital, so she took us in for a couple of months. Nice lady. Baked great cookies. Call her, if you get in a tight spot. But try Tavia first.”

Jack stared at his feet, mouth trembling. Uncle Freddy tousled his hair. “Sorry, Jackie. But you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. He knew how it was. Better than anyone.

And after a flurry of packing and a rough, sweaty hug, Jack stood in the driveway and watched Freddy’s taillights disappear into the dark.

He tried calling Aunt Tavia in L.A. A guy answered, and said she hadn’t lived there in four months, and no, he didn’t know where she was. He’d heard somebody say she’d gone to Baja. But it might have been Boulder. Or Bali. Then the guy told Jack that he seemed stressed, and should practice “letting go.” “Hanging on” caused all the suffering in life. In fact, if Jack would tell him the date and hour of his birth, he would be happy to provide Jack, for a small fee, with a mantra calibrated to attain the serenity of nonattachment, and also—

Jack hung up on him. He took the tattered envelope off the fridge, and dialed the long string of numbers written on it for the ashram.

The guy who answered spoke only Hindi, and maybe German. Jack struggled with that for a while, and then hung up on that guy, too.

He stared dully at the phone. Finally, he picked up the receiver, dialed information for Silverfish, and asked for Margaret Moffat.

“I have an M. Moffat in Silverfish. Do you want the number?”

“Sure.” He wrote it down, folded it, stuck it in his jeans.

He had no idea what to do next. He wandered around the empty house. Night deepened. The quiet terrified him. He wondered when the police would come. What would happen to him if they found him there?

At dawn, he filled his knapsack with as much stuff as he could carry, tied a rolled blanket onto the top, and headed out into the woods.

“…okay?” He jolted out of his memories. Vivi’s face was close to his, her gray eyes wide with worry. She patted his shoulder.

She tried again, louder. “Are you okay, Jack?”

He focused on the faint pattern of freckles on her perfect, narrow little nose. Like a constellation of stars. “Uh, yeah,” he said dully. “Sorry. I was someplace else for a while.”

She touched his cheek with her knuckles, a shy, tender stroke. “Noplace good. You had that look on your face.”

He shook himself to alertness, embarrassed. “What look?”

“Sad,” she said simply. “Can I make you some tea?”

“Coffee,” he said, rousing himself. “Tea doesn’t do it for me. Sit down. Stay with your dog. I’ll make it.”

“No, I’ll do it.” She pushed him back down. “The least I can do. Thanks for helping. It would have been that much more awful alone.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“Not to me and Edna it’s not.” Her smile was so warm and bright. He wanted to curl himself up around it. He followed her into the kitchen, just to stay close to her. Taking every sneaky opportunity to touch her, brush against her, sniff her scent as they put the coffee on together.

When it was done and poured, they sat across the table from each other. Jack reached out and grabbed her hand. They’d hit another smooth patch, and he was going to ride it for as long as he could. “I’m sorry for what I said in the—”

“Don’t,” Vivi broke in. “You apologized the last time you insulted me, and the time before that. Every time, I let down my guard and let you do it again. Let’s establish a rule. No insults. No apologies. Okay?”

“You misunderstood. I never insulted you,” he said.

“No? Me, the itinerant sexpot neo-hippie?”

He narrowly avoided spluttering his coffee. “That doesn’t count,” he protested. “You took me by surprise. In a wet T-shirt, no less.”

“Oh?” She gazed at him over the rim of her mug, eyes sparkling.

“Give me a fucking break! There you were, soaking wet in the forest, nipples poking through your shirt, looking like something out of a Penthouse centerfold—”

“It’s not my fault it was raining! I looked like a freaking mudslide!”

“Yeah, and it’s not my fault all the blood in my body got instantly rerouted to my dick! You expect me to be rational when a gorgeous woman tricked out like that waves a tire iron at me?”

Her eyebrows went up. “Did the tire iron turn you on, Jack?”

“I’ll tell you what turns me on. A proud, beautiful, self-reliant woman who takes no shit off of anybody. That turns me on.”

Her eyes fell, but she was smiling. “I never insulted you,” he went on. “I made a rational assessment of the situation based on the information I gathered. You read it as an insult, but I was not judging you.”

“Wrong,” Vivi said. “Your assessment is faulty.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

“Whoever you’ve been practicing on isn’t me. But let’s not talk about it, or we’ll just crash and burn all over again.”

She tried to tug her hand back, but he hung on to it. “That wasn’t what I was apologizing for,” he confessed. “I meant when we were out in the field. You asked about my uncle. I got all uptight. Closed you off.” He blew out a careful, measured sigh, trying to relax his tense belly.

Her eyes softened. She set down her coffee and reached across the table. “There’s a reason I was asking those questions about the bust.”

“Yeah?” he asked warily. “What?”

“I wondered if it was something we had in common,” she said. “I was in the middle in a big drug bust once, too. When I was a kid.”

He stared at her, mouth stupidly open. “Huh? You?”

“Me,” she said. “It sucked. As you are highly qualified to agree.”

“But aren’t you…didn’t you…” He racked his brains for the details Duncan had given him about her background. Italian nobility? Priceless art? Drug busts? What the fuck? This did not compute.

“My two sisters and I were all adopted,” she said, answering his silent confusion. “Lucia took us in as foster kids. I went to her when I was eleven. I got lucky. Nancy and Nell had to plow through years of bad ones before they found Lucia. I hit pay dirt right off, on my first placement. Lucia was amazing. And I got two kick-ass, readymade sisters in the bargain. They were the best.”

“And before?” he prompted.

Her face clouded. “Ah. Before. Well, my mom was a junkie. And the men she took up with were all dealers.”

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“I got used as a sentry,” she said. “Deliveries, sometimes, too.”

“No fucking shit!” He was aghast. “How old were you?”

She shrugged. “Eight, nine. Red pigtails, freckles, ruffles. Who would suspect what was in my Winnie the Pooh knapsack? I liked it, at the time. It made me feel important, grown up. Useful.”

“Used,” he corrected, harshly. “Anything could have happened to you! A little kid, for drug deliveries? That’s fucking insane!”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Duh. But anyway, the shit came down. There was a shoot-out. My mom’s boyfriend, Randy, got killed in the bust. And my mom went to prison.”

He winced. “Tell me you weren’t there when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” she assured him. “I was at school. And I didn’t cry for Randy. He was a real zero. I have him to thank for this.” She held up her wrist, with its barbed-wire tattoo. “This was his idea of a joke.”

He stared at the fuzzy, faded tattoo, anger simmering inside him. “All I can say is, the list of people whom I want to dismember and grind into the dirt on your behalf is growing,” he said.

“Thank you, but it’s ancient history. So, how did the bust shake out for you? Did you end up with Child Protective Services, too?”

He shook his head. “No. I just took off.”

Her eyes widened. “Alone? At fourteen? How did you live?”

He hesitated for a moment before replying. “Barely,” he said. “So what about your mom? Is she out of prison?”

Vivi shook her head. “No,” she said. “She OD’d in prison. About eight months after she went inside.”

He flinched, sucker punched. That was what he got for trying to distract her from his own story. “I’m sorry,” he said, helplessly.

She gazed intently into her coffee mug. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “And I was as lucky with my second family as I was unlucky with my first. So I’m okay. You can relax, Jack.”

They listened to the wind in the trees outside. He reached out until he touched the flower tattooed on her chest. “That perfect combination of toughness and a good attitude,” he said quietly.

She blushed. “You’re doing it again, Jack. Saying all the right things.”

“Is it working? You want to grab me again?”

Her devastating secret smile turned dazzling. She got up, came around the table, sat down on his lap, and hugged him.

His arms encircled her. He was speechless. His dick was stone hard against the pressure of her ass, but it wasn’t just that. He just couldn’t believe she was there, draping herself over him, holding him. She was so beautiful, so special, so shining. Like a unicorn, laying its head in his lap, and him breathless with the wonder of it. And so turned on, he could barely suck in a lungful of air.

She gasped as he stood up and swept her into his arms, heading up the stairs. “Jack! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Being masterful,” he said. “Stop giggling. Get into the vibe.”

“Hail, O conquering hero,” she gasped out, between giggles. “Do with me as you will, my wild warrior lover. How’s that?”

“Works for me.” He shoved open the door to his bedroom with his foot and set her on her feet. They faced off, breathing hard. Her color was high, her eyes were shining. He tossed off his shirt. Vivi whipped off her tank. Call and response. He jerked open his belt, popped his jeans buttons. She yanked loose the drawstring of her skirt, let the garment puddle around her ankles. So beautiful. It unraveled him.

“Turn around,” he said hoarsely. “Let me see your ass.”

She obliged him. He came up behind her and knelt, his hands sliding down over her ribs, her waist, and clasping her hips.

He pressed his lips against the swirling mandala tattoo at the small of her back. “So what’s the story with this one?”

“Oh.” She shivered as he licked her there, his hand sliding up between her legs. “That was a celebratory tattoo. To mark the occasion of getting away from Bri—from the crappy ex that I mentioned before. I called my buddy Rafael on the day that the shit definitely hit the fan, and he whisked me away in his van, which is now my van. Drove me to my first crafts fair, in upstate New York. I had a good day, sold a bunch of stuff. After, we celebrated with buffalo wings and beer and a tattoo. Rafael got a dragon tattooed on his butt that night, if I remember correctly. I was a little more conservative.”

He turned her to face him, his eyes level with the contours and involutions of her groin. Breathing in the hot, heady smell of sex. His cock ached with eagerness. He placed her hand on his shoulder to steady her and lifted her delicate foot. She teetered, giggling, as he touched the tattooed images of the crescent moon and star on top of her foot. “And this one?”

“No story with that,” she admitted. “I just thought it was pretty.”

“It is,” he said. All of them were. Fit embellishments for her vivid beauty. Even the barbed wire around her wrist had its own poignant grace.

He gazed up at her pink face, her dilated eyes, the whole perfect length of her sweet body. Her pussy, still shiny and flushed, poking proudly out of her labia. “What an incredible view,” he muttered.

He rose to his feet, moving behind her, his cock prodding the back of her thighs, and slid his hands around her. Clasping her waist, sliding his hand down between her legs. The damp seam of her pussy beneath his fingers.

“I want to take you from behind,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

A fine tremor went through her, but he couldn’t tell if it was fear or desire. He nuzzled and petted. Waiting until she gave him a plainer answer. Several breathless minutes went by. She began to writhe and make keening sounds in her throat. His hands grew bolder.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, finally.

He let go of her, stepped back. “Show me, then.”

She shot a puzzled look over her shoulder. “Show you what?”

“That it’s okay,” he said. And waited.

It worked again, as it had before. She thought about it for a moment, her full, rosy lip caught seductively between her teeth.

Then she straightened her spine, tossed her hair back, and sauntered over to his bed. Taking her time. She climbed on, positioning herself on her hands and knees, presenting her perfect ass. She looked back, with that secret smile, and parted her thighs, undulating. “Convinced?” she purred.

He didn’t bother to reply. Seconds later, he was in position, condom in place. His fingers rejoiced at her flawless skin, her lithe muscles, her sweet curves. He teased the secret shadows of her pussy while he kissed the mandala tattoo, playing her quivering clit.

She squirmed and moaned, wet and hot, but he took his time easing inside. The tight, hot clutch of her was sweet torture on his cock. She clung to him, her pussy flushed and full, like a juicy, suckling kiss. He let her rock back to take him in, a little more each time, until he was buried deep. Then some gasping, panting minutes of stroking and petting, licking her back, working her clit, and she started to make catlike sounds, pressing back. Demanding that he move.

Yes. Now she was ready to ride.

He thrust, hypnotized by the sight of the shiny pink lips of her sex clinging to his shaft. He withdrew, gleaming. Drove in again, again, seeking the strokes that made her soften and yield, using that subtle, inner awareness he’d never known existed until he’d made love to her. Now that he’d discovered it, he was strung out on it. Life was going to be so flat, so flavorless, without her.

That realization stabbed in like a blade. His hands tightened on her hips. And something in him cracked wide open.

He lost control. Rammed into her with the energy of a lifetime of unsatisfied need, seeking that blinding moment where he wouldn’t have to think, or feel. Or fear.

It hit. He exploded into nothingness.

When he finally surfaced, she was wiggling beneath him on the quilt, kicking at his ankles. “Roll over,” she said tartly. “I can’t breathe.”

He rolled over, and she pulled away, sitting up. Her eyes were wide. “That was, um, intense,” she said, her voice small.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

“A little. It was exciting. I came, of course. You always make me come. But you weren’t with me anymore. At the end. I felt…alone.”

He didn’t know what to say. He felt her withdrawal like a cold wind. He reached out, but she shrank back, and he let his hand drop.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless. “Get in bed,” he pleaded. “Wait for me while I go take this thing off.”

“Okay.” She didn’t move. He waited, until she rolled her eyes, wiggled across the bed, and slid between the sheets.

“You won’t go?” he demanded. “Promise?”

“No,” she said softly. “I promise.”

He smoothed the quilt over her, his face reddening. He was afraid she would disappear. He was a goner.

“The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll come back,” she said.

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, clutching the sink. He turned on the cold water, splashed his face, tried to think clearly. Abandoned the effort, after about five seconds. Useless.

All he wanted in the world was to fuck her again. Hold her again. Wrap himself around her in a grip that she could not break.

He wiped off his face and grabbed the little wastebasket from under the sink. Stupid to run back and forth every time.

She was still there when he got back. Holding the covers open for him. He slid into bed and grabbed her.

Her face softened into a smile. Something tight in his chest uncoiled. He resisted the sensation, automatically, and then yielded to it, with a shudder of backed-up emotion.

He arranged her so that her head was cradled on his shoulder, her arm resting on his chest, her leg flung over his. He stroked her back, and felt her heart beating under his hand, until she fell asleep.

So soft. He stared at the swirls of red hair tickling his nose, his chin. Her slender shoulder. He loved her scent, the soft moist bloom of warmth of her breath against his shoulder. He memorized the curve of her spine. If he concentrated on these details, and thought of nothing, he could cling to this emotion that was vibrating inside him, like a tightly strung instrument. Part of him wanted to shove it back into the darkness, but the feeling sang on, a fragile, stubborn thread. He clung to it, counting the rise and fall of her breath. Keeping the rest at bay.

Late afternoon eased with the smoothness of a sigh into twilight. He barely noticed. He could lie there forever, feeling her ribs rise and fall. Letting that strange feeling vibrate inside him.

Contentment? No. He rejected the word. He was familiar with contentment. He was contented with his house, his work. Lucky, to spend his days with the smell of the earth and rain, the sun, the flowers. That was contentment. This feeling was new. It was a long, quiet hour before he dared to put a name to it. It felt like happiness.

Behind that word were doors in his mind that had been locked for years. Like when Randy left, when he was eight. Deborah, who always insisted that he call her Deborah instead of Mom, told him that Randy had to go and find himself. “I gotta have space,” Jack remembered him saying, very loudly. Jack remembered thinking that was dumb. It was the Oregon desert. There was so much space, it gave him the willies.

But Randy needed more. He took down his teepee, threw it in his truck, and drove away. Jack remembered standing there, bewildered, while Randy’s truck got smaller. Jack wondered sometimes if Randy was his father, but Deborah was somewhat vague on that point.

Then they’d stayed with Jim and Consuela, in the Yakima Valley, until Deborah met Manuel. They moved into Manuel’s trailer in the peach orchards. Manuel taught him Spanish, how to fight, how to change the oil in a car. Then Manuel got in trouble because he didn’t have a green card, and had to go back to Mexico. After a while, Deborah decided she had to follow her heart and go to Mexico, too.

“You’ll stay with Tavia,” she told the totally freaked-out Jack.

“But why can’t I come?”

“Oh, it’s complicated, baby. But I’ll write you letters, and I’ll send for you real soon. You’ll love it with Aunt Tavia. Her commune has lots of kids, and a swimming hole, and a tree house and everything.”

Off he went, to Tavia’s commune, near Olympia. He got letters, but they came less and less frequently. He was just getting used to it when Tavia fell in love with Mick, a guy from Oakland, and decided to move to California with him. Mick didn’t want Jack to come. “The family thing is just not my scene,” Mick said firmly.

So he went to Uncle Freddy’s place in southern Oregon. In the meantime, Deborah broke up with Manuel, who was “too enmeshed in his culture,” the letter said. She decided to go to India to study yoga with a guru, “to get her head straightened out and recover her sense of self.” Shortly after that, Tavia broke up with Mick, left Oakland, and moved to Los Angeles with a guy named Mike.

Jack had trouble keeping it all straight. But he liked the mellow, benevolent Uncle Freddy. He liked the garden, the farm, the mountains. He had almost begun to allow himself to think of the place as home when the bust happened. The time he most hated to remember. He hadn’t thought of it in years. He stared at the barbed-wire tattoo around Vivi’s slender wrist. Tracing it. And realized that her eyes were open. Studying him.

She scrambled on top of him, folding her arms over his chest. Questions in her eyes. She wanted to talk. It terrified him. Too much reality would chase away that feeling. But even so, he wanted to know her. Her history, her dreams, her hopes, her plans.

No, on second thought, maybe he didn’t want to know her plans.