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“I think it’s called coming to my senses.”
“Uh-huh.” Laughing, she shoved her hair out her face with both hands. Her swollen lips canted in a crooked smile, she slumped against the cushions, propping one foot on the brightly painted wooden trunk she used for a coffee table. The shiny red walls made the air seem molten, flooding his consciousness with possibilities he had no business considering. “And just what do you think,” she said, “the odds are of our keeping our hands off each other while you’re here?”
“That’s not the point.” His hands shot up by his shoulders. “I can’t do this, Mercy.”
“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”
“No. I mean, I can’t do this again. Mess around. With you.”
“Because…?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t right the first time. Don’t recall that stopping us.”
He squeezed shut his eyes against the onslaught of memories. “God, Merce,” he said, opening them again, “what is it about you that makes me so hot my brain shorts out?”
She shrugged, then grabbed a bright blue throw pillow, hugging it to her, looking uncannily like a very grown-up version of their niece. “I’m easy?”
This time, he laughed out loud. “Oh, babe, one thing you’re not is easy.”
“Fun, then. And by the way, that thing where you said I made you hot?” She gave him a thumbs up.
“Like men don’t say that to you all the time.”
“Ooh, somebody’s just racking up the brownie points right and left today.” Two heartbeats later she stood in front of him again, her thumbs hooked in his belt loop, tugging him close. “No, really, that’s a very sweet thing to say, considering I’m not exactly the nubile young thing I used to be. But what other men might or might not say to me isn’t the point. The point is…” Her gaze never leaving his, she let go to skim a finger-nail down his chest, smiling when he involuntarily flinched. “The point is, it’s been a long, long time since anyone made me hot enough to short out my brain, too.”
“Oh, yeah? How long?”
The fingernail slid underneath the front of his shirt, gently scraping across his skin. “Guess.”
He pulled away.
“Would it put your mind at ease,” she said behind him, “to know I’m not looking for the same things I was ten years ago?” When he turned, she added, “Not with you, not with anybody else. I’m not looking for forever, Ben.” Her mouth stretched into an almost-smile. “Not anymore.”
He frowned. “You don’t want marriage? Kids?”
She walked over to the same photos he’d been looking at earlier, straightening out the one he’d apparently not put back correctly. “It’s like when you’re a teenager, and you just know if you don’t get that album, or dress, or pair of shoes, you’ll expire. Then one day you realize you never did get whatever it was you thought you couldn’t live without, and not only did you survive, you don’t miss it, either.”
And clearly she’d forgotten just how well he’d always been able to see through her, too. Her reluctance to make eye contact was a dead giveaway that she was skirting the truth. But this wasn’t the time to call her on it, especially since he was hardly in a place where he could be entirely truthful with her, either.
So all he said was, “You’re one weird chick, Mercy,” and she laughed.
“Not exactly breaking news,” she said, facing him again. “Look, whether we should have let things get out of hand or not back then, I can’t say. But I’ve never regretted it. Have you? No, wait,” she said, holding up one hand. “Maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that.”
Ben realized he was grinding his teeth to keep from going to her. “Not hardly,” he said, and she smiled.
“Well, then. Ben, I knew from the moment you came home after the army that you’d never stick around. Yeah, I was supremely annoyed that you took off without saying anything, but I always knew you’d leave.” She did that thing where she planted her palms on her butt, and Ben’s mouth went dry. “Just like I know you’ll leave this time. But while you’re here, we could either drive ourselves nuts pretending we’re not interested, or we could enjoy each other.” Her shoulders bumped. “Your call.” When he shook his head, she said, “Why not?”
“Porque nadie tropieza dos veces con la misma piedra,” he said softly, repeating an old Mexican proverb he’d heard a thousand times as a kid. Because nobody trips over the same stone twice.
They eyed each other for a long moment, then she returned to the kitchen, collecting their mugs.
“You’re angry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The dishwasher shuddered when she banged it open. “It was just a thought.”
“Merce. A half hour ago you gave the very distinct impression you’d rather eat live snakes than start something up again with me. So why the sudden change of heart?”
She slammed the dishwasher shut, turned around. “That was my wounded pride talking. So good news—guess I’m a faster healer than I realized.”
“And I’m just getting started,” he said, and her brows plunged. “Honey, I’m not rejecting you. I’m rejecting the past. Because I don’t want to pick up where we left off. Because, yeah, I want you so much I can’t think straight, but it’s more than that with you.” His throat ached when he swallowed. “It was always more than that with you.”
In the space of a heartbeat, her expression changed from confusion to stunned comprehension to bemusement. The cat jumped up on the counter beside her, bumping her elbow to be petted. Being obviously well-trained, she obeyed, then said, “You remember the scene early in It’s a Wonderful Life where Jimmy Stewart finds himself in Donna Reed’s living room, and her mother hollers down the stairs, asking her what he wants, and Donna Reed says, ‘I don’t know,’ then turns to Jimmy Stewart and says, ‘What do you want?’ and he gets all mad because he doesn’t really know?” She cocked her head. “Well?”
“I don’t know,” Ben ground out, stuffing his arms into his jacket. “But I can tell you I’m not looking for the same things I was before, either.”
Then he strode to her door and let himself out, not even trying to keep from slamming the door.
The forecast had called for a slight chance of snow on New Year’s Eve—pretty much an empty threat in Albuquerque, which, Ben mused as he listened to his mother fuss at his father at their bedroom door, rarely had weather in the usual sense of the word. Muttering in Spanish, his mother trooped down the hall, all dressed up for her night on the town.
“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Juanita said, wrapping a soft, fuzzy shawl around her shoulders, half concealing the glittery long-sleeved dress underneath. Her eyes sparkled as brightly as the diamond studs in her ears—his parents and Mercy’s were spending the night at one of the fancy casino resorts on a nearby Indian reservation, and she’d spent most of the day primping in preparation. When he’d been a kid and money had been tight for both families, “doing something for New Year’s” meant getting together to play cards, or, later, watch videos. Apparently, though, their parents had been celebrating in grand style for some years now, and seeing how excited they were tickled Ben to death.
“I imagine I’ll muddle through somehow,” he said with a smile.
The doorbell rang; his mother opened it to let Mary and Manny Zamora inside. “Luis!” she tossed over her shoulder as Ben and the Zamoras shook hands, exchanged hugs and small talk. “They’re here!” She minced to the end of the hallway in high heels she wasn’t used to wearing. “What are you doing?”
Grumbling under his breath, his father appeared, still adjusting the ostentatious silver-and-turquoise bolo on his string tie. After a burst of chatter, the Zamoras and his father headed back out, but his mother lagged behind.
“Now there’s plenty of food in the refrigerator,” she said, “and you know how to use the microwave—”
“Juanita! Per Dios!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Ben stood in the doorway, watching them drive off, the headlight beams from his father’s brand new Escalade glancing off a handful of tiny, valiantly swirling snowflakes. As he was about to close the door, he noticed Mercy’s Firebird in her driveway, its lightly frosted roof glistening in the light from the street lamp several houses over. Ben frowned—the quintessential party girl, alone on New Year’s? Now that was just wrong.
Close the door, Ben. None of your business, Ben. Stay out of it, Ben…
A minute’s raid on the family room bar produced a bottle of Baileys he hoped didn’t predate Nixon. If nothing else, they could spike their coffee.
Or, he considered as he stood on her doorstep, ringing her doorbell, she could—justifiably—tell him to take his Baileys and stick it someplace the sun don’t shine—
“No!” he heard Mercy say on the other side. “Never, ever answer the door without first making sure you know who’s on the other side!”
The door swung open (because clearly Mercy didn’t take her own advice, which provoked a flash of irritation behind Ben’s eyes). From inside floated the mouthwatering scents of baked chocolate and popcorn. “Ben! What are you doing here?”
Her hair sprouting from the top of her head in a fountain of ringlets, the party girl was dressed to kill in a three-sizestoo-big purple sweatshirt that hung to midthigh, a pair of clingy, sparkly pants, and blindingly bright, striped fuzzy socks. Not surprisingly, considering the way they’d left things the day before, her eyes bugged with total astonishment, which pleased Ben in some way he couldn’t begin to define.
“I, um, didn’t like the idea of you being by yourself on New Year’s?” he said as Mattie, swallowed up in a nearly identical outfit and crying, “Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben!” launched herself at his knees, adhering to him like plastic wrap. Then she leaned back, giving him her most adoring, gap-toothed smile.
“Aunt Mercy an’ me’re watching Finding Nemo but Jake doesn’t wanna, he says it’s a sissy movie.” The squirt latched onto his hand and dragged him across the threshold. “Wanna come watch with us?”
Ben’s gaze shifted to Mercy, who shrugged. The sweatshirt didn’t budge. “Welcome to Mercy’s Rockin’ NewYear’s Eve. I’m babysitting,” she said, standing aside to keep from getting trampled as Jacob yelled from the back of the house, “I’m not a baby!”
“Get a job and we’ll talk,” Mercy called back as they all returned to the living room.
No reply except for the muffled pings and zaps of some video game.
“Popcorn’s ready,” she yelled again, plopping a plastic bowl as large as a bathtub in the middle of that trunk with identity issues. Over in her corner, Annabelle shimmered red…blue…green…red as the color wheel did its thing, while a small fire crackled lazily in a kiva fireplace in the opposite corner, and Ben felt a chuckle of pure delight rumble up from his chest.
Mercy reached up to adjust her hair, her hands landing on her hips when she was done. Her nails were as red as her walls, with what looked like little rhinestones or something imbedded in each tip. Amazing. Ben’s gaze shifted to her face; she looked more befuddled than ticked, he decided. “We’ve already had the first course—brownies—but I think there’s still a few left in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Um…” Ben slipped off his jacket, flinging it across the back of a chair. “Are you okay with this?”
One eyebrow hitched, just slightly. “That you crashed my party? Yeah, I should’ve had the dude at the door check the guest list more carefully. But hey, no problem, we’ve got chaperones and everything.”
“What’s a chaperone?” Mattie asked.
“Somebody who makes sure nobody does something they shouldn’t,” Mercy said, never taking her eyes off Ben’s, the eyebrow hiking another millimeter. Okay, definitely not ticked. Not that having the kids here meant a whole lot in the tempering-the-sexual-tension department. Apparently.
“What’s that?” the little girl said, latching on to the Baileys. “C’n I have some?”
“Not if you want your mother to ever, ever let you come here again,” Mercy said, taking the bottle from Ben and nodding in approval. “Later,” she said, holding it up, then setting it on top of the fashionably distressed armoire housing a regular old TV and DVD player. She walked the few steps to the hall, pushing up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. They fell right back down. “Jacob Manuel Vargas! If you don’t get out here right now and get yourself some popcorn, your uncle Ben’s gonna eat it all up!”
“Uncle Ben’s here? All right!” he heard from down the hall, followed by pounding footsteps and a grinning kid in a hoodie and jeans. He high-fived Ben; Mercy stuck another plastic bowl in his hands with the warning that if he got a single piece on her bed his butt was going to be in a major sling.
“Wanna play games with me later?” he asked Ben around a mouthful of popcorn, looking less than terrorized by his aunt’s threat. “I got this really cool racing game for Christmas, I’m already at the third level.”
“Sure thing,” Ben said, feeling a little like the new kid at school getting picked for the best team. “But in a sec, okay? So,” he said to Mercy, imbuing his words with as much meaning as he dared. “Tony and Anita went out?” He settled on the sofa, swiping the bowl of popcorn off the coffee table. Mattie wriggled into place beside him, grabbing a far-too-large handful that promptly exploded all over her, the sofa and the floor.
“Sorry, Aunt Mercy!”
“Don’t worry about it, cutie-pie, it happens.” Mercy bent over to pick up the scattered kernels, her hair and face glimmering red…blue…green…red. “Yeah,” she said. Deliberately avoiding his eyes? “They’d already made reservations at the Hilton, so it seemed a shame to give them up just because Tony broke his leg. But the real party’s here—right, munchkin?” she said to Mattie, lightly tapping her niece on the nose with a piece of popcorn. The child giggled, snuggling closer to Ben and swiping a piece of popcorn out of his hand.
“We get to stay up until midnight—” she yawned “—and watch the ball drop in Tom’s hair.”
“Times Square, stupid,” Jacob said, prompting an immediate “Don’t call your sister stupid,” from Mercy.
Apparently unfazed, the little girl twisted around to look up at Ben with big, solemn, slightly sleepy eyes. “It’s funner over here. Mama ’n’ Daddy’ve been fighting a lot. I don’t like it when they do that.”
Mercy’s eyes flashed to Ben’s as Jacob, instantly turning beet red, muttered, “Shut up, Mattie.”
“Well, they have. An’you’re not supposed to say ‘shut up,’ Mama says it’s rude.”
“Guys!” Mercy said. “Enough. But you know what? Your mama and I used to fight like crazy when we were kids, and it didn’t mean anything.”
“Really?” Mattie said.
Mercy laughed. “Oh, yeah. Yelling, screaming…ask your grandma, she used to swear it sounded like we were killing each other. And then it would blow over and we’d be best buddies again—”
“C’n I have a Coke?” the boy said, bouncing up out of the chair.
“Sure, sweetie,” Mercy said. “You know where they are. And by the way,” she said to his back as he walked away, “what happens here, stays here, got it?”
That got a fleeting grin and a nod. Only Ben wasn’t sure if Mercy was talking about the questionable menu or the even more questionable conversation. He stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth, staring at the slightly trembling image of a red-and-white fish on the screen in front of him. As Jake traipsed back to Mercy’s bedroom with his popcorn and soda, Mattie dug the remote out from under Ben’s hip, punched the Play button and the red fish started talking to a blue fish that sounded oddly like Ellen de Generes.
“So you really think that’s all this is?” he said softly over Mattie’s giggles as Mercy sank into the cushion on the other side of her niece, tucking her feet up under her.
Her silence spoke volumes as she reached across their niece to pluck several kernels from the bowl. “No,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “Unfortunately.”
“You think somebody should go talk to Jake?”
“I’ve tried, but…” She shrugged, her forehead puckered.
“Guys, shh,” Mattie said, poking Ben with her elbow. “This is the best part, when Dory pretends she’s a whale.”
Out of deference to Mattie, they stopped talking. But Ben wasn’t paying the slightest attention to the movie, and he somehow doubted Mercy—whose mouth was still pulled down at the corners—was, either. Under other circumstances, he would have been perfectly fine with staying right where he was, with this goofy little girl cuddled next to him and her goofy aunt not much farther away, munching popcorn and watching a kid flick.
But sometimes, life has other ideas.
So he gently extricated himself from the soft, trusting warmth curled into his side, shifting the child to lean against her aunt instead, then followed the sound of engines roaring and tires screeching until he reached Mercy’s bedroom. Sitting cross-legged on the end of Mercy’s double bed, Jake was intently focused on the game flashing across the smaller TV sitting on the dresser in front of him, his thumbs a blur on the controller as he leaned from side to side.
Ben leaned against the door frame, his thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets. “Hey,” he said softly, acutely aware that, as far as Jake was concerned, Ben was a stranger. Not to mention he was venturing into potentially explosive-ridden territory. No doubt Tony would see Ben’s attempt to help as blatant, and extremely unwelcome, interference.
Attention riveted to the car zooming and swerving wildly on the screen, Jake bumped one shoulder in acknowledgment. “Soon as I’m done—” he hunched forward, pounded one button a dozen times in rapid succession, then whispered “Yes! I can set it up…for two players…”
“No hurry.”
The room was dark except for a single bedside lamp, but he could see she’d gone with the orange in here, Ben noted with a wry smile. Sort of the same color as that clownfish, actually. But for a woman as unabashedly female as Mercedes Zamora, her bedroom was almost eerily frou-frou free. Even more than he remembered. No lace, no filmy stuff at the windows, no mounds of pillows or—God bless her—stuffed animals on the unadorned platform bed, covered with a plain white comforter. Nothing but clean lines as far as the eye could see.
And all that color, drenching the room in a perpetual sunset.
Ben turned his attention to his nephew, then eased over to sit next to him. The cat, who’d been God knew where up to that point, jumped up and butted his arm, then tramped across his lap to sniff Jake’s hand.
“Go away, Homer,” he said, giggling. “Your whiskers tickle.”
Yeah, that’s how kids are supposed to sound. “Wow,” Ben said, sincerely impressed. “You really rock at this.”
A quick grin bloomed across the kid’s face. “Thanks. Okay,” he said a minute later, his fingers again flying over the buttons as the image changed to a split screen. “The other controller’s in my backpack, if you want to get it?”
“Sure.” Ben dug through a wad of rumpled, detergent-scented clothes, pulled it out, plugged it into the console. “You have to promise to go easy on me, though,” he said. “I think the last video game I played was Mario on Nintendo.”
“You mean, like Game Cube?”
“No, I mean the original Nintendo. Way before your time.”
“Oh, yeah…my dad still drags that out every once in a while. But mostly he likes my PlayStation, ’cause it’s way cooler.”
