Blame it on Cupid (6 page)

It had to be past ten. The night was a pitchy, witchy black, with one of those moaning winds that whispered through the trees. A full moon kept sneaking around the clouds now and then, though, so he could see her clearly enough.

She was sitting on her back porch. On the cold cement. She had her head in her hands, in a posture that sure looked as if she were crying her heart out.

She'd left the back door gaping open behind her. What was
with
that woman and doors?

He chomped down on the salty cashews, chewing furiously. Moonlight shined on her head as if her profile were illuminated with silver dust. Even though she was outside, it was unlikely anyone could see her but him. All the bushes and landscaping around the house sheltered the back porch from view.

But he was stuck being able to see her. Far, far too clearly. None of his business, he told himself, and chewed another handful of cashews even more furiously. He didn't do the white-knight thing, not for anyone, not anymore. How could it possibly be his problem, that a stranger decided to have a boo-hoo fest in his vision?

He grabbed the soda bottle, then chunked it back on the counter. It was colder than ice out there. She didn't even have a hat on, for Pete's sake.

As far as he could tell, she didn't have the sense God gave a goose.

He yanked on a jacket and stomped outside. The closer he got, the more the view deteriorated.

She wasn't a good crier. She was one of those throw-her-whole-self-into-it criers. Yesterday, he'd adjusted to the idea of having a flaky neighbor on the grounds that she was damn beautiful, and a guy was generally willing to tolerate a lot when the view was soothing.

But that deal was off. Her face was all blotchy. She was gasping for air. Eyes getting all swollen.

And that was before he was stuck seeing her up close.

“Hey,” he said. And then wanted to wince. Maybe he wasn't feeling particularly happy, but he hadn't meant to sound like a bear growling at her.

Her head jerked up as if someone had slapped her. “Oh. You. Good grief. I didn't realize anyone could see me. I'm fine—”

Yeah, right. She was “fine” like cats flew. He wanted to suggest that she go back inside to cry her eyes out—
after
closing the damn door. But it seemed even he couldn't be quite that coldhearted.

“You sick?” he asked bluntly.

She lifted her hands. Apparently the simple question turned on a new blubbery tears switch, because out they came. “She hates me!”

He could have asked her who in God's name she was talking about, but that was pretty silly, when the only conceivable subject of the problem had to be Charlie's daughter. “I take it you met her today.”

“Yes. And I expected it to be tough, but not like this. This is so way beyond a mess. She hated the pink tree—”

“No kidding?”

“Her problems are beyond anything I know how to cope with. I don't even know where to start. She doesn't
want
to start—not with me. She doesn't want to talk to me, doesn't want me around—”

He sank on the cement next to her, not because he wanted to continue this conversation, but because if he was trapped listening, it'd just been too long a day to stand indefinitely in the cold. “You don't think you could be jumping to conclusions? She doesn't even know you, Marta.”

“Merry, not Marta. And it's Merry as in
M-e-r-r-y,
not as in
M-a-r-y.
”

He dug in his pocket for Kleenex. Because he often jogged on cold mornings, he tended to carry a bunch. Apparently the last time he'd run out and ripped off some paper towels. Whatever. They enabled her to blow her nose. To give her credit, she didn't waste time apologizing for crying or make it out like it was a big to-do that he'd seen her.

When she quit blowing, she said, “You said you knew Charlie. So you had to know his daughter, right?”

“Well, sure. I mean, she was around all the time, but I can't say how well I knew her. Charlie and I were great buddies, good neighbors together. Shared a beer often enough, bitched about yard work, did some fence talk about raising kids, life, ex-wives. Neither of us pried. We just got along. I liked him.”

“I did, too. From the first time I met him, there was just this…click. Not a sexual click. Just a friendly one. He was straightforward and funny and bright. And caring—”

“You liked him so well you never saw him once in the last five years?”

“I take it that's how long he lived here.” The faucet had almost quit dripping, but now it gushed again. “No, I never saw him here. And I never imagined that he'd live in a place like this.”

“Okay.” He washed a hand over his face. “The whole neighborhood's been asking the same questions. You hadn't seen him in years. You never met his daughter. You didn't know anything about his current life, apparently. So how did you end up being Charlene's guardian?”

“Well, I'm not ‘the guardian' exactly. More a guardian trainee. And if I can't make this work a lot better than it did today, I'll be flunking the course for sure. Which would be fine, if it was just about
me.
But darn it, it's about what happens to Charlene. And the thing is—”

She seemed to do a lot of emotional talking with her hands, which meant she almost smacked him in the nose. He ducked. “The thing is…what?”

“The thing is that everyone was against my doing this. My dad. My sisters. My friends. They all kept telling me I was being crazy impulsive to just up and quit my job. Sublet my place. Put all my stuff in storage, except for what I could fit in the car, and just move—”

So there were intelligent people in her life, Jack thought, but it was the same old story about being able to lead a horse to water. “And you did all this for a stranger? A girl you didn't know from Adam?” She looked at him, with a fresh bout of diamonds in her eyes. “Hell, I'm not trying to upset you more. I'm trying to understand why you did this.”

“I did it because she had no one else!”

“That may be, Merry. But that should have been her father's problem. Not yours.”

“Maybe so. But Charlie kind of made it my problem by
not
handling it himself. After his divorce, he went to the trouble of making a will. That was when I knew him, when he was making that first will, trying to plan for Charlene in case something happened to him. I have no idea why he didn't change the will in all this time, but as far as I can tell, there simply was no one else he could leave her with.”

“But that doesn't make it your problem, Merry.”

“But it
does.
Because I can't imagine abandoning a child to foster care if there's any choice. And I
am
a choice. I'm free, no husband or kids, no ties, no job I couldn't shake loose from. I love people and I love kids. And to tell you the truth, I just assumed that I'd love her, but…” She made an emotional gesture. “I think she sees me as an alien from another planet.”

He squinted at her. “Trust me, you don't remotely look like a Klingon.”

“I'm not kidding! She thought I was talking a foreign language. I couldn't do anything right, or anything that made any sense to her.” Out poured more froth. “She didn't even know what a hair scrunchie was.”

“You're kidding.” He didn't have a clue what a hair scrunchie was either, but he finished the last of the mop-up with the edge of his glove. Might be a few tears still glistening from those thick, soft eyelashes, but she was definitely starting to dry up.

“I put some fresh flowers in her room. She took them back to the kitchen. I got her to open the other presents, but when she saw the rhinestone tee, she looked at me as if I'd sprouted a third head. Apparently she doesn't listen to music. At least not 'tweenie music. And I happened to get lost driving from the rest home this morning. She thinks I'm dumb. She thinks I'd get lost in a closet. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I do. Get lost in closets. I admit I'm not the most logical card in the deck, but that doesn't make me a cream puff, Jack. She looks like a
marine.
”

The way she said “Jack” triggered a buck in his pulse. A sexual buck.

He felt the first fringe of fear.

She was
not
a woman he wanted to feel that buck for…but he couldn't seem to help it. She was talking to him as if she knew him. As if they were friends. As if she inherently assumed he was someone she could be honest with. He couldn't think of way to respond except straight. “She's grieving.”

“Oh, God. I know that. But that's also the terrifying part. Because I want to help her, and I'm afraid if we don't get along, that I could make it worse.”

He'd waited as long as he could, but now he motioned to the back door. “You want me to close the door there?”

“No, no. I deliberately left it open. She fell asleep. But I'm afraid she could wake up, think no one was there, that she'd been abandoned. I want to be able to hear her.”

So at least this time there was a reason why they were heating the entire outdoors, even if he didn't buy it as a logical choice himself. He cut back to the chase, understanding that she needed direct information. “About the clothes she's wearing…first off, the uniform's army, not marine. But to put a general frame on that picture, when Charles first died, a teacher of hers came over to stay at the house until the funeral. Authorities had already figured out that she had no one, got the lawyer and court system involved. I don't know exactly how it all went down, but when the funeral was over, a social worker had become part of the story, and had decided that she could camp out for another week at the rest home where her great-grandmother is. The idea was to buy enough time for the lawyers to do their thing. Hell, I'm bogging this down with the side details, but I'm just trying to explain the timetable of how things happened—”

“And I want to know. In fact, I'd like to know anything you're willing to tell me. I've really been batting in the dark.” The tears had definitely stopped now.

“Well, getting back to the issue of the army uniform business. After the funeral, the social worker went in the house with her, waited while she packed some things. I was at the funeral, although honestly, I don't remember what she wore. I can't say I ever paid any attention to her clothes or things like that. I mean she's just a child, so whatever. But the thing is…when she came back outside, she was wearing her dad's clothes. Not straight army, but army reserves.”

Merry brightened up as if a lightbulb dawned in her head. “So,” she said thoughtfully, “She's wearing her dad's clothes. Not hers.”

“Yeah. At least, that's what it sounds like.”

“And the brush cut? Did she always wear her hair in a brush cut?”

“Um, no. Truthfully, I don't remember how she wore her hair. Kind of short, I guess. But not buzz-cut short.” He had to think. “But, Charlie—”

“He wore it military short? I never saw it that way.”

“Yeah, well, I don't think guys change their hairstyles the way women do. They kind of stay with what they start with. But a few years back—well, I guess he got fed up, was annoyed because his hair tended to curl or something, said it was just easier to shave it off.”

“So her hairstyle is mimicking his, too.” Merry's mind appeared to be racing now. Jack wasn't sure if that was a good idea—not when her mind was already on the capricious and unpredictable side. “And she wants to be called Charlie. Not Charlene. Like her dad was called Charlie. So…it's all starting to add up. Of course, that doesn't make her behavior any less serious. But at least it's better than worrying the child wants a sex-change operation at age eleven.”

He wanted to laugh. “Um, I don't think you'll find she was ever on the girly-girl side.”

“That has to be the understatement of the century.”

“She adored her dad. They did tons of stuff together. He really enjoyed time with her. And she just loved him from here to hell.” With alarm he saw her eyes well again, and chose a different topic at jet speed. “Hey, for the record, I don't know what a scrunchie is, either. Is that some kind of code? Vocab or intel for a specific kind of initiation or something like that?”

She laughed. It wasn't a big laugh, more on the tepid side, but it was obviously a mood changer for her. She was over the crying.

And something else changed at that moment. He didn't know what. But until that instant, he'd just been sitting there, on the cold cement porch step, the heat from the house reaching his back, the streetlights down the neighborhood the only real illumination except for moonlight.

Suddenly, he was conscious of sitting close to her. Not hip-bumping close—not intrusive close, exactly, but close. She suddenly turned, facing him eye to eye, and abrupt as a slap he realized something else.