Fire and Rain (25 page)

For the first time, Carmen could truly picture Jeff as a teenager. Serious, brilliant, far above his fellow students. Far above his teachers. Probably, he hadn’t fit in well.

“What was he like socially?” she asked.

“Socially? That’s something I didn’t pay much attention to. That wasn’t the part of him that intrigued me.”

“Well, I was wondering if he was perceived by the other students as a goody-two-shoes or a… a nerd because of his intelligence.”

“Neither,” Howell said. “He wasn’t a goody-two-shoes by any stretch of the imagination. He got into his share of trouble.”

“Like what?”j

“Hmm. Always had to push the limits. If you said to the class, ‘No talking or else,’ he’d have to talk just to find out what the ‘or else’ was. Or if you told him to add two grams of a particular compound to a beaker, he’d have to see what would happen if he added three.”

“You make him sound irresponsible and impulsive.”

“Oh, not really.” There was a smile in Howell’s voice. He had clearly felt some affection as well as respect for young Robert Blackwell. “He was just curious. Think where we’d be today if our inventors and scientists hadn’t been curious.”

“You said the other students didn’t see him as a nerd?”

“Not that I knew of. Seems as though he always had girls around him. I don’t know if there was anyone special, though. He did have a good friend who was another top chemistry student. Kent someone or other. I can’t recall his full name, but he was sharp too, and they were always trying to outdo each other. Talk about reckless! Kent lost a couple of fingers when he tried to plant a little homemade bomb in another kid’s locker.”

“Nice,” Carmen said. Lovely kids Jeff hung out with.

“They suspended him, but not for long. Guess they figured losing half his hand was punishment enough. He and Rob weren’t much alike outside of their interest in science, though. Kent was always a little strange, where Robbie was just a good-looking, normal kid who happened to excel in everything he did.”

Carmen wondered if it would be worth the bother to call the librarian back and beg her to look through the yearbook for a “Kent.” She doubted the request would be appreciated. “You mentioned his stepfather,” she prompted.

“Yes. At least I assume it was a stepfather. I don’t actually remember, but the man was black, and I’m sure Rob didn’t have a speck of black blood in him.”

“Rob was quite blond?”

“Yes, well, what they call dirty-blond, I guess. Anyway, there was some sort of scandal.”

“A scandal?” Carmen pulled her notepad closer to her on the desk and jotted down the word, even though she was taping the conversation.

“Right. I’m not sure I remember the details, but this stepfather of his was put in jail. Something to do with drugs. Seems to me there was a death involved because he was locked away for a long time, and Robbie got put in a foster family for his senior year. I even considered taking him in, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. The whole mess hurt him academically, I remember. He couldn’t pay for the college courses anymore, and his grades really dropped that year. I was worried about him, about seeing all that potential go down the drain.” He fell suddenly quiet, as if trying to decide if he should tell her more. “Once I called him in to talk about his situation,” he said, after a moment, “but he didn’t want to talk about it. He kept trying to steer me back to an experiment we’d done the day before in class. But I kept pushing. I regretted it later. Probably it wasn’t the right thing to do, because he started to cry. It embarrassed him, and I let him go. Tore me apart, though. He was a kid in a lot of pain, and there didn’t seem to be a way to help him.”

Carmen felt an unwelcome surge of compassion for Jeff. She leaned back in her chair. She was going to have to think long and hard about how to present this information in her report. She liked the reckless, bad-boy stuff, but the underlying theme of struggle and misfortune that seemed so much a part of Jeff’s life could only gain him sympathy. That was the problem of gathering facts, of building a story. You couldn’t make it go the way you wanted it to. She could twist things a little, yes, but no matter how she colored the information for her audience, she would know the adversity that lay behind Jeff Cabrio’s grand bravado, she would know the losses he’d endured, the hardships he’d overcome.

“Well,” said Frank Howell, obviously summing up, “it was a joy to teach a student like Robbie. If he says he can make it rain, I’d buy an umbrella.”

SHE WAS GETTING INTO
her car in the station parking lot that evening when she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Terrell Gates standing next to her own car—a silver Mercedes—blowing puffs of ash from the convertible roof..

“I understand congratulations are in order.” Terrell dusted her hands together as she walked toward Carmen. “You’re going to get a little more air time.”

Carmen opened her car door. “Yes,” she said.

“That’s terrific.” Terrell smiled brightly, but the condescension in her voice was impossible to miss. It was as if she were talking to a kindergartner about her first finger painting. “I know they’ve been getting a lot of mail on you,” she continued. “Apparently you’re quite the rage with the older viewers. Lucky there are so many retirees out here.”

Carmen closed the car door again and put her hands on her hips. “Do you have to practice being a bitch, Terrell, or does it come naturally to you?”

Terrell didn’t lose her smile, not for an instant. “Listen, Carmen.” She brushed a strand of gold hair from her eyes. “Things change very quickly in this business, and you’ve been away quite a while. Even some of the technology’s changed, and I’m sure it can be overwhelming when you’ve been out of the action for so long. Probably makes you feel a little insecure. You let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”

Carmen stared at her young nemesis. Terrell knew exactly what she was doing. Carmen recognized the manipulation, the innuendoes, the subtle taunting that preceded moving in for the kill. She had once been a master of the very same techniques.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Let’s tell it like it is, Terrell.” There was a wonderful strength in her voice. “You and I both know that I was a name in this business when you were still in diapers, and we both know you wouldn’t be sitting in that
San Diego Sunrise
chair if it weren’t for me. So don’t you dare patronize me, and don’t you dare kid yourself into thinking you have anything to teach me.”

Terrell seemed at a sudden loss for words. There was a quiver in her lower lip, the suggestion of a crease between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Carmen had said all she planned to. She got into her car and drove out of the lot, but by the time she reached the service road leading to the freeway, she had to pull over. Rolling down her window, she leaned back against the head rest and closed her eyes.

Any pleasure she’d taken in lashing out at Terrell Gates had quickly disappeared. She’d been given a glimpse into the woman behind the tough veneer. She’d seen the panic in the younger woman’s eyes, and she knew that panic well.

It can happen to you too, Terrell. You’re young and on top now, but just wait a few years.

Could she ever handle
Sunrise
again? Could she ever again go the extra, sometimes vicious, mile necessary to make that show come alive in the way that she used to, in the way that Terrell did now?

Keep the screws good and tight on Cabrio
.

She would have to. Whatever it took, she would have to do it. Put on that tough-gal mask. Go after the grittiest news, blind to how much it might cost someone, how much it might cost herself. Right now, she had no other choice.

FROM WHERE SHE STOOD
in the art supply store with Jeff, Mia could feel the pull of the Lesser Gallery. They’d driven to San Diego to get some materials for the fountain and while she’d been piling clay into her cart, her gaze had drifted to the front window of the store. In the distance, she could just make out the corner of the pink stucco building that housed the gallery. The local artisans’ show in which her own work was to be displayed had opened there the day before.

She was loading her supplies onto the checkout counter when she realized she hadn’t picked up the steel rods she would need for the armature. “I can’t believe I forgot them, of all things,” she said to Jeff as they made their way to the back of the store again.

“You’re distracted,” Jeff said. “You’ve been distracted since we walked in here.”

“I should have made a list of what I needed.” She pulled the rods from a bin. “I usually make a list.”

Once back at the checkout counter, she insisted on paying for the materials. Jeff protested, but she ignored him as she wrote out the check.

“Wrong amount.” Jeff peered over her shoulder.

He was right. The supplies came to $87.78; she’d written the check for $78.78. She tore it up and started over again.

She was quiet as they left the store, but once in his car, Jeff turned to face her. “Okay, Mia,” he said. “Where exactly is your head today?”

She tapped her fingers mindlessly on the window sill, debating with herself over whether or not to tell him. “Well,” she said finally, “we’re about two blocks from the Lesser Gallery. There’s a showing of local sculptors’ work there, including some of my own.”

He followed her gaze in the direction of the pink stucco building. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “Let’s go.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I want to go. You can stay in the car, if you like.” He turned the key in the ignition and pointed toward the gallery. “That way?”

She squirmed lower in her seat. “Yes.”

A blue Volvo was pulling out of a spot in front of the gallery and Jeff slipped in after it. Mia looked at the broad arched front door of the building. A few people were milling around on the steps, some walking into the gallery, some out. She felt torn. She longed to see her work again, to see how they had displayed it, but she had cut herself off from this life. She didn’t belong here.

Jeff unfastened his seat belt. “Okay, let’s have it,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”’

She looked at him squarely. “I don’t want to see anyone I know. And some of Glen’s work will be in the show. He might be here. I don’t want to see him. I
can’t
see him.”

“Ah, the old boyfriend, right?”

She nodded.

Jeff reached behind his seat and extracted a brown Padre cap from the floor. He set it on her head, pulling the brim low. “This is a great disguise,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve used it myself.”

Mia turned the rear-view mirror so that she could study her reflection. Undoubtedly, she would be the only person in the gallery wearing a baseball cap, but as a disguise, it might work. She tucked the ends of her hair up inside the cap and returned the mirror to its original position.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

She was pleased by the size of the crowd inside the gallery, pleased by the anonymity it offered. Jeff picked up a brochure at the door, and Mia did a double take as she noticed the cover. It was the sculpture of her mother.

“That’s mine,” she said, casually touching the brochure.

Jeff looked down at the photograph. The bronze sculpture was of a woman holding a basket of yarn between her knees. “Sure,” he said.

“Honestly. It is. Look.” She pointed toward the central hall in front of them, where the sculpture had been given prominent stature, and felt the burn of pride in her cheeks, the sharp sting of tears. It was overwhelming, seeing something she had created displayed so beautifully. If it had been another one of her pieces, something less personal than her mother, she might have been able to convince herself it wasn’t hers at all.

They joined the group of people circling the sculpture and the marble pedestal on which it rested. The statue was twenty-three inches high. Liz Tanner sat on a stool, a scarf wrapped around her head, her face drawn, but smiling and beautiful and alive. She wore a loose-fitting blouse and a long skirt pulled up above her knees. A basket filled with balls of yarn was cradled in her hands. A few strands of yarn fell over the edge of the basket; one curled gently over her bare calf and foot. She wore large hoop earrings. She looked like a gypsy.

Jeff bent close to the pedestal to study the small brass plaque. “Liz and yarn,” he read out loud. “Terra cotta cast in bronze. Mia Tanner.” He turned to face her, eyes wide, and she shrugged and smiled, blinking hard against the tears.

“Just a little something I threw together,” she said.

“Mia.” He touched his fingertip lightly to her mother’s cheek. “How did you do this? How did you get this expression? Why is she wearing the turban?”

Mia walked around the sculpture. Above her, the ceiling was high and filled with windows and the light poured over Liz Tanner like honey.

“She had cancer,” Mia answered. “She posed for this while she was recovering. Although she never actually did.”

“She died?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. She looks very young.”

“She was only forty-eight.”

“What kind of cancer?” Jeff didn’t take his eyes from the sculpture.

“Breast.” She stopped circling the sculpture to stand next to him. “Then she had a stroke. Her body didn’t handle the chemotherapy well. The cancer eventually spread to her lungs.”

Jeff squeezed her arm in a gesture of comfort, but let go immediately. “Sorry,” he said, his head close to hers. “I know you don’t like to be touched.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, surprised.

“The other night at your cottage, I hugged you and you went cold. You froze up.”

Mia stared at the basket of yarn in her mother’s lap. She had never thought of herself as cold. Jeff had no idea how much she longed to be touched.

He ignored her silence. “Was your mother artistic, too?”

“No. She knitted, but that was about it. She was more like my sister than she was like me. More the cheerleader type. I was odd-man-out in my family.”

“You were the lucky one. Your talent will last a lot longer than leading cheers.”