Hidden Hearts (20 page)

“Hey,” a voice said, “you need to wake up.”

She blinked. Penn’s face was bathed in the moonlight, and they were alone.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“About eleven thirty.”

“I need to go,” she said, sitting up and sending a shooting pain through her leg. “Shit.”

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere. You’re half drunk and you couldn’t operate a gas pedal with a stick. I could be disbarred if I let you leave in such a state.” She looked around and threw up her hands. “I guess you’re staying with me.”

“With you?”

A look of interest crossed Penn’s face, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Penn said. She complied and Penn hefted her out of the chair with ease. “You’re as light as a feather. It’s those skinny legs of yours.”

“What’s wrong with my legs?” 

“Nothing.
In fact, Siobhan said you looked adorable, all curled up in the chair.”

She was suddenly wide awake. “Siobhan saw me?
While I was asleep?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What else did she say?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Well, some typical bawdy Irish humor you probably wouldn’t approve of seeing as you are from the Midwest.”

“Why does everyone say that? We midwesterners have a great sense of humor.”

“Uh-huh.”

She pushed open the door with her foot, and CC was greeted by the faint odor of cinnamon. A long ceramic tile hung over the arch leading into the kitchen area. It said simply,
I choose
, just like the mosaics on the table.

“What do you choose?” she mumbled.

“Many things.”

She set her down, and CC hobbled to the couch.

“Would you like some tea?” Penn offered.

She nodded, and Penn busied herself with the kettle and cups, perfectly at ease puttering around the little kitchen.

“What do you choose?” she asked again.

Penn glanced up from the teakettle.
“Everything.
I make my own life.”

“Such as?”

She shrugged. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do or be anywhere I don’t want to be.”

“And how can you afford that kind of lifestyle?” she asked cynically. “Lots of people, including me, would love to have that attitude.”

“Then have it,” Penn said, staring at her intently.

She laughed and caught Penn blushing. “It’s not that simple. I have responsibilities.”

“Everyone does,” she said as the kettle whistled.

“Then how do you do it?”

She brought her a teacup and sat next to her. “You sound like you’re mocking me.”

“On the contrary,” CC scoffed. “I want to know. How did you come to adopt this philosophy? Does it have anything to do with an ex?” When Penn nearly spewed her tea across the floor, CC said, “Bingo.”

“Good guess, counselor. I thought she was innocent. And I’m usually pretty good at reading people. I screwed up twice,” she concluded. “I helped a felon go free, and I lost everything in my life.”

“Is that why you don’t practice law in a firm?”

“That’s part of it. After I got fired the second time, I gave up on the system.”

“You were fired
twice
?”

“I was. And then I quit the last gig. The first time I refused to try a case when I realized our client had lied to us for over a year and he really
had
killed his little daughter. The senior partner was furious with me and threw me out on the sidewalk, literally.”

“But you got another job, right?”

“Yeah, I was still worried about my loans and my career, so I called in a favor with a friend and got a job working in the DA’s office in Sacramento. I thought it would be better for me being on the side of right.”

“Then what happened?”

“I learned that right isn’t always right. So many cases got pleaded out. I couldn’t stomach it. I won’t be a part of the law if I can’t be right.”

“But that’s not what it’s about,” she pointed out. “It’s about a system of checks and balances and hopefully justice prevails.”

“Which law textbook are you quoting, Miss Carlson?” She shifted on the couch to face her. “The system doesn’t matter to me, only justice. That’s just how I am. If I can’t be right, I won’t participate.” She pointed at the ceramic tile. “I choose.” She paused and asked, “What do you choose, CC?”

They gazed at each other over the tops of the teacups, hiding their expressions behind the Earl Grey. She didn’t know what to do. She was used to women making a move on
her
. That was certainly what Alicia had done. CC knew she was pretty and if she waited long enough, others took the risk before she had to.

But Penn just sat there. And then the tea was gone.

“It’s time to get you to bed,” she announced, taking her cup.

Penn carried her to the large king-sized mattress, and she craned her neck to examine the bedroom. It was filled with modern furniture and painted in earth tones, except for the opposite wall which was a rich rust color. Penn removed her shoes and used another pillow to elevate her ankle.

 “I like your bedroom.”

“Thanks,” Penn said as she tucked her in.

Suddenly she felt amorous, the trolley dream triggering her senses. She was in a great bedroom, lying on a comfortable bed and staring into the eyes of a very attractive woman. She wrapped her arms around Penn’s neck. Maybe it was the wine or the Vicodin, but she was willing to take the risk.

“I’m glad you invited me over even if you are trying to get me disbarred.”

“I don’t want you to be disbarred. I invited you over because… well, you seemed lonely.”

For a moment Penn’s eyes were a kaleidoscope revealing her complexity and goodness. CC pulled her into a kiss. It was like stepping toward a campfire, the heat instantly enveloping her. But just as she relaxed to enjoy Penn’s yielding lips, Penn pulled away and untangled CC’s arms from her neck. The campfire disappeared, and she suddenly felt vulnerable and foolish.

“That’s probably not the best idea tonight,” Penn said kindly. “You’re hurt and on drugs. And I don’t do hookups.”

The judgment in her voice was unmistakable. Penn turned away without another word.

October, 1954

“Vivian Battle, you
will
wear a dress for your class picture tomorrow and that’s final.”

“I will not!”

“Yes, you will, or you won’t have your sketchbook for a month.”

She held up the dress in one hand and the sketchbook in the other. Art and my friendship with Kiah were all I had. I violently grabbed the dress but unfortunately it didn’t tear in half. She watched as I changed into it then she pushed me into a chair and brushed my hair.

“This rat’s nest is the worst I’ve ever seen it. Why can’t you keep yours nice like Kiah? I thought you idolized her to no end.”

“Not her hair,” I snorted, and that got me a whack on the head with the brush.

“Don’t sass me when I’m holding a weapon,” she hissed. “You make it too easy.”

She pulled and yanked until she was satisfied. I went to the mirror and scowled.

“Get that expression off your face or you’ll never have any friends.” She fluffed my hair and smoothed the skirt and said, “Appearance is important in a friendship and so is compromise. Look at me and the sewing circle. We don’t always see eye-to-eye, but they’re my friends.”

“They’re not your friends,” I said.

She smacked me across the face, and we both froze in horror. She’d never hit me. I ran upstairs and collapsed on my window seat waiting for Kiah to come home from church. I longed to talk to Will, but he spent his time hanging out with a bunch of no-goods. He’d greased his hair back into a ducktail, and he reminded me of Billy Smith. And then one day I’d actually seen them together after school behind the mini-market. Both of them were smoking and taunting a black boy with the hot tip of their cigarettes. I couldn’t believe it. Mama would’ve killed him if she knew, but they never talked either.

****

In the eight months that had passed, all of the trees had been destroyed except for the ones that would sit in the homeowners’ yards, and little cement foundations laid in neat rows went on for a mile. I missed the orange trees terribly, but Kiah was living outside my front door so it seemed like a good trade.

But at school I couldn’t find anyone to like me. So I spent my lunch hours hanging around the art room. Miss Noyce, the art teacher, thought I was incredibly talented. She let me make my own projects and even gave me some art supplies to take home, but only if I kept my grades up.

Tall with long brown hair that she wore in a bun, she was pretty, I thought. She stood perfectly straight, like she was pressed against a board, and when she talked about a piece of art or famous artists it was as if she knew them personally and had invited them over for dinner. She was the one who introduced me to Monet and Renoir and told me I could be as good as they were. I didn’t believe her, but I appreciated her belief in my talent, which she praised every time I opened my sketchbook.

Kiah came up the drive with Mac and when she looked toward my window I motioned to her. She waited until he had gone inside before she climbed up the trellis. Even though she came into our house through the back door all the time, she still liked climbing.

I burst into tears when she hugged me and it took a few minutes to finally explain what had happened with Mama.

She rubbed my back and whispered, “You gotta understand what else you were saying to her.”

I looked up through my tears. Half of the time she had to re-explain whatever she said because I was always three steps behind her.

“I didn’t say anything else.”

She shook her head. “We always do. Every time we speak there are the words that come out and the ones that don’t. And you
didn’t
say a bunch.”

I looked at her dumbly.

“Think about it, Vivi. Daddy and I’ve been living over here in the cabin for two months and other than those nasty sewing ladies, I haven’t seen one other car come up that driveway except Mr. Rubenstein’s Cadillac and your daddy’s truck once in a blue moon. Does your mama have any other friends I don’t know about?” When I didn’t answer she said, “Those ladies are all she has, and for you to say that they should quit coming around is like saying you think she should be alone.”

I realized then Mama couldn’t be alone.

****

I left for school on Monday wearing the horrible dress with the French braid Mama had insisted upon. By the time I got to my first period American history class, my forehead no longer felt like it was being stretched a mile away from my nose. I slid into my chair and nodded at Gloria Meyer, the only other girl who was as quiet as I was. With her dark hair and long nose, I knew she was Jewish, and I guessed that was why so many of the other kids didn’t talk to her.

Mr. Corliss clapped his hands once and everyone immediately turned around and shut up. “We left off with the Pilgrims coming to America. What did we learn yesterday?”

“We learned that they came here to escape religious execution,” one student said.

“
Persecution
,” he corrected. “What else?”

“They taught the Indians all kinds of things, like hunting and fishing and sharing.”

“They had a big feast with the Indians and that’s why we have Thanksgiving because the Indians were so grateful.”

I squirmed in my seat. The answers didn’t make sense, but I wasn’t going to say anything.

“Miss Battle, you seem to want to add to the discussion. What did
you
learn yesterday?”

I shrugged. Maybe he’d pick someone else. I hung my head and tried to be invisible.

He sighed heavily. “Miss Battle, I’m waiting. You are one of the most infrequent contributors to this class, and, for once, I’d like to know what you think. Or
do
you think, Miss Battle, about anything except the silly drawings that you make when you’re supposed to be taking notes?”