The Language of Sisters (14 page)

Nick picked me up, hugged me, and spun me around. “Congratulations, baby. That's great.”

I kissed him, he kissed me back, and we had a celebratory romp in his bedroom.

The next day there was a huge vase of flowers—irises, daffodils, roses—by my front door, a box of chocolates, and a stack of three new books I'd told him I was going to read next. One was a book we had planned to read together.

That man.

He knows me. And that is so romantic.

* * *

About two months after I moved into my tugboat, Nick and I met in the parking lot one night, about one o'clock in the morning. I'd had a long evening. There was an attack in northeast Portland and I'd covered it. Nick was getting out of his truck. He had a bruise under his eye.

“Hi, Toni. Late night.”

“For you, too.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a nice evening?”

“I wouldn't call it nice,” he drawled, and flashed me that grin that was
invitational
and yet ... kind. “And you?”

“I wouldn't call it nice, either.” I told him about the call.

“Hard job you have.”

“I'm not the one who comes home with bruises and cuts.” It made me feel sad, and worried, that he had been hit. Then it made me sad and worried that I was sad and worried. More chaos in my emotional department.

“True. I hope you never do. I would find that upsetting if you did.”

“You would?” That was interesting.

“Yes.”

“What happened to your cheek?”

“Had a slight altercation with a drug dealer who didn't want to go to prison.”

“Darn them. They won't agree to consequences, will they? How rude.”

“Yes, rude.”

Under the moon we smiled at each other. He was tall like a tree. A tight and muscled redwood.

“Come on, I'll walk you home.”

I smiled. I liked his humor. “I'll take you up on your offer.”

He took my elbow when we headed down the stairs to the dock, as it had rained earlier and he didn't want me to slip. Marty always did protective things like that, too.

We chatted. He was circumspect about his work, but he did tell me they were running surveillance on a drug ring here in town.

We stopped in front of my tugboat. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Anytime. Next time you're coming in late, call me and I'll walk you in.”

“That's chivalrous. Will you gallop in on a white horse?”

“I think the white horse would bust through the dock, but I'll be there. I'll be the white horse.”

“Thanks.” Maybe I would ride that white horse.
What?
Why did I think that?

“Take my number down. And please call me, especially if you're coming in late at night. The parking lot is deserted. Not safe.”

“Okay.” He told me his number and I put it into my phone. Nick was so masculine. I've always liked men who are men. I liked his light blue eyes, the way he focused on me. And those cheekbones, slanted, sort of harsh, I wanted to ... no, I didn't want to
kiss
them. I couldn't. But that mouth ... I wanted to ... no,
I couldn't.
It was easy, in a way, to miss his mouth, because the rest of his face was so compelling, but that lower lip, I wanted to ... no!

As I was embarrassing myself, grinning like a lusty fool, Nick leaned in and kissed me. First on the cheek, his hand light on my waist. I didn't move, but I took a deep breath. His mouth was warm. He smelled delicious. I felt protected.

It was on instinct. Utter instinct and utter desire boinging about. I turned my head, put my hand on his shoulder, and that man needed no other encouragement. His lips came down on mine, both arms went around me, and he pulled me close into that wide and hard chest. It was like being cuddled and set on fire at the same darn time.

I could hardly breathe. Seduction had whirled and twirled and landed.

I pulled away only when the vague, distant part of my brain knew that I was going to rip off my clothes in front of my tugboat's door in about thirty seconds.

I couldn't even meet his eyes, so I looked down, his arms still around me, my hands and my forehead on his chest. I could feel his heart thunking, mine racing at full speed.

“That was the best kiss of my entire life,” Nick said.

I started to laugh. I couldn't help it.

“And that's the absolute best thing you could have said to me, Nick.”

“It's true.”

With all my willpower, as I wanted to do a naked straddle with him, I turned and opened the door.

“Now will you go out with me?” I heard the laughter in his voice.

“Maybe.” I turned and smiled at him.

“Please?”

“I'll think about it.”

“How about Friday?”

“I'll call you. I have your number.”

I shut the door, then leaned against it. Whew. He was going to be impossible to handle.

Maybe you shouldn't try to handle him then,
a voice inside my head said.
Just let go.

After that kiss, though I fought it, I started to really like Nick Sanchez.

Rancher. Cowboy. DEA man. Neighbor.

And he liked books.

I was done for, and I knew it.

* * *

The next day I gently told William Lopez, the man who hired me years ago, that I was going to work at
Homes and Gardens of Oregon
.

“The
hell
you are,” he said, jabbing a finger at me.

“I can't do it anymore, William.”

“The
hell
you can't.” He leaned back in his chair. We had a staring war. He sighed. “Will you come back when you get bored writing about kitchen faucets and fancy ovens and”—he waved a hand in the air—“other mundane and useless homemaker trivia?”

“I will.”

He sighed again. “You're my favorite reporter, Kozlovsky.”

“I can still be your favorite reporter.”

“No. Now you're on my bad side.”

I smiled. “I've loved working for you.”

“You're making me emotional, Kozlovsky. Get out. Right now.”

I gave him a hug. I pretended not to hear him sniffle.

* * *

“When are you coming home?” I asked him, holding the phone in my hand. I was up in the wheelhouse, on the bench, the pillows from all over the world crowded around me, soft and silky.

“I'll be back for the wedding.”

“And then?”

“Travel. Wandering. Walking.”

“Will you ever stop?” It was dark out, the stars hidden, the clouds churning.

“When I can get her, and the blood, and the blood in her hair, out of my head. When I know what happened and when I know if my memories are real or if I'm losing my mind. When I know where I'm from. When I'm at peace. When I'm done.”

“Are you anywhere near peace?”

“No. It's further away than ever. I'm seeing the white dog again.”

Shoot. White Dog flashback was back again. I leaned my head back on my deck chair, feeling unbearably sad for him. White Dog flashback was upsetting.

“I heard that scream. I saw the dog crash into a wall. He's dead. I think it might be me screaming, but I don't know, I don't know who did it, I think it was him. That shadow, that man. Maybe my father ... I don't know.” He stopped. I knew he was fighting for control. “I don't know if it's real or if it's my imagination.”

“I think it's real, I do.”

“What are they hiding from me? I know there's something.”

“I don't know.”

We talked for another half hour. He wanted to know how I
really
was. “Tell me the truth,” he said, so I told him.

“I can't wait to see you.”

“You, too. Night, Toni. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” When I hung up I felt the guilt again, brick hard, lying on my chest, stomping on me like a thousand Communist boots.

The lie started when I was ten. Right before we left Moscow. I lied to him by omission. By not telling him what I knew.

My parents told him they adopted him from an orphanage in Moscow the night before we left.

It's a lie.

I know it because of the blood.

* * *

I popped in on Valerie's murder trial. I sat with Ellie, two rows behind Valerie, stern and authoritative in her blue suit and white blouse. She did have on some women-power high blue heels. Shamira Connell, my colleague from the
Oregon Standard,
was writing about the trial. She was one of my favorites. Shamira wasn't that friendly. She wasn't that social. She took herself, and her work, seriously, and she was an awesome reporter.

We studied the Barton family gang. Valerie was right. They hated her. Their attention on her so intense, the way they wouldn't stop glaring at her, how they shifted when she spoke, was positively frightening.

I felt that chill again, like a warning.

“They want to kill her,” Ellie said.

“They do. They would if they could get away with it.”

She nodded. “Listen for her carefully.”

Yes. I would listen for the Sabonis family gift, completely scientifically inexplicable, but there. I would listen for Valerie in my head.

I actually shivered, the snake back, cruising up and down my spine, the gun-toting, weasel-trapping, tobacco-spitting Barton family reverberating with hate and violence.

Ellie squeezed my hand. “I have a feeling we're going to hear from her.”

“Me too.”

“Good God,” Ellie murmured.

* * *

Ellie and I went to Valerie's house for dinner, at her invitation. “I need my sisters,” she told us. I could see why after the Barton family freak show.

Valerie's house is like a rainbow. Color everywhere. Stuff everywhere.

We walked in, pulled out the wine and flowers we brought, and Kai and the kids arrived with pizza.

“We ordered your favorites, Aunt Toni and Aunt Ellie,” Ailani said, her braids flying as she ran in.

“Pep e zonni,” Koa said, jumping up and down. He was wearing a monster hat with red horns. It's fun to be three years old. “And we got big salamis.”

“You got us some big salamis?” I asked.

“Yes!” Koa jumped again. “I got a big salami! Daddy got a big salami. See?” He pointed at the salami on the pizza. “We got big salamis.”

Kai grinned. He was wearing a red flowered Hawaiian shirt. I was always struck by the difference to his captain's uniform. “Why does this kid tell all my secrets?” He pulled Valerie straight into his arms and kissed her. “Want to see my big salami, sweetheart?”

Koa clapped his hands. “You eat the big salami, Momma, eat it!”

Too, too funny.

“Yum,” my sister said. “This big salami is delicious.” Kai laughed and kissed her again.

We poured wine and milk and we all clinked our glasses together. “To Family,” we cheered. “To the Kozlovskys.” Bottoms up.

During dinner Ailani whined to Ellie and me, “Mom said I can't come to watch her trial.”

“That's something you can skip,” I said. “It's boring. Plus, you have school.” What I was really thinking was,
Heck, no. You are not going anywhere near the Barton family. They do not need to know Valerie has a kid.

Ailani sighed and flipped back her black braids, so dramatic. Then she fiddled with her widow's peak, like her mother does. “But school is boring. Math. Reading. Writing. I want to learn about forensics.”

Forensics? From any other ten-year-old kid, that would be an impressive word, but I wasn't surprised with Ailani.

“I am also working on an important project,” she said.

“What is your project?” Ellie asked.

Ailani opened a blue folder. “I'm taking the fingerprints of every kid in the fifth grade. See? The fingerprints are right there, and Mom gave me a camera. Old camera. You snap the picture and out comes the photo. After I do their fingerprints, I put their picture above it.” She scowled. “Some of these kids, like Caleb, see, he didn't take the picture part seriously. That's why he's making a funny face.” She turned the page and her face scowled further. “And see this girl, Annalise? I don't like her. She had to brush her hair and put on lipstick before I took her picture. People should take crimes seriously. It's not a beauty competition.”

“But your friends haven't committed a crime, have they?” Ellie asked.

“No,
not yet,
” she stressed, contemplating that boring fact. “But they
could
in the future, and that's why I need them to be serious when I take their picture for the mug shot.”

“This kid looks serious.” I tapped a boy's picture.

“That's Alex!” She stomped her foot. So irritating! “He's always smiling and laughing, and when he made a frowny face for his picture everyone thought it was funny. It's not funny. Crime isn't funny.”

“I think you're going to make an excellent detective or attorney or forensic scientist, Ailani,” Ellie said.

“Me too,” she said. “And I take crime seriously!” She made a
humph
sound. “I need to take your fingerprints, Aunt Toni. You too, Aunt Ellie. Anyone can be pushed to commit a crime at any time. You never know. Squish your fingers into the ink... .”

We let her take our fingerprints and our photos. Ellie and I did our best to take our crime seriously. Later that night, when everyone else was in bed, Valerie, Ellie, and I sat on the back deck, on the stairs, together. We held hands.