“I’m, what?”
“Is it your mother’s?” I asked. “The rosary?”
His face darkened. “Yeah, it was hers.”
“It’s missing the cross.”
His eyes leveled with mine, and I braced. “I ripped it off her hands in her coffin, and the cross got torn off.”
My breath caught.
That sharp-edged honesty, that unmistakable frankness was as an iron bell clanging loudly. An ugly, jarring sound, but it was truth, and it had to be told.
“The stones are lovely. Are they garnets?” I asked.
“Yeah, garnets.” His shoulders dropped. “She loved that deep red color. It was her favorite.” He tucked the pouch in the drawer and slammed it closed.
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Maria Angelica,” he said slowly.
The slight lilt in his pronunciation skipped through me.
“That’s beautiful.”
“It is. She was beautiful, too.”
For a moment, his face had a faraway look to it, his tired gaze drifting before returning to me. The need to wash the sorrow off him came over me.
But how?
His face remained grim. I’d pissed him off with my questions. I shouldn’t have been such a Curious George.
He shifted his weight. “I was on my way to see you. Sy and Bear are gonna be watching over you. I’d put you on lockdown, but that isn’t going to work too well with Tania being out of town again. No daycare or classes for Becca for a while. You don’t do any driving. The boys will. You need to take Rae somewhere or go to the supermarket, call Alicia. She’ll organize something with the old ladies.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Just do as I said.” His voice was firm, cold.
“I will.” My lungs contracted. “But—”
“You need to trust me.”
“YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY?” I stared at his full bowl of black bean chili I’d made for us. It was untouched, the melted grated cheddar cheese on top looking more like melted plastic.
“Huh?” Boner turned to me.
“Since when are you not hungry?” I put my empty bowl on the small table to my side of the log bench where we sat on the front porch of his house the following day. The red-orange sun sank on the horizon in the distance.
“I drank too much coffee today. Bothered me.” Boner rubbed a hand back and forth across his stomach, right over his scar.
We had managed to get another night to ourselves to spend at his house, and this time Becca had come with me. She was already asleep in her new crib upstairs. We’d managed to get her to sleep without a problem even though I’d thought that, since she was in a new environment, maybe she’d be anxious about it. She’d had an active enough day, exploring the house, enjoying the staircase a bit too much for my liking, and coloring nonstop.
“Becca loves that room.”
“That’s good ‘cause it’s hers.”
“I think she liked the stuffed baby elephant most of all,” I said. “Pony must be very jealous and lonely tonight on the floor by himself.”
He let out a sigh. “Yeah, poor Pony.”
Boner remained distracted this evening, even distant.
“Are you okay?” I asked, lightly touching his thigh.
He took my hand in his and squeezed. “Enjoying the quiet with you.”
His other hand smoothed down over the new T-shirt he wore, one of the tighter cut ones I had bought for him. A few dark springs of hair peeked over the V-necked opening on his chest. I wanted to slide onto his lap and kiss him there, but something in his mood was different, and a sudden sense of awkwardness stopped me from making such an impulsive move.
“How early do you have to leave for your run tomorrow?” I asked.
“Before six.” His thumb rubbed over my hand.
“How long will you be gone for this time?”
“Few days. Depends.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
His gaze settled on me like a heavy snowfall. “Plenty.”
Forthright, yet oblique! Gah.
“I don’t mean club business. I feel like something’s upset you. Was it me finding the rosary?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re keeping something from me.”
He took in a breath and released it. “I don’t keep shit from you.”
“Okay.” I swallowed the old insecurities down my throat like thick cough syrup. “Except for one thing.”
It’s now or never. “Who is she?” I asked.
“What? Who?”
“I’ll show you.”
I let go of his hand and headed inside to the bookcase, Boner following me. I grabbed the Neruda and held out the scraps of poetry to him.
His face visibly hardened.
“I found more,” I said. “All over the house. Tortured verses—beautiful tortured verses about a woman. A woman you’re still clinging to.” My voice barely above a whisper, I said, “She’s everywhere, Bone. You’ve surrounded yourself with her.”
“I haven’t written in a long time.” He brought his palms to his forehead and took in a breath. “Those are…fuck.”
“Tell me. Why can’t you tell me?”
His hands dropped from his face. “It’s Inès.”