Marilyn Tracy - Something Beautiful

“It might as well be Jack the Ripper, for all you’ve found out about him,” Elise said.

Jillian smiled, and looked at Steven even more closely, trying to see what triggered Elise’s doubts. He remained perfectly still, eyes closed, one hand holding the rake out to his left, the other open-palmed, stretched wide, conical fingers splayed. He appeared to be doing far more than simply drawing the warmth of the late-afternoon sun; he looked as though he were truly pulling it into him, collecting it for later use, storing it deep within him. What would it be like to touch him now, to feel that heat against him?

Jillian shivered.

Elise didn’t seem to notice and continued speaking. “No references, no background check. Get real, Jillian. You’re a rich woman. He could be anybody.”

He was anybody. And there was no way she could explain to Elise that she did know things about him, little things, bits and pieces of information that allowed her to form a tentative bridge of trust.

She’d taken over some linens for him that first night, and she’d seen the books he had neatly arranged in the small guesthouse bookcase. They were all hardbound, making her wonder what manner of man carted a trunkload of heavy books with him in his apparent vagabondlike lifestyle.

All the books appeared to be old and well read, and the authors ranged from Ovid to Malory to Anne Rice. Some of the texts were in what appeared to be Greek or Russian, while others were in German and Latin.

But she hadn’t told any of this to Elise, and didn’t now. The fact that the man could apparently speak several languages and yet sought a job as a handyman-gardener would hardly jibe for her friend.

“He’s a good worker,” Jillian said, trying not to sound defensive.

Aware of how long she’d been staring at him, and unwilling to give Elise even more food for thought, she dragged her eyes from the unusual man communing with the sun, turned finally and sat down at the table again. She deliberately sat with her back to the courtyard and the man.

Steven.

She smiled at Elise, and her friend smiled back, but said, “Admit it, honey, he’s as different as they come.”

Jillian couldn’t argue that, and didn’t even try. Steven Sayers epitomized “different.” His direct gaze gave nothing away, no hint of desperation for a job, no subservience, either. His broad shoulders remained squared and set and yet, oddly, presented no confrontational attitude, either. He projected a profoundly stark take-me-or-leave-me acceptance of the odd vagaries of life.

He responded to any of her questions—and, contrary to what Elise thought, she had asked a few—with simple one-or two-word answers. And he tackled the various projects around her house with a quiet and steady determination that was reflected in his progress, not his demeanor. But these “differences” were what made her welcome his presence.

“You slay me, Jillian,” Elise said now, shaking her head and, inadvertently, her coffee.

Jillian was truly and openly grateful for this friendship, thankful that at least one person around her remembered Dave, had known him before his death, and yet still included her, as well. All her other friends had slowly, almost deliberately, faded out of her life. Perhaps they had been as tormented as she by Dave’s death, as guilty as she, maybe, but instead of little things reminding them, she was the reminder, the constant harbinger of doom, the widow who underscored their vulnerability, who told them death waited like a hungry lion, just out of sight, eager to take, desperate to consume.

Those friends, those who had retreated from her, were the same ones who had urged her to move, start a new life, get out of Santa Fe, find an ocean somewhere, a deserted island, perhaps, and paint again, to go anywhere, do anything but be too near them. And when she hadn’t gone, they had deserted her instead, almost too easily and readily finding their own Santa Fe islands, safe harbors against the pain of knowing that all does not always end well.

This was true for everyone but Elise, who mothered her, hectored her and chided her for not checking Steven-the-handyman’s references, clucked at her over forgetting Allie’s therapy appointments, and loved her at least as much for her faults as despite them.

So she had let all but Elise disappear, but she hadn’t moved. She couldn’t have done so a year ago, and she still couldn’t. It would be like closing the door on her marriage, on her and Dave’s life together, their happiness, the richness of that joy. Even their grief therapist, still working once a month with both her and Allie, frequently suggested putting the rambling adobe up for rent and trying a different locale for a time, letting the traumas of the past heal before returning.

But Jillian knew those traumas would only be waiting for them when and if they came back. Besides, this creamy-walled, sprawling hacienda represented home, even if the great warm heart had gone out of it.

Elise glanced outside and back at Jillian before lowering her voice to ask, “What if this Steven guy is a murderer? What if he’s a child molester? I tell you, Allie acts oddly around him. Now, doesn’t that mean something?”

“These days Allie acts oddly around practically everyone,” Jillian said, but with no bitterness or shame.

What had happened to her daughter, to them, had changed their lives at the fundamental core; any altered behavior was only to be expected, tolerated, then slowly, slowly modified.

“Kids know things. You can always trust a child’s instincts when it comes to…well, bad people,” Elise said in an even more hushed tone, as if Steven were capable of hearing her through the double-paned French doors and three-foot-thick walls and despite the reality of his standing a good fifty feet away.

Jillian didn’t bother to answer. The truth was, kids didn’t know things; they learned them. In Allie’s case, it had been the hard way. And thanks to that year-ago horrible morning on the way to school, this particular eight-year-old didn’t have a clue about what was good or bad and her mother certainly couldn’t tell her anymore. When it came right down to it, Jillian suspected that no human being, unless psychic, had an instant recognition of either good or bad.

“Have you checked to see if he has a gun?” Elise whispered.

Jillian couldn’t help it, she chuckled aloud. It felt good. “By doing what, Elise? Sneaking into his house and searching his things?”

Elise looked thoughtful. “It’s your house. Guesthouse, anyway,” she said, but she shrugged, as though acknowledging Jillian’s question and her own amended answer. “Well, you could ask him, couldn’t you?”

“I can just picture that. ‘Excuse me, Steven, but do you have a weapon you plan on using on my daughter or me?”’

Even Elise had to choke back a laugh. That choked sound was one of the things Jillian most dearly liked about Elise.

“Well, anyway, you have to learn to be more careful.”

Jillian’s smile felt frozen now. Being careful had nothing to do with survival. She’d been cautious and careful all her life. Dave had been careful. Even on his last awful morning, his seat belt had been fastened, the insurance current, Allie strapped in, the door locked on the passenger side and Allie’s school lunch neatly folded into her hand-painted lunch pail. But none of Dave’s anxiety, concern or even occasionally scattered solicitude had stopped the random bullet from that drive-by shooting. And not a single element of the loving regard that Jillian had poured into their marriage had prevented that .38 caliber thief from stealing Dave, or his music, his passion, his fathering, his soul, and so very much more.

Something in her rigid smile, or perhaps something lurking in her eyes, let Elise catch a glimpse of her thoughts, for her friend said quickly, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I know there are things you can’t foresee.”