Ford touched her shoulder and she pivoted slowly, not looking at him now. "You went to work for the company."
"Yes. I started to get my life straightened out a little. But I still had the drug problem. So Ben helped me out by supplying, but then he wanted me to help him, too. It didn't seem like I had much choice, that's how bad my problem was. So I began to do favors for him. Then he wanted me to do favors for his important clients when they came to the city. He didn't know it but he was giving me all the motivation I needed for getting off the drugs for good. By then he had the videos. I didn't even know he'd taken them."
"Nice guy, Ben."
"He's leaving the country Tuesday and I'll never have to do another thing for that man. He got busted last week and I'm helping him get out. I'll get the cassettes back in exchange."
"And Rafe is one of Ben's suppliers. "
"I don't ask. He must have something on Ben, I don't know. I just do what they want, like taking medicine." She pressed her hands to his chest, not holding him away, but as if to make sure he stood and listened. "After Tuesday, it'll all be over, Doc. That whole damn segment of my life. Like it never happened. In a way, it didn't happen. Not to this me. The Jessica McClure you knew here in this house—that's who I am. It's who I would have been. Do you know how seriously the art critics would treat a coke whore? People don't just buy the painting. They buy the artist. I told you that once before."
Ford stood watching her, saying nothing as she let her hands slide to her sides.
She said, "Bad things happen to people, Ford. Bad random things that scar and humiliate. If you make one wrong choice make one mistake, you can go from running your life to wanting to run from it. Like your friend Rafe Hollins. That painting you're holding was done by a person who never knew Ben Rouchard. It was done by a person who hadn't been scarred and was too strong to run. Take a close look at the face, Ford. It looks like you, but it's the way I should have been."
Ford said, "I like the woman I see in front of me just fine. I always have."
She slid her arm under his, wanting him to hug her. "I don't want to lose you, Ford, just because you stumbled onto a part of my life that is already over."
Ford almost said, "Jessica, you never had me." Instead, he kissed her on top of the head and rode away.
TWENTY-FOUR
On June 22, one day after the summer solstice, Ford was standing at the stove cooking when he heard a skiff outside, puttering toward his dock. He was expecting company and he stopped cutting onions long enough to glance out the window. It was Tomlinson—not the person he was expecting. He opened the little refrigerator and used his fingers to squeegee ice off two bottles of beer, then opened them both.
"Clare de Lune" was coming out of the Boise speakers, just getting to the nice harp part, the part where the music slowed and sparkled.
Tomlinson came up the steps, opened the door without knocking, and plopped down into a chair. He was carrying a newspaper. "Pilar Santana Fuentes Balserio isn't dead," he said.
Ford had gone back to the stove and, without looking up, he said, "There's a beer on the desk for you."
"She presided at the Ceremony of Seven Moons yesterday. They invited the world press, like a coronation. They're calling it the bloodless revolution. Even the Miami Herald ran two . . . no, three pictures. I wonder why they didn't invite you—I mean, you sent Rivera the damn book back just like he asked."
Ford turned and said, "I've got a lady due to arrive in about fifteen minutes. I don't want to be rude, but she's not coming here to hear about current events. Then we're going up to Cabbage Key and dance. Rob Wells is having us to dinner."
"You're taking the news a little hard, aren't you?" Tomlinson was holding his bottle of beer, studying Ford's face.
"I'm cutting onions, you idiot."
"Oh yeah ... It says here that Masaguans have accepted Pilar as the incarnation of Ixku, the Mayan goddess. Far out, huh? Ixku was the mother of Quetzalcoatl, the blond sun god. Pure spiritualism, man, I love it! 'She had disavowed her former life—'" Tomlinson was reading now. "'—and dedicated herself to promoting the political and social well-being of her people. An estimated two hundred thousand Maya made the pilgrimage to bow before the woman who led them in a ceremony that had not been performed since the arrival of the Spaniards in the sixteenth century.'" Tomlinson rattled the paper. "Goddamn, that woman's smart. In those Central American countries, they assassinate dictators like most people eat popcorn. But they won't lay a finger on a religious leader, no way. She'll govern that country until she dies at a ripe old age. She's a genius, I'm telling you."
Ford said, "You don't have to tell me."
Tomlinson was reading again. '"As a Mayan priestess, she must forsake all earthly pleasures and bonds. Even to speak her former name is considered heresy.' I guess that means she can t get married. Yeah, I'm sure that's what that means. See, Doc? It wasn't that she didn't want to see you again. That ought to cheer you up."
"Have I needed cheering up?"
"Naw, I guess not. You've been pretty cheery."
They'd both been pretty cheery. After selling off the emeralds, they each had enough money in the bank to do the work they wanted to do for a long, long time. So would Jake Hollins when he turned eighteen and the trust funds started paying off. And Rafe and Harvey Hollins would have enough money right along if all the stipulations of the trusts were honored.
"They got some quotes in here from Juan Rivera. He's going to be the high Ixku's prime minister. Some of them are pretty funny. You want me to read them?"
Tomlinson read the quotes aloud, and by the time he was done they were both laughing. Tomlinson said, "I'm telling you, the guy's going to be a great prime minister. That idea about getting a major league franchise in Masagua was the best. 'Provide us such a bond with capitalism and we will never turn away.' Pure poetry and, when you think of it, he's absolutely right."
Ford had already thought of it. It was his idea.
Tomlinson said, "You want to see the pictures they took of the ceremony? I'll leave the paper. Hey, I better get going if you have a lady coming over. Plus you combed your hair and, judging from that clean shirt, probably even took a shower." At the door he said again, "I think you ought to take a look at those pictures, Doc."
As Tomlinson's boat started, Ford picked up the paper. He looked at the photographs, then put the paper down. He found his glasses and considered the photographs once more, studying them carefully, moving very slowly, as a man in a dream might move. He took a long breath, then another. Then he carried the paper outside, where he stood, hands clenched white on the railing, and stared down into the pen where the two big bull sharks Jeth Nicholes had caught cruised like dark sentinels. Their dull goat's eyes seemed to stare back at him.
Someone was calling his name ... a woman's voice.He turned to see Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards grinning at him, looking fresh and professional in her summer dress and white jacket, just in from Iowa at his invitation, and saying "Hey, sailor, you got room for one very tired lady?"
"Huh?"She came up the dock, gave him a big squeeze, then pulled the newspaper out of his hands playfully. "What's so important in here that you'd give your personal physical therapist such a dull greeting? Oh, I see now—some Latin beauty in a white robe. Nice picture; very nice." She folded the paper neatly and said, "But in case you didn't notice, that beautiful woman is holding a very fat, very healthy, little blond baby. She's obviously not available. But you know what?" She touched her fingertips to the slow, soft smile forming on Ford's face. "I am."