Chapter Two

 

“Did you drag that in by yourself?”

I’m shoving the big box across the kitchen floor with my foot when Una returns from the office. “My nephew took some melons over to the fruit stand, but he was supposed to help unload.”

I shake my head. No melons, no nephew, no help—no problem. Mom already told me about the nephew. The orphan. I can’t even imagine the most horrible thing in my life happening twice. Their family is White Mountain Apache, like Dad’s side of the family, and Mom said our fathers knew each other in Bosnia. I know he’s older than me, but my brain keeps picturing a Wimpy Kid-looking waif. That clothing box is so heavy and awkward, any real help from her sad, scrawny nephew would be, as Brian would say, not likely.

It’s not until after lunch that I get a chance to inventory the new-old stuff Una brought. I haven’t seen much of Mom. She has readings booked for the whole day, but she emerges to run the register, so I can grab lunch. I duck into the kitchen and eat my cheese sticks, an apple, and my secret beef stick. Disguising my cat-tail breath with six cinnamon Macaroonies, I tuck the remaining cookie stash safely in my backpack.

Mom stretches her arms over her head, bracelets tinkling, gauzy sleeves fluttering like a fairy queen. She checks her skirt pocket for cash and heads for the front door.

“I’m getting a tuna wrap. Back in twenty.” It will probably be more like forty, but I don’t mind. She needs to walk around and clear her head. No matter how breezy Una is about doing these readings, they can be really draining for Mom. I know I said I don’t believe in this stuff, but she really is good, and her mom was famous for it for a while. But the psychic powers skipped right over my DNA—just like the math.

This quiet won’t last long, so I dig into the boxes. Just as I thought: the clunky ones contain touristy crafts—beaded barrettes and key chains, friendship bracelets, dream catchers, and arrowheads tied on leather cords. I pop open the big box of clothes, which is stuffed full of colorful tops and skirts—the kind my friend Lorena always wants me to save for her—and a couple of vintage jean jackets. All pretty typical, except for a glamorous peach silk nightgown that looks like something from one of Brian’s old movies. Below that is a carefully wrapped blanket woven in a tight geometric pattern of red, black, and white wool, which will fetch a good price for sure.

Then I feel something from heaven. Something dense, soft and smooth. I reach in deep, wrap my fingers around it, and pull out a treasure.

It’s a leather jacket. Brown and biker-style, it’s more than distressed; the leather has been totally beaten into submission. The elbows are worn thin, the lining is frayed, it smells like a lifetime, and I want it. It’s way too big, but the heavy zipper works, and the snaps are all there. I bury my face in it, breathing the smoky remains of good leather, and it’s crazy, but I feel like I just found something I didn’t even know I had lost.

Mom will be back soon. I need to price these other things and put them out, so I fold my prize carefully and lay it back in the box like a good little employee. A woman comes in and buys a book that promises to Heal Your Aura In 30 Days and some sweet-grass soap for the meantime. I start a new pot of coffee and peek into the box every two minutes.

The front door jingles and Mom breezes in, carrying two large drinks. “Whew, it’s a scorcher,” she announces. “I brought us pomegranate slushees.” She sets mine down on the counter and heads for the office. I can’t wait even one whole minute.

“Hey, Mom?” She comes out, having dropped off her drink, and darts into the bathroom.

“Yeah?” Water running.

“Una brought some nice things,” I inform her through the door. “A bunch of skirts and a small blanket, I guess from the reservation?”

She opens the door. “No, she made that one. It’s on commission. Let’s see it.”

We walk over to the shelves, and she examines the blanket with a practiced eye. There are tricks to knowing if it’s a high-quality blanket or not, and I don’t know any of them.

“Nice. That’s the Ganado pattern. Tag it $450.” Mom flips through the skirts and scarves and gets hold of the nightgown. “Oooh, what’s this?” She shakes it out and holds it up to her shoulders. The creamy peach gown blends with her skin, and they both glow. “Look at this, Vivian. Bias-cut silk! They just don’t make stuff like this anymore.”

Inspiration strikes. Déjà Vu policy is that what comes in gets sold, unless it’s simply unsellable, which is pretty much never. Maybe if she can make an exception to the house rule for herself, she can make one for me too?

I take a deep breath. “The color is amazing, Mom. It makes you look like a movie star or something. You should try it on.”

Well, it’s not a lie. It does, and she should.

“You think so?” She holds it closer and steps sideways to see in the mirror. I hold my breath as her sea-green eyes appraise the effect. Then she glances at the antique clock behind the register, and my heart sinks. “My 1:30 will be here any minute.” She hangs it back on the rack. Now I will have to go with plan B—simply asking her if I can buy the jacket.

The 1:30 opens the door, and in walks Mr. Helpful. Yep, it’s him all right. Same camera-ready clothes, same Ray-Bans, same well-rehearsed smile.

Crap. I really didn’t want to tell Mom about the van, but thanks to him, I guess I’ll have to.

“Hello, Mrs. Hawk,” he says to Mom and nods at me—then recognition opens his face and the charming smile widens, revealing at least forty-seven of his perfect teeth

“Please, call me Summer,” Mom protests. “Vivian, this is Jackson Connor. He’s renovating the old gallery next to Noonie’s.” Of course someone oozing money and flashing a million-dollar smile would have a last name for a first name. I bet all his kids’ names start with “J” too.

“We’ve already met.” Jackson Connor nods in my direction again. “I stopped to help after her little accident this morning.”

A wrinkle appears between Mom’s brows and her eyes lock onto mine with laser precision. Crap, crap, crap, crap. Crap!

“Accident? What accident?”

“Really, Mom, it was no big deal,” I babble. “Some van knocked me off the road is all.”

“Knocked you off the road?” My conscience prickles with guilt at Mom’s troubled face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

I show her my scraped elbow. “It barely touched me. See? That’s it. I’m fine.” If my knees could talk, they’d call me a liar, but I just want this conversation to be over.

“I saw the whole thing,” Jackson Connor declares. “Luckily, he just tapped her—but then he drove away. People these days! Nice to meet you officially.” He may have a movie-star smile, but his handshake is as cold and smooth as a lizard, sending an uneasy shiver up my arm. When we let go, my skin is crawling.

“Well… thank you for stopping to help my daughter, Jackson. There are some crazy people on the road.” Mom’s frown smooths out and morphs back into her nurturing customer-smile. “Are you ready?” She ushers Lizard Man Connor to the office, leaving me to my slushee, a sign to paint, and plan B.

After his reading, Jackson Connor buys a sand painting I have admired for a month and two carved turtles for his daughters, Jenna and Jillian (SURPRISE). I wrap them up, making sure I don’t touch him when I hand him the bag. Hopefully he isn’t going to become a regular.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you two around.” He smiles at me, then flashes even more teeth at Mom.

“Yes sir, see you around,” I echo politely, thinking Not if I can help it.

Jackson Connor groans jovially, “Sir! Do I look that old?”

I fake-smile. Sometimes it’s better to let people answer their own questions.

“Don’t answer that.” He chuckles at his own wit as he steps out the front door. Ha. Ha. Ha. Maybe hanging garlic over the door will keep him out.

By the end of the day, the tarot readings, books, and crystals have enriched a lot of lives, and I have finished the Déjà Vu sign with celestial flourishes of purple and silver. While Mom checks on the herb garden in the back, I stand in front of the mirror, holding the jacket. I just have to try it on. Maybe it will have scratchy seams or some other fatal flaw, which of course I know it doesn’t.

I slip my arms in, and it nearly swallows me whole. I adjust the snaps on the sleeves and the waist and look in the mirror. It’s totally huge, but it’s perfect. It was once an expensive, high-quality jacket, and it still holds wispy ghost smells of its past—a little smoke, a little cologne, and something familiar I can’t quite place. Its smooth weight on my neck and shoulders feels like someone’s arm around me. I hug it close to my body. I can’t leave the shop without it.

“Ready, Vivi?”

I jump. I was so entranced with the jacket, I didn’t notice Ninja Mom in the swinging doorway, purse, and keys in hand, ready to go out through the kitchen.

“Umm, yeah.” Okay, Plan B, here goes: “Mom, do you think I could have this? I mean, I would buy it, whatever we paid for it. Please?”

Mom crosses her arms, smiling. “That beat-up thing, Vivi? It’s huge.” She tilts her head a little. “It looks like a jacket your dad had,” she observes softly, and then she looks at me with her quiet face, the one I only see when she talks about Dad.

The antique clock ticks three excruciating, century-long seconds.

“Okay, tell you what. You did a great job on the new sign. You can have the jacket as payment for that. A bonus.”

“Yes! Thanks, Mom, you are awesome!” I was not expecting anything extra for the sign, so this really is a bonus. Mom waves away her awesomeness.

“All right then, let’s get out of here. You want to ride with that thing on or put it in the car?”

“Car,” I answer promptly and slip my new treasure off. It’s brutal outside, even though it’s almost 7:00.

“Why don’t you grab that nightgown, too, while you’re at it?” I look at Mom, and she shrugs, smiling.

Mom turns off the AC and the lights while I carry our reincarnated clothing to the Camry. I hang the gown on the little clothes hook in the back and gently fold my prize.

As I lay it down on the seat, something in the lining pokes me. I slide my hand across the deep inside pocket. Something long, skinny, and flexible is in there. I reach in and draw out a nighthawk feather, almost a foot long and beautiful—light gray near the quill, but darkening to brown, almost black at the tip. The quill is wrapped tightly in deerskin, secured with a turquoise bead. Where did it come from? Mesmerized, I drag the silky, dense edge across my arm, and lightning strikes.

A massive jolt slams through me and knocks me to my knees. A whirlwind of heat and stars envelopes me, roaring in my ears, sucking the breath from my lungs. Icy darkness follows, slamming me to the ground in a crack of thunder. Before I can react, or think, or even be scared, it’s over. Gone. No longer on my knees in the dark, I stand in the shimmering heat. The jacket lies folded on the back seat, the feather resting on it as Mom locks the back door.

Mom didn’t see it—if there was anything to see. If I didn’t hallucinate the whole thing. I take a deep breath. Then another. I slip the feather, that feather, back into the lining of the jacket and stand up out of the car, still dizzy. What the hell was that?

I break out in a familiar sweat, that same creepy spider-feeling from this morning slithering up the back of my neck. I scan the backs of the other closed stores on our side of the square. Oh, God, did someone see that… seizure? Attack? Whatever it was? Then, as I close the car door, I see him and freeze.

Deep in the shade behind the mulberry tree, an even darker shadow lurks. He—definitely a he—is tall and bulky, but everything else about him is deep in shadow. I squint and lean forward a little, so he knows I see him and I’m not afraid. He is too far away to know that’s a total lie, too far to know my head is pounding and my ears are full of buzzing bees. He steps back, dissolving into the shade. In a moment, I’m no longer sure he is still there or how much he saw, but I do know one thing.

Someone is watching me.

~ * ~

By the time I ride over to the Piggly Wiggly for Brian’s beef stick cat tails, all I feel is tired, hot, and sweaty. The parking lot is practically empty. Just a motorcycle, a couple of cars, and a small red truck—wait, is it Una’s? I park my bike and pass through the magic hissing Star Trek doors into the grocery store chill. I look around for Una but don’t see her. Then again, she’s so short that the store shelves could hide her completely.

I head straight for the essentials: cat tails and cream. I take eight beef sticks and scan the hanging packages of beef jerky. There is really only one good kind. The opposite of a beef stick, Virgil’s beef jerky is thin and dry and delicate, not soaked in soy or sugar or preservatives—making it Mom-approved. Just beef, salt, and red or green chile. I pluck every package off the rack and head toward the dairy section.

No sign of Una. Just some grizzled, old biker getting coffee. By the soda machine, a couple of girls I recognize from school peek from behind each other and whisper together. The usual type—Pretty, Entitled, and Popular. Lorena and I call them The Peppers. Meticulous makeup, casually perfect hair that took an hour to style, halter tops, and high-heeled sandals they can barely walk in. The coven of snobs you find in every high school.

I round the corner, wondering why their eyes are sliding in my direction, and run smack into a guy standing in front of the motor oil, sending my load of meat snacks cascading to the floor. Giggles erupt from The Peppers.

“Sorry!” We both say at the same time, and I stoop to retrieve the precious cargo scattered around his cowboy boots. I jam the beef sticks in my back pocket and gather the rest in my arms. As I stand up, my eyes follow the long line of his faded jeans, the tight black T-shirt, his strong arms, and—wow—he is really tall. Then I see his face.

Oh.

The Peppers were peeking at him, not me. I look up into his dark eyes and take in his straight, slender nose, sharp cheekbones, and dark, unruly hair that hangs in his eyes and around his shoulders. My heart jumps sideways, cheeks flaming, before I realize I’m staring. He smiles; I drop half of the jerky again, and now I can’t look at him at all.

“S-sorry,” I stammer and start retrieving the packages again.

He squats down. “Here, let me help.”

At least that’s what I think he says, but I’m not sure because the blood rushing to my cheeks has also roared into my ears. He gathers a few packages in strong, capable hands, and when he stacks them in my arms, his hand brushes mine. It’s warm and electric and makes my skin jump. Then he looks at me with those eyes and it’s like I’m dissolving. I may just faint right here in the Piggly Wiggly.

We both rise to our feet, standing way too close, and I know my face is absolutely crimson, but his eyes shine, and he is smiling that crooked smile, and he smells like clean clothes and the hot sun. Surely he hears my heart give another lurch as he takes a step back, nods, grabs two quarts of oil, and heads for the cash register.

The Peppers grip their sodas, watching like tigers and waiting for just the right moment to pounce on their next meal. While I try to recover my power of speech—which, by the way, is not easy while watching him walk away in those perfect-fitting jeans—The Peppers seize their opportunity and get in line behind him at the counter.

“Smooth move,” one of them hisses as she slithers past me.

Shiny curls bouncing artfully around their shoulders and sly giggles bubbling from their lips, they circle their prey, practically purring as they move in for the kill. The biker gets in line and I follow, awkwardly clutching the beef jerky. Flames engulf my face while a renegade lock of hair sticks to my sweaty neck.

I peek around the line, feeling the three people between us like three brick walls, and an irresistible urge to leap over all of them just to stand next to him grips me. Hot Guy pays for his oil, and I can’t tear my eyes away as he exits through the magic doors, followed quickly by The Peppers.

By the time I get out, the motorcycle is gone, the red truck is gone, and a few more cars have pulled into the lot. No telling where he went. Oh well. He can’t possibly be from Zia, anyway—nobody that cute lives around here. He’s probably just passing through, trying to leave as soon as possible. I slip the Piggly Wiggly bag into my backpack and coast out of the parking lot. A block down the road, The Peppers roll past a stop sign on a side street in a silver car. Hot Guy is nowhere in sight. Ha! Their prey has escaped.

I can’t wait to tell Lorena. A Hot Guy Sighting is rare in this town—especially one who stood three inches away and actually touched me. Replaying that moment in my head, my face flushes again and my heart jumps a little. It’s definitely more than just the heat getting to me.

As I power-pedal down Valley Road toward home, it strikes me that one of Una’s predictions has come true. I have just met a Mysterious, Handsome Stranger.

 

 

[File 201 130614 SANTA FE (15:11)]

Raven: Storefront squared away. Home devices active?

Trigger: Bugs inoperable. Interference on all frequencies.

Raven: Maintain visual surveillance and black bag the tablet ASAP.

Trigger: Roger that.