style="font-size:15px;"> “Sure,” he said, like it was no big deal. Except when he looked at Dad, he was smiling, sort of. At least enough to make creases in his fuzzy cheeks. But his eyes still looked like they were saying he was sorry. Like Mom’s dying had somehow been Dad’s fault. Robbie wanted to tell Dad to stop being dumb. Instead, he asked, “Can I get a Nutty Buddy?”
“You’re on,” Dad said back, reaching down to swing Robbie up into his arms, like he used to do, and Robbie hugged his neck as tight as he could, not even caring that Dad’s face was all prickly, like a porcupine.
The sign in the window was hand-lettered and to the point:
Dogs and Kids Allowed Only With an Adult
Gotta love a town that’s got its priorities straight, Winnie thought as she freed Annabelle from the truck in front of the long, stuccoed building with a columned front porch, all by its lonesome out on the highway. And according to the larger—but still hand-lettered—sign stuck in the dirt bordering the road, Tierra Rosa’s only gas station. She’d keep that in mind.
On one side of the porch sat a series of wooden rocking chairs, flanked by wooden crates of corn, melons and apples; on two of the chairs sat a pair of toothless, leathery-faced old men, rocking off-sync and scrutinizing Winnie from underneath battered cowboy hats as she and Annabelle walked up the steps. She nodded; they nodded back.
Inside, the plank-floored building was the modern equivalent of the old-fashioned general store. A quick perusal revealed everything from diapers to fishing tackle, Hungry-Man dinners to motor oil, Levis to Rice Krispies. In addition to food, gas and pretty much everything else, a sign at the front counter also proclaimed the place’s official U.S. Post Office status, P.O. Boxes Available.
Aside from the old dudes outside, Winnie and Annabelle were the only customers; by the cash register, a very cute, overly cleavaged, brunette teenager in a low-cut top and open hoodie leaned on the counter, her chin digging into her palm as she flipped through what looked like a textbook, frantically taking notes in a spiral notebook beside it. Something told Winnie that whatever the gal’s assignment was, she wasn’t finding the tall, buff, teenage boy with a shaved head trying to get cozier all that much of a distraction.
“Quit it, Jesse!” she said, making a great show of moving out of range. “I’ve got this major test tomorrow—!”
“Aw, c’mon, Rach…just one little kiss? Please?”
Then she giggled, which the boy took as leave to swoop in for that kiss.
Winnie smartly wheeled her hundred-year-old grocery buggy toward the back, thinking, Ain’t love grand? over a wave of déjà vu so strong she was half inclined to stomp back to the register and smack some sense into one or both of the kids. Because nobody knew more than her where swooping and such led to.
Then she sighed and went about her business, reminding herself that not every teenage girl who indulges in a little kissy-face gets knocked up. That some were smart enough not to let things go that far. Or at least to make sure there were no consequences if they did.
“You need any help finding stuff?” the girl called out, almost like she cared. Winnie poked her head up over a shelf brimming with Old El Paso products.
“Um…dog food?”
“Back wall, to your right. Ice cream’s on special this week, too. Two half gallons for six bucks.”
“Thanks,” Winnie said, hauling a twenty-pound bag of Purina into her cart, then nudging it toward the frozen-food case, since the gal had taken such pains to steer her in that direction. Lost in a quandary between mint chocolate chip and Snickers, she barely heard the bell jingle over the door. So it took a second for the deep, Irish-accented male voice asking about a package to register.
“Oh, yeah, Mr. Black,” the girl said. “It’s right here, let me get it for you…”
After a white-hot jolt of adrenaline, Winnie ducked slightly behind a display of fishing rods to peer toward the front, too late realizing that Annabelle had sauntered back up to see if anybody needed herding, kisses, whatever. A moment later a young kid with shaggy, pale-blond hair popped into view, yanking open the case to grab one of the loose Nutty Buddies inside. At Winnie’s sucked-in breath, the kid’s head whipped around, eyes wide, and something inside her exploded.
Five minutes on the Internet, and there’d been the magazine article, complete with a photo of the reclusive Western landscape painter and his wife, a textile artist/social activist, her broad smile much more relaxed and friendly than her significantly younger husband’s. And scattered throughout the article, shots of the marvel of wood and glass—one whole side devoted to the high-cei-linged studio built especially to accommodate the “Irish Cowboy’s” massive canvases—that Aidan and June Black had built in the mountains bordering the picturesque northern New Mexican village of Tierra Rosa.
Then Winnie’s heart had stopped at the single profile image of the Blacks’ only child, a son. Adopted, although the article hadn’t mentioned that. Seven at the time of the shoot two years earlier, his hair had been almost angel-white in the sunlight.
The same color Winnie’s had been at that age—
“Yarp!”
Annabelle had reappeared to bow in front of the boy, tail wagging. Boy play with me? Please? Frowning, his thin shoulders weighted in some way she couldn’t exactly define, the kid looked from the dog to her, then back at the dog, quivering in anticipation.
“It’s okay,” Winnie said, not sure how she was breathing. “She wouldn’t hurt a bug if she stepped on it.”
Slowly, the boy got down on one knee to pat Annabelle’s head, and the dog became a blur—Boy likes me! Boy really, really likes me!—trying to lick everywhere at once. But he’d barely started giggling before he scrambled back upright, as though realizing he wasn’t supposed to be cavorting with strange dogs. Or a stranger’s dog, at least. Now the eyes focused on Winnie’s were accusatory, suspicious. Pained. And nearly the same weird blue-gray as hers, except for the flecks of gold near the iris.
“You the lady stayin’ in the Old House?”
The Old House. Like it was a name, not a description.
“Just for a little while.” He has my nose, too. For trouble, I bet. “You…saw me?”
“Yeah. Earlier.” The pointed chin came up. “Through the trees. I was on my bike.”
Bicycle tracks. Check.
“Oh. Do you, um, like to play around there?”
“Sometimes,” he said with a shrug. Not that I care.
Winnie’s mouth curved, at his beauty, his bravado. At how silly his long hair looked, nearly to his shoulders, as shiny and wavy as a girl’s. But every inch a boy, all the same, in his skater-dude outfit, the holes in his jeans’ knees. Still, she imagined the only thing keeping him from getting the crap beat out of him at school was his height, which made him look more like ten, maybe even eleven, than just-turned-nine.
Her face burning, Winnie turned back to the freezer case, grabbing—of all things—a carton of strawberry cheesecake ice cream, swallowing back the reassurance
