He pulled off the aviator glasses.
She stared at him right in his dark blue eyes, narrowed against the bright sun. “Okay, tell me what you think, Jack.”
He reached across the narrow, battered wooden table, pulled off her 49ers cap, ran his fingers through her hair, then wrapped a thick curl around his finger. He leaned up and brought the hair to his cheek and rubbed it. He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well?”
“Nah, your grandmother had fuller, richer hair. Softer too.”
“You can’t possibly know that!”
“I’m deducing it.”
She threw a French fry at him.
“I didn’t like you either,” she said. “I really didn’t. I didn’t think you ever smiled.”
He became very still.
“Jack-”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
She shook her head.
“Truth is, maybe you were right. After I left Chicago, I guess I didn’t smile much, and-” He shook his head and concentrated on the last piece of fried haddock in the cardboard carton.
“I knew you were divorced. Why did you break up?”
He didn’t look like he was going to answer. She was on the point of retracting the question-impertinent, she knew, and really none of her business-when he said, “Rikki wanted kids and she wanted a father to be there for her kids. I wasn’t ready.”
“Why not?”
“I honestly didn’t know then, only that I kept telling her I wasn’t ready. I finally figured it out a while back. My dad wasn’t what you’d call a very moral character. He was never home, slept around on my mom, and treated us kids like we were an-imposition, like he wished we weren’t there, like we cramped his style. It drove my grandfather nuts but there was nothing he could do about it except try to be there when he could break free from his job.
“I guess I didn’t want to be the same way and knew if Rikki got pregnant I wouldn’t be there to be a father, and I’d see my grandfather’s face, staring at me like I was a loser.” He stopped suddenly, looked appalled at himself. Color stained his high cheekbones. “I can’t believe I said that. Forget it. It’s got to be the flaky air down here. Damn.”
Mary Lisa said thoughtfully, “Do you think your dad could take on my mom and win?”
He jerked back, the embarrassment fell off his face, and he grinned at her. “It would be some battle.”
She raised her soda glass and clicked it to his. “To parents. They never cease to amaze.”
“Hear, hear.”
She watched him take a bite of that last piece of haddock. “Did you love her?”
He wadded his paper napkin and threw it into the trash container. “That’s it, Mary Lisa. No more of this personal stuff, this damned relationship stuff that makes a man’s innards twist and bend. You women, what’s with you and all this gut-spilling crap anyway?”
And he got up, shoved his sunglasses back on, walked to her bright red Mustang, climbed into the passenger seat, and settled his head against the seat.
“It’s been three years, Jack, get over it.” She climbed into Buffy beside him. “It’s time you came back and enjoyed yourself a bit, don’t you think?” With me, maybe.
“Yeah? You mean like with you?”
Oh boy.
He hadn’t moved. She turned the key in the ignition, still didn’t look at him.
“What about John?”
Still not looking at him, she said, “John was off the table the minute I found out about Kelly’s feelings.”
He said nothing.
When she pulled up in front of the Lost Hills Station, Jack got out, then turned to look at her. “You be careful, you hear me? You promised me you weren’t stupid. I’m holding you to that. I’ll see you later.”
“At home,” she said.
He gave her an odd look. “Yeah,” he said, “at home. Along with half the population of Southern California. Why won’t you tell me where you’re off to?”
She shook her head, laughed, waved, and drove off.
She headed for Venice. She didn’t want to be late for Chico.
THIRTY-TWO
In the 1930s the big corporate sponsors were Procter & Gamble, Pillsbury, American Home Products, and General Foods. Thus the name was coined-soaps.
At four o’clock Friday afternoon, Mary Lisa knew death was near. There was no way she could move, not if someone yelled fire, not if Brad Pitt walked naked in front of her, and it was that last thought that made her realize just how pathetic a condition she was in. Sprawled on her back, boneless, her arms and legs flung out, her sweaty hair matted to her head, all she could do was focus on breathing. It was hard even to suck enough air into her lungs, but at least she could manage that without whimpering. She stared up at the gorgeous man who’d done his best to kill her.
“Not so perky now, are you?”
Perky? Why was he talking about her breasts at a time like this? Breath, she needed more breath to tell him what she thought of him, none of it good. He offered her a hand, and she stared at it, praying for the strength to leap up and bite it. She managed a whisper. “If I press charges, do you think the cops will lock you up?”
“Nah, since you paid me for this, it shows you desire abuse and torture and gets me off the hook. I know you think I’m a sadist, you don’t think I feel your pain. Hmm. Come to think of it, actually, I don’t. But listen, you did really good for your first lesson. You’re in good shape, you’ve got good balance, and you move well. But to be effective, you can’t let your eyes tell your opponent every move you’re going to make. I’ll teach you to blank out that expression. Surprise is everything. Now, don’t lie there like a pitiful log. I told you kicking with force would use your core muscles like nothing else. Get up, I want you to jog in place for three minutes, otherwise you’ll be stiffer than my old rheumatoid dog, Bart, by tomorrow. Come on, Mary Lisa, get your butt off that mat.”
As she jogged in place, she told Chico Rayburn he must be registered a double-O-something with the Brits, she’d swear to that. He laughed and slapped her on the back, nearly sending her to the floor.
“I like your spunk, Mary Lisa. At this rate I can teach you some useful skills in a few weeks’ time. But I need commitment from you. I told you I don’t work with anyone who isn’t committed, it’s a waste of my time. Can you swear to me right now you’re going to stick with this? You’re not going to wimp out?”
Words, how to get words out of her mouth? “Yeah, fool that I am.” She’d managed five words, good.
He beamed at her. “You’re no quitter, I knew that. And you’ve got motivation, what with that moron out there chasing you around. You don’t want to have to depend on the cops or bodyguards to protect you the rest of your life. You’re doing the right thing.”
She could breathe again and, glory be, she could speak, barely. “Yeah, I’m doing the right thing. I was hoping I’d be able to take the jerk down in maybe two weeks. Now I’m thinking maybe two hundred years.”
“You’ll have some nice moves in two weeks. The rest, like any skill, takes practice and effort.”
“I want him mangled and whimpering at my feet. To be on the safe side, I want to practice-beginning with you.”
He didn’t grin at that. He studied her a moment, then slowly nodded. “Okay, good enough. You’ve got a fire in your gut, you want to kill me-all very commendable. Now, don’t underestimate what I told you. Despite all the cardio, that cute little kickboxing class, and all that girl crap on the spinner, your body hasn’t been through this before. You’ll still be sore Sunday morning. I’ll see you Sunday afternoon, say at one o’clock.” He gave her a list of resistance exercises and stretches, thankfully illustrated with drawings since the last thing her brain could do at the moment was concentrate.