His forehead was knotted in concentration. As he came nearer, she could make out his eyes through the lenses of his glasses. They were light brown and vague. She hadn't known until that moment that a pair of eyes could appear so completely unfocused.
"Hello." She held out her hand politely. "I don't believe we were ever formally introduced. I'm Susannah Faulconer."
He walked right past her.
Startled, she watched him disappear through the garage door. One of his socks was navy, the other white. What a curious person, she thought.
A few seconds later she entered the garage. He and Sam were engaged in a technical discussion. She waited for Sam to turn and catch sight of her. When he finally did, she searched his face for some sign that last night had changed him. He looked no different, but in the seconds that flashed by before he spoke, she imagined that he was remembering what had passed between them.
"Yank's invented a new game, Suzie. Come on over here. It's great! You've got to play."
She needed no prodding to move closer to him, and she soon found herself shooting at speeding targets while the men called out instructions. She was so absorbed in Sam's nearness that she barely noticed Yank. His comments were all impersonal, directed toward the game. Despite the fact that he was actually speaking to her, she had the sense that he still didn't really see her. She was only a disembodied pair of hands manipulating his precious machine.
"The other way," Yank said. "Go to the left!"
"There!" she cried. "I got one!"
"Watch out! You're going to get hit."
It really was fun, she decided, but that was all. Nothing more than a few hours' clever entertainment. She couldn't understand Sam's obsession with this impractical little toy.
"Come on, give me a turn," Sam said.
She waved him off. "In a minute. Let me play one more game."
Yank finally took the game away from them so he could do some troubleshooting on the circuit board. While he worked, Sam gave her a lesson in basic electronics. He pointed out components of the single-board computer to her-integrated circuits and multicolored resistors, tubular capacitors, a power transistor with a heat sink. He talked about miniaturization, and painted a picture for her of a future in which today's tiny microchips would be viewed as large and cumbersome. Some of it she already knew, much of it she didn't. It was a fascinating world, made beautiful by Sam's gift for creating word pictures.
When Yank asked for Sam's help, she watched them work for a while and then reluctantly slipped back into the house to try to call Falcon Hill. The line was still busy, and after several more tries, she concluded that the phone had been left off the hook. She thought about her father's battles with Paige and felt a wrenching inside her as she tried to imagine living without his love. In some families love was given unconditionally, but not in hers.
She called Cal but got no answer. Eventually she sat down and wrote him a letter, asking forgiveness for the unforgivable.
Sam came inside for her and announced that he was taking her to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Susannah was about to say that she needed a few minutes to change her clothes, but then she remembered that she had nothing to change into.
As they walked out the back door, she spotted a dark blue Ford Pinto that had pulled in behind Yank's Duster. "Shit," Sam said.
"What's wrong?" Had Angela Gamble returned ahead of schedule? What was she going to say to Sam's mother?
Sam didn't answer her question. Instead, he stalked toward the garage like a man with a deadly mission. Reluctantly, Susannah followed him.
To Susannah's relief, the woman standing next to the workbench was about her own age-certainly not old enough to be Sam's mother, although her polyester blouse and navy skirt combined with a bad permanent made her look older. She had a pear-shaped build-narrow shoulders, small bust, plump hips. Her skin was beautiful-pale and unblemished-but the faintest shadow of a mustache hovered above her top lip. It wasn't a gross mustache, merely the sort of thing that a stylish woman would have taken care of with a monthly application of depilatory.
"… all the food groups, Yank. I left you my three-bean salad, but did you eat any? No you didn't. Not one bite. Kidney beans are a wonderful source of protein, but all you eat are chocolate chip cookies. Well, I'll tell you something, mister, I'm not making you any more chocolate chip cookies. No, sir. Not until you start eating right."
"Leave him alone, Roberta."
The woman had been so engrossed in her lecture to Yank that she hadn't heard them come in, and she jumped when Sam spoke. Susannah watched as her face filled with color. "Sam. I-I didn't-That is-"
He walked slowly forward. With his low-slung jeans and bow-legged biker's gait, his advance bore more than a trace of menace, and Susannah didn't blame Roberta for moving back a few steps. He tucked one of his thumbs into a belt loop, and she felt a primitive sexual thrill at the expense of the hapless Roberta.
"I guess I wasn't clear enough when we had that little chat a few days ago," he said.
"Now, Sam. I-I just stopped by for a minute."
"I don't want you here, Roberta. I don't like the way you nag him."
Roberta attempted to gather herself together. "I can come here if I want. Yank likes to have me around. Don't you, Yank?"
Yank picked up a roll of solder and bent over the circuit board.
Sam leaned against the side of the bench. "Like I said. Stay away from here. If Yank wants to sleep with you, that's his business, but keep away from him when he's working."
Roberta glared at Sam, obviously trying to summon her courage to argue with him, and just as obviously failing. With dismay, Susannah saw the woman's chin start to tremble. She hated unpleasant scenes and couldn't help but do her best to put an end to this one.
"Hello, I'm Susannah." The Faulconer name was well-known, and she instinctively withheld it.
The woman, obviously grateful for the intercession, came toward her with awkward haste to return the greeting. "I'm Roberta Pestacola. Like Pepsi Cola, but with a 'pesta' instead."
"You're Italian."
Roberta nodded. "On both sides of my family-not just one side like Sam."
Until that moment Susannah hadn't known that Sam was Italian.
"I'm Yank's girlfriend," Roberta went on. "We're practically engaged." She told Susannah that she was a hospital dietitian and that she did ceramics as a hobby. When she finally paused, it was obvious that she was waiting for Susannah to offer some information about herself and her relationship to Sam.
"How fascinating," Susannah replied.
Sam stepped forward and took Roberta's arm. "I'll walk you to your car, Roberta. I'm sure you've got some food groups that you need to go balance."
Roberta's hand shot out and she gripped the vise on the end of the workbench, less from a desire to stay, Susannah suspected, than from uneasiness at the thought of being alone with Sam. Once again, her distress won Susannah's sympathy.
"I'll walk to the car with you."
But Sam wasn't having any of it. "Stay out of this, Susannah. Roberta and I need to have a little chat all by ourselves."
A soft voice pierced through the tension. "Roberta, get that trouble light for me, will you?" Yank lifted his head and blinked a few times as if he had just awakened from a long slumber. "Hold it so I can see what I'm doing."
Roberta dashed eagerly forward, breaking Sam's grip as she snapped up the light.
Sam looked at Yank with disgust and turned his attention back to Roberta. "You'd better not start nagging him. I mean it, Roberta. We've got an order for some boards, and Yank has to work out the last of the bugs. I don't want you here when I get back."