One newcomer in town might interest him. “Hey, have you met the new theater director?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Vonnie Seacrest. I hear she has some great ideas.” She gulped. “And she’s hot. And divorced.”
From the tone of his, “Oh,” he understood but didn’t want to.
They reached the café’s back door. “She’ll be around for the festival. Maybe you should introduce yourself.”
Pain sharpened his gaze but his dimples deepened. “I will. Vonnie, you say?”
“Seacrest.” She hated the false enthusiasm in her voice.
At his you-got-it-little-lady nod, she went inside. Damn, she hoped some nurturing soul would find him and care for him like he deserved. Like Amy did for Jeff.
She scanned the room, and her gaze met Frat Boy’s as he sat in the corner like a naughty boy on time out. He snapped straight and froze, as if waiting for her to give him some cue. Some excuse.
She’d like to give him another pop in the jaw. “I hope Amy’s back soon.”
J. D. peered past her. “Here she is.”
“Hey, there you are.” Amy’s sweet voice drew Clarissa’s attention.
“Yay, you’re here.”
And I’m sounding more lame by the minute
.
“With the cake this time. I can’t believe I forgot to pick it up.”
“You should have let me pick it up so you wouldn’t have to leave your own party.”
“If I’d known, I would have. Are you all right?”
Why did everything keep asking her that? “Of course.”
“Jeff said his friend gave you a hard time.”
“And I gave him a right hook, so we’re even.” If Amy’s sad stare gave any clue, she wasn’t convinced. Clarissa clasped her hand. “Seriously, there’s nothing to worry about. Now tell me what I can help you with.”
Amy assessed her a moment, then nodded. “People are starting to look hungry. Let’s feed them.”
“I’m on it.” Grateful for any excuse to keep busy, Clarissa worked in easy tandem with Amy, their camaraderie a welcome change to the undercurrent of tension emanating from the corner where Frat Boy watched. With that pout, she should call him Brat Boy instead.
A sting went through her. No. She’d never use the term for anyone but her little brother. His feather graced her right shoulder blade, delicate black ink encasing Brat in scripted letters. Her teasing version of his real name, Brad. Forever eleven, he was the angel on her shoulder who sometimes lifted her up when she most needed it. She could almost hear him whispering,
It’s gonna be good. I promise
. The same thing he’d told her when he lay wasting away in that damn hospital bed and she’d hugged him before going home. She’d believed him, foolishly, and later the pain almost crushed her until she realized Heaven’s newest angel no longer hurt. She vowed she’d never again believe life would be good.
“Clarissa, sweetie?” Amy’s hand warmed her back. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She swept Amy into her embrace. “I’m so happy for you and Jeff. You guys are the best.” If her own parents had been half as open and caring, Clarissa might have packed after high school for Columbia University, as they’d hoped. Never gotten in the used Civic her parents gave her the day after high school graduation and drove and drove until she’d landed in Marfa. Never have found her real place in the world, her real home.
Amy patted her back. “We love you, too. I hate to leave you alone with the restaurant. Are you sure you don’t want a few weeks off, too?”
“No.” What the hell would she do with herself? “You guys sail off into the honeymoon sunset and have a great time. And don’t worry about anything. You know how quiet the town gets after the festival.”
“All the more reason you could take some time off. Maybe travel.”
“I don’t want to leave Marfa.” She hadn’t gone farther than the desert these past seven years, and had no inclination to now.
“Well, if you change your mind, don’t worry about closing up a day, or a week.”
Clarissa managed a wry smile. “Then who’d feed J. D.?”
“Maybe it’s time J. D. found his own someone to cook for.”
She lifted the tray and headed for the door. “I bet he’s a great cook, too.” And she wasn’t talking about food. Somehow, she seemed the only female immune to J. D.’s sexy baritone, his tall, lean frame suited for jeans and a denim shirt, his hair layered beneath a cream-colored Stetson. And those dimples. The very definition of a silver-haired fox.
But not the fox for her. Age had nothing to do with it. She’d have gone home with him a night or two, and probably had a great time. But he wanted more than a night or two. What she wanted, she couldn’t define. With parts of her still broken inside, she hoped she wouldn’t find real love, if it even existed for her, until she’d healed. Was ready for it.
In the main room, her glance went to the corner. Empty.
Why do you care?
I don’t, except now I can walk past the bar without having to deal with him
. She left the tray on the table they’d set up along the far wall.
Her neck hairs prickled, and she froze.
Someone’s behind me
.
“Smells delicious.”
Frat Boy
. Instant fury heated her blood.
Cool it, Clarissa
. Without turning, she lit the candle beneath the tray. “Customers think so, anyway.”
“What is it?”
Amy arrived with another tray and set it within the metal frame. “Pork tacos with cocoa rub. And I have beef curried rice.”
His deep-throated
mm
might have also been a grunt.
“Does your caveman reaction indicate approval?” She turned slowly.
Shit
. He’d cleaned up. And he cleaned up nicely, despite the white band around his eyes where his sunglasses had blocked the rays. Too bad the rest of his face glowed a painful-looking red.
Light brown eyes sparkled. “It indicates I’m starving.”
Clarissa had no response. How could anyone smell so great from washroom soap?
“Good,” Amy said. “We have plenty more.”
Jeff appeared with another tray. “You’re in for a treat.”
Despite the heavenly aromas tickling her appetite, Clarissa’s insides twisted. How could Dylan dazzle her one minute, and then stand there and frown at all this food?
“You cooked all this yourselves?” When they nodded, Dylan’s frown became a wince. “You should have let me throw you a party. You’re supposed to relax and enjoy yourselves.”
Jeff laughed. “We are.” He tugged Amy to his side.
Amy kissed his cheek. “We love getting all our friends together like this.”
“Yes, but there must be a caterer in Marfa. I’d gladly have paid for it.”
“Why?” Jeff shrugged. “We enjoy cooking, especially together.”
Amy smiled. “And we hope you love to eat.”
Clarissa watched Dylan’s frustration strangle him.
Then he threw up his hands and laughed. “I do.” He glanced at her, and his humorous look faded.
His look had the effect of a Taser—stunning, painful. Heat rose up her neck to her cheeks and she fidgeted with the utensils.
Damn him, making me feel awkward
. She hadn’t felt like this since she’d come here. Before Marfa, awkwardness was one of the few emotions she’d known. Mom asking,
Why can’t you join a team sport instead of moping in your room?
Dad, always too tired to say or do anything, sighing and giving her his sad-puppy look. When he made it home at all. After Brad died, her parents made her their monkey in the middle. When she didn’t want to play, it all fell apart. Mom finally went back to work and stayed late every night, too. Right before Clarissa graduated high school, Dad moved out.
No way could Clarissa have stayed, even for the summer. Columbia University would have been one more thing for her parents to hold over her head, a mutual gripe. They were all about success, or the appearance of it. No one could guess how broken they all remained. Hell, her parents didn’t want to hear how much she hurt.
You’ll be fine. Go to school, do your work. It will get better
.
It didn’t. They pretended not to notice the cuts on her arms, her legs, the only pain that made her feel real. Feel anything at all. Clarissa knew if she kept slashing herself, one day she’d cut so deep, she’d float away from this world.
At the thought of it, she’d felt Brad’s anger. He hadn’t wanted to die. She shouldn’t choose to.
Graduation money funded the road trip to nowhere. Or she’d thought it was nowhere. She never guessed she’d find herself in Marfa. Literally and spiritually.
“Can I help with anything?”
Dylan’s voice startled her into motion. There was plenty to do, but the less time she spent around him, the better. “No. You’re a guest.” One who’s leaving.
Not soon enough
.
She turned on her boot heel and strode toward the kitchen, drawing strength from the ink trailing down her other shoulder—Japanese kanji symbols.
Eagle, help me soar above. Spirit, heal my wounded soul. Wolf, protect me
. Even at times like now, her confidence so shaken, her nerves jangled beneath her skin, her guardians were always behind her.
They had her back. She drew strength from them and moved forward.
After saying good night to Jeff and Amy and after Clarissa had disappeared without so much as a
fuck you
, Dylan drove back to El Cosmico, headlights illuminating the empty road. Angry at Jeff for bringing him to this hellhole. At Clarissa, too, but he couldn’t quite figure out what—maybe the lingering ache in his jaw from her right hook. He needed to cool off. He’d have to shower eventually, and it might be best under cover of darkness.
He hadn’t been the only one with the same idea, but had found an unoccupied stall in the line of communal facilities and gone about his business. Refreshed after cleaning off the last of the grime and sweat from the road trip, he still couldn’t get Clarissa out of his head. So beautiful. And so screwed up and angry. Why?
Then he reached for the faucet. And looked up.
The night sky held a dazzling slew of stars. Holy shit, he’d never seen stars like that. Not even in middle school, when he and his brother had camped at the far end of the yard, the house blocking the streetlights.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, an eternity, or a second. The stars swept through his head and erased every bad feeling that lingered. All that mattered was how amazing they appeared. How they lifted him up from the dregs and held him there.
He might have stood there longer had the faucet in the next stall not spurted to life and a female squealed, “Cold!” Only then did he towel off, pull on drawstring pants, and stroll back to the yurt, looking up all the while, even after he climbed inside. Visions of Clarissa stayed with him, but her anger no longer infected him. When he lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed, he stared at the stars through the open flap on the top of the yurt. Millions of the twinkling lights dancing in the stardust.
Tomorrow, he’d make a fresh start with Clarissa. And as long as he stayed in Marfa, he’d shower at night.
It seemed like he’d just closed his eyes, and then sunshine like a high-powered spotlight blazed in Dylan’s eyes. Shifting helped, but not much. The white canvas of the yurt acted like a damn magnifier. It took a moment to remember where he was. Then he wished he hadn’t.
Marfa. Nowhereland.
Soon to be a strangely overpopulated nowhereland. Damn if only he could have scored a room somewhere, even a trailer…then last night flashed through his memory. The stars, so incredible. Maybe a yurt wasn’t so bad.
Once dressed, he strolled to the car, returning every wave and good morning along the way. Had more people arrived overnight? The hammock grove teemed with loungers, old guys playing euchre. More vehicles in the parking lot, and on the short drive to town, a few in his rearview mirror and ahead of him.
“A virtual Marfa traffic jam, I bet.” He turned up the radio and sang along, or tried to, with Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere.” Had Cash visited Marfa? Hell, Rock Hudson had. James Dean. Elizabeth Taylor. The Coen brothers and the
No Country for Old Men
cast. A burn flashed through him at the thought of those guys eyeing up Clarissa. Had she worked as an extra? Probably not; he’d have remembered seeing someone like her on screen.
Some of the town’s trivia he’d learned before the trip. He’d Googled Marfa out of curiosity. The number of articles surprised him. Marfa, apparently, was an arts mecca, and travel write-ups raved about the food. He laughed out loud when he found a mention of the Blue Moon Café, and the food critic gave the highest rating to Jeff and Amy’s beef curried rice and cocoa-rubbed pork tacos. No surprise there. Dylan had stuffed himself last night; though he was no foodie, he found himself going back for extra helpings. If he didn’t watch himself, he wouldn’t fit in his suit for the wedding.
Man, talk about a day making a difference. Yesterday, Marfa appeared a little too like a ghost town. Today, people and cars everywhere. Guess the newspapers hadn’t exaggerated the draw of the festival.
He had to cruise to find a parking spot, which made the walk to the café longer. The wall of glass along the front of the café showed a crowd inside. Jeff and Amy bustled around with plates and coffee.
No Clarissa?
He pushed open the door and the energy of the place hit him. Everyone in such a good mood, talking, laughing.
One laugh rang out over the others. Magical, like bells tinkling. He scanned to see who the laugh belonged to.
Hip first, Clarissa bumped open the swinging door to the kitchen, carrying two trays full of dishes.
“Oh my God.” It was her. Beaming, light on her feet. Beautiful, absolutely amazingly beautiful. She practically danced through the aisles, set one tray on a stand, and delivered the other with such grace, she might have been a ballerina.
“Um, Dylan?”
Jeff
. But Dylan couldn’t stop staring at Clarissa, all smiles for the two men she served next. Why couldn’t she look at him like that? “Yeah. Hey, bud.”