Coming Home to Texas--A Clean Romance Page 3

  How could her mom possibly guess, all these years later, how much Tony haunted her? Almost every one of Dalia’s childhood memories was connected to him, along with every street, house and business in the city limits, and every road, tree, hill and fence post in the county. The first time she’d come home after the breakup, she’d had an actual panic attack in the feed store parking lot.

  After that, she’d stayed away. She’d made the trip exactly one more time, for her father’s funeral. And that was it...until now.

  “You acted like you wanted to adopt him,” Dalia said. “What was that all about? I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “Who, me? Oh, no. That was all your dad. He had a grudge against that whole family.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because I dated Carlos in high school.”

  “What? You went out with The Player? Are you kidding me? You never told me that.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No, you did not. I’m sure of it. Believe me, I would remember if you told me you had a romantic history with Tony’s dad.”

  Her mom waved a hand dismissively. “I didn’t have a romantic history with him—or not much of one. We didn’t go out for long. He was flashy and fun, but his charm wore thin pretty quick.”

  All of which meant that her sunny, outgoing, optimistic mother had seen through Carlos a lot quicker than Dalia had seen through Tony.

  She shut the lid of her laptop and stood. Well, if she had to be at La Escarpa for months on end, at least she had a tranquil personal space, even if it wasn’t her Philadelphia apartment. Her childhood room could have been featured in a photojournalism piece on minimalism. The bed was neatly made with one of her grandmother’s quilts. Everything was lined up, grid-like, on her desk: laptop, bullet journal, phone. A small stack of books stood beside the lamp. All else was beautifully, restfully clear.

  This was the room she’d moved into after her brother vacated it on joining the Marines. Before that she’d shared for twelve years with an untidy younger sister.

  Dalia had been thirteen when she’d found her first Don Aslett book in a library sale. He was the tidiness guru of an earlier generation, decades before Marie Kondo. Dalia had soaked up his wisdom like a sponge and still considered him a personal mentor. Lots of different writers had taken up the minimalist cause in the years since, but the essential message remained the same: get rid of the unnecessary items causing you stress. Keep only the things you need or enjoy.

  Her apartment was streamlined and neat in the extreme. Clean, clear surfaces. Fridge contents all easy to see with space in between, leftovers stored in matching Pyrex containers. No extra lids, no overflowing Tupperware cabinet like her mom had. A coworker once saw her place and said it was like a rented condo for a vacation. It probably wasn’t meant as a compliment, but Dalia had felt smug about it, anyway. She always felt smug about her clutter-free existence. Most people were drowning in excess possessions. They were not like her. No excess baggage for Dalia, physical or emotional.

  Ranches were messy. There was always so much stuff around: muddy boots, feed buckets, tack that needed mending. Grass burrs of all varieties, from the kind that was sheer agony to step on to the small sticky ones that didn’t prick but held on with some sort of plant adhesive. Spanish needle grass, sewing itself into fabric or flesh. Bits of hay that stuck to jeans, and sections of icicle cactus that broke off and attached themselves to the clothing, skin or fur of any person or animal who passed within two feet of it.

  She used to sit down on the porch with Merle, her border collie, for hourlong grooming sessions, with a slicker brush, a pair of scissors and a letter opener for removing the mats in his soft undercoat. Sometimes she’d find a piece of needle grass that had screwed itself through his coat and was just starting to pierce his skin. It was so satisfying to pull it out and snap the hard sharp-pointed head with its hairy barbs and trailing spiral-shaped stem. Merle was patient, offering no resistance, only whining softly when she tugged too hard. It felt good to make his coat smooth and burr-free.

  Dalia shook herself out of her reverie. She was actually smiling. What was the matter with her? Was she getting nostalgic about needle grass?

  She roamed around the room, gloating, and opened the closet. Her luggage stood in the back, empty, because she’d already put her clothes in the closet and dresser. She could do that, because the closet and dresser weren’t full of useless clutter. There was exactly one box in the closet, marked “sentimental.”

  The box she’d used to mail back Tony’s stuff was a big box, purchased at the university post office. The weeks after that fateful spring break had been dark with misery, with Tony acting weird and her suspicion deepening with each passing day, finally culminating in one last nasty conversation, after which she’d taken everything she had of his and everything he’d ever given her, boxed it up and overnighted it to him. It helped, doing the actual packing and addressing in a public place; it made the whole thing feel like an emotionless transaction and kept her from breaking down or losing her nerve. She hadn’t written an accompanying letter. What was there to say?

  She’d made sure he had to sign for the package, just so she’d know beyond a doubt that he’d received it. He’d received it, all right. And he didn’t call to protest or try to get her back. And although this was theoretically what she wanted—no fuss, no drama—still it stung. When it came down to it, she didn’t expect him to let go so easily, even in the face of glaring truth. It hurt that he didn’t fight for her. Made her wonder just how long things had been over between them in his mind, how long he’d been bored with her. She was sore about it still.

  But that was just a feeling, and it didn’t change anything. She hadn’t sent his stuff back to get a rise out of him; she’d done it because she was through with him. His lack of reaction was evidence that she’d made the right decision.

  She gave herself a little shake. That was enough thinking about Tony. Time to get back to gloating over her tidy room.

  The clothes she’d brought from Philadelphia had filled only the top two dresser drawers. She opened a lower one now just to enjoy the sight of it, empty.

  But it wasn’t empty. There was stuff in there—a broken iPod, an empty leather case for a tablet, a sequined pink sweater with some of the sequins missing and a pair of ridiculous fur-trimmed knee-high socks, worn out at the heels.

  Righteous indignation swelled in her. She removed the entire drawer, took it to her sister’s room and dumped the contents onto the bed. Then she took a picture and sent it to Eliana, along with a message. These things must have been misplaced. Weird, huh?

  The reply came back right away. Oh, come on. You’ve got so much more space than I do.

  Dalia answered just as quickly. False. Our rooms are exactly the same square footage. And your dresser has more drawers than mine.

  But mine are crowded!!!

  And whose fault is that?

  Don’t be mean!!! You won’t miss one drawer, you’ve got 5000 empty ones.

  Dalia’s fingers were flying now. They’re MY drawers, and they’re empty because I have the discipline to keep them that way.

  But what’s the point of having them if they’re empty?!!

  Dalia made a scoffing sound. What a question! Why did people act like empty space was some sort of anomaly, like it had no value in and of itself, like it was just waiting to be filled? Don Aslett said there was nothing wrong with wide-open spaces. Wide-open spaces were American.

  But it was useless to try to explain it to Eliana. She couldn’t, wouldn’t understand. Dalia needed to talk to someone who did understand.

  She texted Lauren. Can you Skype?

  The reply came seconds later. Yisss.

  Dalia sat back at her desk and opened her laptop. The incoming Skype call notification was already doing its thing. She answered.

  And there w
as Lauren, with the interior of her live-in van stretched out behind her, colorful and magical, like something out of a fairy tale.

  Unlike Dalia, Lauren enjoyed an abundance of cushions and throws and artistic old architectural remnants, but there was nothing in her space that could be called clutter. They were both minimalists at heart, in their different ways; their shared college dorm room had looked like a modern still life. Lauren had made Dalia a hand-lettered rendition of the William Morris quote: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. It hung in Dalia’s apartment by her closet door.

  In most other ways, the two of them were opposites. Dalia thought living in a van, even a thoughtfully fitted-up one like Lauren’s, sounded awful, and Lauren thought Dalia’s life in the city sounded soul-crushing. Dalia preferred to work with numbers, and Lauren, a photographer, was much more artistic. But that was fine. Each respected the other’s style, space and wildly different personality.

  Lauren was beautiful in a feminine, girlie way, and the rich warm colors of her van made a perfect backdrop for her chestnut hair and creamy skin, as she surely knew.

  “Hey there! What’s up?”

  That was another nice thing about Lauren. She didn’t waste time with chitchat.

  Neither did Dalia.

  “You’ll never guess who my mom hired as the contractor for the kitchen rebuild.”

  “How could I possibly guess? I don’t know anyone in Limestone Springs except—ohmygosh, is it Tony? Your superhot ex?”

  “Wow. You guessed that a lot quicker than I thought you would.”

  Lauren squealed and bounced on her mattress. “Is he as hot as he used to be?”

  “Honestly? More so. And I wouldn’t have believed that was possible. His body is as amazing as ever, and he’s got this perfect little beard now, like a Tony Stark beard, with points and swirls and things. It’s like a sculpture for his face.”

  “Mmm, nice! Soooo, is there still a spark?”

  “What does it matter? You know what happened. He cheated on me. He’s nothing to me now. Less than nothing.”

  “Right. That’s why he’s the first thing out of your mouth when you Skype me without scheduling it a week beforehand.”

  Dalia realigned her phone with the edge of her desk. “Okay, yes. There’s a spark. More than a spark. Kind of a...blaze.”

  “Wow. That’s big. You haven’t had a blaze since...”

  “Since Tony. Yeah, I know. And it makes me mad at myself. It’s just weakness.”

  Lauren looked thoughtful. “Well, it’s been a long time. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’s changed.”

  “He doesn’t look sorry. And I was just reading this article, trying to figure out how long this rebuild is going to take, and it looks like it could take half a year easy.”

  “Half a year! Can you be away from work that long?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s not the issue. My mom thinks I’m telecommuting. I don’t telecommute. I don’t have to. This is just how the job is now. With all the platforms available to financial planners—data-sharing, planning programs, videoconferencing—there is simply no reason for me or anyone else with proper licensure and credentials to go into an office unless I want to. There are still some old-school clients who prefer in-person interaction, but plenty more who’d just as soon handle it all online. The truth is, at this point I could live and work wherever I want. I just want to live in the city, in my own space. But that’s not possible right now. My mom’s injury is going to take a long time to heal, and there’s ranch work to be done, besides looking after her and overseeing the rebuild. And it’s my duty to take care of all that. So I’m stuck here until it’s done.”

  “How are you managing without a kitchen?”

  “That part’s fine. We have a hot plate and toaster oven set up, and there’s an extra fridge in the laundry room, and my mom’s church friends have been bringing dinner. They have this whole schedule worked out. A lot of them have used Tony and his brother for home renovations themselves. I keep hearing the words good but slow. And I’m thinking, if he’s slow, how does he make a living? Does he pad his estimate? Inflate his hours? Overcharge for materials? And this is a ground-up rebuild, not just a renovation. They’re going to have to extend the foundation and frame new walls. I’m afraid he’s going to milk this job for all it’s worth and fleece my mom. Clearing the wreckage and preparing the site alone will take weeks. I told my mom I’d stay for the whole process, and I will, but I had no idea I was in for such a long ordeal, let alone with Tony.”

  “How is your mom?”

  “Cheerful and sunny and upbeat as ever, and doing a lot more knitting now that she’s supposed to keep off her feet. I know her ankle must hurt, but she never complains. She’s just antsy because she can’t get to church to help with the Wednesday-night suppers and the Fall Festival. Oh, and get this. She hosts this fundraiser for the volunteer fire department every year, this huge all-day event, and she won’t give it up even though there’s rubble all over the ground and she’s got pins and screws sticking out of her Franken-ankle and no kitchen to cook in. It’s going to be complete and utter chaos. Oh, and guess who’s a volunteer firefighter?”

  “Hmm, let me think. Your superhot ex?”

  Dalia groaned and beat her head against her desk a few times. Then she looked up and said, “Remember that guy? You know, what’s-his-name.”

  “Sorry, I can’t quite place him.”

  “You know, my first boyfriend who wasn’t Tony.”

  “Oh, yeah, that guy. What was his name? Wait—I know. Liam.”

  “That’s right! Liam. He was like the anti-Tony. Nonathletic, Anglo, bookish. Even wore little hipster glasses.”

  “Yeah, Liam was cute.”

  “He was, wasn’t he? But he bored me. Every man since Tony bores me. It isn’t fair. He ruined me for other men, and he doesn’t even want me. Not that I want him! I mean, not on a rational level. It’s just... I don’t know. Life has a shine to it when he’s around that it doesn’t have when he’s gone.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you mean, you know? How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because I know you. Your attraction to him is something that doesn’t follow logic. It’s been the one consistently irregular, wild-card-type thing in your life. You like things orderly and predictable. Cause and effect. Effort and reward. Reap and sow. But then there’s Tony, and he’s all charm and spontaneity and improvisation. He shoots from the hip, makes stuff up on the fly. He annoys you because he upsets your notions of how the world works, and he fascinates you because he’s so good at it.”

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.” She swallowed hard. “We had this whole life planned together, you know? Where we’d both finish college, and maybe he’d go pro and maybe not, but either way he’d have his degree and I’d have mine, and...and we’d get married. And we’d work hard and save our money, and one day we’d get a nice place in the country. And sometimes I catch myself thinking about what might have been like it is, like it’s out there, somewhere, in some alternate version of my life. A phantom life. The life I was supposed to have, where Tony stayed faithful.”

  “Well, maybe it means something that you feel that way.”

  “Yeah, it means I’m an idiot.”

  “No, Dalia, it doesn’t. You can’t go through life shutting down your feelings all the time. Maybe you need to follow your heart for a change.”

  “What? No, I don’t. That’s a terrible idea. Follow my heart. What does that even mean?”

  Before Lauren could answer, Dalia heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle coming down the drive. The entry to La Escarpa was guarded by a coded electronic gate, so visitors were always something of an event. People didn’t just drop by.

  Maybe another meal delivery from the church? It was early for that, th
ough, just past eight in the morning. Besides which, it sounded like more than one set of wheels.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said to Lauren.

  She went to the window. A line of vehicles was coming down the winding drive. A fire truck led the way, followed by an unmistakable vintage red Chevy stepside.

  Back at her computer screen, she said, “I have to go. Someone’s here.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DOWNSTAIRS, SHE FOUND her mom on her crutches, peering out the living room window at the approaching caravan, her knitting project abandoned on the sofa.

  “What’s going on?” Dalia asked. “Did you call the fire department?”

  “No, I have no idea what they’re doing here. Look, that’s Mad Dog McClain driving the fire truck. He’s the chief.”

  They went outside. The vehicles started parking one after another. Mad Dog, a slender, bespectacled redhead in a long-sleeved button-down and a broad-brimmed straw gardening hat, got out of the fire truck and walked toward the house.

  “What’s going on, Mad Dog?” her mother called out. “Do I have a fire I don’t know about?”

  Mad Dog smiled.

  “No, ma’am. We’re here to work. Tony called me and said how he and Alex are fixing to rebuild your kitchen. Said there’s lots of wreckage to clear away before they can get started, so why not bring out the whole fire department to take care of it. I’m no carpenter, but I can pick up debris and haul it to the dump, and so can the rest. Then the Reyes boys can get the walls up for you that much sooner.”

  Tony stepped out of the Chevy. Dalia’s heart gave a quick painful thump at the sight of him in his cargo shorts, cowboy work boots and T-shirt emblazoned with a Texas-shaped graphic. Tony always was wild about Texas-shaped things.

  Her mom got all fluttery. “Oh, Mad Dog, that is so sweet of you all. I don’t know what to say.” She raised her voice. “Thank you for coming, everyone! There’s bottled water and tea in the laundry room fridge. I wish I could offer you something more, but Dalia can go to town and get some drinks, and later on we’ll order some pizzas.”