Butterfly Tattoo Read online

  “Ben’s not evil, Mama.”

  “Of course he’s evil,” she says, her pale eyes widening as they meet my own. “How can you even say that he’s not?”

  Reaching for the basket of bread, I deflect her question with, “What’s happening Labor Day?”

  “Answer me, Rebecca. How can you defend that man?”

  I give a noncommittal shrug, staring at the table. “How can you blame him?”

  “Because he almost killed you, precious,” she says, squeezing my hand so tight that her wedding ring presses hard into my skin. “He planned it for months. Followed you for weeks. He set out to end your life. That is what I call evil.”

  “He thought I was his girlfriend,” I counter in a hushed voice, looking around to be sure we’re not overhead even though it would be impossible for anyone to eavesdrop with the music. “The poor guy thought I spoke to him from the freaking television set.”

  “That’s nonsense.” She shakes her head, adamant. There is no version of reality that will allow my mother to pardon Ben. “The courts knew that defense was ludicrous, that’s why they put him away.” She releases my hand, patting it reassuringly, and says, “Ben McAllister was responsible for his actions.”

  “Mama, if you think about it,” I answer, sucking in a slightly wheezing breath, “if I hadn’t come out here, Ben never would’ve hurt me.”

  Color floods her fair cheeks—Irish cheeks much like my own—as she stares at me in shocked disbelief. That’s when I retrieve my rescue inhaler from my purse and use it right at the table, my chest rattling, the sound of husk-like leaves brushing together as I suck in the medicine.

  “Rebecca Ann O’Neill, are you saying it was your fault?” She watches me use the inhaler without commentary.

  Feeling the fist-like tightness lessen its grip around my lungs, I answer, “Mama, it’s just that I made my choices. They were my choices, and I knew the risks going in. World’s full of Ben McAllisters, and I knew that too.”

  My mother bows her head, flipping through her date book without speaking. This time she’s really upset. She’s so different from my father, a lawyer who loves a good battle of wills; Mom only wants to make peace, to build bridges. And she can’t stand it when I won’t cooperate with that plan.

  “Mama, you’re the one who always taught me to forgive. That’s what the Bible says, and that’s what I always try to do. You taught me that.”

  “But the one person you’re not forgiving, sweetheart, is you. Don’t you hear that in what you’re saying?” she asks, voice gentle. “You seem so willing to forgive everyone but yourself.”

  Stunned, I can only stare back at her and blink. My mother’s peeled back every pretense I’ve been using to shelter myself for the past three years. If it’s not my fault, then I lose my last element of control, because the only aspect of the attack I can manage is my own part in it.

  “Well, I guess it’s easier to blame myself,” I answer after a moment, “than deal with the fact I’ll never act again.”

  Weariness fills her clear gray eyes. “Rebecca, I can’t tell you how sad it makes me that you’ve given up on your dreams, precious. You’ve always been my beautiful dreamer.”

  “I still dream, Mama,” I answer, thinking of Michael and our bookstore conversation. “But nothing turned out to be real.”

  “Sometimes our dreams come true in ways we don’t expect.” She drops her voice conspiratorially, leaning close across the table. “But that doesn’t mean those dreams aren’t real.”

  Was it real that I spent a month in intensive care with a breathing tube stuffed down my throat? That I almost never sleep through the night without at least one terrible dream? That feels pretty darn real to me. But the notion of a cruel God doesn’t, and that’s what I’m forever wrestling with.

  “Why did God let Ben do that?” I ask, not looking up. “Why’d He let him come after me?”

  “I can’t answer that, Rebecca. I wish that I could. All I know is that somehow, someway, everything works for the best, even the painful, terrible things.” She’s quoting Scripture to me, but being subtle about it. That’s another lifelong maneuver of hers: to cloak God’s truth in plain speaking. I’m still not sure I believe those words, about all things working together for good, but I’d like to get there eventually.

  “What’s happening on Labor Day?” I ask, thinking that a subject change might be smart about now.

  She blinks at me, and seems caught off-guard. With her pencil, she taps the open calendar page, Labor Day weekend already circled in bright red marker. “Daddy and I are going back home.”

  “To visit?” I’m not certain what she’s really saying.

  “No.” She shakes her head, staring out into the crowd of strangers, all potentially dangerous threats for her only baby girl. “We’re moving back to Georgia for good, precious. That’s what I was going to tell you tonight.”

  “Good.” I nod decisively, taking a sip of wine, even though I feel anything but brave on the inside. “I think that’s good, Mama.”

  She searches my face, trying to read me. “If you want us here, Rebecca—”

  I cut her off before the regrets can begin. “Mama, I’m the one who said I’m ready for you to go back. You’re right to go. I’ve got to stand on my own now.” I picture Michael Warner’s warm brown eyes, the flecks of gold flirting with hazel. Then I think of those faded T-shirts he always wears, and imagine pressing my face into one, burying myself against his chest and crying as long as I need to. He’d let me, too; he’d smell like earth, his hands would be large and safe. Even the bad dreams might stay away for a while.

  Then I imagine my old-fashioned Methodist mother’s reaction to his postmodern sexuality, and want to rush her right on out the door.

  Chapter Twelve: Michael

  Stepping out the front door of my house, I’m met by Casey’s landscape crew, armed with leaf blowers and lawn mowers like it’s an army work detail. Casey’s scrambling onto the back of their trailer, and looks up when I close the door. For a moment, neither of us smiles or says a word, until he gives me a curt nod. He climbs down, bracing a giant planter against his chest, and I meet him by the driveway.

  “What’s that?” I gesture toward the bright spray of purple and gold in his arms.

  “Brought this for your front steps,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.

  “Didn’t order that, you know,” I remind him, even though I realize it’s one of his famous peace offerings. He moves past me, depositing the flowerpot at the foot of the front steps.

  “Yeah, I know that, man.”

  He kneels there, tugging off a few damaged leaves with expert precision, and I ask, “So what’s it gonna cost me? ’Cause I don’t really have anything extra in the budget right now.”

  “Look, Mike, you know it’s not going to cost you a dime,” he explains gruffly, positioning the planter. “These are just a gift.”

  I only grunt in reply. Casey’s the master of the wordless apology, and that’s what these flowers are really about, but I’m still pissed at him about the other night. An awkward silence falls over us as he stands, brushing loose dirt off his hands. He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his long nose, past the bump in the middle, a memento from when he broke it back in his high-school skateboarding days.

  Despite years of sunblocking, Case is one of those guys whose skin has been leathered by exposure to the elements. Years of hiking and skiing and surfing and landscaping have left him permanently freckled and wrinkled beyond his forty years of age, and right now, he’s scowling at me in a way that doesn’t do justice to his golden-boy good looks.

  “So where you headed?” he asks after an uncomfortable moment.

  “Andie’s over at a birthday thing,” I explain, nodding toward the YMCA at the end of our street. “At the Y. Gotta go get her.”

  “Huh. I thought maybe you were going to see your girlfriend.” I don’t miss the derision in his voice, his lip curling up over the word.r />
  “That’s later,” I snap, pushing past him down the walkway. To hell with him and his opinions.

  “Tonight?” he calls after me, and I nod my head, refusing to continue our discussion.

  “Well, don’t forget the key.”

  I stop in my tracks and slowly turn to face him. I’m not sure he means what I think he means, so I repeat, “The key.”

  “To my beach place, man,” he nods. “There’s nothing like the ocean for a little romance. Girls dig that stuff, you know.”

  And then he smiles. One of those great, unexpected Casey Porter grins, and despite him being such a jerk lately, I have to smile, too. It’s like the summer sun has unexpectedly pierced a mantle of gray. “Thanks,” I say, forgiveness forming inside of me.

  He just waves, still grinning at me. “No problem, Straight Guy.”

  ***

  Despite Rebecca’s clear directions, I have to circle her secluded block in Beverly Hills several times to pinpoint the Malone mansion. By the time I do finally locate it, on a hill off Wilshire, my Chevy truck feels more like a maintenance vehicle than a date mobile. But I’m after the prize, my date with Rebecca O’Neill, so I shuck the working-class attitude, and motor up the vine-secluded drive toward the main house. Right past the steep, ivied walls, topped by pivoting security cameras, and right past the pool house, acting like I sure as hell belong in this part of town.

  Making a last inspection in my rearview mirror, I realize that I nicked myself shaving, and rummage through the glove compartment for a tissue. All I come up with is a discarded Starbucks napkin, and I blot the mark away, feeling a scratchy protrusion of beard beneath the rustling paper. Damn dull razor—and it’s a fancy party tonight, too, so I’ve got to look good. That’s why I did something I haven’t in more than a year: I pulled out my own Armani suit, a gift from Allie a few years back. He always loved to see me dress full-tilt, and thanks to him, I do like putting on the dog every now and then.

  There’s a sweet smell in the air. Summertime’s blooming already, and like the bumblebees buzzing around the flowerbed, I’ve got a strange fluttering feeling of my own this evening. But then, killing the engine, I stare down at my hands. Worker’s hands: calloused hands, tanned and coarse—ridiculous in contrast to this elegant suit. And then there’s my silver commitment band glinting against my skin, another absurd contrast. Just couldn’t leave Alex’s ring totally behind. Tried, but didn’t have it in me yet—so I switched hands. The sign of a widower, wedding band on the right hand. Felt so damned disloyal, I wound up adding Al’s Rolex to my wardrobe mix just to compensate for the suffocating guilt.

  Walking up to the garage I realize there’s no obvious entryway to Rebecca’s apartment. No side door, no stairs, nothing. For a moment, I stand there and scratch my eyebrow, then a throaty voice calls out, “Young man, why don’t you use the intercom?” It’s Mona Malone dead ahead, sipping a martini poolside, wearing an embroidered kimono bathrobe. Under the umbrella, I glimpse her silvered hair, drawn into an elegant bun. When she gives an undeniably flirty wave, I sure am glad Rebecca warned me about her landlady’s identity.

  I step closer, shielding my eyes against the piercing late-day sun. “Ma’am?” I call out. “I don’t see an intercom.”

  “The castle has a secret entry,” she answers coquettishly, and I get the impression this might not be her first martini of the evening. Staring back at the garage, I still don’t see an entry point, and she adds more soberly, “It’s around the side, covered by a patch of ivy. The intercom.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, giving a slight, respectful bow and a big southern grin. Not sure how else to pay proper respect to someone this old and famous.

  Finally, after a little recon work, I do locate the intercom. Pressing the button, there’s a ringing inside, then Rebecca’s sultry voice. “Yes?” she calls, drawing out the word.

  “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair.” I flirt for all I’m worth, leaning up against the side of the building.

  “It’s not that long. At least not yet.” She laughs, a tinny sound through the speaker, and I smile just to hear her voice.

  My heart beats triple time as I try in vain to think of something clever to say. Makes me think of the first time I ever took Alex on a real date, of how dopey and awkward I felt in the car on the way over to his place. My hands have the same clammy texture right now, and I can think of nothing—absolutely nothing—witty to say at all.

  “Keep growing it,” I finally suggest in a husky voice. “You’ll get there.”

  “Or I could use the stairs,” she suggests, and I look up to see the curtain shift overhead, then her blonde head brushing past the window. My golden girl, lost in her Beverly Hills turret.

  ***

  Wow. That’s the one word, almost a kind of musical note, that sings right through my brain when that garage door lifts, revealing a skimpily clad Rebecca O’Neill. Little black dress. Magic words coined by some famous designer along the way. Halston or Gucci, or maybe Coco Chanel, not even sure who said them originally. Don’t really care, either. All that matters in my world is the satin material ending about halfway up her shapely, sexy thighs. She’s got on a miniskirt, with a black knit halter-top affair, and it shows me what kind of curves we’re really dealing with here. I’ve underestimated, that’s for damn sure.

  God, she’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen so much of her before, and as she swings one foot out onto the pavement, I get my first real look at how leggy even a small girl can be in a pair of strappy slides.

  Ah, perfection.

  I stammer something nonsensical at her, something that comes out like one giant unintelligible compliment, and she giggles, blushing a little as she brushes at her hair. Taking her hand, I hope to God my palm’s not as sweaty as this nervousness makes me feel, and we walk down the driveway together. She stops when she sees my truck, eyeing it uncertainly, and it’s the first time I’ve thought about the logistics of wedging a five-foot-tall enchantress up into the high cab of the damned thing. “Uh, problem,” she alerts me, wiggling one high-heel clad foot by way of explanation.

  “Yeah, reckon so.” We stand there a moment, assessing the situation together like a pair of builders out on a job site.

  “Let’s take my Honda,” Rebecca resolves, grinning up at me. She’s got such a lovely smile; it’s different than all the pasted-on Hollywood veneers I usually see. It’s real and complex, hinting at something much deeper than what most of the women out here possess. That it’s quirky because of her scars only makes it all the more fascinating to me.

  “You sure?” I ask. “I could always hoist you onto my shoulder and stuff you in there Conan-style.”

  “Gee, and that sounds so appealing.”

  “Good, let’s go for it.” I grab her hand like I mean business. She squeals playfully, tugging herself free.

  “No, no! Honda.”

  “I’ll drive, though,” I insist, the old testosterone kicking in. See Michael date. Maybe I am capable of a Conan moment after all.

  “Okay,” she agrees easily. “Sure. I’ll give you the directions to Cat’s house.”

  And just like that, we’re on our way. All on our own, like certified grownups, out for a night of true romance.

  ***

  Cat’s trendy house in the Hollywood Hills is crammed full of trendy people having trendy conversations in trendy clothes, and the twenty-something crowd reminds me that thirty-nine feels like Methuselah in this town. Hadn’t really analyzed the age gap between Rebecca and me until tonight, but as I watch her work the party, it’s hitting me that I’m practically another generation. Well, “work” the party is probably an overstatement, with her semi-reserved manner, but she kisses a load of appropriate people outfitted with store-bought suntans and The Look. I, on the other hand, try like hell to fade into the set dressing, finally fleeing to the balcony for some air, after momentarily mistaking one of Cat’s younger sisters for J-Lo.

  Only a few people are ou
t here on the deck, and I stare down at the lights of Hollywood, a golden-lit roadmap spread below me. There’s the rushing white noise of our city, like a scalloped seashell pressed against my ear. Listening for an awe-inspired moment, I wonder if maybe I’m getting too old for this town. Too old for a girl like Rebecca, who refers to musty clothes as “vintage” when I just think they look out of date. Thing is, she’s still firmly planted on the low slope of thirty, with friends even younger still; it’s less than six months until life clicks another decade past on my odometer.

  That thought has me tugging at my suffocating tie when her buddy Trevor steps onto the deck. He nods politely when he sees me, withdrawing a cigarette case from his jacket pocket. His double-breasted charcoal suit is crisp and handsome on him. The wire frames look sexy, too, and I’ve got to admit he’s the kind of guy that maybe in some alter universe would have appealed to me. Yeah, it’s true; I’ve always gone for those brainy types.

  He sidles up to me, draping one arm over the railing in a nonchalant, debonair pose, and removing a cigarette from his case, asks, “What do you make of Cat?” Guess he’s referring to the way she nearly wrapped herself around me, kissing me full on the mouth when we first met by the front door tonight.

  “A real piece of work.”

  “Yes, well that’s a politic answer, isn’t it?” He flips open a Zippo, and I reach for it, lighting his cigarette for him. He tosses me a very curious gaze, which I pointedly ignore. Trevor knows my score—and I know how to treat a fellow queer boy. Hell, Alex raised me right.

  Puffing on the cigarette, he takes a long drag, staring down into the bright lights below. “Rebecca looks lovely tonight,” he says after a moment, pocketing the lighter again. “Don’t you think?”

  “Rebecca’s always gorgeous,” I agree heartily, and I see a real smile appear on her best friend’s face.

  “I hate to admit it, but I think you might be good for her,” he says quietly, staring away from me. It’s obviously a problem for him, me with her.