Butterfly Tattoo Read online

  Makes me feel a little better about having an attractive, single woman into our home, too. Less disloyal, more like I’m keeping him in the center of what we’re doing here. Since this is about our daughter, not about some kind of strange attraction that I feel crackling to life. I’m not straight—haven’t been in more than a decade—so it doesn’t even make sense to me, the way I find myself preening here in front of the mirror tonight. Besides, she’s going to know I’m queer within a few seconds of walking in our door; the evidence is all around this place.

  Then how come I didn’t tell her the truth about my sexuality when she asked about my wife? I could have been honest then, when she mentioned my wedding ring. Damn, my ring! I touch my naked hand with a start, panicked to realize I’ve forgotten to slip the band back on my finger after my shower. Reaching for the soap dish beside the sink, I slide the familiar silver band into my open palm.

  Alex put that ring on my hand on a sunny fall day in 1998, in an unorthodox chapel out in Malibu, a little seaside building, all white and gleaming in the sun like a bleached shell. I remember my heart was a gull that day, lifting upward and upward into the azure sky. Our future was wide open. We’d have children and dreams and a life together.

  I stare down at the weathered band in my palm’s center. It’s taken a beating over the years, but it’s still beautiful. For a moment, I hesitate. Alex is dead, so maybe it’s time to put it away. Maybe I should just drop it into his jewelry box there on our dresser, lay it to rest beside his cufflinks and Rolex, and stop holding on.

  Turning the silver ring between my fingertips, I study the inscription on the inside. October 10, 1998. Just a date, a marker back in our personal history, but I’ll be damned if I won’t still wear his ring. I slip it on my finger and turn off the bathroom light.

  Cooking dinner had been her idea, not mine. I just asked if she’d spend some time with Andrea; try to make a further connection. We were sitting there in the coffee shop of the bookstore, me trying to ignore the strange jittery sensation in my chest every time she looked up at me with those moss-green eyes. Her eyes have it, no doubt about that. They’re almond-shaped, kind of aquamarine, like jewels that might change colors in the sun. Maybe there’s a little magic behind them, because they sure made something strange happen inside of me.

  She has a kind of ingrained gesture of touching her scars, although I doubt she even knows she does it. The marks are noticeable, but I’m betting they’re not nearly so bad as she thinks they are. That’s the problem with Hollywood. Everything’s supposed to be idealized perfection. So what’s a gorgeous woman like Rebecca to do if she’s permanently flawed? Like a chipped vase at Tiffany’s, she’s been shifted onto the clearance rack. Or at least that’s what she probably believes.

  Truth is she’s still lovely. Yeah, the pale streaking marks along the left side of her face take something from her looks, especially the one that runs the length of her jaw. Takes some getting used to, talking to her and not staring at them. Can’t deny that. But her eyes, with those dark lashes, and her face shaped like a heart, well it’s been such a long time since a girl’s had me feeling this way.

  Of course, Alex always insisted that I was bisexual, but it just felt easier to categorize myself as gay. I never have been one for half-measures about anything. He loved ribbing me when we watched movies, though, because while he scoped the boys, I still watched the girls. That didn’t freak him out, it just made him laugh. Alex Richardson was nothing if not sure of himself about everything—most of all me.

  I wonder what he’d tell me now, with this infatuation thing I’ve got going for Rebecca O’Neill. Would he be jealous, as I stand here in the kitchen, pacing around in my polished loafers and sipping my Heineken? Would he remind me that before him, I’d been with plenty of women, especially back in my army days? I think he’d give me a luscious kiss on the mouth and tell me to just relax. That she’s coming to see Andrea anyway, because I asked her to, and that it’s not even about me.

  Alex is right; this is not about me. It’s about our daughter, and this stranger who has somehow forged a mysterious link with her. I just hope Andie won’t retreat when she discovers this plan of mine. I’ve been there too many times with her in the past year, on the outside, trying to force my way in. I really can’t handle being there again.

  Rebecca shows up with bags of groceries from Whole Foods and a load of fresh spices I couldn’t possibly identify by name.

  “I love to cook,” she tells me with a faint grin. She tries to hide her smile most times; I’ve already caught on to that. Her injuries have affected her mouth, so that the left side doesn’t turn up quite right. She tries to hide her face, too, always kind of moving the left side away from me, brushing her hair forward. Maybe when I know her better I can tell her to just relax. Funny, ’cause isn’t that what Alex would have said to me about tonight?

  “Where’s Andrea?” She drops the paper bags in the middle of our small kitchen floor, and they thud against the old hardwoods. She glances over the bar, into the den, as I clutch my beer anxiously between both hands like a frat boy at a first mixer.

  “She’s not here yet,” I explain, my voice hitching with blatant nervousness. “Um, she stayed at my friend Marti’s house last night, but she’ll be back soon.”

  God, I suddenly feel ridiculous, with my freshly combed hair and neatly pressed shirt, like a refugee from some preppy detention camp.

  Rebecca nods, and for a tense moment we stand eyeing each other. I clear my throat. “Look, I really appreciate you coming over like this,” I begin. “You know, to be with Andrea. She doesn’t have enough women in her life. I mean, there’s Marti, but…” How can I explain to Rebecca how she’s different than the other women, and not offend her?

  She hoists a bag up onto the countertop with a bittersweet laugh. “Michael, I get it.” She begins unloading cheeses and spices and meat, and I get the feeling she’s avoiding looking at me. “Andrea and I have something important in common. You can just say it.” She keeps organizing her ingredients, busying herself too much, like she’s trying to defuse a bomb or something.

  “Okay, yeah, you and Andrea do have something in common.”

  “Where are your knives? Cutting board?” she asks matter-of-factly, turning to face me finally. I step close, reaching around her to open the utensil drawer, and as I do, my hand brushes against hers. She reacts, jerks backward a little, and I place a steadying palm on her forearm, feeling tensed muscle beneath my fingertips. Thing is, she’s feminine, but she’s strong, too.

  “Just getting it for you,” I explain gently, and wonder what exactly haunts her past that’s left her this jumpy.

  She stares down, nodding, and I see warmth creep into her rose-colored complexion. She’s wearing a clingy white T-shirt with khaki pants again—almost exactly what she had on yesterday. Different shoes this time. Another pair of sparkly, open-toed sandals, a mild racy touch in an otherwise conservative wardrobe.

  “How’s Foot tonight?” I ask, and this time she does look at me. Like she’s surprised that I’m picking back up our little flirtation. I lean closer, and staring at her pink painted toenails, whisper, “Out on the town again, huh? Foot really gets around, doesn’t she?”

  She smiles, a broad, genuine smile, and for once doesn’t even bother hiding the quirky way it turns up sideways. “She’s advised me to be a good chaperone, but yes, she’s out.”

  “Foot is out?”

  “Yes, on the town.” She stares at her feet, gesturing. “You know, like you said.”

  “Hmm, I thought maybe Foot was gay or something. If Foot’s out.”

  She rolls her eyes dismissively. “No way. She’s totally straight.”

  I’m not. I almost say it, but I bite back the words, and drain the rest of the Heineken from the bottle instead.

  Andrea and Marti come clattering into the house, talking and laughing, and seeing my little girl smiling so easily is like catching air. Like dropping into a mammo
th wave, the kind that leaves you unable to breathe at first.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I call out, and she looks around, her face clouding with confusion as she spots the meal brewing on the stove. Rebecca’s left me stirring the ground beef in a saucepan while she’s gone to the bathroom.

  “Are you cooking?” Andrea’s auburn eyebrows furrow into a dramatic line. It’s an expression I’ve seen on Alex’s face countless times—funny how she mirrors him without even trying. It’s definitely in the genetics.

  “You have a good time with Aunt Marti?” I ask brightly.

  Marti, closing the door to the garage behind them, looks surprised. “You’re cooking, Warner?” she laughs. “Oh, my God. Not you, not really?”

  “Uh, actually…” I stall a moment, glancing toward the hallway bathroom. “Well…a friend came to make a good meal for us.”

  “A friend?” Marti’s green eyes widen as undisguised hope flits across her face.

  “Who?” Andrea folds her small arms across her chest.

  “Your new friend,” I say, a tad defensively, feeling ganged up on by the women in my life. “Rebecca O’Neill.”

  For a long moment, Andie stays silent, and I fear this has been a lethal mistake, but then a small smile forms on her face. “Oh.” She nods approvingly. “Cool.”

  Andrea walks toward her bedroom, towing her small suitcase with her, and Marti steps close to me. “I wasn’t aware that Andrea had made a new friend,” she whispers. “Especially not one who cooks in such style.”

  At that precise moment, Rebecca enters the kitchen, her gaze moving between us. We snap apart and I give Rebecca a guilty smile. Guilty because I know that Marti knows me, which means she’s going to sniff out my secret attraction like the devoted bloodhound she can be.

  Marti, God love her, doesn’t miss a beat, but extends her hand warmly. “Hi, Rebecca, I’m Marti.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Rebecca bobs her head in that way I’ve noticed she does when things feel a little unclear. “I’m just… making dinner.”

  “Rebecca works with me at the studio,” I interject lamely. “She and Andrea have spent some time together.”

  “That’s great,” Marti chirps, then glances at her watch. “Oh, wow, I didn’t realize it was this late. Dave’ll kill me if I don’t turn right around and get home. I’m supposed to do the kids’ baths tonight.”

  “Well, it was great meeting you,” Rebecca says, offering a hint of a smile, as she turns to stir the ground beef on the stove.

  Marti opens the door, then adds, “Hope I’ll see you again, Rebecca,” and I could kill her for embarrassing me like that.

  In the driveway, Marti clutches my arm. “Warner, why on earth didn’t you mention that you’d made friends with Rebecca O’Neill?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Duh,” she says, thumping her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Because she’s famous? And she’s just, what, over at your house now?”

  “She’s not famous.” I fold my arms over my chest, explaining, “She works at the studio as some film exec or whatever.”

  “She may be, but she is famous, Michael,” she explains with forced patience. “God, where have you been? Like under a rock?”

  “I’ve had a lot going on this past year,” I growl at her.

  “This was a few years ago.” She lifts onto her tiptoes to brush a quick hand over my hair, neatening it. “You and Alex are just alike. Did neither one of you ever look at People Magazine? Watch television?”

  “We worked too much to watch television.” I duck away from her habitual straightening of my appearance.

  “Alex would’ve known.” Now that just ticks me off on principle.

  “Tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” I demand impatiently. “How’s she famous?” I’m thinking of our time together in the bookstore yesterday, that nobody gave us a second glance. How much of a celebrity could that make her, really? And what would Allie have known that I’ve somehow missed?

  Marti stares up at the night sky, like maybe someone might swoop down and knock some sense into thickheaded me. “Lord, Warner, what am I going to do with you?”

  I step close, staring her down. “If you don’t just tell me what the hell you’re talking about, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “Hello? She was on About the House? Does that ring a bell?” she asks in exasperation, and it does sound familiar. I think it was filmed on the lot. Maybe. “Well, she was the star of that show,” Marti continues. “For a couple of years, until one day some crazed fan attacked her outside her apartment, stabbing her like, what…ten times? The doctors all said it was a miracle that she even lived.”

  “Rebecca O’Neill?” I ask dumbly, thinking of the lovely, scarred woman in my kitchen.

  “Yes, Rebecca O’Neill. The woman cooking you southwestern whatever-that-is in there. The guy killed her career, even if she did survive,” she continues somberly. “It was a real tragedy. I can’t believe you’ve never seen the E! True Hollywood Story about it.”

  I catch sight of Rebecca framed in the kitchen window, the house lights an illuminating backdrop. I don’t want her to know I’m out in the driveway, gossiping about her past this way.

  As I move to walk back up the driveway, Marti tugs at my arm, whispering, “Be honest, Michael. Is this a date?”

  I kick at a loose piece of rock on the driveway, avoiding her probing gaze. “I’m queer, remember?” Marti of all people won’t buy that one. After all, we made love more times than I can precisely recall, so she knows damn well that my sexual pendulum has swung both ways.

  “It is a date!” She clasps her hands together conspiratorially. “Isn’t it?”

  I groan aloud. “I asked her here because she connected with Andrea.”

  Marti’s black eyebrows form a feathery question mark. “And that’s the only reason?”

  I see Andie through our living room blinds, walking toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I say hurriedly, leaning low to give Marti a peck on the cheek.

  She opens the door of her Toyota with a devilish look. “I’m calling you at eleven tonight for details.”

  “Fine,” I grumble irritably. “Eleven.”

  But what I’m thinking, although I don’t say so, is what if somehow that’s not late enough?

  When I enter the house again, Andrea’s standing at the sink with Rebecca, holding a couple of tomatoes in her small hands. Rebecca is patiently explaining about washing the vegetables as she takes a ripe one and positions it squarely on the cutting board. Neither of them knows that I’m watching.

  “These are from my mama’s garden,” she explains to Andrea. “Right off the vine.” I hadn’t realized her family lived here in L.A., not after seeing that picture of the horse farm.

  Rebecca begins to methodically slice the tomato into luscious wedges; I can’t explain it, but it’s such an earthy scene. The way she’s bending over the large wooden cutting board, the one that Alex always used when he cooked his extravagant meals. For nearly a year, we’ve eaten fast food and cereal and frozen dinners; mealtime has been little more than a chore.

  But something about all these spices, and the fresh smells, I don’t know what exactly, makes my throat tighten. The way Andrea looks up at her, all those usual defenses that I’ve grown accustomed to in the past year—they’ve been completely swept away. It’s the face of the daughter I had a year ago. All her innocence restored.

  “I watched Evermore,” Rebecca tells her. “It was on last night. A repeat. I thought I’d check it out, because of you.”

  “Yeah?” Andrea can hardly contain her excitement—her little voice absolutely quivers with it.

  “I liked it. I’m betting Gabriel’s your favorite,” she says knowingly.

  Andrea stays quiet, focusing on washing another tomato. “He’s an orphan,” she finally replies.

  Rebecca reaches for a wedge of cheese and the grater. “Yeah, I did kind of figure that out.”
r />   I know what Andrea’s going to say next before the words are even out of her mouth. I brace for it and attempt to bolster my waning emotional strength.

  My daughter peers up at Rebecca with wide-open, vulnerable eyes. “I’m an orphan, too,” she confesses softly.

  “What about Michael? You’ve still got him.”

  Andrea drops her gaze to the cutting board. “But he’s not my dad. Alex was my daddy.”

  I know Rebecca must be remembering our conversation from yesterday when I referred to my “wife” by that name.

  “Are you telling Miss Rebecca about Daddy?”

  I step into the kitchen boldly, making them both jump a bit. I should have held back, let them have this moment, but I can’t roll back time, not even these past few seconds.

  Andrea stares down at the cutting board, her rust-colored hair hiding her features. Rebecca offers me an apologetic smile, and I wonder if she’s starting to piece the puzzle together yet.

  Maybe… maybe not.

  “Andrea’s daddy could cook one helluva meal,” I say in an overly bright voice. “Me, well, I’m not so good.”

  There’s an awkward silence, and I hope Andrea will answer or say something about Alex, but instead it’s Rebecca who finally speaks. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve come to visit, huh?”

  I bend down and kiss the top of Andrea’s auburn head. “Really good. We need some home cooking ’round here.”

  ***

  After Andrea’s asleep, Rebecca notices our family portrait in the hallway, a photograph taken by Alex’s own twin sister, Laurel. We’re in the backyard of Grandma Richardson’s house in Santa Cruz, the lush green grass a canvas beneath us. Alex and I are sitting together, Andrea just in front. We’re all dressed up, a little churchy even, with our neat jackets and ties, Andie in a white sundress. The sun had hunkered low on the horizon that day, creating a golden halo around our trio.