Chapter 20

'Berto

Roberto got home at the usual time, let himself in the door, and went straight to the kitchen where he poured orange juice into a glass. He'd grown up with orange juice – and other varieties of juice – but after leaving home he'd gotten into the habit of drinking orange juice only when it had a generous admixture of vodka. He'd forgotten how good just plain orange juice was. He was relearning it now – Toni was a fanatic for the stuff, and always had a gallon in the fridge.

He refreshed the glass of juice, put the jug back in the refrigerator, and carried the glass into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. He saw a piece of paper under his book, the lower half exposed and bearing Toni's writing. He lifted the book and read:

And then there was her signature, the short angular Toni.

Roberto had never received such a letter before. It was a letter which made him think that he knew the answer better than she did. It sounds like she loves me. But that couldn't be the case, for if she did she'd be falling all over herself accepting his proposal.

So she doesn't love me? He hadn't thought of that before. He hadn't, in fact, asked himself whether she loved him. He'd realized that the only way out of his mental morass had been to marry Toni – or at least propose to her – and once he'd made that decision he'd come to the understanding that he loved her. And he'd stopped there. But what if she doesn't love me? Is that what she's wrestling with – how to let me down gently? It was a horrible thought. If Toni didn't love him, then what was going to happen? Would she ask him to move back out?

But she seemed to enjoy having him there. She'd invited him to stay that first day, and she'd shown every sign of enjoying his presence. She enjoyed having him around, enjoyed talking to him, enjoyed it when he helped her with the dishes or the laundry. At least she seemed to enjoy these things – to enjoy him.

She's not that good an actor. Surely not. Surely she couldn't have been faking every word, every look, every caress. For two weeks? It was one thing for an actor in a movie to make it seem like he or she loved another actor – actually to make it seem as though one character loved another. But in these intimate circumstances could Toni have really put on such a marvelous act that he couldn't see a single flaw in it? No – that's impossible. So she did enjoy him. But did she love him? That was the question, wasn't it?

He looked down at the letter in his hand. If she's not an actor, at least not that good an actor, then this must be for real. She really does care about me. That was a start. It was better than nothing. But what it would lead to was impossible to tell. Just caring about me could lead either to yes or to no. I wish I knew whether she loves me...

Toni

Toni rushed through her last few instrument sets, trying to get a chance to leave early. And she succeeded, too – she'd explained to her colleagues that she had a personal matter to take care of, and needed to leave early if she could, and they'd broken their backs as much as she had to clear the load. She gave each one a hug, and then rushed out.

Kenzi Collum was the daughter of Scottish immigrants, and she spoke with just a trace of her parents' strong accent. She was a little older than Toni, and like Toni had loved, and lost her lover. Kenzi, though, had gotten to marry her man. Whether that was part of her wisdom Toni didn't know, but she did know that she'd never talked to Kenzi without finding it helpful.

Tony Mansfield – Kenzi had retained her maiden name – had been a successful surgeon, and when he'd died he'd left Kenzi a house on Piru in southeast Albuquerque, and plenty of money; she would have to work hard to spend herself into the necessity of finding a job. Yet she always had plenty to do – she kept the house without hiring any help, and spent two or three mornings a week in various volunteer and church activities. She was, in fact, Toni's one remaining connection to God.

Toni pulled into Kenzi's driveway, and though she'd rushed out of the hospital and pushed the speed limit all the way east on Central, she found herself reluctant to walk the few feet and ring the doorbell. She didn't have to – Kenzi had apparently heard the car, and poked her head out to see who it was.

"Toni! How good to see you. How are you?"

"I'm fine. Well, not quite fine. In fact, that's why I'm here..."

Kenzi looked more closely at her friend. "I think you've lost a little weight, Toni – and you can't spare it. Come in. I'll fix you a snack and we'll talk about it."

The snack was sandwiches – some salami, some braunschweiger, some ham – and coffee. Toni managed to eat a sandwich, but when she finished it she pushed her plate away and folded her hands and stared into a distance only she could see.

"Earth to Toni!"

"Yes ... oh, sorry, Kenzi."

"You've got something on your mind, friend. What's going on?"

Toni didn't reply for a few seconds. "Tell me, Kenzi – what does your name mean?"

Kenzi smiled. "If I answer that question, will you finally get around to it?"

"Okay, okay, you're right. Yes, I'll tell you."

"That's better. Kenzi's short for MacKenzie, and it means 'fair one, ' though my parents did change the spelling just a bit."

"I should have known it was something Scottish." Toni smiled faintly, but it faded almost immediately. "I said I'd tell you why I'm here. A man's asked me to marry him and I don't know what to say."

"Child, you say you'll marry him, of course!" In her excitement, Kenzi's accent was getting considerably thicker.

"But can I?"

"Why can't you?"

"Kenzi, you know what I'm like."

"Aye, lass. I know you very well. So what's the problem?"

"Kenzi, I'm the woman who surrendered my virtue. I'm the woman who betrayed God. I'm the woman who destroyed everything I ever had."

"True – you committed the sin of sexual immorality. False – you have nothing left."

"Come on, Kenzi..."

Kenzi raked her hair – thick wavy brown hair with just a touch of red in the right light – she raked it back with both hands, and held it, as though she would pull it out by the roots in one great mass. "Did you come here, lass, to argue or to listen?"