Читать книгу: «Whispering Rock», страница 2

“No.”

Jack ground his teeth. “Then if you hadn’t walked out on her for another woman, you’d have been at the house that night. Maybe waiting up for her to get home. Maybe right inside where you could hear her scream. So much for your good history.”

“Hey,” Brad began, clearly wishing to argue the point. But Jack turned away from him and took several steps down the hall. Right then the doctor came breezing out of the room, looking down at the chart as he walked by all three men. Brad lifted his chin, glared briefly and entered Brie’s room.

Mike let out his breath. “That was gonna be so ugly,” he said. He went to the chair outside Brie’s door and sat. Jack paced, fidgeting. He took several steps down the hall, away from the door.

Mike rested his elbows on his knees. He scratched his itchy beard. He noticed the cop was standing beside him.

“This has got to be tough,” the cop said to Mike, indicating Jack just a few feet away, his jaw pulsing and his hands in fists at his sides.

Mike turned his head, looked up at the young officer. He glanced at his best friend; Jack was tortured, helpless. “Nothing can prepare you for something like this to happen to a woman you love,” he said softly. “Nothing.”

Brie was released from the hospital that afternoon and she went home to her father’s house. Sam and Jack drove her while Mike followed in his own car, watching with concern. He hadn’t been around very many sexual assault victims in his police career, but certainly he’d come into contact with some. He had never seen a woman so stoic, so removed. Once they all arrived at Sam’s, she went directly to the room that had been hers when she was younger. She called Jack to come, to cover the mirror.

Brie took her dinner on a tray in her room that night. Her sisters stopped by one at a time, visited with her in her room, but didn’t stay long. There were five Sheridan siblings, all married but Brie. Two of the sisters were older than Jack, one was a couple of years younger and then there was Brie, the caboose, eleven years younger than Jack. Her three older sisters had brought to the family eight daughters, and Jack and Mel had provided the only boy in little David. So when the family was all together, it was an almost unmanageable crowd. A teeming throng filled with noise and laughter—Mike had seen that for himself on earlier visits. It was not unlike the Valenzuela household. Not so now. The house was still, like a mausoleum.

Mike had a quiet dinner with Sam, Jack and Mel.

“You should probably head for L.A.,” Jack said to Mike when the table was cleared.

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “I can stay a day or so, see if anything develops.”

“I don’t want to hold you up,” Jack said. Then he walked out onto the patio and Mike followed. “I can call you if anything happens.”

Sam came outside holding a tray with three glasses. There was a short shot of amber liquid in each and he put the tray on the patio table. Without conversation, the men each took one, sipping in silence. The June air was sultry in the Sacramento valley, humid and almost oppressive. After a few minutes Sam got up and said good-night. Then Jack finished his drink and went into the house. One by one, the lights inside began to go out, leaving only the kitchen light for Mike. Exhausted as he was, he didn’t feel like sleep. He helped himself to another short shot and went back to the patio, lighting the candle on the table.

The whole family is in shock, he thought. They move around silently; they grieve Brie’s lost innocence. Everyone under this roof is in terrible pain; they feel each physical blow for which she bears the marks.

“You should probably go now.”

He lifted his head and saw Brie standing in the open patio doors, wearing the same clothes she had worn home from the hospital. “Brie,” he said, rising.

“I’ve talked to the detectives several times. Jerome Powell, the rapist, was tracked as far as New Mexico, then the trail was lost,” she said, very businesslike. “I can tell you from experience, the odds are at least ninety-five percent he’s gone—pulled a territorial. I’m going to start counseling and group therapy right away—and I’ve decided not to go back to work for a while. Jack and Mel insist on staying the rest of the week, but you should go. Visit your family.”

“Would you like to come and sit with me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’ll talk to the D.A. every day, see if he turns up anything new. Of course I’m staying here. If I need any assistance in the police department, I have an ex-husband who’s feeling very guilty. And very helpful.” She took a breath. “I wanted to say goodbye. And to thank you for trying to help.”

“Brie,” he said, taking a step toward her, his arms open.

She held up a hand, and the look that came into her eyes stopped him where he was. She shook her head, kept her hand raised against him. “You understand,” she said, warning him not to get too close, not to touch her.

“Of course,” he said.

“Drive carefully,” she said, disappearing into the house.

Two

One week later Mel and Jack returned to Virgin River to resume their routine. Mel went into Doc’s every morning, the baby with her for the day. If something urgent came up, she could always take the baby over to Jack at the bar, or if Jack wasn’t there, Paige or Preacher or Mike were more than willing to babysit. For the most part, David could be counted on to remain content for the half hour or so Mel needed to see a patient as long as she had the bouncy seat with her and he was neither hungry nor dirty. He still took two long naps a day—one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

Mel had been back from Sacramento less than two weeks when a teenage girl from Virgin River came to Doc’s and asked to see her. Carra Jean Winslow was fifteen and Mel had never seen her before. In fact, even though Mel had lived and worked in Virgin River for just over a year, she didn’t know the girl’s parents. Taking note of her age and obvious anxiety, Mel took her to an examining room before asking her what she needed. When a fifteen-year-old girl who didn’t cough or wheeze or bring her parents came in to see the nurse midwife, the possibilities seemed pretty limited and obvious.

“I heard there was a pill that could keep you from getting pregnant if, you know, you had sex,” she said. She said it very quietly, looking at her feet.

“Emergency birth control. But it’s only effective if the intercourse has been very recent.”

“Two nights ago,” she said weakly.

“That’s recent enough,” Mel said, trying to put her at ease with a smile. “Any problems? Pain? Bleeding? Anything?”

“Bleeding. There was some bleeding.”

“First time?” Mel asked, smiling kindly. The girl nodded. “Have you ever had an internal exam before?”

She shook her head and looked down again.

“I’d like to check you, make sure everything is okay. It’s not as terrible as you think,” Mel said, touching her arm gently. “How much bleeding?”

“Not too much. A little. Getting better.”

“How do you feel? There?”

She shrugged and said, “Still a little sore. Not bad.”

“That’s good. I assume, if you’re interested in emergency contraception, you didn’t use a condom….”

“No,” Carra answered.

“Okay, we can handle this. Can I get you to undress and put on a gown for me?”

“My mom. No one knows I’m here.”

“That’s all right, Carra. This is between you and me. I’m only interested in your health. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Everything off, just the gown.”

Poor thing, Mel thought. She ached for young girls who had just stumbled into this sort of thing without planning, without being sure. And that described almost all young girls. But at least she was here, avoiding yet another disaster. She gave Carra plenty of time to get undressed, but didn’t leave her waiting long enough to tangle up her nerves, then returned to the exam room.

“Let’s get a blood pressure and listen to your heart first,” she said briskly.

“I have to pay you myself,” Carra said. “I don’t want my parents to know about this.”

“Carra, confidentiality is important in this office—you can trust that,” she said. “This is all going to work out.” She applied the blood pressure cuff, noting there were a few small bruises on the girl’s upper arm. “You have a couple of bruises here,” she said.

“It’s nothing. It was … volleyball. It can get a little rough sometimes.”

“Looks like someone grabbed you,” Mel suggested.

The girl shrugged. “It happens.”

Mel got the blood pressure, which was normal. She listened to Carra’s heart, looked in her eyes, checked her pupils. Except for the nervous pounding of her heart, she seemed to be in good shape. She showed her the speculum, explained the procedure and eased her carefully into position for the pelvic. “Nice and slow, feet right here, slide down for me. That’s it. Try to relax, your knees apart, honey. Thank you. This isn’t going to be bad at all, so take some deep breaths and try to relax.”

“Okay,” she said, and began to softly cry.

“No crying now,” Mel said gently. “Everything is going to be all right, because you came to see me right away.” She gently parted the girl’s knees and was frozen. Her labia were bruised and swollen; there were bruises on the insides of her thighs that bore a striking resemblance to the bruises on the girl’s upper arm. An unmistakable thumbprint and fingers. Oh, God damn. Mel stood from her stool and looked over the drape at Carra’s face. “Carra, I can see that you’re very sore. Bruised and swollen and a little torn. I’d like to proceed, take a closer look to be sure everything is all right. But only if you’re up to it. Are you okay?”

She pinched her eyes closed, but nodded.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” Mel said. She put on her gloves but set the speculum aside. “I’m just going to check your vagina and uterus, Carra—I’m not going to use the speculum because you’re sore. I’d like you to take a deep breath for me, then let it out slowly. That’s it,” she said. “It’ll just take a minute. Don’t clench. Relax your muscles, Carra. There you go, very good. Tell me, does this pressure hurt?”

“Not so much,” she answered.

Why do these things always come in batches? Mel thought. I’m not over Brie! Carra’s vaginal wall was torn, ragged. Raw. Her hymen was ripped open and looked like so many little fingers. She completed her exam quickly, and while she didn’t have a rape kit handy, she did have a sterile swab with which she took a vaginal specimen, although it could be too late for any DNA recovery.

“Okay, Carra, let me help you sit up.” Mel snapped off her gloves and helped Carra get herself settled, legs dangling off the table. “I’m concerned about what happened to you, Carra. It looks like you’ve been hurt. Want to tell me about it?”

She shook her head and a couple of big tears spilled over. Carra was a plain girl with an oblong face, bushy, unshaped brows and a small problem with acne. And right now, a really bad case of regret and fear and nerves.

“It will be confidential,” Mel said tenderly. “It’s not just the bruises, Carra. Your vagina looks ragged. Torn. The damage isn’t serious. It’ll heal. But from everything I can see—”

“It was me. It was my fault.”

“Something like this is never a woman’s fault,” she said, and she used woman purposely, although this was a mere girl. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, and we’ll go from there.”

“But you’ll give me that pill?” she asked desperately.

“Of course. We’re not going to let you get pregnant. Or sick.”

She took a deep breath, but it brought the tears harder. “I just changed my mind when it was too late, that’s all. So it’s my fault.”

Mel touched her knee. “Go back to the beginning. Nice and easy.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Sure you can, honey. I’ll just listen.”

“We decided we were going to do it. He got all excited about that—he said he was sorry after. We’d already started…. He couldn’t stop.”

“He could,” she said. “I can see the bruises from his fingers, like he held you down, held your legs apart. I can see the marks, the tears. Let me help you.”

“I wanted to, though.”

“I know, Carra. Until you didn’t. And you told him no, didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “No. I wanted to.”

“If you said no at all, that’s rape, Carra. Date rape.”

Carra leaned forward, her position pleading. “But I’ve done things with him. Lots of things. And I wanted to.”

“Have you ever had intercourse before?” She shook her head. No. “You can say no right up to the last minute, Carra. That’s the law. And it doesn’t matter what you did with him before. Tell me—is this a boyfriend? Or someone you’ve only known a little while?”

“I’ve known him a long time from school, but he’s been my boyfriend a couple of weeks.”

But they’ve done a lot? Mel was asking herself. “Carra, he moved pretty fast. I want you to think about this. A couple of weeks. This is one determined guy. How old is he?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I’m not telling you any more. I’m not getting him in trouble. It wasn’t his fault. It was my mistake, but he’s sorry.”

“Okay, listen—don’t get yourself all upset. If you change your mind and want to talk about this, you just call me. Or come to see me. Doesn’t matter when. Let’s get you on a dependable birth control and—”

“No. I’m not doing it again,” she said, holding her mouth in a tight line while tears wet her cheeks.

Oh, she’d been raped. Sounded as if she didn’t even have much of a date, Mel thought. “Carra, if you continue to see this boy, this man, it’s going to happen again.”

“I’m not doing it again,” she said firmly. “I need that emergency pill. That’s all.”

“That’s all for right now,” Mel said. “I want you to come back in a week or two, so we can test for STDs and be sure you’re healing up. It’s too soon for anything to turn up today, this soon after exposure. But this is really important. Will you do that?”

In the end she agreed, but she wouldn’t accept birth control. In a very businesslike tone she asked Mel, “How much?”

“Forget it, Carra. This one’s on the house. Call me if you need me. Anytime. I mean it—anytime. Night or day. I’ll write down the number here and my number at home for you. Okay?”

“Thanks,” she said meekly.

After all that, the thing that really tore at Mel’s heart was seeing her patient ride away on her bicycle. The girl wasn’t even old enough to drive a car. And she pedaled while standing up—her tender bottom couldn’t handle the seat.

Mike Valenzuela called Brie. He couldn’t help himself. It had been two weeks since he’d heard her voice. Jack was more than happy to keep him up-to-date on her recovery, how she sounded, but Mike needed more. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Pretty rugged. Kind of edgy and nervous,” she answered. “But then, it hasn’t been that long.”

“Physically?” he pressed.

“I … Ah … I guess the worst is over. The bruises are beginning to fade. But it’s amazing how long it takes a couple of ribs to heal.”

“Jack says you took an extended leave of absence from the prosecutor’s office,” Mike said.

“Did he tell you why?” she asked.

“No. And you don’t have to tell me. Don’t make yourself uncomfortable.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said coldly. “Because I can’t work like that—when I can prosecute a suspect for rape and he gets off.” She laughed bitterly. “On me!”

“Oh, Brie,” he said, sympathetic. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“If I get a chance, if they find him, I’m going to bury him. I’ll put him away for life. I swear to God.”

Mike took a deep breath. “You’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever known. I’m proud of you. If there’s anything I can do …”

“It’s nice of you to call,” she said more softly. “Not many people besides family are brave enough—I guess they’re afraid of what they might hear. Does Jack know you called?”

It wouldn’t be long before Jack found out, Mike thought. Sam had answered the phone, asked who was calling before putting her on. “I didn’t call you because you’re Jack’s sister, but because you’re my friend and I wanted to know how you are. I don’t really care if Jack’s okay with it, only if you are.”

“I’m okay with it. His protective nature usually just amuses me. Or annoys me. But not at the moment,” she said. “It feels kind of like a shield, just knowing how he is.”

“I’d be protective if you were my sister, too,” Mike said. “I’m feeling protective myself, though there’s not much I can do but call and talk. I think this is what happens to everyone around the crime, Brie. We all have our responses—from the victim to her friends and family. It’s all part of the healing process. I watched my friends and family go through that, too. It’s one of the reasons I came up here—it was becoming oppressive. Their need for me to heal so they could feel better.”

“I keep forgetting that,” she said. “That’s how self-absorbed I’ve become. You’re a crime victim, too.”

“You’re supposed to be self-absorbed right now. Self-protective. Focused.”

“And that’s how you were?” she asked him.

“Ohhhh.” He laughed. “I wish you could’ve seen my routine. I started out the day by crawling out of bed crippled, the pain terrible. I dosed up on the anti-inflammatory, iced down my shoulder and groin, drank Mel’s protein supplement drinks that would gag a maggot, and then started my exercises with one-pound weights—so light, so nothing. And it would make me almost cry. Then I’d have to lie down. It took me two months to do a sit-up—and Mel would help me with the physical therapy on my shoulder every day, but not until afternoon, not until I could drink a beer first to take the edge off. She’s little, you know, but you shouldn’t let that fool you—she can pull and push and grind on an injured muscle until you beg like a baby. My life was all about getting my body back.”

“I wish this was just about my body,” she said softly.

“There were also nightmares,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. “I’d like you to know—I’m not having them anymore.” And he thought, you just don’t realize yet how much of this is going to end up being about your body. He had at least a passing knowledge of what rape and assault victims went through. It was going to be a long time before Brie would have a healthy sexual relationship.

Afterward, Mike was pretty astonished that Jack made no mention of his call to Brie. It could mean only one thing—neither Brie nor Sam had mentioned it, and he wasn’t sure why. He gave brief consideration to bringing it to Jack’s attention himself. He could explain his concern easily—he had a few things in common with her at the moment and might be able to offer support. But in the end, he said nothing. He didn’t feel like an odd three-way, checking in with Jack about his feelings for Brie. Nothing had changed in the way he felt toward her, except that at the moment they were both crippled.

The middle of July was steamy and wet, and Mike called her every couple of days, and still Jack said nothing. It seemed to Mike that she took his calls as if looking forward to them a little bit. They rarely talked about the crime and her recovery, but about mundane things. His fishing, what she was reading or watching on TV, weather, Sam and her sisters and nieces, letters that Ricky—a kid from town who had been Jack’s and Preacher’s young protégé and helper in the bar—was writing home from USMC basic training.

She told him about her new phobias—the dark, public places, noises in the night that she’d probably never even heard before. She put her house on the market—she had no intention of living there alone again. She thought she might eventually be strong enough to live on her own, but not there, where it happened.

“Are you getting out at all?” he asked her.

“Counseling, group sessions. The occasional trip to the store with Dad,” she said. “I don’t really want to leave the house. I’ll have to find a way to change that soon, but for now, I just want to feel safe. That’s a tall enough order.”

He could hear the growing strength in Brie’s voice despite her new fears; she laughed regularly, and the sound of her voice brought him great peace of mind. He teased her, told her jokes, even played his guitar for her over the phone so she could tell him he was improving.

Jack, however, was too quiet. Mike confronted him, asked him how he was doing. “I just want her back, man,” Jack said somberly. “Brie—she was always such a goddamn life force.”

Mike gripped Jack on the upper arm. “She’ll be back. She’s got the stuff.”

“Yeah, I hope you’re right.”

“I’m right,” Mike said. “You need me for anything tomorrow? I’m thinking of driving down the coast, having a look around.”

“Nah, enjoy yourself,” Jack said.

Ordinarily, Mike wouldn’t have given even a second thought to going to Sacramento without mentioning it to Jack, but these circumstances were different, and he wasn’t an idiot—Jack would want to know. Still, he said nothing and in fact had covered his tracks, acting as though he was out for a day of poking around. He rose before Jack began splitting logs behind the bar in the early morning—his ritual even in summer, when there was no need to lay a fire. He hit the road south through Ukiah in the predawn hours, arriving in the city by ten in the morning.

After he rang the doorbell, he saw a shadow cross the peephole, then the locks slid and the door opened. “Mike?” Sam asked. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I decided not to call ahead, sir,” he said. “I thought—”

Brie appeared from around the corner, standing behind her dad. “Mike?” she asked in equal surprise.

He smiled. “You look good,” he said, relieved. “Great. You look great. I was saying I didn’t call ahead because I thought if I just came here, maybe I could lure you out of the house for a while. If I’d called, you’d think of a million excuses.”

She actually took a step back. “I don’t know …”

“How about Folsom,” he said. “Enjoy the mountains, walk around the shops, have a little lunch, maybe stop at a vineyard or two. Just a few hours, just for some fresh air and maybe a little practice at facing the public. You have to get out in the world eventually.”

“Maybe not this soon …”

“It’s only soon because you haven’t done it. You’ll be safe, Brie.”

“Of course, but—”

“Brie,” Sam said. “You should take advantage of this. Mike is a trained observer, a cop with years of experience. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

Mike gave his head a slight bow in Sam’s direction, respectfully. “Thank you, sir. You’re welcome to join us.”

He laughed. “No, I think I’ll pass. But this is a good idea. Brie,” he said, taking her hand and rubbing it between his, as if warming it, “you should go out for at least an hour, maybe two. Mike’s come all this way….”

She looked at him pointedly. There might have been a glare in her eye. “You didn’t tell Jack you were doing this, did you.” It was not a question.

“Of course not. He would have tried to talk me out of it. If you needed someone to pry you out of the house, he’d want to be the one to do it.” He grinned. “I couldn’t risk that.”

She seemed to think about this momentarily. Finally she said, “I’d better change.”

“Nah, you’re fine. Folsom isn’t any fancier than your shorts. Let’s just do it. You won’t be out longer than you’re comfortable.”

“Dad.?”

“This is a good idea, Brie. Go out for a while. Have lunch, a glass of wine. I’ll be right here when you get home.”

Mike got her into the car and started to drive. Brie was predictably quiet, which was what he expected. “You might be stressed for a little while, but I think it’ll ease up,” he said. Another few minutes of quiet reigned in the car. “We internalize when we’ve had a trauma. Grow very quiet, very private with feelings.” Again, no conversation. She looked straight ahead, tensely, holding the shoulder strap with one hand, her other crossed protectively over her belly.

“I was the fourth of eight children and had three older brothers,” Mike said as they began to drive into the foothills of the Sierras. “By the time I went to kindergarten, I had three younger sisters as well, so my mother, she was very busy. A lot of old-world traditions and values in my house—my father had trouble keeping us all fed, yet he still thought he had the world by the balls with all those sons, and I’m sure he wanted more. But it was a loud and crazy house, and when I went to school for the first time, my English wasn’t so good—we spoke only Spanish and some very bad English in my home, in my neighborhood. And although my father is successful now, at that time we were considered poor.” He glanced over at her briefly. “I got beaten up by some bigger kids my first week in school. I had bruises on my face and other places, but I wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened.” He concentrated on the road. “Not even my brothers, who offered to add to the bruises if I didn’t tell them who had done it and why. I didn’t talk at all for a couple of months.”

She turned her head toward him, looking at him. He met her eyes. “From working with kids who were victims of abuse, I learned that’s not unusual. To go silent like that. I also learned it’s all right to get your bearings before you start talking.”

“What made you talk?” she asked.

He chuckled to himself. “I don’t know if I remember this correctly, but I think my mother sat me at the kitchen table, alone, and said, ‘We have to talk about what’s happened to you, Miguel. I can’t let you go back to that school until I know.’ Something like that. It was the not being allowed to go back, even though I was afraid of getting beaten up again, that made me more ashamed of those boys thinking I was a coward. Empty-headed machismo even then.” He laughed.

“Did your mother tell the authorities?” she asked.

“No.” He laughed again. “She told my brothers. She said, ‘If he comes home with one bruise, I will beat you and then your father will beat you.’”

“Well, that’s pretty horrible,” Brie said.

“Old World. Tradition.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, Brie. There were a lot more threats than there were beatings. I don’t remember beatings. My father whipped us across the bottom with his belt, but never injured anyone. For my mother, it was the wooden spoon. Not your pansy gringo wooden spoon, but a spoon as long as her arm. Christ, if the belt was unbuckled or the spoon plucked off the shelf, we ran like holy hell. The next generation of Valenzuelas has given up that form of child raising. By the way, it’s not Mexican by genesis—it’s that generation. It was not against the law to beat your child if he misbehaved.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Did you marry Hispanic women?”

He looked at her curiously. “I did,” he said. “Both times. Well, mixed Mexican.”

“You’re drawn to that culture…. Very strongly drawn.”

“I love the traditions of my family, but I don’t think that had anything to do with the marriages. I dated a lot of women who weren’t Hispanic. My marriages were brief failures of my youth.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the first time I was too young, and so was she. I was in the Marines, and she worked for my father. I wrote to her, married her while home on leave, returned after my tour of duty to find she was interested in another young man. I could have been outraged, but the truth is—I wasn’t faithful either. I was married and divorced by the time I was twenty-one. My mother was completely ashamed of me.”

“And the second wife?”

“Just a few years later. An employee at LAPD. A dispatcher.” He chuckled. “Time-honored tradition—cops and dispatchers. It lasted six months. My mother has completely lost hope in me.”

“I guess you didn’t cling to all the traditions….”

“You know what I miss about my family’s traditions? My mother’s cooking, my father’s skills and ingenuity. My mother and father did most of their cooking for large tribes on the patio—on the grill and in huge pots over slow burners. Mole, the old family recipe, tamales wrapped in banana leaves, enchiladas, carne asada. My mother’s salsa and guacamole would make you pass out, it’s so good. She makes a fish with sliced olives that’s amazing. Her shrimp in tomatoes, avocado and Tapatío is astonishing.”

“Tapatío?”

“Hot sauce. Pretty hot hot sauce. And my father could do anything—he built a room on our house, a gazebo in the yard, poured concrete, put a wall around the yard, rewired the house, built a freestanding garage—and I’m sure he did all that without building permits, but I had the sense never to ask. And the landscaping was incredible. That was his business, landscaping. He started out trimming hedges and mowing lawns, but later he started his own little business. It’s now a pretty good sized business with a lot of corporate clients. He has a million relatives and sons—he never runs out of employees. My father was an immigrant, but he didn’t have to naturalize. My mother is a first-generation American, born in Los Angeles—marriage to her validated him. But interestingly, she is the one to uphold the old traditions in our family. He wanted to acclimate himself to the U.S. quickly, so he could get about the business of making that fortune poor, hungry Mexican boys dream about. And he did, though he worked damn hard to do it.” He pulled into the town of Folsom, found a place to park and went around to Brie’s side to open her door.

“Tell me about your growing up,” he said.

“Not nearly as interesting as yours,” she said.

“Let me be the judge,” he said, taking her elbow and walking her across the street toward a gift shop.

As he maneuvered her through shops, galleries, antique stores and bakeries, she told him about life with three much older sisters who babied her, and Jack who fussed over her till she was about six, then again when he was home on leave. Her household didn’t sound terribly different from his, except that her mother didn’t cook outside, use oversize cooking pots and implements, and her father was a whiz at numbers and investing, not building or landscaping. Otherwise, their childhoods were similar—large families filled with noise and laughter, loyalty and blistering sibling fights. “The girls fought like animals,” she said. “They never fought with me—I was the baby. And Jack was threatened with certain death if he ever struck a girl, so they went after him with a vengeance, knowing he was helpless.”