The Influence(32)

“You could do worse,” she added.

But he hadn’t been brave enough to approach her, and Shauna had hated him until she moved away in eighth grade.

He’d been grateful for Lita’s intercession, though, and her understanding, and he smiled at her now. “Still looking out for me, huh?”

“Always.”

An image flashed in his mind, the image from his dream: Lita, squatting over him, naked. He looked away, his face hot with shame, wondering how and why he could even have thought of such a thing.

“Lita!” Dave was calling her from the Big House.

“Coming!” she called back. “Six o’clock,” she told Ross. “Her place.”

He left a half-hour early, not secure enough in his knowledge of local geography to risk setting out any later, though Lita told him when she handed over the address and directions that it was less than five minutes away. It took him about ten minutes to navigate the dirt roads that led to her small house, and, as a result, he arrived with twenty minutes to spare. He contemplated driving around for a bit, but figured he’d probably been seen already through the windows. Leaving after that, even if only for a little while, would seem weird, so he pulled into her driveway behind the battered Ford Econoline already parked there.

Jill lived in a small cul-de-sac just east of Magdalena’s main street, in the shadow of the chimney-shaped mountain with the white “M” on its slope. There were five houses arranged in a semi-circle, and hers was one of three facing away from the mountain, looking out over the desert. He hadn’t realized that the road had climbed, so gradual was its slope, but now that he was here, he found that he could look down upon the church, off to his left.

Jill had seen him, and she emerged from the house just as he was closing his car door. It occurred to him that he should have brought some sort of gift, a bottle of wine maybe, but it was too late for that now and, feeling embarrassed, he greeted her empty handed.

Jill gave him a quick friendly hug. “Welcome to my home,” she said. “Come in. I hope you like pasta.”

“Sure. Of course. Who doesn’t.” He cringed inwardly at his own awkwardness. “I would’ve brought something—” he began.

“I invited you. Remember? You don’t need to bring anything.”

“Still…” He followed her inside.

Jill’s house was small but creatively furnished. Like the other four residences on the cul-de-sac, it had on the outside a prefab look, almost like one of those double-wide trailers, but inside she had used the limited space wisely and decorated her home with an imaginative hodgepodge of styles and colors: an old steamer trunk being used as a coffeetable sat in front of an orange 1950s couch, next to which stood what appeared to be a fake streetlamp. There was supposed to be a dining room—although it was little more than a wide passage connecting the living room with the kitchen—but as might be expected from someone whose hobby was baking cookies, Jill had made it into part of the kitchen, equipping it with a freestanding butcher’s block on which sat a well-used rolling pin, and a Hoosier cabinet with a built-in flour sifter. Though the area opened onto the living room, the lines of demarcation were clear.

Ross looked around admiringly. “Nice place,” he said.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s very creative. Even when I had a place to live, it didn’t look this nice. I have no imagination.” He examined a cactus growing in a giant pop-art Planter’s Peanuts container. “You could be an interior decorator.”

“Thank you,” she said, honestly appreciating the compliment. She smiled. “I think I was right about you.”

The air smelled of garlic and herbs, and Jill led him through the doorway into the heart of the kitchen, where a huge pot of red pasta sauce was simmering on the stove. “I figured I might as well make enough to last awhile,” she explained. “Since I’m going to all this trouble. Not that you’re trouble,” she added quickly. “I just meant—”

He laughed. “I know.”

“Here. Sit down.” She pulled out a chair from the table in the center of the kitchen.

“Do you need some help?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I prefer to be a Lone Ranger. Sit.”

Ross sat down, watching as she put a pot of water on the stove for the pasta and then started making a salad. He could have felt guilty, probably should have felt guilty, but he didn’t. It was comfortable here, easy, and for a first date, he felt remarkably relaxed.

“Any more snake sightings?” he asked.