Heading my way.
I lowered my head, filled in a few more blanks, came up with “rebec” for the fiddle, because it was the only thing that made sense. Just as I’d wrinkled my brow over a three-letter clue for “Catullus composition” I heard her say, “Alex?”
I looked up, feigned surprise, saw my twin reflections in her sunshades.
Smiling. Surprised. Mr. Innocent.
“Hey,” I said. “Know a six-letter word for ‘Indian pony’? Starts with c and ends with se>”
She laughed. “No, I don’t think so—I can’t do that stuff. This is weird, seeing you again. Do you come here a lot?”
“When I’m in Malibu. How about you?”
“Sometimes.”
“We probably passed each other without knowing it.”
“Probably,” she said.
“Doing some heavy shopping?”
She placed the bags on the ground. “No, just . . . It’s just something to do—maybe it’s like karma or something. Seeing you. Or like when you think about someone and then they keep turning up—you know?”
I grinned. The sunshades said I was doing okay. “Karma sounds fine to me. Care for some coffee?”
“No, thanks—” The dark lenses moved from side to side, taking in the parking lot. Her bare arms were smooth and lightly freckled. No bra under the tank top. Those nipples again. “Sure, why not. I’ll go get some.”
“Let me.” I stood and handed her the puzzle. “See what you can do with this in the meantime. Cream and sugar?”
“A little milk and some artificial sweetener.”
As I turned she took hold of my arm. Leaning forward and giving me a view of fat, white breast tops.
Her finger made a tiny circle on my elbow.
“Also decaf,” she said.
When I returned she was hunched over the paper, white-knuckling the pen, tongue tip protruding between her lips. Her hair was down, and it looked freshly combed.
“I think I got a couple of them,” she said. “‘Lynx’ for ‘wild cat,’ right? And ‘Burnett’ for ‘comedienne Carol.’ But not that pony one—maybe ‘cochise’? Isn’t that Indian or something?”
“Hmm,” I said, handing her the coffee. “No, I don’t think that’s it. This connecting one’s ‘mayfly,’ so there has to be a y in there.”
“Oh, right . . . sorry.”
I sat down, picked up my cup. She did the same.
“Mmm, good,” she said, sipping. “People who do these things— puzzles. I always think it’s amazing. I’ve got street smarts, but I never really cared much for school.”
“Which streets? “I said.
“Phoenix, Arizona.”•’Hot.”
“Like an oven. Sucked. I left there when I was seventeen—dropped out before graduation, fibbed about my age, and got a job in Las Vegas Rollerblading in Magic Wheels.”
“The skating show,” I guessed.
“Yeah, you know it? I used to be a great skater—skated since I could walk.”
“Magic Wheels,”I said. “That went on for a while, didn’t it?”
“Years. But I was only in it for six months, sprained my ankle and it healed okay but not good enough for serious skating. Then I got a place in the line at Follies du Monde.”
Off came the sunglasses. Her eyes looked serene. Talking about herself had relaxed her. I sat back and crossed my legs, looked at the three diamond rings on her right hand, the three-carat ruby on her left.
“A showgirl,” I said.
“Well, it really wasn’t all that—just your basic dancing and kicking,” she said. “First thing they did was change my name. The producers. They said I was gonna be a headliner, needed a new name.”
“What’s wrong with Cheryl?”
“Cheryl Soames,” she said. “It’s not exactly Parisian.”
“So what’d they come up with?”
“Sylvana Spring.” She stared at me, waiting. “It was like a big meeting between me and the choreographer. We came up with it together.”
“Sylvana. Pretty.”
“I thought so—it means the woods, so like, let’s take a walk in the woods. And Spring because what’s the best time to walk in the woods— the spring. I thought it was kind of fresh and poetic. Anyway, I danced my tush off for a year but they never made me a headliner but I kept the name.”
“Another injury.”
“No.” She frowned and put the sunglasses back on. “It’s all politics. Who does what to who.”