8. Mallory
Chapter 8
Mallory
The rise in elevation on the drive out to Summerhill delivers a spectacular view of Olive Township. A mountain range towers to the east, and west, past the acres upon acres of olive trees, is nothing but desert. Eventually that barren desert gives way to Phoenix city limits. Out here, it feels like another world.
The romance of the orchard makes it hard to imagine the patriarch of the De la Vega family could be taken so violently.
Around the bend in the road, the main buildings of the olive mill come into view. From my reading, and copious time spent on the Summerhill website, I know these first buildings are the agrotourism side of the business. A cute little store selling flavored olive oil and other goods, a new wedding venue, a restaurant. Beyond these structures, set back in the distance, is the De la Vega household.
As instructed, I wind my way around the commercial buildings. I let off the gas pedal, trying not to kick up dust, but it's useless. This is still the desert, after all. Dust is inevitable.
Still, I go slowly. An odd feeling bubbles up in my belly, a nausea I know doesn't truly have bite.
Nerves .
I'm not usually nervous when speaking with friends or family of the victims, but this is different. This is personal.
Sonya De la Vega may have thought she was ready to speak about her husband, but what if she answers the door, takes one look at me and feels the weight of what she thought she could do, and changes her mind?
I take a deep breath as I steel myself, rolling to a stop in front of the home.
A large two-story, the home is a creamy mixture of warm ivory paint and burnt red roof tiles. The lower half of the front features a stone facade in varying neutral shades of tan. Windows framed in black match the color of the garage doors. Arizona ash trees reach high and run parallel to the home, providing it with shade from the morning sun.
The vibe is warm, and inviting, and deepens my feeling that the person who was a part of all this was too kind to be treated in such a way.
The same is true of Maggie.
A second deep breath fortifies me, and I step from my car. I stride toward the front door, taking the two stone steps to the landing. An oversized wreath of faux eucalyptus hangs on the door, and well-groomed flowering topiaries sit on either side in cedar boxes.
Cozy. Appealing. A place that practically screams I have a pot of flavorful soup on the stove and a warm hearth .
My hand is poised to knock when a figure steps around the corner.
Brown work boots, laces undone. Dark wash jeans, a crisp white shirt. Tan skin, a jaw darkened by five-o'clock shadow.
Hugo has all the makings of my personal physical kryptonite. Tall, dark, and unbelievably sexy.
My hand drops to my side.
He looks like he wants to say something, so I wait. And wait. The seconds, slow and torturous, pass. He runs two knuckles along his jaw, and finally says, "I'm nervous."
His honesty brings me up short. It's the last thing I expected him to say, and it sets an ease to my galloping heartbeats.
"I am, too," I admit, feeling the corners of my lips turn up in a tentative smile.
Hugo studies me, dark eyebrows tugging. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
As if he's decided something, he nods in the direction he came from. "Follow me."
He starts off, and I listen, assuming he's leading me around the house to a different entrance. But then he stops at a massive porch swing, settling back onto it.
I hadn't noticed the swing when I arrived, but there's really no way I could have. Green vines grow thick through a trellis, blocking the swing from view.
"This looks more like a bed suspended in the air than a porch swing." I step closer, holding tight to the arm as I lower myself down. Hugo's feet are planted firmly on the ground, keeping the swing in place for me. Using the palm of my hand to hold my weight, I reverse until I've met the back frame.
"It's actually called a swing bed," Hugo replies, settling back against the yellow and white striped cushions. "I have one at my place, too."
He's close to me now. So close, his thick, muscled thigh presses against mine. Heat radiates off him, an electric warmth, my nose invaded by the scent of him: rich, earthy, spicy.
Be professional.
A furtive shift of my leg, giving myself an inch of needed space from him.
"You're making that up because of what I just said." I force the joke, desperately grasping for levity. Anything to keep me from spiraling into a tornado of hormones.
Hugo's head shakes back-and-forth slowly, one arm extending across the back frame as his other arm settles on the armrest. "Cross my heart."
The following line to that childhood rhyme sinks between us, heavy. Hope to die.
Hugo grimaces. "That was...unfortunate."
It's the perfect sentence to break through the thick tension of the moment. "You can do better."
Hugo's brown eyes find mine, his gaze strong, meaningful, as if he is trying to convey something. Is he thinking what I'm thinking? Remembering how that was what I said to him two days ago, the first time we met? Before he knew who I was, and our flirtation was happy and innocent and unencumbered by the truth.
"I'm sure I could," he says quietly. His gaze leaves me, travels out east where the sky grows ever darker.
I'm resisting the urge to really settle all the way back on these plush pillows, tuck my legs up at an angle, and take a nap. This swing bed would be an excellent choice for afternoon napping.
Hugo is quiet again, and I wait patiently. When I'm hosting a podcast, it is my job to lead the conversation. But now, sitting out here with Hugo, it is imperative I go at his speed.
It's not too much longer before he asks, "Are you usually nervous to talk with people you're hoping to interview?"
"No," I answer. "But in the spirit of transparency, I've never worked so hard to have a conversation that could possibly lead to an interview."
A terse breath streams from his nose. "Everybody can't wait to run their mouths, huh?"
Disdain drips from his words. My heart hurts for him. For the way he grows prickly in an instant. The thought of talking about his father pains him, hardens his tone and possibly his heart.
I want to make this as easy as possible for him. "Oftentimes, it's simply people talking about someone they loved, and when they do that, there's a certain..." I search for the right word. "Resurrection, if you will. Their loved one is alive again, even if it's only in a memory shared."
"We've never talked about what happened." Hugo eyes me meaningfully. "My mom tried, in the beginning. When it was all fresh. New. But the journalists, reporters, whatever they were, they sensationalized it." He shakes his head regretfully, and that dark hair of his swipes his forehead. "I was young when it happened, but I knew they were making my hero into a headline. It tore me up, and I didn't think it was possible to hurt more at that point. My sister, too. So, my mom stopped giving interviews. We talked about him at home instead." A smile crests Hugo's lips, and a small celebration erupts in my chest. I feel his pain all too well. "We did what we could to keep him as alive as possible. And we worked to remember him as the man he was, not the victim someone forced him to be."
Hot tears assail the backs of my eyes. Everything Hugo's saying, every emotion he's describing, it all hits home for me. As much as I want to give in and cry, I swallow it down. I'm here in a professional capacity. "I promise to be very respectful, Hugo."
My right foot is beginning to fall asleep, and I adjust my stance. Hugo takes it as me getting up, probably assuming I'm growing antsy. His arm shoots out, cups my elbow.
"Please," he says, eyes burning with intensity. "Please don't make my dad into a victim. I can't bear it."
At the end of the day, his father and my sister were victims of a crime, but I understand the nuance of what it is he's saying. "Hugo, I will not reduce either of our loved ones to simply being victims."
Relief sweeps over his face. Gratitude.
His grasp leaves my elbow, only to extend across me, pinky finger offered. "Pinky promise, Gumshoe?"
I laugh. Hugo has a talent for introducing levity to difficult moments.
Hooking a pinky around his, I say, "Pinky promise, Swordsman."
"Aren't you a pretty thing?" Sonya De la Vega declares, wrapping me up in a cinnamon and sugar scented hug.
And it's...well, it's nice . Something I could relax into. When was the last time my own mother held me so tenderly? The answer hits me square in the chest. A long time .
"Mom," Hugo warns, playful but slightly parental. "You're supposed to ask people you've never met if it's ok to hug them."
"Pshh," Sonya scoffs, releasing me. She takes a step back and waves at my face. "Look into those eyes and tell me she's not starving for a hug."
"It's true," I agree, winking at Hugo to let him know I'm good. In truth, I'm better than good. I needed that hug, and I didn't realize how much. Sometimes, a person yearns to sink into someone else's arms, and be held. I swear, certain people's hugs contain medicinal properties. Sonya De la Vega is one of them.
She's not what I was expecting. The only photos I've seen of her were from nearly twenty years ago. Online photos of Hugo are almost completely from the lens of him fencing, and he doesn't keep a current personal social media. Or, at least not an account I've been able to find. Without realizing it, I'd been picturing Sonya as a grieving woman in a black veil. Permanent frown. Grief hanging heavy around her like a shroud.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Her dark hair shines, her olive skin beautiful. Tonight she wears loose yellow linen pants, flowing over espadrilles. A white blouse with fabric-covered buttons. It's a happy ensemble.
"Come, come," she says, motioning us to follow her. "Hugo, take off those boots." The instruction zooms over her shoulder in a practiced way that speaks of years giving that directive.
"Already on it, Ma." Hugo stops to toe off his boots, but I go on ahead into a kitchen with green cabinets and a black tile backsplash.
"I baked snickerdoodle cookies," Sonya says, pointing to a white ceramic tray with rows and rows of freshly baked cookies.
I sniff the air appreciatively. "I assumed you naturally smelled like sugar and cinnamon."
"Wouldn't that be great if that were the case?" Sonya turns to a wine rack built into the wall, selecting a bottle of red. "What scent would you choose if you could choose any?"
This cordial, silly conversation is upsetting the expectations I had for this meeting, but I roll with it.
"Spiced apples," I answer.
"What about them?" Hugo asks, walking barefoot into the kitchen. Normally, I would never find a man's feet attractive, but something about Hugo's ease in this home, the way his jeans skim the floor, and the soft swish of the material, is really doing it for me.
I've got to get that under control. How does a pregnant woman rein in her hormones?
"How funny," Sonya says, grinning pointedly at Hugo. "Spiced apples are Hugo's favorite."
Of course they are.
"What about them?" Hugo repeats.
Sonya pulls a wineglass from a shelf. "Mallory was saying that if she could choose a natural scent, she'd pick spiced apples."
Hugo's eyes meet mine, then skitter away. "Hmm." It's half growl, half polite disinterest.
"Can I pour a glass of wine for you?" Sonya asks me.
A second look from Hugo, and a question behind his eyes. "No, thank you," I answer. "Water is fine, please."
I'm wearing a T-shirt dress, one of those that are casual and don't hug the body. My baby bump is hardly noticeable, but I didn't want to take a chance Sonya would notice, and inevitably the conversation would become about me, and the baby. At which point it would be nearly impossible not to overshare. Despite how friendly Sonya is, I need to maintain a level of professionalism. Telling her my ex signed away his rights to our child and I'm staring down life as a single mother does not achieve that.
Hugo strides for the fridge, coming away with a beer. For the briefest moment, his gaze falls to my stomach. He looks into my eyes, and when he sees I'm looking at him, he looks away quickly.
Did you leave your wedding ring behind in the hotel room?
He'd said it with disgust. Disappointment. But now this is the third time we've seen each other. That means this is his third opportunity to notice I don't wear a wedding ring.
Ridiculous .
He's not looking. Why would he?
Brushing off the foolish desire, I thank him for the bottle of water he's holding out for me.
"Take a seat," Sonya offers as she sits in a round-backed stool at the far end of the kitchen island.
Sitting beside her, I take one of the cookies off the plate she pushes my way. Hugo remains stationary on the other side of the island, arms crossed and hips pushed forward slightly.
"Well," she says, waiting for me to take a bite. It's charming, the way she wants to make sure I'm eating. Very motherly, and it twists my heart. My own mother stopped parenting the day Maggie died. It was as if she quit existing, and left behind was nothing but a husk of the mother I once knew. Maggie's dad, my stepfather, has always been a quiet man. I think after my dad left her with an infant, she was looking for his polar opposite. She got it, but I don't know if that was a good thing. "Let's get to the nitty gritty," Sonya says. "Why did you come to Olive Township?"
I glance up at Hugo. Did he tell her nothing after our breakfast yesterday? Nothing about my sister, or the real reason I'm here? He's looking at me with patient expectance, and I don't know why, but I feel an emotional tug in the center of my chest. He didn't tell his mom about Maggie. He saved it for me .
Taking a small sip from my water, I begin. "I host a true crime podcast called Case Files . My best friend from college is the producer. We spend time learning the cases, interviewing friends and family, trying to create a fuller picture than what is available just by reading articles. For the most part we've given loved ones an opportunity to talk about the person and share with others, but we've had two instances where tiny details shared on the show were what solved unsolved murders." I hesitate, choosing my next words carefully. "I'm not saying I expect that to happen where your husband is concerned. I can't promise that. But," I hesitate again, searching out Hugo. For strength, perhaps? To get a nod of his head, urging me forward? Somehow, he seems to understand this is what I'm seeking. With a dip of his chin, he gives me the go-ahead. "My twelve-year-old little sister was murdered in the same manner as Simon."
Sonya inhales sharply, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes widen. "That's evil ." The words slip through the spaces between her fingers.
"Truly," I agree. "And it doesn't automatically mean it was at the hands of the same person. But what if it was? That question is what has kept me up at night. What spurred me to write Hugo my first email. What if it was?"
Sonya's gaze falls down to her hands, now folded in her lap. She doesn't speak, and I meet her silence with patience because I expect it. But then the silence stretches on, and I look to Hugo. He's watching his mom, concern etched on the plains of his face.
"Mom?"
She looks up, first to him, and then to me. "It's been a long time since I talked to anybody about Simon."
"Hugo said as much." My voice is low. Gentle.
Sonya spins a simple gold band she wears on her ring finger. "Did Hugo also tell you he doesn't have relationships because the women he's met have odd reactions when they learn about Simon?"
My lips press together to stop my chuckle. "Uh, no. He didn't mention that."
Wherever Sonya went in her mind a few moments ago, she is back. Her humor has returned.
Hugo rolls his eyes. He reaches for a cookie, shoving the entire thing in his mouth, probably to keep himself from saying anything.
Sonya takes a cookie, too, breaking it in half over her plate. "That's one of the reasons I think it might be time, Mallory. Time to talk about Simon. Rip off the Band-Aid. Maybe, if the wound is exposed to air, it can heal. Lives can be lived in healthier ways."
Hugo, still chewing, doesn't say anything. But I'm nodding along, thinking of how true those words are. How this might be an opportunity for me to heal from what happened to Maggie. To do my best to mend an old wound so I can be a whole person for my baby. A single mother, doing the job of two. Not quite what I pictured for myself, but here we are.
"I think that's a lovely idea, Sonya. And if you're willing to have me, I would love to help facilitate that." I glance at Hugo, doing my best not to smirk. "Not sure I can help with Hugo's problem, though."
Sonya adopts an expression of innocence. "Oh, I think you might be able to."
Oh.
Is she... playing matchmaker ?
I open my mouth, ready to tell her there's a tiny human growing inside me, but Sonya glances at her watch. She jumps from her seat, saying, "I completely forgot I'm meeting friends for a movie tonight. Thank goodness for this new watch where I can get my text messages on my wrist. I probably wouldn't have looked at my phone for hours."
I slide from my seat, too, ready to be on my way, but her arm shoots out. "Please stay for the sunset from the back patio. It was Simon's favorite view." Her eyes light up. "In fact, can you stay in town a little longer? The Olive Festival starts in a few days. Maybe the best way for you to tell Simon's story is to get to know him through the town." Her eyebrows raise, hope shining bright in her eyes.
"Yes," I say, no hesitation. Can I extend my stay at the Olive Inn? No clue. Is Jolene game to water my plants? No idea. I don't know if it's ok for me to reschedule my sixteen-week appointment at the OB-GYN, and I most certainly did not pack enough extra underwear for this long of a stay, but YES!
I try not to appear too elated. No happy dancing for me. Just a covert squeeze of my fisted hands in my dress pockets.
Sonya smiles. She doesn't necessarily look happy, but maybe it's a combination of various emotions in varying levels of intensity. She glances between me and Hugo for a long moment before announcing, "Well, I'm off. Enjoy the sunset."
Sonya disappears around the corner with a final fluttering of her fingers, and a moment later, the front door closes.
"Umm." I look at Hugo.
He's grimacing. Palming the back of his neck, he says, "Sorry about that. My mom can be a lot."
"Don't worry about it." I shrug. "She's worried about you." It must be nice, having a mom who cares like Sonya.
"I'm not sure why." He scrunches his face like her concern confounds him. "I'm fine."
"The words of every person who is not, in fact, fine."
Hugo leans his forearms on the counter, hands grasped. He nudges the tray of cookies toward me. "Take another cookie. You are eating for two, right? "
Talk about an abrupt subject change. Did I hit a nerve?
Gently, I run a hand over my belly. "You already know the answer to that." I take another cookie, because they're delicious, and I'm hungry. I'm always hungry.
Hugo is quiet, but his eyes are on me. I know he has questions, but he's too polite to ask them.
Besides, we both know my pregnancy is none of his business, and is not relevant to why I'm here.
Hugo straightens, pointing beyond my head with his beer bottle. "I do believe there's a sunset waiting for us outside."