"I did wonder. But I'm not rude enough to ask."
"You were rude enough to ask me if I was jealous of Jilly. Why'd you even think of such a thing?"
"I heard something, I guess. Why are you and Cotter still living at home?"
She laughed, drank more of her beer, and led the way from the noisy, chaotic kitchen to a small back room, a library from the look of it. It was empty, dark. Cal shut the door and turned on a small Tiffany desk light.
She set the beer down on a desktop, then turned to face me. "Well, Jilly was wrong. I'm not jealous of her. Actually, I want to paint her. She just keeps putting me off."
"Paul and Maggie said you were an artist. What do you paint?"
"I usually do landscapes, but people's faces fascinate me. Jilly has incredible bones. I want to paint them, and her eyes. Her eyes are the key to her. It's the same with you, Mac. You have beautiful eyes. Dark, stormy blue, romantic eyes."
"Don't make my beer go down the wrong way."
She stopped then, shook herself, and gave me a bright smile, a really fake smile. "How are you feeling? You're looking stronger and more fit than you did yesterday."
"I feel fine."
"Cotter lives at home because Father wants him to. He wants Cotter to learn all about his business holdings. He did allow Cotter to leave the state to go to UCLA, even pushed him. Cotter got his undergraduate degree in business and then an MBA, all in four years. The thing is, though, I don't believe Father will ever think Cotter competent enough to take over. He'll just have to die before Cotter can get anywhere. Then, of course, it would be moot. But Cotter thinks our father will live forever."
"So Cotter wants out?"
"No, Cotter wants to run everything. I've told him he's too short. It would help if he'd wear elevator shoes. Tall men, like our father, like you, get all the respect. Cotter's too dark as well. He looks like a gangster."
"What did Cotter say to that?" I asked, fascinated.
"I believe he ordered some elevator shoes from a catalogue. He might wear them now for all I know. He still looks like a thug though. No way he can ever change that."
"You're very informative all of a sudden, Miss Tarcher. What's Cal stand for?"
"You don't want to know, trust me." She took two steps toward me and very slowly laid her open palms on my chest. "It stands for Calista. I like you, Mac."
I closed my hands over hers and lightly tugged them away. "Thank you. Actually, Calista isn't bad, but I like Cal better. It sounds more natural. I don't know what to think of you, Cal. I think that the picture you present to the world and how the world responds to that picture must amuse you tremendously."
She drew her hands free of mine and backed up until she was leaning against the desk.
"Don't bother to deny it. I saw the real you yesterday. You forgot to hide yourself for a moment there when I walked you to your car. I saw arrogance in you, certainty. I have this feeling that you're laughing at the whole town, that you think they're all fools. Maybe you are jealous of Jilly. Or maybe she's seen the real you and she's jealous of you. What do you think?"
"Is this the FBI speaking?" There was amusement in her voice and a smile on her mouth.
"Nope."
"You a profiler?"
"I'm in Counter-Terrorism. Jilly is very beautiful. Why would she be jealous of you?"
Cal just shook her head, the abrupt movement clearly telling me that she was tired of this game. Standing there in the shadows cast by the Tiffany lamp, she said suddenly, "Please don't move. I just want to sketch you. Is that okay?"
I was too startled to say anything. She dashed out of the room, leaving me there alone with two nearly empty Coors cans.
She came back into the room a couple of minutes later, holding a large sketch pad and a thick charcoal pencil in her hand. "Don't move, please," she said, walking quickly toward the desk.
I nodded. I looked at her as she flipped open the sketch pad, flipped through several pages, and propped the pad up on her thighs. Her face changed completely. There wasn't a hint of frump. I saw an intense woman who bristled with focus. This was a strong woman. I started to raise my hand, but she said, "No, Mac, don't move, please."
"I've never had anyone sketch me before. Can I at least talk?"
"Yes," she said, not really paying any attention to me, just drawing on the paper.
"Why do you dress like this?"
"Shut up."