Bittersweet Chocolate (19 page)

“At ten, I was fostered with the couple who eventually adopted me, John and Eleanor Norris. They didn’t have children of their own, and raised me as well as expected for a colored couple without any knowledge of Hispanic culture,” she explained. “The clothes they found me in were handmade, no labels or identifying marks, and nothing to indicate if I’d been born in the United States or Mexico.

“A turquoise-and-silver baby bracelet and my name were pinned to the blanket wrapped around me. The name, Villia Candia Leon, made everyone assume I was Mexican. God, I hate that name,” she exclaimed. “The Spanish-speaking children at school used to tease me about it, because they pronounced Villia as
v-a-y-a.
They added the
con Dios
as in
go with God.
”

“So why didn’t you ask your adoptive parents to change your name?” Marissa inquired.

“No matter how much I hated the name, it was all I had to hold on to, my identity, my only connection to real parents, and a heritage.”

“Vi, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. At eighteen, as soon as I graduated from high school, I wanted to be on my own, didn’t want to impose on my adoptive parents any longer, so I left home. That same year, John and Eleanor died in an auto accident, and after their deaths, I tried to find my real parents,” she acknowledged.

“I reviewed all the documents Social Services made available, but they only revealed I’d been fostered with four different families until ten. Talk about baffling, I couldn’t find any record of my birth or information before I lived in my first foster home.” Vi shook her head. “No traces of previous occurrences in my life. All prior information only hearsay.”

“Wow, that’s not right.”

“Tell me about it. But do you know what really surprised me?” Vi asked. “John and Eleanor left quite a substantial amount of money. They left me this house and other valuables. We always seemed well off, but the size of the estate left to me seemed inconsistent with their professions. Hell, they were schoolteachers. I inherited more than enough money to live comfortably without having to work.”

“
Geez...
” Marissa gasped with exaggerated awe. “You’re rich.”

“Very funny, I’m not rich, but comfortably well off. Now, tell me about yourself.”

Marissa’s smile faded, she clasped her hands together, nails scoring her skin.

“Whoa...” Vi place a hand over Marissa’s hands. “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay. I predict we’re going to be friends. There’ll be time to unburden yourself.”

Marissa felt her throat tightening and tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “No, I need to tell somebody.” She leaned back, closed her eyes, and talked about her family, her gang ties, her life in the neighborhood, her misguided belief in love, and Graham. After a pause, she took a deep breath, and continued.

“I was gang raped at nineteen.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “I was pregnant at the time,” she whispered.

“Oh, my God,” Vi cried out. “Damn girl, I’m sorry. Don’t say another word. I can figure out the rest. Shit, you were just a baby. How did you handle that, and keep your sanity?”

“Arrogance.” Marissa tried to smile. “The arrogance that led me into trouble is the same pride keeping me going. It’s a given that never lets up.”

“Thank God for ego. But all of your childhood couldn’t have been bad,” Vi said, changing the subject. “You have family. There must have been bright spots in your life, happy times. Tell me about those, the happy things. Tell me something, anything to dispel those other images.”

“Are you sure?” Marissa managed a slight smile.

“Hey, you come from a real family and I’ve led such a solitary life, I want to live vicariously through you,” Vi teased. “Don’t get me wrong. John and Eleanor were good to me, I guess we bonded, but there was a piece missing. They seemed like caretakers, or long-term babysitters.”

“They must have loved you.”

Vi shrugged. “When they died, you can’t imagine how lonely I’ve been over the years. John and Eleanor didn’t have any living relatives. They had a few close friends, I vaguely remember. They disappeared out of our lives about the time I started school. It had been just the three of us before their deaths, and after, I’d turned eighteen and couldn’t fall back on foster care.”

“Damn.”

“Over the years, the few acquaintances I’ve had never inspired me to share confidences. Until you.”

“Ditto and thanks, I appreciate where you’re coming from, but family can be a pain in the ass.” She wiped her eyes. “Though, I think you’d like my dad. He’s something else, yet as close as we are, I still don’t think I really know him.

“Let me tell you about some of the things that make him special.

“I was at the age when boys and men were beginning to notice me, putting me at risk. If it hadn’t been for my hardcore demeanor and close ties to the neighborhood gang, more than likely, I would have become another statistic.

Nonetheless, to augment my hands-off attitude, my dad, Stephen Wells, had a presence in the neighborhood. People referred to me as Mister Stephen’s daughter, which added to my survival.
At six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty-plus pounds, without an ounce of spare flesh on him, back then, Dad kept his head shaved, had a Fu Manchu...uh, okay. Perhaps his appearance was intimidating to those who didn’t know him. But for all of his size, he dressed with panache, fitting the image of a dad with class.”

Vi interrupted. “Do you or any of your sisters resemble him?”

“Brittany and I have his amber eyes. I’m the tallest of the girls, guess I get my height from him, because Mom is only about five feet, if that. Dad has worked for the same Italian-owned construction company for as long as I’ve been alive, and has a way of getting things done for him that no one in the family ever questions. Not even when large quantities of food or merchandise show up at our home. Sometimes, I wonder if Dad has mob connections.”

“Are you serious?”

Marissa shrugged. “You never heard it from me.”

Vi laughed. “I hear you. Go on, tell me more.”

“
One time, Dad brought home cases of biscuits. The round, ten-pack cans of Pillsbury biscuits. Brittany and I called it our no allowance phase. Every time we asked for money to spend, Dad told us we didn’t need any. We were supposed to eat biscuits and jelly. He said we didn’t need all the other junk.” Marissa snorted. “Like biscuits with butter and jelly were nutritional.”

Vi started laughing.

“Hey, we made out okay, even better than we would have if he’d given us our allowance. We sold the biscuits to friends, or exchanged it for government cheese some of the neighbors used to get,” she remarked, then continued with her reminisces.

“Dad really went overboard with the cases of bubble gum. I never knew there were so many varieties of gum. She grinned at Vi. “I didn’t have these high cheekbones before the bubble gum era.”

“Marissa, stop.”

“The gum wasn’t even the worst episode of Dad’s bounty. That was the shoes.”

“Surely, a good thing, wasn’t it?”

Marissa shook her head. “Looking back, I can see the humor in it, but at the time...talk about embarrassing. Dad had convinced Mom that he was bringing home some sturdy, quality made shoes for the kids to wear to school. Imagine the kids’ dismay when they saw the shoes. Cases of shoes, beige crepe-soled loafer in appearance, like Hush Puppies. The crowning touch―they were work shoes with steel toes.”

“Oh no, did you have to wear them?”

“Yes and no. For once, our mother had been on our side and tried to make Dad understand the footwear were work shoes. But Dad insisted we wear them to school, couldn’t let perfectly good shoes go to waste.” Marissa sighed. “It was hell for Brittany and me. Both of us were pigeon-toed and our ankles took a bruising, until we started sneaking our regular shoes out of the house in our briefcases.

“Yet there was the humiliation of walking to the bus stop in those big, clunky shoes. Could we have been any more stylish wearing those clunkers with our ever so chic garb―navy-blue uniforms that came to mid-calf?”

Vi chuckled. “He meant well.”

“Always, good old dad is generous to a fault,” she remarked. “A lot of stuff he brought home, he gave to families who needed help. But he could be scary.”

“Scary?” Vi frowned.

“And dangerous. One time when we went shopping, a trash truck crew had blocked the street. Dad asked them, nicely, to pull up so he could get by, a few choice words were exchanged, and the two men came at Dad with broomsticks.”

“Oh no, what did he do?”

“He pulled a hatchet from under his seat, scared the crap out of those men.”

“A hatchet?” Vi laughed until tears filled her eyes.

“Hey, those men didn’t know how lucky they were. Dad always had a shotgun in the trunk of his car.”

“Damn. He’s the kind of Dad I’d like to have had,” Vi stated. “The bubble gum, the shoes... I can picture you clunking down the street in those shoes. Were you very skinny, back then?”

“Pitifully so. You should have seen us, especially at the beach. Brittany and I were so skinny, when we were in our bathing suits and wearing those white rubber bathing caps, we looked like little black Q-tips.”

“Marissa, no...stop!” Vi sputtered trying to control her laughter.

“Seriously, there are pictures.”

“I’d give anything to see them.”

“I bet you would.” Marissa snorted. “But you know it wasn’t always a good thing, having a father like mine. Dad scared off quite a few potential boyfriends.”

“Hey, considering my background, I would have loved having a dad like yours.”

“You and Dad would hit it off. He’s an only child too. I think that’s why he overcompensated with his children. The trips on holidays...God, that brings back memories.”

“Tell me,” Vi coaxed.

“Dad would stay up most of the night before a trip, frying chicken, making potato salad, macaroni salad, and hardboiled eggs. He’d pack the food in huge picnic bags, the old insulated kind, along with snacks, which included a variety of cookies, chips, and fruit.” Marissa grinned.

“He’d make this drink concoction of Kool-aid, lemons, fruit juice, and ginger ale with a lot of sugar to compensate for the large amount of ice. He made enough to fill two metal five-gallon coolers, the kind you see at construction sites,” she explained. “The family would get up at some ungodly hour so he could get an early start.

“He’d take us to Atlantic City or Wildwood, New Jersey, and find a place on the beach under the boardwalk, out of the sun. He’d spread out blankets for us to relax on while we enjoyed our food. He’d fall asleep after we ate.

“Me and Brittany would go on the boardwalk to play arcade games or ride the amusements. We repeatedly went through the fun house, as though we hadn’t figured out the mystery the first few times. And the rollercoaster...girl, we rode it so many times, it’s no wonder me and my sister are ditzy.”

“Marissa...quit.”

Ignoring her, she said, “You know, what really puzzles me is why I have any teeth left, taking into account the amount of cotton candy and caramel corn we used to eat on those trips.” She grinned. “But hey, if you think holiday trips were something, remind me to tell you about Easter and Christmas. Two more days that should have contributed to us making bank with the tooth fairy. Dad would go to the extreme with everything he did.”

“Did you bring
any
of your childhood pictures with you?”

“No, but I’ll ask Dad to send them, then it’s tit for tat. I’ll want to see some of yours.”

“All right, I’ll dig out the old photo albums.” Vi wiped her eyes. “I wish I could meet your dad.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“Are you okay?” Vi reached over and hugged her.

Marissa nodded. Talking about her dad nullified current memories of anger and humiliation.

“Good. Let’s stick with the happy things you remember. Forget all the other shit. It’s the past. Trust me. I’ll help you get over it,” Vi assured her. “Just hang with me, kiddo.”

* * * *

“Cuervo.”

He looked up from the paperwork spread across his desk. “Miguel, sit. You have something for me?”

“She has a new friend. I have pictures.” Miguel sat and pulled a packet from the inside breast pocket of his sport coat. He slid the photos across the desk.

“Nice. What do you know about this woman?”

“They work together. Woman is originally from the East Coast―Philadelphia―moved here the first of the year. According to the coworkers, who know nothing personal about her, only work-related particulars, she’s not very social,” he explained. “My mark is the first person she’s befriended, since moving to California. They’ve been friends a few months.”

Cuervo frowned. “Good-looking woman like her and there are no men in her life?”

“None.”

“Odd. You have to find out if the woman has a motive for singling out your charge before the relationship goes any further. By the way, what’s the woman’s name?”

“Marissa Wells,” Miguel responded. “Boss, you think this is a setup.”

“Not willing to take the chance. Contact our people, go through the usual channels, and have a thorough background run on this Marissa,” he stated. “I want everything there is to know about the woman, no matter how trivial. Make it a priority.”

“Done.”

“Until we discover who the woman is, whether she’s connected, take any measures necessary, including termination.”

“Understood.” Miguel left the office.

Six months later, his private line buzzed. Only two people had his private number, and one of those used a signal. So he knew who it was before he pressed the button. “Miguel, what’s the word?”

“Boss, you should hire Marissa, her life seems cloaked in secrecy. Able to get information on her childhood up to the age of eighteen, then she drops off the grid,” he stated. “Nada. Relatives and anyone who knew her back when aren’t talking. But there are hints that she used to belong to a street gang, and you know they won’t talk.”

“Hmm, if the gang connection is true, there’s no such thing as
used to belong.
That persona is forever, like Marines. Marissa is just the person your charge needs to toughen her up, teach her how to deal with anything that comes at her. And we both know that’s a possibility.”