Including Donna, who looks at me anxiously when I return to the car. “Everything okay in there?”
“I had to give Inez a hand with something.”
“You have to watch it with these people,” Donna says, peeling away from the curb. “Some of them would have you dusting and vacuuming before you know it. Okay, where to next?”
By the time we complete our circuit, I’ve delivered a dozen reasonably hot meals and been forced by Donna to reveal the entire plot of my television pilot. I just want to pee and take two aspirin. My throat now feels raw, and my nose is running. I yank another tissue from the box Donna has stuffed between the seats.
“Are you coming down with something?”
“I just didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Too much caffeine?”
I grit my teeth. “No, it’s—just my house. I’m a bit unsettled at the moment. That’s all.”
“Redecorating? Oh, God, that’s the worst. Nothing where you can find it. Plaster dust and paint fumes. No wonder you’re on edge. Are you having the whole house redone?”
“Pretty much.” My brain turns over, gaining traction on a hideous thought that suddenly seems inevitable. “It is terribly stressful, especially now with filming about to start.”
“Of course. Can’t you stay with anyone?”
“I don’t know. I hate to ask.” Just how obvious can I be?
“Well, it might be worth it to stay in a hotel for a while.”
“I could, I suppose. Anything to get away from the paint fumes.” I look out the side window, waiting for the words I hope to hear.
“You certainly don’t want to get sick. A hotel is the answer. That’s what I would do.” Donna swings around a corner into the parking lot of the Meals–on-Wheels kitchen complex. “Are you working with a decorator?”
“No. I’m doing it on my own. Even more stressful.”
“You probably want to be around as much as you can to keep an eye on the workmen. I remember when I redid my sunroom.”
Donna squeals into the parking lot, nearly sideswiping a green sedan parked near my Volvo. I suck in my breath and grip the door handle. Seemingly oblivious to the near miss, Donna pulls into a parking space and turns off the ignition, all the while prattling on about chintz slipcovers. I don’t budge. I’m not unhooking my seat belt until I’ve scored a bed for the night. Nothing is going to stand between me and a decent night’s sleep and—please, God—a free meal.
Biding my time, my eyes travel to the interior of the green sedan. A henna-haired woman in a chartreuse jacket glares at me over the rims of her oversized dark glasses. I shrug my shoulders, absolving myself of any responsibility for Donna’s reckless driving. The woman turns abruptly to her companion seated in shadow behind the steering wheel and says something, her hands gesturing wildly. I brace myself, wondering how often Donna gets shouted at by irate motorists. But instead of an angry encounter, the driver starts his engine and heads out of the parking lot. The woman glances my way again. She looks vaguely familiar. I’m trying to recall the name of the country singer with the flaming hair whom she reminds me of, when my ears prick up.
“You know, Meg, I don’t want to be too forward, but I was thinking—”
“Yes, Donna?” I turn to look her square in the eye, my inflection unmistakably encouraging. “What were you thinking?”
“It’s really too presumptuous of me, but I’m on my own, you know, just rattling around in this big house, so—”
“Yes—?” Spit it out, for God’s sake!
“Oh, never mind. It was just a thought.”
“Wait. Were you going to suggest that maybe I—”
“If you’d like—”
“Are you sure I wouldn’t be imposing?”
“You? Omigod, I’d love it. I’d just be thrilled to have your company. You’d have a bedroom and bath all to yourself overlooking the garden. You can just come and go as you like. Are you allergic to feathers?”
“Feathers?”
“Well, I am, so I always ask. I’ve got this very nice down comforter and pillows in the guest room. You can stay as long as you like.”
Careful what you say, Donna.
“That’s really kind of you. Maybe tonight? I could swing by around, say, seven?”
“Wonderful. I’ll have supper waiting. Just let me jot down my address.”
I hold my breath as she fumbles in her handbag. If I play it right, I can probably use her washer, dryer, and iron. And it wouldn’t hurt to hang a few things in a closet for a change. Chances are, Donna’s even a good cook.
“Here we go,” she says, tearing a deposit slip out of her checkbook. I look at the address: Holmby Hills, where even a teardown goes on the market for five million.
“Thanks, Donna. You’re a lifesaver.” I open the car door and reach for the empty insulated bags in the backseat.
“Are you kidding? We’ll have a great time.” She taps my arm. “We’d better get these bags back to the kitchen. Atta girl.”
After signing out on the daily roster, I almost skip across the parking lot to my Volvo. For the first time in weeks, I won’t dread nightfall. I pull onto the street and smile at the sight of the green sedan idling at the corner. The driver has probably returned to vent his anger at Donna. She must deal with road rage on a daily basis.
The sun is high, the sky clear. A real bed for the night! I roll down the windows and play Édith Piaf at max while roaring up the canyon on my way to the wardrobe fitting in the Valley. Joining in a loud, untidy duet of “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” I barely hear the bing-bing melody emanating from my cell phone. Bluetooth ignites on my dashboard. The name SID BASKIN flashes on the illuminated screen. Édith’s voice cuts out abruptly, replaced by Sid’s.
“Hey there, Sid. How’re you doing? Carol called me about the charity dinner. I told her I can make it.”
“So she said. Glad you can join us. And what’s this I hear about an audition?”
“I got the job, believe it or not. Tell Carol, would you? I start next week.”
“That’s great! Congratulations, Meggie. We’ll celebrate Friday night. Now listen, I thought I better give you a little heads-up here. I just got off the phone with Jack Mitchell. Remember him?”
My heart pounds at the sound of the name. “Good God, Sid. You think I’m going to forget? What does he want now?” The last thing I need is an FBI agent, especially this one, calling my attorney.
“Nothing to worry about, okay? Settle down.”
“But if he’s calling you—”
I detect a faint sound, a brief exhalation, then, “Meg, he’s an old friend. We talk, okay? Believe me, he was on your side—”
“Like hell he was!”
“As much as he could be. Things could’ve gone a lot worse.”
“Don’t tell me he didn’t suspect me, Sid. Instead of pulling out the stops to find Paul, he seemed to think I was in on something. How much worse could it get?”
“That’s long ago, Megs. Nobody suspects you of anything, okay?”
“So he didn’t call you about me? And this has nothing to do with Paul?”
“It has to do with how about meeting me for a cappuccino? I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
He laughs, a smooth lawyer-sounding chuckle that’s meant to convey “no big deal.” I’m not reassured when he says, “Just call my secretary when you get here, and I’ll meet you downstairs in the coffee shop.”
“I can’t. I’m on my way to a wardrobe fitting. Just give me a hint.”
“It’s nothing. But something’s come up I think you should know about. Can you make it around three?”
“I guess so. Listen, do you know anyone called—”
But he’s already hung up. Maybe it’s just as well. It might not be a good idea to mention “Coop.” There’s no point in volunteering information—especially if it might be passed along to Agent Mitchell. My chest tightens as I recall the husky-voiced
caller. It wasn’t a wrong number. Somehow I know there’s a connection to Paul.
I knew my husband only by the name embossed on his business card: PAUL C. STEPHENS, PRESIDENT. STEPHENS PROPERTY DEVELOPMENT. Among other people, in other places, according to the FBI, he was also known as Paul Copely, Paul C. Findlay, and Pete Copley. Coop?
Who knows what his mother called him. I never met any of his family. Paul’s parents had both passed away, or so he told me one afternoon not long after we met. He also mentioned having an older sister who lived in New Zealand. Far enough away?
“I’m pretty much on my own, too,” I’d responded, feeling even closer to him as we sat side-by-side on his sailboat bobbing in the waters off Catalina. “My mother lives back in Nebraska near the farm where I grew up. I have a younger brother with a wife and grown kids. I try to visit maybe once a year, but we stay in touch.”
“No kids yourself?” he’d asked, his sky-blue eyes locking on mine.
“None that I know of.” I laughed. “You?”
He laughed, too, and put his arm around me. “Nope. Me neither.”
I shivered, smiling in the face of a stiff breeze, and snuggled close, nestling in his warmth. “It doesn’t get better than this,” he whispered. “Just you and me. Sun and sea. Maybe someday I’ll just run a little charter boat service, do some sportfishing. That suit you?”
“Mmm.” I breathed a happy sigh, imagining a contented Hemingway-style existence with Paul in some quaint fishing village. Yup, just two corks bobbing on the sea of life. Could anything be more perfect?
But within minutes, the sky darkened. Winds battered our sails. I hunkered down, my face wet from sea spray and rain, never taking my eyes off Paul as he brought the WindStar safely into harbor. Then, both of us soaked, we’d raced the length of the dock and waited out the worst of the storm sheltered in a tackle shop, rain sluicing off its awning and splatting at our feet.
“There, there,” Paul said, kissing my wet hair, nuzzling my ear with his nose.
Wrapped in Paul’s arms, I recalled another time, when I was ten years old and waited with my father and mother under the eaves of the onion shed, safe from pounding hailstones ricocheting off the tar-paper roof. Out of nowhere, a storm had roiled up, purple-green, and descended over the fields where my mother and I had been sitting on the cabbage planter, a rig pulled by Dad’s old Allis-Chalmers tractor.
Back and forth, through row after row of rich, black earth, my mother and I had worked in a steady, alternating rhythm, plucking cabbage seedlings from a wooden tray, tucking them into the furrow made by the plough, then pulling back quickly so our fingers wouldn’t be caught by the wedge folding soil over the roots.
My dad, sitting sideways on the tractor, steered with one hand, his eyes scanning the field ahead for rocks, holding a steady course, keeping the rows aligned. We were so intent on our work that no one noticed the ominous musty smell and darkening stillness of the sky until the storm was upon us. My father grabbed us, and we ran like hell. An open field is no place to be in an electrical storm.
Winds blew cabbage crates across the fields and slapped at the loose windowpanes on the shed. We waited out the storm, silently counting the beats between the flashes of lightning and shuddering waves of thunder that followed. Then for a heart-jumping moment there was no beat, only crackling light and noise, a rumbling in my feet, and a lingering acrid smell that reminded me of fresh laundry.
“Whoa,” my father breathed, “that was close.” I pressed against him. He cupped his hands on my shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “There, there, now,” he said, and laughed. I was trembling, but I laughed, too, and felt better.
The storm passed, and sun sparkled on the raindrops falling from the roof. My mother went to check the washing she’d left on the line. My father told me to go play. It was too wet to plant any more.
I climbed the elm tree next to the house and looked out across the rain-drenched meadow, like molten chocolate left in the sun. We’d lost a morning’s work, and a full hotbed of seedlings, but not the whole summer’s crop. My dad, sitting on the front steps with a cup of coffee, looked unperturbed—and as sturdy and dependable as the tree I clung to, my face pressed against the ageing bark.
I clung to Paul, too, his arms curling around me, holding me close, his voice whispering, “There, there.” Even then I didn’t want to let go of the moment, knowing how good it was and fearful that the hubris dragon would find me. Or did I have a feeling that things would go wrong? I replay the moment with Paul, realizing now that even as he held me close, his voice reassuring, clouds I had yet to see were already gathering.
As Piaf digs her heels in for the last bars of “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” the sound of the threatening voice comes back to me. Coop. Could Paul reappear in my life as someone called Coop? With Paul, I’ve learned, anything is possible. Why not reincarnation?
The possibility that Agent Jack Mitchell could intrude on my life again is as unnerving as the prospect of finding my Volvo with four flat tires and a dead battery. My coping mechanism would short-circuit. What could possibly “come up” now that concerns him?
While great gulps of time were swallowed whole in the year that followed, there are singular moments in those nightmare days after Paul vanished that are seared in memory. Much of what I’d like to forget involves Jack Mitchell.
Hour after hour, I drank coffee and waited. Eventually, when no one called to tell me where or when Paul would be released, I rang Sid. He was on full-bore alert from the moment he answered. Lawyers must surmise a predawn call means trouble. Mine proved the rule. I told him Paul had been abducted in Mexico.
“Fill me in,” he barked. “How long’s it been?”
“Tuesday night, after I got back from North Carolina.”
“Damn, it’s already Friday morning! Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I’m sorry, Sid. I didn’t dare—”
“Take it easy, Meg. Don’t do anything. I’m on my way.”
He showed up within minutes. He smelled of sweat, his face pale. He wasn’t the Sid I knew, always freshly pressed and polished. But then, I didn’t look like my normal self, either. He stared at me, his eyes pinched, nervous. I held the door wide, but Sid made no move to step inside.
“You should’ve called me right away,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I was warned not to, or—”
“My God, three days!” I needed Sid to be strong, take charge. Instead, his eyes sagged deeper into his face. “You actually talked to Paul?”
“For just a second. Sid, please. You’ve got to do something. I’m scared—”
“I know. I’ve already made some calls.” He brushed past me and slumped onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “I have an old classmate who’s with the FBI. They’ll find him, Megs.”
I made a pot of coffee and watched Sid, still pale, his face tight, jabbing at his BlackBerry. He asked a question or two, glowering at my responses. I wished he looked more assured. In any case, it was a relief to let somebody take over, even if it was someone who looked as scared as I felt.
“Okay, he says he’s on his way over.” With his eyes still glued to his BlackBerry, Sid lifted his cup for a refill. “Jack Mitchell and I were in law school together. He moved back from San Francisco a while back, and we reconnected. So don’t worry, okay? You can trust him. I just wish to hell you’d called sooner, Megs.”
He shook his head and looked like he was going to say more, but thought better of it. I turned away to pour myself coffee. When I looked back, Sid had left the room. Just as well—I didn’t need more scolding.
I pushed open the kitchen door and stepped outside. Shivering in the morning chill, I yawned and stretched, breathing in freshly brewed coffee and tangy, dew-soaked lawn. Feeling invigorated, hugging my sloshing mug in my hands, I flopped onto a chaise. Burrowing into the cushions, I didn’t mind that splats of coffee stained my sweatpants and T-shirt, that the damp pillows smelled sour. The chaise reminded me of
the narrow bunk on the WindStar. And Paul. I set the mug aside and closed my eyes. Sinking deeper into the divan, I hugged a cushion to my chest and recalled the feel and smell of Paul, hair tousled, skin salty, curling up next to me.
I slept for the first time in almost three days. Then, with the sqrawk of the garden gate, my eyes flew open. “He’s here!” I shouted, still half-asleep. I catapulted from the chaise, tripping over cushions. “He’s here, Sid! Paul’s here!”
I raced to the bottom of the garden. Paul must have escaped. He’d made his way home. “There, there,” he’d say as I flew into his arms.
I barely saw the man squatting near the gate before I stumbled over the roots of a tree trunk, went airborne, and landed on top of him. We knocked heads, my cheek grazing the stubble on his chin.
Panting, my body sprawled across his charcoal suit, I came nose-to-nose with a stranger who smelled of apricot. My eyes locked on his just as it registered that my bare foot was wedged in his crotch. I blinked. So did he.
“Who the hell are you?” The words slipped out even as I realized that the wreck beneath me had to be Sid’s friend, the FBI agent.
“Jack Mitchell. I’m with—”
“Right, Sid said you were on your way. Why were you checking the garden gate?”
“I wasn’t.” He struggled to raise himself onto his elbow. “I dropped something.”
Maneuvering to free my foot, I bumped against his thigh, my hand digging into his stomach muscles. I heard a sharp intake of breath as I slid onto the grass. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” He rolled onto his side. “How’s your head?”
“Fine.” No need to mention the spiked marbles crashing around inside my skull. As Agent Mitchell sat up, I saw a half-filled bag of dried apricots mashed into the lawn where his shoulder had been. I handed him the crinkly bag. “Yours? I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He hesitated a moment, then stuffed the bag in the pocket of his jacket.
I rocked back on my knees, looking down at my grass-stained, coffee-drenched sweats. Maybe they could pass for camouflage gear. I probably smelled bad, too. I hadn’t bathed in days.
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 6
