The House Guests

by Emilie Richards

  Travis Elliott was probably a shade taller than Will, with sandy brown hair and eyes many shades darker. The hair was long enough to show a definite wave, and he pushed a strand behind his ears before he spoke.

  “I know your neighbor...” He inclined his head to Amber’s left. “Nancy tells me you’re being evicted because you lost your rent money last week. And that you were one of those caught up in the hepatitis A problem at Dine Eclectic and couldn’t work for weeks.”

  The day she lost the pouch, Nancy had caught Amber searching in the bushes around the old house. Amber had told her why, hoping that Nancy, who tended a small garden and everybody’s business, might have come across it.

  “Yes, well...” Amber shrugged.

  “And the landlord, a John Blevin, didn’t believe you?”

  “I don’t know what he believed. Look, I—”

  “You don’t want to talk about it. I can see why. This must be pretty traumatic.” He smiled sympathetically. “For you and your son.”

  Amber studied him. He was definitely easy to look at. In her eyes that neither recommended nor doomed him. His profession was a different matter.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I’m trying to pack and get out of here before Mr. Blevin shows up to harass me some more.”

  “He’s harassing you?”

  “As much as anybody might who thinks he’s been cheated.”

  “Nancy said the money was in a pouch you made yourself. Do you make many?”

  Amber tried not scowl. She didn’t want the paper to say that she’d been angry and uncooperative. “I have an Etsy store. And I’d made that one for Mr. Blevin’s wife. I even took a photo to put on my shop page.”

  “Is that how you get orders?”

  “One way.”

  “Can you really make money like that?”

  Her sigh took a while to complete. “As far as Etsy goes, I don’t have time to do much. So yes, I make some money, but not enough to pay my back rent. Now I’ve got to finish packing.” She started to close the door, but he put his hand against it and looked so sad, she grunted. “What?”

  “The thing is, that pouch is still out there somewhere, right? Maybe nobody found it, but maybe somebody did and wants to return it.”

  “I reported it to the police.”

  “Did you give them the photo you took?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d like the Times to do a story. A photo of you and then one of the pouch. Maybe somebody has it and would like to return it. And I’d like to talk about what happened afterward.”

  “No way.”

  “Is that too intrusive? I thought it might be helpful.”

  “I have a son at Winds. Wouldn’t a story about how destitute we are bring him lots of new friends? He could embellish the gossip with stories of the campground where we’ll be living tonight.”

  “Campground?” He folded his arms over a tropical shirt sporting palm trees and beach chairs.

  “I’m really busy,” she said.

  “Could I do the story with no names and just a photo of the pouch? If you have one?”

  She nearly closed the door in his face, but something stopped her. Without her name, without her photo, with nothing about Will in the story, what would be the harm? Was there really a chance someone would step forward? Because she still had to pay Blevin the back rent. She had other bills to pay, too, including the hospital and doctors. She needed that money.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” he promised.

  Finally, she nodded. “How good are you at carrying boxes? We can talk while I pack our car.”

  “I’m surprisingly strong and totally willing. Except...” He frowned. “You’re moving to a campground?”

  “It’s better than sleeping in our car. And don’t look like that. Do you know how many people are one paycheck away from being out on the streets? I work hard. I pick up extra shifts whenever I can. At night, I sew for my Etsy shop, and on top of that my son gives me most of the money he makes from his job after school.”

  “And you still couldn’t make it.”

  “No, because our line cook never learned to wash his hands properly, and he contaminated food I either ate or served. So that’s the origin of another deluxe vacation at Sunny Acres Estates.”

  “Look, I’d be more than happy to pay for a motel tonight while you figure out a better place to go. No strings. This whole thing is—” he shook his head “—not fair.”

  He had planned to say something more colorful and profane. She almost smiled. “That’s very kind, but we’ll be fine. We always are. We camped there when we first got to town. It will feel like home.”

  “The story?”

  She considered. “Five minutes. That’s all I’ve got. Come in and meet Will and then grab a box to carry to the car.”

  “You’ll give me the photo?”

  “I’ll tell you how to get to my Etsy page. It’s the green pouch that says Jeannie. While you’re there, shop.” She didn’t know why she added the next part. “Your wife or girlfriend would probably like one of my pouches. Great for cash.”

  “I don’t have either, but I’ll file that away for the future.”

  She nodded. “No names in the article, and no identifying information.”

  “Can I say that your landlord was unforgiving and intolerant?”

  This time she did smile. “If you didn’t, it would be fake news.”

  4

  ON SUNDAY MORNING SAVANNAH was afraid she was going to die, but not fast enough. She lifted her head from her pillow, and the room spun. For a moment she imagined herself on a carousel, like the one in Central Park. As a little girl she had loved going round and round on her favorite white horse, her father on a black one, while Cassie took their photos from the ground.

  Spinning wasn’t fun now. She barely made it to the en suite bathroom before she lost the contents of her stomach.

  The party.

  She plopped down on the edge of the bathtub and tried to remember if the party had really happened last night, or if she was caught in some kind of horrible time warp. Light was coming in through the glass block window—but was it sun or the security lights in the back of the house? She was still wearing last night’s jeans and T-shirt. Would she open the door into the hall to find the party was still in full swing, hordes and hordes of kids who hadn’t been invited swirling through her alcohol-fogged brain, turning over furniture, throwing a beach ball at Cassie’s beloved houseplants like they were bowling pins?

  Would she see the disgusted deejay packing up because kids kept slamming into him? Would she glimpse Minh or Helia disappearing after everything got completely out of hand?

  She was almost certain all of that had happened, but was it still happening? From the edge of her tub, the house seemed quiet.

  Minutes later she got to her feet again, weaving but erect. She flushed the toilet and bent her head over the sink, splashing cold water on her face and washing her hands over and over again. She had to brush her teeth, but her stomach didn’t agree.

  In the bedroom all seemed fine. She ventured into the sitting room beyond it, that extra perk that Cassie had claimed made this a second master suite. The sitting room looked okay. She dropped to the sofa, dreading the moment when she had to explore farther. She’d had the foresight to lock the suite door when the party began, and she thought she’d remembered to lock Cassie’s.

  Things hadn’t gone badly at first. Minh had arrived with a stack of pizza boxes and grocery bags of chips. Helia and her brother had arrived with multiple six-packs of cheap beer, soft drinks and bottles of vodka and rum. A dozen girls with a handful of guys had shown up about the time they were supposed to. The deejay, a high school senior, had arrived and set up his equipment in a corner. Things were noisy and chaotic, but under control. />
  Then the party crashers arrived.

  Savannah’s head was clearer now, and she was almost sure she remembered dozens of crashers. After a while it had seemed like hundreds. She had expected the police, but the house was near the end of a block, and either the neighbors had ignored the commotion or been absent for the evening. Things had gotten wild, but Savannah was pretty sure that at first, she’d tried to control it. Then Helia had handed her a drink and told her to shut up and chill. Kids she’d never seen before kept saying “great party,” like it was some sort of password. A guy with zits and dandruff had danced with her and tried to kiss her.

  She had no idea when things had finally broken up. Was there another party somewhere and people had left to check it out? Had that happened right after the beer and liquor ran out, along with the food?

  At some point Savannah had stumbled back to her bedroom and passed out, right after she’d had the presence of mind to call her absent chaperone and pretend she had spent an uneventful evening.

  She couldn’t stay where she was for the rest of the day. Cassie was due home tomorrow from New York, where she claimed she still had business. These days Mark Westmore’s life and death were just items for her stepmother to check off a list, like buying bread or taking clothes to the dry cleaner.

  She took a deep breath, unlocked the door and flung it open. Outside the relative order of her suite, all seemed quiet. She ventured as far as the great room, which was the disaster she had expected, but blessedly empty of bodies. If she was lucky, the other rooms were uninhabited, too. She supposed her first job was to make sure.

  After that? Something nasty and bitter pooled in her throat again. The last and worst job was the cleanup itself, even though there was no way she could restore the house to anything approximating its pre-party condition. Plants were overturned and potting soil had been tracked throughout. Food was smeared on the walls, and drinks had spilled on formerly pristine sofas and chairs.

  Cassie had claimed she was buying this house because she wanted Savannah to have plenty of room and privacy to finish growing up. The furniture was mostly new. Her stepmother had moved very little to Florida that wasn’t absolutely necessary, except houseplants. When they had lived in Battery Park City, Cassie had missed the tropical foliage from her childhood, so she had raised what she could indoors to make the New York apartment seem like home. The plants had thrived. Savannah’s father had called their apartment Cassie’s jungle.

  Even though Cassie and Savannah were now living where palm trees grew in every yard and houseplants cost next to nothing, her stepmother had actually gotten a certificate of inspection and moved the plants she’d so carefully tended. They were old friends, she’d said, and both she and Savannah needed old friends.

  Right now it looked like most of Cassie’s old friends had ascended to plant paradise.

  She forced herself to check the house. Luckily, nobody else was inside. The den and extra bedroom were trashed, but Cassie’s door was locked. That, at least, was good news.

  She discovered her phone in her pocket. She’d probably slept on it, but it still worked when she tried Minh. When there was no answer, she tried Helia. Helia answered immediately, whispering that her foster parents had been waiting up when she got home, and she wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere for the rest of the month or see her brother unless she wanted the caseworker to move her again.

  “Good luck cleaning up,” she whispered, not sounding like she meant it. “I guess you’ll have to get your hands dirty.”

  Savannah put the phone back in her pocket and looked around. If she worked straight through the next twenty-four hours, she could only make a dent in the mess. When Cassie arrived tomorrow, she would know exactly what Savannah had done.

  She wanted to cry, and she was pretty sure she was going to vomit again. She was dizzy and foggy about everything that had gone on the night before, and through it all, one thing stood out clearly.

  The zipper pouch had been the start of everything. If her father were still alive, Dr. Mark Westmore would look at the mess, then take her for a walk and ask thoughtful questions about the choices she had made. He would be kind and logical. He had never worn his psychiatrist’s hat with Savannah. He had always made it clear he loved her, no matter what she did.

  But how much had he really loved her? Had he given his daughter a thought when he risked his life sailing alone in a storm? She had sailed with him frequently, and she knew what a good sailor he was. He believed the sea, like some of the people he treated, could change in an instant. It was important to pay attention and respond with caution. He always had.

  Why had he gone out alone that day and ignored weather warnings? Was it the fight he’d had with Cassie right before he left? Was he so angry he’d just forgotten to be safe?

  Afterward Cassie had moved them both to Florida because she believed Savannah needed a fresh start in school. Cassie had also said that in Tarpon Springs, they would have family to help, although the family was hers, in no way Savannah’s.

  She wished her real mother was back in the country, that Gen would fly back to Palm Springs, where she and her partners had a thriving plastic and cosmetic surgery practice, and open her arms to her only child. But Gen, with the blessing of her partners, was spending months doing charitable work at a clinic in Africa so she and her colleagues could score points for the miracles she wrought worldwide.

  Of course her mother cared. Gen had flown all the way from Kenya to New York for Mark’s funeral. After the service she had promised Savannah she would always be there for her. Then she’d ended by reminding her that Cassie could provide the stability that she couldn’t right now. “We’ll talk when I’m back in California,” she’d said as she was leaving for the airport.

  Savannah had no idea when that would be. Gen texted from time to time when she wasn’t out of range of cell phone towers. But for now, Savannah was stuck in Florida.

  She picked her way from the great room into the kitchen, kicking aside pizza boxes and half-empty bags of chips. A tub of salsa lay facedown on a new area rug, soaking through it to the wood floor beneath. In the refrigerator a carton of milk lay on its side, the contents forming a puddle at the bottom. There was little else left except undisturbed condiments and nothing she could eat.

  Not that eating would be a good idea anytime soon.

  She closed the refrigerator and stood with her back to it. When she was a little girl, Cassie had made cleaning her room a game. “Choose a corner and start cleaning there,” she’d say, “and then take a step backward, look around and clean everything you can reach.” At the end, even if the room was still far from perfect, Cassie had always rewarded her efforts with a treat and lots of praise.

  There would be no praise when she came home tomorrow.

  Savannah sidled to the sink, skirting another stained area rug. The sink was filled to the top with soggy pizza crusts and other items she couldn’t identify. She grimaced, but the sink was the place to start.

  She pulled out the wastebasket. The plastic liner was still unused and pristine—possibly the only thing in the kitchen that was. She took a deep breath and began to scoop up the mess in the sink and dump it in the wastebasket. When the sink was empty enough, she ran the hot water and then the disposal.

  When she’d made a dent, she reached for the spray cleaner that always sat on the counter. In front of the bottle she saw the zipper pouch, deflated and forlorn in a puddle of beer. Her stomach roiled, but she lifted the pouch and peeked inside. Of course, it was empty. The money was gone forever.

  The pouch was the cause of everything that had happened last night. If somebody hadn’t been careless enough to lose it, Savannah’s life would be a lot different.

  She didn’t want to look at it for even another moment. She threw it into the wastebasket before she went back to work.

  5

  CASSIE COSTAS GR
ABBED HER carry-on from the baggage carousel and hauled it to the floor. The bag was navy blue, exactly like a majority of those traveling along the conveyor belt, and she bent to check the tag just to be sure she had the right one.

  “You’re in my way,” a man said, pushing her to lean over and grab air. “Now I’ve missed it!”

  She had lived in New York for years and she knew how to stand up for herself with strangers, but today that required energy she didn’t have. The man was still leaning forward, most likely off-balance. For just a moment she considered giving him a nudge with her knee, so he and his bag could ride the carousel together.

  Roxanne probably would have done that, brassy, feisty Roxanne, who had volunteered to provide transportation to and from Tampa. She was meeting Cassie at the curbside to take her home, but unfortunately not right away. According to a text, Roxanne was sitting in a traffic jam.

  If Cassie had braved the airport traffic herself and parked in the garage, she would be back in Tarpon Springs in well under an hour. Her hands might have fused to the steering wheel, foot barely brushing the accelerator, heart speeding as fast as the 18-wheelers whizzing past her, but she would have been on her way.

  After years of not driving in Manhattan, her skills were shaky. She was okay in Tarpon Springs on quiet side streets, but not yet on interstates where it was a struggle just to get up to the minimum speed. When she confided to Roxanne that she was booking a ride to go to and from the airport, Roxanne had insisted on driving her instead.

  “We haven’t had any time alone to catch up,” she’d said. “And I love driving. I’ll put the top down on my old jalopy, and we’ll have ourselves an adventure.”

  Roxanne was, in fact, Cassie’s aunt, her father’s much younger sibling, but since the two women were only ten years apart, she had always been Roxanne to Cassie, or more often just Rox. She had acted like an older sister, shielding Cassie from her parents’ toxic child rearing whenever Roxanne and her mother, Lyra—known to Cassie and almost everybody else as Yiayia—could find an excuse to intervene.