“So,” Jessica says, leaning toward me with a sparkle in her eye, “what made you buy this place and save us all? I can’t tell you how happy we all are.” She bites into her dainty turkey sandwich, probably being careful not to get too hippy for Casey.
“I needed a place,” I tell her, “and dreaded looking. I spotted this one below any realtor’s radar, so I jumped.”
“Far be it from that cheapskate Turner to use a realtor,” Dolly chips in. “Of course it was ‘For Sale by Owner.’ He wasn’t going to give anyone a piece of the profits.”
“Except,” Casey corrects, “all the workmen he's ripped off over the years who had liens on the property.”
“He sounds awful,” I chime in.
“Well, I bet he bilked you good.”
“Manny!” Robin returns with his sodas. “What’s the matter with you? How can you be so rude?”
“I’ll be right back,” Jessica says, putting down her soda and getting up. “Bathroom,” she explains.
But her attempt to distract conversation away from the subject of money and how much I squandered does not work for longer than the time it takes her to get to her own front door.
“How much did you pay?” Manny asks.
Dom shoots him a look. “I’m sure you didn’t get bilked.” He puts a reassuring hand on my arm and looks to Jeffrey for back-up.
But I have to give Jeffrey credit. He can’t lie, even to side with his true love. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’re thrilled to have you. And we’re going to paint this place tomorrow, after we take you to get the colors of your choice. Once we all put in a little more elbow grease, you’re going to love it here.”
I look around at all of them, and decide they’re not so calculating after all. “I already do.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t buy a bigger place.” This from Ethel, who hasn’t addressed me directly all morning. Not even when she showed up with her three-pronged gardening tool.
“Because of all the dogs?” I ask. “We’ll all fit here, just fine. We just need some time to settle.”
“I mean because of all your money.”
Everyone stops eating and looks at me.
“Money?” Dom asks.
Ethel speaks up again. “You are Lisa Flyte, aren’t you?”
Great. Ethel must be one of those women who religiously reads tabloids, committing every article to memory in case aliens ever try any funny stuff with her.
“I am,” I say quietly. “But I didn’t get nearly the amount the papers have been reporting.”
“You’re rich?” Mia squawks, her eyes getting huge. “And you live in this neighborhood? You could live anywhere! In Beverly Hills or Bel Air! You could live next to famous people, like Justin Bieber or Johnny Depp!”
“Doesn’t Johnny Depp live in France?” I ask. Please, please let everyone start talking about Johnny Depp now.
But everyone just stares at me. Not one of them joins in to talk about Johnny Depp.
I feel a hand on my arm. I look around to see Dom looking into my eyes, his concern as palpable as warm, fluffy nougat. “How do you feel, honey? Are you all better from the accident?”
The instant lump in my throat is so huge I cannot answer. No one has EVER asked me that before. I open my mouth, try to speak, but I can’t.
Instead, I start crying.
“Dom!” Jeffrey turns to him and whacks him with the back of his hand. “Look what you’ve done!”
“No,” I snuffle. “That’s the nicest thing—”
I choke up with embarrassing, racking sobs. “My parents,” I try to explain, “and my sister…and my stupid brother…and Rick…they were all mean to me, all tricking me. Then Jack…on the mountain…” I peter off and try to smile, but they all seem to have stood up and backed away.
Except Dolly, who sits regally munching a cracker, and Ethel, who eats a roll of ham like she hasn’t got a care in the world. Casey has a particularly clueless look on his face as Jessica, just back from the bathroom, looks at him curiously. Mia stares at me open-mouthed. Only Dom doesn’t desert me.
He puts an arm around me and squeezes. “It’s been rough, hasn’t it?”
I look at him and nod. “But I’m done screwing up. I really am. I’m gonna be such a great neighbor, just you—”
Manny’s strangled cry cuts me off. “What the hell!” he bellows. “I’ve got beer all over my ass!”
* * * * *
Eleven o’clock on Sunday night, and I’m taking a shower. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day! I lean my head back into the spray and laugh. My weekends have definitely improved. My life is getting more constructively busy by the minute. Which is amazing, really, especially after the beer-ass incident yesterday morning.
How could I have been so stupid? I prepared a picnic on a freshly watered lawn that had been doused by nothing but beer for years. So, all my neighbors had butts wet with cheap beer.
On the upside, though, they all stuck around after that, convinced more than ever that I needed help. And I’m pretty sure that Mia had a downright good time. After all, none of the adults treated her like a second-class kid. Instead, she was one of the crew. She did a hell of a job on my driveway. I hadn’t been able to get all the markings off the pavement, so she set about with some paint, turning the random marks and partial obscenities into flowers and leaves and butterflies. Now the driveway looks like a psychedelic flying carpet from the seventies. It’s awesome.
“An atypical driveway, to be sure,” I said, coming up behind her, “but a gorgeous one.”
She turned and beamed at me. “You think so?”
“You’ve got a talent for making things pretty,” I noted. “Cool. Maybe you can help me work on the interior of my place in the next couple weeks.”
“Really?” she asked.
I’m not sure if I meant it for real when I first said it, but as soon as she bit on the offer, I figured, why the heck not? Going with a high school girl as an interior designer is a definite step up for me. After all, my current décor was decided by a bunch of drunken frat boys.
My shower curtain, for instance. As I lather up, I look around at the glossy bevy of mostly-naked women posing lewdly and throwing suggestive looks my way. The curtain came with the house.
I used to have this beautiful sepia shower curtain dusted with tea roses that reminded me of romantic photos from the 1920’s. But the dogs tore it apart first thing.
And I didn’t have time to get a new shower curtain due to the cataclysmic pace of my life in recent days. So, now I’ve got tacky babes in Day-Glo colors undressing for me. It’s like a porno version of South Pacific.
I squeeze shampoo into my hair and start singing. The dogs start barking, as if to tune me out, so I sing louder. I can sing as loudly as I want. After all, this is my house.
Duh-nuh-nuh-nuun. Duh-nuh-nuh-nuun.
My body jerks at the sudden, unrecognizable sound buzzing through to the bathroom. “Ahhh!” I slip. I gyrate. I scream again. I grab onto the shower curtain. I catch myself from falling. I settle, standing kind of tilted, one shoulder resting against the shower wall.
Leaning there with the curtain as my anchor, heart racing, I realize that the weird, robotic sound is my doorbell. A digitalized recording of Beethoven’s Fifth. Who would invent such a demented doorbell?
I try to pull myself into a straightened standing position so I can quickly rinse myself.
I hear a loud crash, a whine, a yelp.
Oh, no! Someone’s hurt. I jump out of the tub, right into the shower curtain, my weight yanking it down. More yelping, hissing and growling.
“Stop it!” I bolt out of the bathroom, visions of Pacquito ripping into one of the cats blasting through my mind in vivid red.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I run into the hall, shower curtain stuck to my wet skin. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I jump over a knocked-down table as I head past the front door toward the living room. Fred and Ginger jump around barkin
g, watching Pacquito wrestle one of the cats.
“Pacquito!”
Pacquito jerks his head wildly, trying to get one of the tabby cats off his face. He succeeds in sending her flying across the room, and I see that it’s Blanche. She lands safely on the floor, but then springs back onto his face.
I dive into the fray. “Pacquito! Blanche! Pacquito! Blanche!”
Aaron and Christian are going nuts in the backyard. Someone at the door is pounding and calling my name over and over. I just scream and scream. Blood smears off Pacquito and Blanche and onto me, but I don’t know who the blood belongs to! I yank Blanche off Pacquito, but she twists in my arms and springs onto my head.
“Aaaah!”
Pacquito jumps on me trying to get at her, shredding the shower curtain plastered to my body. Blanche jumps off me, racing to slide under the couch. Pacquito goes after her, but he’s not quick enough to catch her. When he slams his muzzle into the bottom of the couch, I know she’s safe. She left no trail of blood, but Pacquito leaves a crimson smear on the couch. The blood belongs to him. His muzzle is dotted with claw pricks but at least his eyes seem fine.
He forgets Blanche and rushes to the door to bark at it. “Will you shut up!” I shout at the door, “I’m fine!”
“Open this door!”
“Just hold on!” I adjust the shreds of the curtain as I work my way to the door.
I’m gonna punch him. His ringing, pounding, and shouting have already cost me another shower curtain, not to mention a hall table and a near-heart attack.
“Excuse me!” I shout at the dogs who are rioting in front of the door. “I said ‘’Scuze me!’” They still don’t listen. So, I start to shove my way through, grabbing scruffs and tails when I can. I really need to look into collars.
Fred, at least, backs away from the door, runs in a few circles, then leaps onto the couch and continues his barking from there. I make it to the door, but before I can look through the peep hole, Pacquito jumps on me, paws on my back, causing my forehead to thunk against the door. “Ow!”
Just then, the door gets kicked in, sending me flying back. I land hard, with my bare wet butt smacking the floor. I’d be laid out flat if my head hadn’t come to rest against the shredded padding at the bottom of the couch.
“Lisa? Jesus, are you okay?”
I look up.
“God damn it, Jack. This is all your fault.”
CHAPTER 12
When I was a pre-teen dreamer, I had this soft-focus fantasy of someday finding a hero who would come to my rescue, protect me, and take care of me, no matter what. It took a long time, but I finally found him.
His name is Fred.
Fred leaps from his position on the couch and lands on my chest.
“Uh!” I say, but not on purpose—the air just comes jutting out of my body.
Then, as Ginger and Pacquito wriggle up to greet Jack, my hero Fred stands strong to defend me. He digs his paws into me as he barks and growls at my intruder.
“Lisa?” Jack steps toward me. He squares off against Fred, ignoring the other two dogs snuffling and writhing in a Mags-like play for attention.
“Jack,” I say, lifting one hand to stop him, like Diana Ross trying to stop him in the name of love. I use the other hand to stroke Fred and calm him down. The dog slides his feet off my body and stands straddling me.
I manage to get myself into a sitting position, so I take Fred in my arms, shushing him and crooning to him. I lift my eyes toward Jack. “It’s okay. They’re just not used to visitors.”
Not that you could tell from Pacquito and Ginger, who’re practically taking Jack’s coat and offering him prosciutto wrapped melon balls. Mr. Talks-to-the-Animals seems to notice them then, the wraith of a greyhound and the mutt in a cast.
He looks up with a bewildered expression befitting a man who just woke up on a different planet with a different haircut. His eyes drift over what he can see of my house, with its overturned table, torn curtains, lewd graffiti on the walls, and ripped living room furniture with the stuffing everywhere.
No sense cleaning it up until the pets’ve done their worst. Right?
Jack just stares down at me, moving his head and opening his mouth a few times like he’s going to say something. I’m thinking he doesn’t know where to begin in pronouncing judgment on my current situation—abode, attire, home furnishings, domestic companions. You name it, I’m sure I don’t measure up.
“You’re bleeding,” he finally says, crouching down in front of me. Fred sniffs at him, and then licks his face.
“It’s not my blood,” I say with a certain degree of truculence. The dogs already like Jack better than they like me. And I’m the one who upended my life for them!
“Listen,” he says, looking me up and down. At least, looking at what he can see of me through the three wriggling dogs.
“Why don’t you…finish showering, and I’ll clean up this guy’s face?”
He looks at Pacquito’s muzzle and says to him, “What do you think of that, Big Guy?”
Jack is already male bonding with MY dog.
“Fine.” I get up carefully, trying to keep what’s left of the shredded plastic between my body and Jack’s eyes. “There are paper towels in the kitchen next to the sink.”
“Nice shower curtain.”
“Screw you.” I turn and make my way back toward the bathroom.
“I can see your butt,” Jack calls after me.
I can hear the smirk in his voice. Man, he’s awfully fresh, seeing as how he’s caused so much trouble. I whip the strips of plastic off my skin and let the mangled curtain drop to the floor.
“If you run real fast and get in front of me,” I offer, “you can see the whole shebang.”
Just then I realize he will see the whole shebang, in profile, when I turn into the hallway. Ah, who cares? He’s in my house after all, uninvited. I can walk around naked and soapy if I want.
* * * * *
After my curtainless shower, I make my way to my bedroom and close myself inside. Taking a deep breath allows me to absorb the ambiance of the tiny room. I let the essence of my perfect sanctuary work its magic. I’ve made the bed with the homey quilt that reminds me of Little House. Curtains hung, wardrobe in place, dressing table set up. It’s pretty crowded, this tiny room of mine. Nevertheless, its quiet warmth seeps into my bones like elixir from the gods.
More than anything, I want to collapse across my bed. But I know I’ll fall asleep if I do. So instead, I dry my hair and get dressed in pajama pants and two T-shirts.
When I walk into the kitchen, Jack is sitting in the middle of the linoleum floor, surrounded by the boxes I haven’t unpacked yet. He’s petting Pacquito and Ginger, who sit in worshipful abeyance.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He looks up, but I do not give him a chance to answer.
“And how did you find me?”
“Yesterday, I went by your place,” he explains, “but Raffi told me you bought a house on Wednesday and moved. Just like that. So I went on the net to look for houses in L.A. County that just sold, then I drove around to each one, looking for your car.”
“You’ve been looking for me since yesterday?”
“You didn’t answer your cell.”
“Pacquito ate it. I have to get a new one.”
“You couldn’t have gotten in touch with me and told me that?”
“I’ve been busy. And you said you had a billion things to keep you busy if I couldn’t test right away.”
Jack looks down at Pacquito’s silky ears and strokes them. The mutt’s eyes close, and he begins to hum a soft doggie grunt.
“Jack,” I say. “I need an animal wrangler. Do you want to move in with me? You can have the biggest bedroom. It has its own bathroom.”
He looks up at me. “You’d let the help sleep in the master bedroom?”
“I’m the master,” I say, “and I’m not in that room, so it’s not the master bedroom.”
> “Why aren’t you in there?” he asks, suspicion darkening his brow. “What’s wrong with it? Haunted?”
“No. I don’t think. Nothing’s wrong with it. But I don’t want the animals in my bedroom, and since they need as much square footage as possible, I took the smallest room.”
“So your animals could get most of the house,” he says, getting clarification.
“Duh,” I say. “That’s why I bought it.”
He’s looks back down at Pacquito. “I bet Raffi wasn’t too thrilled when you came home one day with….” He looks around, noting the two dogs out back, as well as Dorothy and Sophia, sitting on the counter, “…seven animals.”
I open the fridge and grab myself a Coke, the only beverage in there. So far, I’ve moved in only the essentials.
“Twelve,” I correct. “There are still five cats you haven’t met. But I didn’t bring them all home at once. Some stayed at the vet longer than others.”
I look toward Jack, who’s looking at me now. I nod toward the line of red cans in a way of offering. He nods back, so I toss him one.
“But, I managed to barter myself enough time to find a place and move out.”
“Enough time?” He takes a pull from his Coke. “I last saw you–what? A week ago?”
Actually, not counting sightings of each other in class, it's been more than a week since he came to get the helmet, and I tried talking to him about his mother. “Do you want to meet the dogs out back?” I ask.
“The Rottweiler and the Mastiff?” He looks toward the kitchen door. “We introduced ourselves while you were in the shower.”
“Jack, why are you even here when I’m in the shower? What’s so important that you had to kick my door in?”
“I kicked your door in because I heard you screaming.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.” I rub the bump he gave me on my forehead when he kicked the door right into me.
“Can you test Thursday, all day?”
“All day?”
Jack extricates himself from the dogs and stands up. “Can you do it?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
He walks to the front door. “I’ll pick you up at 6 a.m.”
Miss Adventure Page 12
