by Lisa Plumley
Despairingly, he sloshed through the brackish water to the other side of the room. He retrieved a picture frame that had been floating in the floodwaters. He wiped its cracked glass front with his shirtsleeve, then peered at it. A ruined photo of Jimmy and Debbie Torrance stared reproachfully back at him.
It was almost like looking at his parents’ faces in real life. Since the debacle at his varietal chocolates workshop at the conference in Las Vegas—and the subsequent media shit storm—neither of them had forgiven him. There had been recriminations. There had been tears. There had been threats to “go in another direction” with the future of Torrance Chocolates.
In the end, Damon had skated by without being axed outright; he was grateful for that. But he knew it wasn’t blind luck that had saved him. He suspected Natasha had had a hand in Jimmy’s decision to offer a “cooling off” period instead. She’d always been his dad’s favorite; it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d given Damon a behind-the-scenes assist. But despite that reprieve, Damon hadn’t rested easy in the days since then.
Instead, he’d tried to set things right. He’d tried issuing penitent invitations to dinner, to brunch, to take trips together, to go shopping, to see a show, to attend the theater… .
His parents had refused every damn overture. Nothing had worked. Not without Natasha there to help him.
All at once, Damon had utterly lost his mojo. He only had to look at that photograph, search his short-term memory, and wade to the next soggy area of his home to realize it. He was in a seriously bad way. He had no idea where to go from here.
All he knew was that he had to keep moving. Doing so had to be better than staying where he was, stuck beneath a figurative black cloud of despair and misfortune. Lately, it felt as if the universe wanted to rain on his parade full-time, Damon thought as he rescued another photo and added it to the growing pile in the crook of his arm. Everything he touched turned to shit.
His run of bad luck had started, appropriately enough, in Las Vegas. Damon had awakened the morning after Natasha’s defection, still hungover from the night before, to find that during the night, several of his misdeeds had caught up to him.
The housekeeping staff, usually so understanding and forgiving when it came to him and his transgressions, had reported his suite’s chocolate-covered wreckage to management. His hotel bill had skyrocketed. He’d been banned from the luxury hotel and all its associated properties for life. The French acrobat he’d entertained the day before had blamed Damon for her being late and losing her job in her troupe’s popular show. And the board of directors for the chocolate-industry conference had explained to him in no uncertain terms that he would not be welcomed back to present a workshop the following year.
What’s more, Damon hadn’t even been able to leave Las Vegas properly. When he’d finally, finally wrapped up things with the hotel management, the acrobat, and the board, he’d learned that his driver wouldn’t be showing up. Ever. He’d decided to remain in Las Vegas and try his luck at being a stand-up comedian.
Without Natasha on hand to wrangle a replacement, Damon had been forced to hitch a ride to the airport on a crowded, non-air-conditioned, vaguely bacon-y smelling van full of tourists. He’d alighted with relief, stretched his stiff arms and shoulders, then subsequently beelined to the nearest coffee stand … only to find his wallet and cash missing. Apparently, during the cramped ride, someone had pickpocketed his ID and all his credit cards.
Naturally enough, the theft had led to Damon’s being unable to board his scheduled flight. At first, he’d tried to pull some strings. That hadn’t worked. The airport security wouldn’t budge. Next he’d called Jason and begged his friend to make the round trip between San Diego and Las Vegas. Jason had agreed. But because he’d brought along Amy and their two toddlers, Isobel and Manny, Damon’s escape from Las Vegas had turned into a raging diaper-palooza road trip full of crying and gassiness—not to mention multiple reprimands (and then the silent treatment) from Amy, who had clearly sided with Natasha in her decision to leave.
“You deserve this, Damon,” Amy told him. “Every painful minute. I know Jason tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen.”
By the time the Huertas had dumped Damon on his doorstep, he’d been ready to declare celibacy for life. He was that sure that babies and toddlers (and self-righteous wives) were not for him. As luck would have it, the women in his life had uncannily agreed. For days now, Damon had been receiving breakup phone calls, e-mails, and even texts (texts!) explaining that all the fascinating women in his life wanted him to leave them alone.
Their rejections had been unexpected. And humbling, too.
Apparently, Damon had learned, there wasn’t enough charisma in the world to convince so many women to give him another shot. After the first dozen “Dear Damon” messages, he simply gave up.
He had other problems to deal with, anyway. Because as he probably should have expected, his virtual mugging on the smelly airport van ride from hell had led to his identity being stolen and several of his bank accounts being cleaned out—a matter that Damon was still trying to sort out with the bank.
Evidently, these days his engaging smile didn’t get the same mileage it used to, either. Because when he tried to expedite the process by turning on his usual charm with the bank representative, she’d reacted with hostility, unhelpfulness, and a lawsuit threat. Some of the female employees at work had suddenly become invulnerable to his charms, too. Prompted by rumors of Tamala’s “kinky Las Vegas sexcapades” with Damon (although no one had yet seen the photos), they’d banded together to insist that Jimmy host another round of mandatory sexual harassment training at Torrance Chocolates headquarters.
Jimmy had done so. Then he’d tactfully suggested that, as an alternative to being fired outright—as Damon was still in danger of being—he take a temporary leave of absence from work. Looking weary and disappointed, his dad had explained to Damon that he needed to focus on the company’s future (“now more than ever,” Jimmy had added enigmatically, “for your mother’s sake”)—and on choosing his eventual successor—and that Damon’s “antics” were a distraction from that.
Blindsided and hurt, Damon hadn’t been able to do anything except agree. He’d gotten into his car, intending to take a long, head-clearing drive to the mountainous areas near Alpine, east of the city. But even his trusted BMW had failed him.
Damon hadn’t found relief and calm during his drive. Instead, he’d wound up stranded with an alarming quantity of smoke coming out of his engine and a flat tire. Getting home again had required multiple phone calls, another awkward ride with Jason, and a final damning declaration from his friend.
“Look, I can’t keep bailing you out, bro,” Jason had told him, looking uncomfortable. “Amy says you’re taking advantage of me now, instead of Natasha. And she’s right.” His friend jutted out his chin pugnaciously. “You’re going to have to figure out things on your own for a while. It will be good for you.”
Good for him. Right. Damon had had his doubts then, and he had his doubts now—now that he’d come inside after being dropped off to discover that his house was ruined and uninhabitable.
One of the contractors he’d called waded toward Damon. His practical waterproof fishing waders kept him a lot dryer than Damon’s ensemble of bare feet, bare legs, and rolled-up pants.
“Hmph. It’s the damnedest thing.” The contractor peered at his clipboard. He gazed at Damon’s formerly lavish living room. Then he looked through the window at the serene beach and ocean, scratching his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. None of your neighbors were affected at all. No flooding next door or anyplace else along the beach. Near as I can figure, something funny happened with a city water main nearby, and all the water got diverted straight into your house.”
A water main. “All these years living next to the ocean, and it’s the municipal water system that finally gets me.” Damon shook his head at a bundle of sodden, uprooted weeds drape
d over his state-of-the-art home entertainment system. “The odds of a flood like this happening have got to be astronomical.”
“Probably, yeah.” The contractor seemed unperturbed by that morose observation. He thrust his clipboard full of paperwork at Damon. “Here’s my estimate. It’ll take a while to pump out all the water. That’s what’ll happen first. Then my crew will dry out everything, repair the structural damage inside and out, perform a series of mold treatments throughout the house—” He broke off, dollar signs practically dancing in his eyes. “Well, you can see for yourself there on the estimate sheet.”
Damon looked at it. “How long will the work take?”
“Two, three weeks. Maybe more. It’s hard to say. Depends on if you want us to Dumpster the ruined furniture or leave it.”
Oh. That meant things were even worse than he’d thought. Of course his furniture was ruined, too. But a two-to-three-week work time was probably just as well. Damon might need that long to sort out his troubles with the bank; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to pay at all. “Fine.” He scrawled his signature.
“I hope you’ve got someplace to stay,” the contractor told him as he tucked away his clipboard beneath his arm. “You sure as hell won’t be staying here. Even the upstairs needs work.”
Upstairs. That’s where his bedroom was. Damon hadn’t even waded that far yet. At the thought of his own private sanctuary being destroyed, he felt worse than ever. No matter how far in the world he’d roamed, he’d always loved coming home to his own bedroom—and especially to his own familiar, comfortable bed.
“There’s always a hotel,” the contractor said. “Sometimes the insurance company will pay for something like that.”
Given the way his life had gone lately … “I doubt it.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re the Damon Torrance, then.” The contractor grinned. “You must have plenty of rich friends who’ll help you.”
“You’d think so.” Since the workshop debacle, though, many of his friends had been strangely “busy” when he’d called. Newly depressed at the remembrance, Damon did his best to rally. He smiled, then shook hands with the contractor. “Thanks for everything. I appreciate your coming out on such short notice.”
“Hey, no problem at all. A job this big is going to single-handedly pay for my kids’ Christmas this year—and I’ve got three of the little rug rats. So I’m more than happy to do it.”
The contractor beamed at him. Damon felt strangely cheered. Natasha would have loved to know that he was indirectly giving some junior San Diegans a major-league holiday … provided he had access to his bank account or credit cards sometime soon.
How was he going to pay for a hotel without them? Damon wondered suddenly. Where was he going to live for the next several weeks? The uncertainty of it all nearly overwhelmed him.
Natasha would have found a way, Damon knew. Because Natasha was clever and resourceful and not easily discouraged. He missed those qualities in her. Hell, he missed her. Period.
He didn’t want to admit it, but it was the truth. He missed seeing Natasha in the expansive office they shared at Torrance Chocolates’ flagship La Jolla headquarters, perkily talking on the phone or diligently typing notes on her computer. She’d always had a smile for him, he remembered, no matter how wired, hungover, or late he’d arrived. He missed hearing Natasha laugh her husky laugh. He missed seeing her take charge of things. He missed feeling her always uplifting presence in his life.
Without Natasha, Damon realized, he was …
Not himself. At all. He was listless, unmotivated, and dejected. Worst of all, he was demonstrably unlucky.
How was he supposed to psych himself up, Damon wondered with a jab of defensiveness, without the promise of earning Natasha’s smile at the end of the day? He’d done so many things, he’d realized too late, partly to earn her approval. Without that dangling carrot to pull him along, life was full of sticks.
“Hey.” With evident concern, the contractor squinted at him. “Are you okay? You look like you’re taking this kind of hard. I swear, we’ll get this place back to normal. We will.”
Damon shook himself. “Thanks. I know you will.” He considered his predicament—and the fact that his BMW was currently being held hostage in an auto repair shop in Alpine—then aimed an earnest look at the contractor. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare worker with a truck handy, would you? I obviously can’t stay here, and I could really use a ride.”
The contractor frowned. For an instant, Damon expected him to refuse. That’s just the way his life had gone lately. Then …
“Yeah, I’d like to help you with that. But my other guys are all out on jobs, and I can’t spare the few I brought with me today. Sorry.” The contractor pointed toward the kitchen peninsula, a granite slab that divided the living space. “I think I saw some spare change in that big bowl thing on the counter. You could take a bus.”
Damon glanced at the “big bowl thing”—a limited-edition Dale Chihuly sculpture he’d picked up on a trip to Seattle.
“Yeah. All right,” he said. “The bus it is, then.”
“Have you ever ridden a bus before, Mr. Torrance?”
Damon shrugged. “I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the stops.”
“Okay. That’s a start, I guess.” The contractor seemed to be stifling a guffaw. He shook Damon’s hand again. “Good luck.”
Good luck. Ha. For the first time, Damon understood why Natasha had once accused him of sarcasm when he’d said that to her. When good luck felt totally out of reach, hearing someone wish you a dose of it just felt like a cruel taunt.
“I don’t have to go very far,” Damon said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I hope that’s true, Mr. Torrance.” This time, the contractor did laugh. So did his workers. “All the same, my professional advice to you is: phone a friend. Get a ride.”
Damon wished he could. “If I could, I would,” he said.
Then he took himself upstairs, packed a pair of Louis Vuitton overnight bags with as many undamaged belongings as he could cram inside them, and went to find the nearest bus stop.
Chapter 10
Having an unexpected sabbatical from work sounded heavenly. At least in theory, it did. Voluntary joblessness left Natasha’s days free to spend time with her family and friends, catch up on chores, organize her closets, do some reading, and finally get through the backlog of TV shows on her TiVo. But that vacation mind-set only went so far, Natasha discovered during her first week of freedom. Because after a while, she got bored.
Not just ordinary, garden-variety boredom, either. No, what Natasha experienced was full-on, mind-crushing ennui. Nothing satisfied her. What she needed, she decided, was to feel productive again. She didn’t want to make a decision about accepting a new job just yet, but she didn’t want to laze around all day, either. What she needed, she decided further, was to apply her newfound good luck to an entirely different arena.
That’s why, late in the first week following her walkout on Damon, Natasha gathered her courage, picked up a feather duster, and headed out to the garden shed behind her duplex apartment.
She hadn’t been out there in a while. Not since … well, not since shortly after she and Paul had moved into the duplex. But with her ex-husband in Mexico and her own life moving forward, Natasha decided it was time to confront the demons of her past.
Standing a few feet in front of the shed, she eyed its old door, ramshackle siding, and pair of grimy windows. Inside, it probably looked just as bad. The place clearly needed some TLC before she could use it again. She’d purposely neglected it, and it showed. Under its eaves, leaning against the siding, were the various yard tools Natasha stored there—a rake, a shovel, a dilapidated rotary push mower, and a pair of gardening gloves.
All those items more properly belonged inside the shed. But keeping them outside suited Natasha just fine. They were mostly protected from the weather, and they were handy when she needed them. Occasionally, Carol
pestered her to either clean out the shed so it could be used for its intended purpose or (more frequently) to “open the damn door and do some work in there!”
Unfortunately, Natasha had abandoned the kind of work she did in the garden shed … which had nothing to do with gardening.
Today, though, things were going to be different. Today, she was going to take the first step toward the rest of her life. Inhaling deeply, Natasha marched to the shed’s front door.
She glanced around her quiet neighborhood, half expecting someone to accuse her of … well, she wasn’t sure exactly what she expected to be accused of. Not deserving a second chance?
Paul had resented the time she’d spent in her improvised garden-shed workspace, Natasha remembered as she wielded her feather duster. He’d teased her. Sometimes he’d sulked. After a while it had just seemed easier to stop going in there.
Eventually—and much too easily—she’d given up on herself.
But all that was changing … starting today. Weirdly enough, it was changing because Natasha had finally gotten fed up with Damon enough to leave. He’d accidentally given her the push she needed, just by being his usual bad-to-the-bone self.
“Thanks, Damon!” she muttered under her breath. Then, after squaring her shoulders and taking another tentative glance around, Natasha opened the garden shed door and went inside.
For the fifth time in as many days, Damon headed downstairs from the luxe guest room that Wes Brinkman had offered him. As usual, during the lengthy journey across Wes’s palatial house, Damon tripped over a discarded bottle of vodka, navigated past several passed-out, scantily clad guests from the previous evening’s party, then made his way to the kitchen. There, Damon found no sign of the housekeeping staff … or anyone else. At Wes’s (unflooded) oceanfront beach house, things were pretty casual.
That was because Wes didn’t have someone like Natasha to maintain normalcy and a modicum of order, Damon had decided. But it might also be because Wes, an inveterate partier, didn’t want anyone around who might disagree with his hard-living ways.
