The drive to Pacific Palisades takes just over thirty minutes, and Laurie looks increasingly anxious the longer we drive. Proximity to the office was at the top of my must-have list, and she fills the silence with salesman patter about why this place could work, though it’s clear to both of us she’s barely managing to convince herself. She finally shuts up when we park in front of an eight-story building separated from a sandy, busy beach by a two-lane road, and I follow her inside, wondering if maybe she’s on to something. Yes, it’s farther than I’d requested. And yes, it’s only the eighth floor, but...it feels right. And when we step into the penthouse unit, I know instantly I’ve found the one. “This is it,” I tell her, seven steps inside the door. “I’ll take it.”
“Let me give you the tour,” she suggests, bustling past me and pointing out features I’m fully capable of identifying on my own.
I ignore her and cross to the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. This unit has uninterrupted 360-degree views, with the ocean on one side and rolling green hills on the other. It’s different. It’s...serene.
“...gas fireplace...” Laurie is saying. “Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. The kitchen could use some updating, but you mentioned you don’t cook, so I don’t think it’s a big deal...”
The kitchen isn’t particularly dated, but the appliances are older, and it’s separate from the rest of the apartment unlike the more popular open layouts we’ve been seeing. But I don’t care. I like it. And I’m tired of looking.
“Let’s put in an offer,” I say.
“I—are you sure? It’s a thirty-minute drive from the office in light traffic, you might—”
“I’m sure.” When I bought my current apartment, I’d been looking for something close to work. That was my main criteria. It wasn’t like I spent a lot of time there, so nothing else mattered. Sure, it’s a nice apartment, with a decent view and expensive finishes, and I’ve tried my best to make it my own, but I don’t walk through the door and feel like I’m home. Here I can picture myself coming inside, slipping out of my heels and stepping onto the wraparound balcony, the smell of salt water surrounding me. And the distance isn’t really that big an issue, is it? I can use the second bedroom as an office, and negotiate with the partners to hire a driver so I can work during my commute.
My phone beeps, interrupting my plans, and I glance down to see a message from Cole with details for tonight’s party. He tells me the address, the dress code and even sends a list of people I should “pretend to know” while I’m there. Ordinarily I’d spend hours researching, learning people’s names, their spouses’ names, their current legal representation, what’s lacking and how I can meet those needs. Today, however, I excuse myself and step outside, inhaling the smell of the ocean as I reply, telling Cole I can’t make the party.
Don’t ask why, I think, smiling to myself as I anticipate tonight’s repeat performance.
Too bad, Cole writes back. Offer still stands. Let me know if you change your mind. Hope you enjoyed your visit.
I check my watch: it’s almost six. “Laurie.” I walk back inside to find her discussing the local amenities. I don’t think she knew I was gone. “Start the paperwork, please. I need to get going.”
“You’re sure?” By now I think we both know she’s only asking because she feels obligated. It’s been a long day, and she doesn’t want to jump on this deal and have me complain later that I didn’t have time to think it through.
“I’m sure.”
She pulls out her phone and punches something in. “Move-in date?”
I take a breath, like uttering the words will make it official. “September first.”
She smiles. “Coming up quick.”
I look past her, at the broad expanse of ocean, the waves rolling in like a welcome. “Very,” I say.
* * *
That night I’m five minutes early for my “date” with Eli. I hurry into the bathroom to comb my hair and brush my teeth before stripping down to matching black bra and panties and climbing on the bed. He said he’d call at nine thirty and he’s usually pretty reliable, so when ten minutes pass without a peep, I check to make sure my phone’s on. It is. The ringer’s turned up. I check the laptop too, in case he tried to video chat without phoning first, but there’s nothing there, either.
Whatever. It’s only ten minutes.
But when ten minutes turns into twenty, my impatience increases exponentially and I start pacing, nervous energy flowing through me. I’d stuck to one glass of wine at dinner so I’d be completely awake for this, and now that I am, he’s—
I stop. The message light on the room phone is flashing. I didn’t even know people still used their room phones. I pick up the receiver, follow the instructions on the laminated paper stuck to the wall and slump against the desk when I hear Eli’s recorded, distant voice.
“Caitlin, hey, it’s me,” he says. “I lost my phone, so I didn’t have your number to call your cell. I’m so sorry to do this, but I can’t make it tonight. Kent’s roof needed a lot more work than we expected, and with the rain coming, we have to get it done. I—Sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow night when you get back.” And that’s it. I listen for a second, then the operator kicks in, telling me how to save or delete the message. I play it back one more time, but there’s no hidden clue in the words, nothing to justify the niggling doubt in my chest. I delete the message and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Our flight’s not until noon tomorrow, so I could go to sleep now, wake up early and see a bit more of the city before we head to the airport. Except I’m not tired. Not even a little bit.
I stare at my cell phone, wishing I’d agreed to the sexting so I’d have something to look at. Or that Eli had phoned and spoken to me directly, instead of leaving some lame message. He lost his cell? Really? I take a breath and tell myself to calm down. Eli’s never lied to me. People misplace things all the time. Still, I grab my laptop and check the weather in Chicago. Sunny today, turning to showers in the evening, rain overnight. Rain for the next three days.
I jump guiltily when my phone beeps, like it’s Eli calling to chastise me for spying. But it’s Cole’s name on the display, and the message is short: Hank Lloyd is here. Just sayin.
My eyes flit to my luggage, the garment bag containing my one “going out” dress draped gently over the top. I think of the new shoes I’d worn all-too-briefly yesterday. Then I think of Hank Lloyd, Hollywood royalty, box office king. I haven’t seen a movie in eons, but even I know who Hank Lloyd is.
“Sue!” I rap on the adjoining door before I can talk myself out of it. “Wake up!”
She wrenches open the door instantly, startling me. “What’s up?”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“Then why’d you knock?”
I shake my head. “Get dressed. We’re going to a party.”
* * *
“Caitlin. Caitlin!” Susan slaps the armrest to get my attention.
“Knock it off,” I order. “I don’t want to look at any more pictures.”
“But it’s Hank Lloyd. And he’s touching me.”
“You’re the luckiest girl in the world. I bet he’ll fall in love with you if you just show enough people the pictures you took. Satisfied?”
Susan purses her lips, unimpressed with my sarcasm but still high on her repeated run-ins with Hank Lloyd at last night’s party. “Spoilsport.”
“Go to sleep.”
She sniffs haughtily and goes back to scrolling through the images on her phone, leaving me to my task. I’d distributed and collected at least a hundred business cards over the course of last night’s party, and am now transcribing them into my address book while I can still remember to make notes about first impressions.
We returned to the hotel shortly after three, fell asleep in Susan’s room and woke just in time t
o change and race to the airport for our twelve o’clock flight. I was less excited to meet movie star Hank Lloyd than Susan was, but Cole knew him—Cole knew everybody—and made the introductions. Still, no matter how many people we met, how free-flowing the champagne, a tiny part of me was back in the hotel room, replaying Eli’s voice mail. So many years of working my ass off to succeed in a cutthroat business has made me naturally suspicious. And while Eli has never done anything to justify my doubt, I can’t help but feel like something’s wrong.
I shake my head as though that will fix things, and focus on the task at hand. We’re halfway through our four-hour return flight; Eli and I have plans to meet up when he finishes work at six, and I’m sure seeing him in person will ease my mind.
A sudden cry from the back of the plane has everyone tensing, and several people leap to their feet, looking around frantically. “We need a doctor!” someone cries.
A flight attendant hurries down the aisle, urging everyone to return to their seats, asking if there’s a doctor on board. Susan’s already unbuckling her seat belt. “I guess that’s my cue,” she says. I watch as she follows the flight attendant to the back of the plane, where an elderly man lies gasping in the aisle. “I’m a doctor,” Susan announces calmly, the voice of reason I’d heard a thousand times growing up, the one telling me I wouldn’t get in trouble if I didn’t get an A on a test, or win a gold medal, or come in first in some competition. She’s always been the one people choose to listen to, the one whose advice they follow without compunction. We’re alike in a lot of ways, but I’ve never been one to inspire faith in others. She effortlessly calms everyone with her steady hands and sure movements, and the gentle murmur of her voice soothes even the people around me.
Eventually the pilot announces we’ll be making an emergency landing in Colorado, where an ambulance will meet us on the ground. I know I’m a bad person for wishing this man’s seizure or heart attack or whatever the hell it is had waited another two hours, but I follow orders to stow my laptop and return my seat to the upright position as we prepare for landing.
We touch down in Dawson, Colorado—population eleven, if the miniscule airport and its half dozen employees is any indication—where we’re herded into the terminal to wait. Susan’s off answering questions and being adored by our fellow passengers, so I sit by myself and fire off an email to Eli, letting him know we might be a little late.
A “little” late is a huge understatement, as we spend four tedious hours in the pint-size airport, eating stale muffins and chocolate bars, since their miniature food court is undergoing renovations. By the time we get back on the plane, we know that the man is in stable condition in a local hospital, and I don’t think I’m the only one too tired and hungry to care as much as I’m expected to. Susan looks drained but happy as we take our seats, and at least thirty people stop yet again to praise her for her heroics. She sincerely thanks each one, and when we take off, I look at her, impressed.
“What makes you happier?” I ask. “Saving that man, the ensuing attention, or those Hank Lloyd pictures?”
“I have to pick the first one, don’t I?”
“Only if it’s true.”
“It’s true. It’s what we live for, isn’t it? Doing what we love?” A pause. “And the ensuing attention?”
I look out the window at the darkening sky. “That’s right,” I say, wondering, not for the first time, just who I’m lying to.
* * *
It’s ten thirty when we file into the arrivals terminal at O’Hare. Susan’s yawning nonstop, and it’s catching. Fortunately we brought only carry-ons, so we skip the crowd gathered at the baggage carousel and head for the doors to find a taxi.
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” a familiar voice murmurs in my ear. “Cheap price.” A warm hand covers mine and extracts the handle of my wheeled suitcase. I turn to find Eli smiling down at me, handsome and familiar. I’m not prepared for the wave of pleasure that rolls over me at the sight of him.
“Eli,” I say, when something witty eludes me.
“Who else?”
“I—” I try not to smile foolishly as I gesture to Susan, who has stopped alongside us and is looking on with great interest. “This is my sister, Susan. Dorrie’s mom.”
“Nice to meet you,” Eli says, shaking her hand. “Caitlin tells me you’re a hero.”
She glances at me. “She did?”
“Was she lying?”
“Oh, I just...” Susan studies me, then shakes her head. “No, she’s right. I’m the famous one this time.”
“It’s true,” I agree. “And she knows Hank Lloyd. There are pictures to prove it.”
Eli manages to look suitably wowed. “Is it bad if I find that a little more exciting?”
“Not at all.”
He laughs. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.” He takes Susan’s bag too and navigates the way out to the parking area. I try to avoid Susan’s gaze but I can’t, and I know she sees me blushing. I can’t remember the last time I returned from a business trip and had somebody waiting for me.
Fine. It was never.
He’s cute, she mouths, eyebrows raised.
“If you went to Dorrie’s games, you’d already know that.”
She sticks out her tongue and gestures for me to climb in the backseat of Eli’s truck as he holds open the door. They make polite small talk on the drive downtown, mostly about Dorrie and the upcoming end-of-season softball tournament, deftly ignoring the fact that Susan’s never been to one of her daughter’s games. When we stop at the curb in front of the building, Susan’s quick to hop out, waving off Eli’s move to get her bag.
“I’ll take it from here,” she says. “Thank you so much for the ride, Eli. It was great to meet you. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“August twenty-first,” he calls as she slams the door and practically runs inside, leaving us staring after her, bemused. Ten seconds later he twists in his seat to look at me, at once too close and too far away. We lunge at each other as best we can, mouths meeting over the seat back. Eli’s already unbuckled his belt and turns fully, wrapping both hands in my hair, tongue dueling with mine.
“Show me your apartment,” he gasps when we break apart to breathe.
“I’d love to,” I mumble against his lips, “but I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Stephen’s there.”
“Who?”
“Dorrie’s dad. He stayed at my place while we were gone.”
Eli’s head falls back, frustrated.
“Hey,” I say, stroking his arm. “Thanks for coming to the airport. I didn’t expect you to pick us up.”
He lifts a shoulder. “No big deal. Sox had the night off.”
“That’s sweet.”
His lips twitch. “You coming over then?”
“If you want me to.”
“You know I do. Get in the front seat and take your panties off. I want a live-action replay of the other night.”
My entire body heats at the reminder. “I’m not doing that,” I tell him, even as I scramble into the front. “And enough with the recaps. I want to see some new plays.”
He laughs, a belly laugh that feels like a compliment, like I make him happy, too. “Be careful what you wish for, Caitlin Dufresne.”
I glance at his face, profile silhouetted by the glowing lights outside, a man I never would have dreamed of, the only one I’ve ever missed, even for two days. I know LA is the right thing for me, for my career. It’s the next logical step, it’s where I need to be. But the front seat of Eli’s truck feels pretty damn great right now, and I shut down my anxious nostalgia and focus on the moment.
I staunchly refuse to reenact anything on the short drive to Eli’s apartment, though he makes a valiant effort to convince me. Truth be
told, I’m not used to staying out until 3:00 a.m., and the combination of last night’s festivities and today’s flights has left me feeling pretty drained.
“Did you get the roof fixed?” I ask, yawning into the crook of my elbow as we park on the street and climb out.
Eli squints at the sky, the moon obscured by dark rain clouds. “What are you talking about?”
I trail him to the front door. “Kent’s roof. You said—”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine now.”
We head upstairs and Eli ushers me in, wheeling my suitcase into the bedroom before returning to join me in the kitchen. “How was the trip?” he asks, pouring us both a glass of water and sliding one across the island.
“Good. I told you most of it on the...phone.” I feel heat steal up my neck as I recall the latter part of that conversation. The sly twist of Eli’s lips tells me he’s remembering it, too. I’m about to break the tension with details of my new apartment when my stomach growls, interrupting.
Eli laughs. “Is that your way of asking for something to eat?”
“Oh God. There was no restaurant at the airport in Colorado. Just a coffee cart with old muffins and bagels.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to.” He grabs the fixings for a BLT and sticks bread in the toaster as he heats up a pan for the bacon. “You didn’t say much about the new office,” he remarks, slicing the tomato. “How was it?”
I tell him about the unfinished space, the corner offices, the hard hats. “I think it’ll be okay. Smaller, but...mine. Well, ours, I suppose.”
“Who’s ‘ours?’” He spreads mayonnaise on the toast.
In Her Defense Page 20
