“Give me a minute, guys? I need to call her.”
Halley stepped out the back of the booth, sliding between the “asparagus” and the “tomato.” She bounded across the grass toward the sandy beach. Incredibly, her mother’s text sounded like good news. Her mom had picked up a paying house-sitting job. These were few and far between, even though her mother always required her clients to specify in reviews, “She doesn’t come cheap, but she’s worth every penny!” or something similar. In exchange, her mom’s oldest customers got her house-, dog-, and cat-sitting services for free. But the ones who did pay paid through the nose thanks to the craftily worded recommendations.
“Mom? I got your message. We’re done at seven tonight—”
“I need you to come get me right away.”
“I told you I’d be busy today.”
Silence. A heavy sigh.
Halley cleared her throat. “I can’t come get you, Mom. I’m working.”
“It’s a last-minute booking and it pays.” Her mother’s Danish accent had become pronounced, as it did whenever her mother was excited. “Two Chihuahuas and a Siamese and a pool house and a sauna—”
“I’m working.”
“No, I am working. You’re out playing with your friends.”
“Mom, that’s completely unfair—”
“Spis lige brød!” snapped her mother. Halley didn’t really know if the Danish idiom, literally, “eat just bread,” meant “you’re taking a time-out” or “you need to chill,” but the words made her feel like a four-year-old every time.
“What am I supposed to tell my friends?”
“Make something up.”
“Mom!”
“A single bag of money is stronger than two bags of truth.” It was her mom’s favorite proverb. Halley despised it.
Her mother continued. “As a member of this family, I expect you to pitch in, Halley. In Danmark, it wouldn’t even be a question.”
Anytime her mother didn’t like Halley’s attitude or behavior, she brought up Denmark, which was apparently peopled by perfect families. Halley, never having been, had no way of fact checking.
Regardless of the perfection of Danish families, Halley knew she was stuck. Her mother wasn’t going to give up when there was a paid job in question. Halley was going to have to leave to drive her mother to the new location.
But Halley wasn’t giving in without getting something in return.
“I need a new swimsuit.”
“What?”
“I need a new suit. A new top. For Jillian’s party next week. That’s my price if you want me to drive you right now.”
“I am not an ATM, young lady—”
“So call an Uber.”
Her mother sighed loudly into the phone. “We need the money.”
It was always “we” when her mother needed her help, but when it came to spending the money, it ceased being “we.”
“Do we have a deal or not?” demanded Halley.
“Fine.” Her mother continued, having shifted into bargaining mode, “There’s more. Besides giving me a ride, I’m going to need you to take over my current assignment.”
Halley inhaled sharply. “No way. I already told you, I’m working.”
“Just listen. I still have the job at Professor Khan’s, but only through this evening. It’s a live-in assignment, so someone needs to be here for the rest of today. The professor returns tonight at 6:15. You can pick up my check and hand off the keys and everything. After that, you’re free to play.”
Halley’s mouth fell open. Not at the audacity of the request, but rather at the new information her mother had revealed.
“Your current job at the professor’s is for pay, too?” Halley’s belly knotted with anger. When she’d asked her mother for money at the beginning of the week, her mother had specifically said the professor wasn’t a paying customer. “You said the professor paid you in groceries only.”
“It was. Groceries only. And a little, tiny stipend—”
“Why are you like this? Do you think any of my friends have to beg their parents for a freaking swimsuit?”
Her mother was silent. Then Halley heard what was probably meant to be a sniffling sound, the precursor to tears, which, when Halley had been younger, had worked wonders. Halley closed her eyes and counted to three.
“So here’s the deal,” said Halley. “I need a new suit. And my truck needs tires. If you want to accept the new job and have me cover for you at the professor’s, that is what it’s going to cost you.”
“Front tires only.”
Halley opened her mouth to object. Then closed it again. She should have known better. If she’d wanted all four tires, she should have started with a timing belt and four tires.
“Halley, four tires would be a waste of money. Your truck is on its last legs.”
Anytime the vehicle’s integrity was referenced, it miraculously became Halley’s again. Still, this turn of events solved Halley’s two most pressing problems—the suit and tires.
“Fine,” she said.
“I need you here within the hour.”
“Yeah. Fine.”
Halley hung up. Why couldn’t her mother treat her as a daughter instead of a business associate? Why did Halley have to argue and bargain for every little thing she needed? Her stomach was in knots. Her swimsuit and tire problems were solved, so why did she feel so . . . defeated?
Arms hugged tightly around her waist, Halley faced the booth. Customers were chatting happily with Jillian and DaVinci. Halley paused. It wasn’t like her friends even needed her. They would nod understandingly when she told them about her mother’s latest demands. Jillian would hug her. DaVinci would text her a link to an online support group for children of parents with a narcissism disorder.
Her throat tightened.
Casting a backward glance to the ocean, Halley chewed the ends of her black hair. The conversation with her mother had already taken a toll, and Halley didn’t want to go through it all over again. She could tell Jillian and DaVinci that her mother had come down with one of her migraines. It was better than the truth: that she didn’t love her daughter enough to buy her a swimsuit without bartering for it.
Halley pulled her hair back. Straightened her shoulders. And headed for the booth.
2
• HALLEY •
As Halley slipped back inside the booth, Jillian was completing a second sale, and DaVinci was trying to speak knowledgeably about Halley’s asparagus painting. Glancing at the “asparagus,” Halley was forced to concur with the customer, who was replying that it looked more like a trio of anorexic zucchinis standing on end.
A moment later both customers, the purchasing one and the zucchini-remarking one, moved on, leaving Halley alone with her friends.
“That last woman was definitely interested in your green-on-black piece,” said DaVinci to Halley. “She might actually circle back.”
In response, Halley tried on a tired smile. It didn’t fit, so she discarded it.
“Mom needs me,” she said.
“Another migraine?” asked Jillian. Mrs. Applegate was subject to migraines and Jillian was consequently sympathetic.
“Something like that. I won’t be coming back,” replied Halley.
DaVinci frowned.
“What?” asked Halley.
“It’s just, when my dad has to call in sick to school, they hire a substitute for him. Couldn’t your mom get a group of sitters together who would cover for each other when one of them is sick?”
Halley’s jaw tightened. Her mom could if her mom wasn’t paranoidally possessive about her clients. Halley opened her mouth to explain, but then changed her mind. Jillian and DaVinci would just feel sorry for her, and she didn’t want their pity.
Avoiding DaVinci’s gaze, Halley said, “I’ll pack up my paintings.”
“No.” Jillian shook her head. “No, no, no. They stay. Removing them will make the booth look empty. That large one in back is
what draws everyone in for a closer look. In fact, I probably owe you a commission, Halley. My last sale was thanks to your anorexic zucchinis getting people in the booth.”
Halley smothered a laugh.
“But the rules . . .” said DaVinci. “The sellers have to be the makers.”
Halley turned to her paintings, noticing that Jillian had added an extra zero to the rest of her prices. “I should take my stuff.”
“The paintings stay.” Jillian’s eyes flashed, dark and threatening. “I can make a lot more trouble for the show monitors than they can make for us.”
“You’re just scary sometimes,” murmured Halley.
Jillian shrugged. “What’s the point of affluence and power if I can’t use it for good?”
“Really scary,” added Halley.
“Besides,” said Jillian, “the monitors will be off having fun today. It’s the Friday of Fiesta week. And we’re not going to be here Saturday or Sunday, so who cares?”
“I guess,” conceded Halley.
“It’s settled,” said Jillian. “The paintings stay. And I’ll get Branson to help us break down and pack up tonight. He owes me. I talked Mom into ordering him a Hobart.”
“Branson.” DaVinci grabbed a flyer to fan herself.
Halley had no idea what a Hobart was, but she appreciated Jillian for thinking ahead and lining up solutions to problems Halley hadn’t even thought of. Her mother hadn’t bothered to think ahead or line up solutions. Feeling heat behind her eyes, Halley blinked rapidly. She’d sworn off crying over the things her mother didn’t do for her.
DaVinci straightened the asparagus or zucchini or aliens painting. “So, before you take off, I’m going to need more to go on so I can talk to people when they ask about your work. What inspired this piece?”
Halley laughed. “You know what?” She picked up the Sharpie again and added two more zeroes to each of her paintings. “That should stop people from asking questions.”
“A hundred and fifty thousand?” said Jillian, eyeing the zucchini/asparagus painting. “Either it stops the questions or it gets you invited to show in a very exclusive gallery.”
“Oh,” said DaVinci. “Speaking of galleries, Dad can’t help us hang my show tomorrow. I could get the twins . . .”
“God, no,” said Jillian. “I love your sisters to death, but the permanent Chihuly display wouldn’t survive them. The three of us can handle it. Right, Halley?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Okay. I gotta run. Thanks, you guys. I owe you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jillian. “We owe you for getting customers to stop and have a look. And wouldn’t it be fun if we sold one of your pieces?”
“Yeah. And probably a sign that the world was coming to an end.” Halley hugged Jillian and then DaVinci and then turned to run the four blocks to her truck.
~ ~ ~
Halley drove west along Cabrillo Boulevard, heading back to Montecito. She would need to grab some things from the apartment if she was stuck house-sitting all day. Despite the manifold attractions of the full freezer and pantry at the professor’s, eventually Halley would get bored of simply eating.
The small second-story apartment where Halley lived with her mother (when her mother wasn’t working) was on the end of a complex that could boast of being Montecito’s ugliest residence. Halley couldn’t believe a developer hadn’t bought it out from under the landlord already, but the landlord said she was waiting for the right deal, not the latest offer.
Halley grabbed a book, her laptop, and her toothbrush and jammies just in case. Her mother’s clients, often as not, extended their time away. If this turned out to be one of those clients, Halley was okay sleeping over, but she was not sticking around the place 24/7, no matter what her mother said. Halley had to help her friends hang DaVinci’s show on Saturday. She was not letting them down twice.
After getting directions, Halley got back onto Coast Village Road and then turned up Hot Springs Road. Professor Khan’s house wasn’t too far from Jillian’s estate. Eucalyptus grew thickly along the road, and the oily, pungent scent of the leaves drifted in through Halley’s open windows. A half-dozen turns later, Halley turned into the driveway of Dr. Jules Khan’s residence, where she encountered a severe—and very closed—gate.
“Of course it’s gated,” she muttered to herself, already dialing her mother.
“Halley, where are you?”
“At the locked entrance, Mom.”
“You should have gone to the back entrance like I told you.”
Halley ignored the fact her mother had not told her about a back entrance and spoke a single emphatic word.
“Mom.”
Her mother hung up and the solid oak gate swung soundlessly open. Solid gates were popular in Montecito. Those and high walled enclosures. Halley could still remember being small and pretending the estates were walled castles, back when she’d accompanied her mom to work.
Pulling the truck up to the first building she saw, Halley killed the engine and hopped out. The property smelled of roses, and a quick glance around showed climbing vines with tiny pink blooms as well as a more formally arranged rose garden surrounded by low boxwood hedges. A heady scent wafted from the formal garden.
“Wow,” she murmured. Even though she was a frequent guest at Jillian’s, Halley never really got used to the extraordinary properties her mom watched. Halley could see the appeal of life as a house sitter. She could even see why her mom house-sat for free for some clients, but Halley had vowed not to follow in her mother’s footsteps. The fear that she could resemble her mother in this or any other way was the unspoken terror of her life, as surely as the hope that she might resemble her father was its solace. One day, she vowed, she would learn the truth.
She walked toward what was probably a pool house or quarters for the help and heard water plashing nearby. As a pool came into view, she murmured, “Wow,” again. The pool, outlined in patterned brick and boasting not one but two active waterfalls, looked like the setting for a 1930s gin party. She smiled, imagining how she would costume everyone in bias-cut satin charmeuse and tuxedos. Her daydream was interrupted by her mother’s laughter. Who was she with?
“Mom?”
Halley’s voice was swallowed up by the dense mixture of live oak, palms, and thick bamboo bordering the pool on three sides.
Her mother, Inga Mikkelsen, strolled out of the pool house/guesthouse/servants’ quarters with a phone to her ear, smiling as if the person on the other end could see. “Yes, yes. I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes. Right. Thank you. Bye.”
As soon as she hung up, her mother’s smile fell. “What took you so long?” she demanded. Without waiting for an answer, her mother turned and walked back in the direction from which she’d come. “The tour will have to be quick. This is the guesthouse, where you can stay for the day.”
Halley dutifully noted the location of the guesthouse’s fuse box and glanced over the list of emergency contacts. After this, her mother grabbed keys to the main house to show Halley more fuse boxes and gave a brief explanation of the alarm system on the professor’s invaluable antiquities collection and the security features of his inviolable office and basement spaces. Halley duly swore to stay out of the basement, the office, and the main house unless an emergency demanded her presence. She promised not to touch the climate-controlled cases of the professor’s Gutenberg Bible, his Stradivarius violin, or his Leonardo da Vinci landscape painting. Halley wondered what the professor kept locked in the basement if he had items like this on display.
“Professor Khan is punctual,” said her mother. “I’ve even known him to be early. So you should be free to go off and play with your friends sometime shortly after 6:15. Do not let him tell you he’ll mail my check. I want it in hand.”
Halley nodded. She was already wishing she’d grabbed her ratty old swimsuit. The pool was gorgeous, and the air was heavier up here, even hotter than at the beach.
“One mo
re thing, Halley. I don’t want you calling friends over for a pool party or doing anything else irresponsible. In fact, since you insist on being paid, I think it’s only fair you should assume responsibility for any damages incurred.”
Halley scowled. She wasn’t being paid. Her mother had agreed to buy tires and a swimsuit.
“This client is a frequent one, and we can’t afford to upset him,” added her mother. “Oh, and another thing. If anything in the guesthouse pantry catches your eye, it wouldn’t be missed.”
Halley, well versed in translating her mother’s utterances, knew this was code for Take all the food you can back home when you leave. Her mother treated the open-pantry/open-fridge houses like her own personal grocery stores. It amazed Halley that anyone hired her mother a second time, but they did. It was probably the glamour of the Danish accent.
An hour later Halley had successfully delivered her mother to the house with the Chihuahuas and settled herself back at the professor’s on a lounge chair in the shade, pushing up her sleeves and hiking up her skirt as far as she dared. One of the few sensible pieces of advice Halley’s mom had given her through the years was to never lounge in your underwear, because pool maintenance or landscaping crews would invariably show up if you did.
The other was to avoid sheltering beside water heaters, major appliances, and tall, heavy furniture in case of an earthquake. It was this second piece of advice Halley thought of when the ground began to shake.
3
• HALLEY •
Much later, DaVinci would remind Halley of her ill-timed remark about earthquake weather. Now, as the ground shook violently, Halley’s California-trained responses kicked in. She looked up, making sure she was clear of limbs, chimneys, or electrical lines that might fall. But before she had time to do more than that, the rumbling and shaking had come to an end.
Overhead, dry palm branches shivered for several seconds after the ground had steadied, sounding like a hundred whisperers asking one another, Is it safe now? Halley counted to twenty, bracing herself just in case, but the ground remained still. The digital clock beside her reset itself to 12:00, meaning the power had briefly turned off. The pool water sloshed from side to side, and she became vaguely aware of a siren wailing in the distance. Fire and injury were common after southern California gave itself a shake, and Santa Barbara had had four in the past six months. This one had felt worse than last month’s, which had been a 5.5 on the Richter scale.
A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 2
