by Joanne Fluke
Good heavens. She looked like she was auditioning for a remake of Taxi Driver.
“For Pete’s sake, Angel,” her dad sighed. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
“Yessss.” She rolled her eyes. “I am.”
“Well, come and say hello to Jaine,” he said, shrugging helplessly.
Angel clomped over on her kitten heels and gave me the once-over.
Up close I could see that underneath her cloud of heavily teased dishwater blond hair, she was actually quite pretty. Clear gray eyes, nice little nose. Slightly protruding teeth, but all in all, a cute kid.
“She’s my girlfriend?” she whined, eyeing my elastic-waist jeans and baggy T-shirt. “I told them I wanted someone who looked like Jennifer Anniston. Somebody who dresses nice.”
Uh-oh. Maybe my new life of selflessness wasn’t going to be so rewarding, after all.
“Angel, that’s no way to talk,” her dad chided. “Apologize this minute.”
“Okaaaaay,” she said, with another roll of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Kids,” he said, shooting me an apologetic smile. “What’re you gonna do?”
“A little discipline might help.”
Of course, I didn’t really say that. Lord only knew what it was like trying to rein in this kid.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel. “I’m sure we’re going to get along just fine.”
I shot her a hopeful smile. “Right, Angel?”
“Let’s go already,” was her cheerful reply.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom before you leave?” Kevin asked her.
“No, I don’t have to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yesss. I’m sure.”
“What about a sweater? You’re gonna need one in that top.”
“Your father’s right, Angel,” I said. “We’re going to the beach. It might get chilly out there.”
“I don’t need a sweater,” she snapped. “Now are we going, or what?”
Kevin Cavanaugh shot me one last apologetic smile as we headed out the door. I was beginning to understand his hollow cheeks and baggy eyes.
“Good luck.” With a feeble wave good-bye, he shut the door behind us. How I envied him being on the other side of that door.
Angel and I started down the metal steps, Angel clomping along in her rickety heels.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay in those shoes?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “I’m going to be okay.”
“Here’s my car!” I said, trying to sound chirpy as I led her over to my Corolla.
“This is it?” She eyed my geriatric Corolla with unalloyed disdain. “Ugh. If I wanted to ride around in a crummy car, I could hang out with my dad. And even our car is nicer than this.”
“Just get in,” I said, resisting a sudden impulse to leap in and drive off without her.
She settled down on the passenger seat with a petulant plop.
“Buckle your seat belt,” I instructed.
“I don’t want to buckle my seat belt. It’ll wrinkle my top.”
“Buckle your belt!” I said through gritted teeth.
With an exasperated sigh, she buckled the belt and we took off.
“I don’t want to go to the beach,” she whined as I swung onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed out to the ocean. “I want to go to the mall.”
“We’re not going to the mall.”
“But I hate the beach. I want to go shopping.”
“It said on your profile you liked outdoor activities.”
“I do. I like shopping at outdoor malls.”
“Forget it, Angel. We’re not going shopping.”
“But you’re my Girlfriend. Aren’t you supposed to buy me gifts?”
“No, I’m not supposed to buy you gifts. It specifically says so in the Girlfriends Guidebook.”
“Oh, fudge.” Only that’s not the F word she used. “I woulda never signed up for this stupid Girlfriends thing if I knew there weren’t gonna be any presents.”
“You’re not getting any gifts. And watch your language.”
We rode the next few minutes in a tense silence, broken finally by Angel announcing:
“I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“For crying out loud, Angel, your dad told you to go back in the apartment.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“It’s too late now,” I snarled. “Hold it in.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t have a snit fit.”
By now my knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The enormity of my mistake was beginning to hit me.
I no longer felt the least bit like Mother Teresa. No, as I piloted our way those final blocks out to the pier, I felt like a lion tamer in a cage without a whip and a chair.
The Santa Monica Pier juts out into the Pacific, a rustic boardwalk dotted with restaurants and souvenir shops, right next to a small amusement park.
The minute I parked the car, Angel sprinted out to use the bathroom at one of the restaurants. I followed her inside and found myself in a tacky seafood joint with fishermen’s netting draped on the walls and a giant stuffed swordfish hanging over the bar. As Angel hustled off to the ladies’ room, I took a seat on a bar stool and eyed a bottle of Jose Cuervo. You’ll be ashamed of me, I know, but I seriously contemplated ordering a margarita. At eleven in the morning. But sanity prevailed. Instead I asked for a glass of water, and gulped down a few Tylenol to quell the headache that was now throbbing in my skull.
I sat there for a while, waiting for the pills to take effect and ruing the day I ever saw that story in the paper about L.A. Girlfriends.
Then I checked my watch and realized that ten minutes had passed since Angel had gone down the corridor to the ladies’ room. That’s an awfully long time for a trip to the bathroom. And suddenly I panicked. Dire scenarios began flashing in my brain. What if she’d run away? What if she slipped out a back door? Or wriggled out a bathroom window? For all I knew, she was turning tricks in the men’s room. Oh, Lord. Her father would never forgive me.
I jumped off the barstool and raced down the corridor to the ladies’ room, or as it was known in this particular establishment, The Little Mermaids’ Room.
“Angel?” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
My knees buckled with relief.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m coming. I’m coming.”
A few seconds later, she sauntered out with enough makeup on her face to stock a Cover Girl display.
“What on earth have you done to your face?”
“My dad doesn’t like me to wear makeup, so I wait till I’m out of the apartment to put it on.”
I considered making her take it right off again, but I knew it would be a battle royale and frankly, I didn’t have the energy.
“Let’s go.” I took her by the hand and hustled her outside.
“So what’re we supposed to do now?” she asked, squinting into the sun.
My first choice, going back inside for a round of margaritas, was clearly out of the question.
“How about a ride on the merry-go-round?” I suggested.
“Are you kidding?” she sneered. “That’s for kids.”
“What about the roller coaster?”
“Nah. I don’t want to mess my hair.”
“Then let’s just walk around the pier.”
“Okay, but if we run into any kids from my school, pretend you don’t know me.”
I ground my teeth in annoyance, wondering if anybody would notice if I tossed her over the pier.
And right away I felt ashamed. I really had to stop this negative thinking, and give the kid a chance. So Angel was a little difficult. That was all part of being a mentor. I bet Sister Mary Agnes dealt with lots of difficult kids over the years. I had to try to establish an emotional rapport, like they said in the Gir
lfriends Guidebook, and get her to open up to me.
“So tell me about yourself,” I said. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”
“Puh-leeese. I hate that place. It’s like a prison. They won’t even let you wear bustiers.”
“You have any idea what you want to do when you grow up?”
“Marry a rich guy and move to Bel Air.”
Why was I not surprised?
I asked her a few more questions, most of which were greeted with monosyllabic grunts. It was like talking to a fire hydrant.
“Look,” she said, when I’d finally run out of steam. “There’s a souvenir shop.”
“Forget it, Angel. I’m not buying you a present.”
“Well, you have to buy me lunch,” she pouted. “I’m hungry.”
For once, we were on the same page. I was a little peckish myself.
“How about a burger?” I said, pointing to a nearby burger stand.
“I don’t want a burger,” she whined. “I want nachos.”
Needless to say, they didn’t have nachos at the burger stand two feet away from us. So we trekked to every restaurant and snack shop on the pier till we finally found a place that sold them.
I got a burger and Angel got her precious nachos and we settled down on a bench to eat them.
“Mmm, this burger is good,” I said, wolfing it down with impressive speed.
Angel took two bites of her nachos and yawned. Then, before I could stop her, she tossed them in the trash.
“What did you do that for?” I wailed. “We traipsed all over the pier for those stupid nachos.”
“I wasn’t hungry any more,” she shrugged.
“Why’d you throw them away? I could’ve eaten them.”
“I bet you could,” she said, her voice ripe with innuendo.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” All wide-eyed innocence. “You said you could eat them, and I agreed.”
“C’mon.” I wadded my burger wrapper and slammed it into the trash. “Let’s go play frisbee.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes, we have to.”
“But I’ll ruin my shoes.”
“So take them off.”
I took her by the hand and practically dragged her down to the beach.
“I’m cold,” she whined, as we made our way toward the ocean.
“Your dad told you to take a sweater.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Take mine.”
I took off my hoodie and handed it to her. She looked at it like I’d just handed her a dead rat.
“Do you want it, or don’t you?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, putting it on. It hung on her tiny body like a bathrobe.
I reached in my purse and fished out the frisbee I’d brought along for our carefree day at the beach. Then I tossed it to her, only to have her gaze at it vacantly as it whizzed by.
“Do I have to go get it?” she moaned, staring at where it had landed. “It’s so far away.”
“Yes, Angel. You have to get it. That’s how playing frisbee works. If you miss the frisbee, you have to go get it.”
She took her sweet time and sauntered over to pick it up. At the rate she was going, I’d be on Medicare by the time she threw it back to me. At last she got it and tossed it back. A feeble toss that landed practically at her feet.
“Now it’s your turn to get it,” she smirked.
My jaw clenched in annoyance, I ran over to her and picked it up. I was standing so close to her when I tossed it back, she had no choice but to catch it.
“Okay,” I grunted, “now throw it back.”
I’d had gum surgery more fun than this.
Then, to my surprise, she flung her arm back and hurled the frisbee with decathlon force. I watched as it sailed into the ocean.
“Your turn to get it,” she trilled.
For a minute I was tempted to let it float out to sea, but that’s just what the little brat wanted.
So I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans and waded out into the surf. The ocean was rough, and for a minute it looked like the frisbee was a goner, but then I saw it drifting back toward the shoreline.
I raced over and snatched it out of the water, holding it aloft in triumph.
So there, you little monster!
I stood at the shoreline, waving the frisbee at Angel and savoring my victory. Which was a major mistake. If I hadn’t been standing there flapping that damn frisbee, I would’ve seen the wave that was about to break right behind me. And break it did, with a big wet thud against my fanny. The next thing I knew, I was sopping wet and dripping with seaweed.
I looked over at Angel. For the first time all day, she was smiling.
I checked my watch, and to my dismay, I saw that we’d been at the beach for little more than an hour. Funny, it felt like decades. I’d planned on spending the whole afternoon with her, but I simply could not face five more minutes with this brat.
“C’mon,” I said, yanking her by the elbow. “Time to go home.”
“Fine with me,” she snapped, and we trudged back together in icy silence to my car.
I dried myself off as best I could with a mildewy beach towel from the trunk of my car, then sped back to Angel’s apartment with my foot on the accelerator, cursing every red light in our path.
At last, we pulled up in front of her building and got out of the car.
“So,” she said, as we headed to the rickety metal staircase, “you taking me to the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party?”
Was she crazy? Not if my life depended on it. I didn’t care how nice Tyler was. Or what sort of job Sister Mary Agnes might offer me. Never in a million years was I seeing this spawn from hell again.
“Probably not. I think I’m going to be out of town on a business trip.”
Was it my imagination, or did I see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes?
“Who cares?” she said, with an exaggerated shrug. “I didn’t want to go anyway. I bet it’s just a bunch of dorks standing around drinking punch.”
And then, out of nowhere, she started gasping for air.
“Angel, what’s wrong?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, and groped around in her purse. Finally she found what she was looking for. An inhaler. She clamped her lips around it and began pumping intently.
After a few terrifying seconds, she began breathing normally again. “Quit worrying,” she said, seeing the fear in my eyes. “It’s nothing. Just asthma. I’ve had it since I was a little kid.” She tossed the inhaler back her purse. “Well, see ya round.”
Then she started up the steps to her apartment, her bony shoulders stiff with pride.
As I watched her pathetic leopard skin purse flap against her hip, I was suddenly overcome with guilt. This poor kid was not only motherless, she had a debilitating illness. What sort of cold-hearted bitch was I to bail out on her after just one hellish date?
“Wait a minute,” I called out.
She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“That business trip. I think I maybe be able to get out of it.”
“Don’t do me any favors. You just feel sorry for me because I’ve got asthma.”
“That’s not true,” I lied. “I really think I can make it.”
She shot me a skeptical look.
“Honest.” By now I was begging. “I really want to go.”
“Well, okay,” she said, clomping back down the steps to my side. “And in case you decide to bring me a gift, here’s what I want.” She thrust an ad torn from a newspaper into my hand.
The kid never gave up, did she?
Then she tore up the steps to her apartment and began banging on the door with the relentless drive of a jackhammer.
“Pop!” she shrieked. “Open up!”
Kevin Cavanaugh opened the door, his face crumpling at the sight of her.
; “Back so soon?” he called out to me over the roar of the freeway.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and, with a merry wave, dashed off to the sanctuary of my Corolla.
Chapter Seven
I woke up the next morning, still recuperating from my encounter with Angel Cavanaugh (or, as I was now calling her, Rosemary’s Other Baby).
I’d staggered home from our date, damp and shivering, and spent the next hour or so soaking in the tub, Prozac gazing down at me from her perch on the toilet tank.
I told you you should’ve stayed home and scratched my back.
I’d whiled away the rest of the day mindlessly watching sitcom reruns, getting up only to run out for some Chinese take-out. Okay, so I ran out for some Ben & Jerry’s, too—to reward myself for surviving a whole hour and forty-six and a half minutes (but who’s counting?) with Angel.
Now, after a restless night dreaming I was being chased down the Santa Monica Pier by a giant nacho, I lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. I thought about bailing out on L.A. Girlfriends and leaving Angel to another mentor, preferably one who’d spent some time as a prison warden.
But then I remembered how vulnerable she’d looked gasping at her inhaler, and I knew I had to give her another chance. Somehow, I vowed, prying myself out of bed, I had to make our relationship work.
I’d just sloshed some Hearty Halibut Guts into a bowl for Prozac and was standing at the kitchen counter, breakfasting on a cold egg roll, when the phone rang.
Seymour Fiedler came on the line, sounding light years more cheerful than the last time we’d spoken.
“Good news, Jaine. I just talked with my lawyer, and I may be off the hook for Garth Janken’s death.”
“That’s great, Seymour.”
“Now the cops think it was premeditated murder. In fact, they just brought somebody in for questioning. A guy named Willard Cox. Apparently they found some incriminating evidence linking him to Garth’s death.”
“What evidence?”
“I have no idea. All I know is they’re questioning him.”
“Do you want me to continue my investigation?”
“You may as well. Just in case they change their minds.”
