Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  By the time I got back to the house, it was time to start getting ready for today's assignment. I hadn't completely forgotten about my almost phone call to Jamie to cancel our date. I had just chosen to overlook it.

  Besides, I had things to do. Laundry detergent needed purchasing, iPods needed charging, and ridiculously large amounts of cash lying around needed depositing. And after that I had to go to work. John would be meeting me at the docks in less than an hour. I certainly wasn't about to change around my whole schedule just for a guy.

  WHEN I reached our previously agreed-upon meeting point at the marina, I found John pacing anxiously in front of a large yacht, dressed in white pants and a white collared shirt, with a blue handkerchief tied meticulously around his neck. He tilted his head back to salvage the last drop from his Coffee Bean paper cup.

  "What are you wearing?" I asked, trying to stifle a laugh as I approached and stared incredulously at his outfit.

  John looked down at his clothes and carefully pressed his finger against a piece of red lint on his pants, and then flicked it into the warm sea air. "Hello! It's sailor chic," he informed me condescendingly, as if he were trying to explain a Renoir painting to a culture-deprived teenage girl.

  I smiled. "Ah..."

  "So what's the plan? Where is he? What should I do?" he asked anxiously.

  I looked around the dock and tried to match up the photo of Daniel Miller's sailboat that his wife had given me with the real thing. It was going to be difficult, since they all kind of looked alike. I now wished that she had given me some type of parking space number. Is that even what they call them? Parking spaces? Designated boating spots? Docking zones? What the hell did I know about being down at the "dock of the bay" except for that one song about wasting time there. Although Ashlyn was supposed to be quite the dock rat, according to her last meeting with Daniel Miller.

  "Well..." I began.

  "See, here's what I was thinking," he quickly interrupted, tossing his empty coffee cup into the nearest waste bin.

  I laughed. "Go ahead."

  "Okay. So here's you and me, just casually strolling the docks. Ashlyn with her good friend Wallace. And then suddenly... 'Well, well, who do we have here?' A friend of Ashlyn's. 'Hey, you're the guy from that something or other bar,' etc., etc. You introduce us and I say something brilliant like 'It's chilly out here. I'm just gonna grab my sweater from the boat,' and then you make your move... or do whatever it is you do. Seal the deal. Sink the bait. You know."

  John stood back with his arms folded across his chest, patiently awaiting my praise.

  I bit my lip, holding back a smile that almost refused to be stifled. "First of all," I said, "Wallace?"

  "I needed an alias. And I think it sounds very 'Saturday afternoon at the docks,' don't you?"

  "Fine," I replied, choosing my battles. "And second of all...it's almost eighty degrees out here. I don't think your little brilliant, sly sweater escape story is gonna fly."

  John waved my objection away with his hand. "Well, whatever, two nickels or a dime. I'll go get coffee or something."

  I looked at him strangely. "Don't you mean 'six of one, half dozen of another'?"

  John frowned. "Details, Jen. Useless details. We're wasting precious inspection time."

  I shook my head. "Fine, let's go." I had a feeling this was going to be a disaster, but at this point, I hardly cared. Sarah Miller was in denial. Sure, it was some sort of peculiar, reverse-psychology denial. But denial all the same. Her husband had already passed my test. As far as I was concerned, he was not the cheating type. I didn't even make up another inspection card. The fact that she wanted to pay me an exorbitant amount of money on top of the triple fee she already had paid me the first time around to come down here and confirm what I already knew to be true was, I guess, her problem.

  John self-importantly cocked his elbow at his side and nudged me with it until I slipped my hand through it, and we walked arm in arm along the dock, keeping an eye out for the boat in the picture.

  "You look ridiculous," I commented quietly, out of the corner of my mouth.

  "I look like I belong down here among the rich and famous," he insisted. "You look like you should be drinking a diet Coke out of the can in the Valley somewhere."

  "John, it's not the Governors Ball. It's Marina Del Rey. I saw a bum sleeping with a stuffed Pooh doll on a bench about three minutes ago."

  John loudly cleared his throat. "Don't you mean 'Wallace, it's not the Governors Ball'?"

  I shot him a look. He ignored it. "And yes, you're right, Miss Ashlyn. They really do need to do something about the dreadful homeless problem down here. Where do they think this is? Venice Beach?" He pronounced the location as if the words themselves were somehow dirty and full of beach trash.

  I stifled a giggle and we continued walking. A few yards ahead I saw a man hanging over the side of a boat, diligently scrubbing off dirt with a white rag. I slowed my step. "That's him," I whispered to John – pardon me...to Wallace.

  John stopped dead in his tracks, as if we were stalking a deer in the woods and the smallest sound or movement might scare away the prey. I could feel his body tense up next to mine.

  "Relax," I reassured him, finding his hesitation somewhat endearing. "This will be an easy one."

  John took a deep breath and we approached the boat.

  "Daniel?" I said with great surprise in my tone as I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked up at the man aboard the boat in front of us.

  He looked down at me and smiled. "Yes?" I could tell I was familiar to him but that he embarrassedly couldn't remember my name or who the hell I was. I was suddenly further reassured that this was going to be just as I suspected...an easy confirmation of what I already knew to be true.

  "It's Ashlyn. We met the other day at the W Hotel bar."

  His brain spun around like the reels of a slot machine, searching for the right combination of name, face, location. I could see it in his eyes. And then suddenly .... ding, ding, ding. Jackpot.

  "Ah, yes. The sailboat lover," he ventured, hoping desperately that he had gotten his facts right.

  "So you do remember me," I said with a fabricated sigh of relief. As if his recollection of our previous night together meant the world to me.

  "Of course." He stepped down from his boat onto the dock and offered me his hand.

  I shook it, and then turned to John. "And this is my friend..." I forced a straight face. "Wallace. Wallace, Daniel."

  "Pleasure to meet you," John said, shaking his hand eagerly.

  "Pleasure is mine," Daniel said.

  I stood to the side and watched the two of them shake hands. I looked from John to Daniel, and for a second I could have sworn their handshake went on for just a touch too long. But before I could even contemplate it, Daniel had turned back to me.

  "So what brings you down to the marina today?"

  "Oh, well," John began, not even allowing me the opportunity to open my mouth, "Ashlyn and I often walk the docks in the afternoon when the weather's nice. She loves coming down to see the boats... and I like coming to see the...well, you know, people on the boats."

  I subtly elbowed John in the side to warn him about flirting and overly sexual innuendos. "Yes," I said, attempting to cover his tracks. "It's such a nice day, we just couldn't resist."

  Daniel looked around and took in the Saturday afternoon sunlight. His gaze circled back in our direction and seemed to linger on John, although it was hard to tell behind his dark sunglasses.

  John watched him intently, as if trying to get a lifetime's worth of gossip on the man in only a short glance. The situation was beginning to feel awkward, and I knew I had to speed the process along.

  "Hey, Wallace, weren't you talking about getting some coffee? I think I would really love a latté if you're still going to go."

  John looked at me with begging eyes. Eyes that said "Please, Mommy, can't I stay and watch just a little bit longer?"

  I shook m
y head discreetly at him, but the disappointment that filled his face was much less subtle. "Yes," he finally replied, sulking. "I was going to go get some coffee. Would you like any, Daniel?"

  Daniel smiled kindly. "Yes, I would love an iced coffee, please. Thank you."

  "You got it." He then turned to me and, with his back to Daniel, sneered mockingly. I smiled politely back.

  John walked quickly toward the boathouse at the end of the dock and I turned my attention back to Daniel. It was time to get down to business and get this over with.

  But as soon as I turned my head back, I noticed that Daniel's attention certainly was not back on me. As I followed his gaze this time, it was undisputable. Sunglasses or not, there was no doubt that his eyes were aimed directly at John, aka Wallace, as he merrily trotted down the wooden planks of the dock, his blue handkerchief blowing in the ocean breeze.

  And like a gush of hot air, everything hit me at once. It suddenly all made sense. The reason that Daniel Miller seemingly wanted nothing to do with me. The reason Sarah Miller insisted that I try again – and try harder. Because cheating with another woman was better than the alternative, the one she had really been suspecting all along.

  And just as quickly as it hit me, an idea came rushing to me as well.

  "Can you hold on a minute?" I asked Daniel politely. "I forgot to tell Wallace that I wanted soy milk in my latté." And with that I spun on my heels and practically ran to catch up with John.

  "Wait up!" I called after him.

  He turned around with a confused look on his face. "What? Did he turn your sorry ass down already?"

  I shook my head as I caught my breath. I patted John on the shoulder and smiled. "It's a good thing you came along after all."

  He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

  I smiled at him, knowing that what I was about to ask would surely make his day – and possibly his year. "Because I have a better idea."

  I SIPPED my coffee and glanced at my watch for the third time in the past forty-five minutes. The wooden park bench I was sitting on was starting to get rather uncomfortable. And it didn't help that I had to perch on the very edge of the bench to avoid getting splinters in my bare legs. The white sailor-style miniskirt had been my last attempt to get Daniel Miller's attention. But as it would seem, no amount of female skin was going to cut it.

  I immediately felt sorry for his wife. There she was, sitting in her empty Stepford house in the canyon, wanting so much to believe that maybe he was just bored with their sex life, not with sex with women in general. Because if that were the case, I'm sure she would blame herself, thinking that she had literally pushed him away from the female species altogether. What a terrible thing to have to live with. And why hadn't she seen it before? As in, fifteen years before, when they first met? Or thirteen years before, when they exchanged wedding vows? How can someone hide something like that for this long?

  Just as I stood up to stretch my legs I saw John walking toward my bench.

  I quickly hurried over to him, and the first thing I noticed was that his blue handkerchief was tied on the opposite side of his neck and his hair was slightly out of place. Or as out of place as John would ever allow it to get.

  "So?" I asked eagerly.

  His expression turned serious and he shot me a glance that said, This isn't the time nor the place. Then he grabbed hold of my elbow and roughly steered me back toward the parking lot. "Let's talk somewhere private," he said in his best 1940s detective voice.

  "Oh, c'mon, John. Tell me what happened!"

  He nudged his head warningly toward the entrance of the dock and I decided to just play along and let John bask in his artificial moment of glory.

  He walked me up the stairs, through the parking lot of cars all valued at fifty thousand dollars and up, and then over to a large oak tree, rooted purposefully at the corner of the lot to create ambience.

  John turned and faced me. He closed his eyes as if attempting to muster up the courage to break bad news. I let out an impatient sigh.

  He took a deep breath. "Um, yeah...he's gay," he said matter-of-factly.

  I let out a laugh. "That whole charade was just for that?"

  "Hey, I'm a professional. I couldn't risk any of the elite dock crowd overhearing and possibly ruining his reputation. He's obviously not out of the closet yet." He paused for a moment and then added, "Although he should be. I mean, anyone who kisses like that shouldn't be locked up in no closet!"

  I laughed again. "You kissed him?"

  "He kissed me!" John corrected. "Just like you told me. I didn't initiate anything! It was all him."

  "Really?" Even I was enjoying a small portion of this TV-worthy drama.

  John nodded proudly. "Yes. I told him you were going to get the coffee because you thought I would screw up your order. So he invited me to see his boat. We talked, flirted, et cetera. And then he leaned in and just went for it."

  I shook my head in disbelief. "I can't believe this."

  "Yeah. Me neither." John cocked his head to the side. "I mean, how did he even know I was gay?"

  I stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

  He looked down at his outfit again. "What? Is it really that obvious?"

  I decided not to even go there. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about than whether or not John thought he looked gay.

  "So I guess now the only problem is: How on earth do I report something like this back to his wife?"

  John shook his head and offered me a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, you're on your own for that one, honey."

  24

  The Two-Date Itch

  I SAT across from Sarah Miller, and for the first time in a long time, I was actually fidgeting. I couldn't sit still. I had to literally hold my hands together in my lap to keep them from wandering up into my hair, to the back sides of my earrings, into my mouth. This kind of post-assignment review was definitely a first for me.

  "Snickerdoodle?" Mrs. Miller offered, pushing a small plate of unidentifiable chocolate lumps toward me. I would have normally said no, but I suddenly felt bad for her: cooking up a storm, trying desperately to win back her husband's attention by becoming the next Betty Crocker, when, in the end, all he wanted to do was find a Bobby Cocker.

  So I grabbed a lump off the plate and took a small nibble. "Thank you. This is delicious."

  "You're welcome." Sarah sat upright in her seat and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  "I don't know how to tell you this, Mrs. Miller, so I'm just going to come right out and say it."

  "He cheated, right?" she asked, with hope in her voice.

  I tilted my head to the side. "Well, actually... not in the way you would think."

  This seemed to throw her off. She delicately scratched an itch at the base of her hairline and looked to me for further explanation.

  "As it would turn out, your husband really wanted nothing to do with me...in an intimate sense."

  She nodded, unsure of where this was going, and motioned for me to continue.

  "He was actually more interested in my friend ...my male friend."

  Mrs. Miller pressed her lips together tightly, and I could see a puzzled expression come over her face. "How do you mean? As in a business sense?"

  I shook my head. "No, as in...my friend is...um...gay."

  It took her a few moments, but she eventually got it. "Oh dear," she said, her eyes narrowing, her lips curling into a solemn frown.

  I felt a wave of sympathy suddenly wash over me. This poor woman. I couldn't even imagine what she must be feeling right now. But as I studied her face, for some reason, I got the sense that her reaction to the news wasn't exactly sincere. She didn't at all resemble a person who had been dreading this kind of truth, trying to prove it wrong, trying to ignore it until she just couldn't ignore it any longer. She more resembled someone trying to hide some kind of self-indulgent amusement with a mask of surprise. Which confused me even more. Just when I thought I had figured her
out, figured out exactly what was going on behind the closed doors, I suddenly felt like I was right back where I had started: sitting across from a robot wife who likes to wear aprons and hum while she does dishes.

  "I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you this," I offered, almost as if I was poking at the wound, trying to see if I could rouse any predictable responses.

  "Yes, yes," she repeated softly. But it was as if she had something else on her mind. Something quite far from the topic at hand.

  And as she ushered me politely out the door less than five minutes later I tried to remind myself that all people grieve in different ways. And I was in no place to judge the way Mrs. Miller reacts to shocking news. After all, I wasn't being paid to contemplate the various emotions that every person must feel on their own. I was being paid to deliver my findings and leave. Which is exactly what I did.

  But it still didn't stop me from wondering what the hell was going on in that house after she closed the door.

  WHEN I got home and changed out of my slacks and cardigan sweater set, I noticed Jamie's business card, still sitting on my dresser where I had left it the day before.

  Oh, that's right, I reminded myself, as if I hadn't tenaciously stuck it at the back of my mind for the last twenty-four hours. I was going to cancel our date.

  I picked up the card again and stared at the phone number. I reached for my phone and held it tightly in my hand.

  Just do it, I repeated to myself. You know it's for the best.

  I started dialing the area code but my fingers felt heavy and almost numb. I was having trouble pressing the right buttons. As I went to press the number 4, my finger slipped over to the 5. When did the buttons on this cell phone get so goddamn close together? I hit Clear and started again.