Hidden Hearts

by Ann Roberts

  “Just one drink,” she coaxed. “I’m dying to see you.”

  She seemed so sincere. CC had loved her most when she was earnest. “Um, okay,” she said hesitantly before she hung up.

  She threw the car into drive when the robotic voice coaxed her onto SR-51. She hesitated, remembering that she’d seen construction on the other side of the freeway yesterday, but she decided to listen to the computer over her common sense.

  She sighed. She’d made a mistake. She should’ve insisted on mailing the CD. No, in fact, she should’ve insisted it didn’t belong to Alicia. Yet she gave in, just as she had throughout their relationship.

  Sure enough as she approached the exit, she saw the cones and signage.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered, smacking her palm against the steering wheel. She couldn’t drive five miles anywhere in the valley without hitting construction. The Droid announced it would recalculate her route again, and she stuck out her tongue.

  Her phone rang and she welcomed the distraction. “CC Carlson.”

  “Are you there yet?”

  She instantly sat up straighter when she heard Blanca’s voice. She was a senior associate and her boss.

  “No, I’m stuck in traffic. I missed the on-ramp and I’m paying for it.”

  After a long pause she said, “I understand. You’re still learning your way around the valley, and this is the first time we’ve sent you out in the field. Would you like me to Google the best route?”

  “No, I’ve got it now. I’ll be there in another five minutes.”

  “Good. Make sure you obtain a clearly legible handwriting sample, one that is written in cursive. Despite her advanced age, Ms. Battle is quite savvy, and she may offer up something inadequate, thus prolonging this case.”

  She couldn’t decide what she hated more—her condescending tone or being treated like a five-year-old.

  “Don’t worry. I have it under control.”

  “Good. Seth Rubenstein is one of our most important clients. And don’t forget you have the Morgans and the mediator at three o’clock.”

  Blanca hung up, and she felt sick to her stomach. The mediator was known around law circles as the Sweatinator because every time he lifted his arms to make a point, the attorneys got a great view of his sweaty pits.

  Ding!Another reply to the personal. She’d have to check it later.

  She changed lanes and watched for the exit. This wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d earned her law degree, and she’d never planned on moving to Phoenix. What we do for love.

  “Some Enchanted Evening” burst from the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello sweetheart, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just had to call. I’m sure you’re in the middle of something terribly important.”

  “Not really. I’m just driving. What’s up?”

  There was a pause and then, “Honey, you’re driving and talking on your cell phone? Is that okay?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Well, your father is set on you coming home for Thanksgiving, and he’s found some flights that are quite reasonable. Do you think you could get a week off?”

  She took a deep breath. Her mother would never understand the life of a junior attorney. “Probably only a couple days. I’m working eighty hours a week right now.”

  “Well, he’ll be disappointed but he’ll understand. It’s just part of paying your dues.”

  “Yup,” she said. She didn’t have time for one of her mother’s lectures about how hard she’d worked to become a certified C.P.A. thirty-two years ago when few places hired women.

  “So the week is out, huh?” she asked again, but more matter-of-factly, as if she was coming to terms with her announcement.

  “Can’t pay my dues if I’m not here, Mom.”

  She regretted saying it the minute it came out of her mouth. She shouldn’t have conversations with her mother while she was driving. It was dangerous to her health and their relationship. Her mother said nothing, and she knew she’d hurt her feelings.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’d love to come home, but I can’t.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know you work hard. I just wish you were doing it here in Bloomington, especially now that Alicia’s out of your life—”

  “I know.”

  They had circled back to the same issue as always—CC moving with Alicia to a foreign place that was fifteen hundred miles away from her family and friends.

  “Is there anything else, Mom? I’m on my way to see a client.”

  “Just know how much we love you and how proud we are of our daughter, the attorney.”

  “I know, Mom. I appreciate everything you did to put me through law school. I’ll talk to you this weekend, okay?”

  “All right, honey. You’re okay, though, aren’t you? I mean you’re enjoying your life?”

  She phrased it as a question, but CC knew it was a statement, one that she had to agree with or her mother would worry and call her every day. It was one of the consequences of being an only child.

  “Of course, Mom,” she lied. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She clicked off and sighed. It was a lie. She wasn’t happy at all. After she and Alicia had moved to Phoenix, it had taken five months for her to find a job, and, apparently, Alicia had found another girlfriend in the meantime. New city equaled new opportunities, at least for her. So Alicia had moved out of their ridiculously priced apartment to live with Nadia the bartender, and CC was left with no social life and a job in probate litigation, which the seasoned junior associates ironically referred to as the deadly assignment. And after just one month she understood why.

  There was nothing pleasant about estate planning. No one wanted to think about the inevitable death of a loved one, and CC’s clients usually emptied an entire box of tissue each week as they sobbed over a recent death or planned for someone’s eventual departure.

  And doling out the assets was always a nightmare. She’d become quite cynical as people often disappointed her with their fake sympathy or greed that seemed to squat toad-like in her office. The minute a beneficiary realized he’d received less than expected, he turned into a victim demanding more and questioning the validity of the will. She’d called for security more than once when fists started flying during a meeting of beneficiaries.

  The Droid sent her north on Seventh Street, where she stopped at practically every light. She glanced at the buildings around her, unimpressed by the stucco strip malls, disturbed by the amount of shuttered businesses and saddened by the lack of trees. It was as desolate as the landscape of her life. She’d found it was difficult to cultivate friendships. Everyone was so cliquish. She missed her Bloomie friends terribly, and every Sunday when she spoke with them they all begged her to come home. But she knew if she quit now it would be difficult to get work anywhere. She needed to stay for a reasonable amount of time to make a good impression—at least a year.

  She made several turns until the street dead-ended, and she sat in front of a large retaining wall. This must be the backside of the freeway. She punched a button and the Droid indicated it was rerouting her again.

  “Continue east on Colter Drive,” the voice said. She looked around. She was on Colter Drive, and it was impossible to head east. “Continue east on Colter Drive,” it repeated.

  “I can’t!” she yelled. “There’s a damn wall right in front of me!”

  She threw the phone on the passenger seat and decided to travel the old-fashioned way—with her common sense. She found a bridge that crossed the freeway and entered a quaint subdivision of post-World War II ranch houses with enormous eucalyptus and pine trees lining the streets and providing ample shade.

  She pulled in front of a row of orange trees that formed a lovely natural fence. Two brick columns stood side by side, each supporting one-half of a black wrought-iron gate. A long brick walkway led to a unique two-story colonial that looked nothing like the rest of the neighborhood tract housing.

  She pulled her br
iefcase onto her lap and coated her dry throat with a swig from her water bottle. This was her first meeting with an adversary—alone. She hated confrontation, and she’d called Blanca into three difficult meetings to help smooth the waters when she felt she was drowning. Even at twenty-seven, she still felt like a child playing dress-up. Her law degree had done little for her confidence.

  She reapplied her lipstick and ran a brush through her auburn hair. At least she looked the part. She checked her briefcase and headed through the gate. It squeaked horribly, and she wondered if it had been opened in the last decade. An orange cat darted in front of her and she jumped off the path, her Kenneth Cole pumps landing in the soft grass.

  “Shit,” she said, noticing the heels of both shoes caked in mud.

  She took a deep breath and circled around a plastic birdbath, wrinkled and parched from lack of use. A stone wraparound porch shaded the expansive windows that stared toward the street, and a white chimney peeked over the back of the house. An old swing rested in the far corner of the porch, and a claw-foot bathtub served as a flower planter next to the front door, absorbing as much sunlight as possible.

  She pressed the bell several times, but no one answered.

  Not surprising. This is why you’re here. Because no one will return your calls.

  She rang once more and decided to follow a fork in the path to the south. It arced away from the house, and she found herself sandwiched between colorful foliage and a row of orange trees that ended at an expansive patio and inviting crystal blue swimming pool. The backside of the house boasted twice as many windows, suggesting at least three or four bedrooms on the second floor that sat above a sun porch that provided a lovely view of the pool.

  She knocked on the back door but still received no welcome. To return to the office without the required handwriting sample would be a career defeat, one that would count against her. Formulating a new game plan, she tapped her foot nervously.

  The plush green yard extended past the pool. There was no fence, only trees, bushes and tall hedges that split at a southern point, providing a clear entry and exit into the backyard. She slipped through the opening and found herself standing in a large expanse of grass facing four cottages that curved around the border. She realized that the cottages and the large brick house formed a circle.

  At the center were two palm trees, their trunks angled outward in a V-shape, a hammock secured between them. Redwood deck chairs, a chaise lounge and a free-standing swing surrounded a long concrete prism, the sides covered in bright mosaic tiles that formed hearts, suns, dog faces, flowers and words. I choose was spelled out in royal blue, red, green and yellow in several places. She assumed it was an art piece, until she stood close enough to see the granite slab top with an embedded backgammon board.

  She turned a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, realizing that the hedges were so tall, the trees so mature and the foliage so dense that she couldn’t see any of the nearby ranch houses that comprised the neighborhood. The four cottages and the brick house were completely closed off from the rest of the world except for the driveway that cut between two of the cottages and disappeared. She followed the blacktop back to the street and a set of locked mailboxes. A sign clearly stated that No Solicitors were allowed. Twelve foot oleanders hid the buildings from the front, and she’d unwittingly driven past the entry. She smiled at the thought of living in an area where access was limited. In the midst of a major metropolis these five homeowners had created their own little community.

  She returned to the interior and noticed a long carport to the side. Only two vehicles were parked underneath the metal awning, a sleek BMW convertible and an ancient pea-green Chevy Nova in mint condition.

  There was no one around. She headed toward the first cottage. A yellow placard with the silhouette of a dog breed she didn’t recognize sat in the corner of the window, and the doormat read A Devoted Dog Lover Lives Here. She rang the bell. Suddenly giant paws crashed through the vertical blinds with a deep bark to match. She sprang back and gasped. He was big and brown with shiny teeth, nothing like the silhouette.

  When no one came to the door she headed to the next cottage, which was an exact replica of the first. Underneath the house numbers was a square limestone sign, the words Harpist Rest chiseled in rich script. She rang the bell and a lilting harp played. Of course. She pressed the bell again just for fun when clearly no one was home. She assumed that at least two people were in residence somewhere, since two vehicles were in the carport and few people used public transportation in Phoenix.

  The front blinds of the third cottage were open. When no one answered the bell, she peered through the window, curious about the layout. A stylish arch separated a small living room from a tiny kitchen, and a doorway led to at least one bedroom. She thought it was adorable, but judging from the stacks of moving boxes and takeout containers that surrounded the few pieces of living room furniture, someone had just moved in.

  As she approached the final cottage she heard laughter and engines revving.

  She rang the bell and a voice yelled, “Whatever you’re sellin,’ we don’t want any! Read the sign at the end of the driveway!”

  She rolled her eyes and pressed the button again.

  “I’m serious! Go away! I’m not joining a religion, subscribing to a magazine or helping you finance your trip to Disneyland. And it’s too late in the year for Girl Scout cookies.”

  Very amusing. She checked her watch. She only had an hour and a half before her next meeting. This time she knocked insistently until the door flew open and she faced the words Life Is Too Short to Smoke Cheap Pot. Her gaze flew up from the black T-shirt to the wearer’s face, a handsome woman with very short curly brown hair. CC imagined her round face was cherubic when she smiled, but she wasn’t smiling now.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Vivian Battle?” She pointed at the brick house and added, “The lady who lives over there?”

  “I know who she is. Who are you?”

  “I’m CC Carlson, an attorney.”

  She pulled one of her cards from the side pocket of her briefcase and handed it to her.

  “Uh-huh. So what does CC stand for?”

  She blanched at the question. “Uh, well, that’s not really your business,” she said tersely.

  She chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

  “No,” she said automatically. “Look, I just need to reach Ms. Battle. Do you know where she is?”

  She started to answer until a raspy voice called from inside, “Hey, Penn! Get over here. It’s your turn!”

  Penn turned away and shouted, “Just a sec!” She leaned against the doorway and eyed her shrewdly. “Attorney, huh? So what do you want to talk to Viv about?”

  “That’s also not your business.” She pointed inside and played a hunch. “May I speak with her, please?”

  “That’s not Viv. That’s my grandma. She’s visiting from Palm Beach. Viv’s out of town.”

  She stared into her cobalt blue eyes. She had a strong jaw and CC had already seen a hint of dimples. But now she was lying—and enjoying it.

  “Where did she go?”

  “To visit her sister, I think,” Penn said with a straight face.

  Ding!

  She ignored the Droid’s alert. “She’s an only child,” CC countered, her gaze focused on the center of Penn’s amazing eyes, which seemed to darken the longer she spoke with CC.

  Penn gasped dramatically. “That’s right. How could I forget that?” She cleared her throat and leaned toward CC with a serious expression. “Actually, she’s visiting her very hot, very wealthy and much younger lesbian lover in Mexico. I don’t have any idea when and if she’ll return.”

  “Really,” CC said flatly.

  Ding!

  Penn looked at her purse. “You’re a very popular person.”

  CC fumbled for the Droid and silenced it. “My apologies.”

  “Not necessary. Now, do you have a problem with les
bians or the idea that Ms. Battle might be one?”

  CC sighed and checked her watch. “Not particularly.”

  “So you’re okay with women being with other women?”

  The look on her face made CC uncomfortable. She looked intrigued, and no one had looked at her that way in a long time. She was warm, and she couldn’t tell if it was the Phoenix heat or her rediscovered libido. When Penn glanced at her shoes, she realized she’d been tapping her foot incessantly.

  “Penn! C’mon, I’m going to take your turn if you don’t get your fanny back here,” the raspy voice yelled.

  She flipped her hair off her shoulder and smiled pleasantly. Two could play this game. “According to my last lover I rocked her world.” Penn’s jaw dropped. CC donned her sexiest smile. “What? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

  Penn laughed suddenly, revealing two perfect dimples. Then she closed the door.

  CC pounded and said, “I know she’s around! She’s probably inside with you. Who else but an old lady would drive a seventy-two Nova?”

  Penn opened the door and stepped into the portico. “How did you know that’s a seventy-two, and it’s mine, by the way.”

  “That’s your car? I would’ve thought the Beemer would be yours.”

  “Really? Despite how I’m dressed you really thought I owned a Beemer.” She motioned to her T-shirt and ratty cutoffs. CC sensed her nearness—and her difference. If she were asked to make a list of appealing qualities Penn would score two points for her dimples and eyes. Nothing else. She was uncouth, unrefined and poorly dressed.

  “Few women can identify a Nova and certainly not the year. So, how does a well-dressed and refined attorney identify a seventy-two Nova?”

  She shrugged dismissively. “I grew up on NASCAR. I like cars, and you seem like the kind of woman who’d be into them.”

  “Because I’m a butch lesbian.”

  “Well, no,” she sputtered. “I had no idea.” Few people flustered her quickly, and yet Penn had managed to rattle her in less than three minutes. Thank God I haven’t had to go in front of a jury yet. I’d die.