Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

  I took a deep breath. “Believe,” I told myself.

  I hoped it would be that easy.

  To say going back to my apartment after that encounter was a bit anti-climactic was like saying that Titanic was a big boat — woefully inaccurate and lacking any sense of scale. But I supposed even Moses had to go off and eat dinner or take a leak or whatever after he’d spoken to the burning bush. Mere mortals can’t dispense with the commonplaces of life; we have them shoved in our faces on a daily basis. Besides, the act of hauling my groceries up the stairs and then putting them away helped me regain some semblance of normality. At least my hands finally stopped shaking.

  So God wanted me to tell Luke that I loved him. Fine and dandy. Exactly how I was supposed to accomplish that, I wasn’t sure. An email seemed tacky, and I didn’t have his phone number — he’d never given me one. Pretty much all contact had been initiated by him. I did, however, know where he lived…or thought I did. I had a harder time remembering how to get to places when I hadn’t driven there myself, but I did know his house was located off Beverly Drive on one of those exclusive streets near the country club. It might take a little work, but I thought I could narrow it down if necessary. Of course, I could always call Danny for the exact address, but the embarrassment that would involve seemed excruciatingly worse than simply driving around Hancock Park until I found the Italianate mansion that belonged to Luke.

  Worrying about logistics helped to keep me from stewing over what I would say to Luke when — if — I saw him. Did God expect me to just blurt out, “I love you,” and hope for the best? Was I supposed to apologize for flying off the handle and not giving Luke a chance to explain? Was he supposed to apologize for not thinking of the consequences of his actions? And what about the complete radio silence that had followed our blowout at the Ivy? What exactly had he been doing all that time? Sulking? Waiting for me to come after him? In the final analysis, did it really matter?

  That God had caused my little laptop to send off that pathetic “I miss you” message seemed obvious. Maybe it was His way of softening up Luke so that I’d have a fighting chance when I finally confronted him. I couldn’t know for sure. Maybe God was trying to tell me that I didn’t need to know. I just needed to believe.

  The phone rang then, and I jumped. Since I had been standing in the kitchen after placing the last of the groceries in the refrigerator, I had to step into the dining room to dig my cell out of my purse where I’d left it on the table. A quick glance at the display.

  Not Luke, of course. My sister.

  I prayed there wasn’t another Traci crisis to deal with. The last thing I needed was to go tearing down to Orange County when I’d finally steeled myself up to talk to Luke.

  After pushing the “accept” button, I said, “Hi, Lisa.”

  “Oh, great — you’re home!”

  That was the Lisa I remembered — bubbling, her tone upbeat and happy. I’d never been able to figure out how much of it was an act she put on to convince everyone around her that everything was perfect in her world, and how much was really the result of being in a state of perpetual optimism. At times it had gotten a little tedious, especially when I wasn’t in a particularly good mood, but it was a definite improvement from the brittle edginess I’d seen ever since my father had told all of us about Traci’s impending bundle of joy.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Just puttering around the house before I go out tonight. So what’s up?”

  “Nathan and I are pregnant!”

  I’d always thought that was an odd expression, like the happy couple was going to be sharing all the fun of gaining weight, retaining water, and yakking in the toilet for the first few months, but I supposed it was just a way of making the father seem more included in the process. After a second or so of flabbergasted silence, I finally said, “Really? I didn’t know you two were trying.” God, I was such a liar.

  But of course she didn’t seem to notice anything odd about my tone. “Well, we really didn’t want to say anything because it just gets everyone’s expectations up. But we’ve been trying for almost eighteen months.”

  “Wow,” I said, lacking anything better to offer. Not that Lisa needed any encouragement to keep babbling away.

  “Of course, it’s very early — I’m just about six weeks along — but my ob/gyn says everything looks fine and that I should be due around the middle of September. That means I’m going to be big as a house during the hottest part of the summer, naturally, but Nathan says I shouldn’t worry about it, that’s what air conditioning is for.” She paused, presumably to draw breath; I hoped the baby wasn’t suffering an oxygen deficit from the unimpeded flow of words.

  “That’s great,” I said. “Have you told Mom?”

  “Oh, yes, I called her first. She’s very excited about being a grandmother.”

  I could imagine. My mother was probably already researching organic formula and cruelty-free yarn to knit politically correct baby booties. After a brief hesitation, I asked, “And Dad?”

  “He’s really excited, too. He says our babies can have play dates together.”

  My brain tried to ponder the weirdness involved in having an uncle/aunt who was young enough to have been a play date, then decided it really didn’t want to think about it too hard. I knew that sort of thing did happen occasionally; I just never thought it would happen in my family.

  “Nathan said we really just had to believe that it would happen, and it did.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “I said that Nathan just told me to believe, and everything would work itself out.” Lisa hesitated, then asked, “Are you okay? You sound a little strange.”

  “I’m fine,” I said distantly. Was this one more cosmic smoke signal from God, just another way of convincing me that I had to follow His advice and believe, and the rest would fall in line? Or was it just random chance, a simple coincidence?

  After talking with God, I’d gotten the distinct impression that nothing was coincidence.

  “You’re sure,” Lisa said.

  I knew I had to get my act together, because I certainly didn’t want Lisa to think that I wasn’t happy for her. I was happy, and relieved that they’d finally gotten what they’d been trying for all these months. As preoccupied as I might be with other matters, I had to give her the attention she needed right now. “Absolutely,” I said, relieved that I sounded completely sincere. “You two deserve it. I’m really happy for you.”

  She gave a bubbly little laugh. “It hasn’t really sunk in yet, I think, even though we’ve already started looking at baby furniture and all that fun stuff. Probably when my pants start to get tight I’ll know it’s really happening.”

  “Oh, that should be a ways off,” I said. My sister was very dedicated about her exercise regimen, and I figured it would probably be some time before she really started to show.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m already fantasizing about those chocolate milkshakes from In ’N’ Out. It’ll be so good to eat like a pig for once.”

  “Do I need to warn Nathan?” I asked with a laugh.

  “I already did,” Lisa said. “He just said, hey, whatever makes you happy.”

  Not for the first time I reflected on Nathan’s innate superiority as a human being. I thought he would make a great father. From there my mind inevitably went off on a tangent as to what Luke would be like as a father. If he could even father children. If he ever spoke to me again. First things first.

  “That’s great,” I told her. “We need to plan a celebratory dinner or something.”

  “Already ahead of you. We haven’t nailed it down yet, but maybe tomorrow night — I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more. I just wanted to tell you the news and not spring it on you at dinner like certain other people.” Her tone was sly. Not that I could blame her.

  “Good idea,” I agreed, and then we exchanged some more chit-chat before I finally hung up and sat there for a moment, staring down at the cell ph
one I held and musing on the inexplicable nature of the universe.

  I needed to go see Luke, and without much further delay. But there was something else I had to do first. I sighed, then dug Brad’s phone number out of the desk drawer where I had put it. Even if Luke wasn’t home…even if he threw me bodily off his property…I knew that Brad and I had no future together. Nina was right. You can’t go home again. All you can do is keep moving forward and hoping for the best.

  Believing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The interview with Brad didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. In the back of my mind I thought he’d just sigh and say, “Oh, I completely understand, we can’t relive the past, have a nice life.” The reality was that he ended up asking a few pointed questions about why I’d changed my mind, to which I replied it was none of his business. Then he said it actually was his business, since I’d agreed to go out with him a second time. I was forced to tell him that I couldn’t see him ever again because I was in love with someone else, and that wasn’t going to change any time soon. Then I made a nasty remark to the effect that he’d had his chance with me and blown it. This lovely conversation received its end punctuation via me hanging up and wishing I’d never agreed to go out with him in the first place.

  All in all, not the sort of thing to put me in the best frame of mind to confront Luke, although Nina probably would have told me that any closure was better than none at all. Still, I was already feeling edgy and nervous, and the confrontation with Brad didn’t help much. I made myself change out of my faded jeans and sweatshirt, take a quick shower, and put on something presentable before venturing out. Maybe my appearance didn’t really matter all that much, but I didn’t think that going out to have what could be the most important conversation of my life in a grubby UCLA sweatshirt and torn jeans was a very good idea.

  So I put on my favorite True Religion jeans and a jacket, nice boots, and applied some makeup and brushed my hair. Thank God at least my hair was low maintenance enough — it just needed a few quick strokes of the brush to calm it down a little, and I was good to go.

  But go where, exactly? I pulled up Google maps on my computer and zeroed in on the area where I was fairly sure Luke’s house was located, but I honestly couldn’t recall the name of the street. Still, I thought I had it narrowed down to a few blocks. From there I’d just have to hope that God was still watching over me and could give me a gentle nudge in the right direction. Otherwise, with my luck, someone would think I was casing the neighborhood for a robbery and call the police.

  It had turned out to be a beautiful day. Southern California was enjoying a breathing space between storms, and so the area was dotted with large gray-white clouds, the sky in between them a deep, almost lapis blue. On days like this the smog lifted, and you could see the Hollywood sign clearly on the hills to the northeast. Far off to the west the ocean glinted like a narrow band of gold. A brisk breeze caught me as I descended the stairs to the garage, and I was glad I’d worn my tweedy wool jacket. At least I’d keep somewhat warm.

  I headed east on Wilshire, and then cut up to Beverly from Highland and slowed down until I saw a street that looked sort of familiar. Since I did remember the house was north of Beverly, I turned left and hoped I’d chosen correctly.

  Well, I hadn’t. At first I couldn’t really tell, because the neighborhood looked right; it was a mixture of Spanish-style and Tudor mansions (not McMansions like my father’s, but the real thing, on very large plots of land), but none of them seemed to be Luke’s. I supposed I shouldn’t have been disappointed that I didn’t get it on the first try, but I wondered if this were the universe trying to tell me something or whether it was just plain old bad luck. When I hit Oakwood, I turned right and thought I could use it to cut through, but no dice; it dead-ended at the country club. I wondered briefly whether I should just park the car there in the shadow of an enormous Norman-style chateau and have a good cry, but all that would get me was red eyes and a puffy nose. Instead, I turned the car around, maneuvered down another street whose name I didn’t catch, and then went back out to Beverly and headed a few more blocks east before trying my luck with another side street.

  That did the trick; I hadn’t gotten more than a third of the way up the street before I recognized the pretty half-timbered mock-Tudor house that stood next door to Luke’s Mediterranean-style villa. But even as I slowed down to approach the property and pull over and park the car, I knew something had gone horribly wrong.

  A shiny Jag — not Luke’s convertible, but a black XJ model — was parked out in front. Besides that, a tall, slender woman in a Chanel-style tweed suit was busily tamping a “For Sale” sign into the impossibly smooth lawn.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I went ahead and pulled into the empty spot behind the Jag, then grabbed my purse and got out.

  The real estate agent paused in her hammering and gave me a bright, professional smile. I knew the type, of course, since my sister was one of them. Always on, always polished, although I noticed the strong breeze had ruffled her stylish razor-cut bob into a disarray of perfectly streaked strands. Judging by the car, the suit might really be Chanel and not just a high-end knockoff.

  “You must be haunting the MLS listings,” she said. “I just got this one late yesterday. Janice Wilkerson.” And she extended a well-manicured hand in my direction.

  At first I didn’t know what she was talking about, then realized she must have thought I’d come to look at the house. Of course a place like that was so out of my price range it wasn’t even funny, but I supposed that since I had driven up in a nice car and was reasonably well-dressed, she’d decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. These days it was awfully hard to tell who really had money and who didn’t, since people who were rolling in cash often dressed like slobs. Anyone who sold the kind of high-end homes that populated this neighborhood couldn’t pass up even the possibility of a quick sale, especially since the housing market was still fairly lackluster.

  “Um…right,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, that’s fine,” she replied, still with that professional pasted-on smile. I wondered absently if she had to put Vaseline on her front teeth the way beauty contestants did to keep that unnatural smile going. “I don’t have a lockbox on the front door yet, but the back door off the kitchen is open if you don’t mind going in through the yard.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” I said hastily, then added, “Is it all right if I go in alone? I sort of like to get a feeling for the space by myself first.” If he’d already hired someone to sell the house, then very likely Luke was long gone, but I wanted to be alone, just in case.

  She looked dubious for a moment, then glanced over at my Mercedes and back at me. My appearance must have reassured her — after all, I didn’t really look like someone who had shown up to rob the place — because after the briefest of hesitations she replied, “No, that’s fine. I’ll just be out here in my car, going over some paperwork. I’ve already put some information sheets about the house on the kitchen table, so you can pick one up to get the particulars of the square footage and so on.”

  “Great,” I said, then shouldered my purse and headed down the driveway and under the porte-cochere. Past that the driveway extended to the detached three-car garage, but if I were recalling the layout correctly, there should be a side gate that led into the backyard off the drive. Sure enough, it turned out to be more or less exactly where I had thought it was located. I lifted the latch and let myself in.

  It was very quiet. I knew that the city stretched around me in all directions, but here, in a place that was buffered on all sides by high walls and even taller trees, most of the incessant street noise that hung like smog over L.A. at all times had been effectively blocked.

  Dead leaves floated on the surface of the pool, and the house had the indefinable forlorn air of a place that had been abandoned. Of course the lawn was still perfectly mown down to an inch of level green, and the herb gard
en off to one side and the flower beds around the borders were likewise weeded and neat, but it still felt empty and somehow sad. A cloud passed over the sun, and I shivered.

  Not knowing what else to do, I turned and entered the house through the French doors that opened off the kitchen. As Janice Wilkerson had informed me, a pile of color flyers pointing out the particulars of the listing sat on top of the table where Luke and I had once shared breakfast. Had it only been a few weeks ago? It felt like years.

  I picked up the flyer and learned that the house, built in 1922, had six bedrooms and seven baths in approximately six thousand square feet, and that she was asking five and a half million for it. Ouch. If I saved for the next twenty years I might be able to get together a quarter of the down payment.

  Since I knew I had no real use for it, I set the flyer down on top of the pile and then squared it so it would still look orderly and perfect. After that I wandered down the main hall and into the living room, then paused there to look at the fireplace, now cold and dead as the rest of the house. Luke had kissed me here once, while a low fire burned in the hearth and the glorious final trio from Faust still echoed through my mind. But I could see no sign of him here; the place was devoid of any personal touches…no photographs, no half-read books lying on the coffee table, not even a remote for the stereo that had been cleverly concealed in the massive wall unit on the opposite side of the room. It looked as soulless and precise as a model home.

  I knew there was no point in my going upstairs. Why, so I could look at the bed where he’d made love to me and torture myself some more? Apparently he was selling the house furnished, or at least had left everything in place so that it would show better. I wondered what he planned to do with the proceeds of the sale. It wasn’t as if he needed the money.

  What now, God? I thought. I came chasing over here, and for what? To discover the home’s current market value? To see how beautiful the hardwood floors really are? What?