Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  Yeah, I’ve noticed.

  “You really do have an eye for this matchmaking stuff.”

  “Hmm . . . thanks.” I murmur, staring out the window at the passing cars, hung up on her comment. They’ve seen quite a lot of one another.

  “This success will be tremendous for your book sales. Have you decided what your second bestseller will be about?”

  “Second bestseller?” My God, that’s fun to say. “Um . . . no, I haven’t.”

  “Let me cover the release, will you?” Before I answer, she says, “Firm up your plans and let me know when Scotty can stop by for a shot. The paper, and the readers, will have my head if I don’t have Nick’s sweet face in this week’s article.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” I don’t mention that there’s no way in hell Nixon will allow his face in the paper. I scratch the tender skin inside my wrist. What’s another lie at this point?

  “Talk to you soon, Bree.”

  “Yes, sounds good.”

  We hang up and I call Nixon. “Camping?”

  “Yeah, is that a problem?”

  “I don’t want West Nile virus, thank you very much. I’m a city girl. Camping means bugs and open spaces. And squirrels.”

  “Squirrels are the least of your concerns. It’s the rattlesnakes, coyotes, and bobcats you should be worried about.”

  “Very funny. Wait . . . you’re joking, right? Couldn’t you have told Candace we’re going to the movies or you’re gathering tools and parts to fix my sprinkler head this weekend?”

  “It’s still broken?”

  “Yeah. Why? Can you fix it?”

  “Yes, but we’re going camping.”

  “What if I have plans?”

  “You don’t. You’re at the paper’s beck and call for the next few weeks, remember?”

  “When you say camping, you really mean a five-star resort with lavender woven in the thousand-count bedsheets, mint leaves in my chilled water, and an infinity-edge pool, right?”

  “Exactly. Just totally opposite.”

  “First Mudder, now this. You like to see me squirm?”

  “I might.” I fiddle with a loose thread on my dress, tempted to tell him about the lacy frock, but decide against it. After all, it’s just a dress. And he’s just a prop.

  “I’m not wearing a silly camouflage bucket hat with dangling fishing lures.”

  “We’re camping, not fishing.”

  “And you better not drag me into the woods to shoot a frickin’ elk or something.”

  “As I said, camping, not hunting. Bring a good pair of tennis shoes.”

  “Again with the shoes? I don’t have a good pair anymore. Mine were ruined in a mud run some guy made me do.”

  “That guy sounds awesome. Get a new pair.”

  “Do I need duct tape this time?”

  “Only if you talk too much.”

  “Rude.”

  He laughs. “Do you have a warm jacket?”

  “Are you kidding? I have an awesome Burberry quilted lambskin leather bomber—”

  “Whatever. Pack light. A sweatshirt and toothbrush. I’ll take care of the rest. Can you get out of work Friday afternoon by four? I want to avoid the traffic.”

  I think for a second. “Well, I do own the company. Where are we going anyway?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I hang up and catch my reflection in the driver’s rearview mirror, noticing that I no longer look saddened by my worries, I’m smiling. And excited. Excited as if going on a date.

  twenty-three

  I climb out from the car to find Jo opening her front door.

  Martin, tethered to a leash, growls at my feet.

  “Bree, I didn’t expect you.”

  Nor I you. What happened to bridge club? The hearing is the day after tomorrow and I need to get the documents Lawrence requested. I hoped to do it without her knowledge. “Hi, Jo.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, you know . . .”

  Jo waves. “Oh, Claire’s here. I’m on my way to my bridge club. Can you come later?” She shuts the door behind her and locks it tight.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Come along, Martin.” She climbs into the car. Martin hops on her lap and Claire drives away.

  I wait until the car disappears down the road before grabbing the hide-a-key.

  Jo keeps this sort of legal stuff in her guest bedroom closet. It’ll only take a minute.

  Though it seems unusual and intrusive to wander through Jo’s house without her here, or without a bag of groceries, the vacuum, or a load of laundry in my hand, I step through her kitchen and out into the living room with a different perspective. Like I’m visiting for the first time, seeing everything new.

  I move toward her Windsor table, letting my fingers trail over the ridges and curves of Mom and Dad’s picture frame, Jo’s jewelry box, the empty spot sprinkled with dust, G-pa’s ceramic frog.

  My eyes sweep around the room, and I’m taken back to lazy movie nights with my parents, referees blowing whistles on the TV during Thanksgiving football games, the tear of wrapping paper on Christmas Eve, the sweet smell of an oven-roasted glazed ham lingering in the air.

  I lie on the couch as I’d done so many Sundays before my parents died and wiggle a comfy spot in the cushion for my neck, wishing Jo sat in her recliner with a bowl of popcorn between us, wondering when we’d done that last.

  Glancing at the ceiling, I find the hint of a kidney-shaped water stain Dad painted over.

  He’d dribbled paint on his cheek and in his hair that day.

  Mom teased, asking if he was painting the ceiling or himself.

  After a minute, I head into the dining room and almost press my ear to the wall, yearning to hear the voices, the laughter, and the stories these old walls have absorbed over the years.

  I move into the hallway, jiggling the linen closet door handle that sticks whenever the air conditioner kicks on, then round the corner into my former bedroom. The same heavy furniture remains: an oak rolltop desk and chair, floral curtains, and a bright yellow-and-blue-checked quilt draped over a queen bed. My room after my parents died.

  I glance at my watch, realizing I’ve wasted too much time lost in memories and move toward the closet, quickly searching through several banker boxes for the one I recall labeled TAX.

  After ten minutes of sorting prior years’ returns and receipts, I find the documents I need.

  I’m about to close the door when I notice another box marked Libby & Sam.

  My parents.

  My heart beats hard underneath my skin as I blow off the dust and open the lid. Several manila envelopes rest inside.

  I unclip the first envelope and dump out a paper trail of Mom’s life. There are several newspaper clippings from her school days, including an article about her third-grade class’s field trip to the aquarium, multiple years’ worth of report cards and the principal’s honor roll list, a write-up about the Lions Club award she won for her academic success, and cutouts from her cross-country meets and track meets. There are homecoming and prom pictures, a snapshot of her holding a box outside her UCSD dormitory on move-in day, and a couple of handbills from her college graduation.

  A second manila envelope contains handfuls of pictures of my parents, cheering at a Chargers game, raising margaritas underneath a Margaritaville sign, red-eyed and wearing Happy New Year paper hats with Dad blowing a kazoo. There are photos of Mom at a luncheon with friends, Dad mowing the lawn, the two of them playing Scrabble in Jo’s backyard, several wedding pictures, Mom’s business card, and a folded newspaper article of a city council meeting where they discussed zoning changes to the parking outside my office building; Dad’s face is barely visible in the audience.

  The last picture, a five-by-seven with a torn right c
orner, is of my dad. He leans over a hospital bed as Mom cradles a swaddled, and newly born, me.

  Pressure builds in my throat as I undo the third envelope and sift through newspaper snippets of the accident. The police report. The funeral announcement. The hospital, bank, and insurance paperwork. A sympathy card from the funeral home and my parents’ combined obituary.

  Jo and I never said much to each other about the accident. We never sat beside one another clutching Kleenex and holding hands while we read the investigation’s findings. Never attended the drunk driver’s trial. Never claimed the hand sanitizer, package of gum, loose coins, and other personal items salvaged from my parents’ mangled car.

  In all the days and years that followed the accident, never once did Jo yell at me. She never shook me by the shoulders, slapped my face, or cursed my name.

  But I’d hear her cries. Late at night, in the darkest hours before dawn, through the bedroom walls.

  In the mornings, she’d pour me a glass of juice, wish me a good day, and hide her pain behind the thin disguise of a smile. Days turned into months, and we slipped into a routine of breakfast, lunch, dinner, laundry, school, and grocery shopping. Both of us knowing that drunk driver killed four people that day, not just two.

  Her compassion made me feel worse, knowing she hid her disappointment and resentment toward me. So I’d climb out of bed and stand outside her door, night after night, and listen to her weep, covering my mouth with my hand, hiding my own sobs.

  I deserved it. I deserved the shame.

  I was to blame.

  I was the reason her daughter and son-in-law were dead.

  And I still am.

  Several minutes pass before I tear myself away from the box, knowing Jo might be home soon. After covering any trace of my presence, I slip outside and hide the key.

  Waiting on my ride, I gaze at the house.

  I’ve taken so much from Jo.

  Please, God. Please, let me give back.

  twenty-four

  It occurs to me as I step inside the concrete-floored and high-ceilinged courthouse Wednesday morning that I never watched Sean in action. I never sat in the front bench dressed in a knee-length skirt and scalloped-collared shirt buttoned to the top, nodding in agreement with a well-argued point, absorbed in the proceedings, marveled by his acuity.

  “Trials are boring,” he’d said. “Lots of case readings citing precedent and relevance, lawyers droning on and on. Sometimes I have a hard time staying awake myself,” Sean joked.

  I spot Mr. Chambers studying a file outside a courtroom door with his briefcase and shiny-loafered foot propped on the edge of a bench. “Mr. Chambers, hello.”

  “Ms. Caxton.” He drops his foot to the ground. “You have the originals?”

  “Yes.” I hand him a couple of tax forms that weren’t legible in my e-mail. It’s then I notice the tremble in my hands.

  “Don’t be nervous. It’s a procedural matter, simple law. And I know this judge, he doesn’t draw out his cases. The whole thing will likely be over in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, I just wish I knew—”

  “Bree?”

  Sean lets go of the handle from a neighboring courtroom door and steps toward me in a black suit, white shirt, and pale blue tie, his scornfulness seemingly left behind at Sara’s gallery as his leather briefcase swings in line with his stride.

  “Hello, Lawrence.” The two men exchange nods before Sean pulls me aside and says, “What are you doing here?”

  There’s no reason in hiding the truth. Sean can easily figure out what’s going on by glancing at the courtroom’s docket. “Trying to clear up something for Jo.”

  “What’s the issue?”

  “Jo received a 1058 form.”

  Lines form across his forehead as he raises his eyebrows in judgment. “Lawrence is representing you?”

  “Yes. You said he was a bulldog, so I—”

  “Bullfrog. I called him a bullfrog because he’s an inefficient bastard and doesn’t have a clue how to represent a case.”

  Oh.

  He glances at his watch, back on his wrist. “Okay, I’ll help. Wish you’d called me sooner.”

  I must admit, breakup or not, I’m relieved to know he’s on my side. Relieved he still cares. Maybe the breakfast with Sara was nothing more than . . . breakfast.

  He turns around and walks toward Lawrence. Sean’s had a recent haircut. A defined tan line exposes itself above his shirt collar and I’m reminded that these past couple of weeks Sean’s reveled in the sun, enjoyed the beach, spent time outdoors. Hardly wallowing in misery like he said, hardly sorry for breaking my heart, hardly confused.

  I think I’ve seen enough.

  “Sean,” I call after him. “Wait.”

  “I haven’t much time. I’ve got another proceeding starting—”

  “I don’t need your help. I’ve got representation.”

  “Bree, c’mon, this is a serious matter. Let me help you.”

  “No, thanks. Ready, Mr. Chambers?”

  My attorney pulls open the door and I’m about to stride in the courtroom confident with a suck-it-Sean stride when Jo calls my name from behind.

  She ambles toward me. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Jo? I . . . I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Her voice cracks as she says, “Some clerk lady called this morning looking for you. She told me about the hearing. I had no idea. What’s going on?”

  “We better get inside,” Lawrence says.

  “C’mon, let’s find a seat and I’ll explain.”

  Mr. Chambers sits at an oversized wood desk and we settle in the bench behind him.

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you,” I say to Jo. “I’d hoped to get the results of this hearing before mentioning anything. The letter you received isn’t a scam. It’s legitimate and binding. It’s from the Internal Revenue Service and they claim you owe them nearly fifty thousand dollars.”

  “For what?”

  “Years of unpaid taxes.”

  “Oh, my.” She lifts her vein-laced hand to her mouth. “Your G-pa handled these types of matters. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re here, to figure out what we can do about it. So, let’s remain calm”—I point to our attorney—“and let Mr. Chambers do his job. No need to worry about something that may blow over.”

  It didn’t blow over.

  The judge validated the IRS claim and overruled our request to negotiate the outstanding amount or settle the remaining balance with installment payments. “Given the property owner’s nonresponse for a significant length of time with regard to a serious matter,” he said, “the court rules in favor of initializing levying proceedings. Balance due in full by October twentieth.”

  Jo flinched at the smack of the judge’s gavel.

  “What does this mean?” she asks, as we step from the courtroom.

  “It means the judge was in a bad mood.”

  “What about the house, Mr. Chambers?”

  “You have until October twentieth to come up with the money or the IRS will auction off the property.”

  “But that’s only a month away,” Jo says.

  And a week after my book release.

  “I’ll post the required paperwork and e-mail my bill by the end of the week.”

  That’s it? He’s leaving. No more fight? It’s my grandmother’s house, for Christ’s sake. Sean’s right. Chambers is a lazy bastard.

  “This is awful.” Tears glisten in Jo’s eyes. “It’s your grandfather’s house.”

  “I know. I feared this might happen, but listen, it’ll be okay.” I explain the escalator clause, the money remaining in my savings account, and Andrew’s contribution. I explain that with a few more weeks and more pr
eorders, we’ll meet the goal. I wrap my arms around my grandmother.

  She wraps hers around me. “Please don’t let them take it away.”

  The warmth of Jo’s skin and her heartbeat in sync with my own reminds me of my cherished past, the years passed, and the time with her daughter that I’ve stolen.

  I will lie.

  I will continue with this charade.

  I will do whatever it takes to make Can I See You Again? a bestseller.

  I will save Jo’s house.

  A couple of hours later, after I’ve made Jo a sandwich and added a splash of brandy to her tea, she retires for a nap and I head into the office.

  “How’d it go?” Andrew walks over in black Converse high tops, jeans, a Metallica T-shirt, and a loose cardigan, holding a rolled-up newspaper in his hand.

  I’m going to miss him. It’s only a matter of time before he tells me the truth, tells me he accepted a job offer, somewhere with better perks and a retirement fund. Tears line my lids as I realize why he’s kept it all a secret. With Sean and Jo, Nixon and the paper, I’ve got enough to worry about. Still, it’s a shame. Andrew’s so good at this, so good at connecting with people, calming their apprehensions about hiring a matchmaker, making them feel comfortable. My clients will be sad to hear he’s left. With any luck, his new job won’t move him out of this zip code and we can still meet for dollar tacos on Tuesdays, wine on Wednesdays, and . . . shoot . . . I’m really going to miss him.

  “You okay?” He dabs a tear at the corner of my eye.

  “They’re taking her house. I have until October twentieth.”

  “A week after the release.”

  “Yeah.” I slump into my chair. “Jo showed up, too. I hoped to keep her out of it. She was pretty frazzled.”

  “Sweet thing.”

  “Can’t say I’m completely surprised the judge ruled as he did, just disappointed, wishing some fairy would’ve waved her magic wand and zapped the 1058 letter away. Or at the very least, figure out some sort of payment arrangement. But the judge was adamant. All or nothing. According to my lawyer, the judge was in a bad mood.”