Syeeda had left on the porch and foyer lights, and the small stained-glass windows at the front of her Spanish-style home glowed. The Star Wars theme sounded from my jacket. A text from Sam. On my way.
He lived in Echo Park, right outside downtown, and, with the rain, that gave me a little more than an hour to prepare before his arrival.
I hurried into the warm house, rushing past my full packing boxes in the foyer, passing the coffee table and couch crowded with legal pads and pens, tripping over Syeeda’s Gucci loafers abandoned near the bathroom, and running down the hallway to disarm the burglar alarm.
After showering, I dabbed more hydrocortisone cream on my chest rash, then pulled on jeans and a gray cashmere sweater. I didn’t have to see myself before saying, “Nope. Too corporate,” and stripping again.
Maybe sweats and flip-flops.
“No,” I whispered, “too lazy.”
What about…? Well …
What message did I want to send?
I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. What does a thirtysomething divorcée wear that signifies, “I want something to happen, but I’m not sure how much of that happening I want … to … happen”?
I hadn’t dressed for an at-home dinner since Will Smith was the Fresh Prince and Ice Cube was Amerikkka’s Most Wanted, and now …
“Screw it.” I grabbed clingy black yoga pants and a long-sleeved jersey.
Talk about mixed messages.
I popped an ancient Floetry CD into the stereo, then lit votive candles on the mantel, sideboard, and dining room table. Then, I blew out the candles, turned on the floor lamps, and replaced Floetry with Sting.
In the kitchen, two wineglasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the granite island. A note had been taped to the wine label.
You WILL drink this. You WILL relax and slut it up. It’s your duty as a patriot. Have fun!—Sy P.S. There are two more bottles in the sideboard.
I poured myself a glass, then grabbed a large pot and skillet from the cabinet.
On the menu: chicken with pesto made from fresh basil that came from Mom’s sunroom, haricots vert with sautéed tomatoes, another gift from Mom’s garden, and …
I looked in the fridge.
Another note from Syeeda had been taped to a pink pastry box.
A pineapple tart. Pineapple. ☺ You’re welcome. (Yeah, I know I’m going to Hell. SEXY Hell.)
I didn’t know whether to laugh or shriek. Syeeda was touting the benefits of Sam eating pineapple, and yet I couldn’t even figure out handshake or hug, a hello kiss on his lips or on his cheeks or no kiss at—
The doorbell rang.
Shit.
I lit three votives, turned off one floor lamp, replaced Sting with John Legend, then ran to the foyer.
Sam stood on the porch with a bouquet of pale purple and white flowers in his hand.
“Samuel!” I shouted.
“Elouise!”
I took the flowers.
He stepped forward and pulled me into his arms, then kissed me lightly on the lips. His embrace felt like a warm, sturdy jacket scented with soap and orange blossoms.
I sighed and relaxed against him. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I blushed, then said, “It’s raining out. Know how I can tell?”
He nuzzled my neck as I flattened against him. “How?”
“Cuz you’re getting me wet.”
He lifted an eyebrow, then cocked his head. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were being…” He laughed as he slipped off his soaking jacket. He wore a gray T-shirt made from soft, clinging cotton that flattered his pecs, abs, and back muscles. And his boxer-briefs peeked from the waistband of his khaki cargo shorts.
“You look comfy tonight,” I said, my skin warming as my eyes skipped around his … everything. “You always hide yourself in Brooks Brothers. Seeing that you have these”—I poked his right bicep, then bit my bottom lip—“I like it.”
His gaze wandered from my face and down to every curve I had. “I like this. No Glock. No vest. Just you.” He pulled me back into his arms.
And we kissed, long, deep. Forever.
I stroked his cheek, then led him to the kitchen. “I need help squeezing something.”
A moment later, he stood behind me, squeezing cut lime into the pesto with one hand and holding me close in the other.
“This is nice,” he said. “Good food…”
I reached for the wineglass on the countertop. “A good Cab.” I offered him the glass.
He sipped; then I sipped.
“Maybe,” he said, “I’ll get to enjoy your pie tonight.”
I laughed and bumped him away from me. “One home-cooked meal and you get pie? You think I’m that easy?”
He only smiled as he poured more wine into the glass. “Just keep drinking.”
The doorbell rang, and then whoever it was knocked.
“Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons?” Sam asked.
“Probably the Mendelbaums,” I said, shuffling out of the kitchen, “complaining about our trash cans not being lined up correctly.”
I detoured to the stereo again, switching John Legend back to Floetry and “Say Yes.”
“Great album,” Sam shouted from the kitchen.
I sang to myself as I slow-danced to the foyer. One look out the peephole made me mutter, “Fuckin’ A,” then yank open the door. “Why the hell are you here?”
“Shalom, sweetie!” Lena breezed into the foyer, and her stiletto heels clickety-clacked against the tile. A steamer-trunk-sized gym bag weighed down her left arm.
“Lena—”
“I wanted to call to let you know that I was stopping by,” she said, “but I threw my phone at the valet at Boa—he dinged one of my rims. You know how much one rim costs?”
I glanced back at the kitchen. “Don’t care. You’re leaving now.”
“Umm, no, I’m not.” She dropped the gym bag to the floor. “It’s mayhem out there, and I’m exhausted. Just finished working out—Avarim is still amazing, not that I’m supposed to be enjoying his talents since Emil and I are together, but you won’t tell Emil that.”
Lena had returned to hammer-fisting since she was now dating Emil Dayan, a businessman who had served in the Israeli Defense Forces. To show her commitment to him, she had also downloaded the “Popular Yiddish Terms” app onto her phone, even though Emil’s people weren’t … Yiddish.
And, now, I gawked at her: blue python heels, black leggings, Purple Rain tour T-shirt ripped Flashdance-style, full makeup, earrings the size of Saturn’s rings, and 638 silver bracelets on her wrists. “I’m so confused right now,” I said. “Where are you…? What are you…?”
She considered her outfit. “A little ongapatchka?”
“A lotta ongapatchka,” I said. “It’s like Claire’s and Neiman Marcus had a baby who spat up on you.”
She smiled. “Aww, you’re so sweet. I’m hungry. Feed me.”
“No. Seriously. I don’t care if a volcano is erupting downtown. You can’t—”
She shushed me, then said, “Why are you listening to Floetry?” She clickety-clacked to the kitchen, then shouted, “Oh! Sam! You’re here.”
“Oh! Lena!” he shouted back. “You’re here.”
“Let’s get this party started right,” she trilled.
“We were doing pretty good without you,” Sam said.
“Umm, no. Cuz, first of all, she opened the door. And, second of all, she’s dressed like she’s going to Youth Church.”
Sam laughed, then said, “Should I give her more wine, then?”
I turned down the stereo, then returned to the kitchen. “Stop talking about me.”
Sam was pouring Lena a glass of wine from the second bottle.
“Lena,” I said, frowning, “you’re being rude right now.”
She guzzled the wine, then smiled. “I’ve been drinking.” She smiled as she held out the empty glass. “Can’t
drive. It’s illegal.”
Sam shrugged, then refilled her glass.
“Emil’s out of town next week,” Lena said. “Something about some land thing with some warheads or whatever. So, Lou dear, I need to stay busy. I’m down for some Nancy Drewing.”
I pulled plates from the cupboard and nearly slammed them onto the countertop.
“I’m gonna put this…” Sam grabbed the bowl of pasta and tiptoed out of the kitchen.
Lena hopped up onto the breakfast bar. “You’re really pissed that I’m here?”
“It was supposed to be a quiet night,” I whispered. “Dinner for two, watching a movie, making out, trying to figure out if I … if I … Now, though…”
Lena poked out her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll be more considerate next time.”
“There may not be a next time.”
My phone, now sitting near Lena’s thigh, chimed.
Lena grabbed my iPhone. “Stop acting like you resemble Beetlejuice. There will be as many times as you want. Don’t worry: I won’t stay long.” She frowned at the phone’s screen, but then the edges of her lips lifted. “Elouise Norton.”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“You’ve. Got. Mail.”
“Yep. Heard it ring.” I grabbed the tub of parmesan cheese from the fridge.
The doorbell rang.
Sam shouted, “I’ll get it.”
Lena’s eyes flitted back to the phone. “Who’s Dr.Zach@hotmail and why is he—?”
My heart popped in my chest, and I reached to grab the device from my friend’s hands.
But Lena was quicker and sat on it. “Who is Dr. Zach?”
“Ssh!”
We both turned to the doorway: no Sam.
She plucked the phone from beneath her, then used one hand to keep me back. “Hey, you,” she read. “No gossip in the clinic. But how about that coffee?” She lifted her eyebrows and grinned at me. “You’re sneakin’ around on Sam already?”
“No, I’m not.” I snatched the phone from her hands. “You’re climbing back into your Range Rover with its jacked-up rim, pulling up the audio version of War and Peace, and driving back to Rancho Palos Verde—”
She sucked her teeth. “And here I was, hoping to wear ugly taffeta by New Year’s Eve.”
“Ugly taffeta? Why?”
“A wedding. Yours. Sam’s. Cuz you two are—”
“Lena, I can’t even have a night alone with the man without—”
“You don’t like him?” Lena’s eyebrows crumpled. “Is that why Dr. Zach is texting you?”
I told her about falling in the mud at Bonner Park and being rescued by an attractive stranger. “And that’s it,” I said. “He keeps e-mailing me.”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century. We no longer send sonnets over telegram.”
I squinched my nose. “He sent me a picture.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “Ooh! I wanna see.”
I found the selfie he’d taken at the nurse’s station.
“He’s gorgeous,” Lena said. “I wanna see the other one.”
I frowned. “Umm … Huh?”
She smiled. “Where’s the one he took of his dick?”
I blinked at her.
She gaped at me. “Didn’t he…?” She sent her fingers flying across my phone’s keyboard.
I looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Logging into my e-mail,” she said, “so I can show you … Look.”
The largest penis outside of the LA Zoo.
She swiped the screen.
Another penis, this one pinker, not as big.
Swipe.
Another.
Swipe.
Another.
“It’s like United Colors of Benetton,” I said, gaping at the panoply of penises.
“Now that you’re single,” Lena said, “you need to be au courant with the dating scene.”
My mouth had gone dry. “I don’t have to … reciprocate, right?”
She laughed. “I don’t think Dr. Zach would mind.”
I snatched my phone from her grip. “There’s nothing sexy going on between this Zach guy and me.”
She smirked. “Tell me more about my eyes.”
“Nothing sexy is going on,” I said, pulling her off the counter.
Lena snorted. “Famous last words.”
“For a whore with a gallery of genitalia,” I said, pushing her out of the kitchen.
Colin was standing with Sam in the living room.
“Why are you here?” I snapped. “Why aren’t you with Naughty Nurse Carly?”
“Work.” Colin dropped his bag to the couch. “Sorry for interrupting. Hey, Lena.”
“Colin,” she said, then bit her bottom lip.
She and my partner still flirted even though they both knew nothing would be done about it. They’d had their chance months ago, after her pole-dancing class recital, when they both had said meh.
“We were about to sit down for dinner,” Lena now purred, slinking over to Colin. “Let me help you with your … sack.” She took his arm and led him to the table. “Carly—is that the girl Lou calls Trailer Trash Barbie?”
My breath came fast as I glanced at Sam. He’s about to leave. He hates me. He’ll find someone else. Anyone else.
Sam smiled at me. “Hey.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said.
He pulled me into his arms, then kissed me. “Hell, yeah, you will.” Then, whistling, he ambled over to the dining room table.
Colin sat next to Lena. “If I’m interrupting…”
“It’s all good,” Sam said.
Lena grabbed the bowl of green beans. Colin dumped pasta onto his plate.
What work had barged in to keep him from his date?
But I let him eat as I pushed my food around the plate.
Lena’s bracelets jangled every time she brought the fork to her mouth. “Chauncey,” she said, “my ex, for those of you who don’t know…” Jingle. “Had the nerve to call me last night.” Jangle. “He and his husband are trying to adopt a baby.” Jingle. “He asked if I could serve as a reference.” Jangle. “Can you believe that?” Jingle jangle.
I dropped my fork, exasperated with the jingling bracelets. “Who the hell are you? The Ghost of Christmas Past?”
Lena whooped.
Sam laughed and drained his wineglass.
“Food’s good,” Colin said to me. To Sam: “Dude, you catch today’s games?”
“Ohmigod,” Sam said, “what is that coach doing?”
And they talked March Madness and their grids, home-brewing, the new Tesla, and, finally, the Clippers. Lena chimed in—as the ex-wife of one of the country’s most powerful sports agents, she knew a few things about men and their balls.
“I’ve had enough,” I said, then wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Colin, what work barged in?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Colin said, “since Carly … dances not far from here.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Crazy Girls?”
He cleared his throat and blushed. “Yeah.”
“Trailer Trash Barbie is a stripper?” Lena screeched.
Sam, laughing, covered his mouth with his hand.
“Anyway,” Colin said, “since I was close, I thought I’d update you in person about Chanita Lords’s tooth and other … things.”
“Pardon me?” Lena asked.
I pointed at her. “None of this leaves the room. She had a tooth in her hand.”
“It was her second molar,” Colin said.
“Any significance?” I asked.
Colin shrugged.
“The second molar,” Sam said, “is the last baby tooth a child loses. That happens around twelve, thirteen years old.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him.
Sam winked at me. You like that?
I bit my lip. Oh yeah, I like that a lot.
“The monster extracted it,” Colin said, “befor
e she died.”
“Can’t leave that on voice mail,” Lena said, wineglass to her lips.
“No.” And, just like that, my body went cold.
“And then there’s Raul Moriaga,” Colin said. “I called his friend’s number.”
“And?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It just rings and rings. No voice mail kicks in.”
“If we need to,” I said, “we’ll call his probation officer.”
“You make dessert?” Colin asked.
“Not for you,” I said. “Anything else?”
“No DNA results on anything have come back,” Colin said. “But since this isn’t a TV show, that’s no surprise.”
Lena pushed away from the dinner table. “And now I suddenly want to go home. Layla tov, my dears. Sam Seward, would you be a gentleman and walk me to my car, please?”
I narrowed my eyes at Lena. What are you gonna say to him?
“I should go, too,” Colin said, retrieving his bag from the living room. “Gotta head back to pick her up—”
“Before the wings are gone and all that body glitter starts clumping?” Lena asked.
Colin pointed at her. “Joke’s on you. I never eat at a strip club.” He winked at her, then said to me, “Thanks for dinner.”
Sam left the dining room to get his jacket.
Lena stooped near my chair and whispered, “He passed.”
I squinted at her. “What?”
She canted her head. “Sam passed my test. Do you really think I’d barge in on you for no reason? I had to test his tolerance and patience for your people. And he passed. Now, get your freak on, girl.” She winked at me, then tottered out of the dining room.
I stayed at the table and stared at the puddle of pesto in the bottom of the French porcelain bowl, at green beans drying on plates, at candles burned down to stubs. My mind zigzagged between thoughts of Sam, Lena, and the monster. Work won. Again.
He had pulled out Chanita Lords’s tooth and had then placed it in her hand.
Was he—Raul Moriaga, maybe?—telling us that she was no longer a child or…?
The night had certainly turned.
As for Normal Living—guess my visit was over.
Friday, March 21
23
I awoke early Friday morning—5:17 glowed on the nightstand’s digital clock. Raindrops tapped at the windowpane, and on the other side of my bed … cold sheets. You shouldn’t have sent him home. You should’ve guzzled another glass of wine, pushed work out of your head, and … You shouldn’t have—
Trail of Echoes Page 12
