by Greta Boris
One night about a year ago, I sat in my car across the street from her home. From my dark, solitary perch, I could see her through the windows of that bright, open space. I watched her the way I had when she was a girl.
It came to me then. Literally. It came to me. I wasn't looking for a counter-spell, an antidote. I didn't believe there was one.
It was getting late. She was sitting at her kitchen table reading. I hadn't seen her husband through the windows in a while. I assumed he'd gone to bed. I was tired and thinking about doing the same, when she stood.
She walked to the doorway of the kitchen. The room went black. In a second, she reappeared in the dining room, crossed it and disappeared into black again. The vision repeated in the office. Then the living room. I watched her disappear again and again.
When the last light was extinguished, my mind was illuminated. She must disappear for me to become visible. She was the black hole, the vacuum. She had sucked all my light and all my worth into herself. That was when I began to make plans.
The streetlights popped on up and down Cliff Drive. The sun had set while I'd sat reminiscing. It was now dark enough for my errand. An older couple with a little thing on a leash that looked more guinea pig than dog strolled down the block. I waited until they turned the corner.
I hefted the black bag from the passenger side of the car. It clanked. The sound echoed down the quiet street. I looked around, but didn't see anyone. I calmed myself with the thought that people in this neighborhood were used to the noise of divers and their equipment. I had to up my game regardless of the risks.
Sunday had been a roller coaster of emotions. I'd been so happy with the way my little present turned out. I'd had enough time to stage it without arousing suspicion. Everything had gone flawlessly.
Imagine my dismay when the open house went forward as if nothing had happened. I'd been so sure Gwen would collapse from the horror of it all—that she'd run away and never look back. She showed strength I didn't know she possessed.
I had to come up with a new, more aggressive plan. My mind spun in a hundred directions, until it landed on the traps. There is nothing like bodily harm to put a crimp in things. I didn't care who was injured, although the idea it might be my sister was delicious. A dancer's body is her bread and butter. It would be fun to snatch the food out of her mouth for once. But anybody would do.
The traps were old and rusted and looked as if they'd been left out in salt air for years. They could have been planted by a deranged old man bothered by raccoons and opossums. No one could be sure. And I liked that.
I wanted Gwen to wonder if a corporeal being was behind these attacks, or if they were some trick of the house itself. Had the house drawn cockroaches like a corpse draws maggots? Had it trapped a small rodent in its stovepipe like a carnivorous plant captures an unsuspecting bird? Had it beckoned a homeless man and filled his muddled head with ideas of feline death? I smiled and reached for the gate.
Light. Bright. Blinding. I was caught.
I spun around, naked and exposed, in the glare of the spotlight. Any moment I expected the shriek of a siren.
But nothing came. When the pounding of heart calmed, I heard crickets chirping again. The blood cleared from behind my eyes, and I saw the source of the light. There were three halogen lamps hidden in the foliage of the front yard positioned to illuminate the entrance.
I moved into the shadows and stood very still. In a few minutes, the lights clicked off. Until this point, I'd looked at this as an adventure, a game of wits. Now I was angry.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"How many bedrooms did you say it has?" Susan Langdon—upper-middle class, fiftyish, surgically enhanced—wanted to know.
"Technically four. The downstairs office counts as one and there are three up," Gwen said. It was Thursday morning, and she'd shown the Sailor's Haven property every day that week. It's funny how things came in waves. After the Pauls walked away from the deal, there'd been no action for at least ten days. Suddenly everybody and their sister wanted to see it, not that she was complaining.
"I really want five, but this place is so nice." Susan stuck a French manicured thumbnail between her front teeth. "Can we look upstairs again?"
"Of course." Gwen led the way up the carpeted steps. The Frobishers were coming home next week. She'd almost given up on her goal of having an offer waiting for them, but now she had renewed hope.
"It's just me and Ron, but I need a room for each of the kids when they visit. And my daughter is having her first baby. I wanted to turn one room into a nursery. I saw the cutest jungle theme crib set at Petite Tresor."
They walked down the hall toward the place Gwen had almost clocked Arnold Paul over the head. The place she'd thought she was about to meet her maker. She smiled at the memory. So many apparently threatening things had happened since the murder on Cliff Drive. Apparently being the operative word.
Some of them were the product of an overactive imagination fueled by a smidgen of post-traumatic stress. The rest, she now believed, were the acts of someone counting on the fact she was running scared. That person had fooled her for a time, but no more. She wasn't going anywhere.
"The front bedroom is big enough for a queen and a crib," Gwen said, allowing Susan to enter before her. She hovered in the doorway leaving as much open space inside as possible.
"It could work." Susan spun in a slow circle. "I'd just have to give up the stuffed giraffes. Nowhere to put them."
They looked at the other guest room, discussed furniture and giraffe placement, then walked down the hall. Susan had been enamored with the view off the balcony of the master bedroom. Gwen wanted her to see it one more time before they left the property—let it be her last impression. Gwen couldn't get enough of the view herself. She loved Dana Point, loved the neighborhood, loved the house.
Sailor's Haven came as close to Gwen's dream home as any place she'd seen since she'd been a Realtor. She fantasized about investing her commission from the Laguna Beach house into this one, but that's all it was—a fantasy. She and Art wouldn't qualify even with a big down payment. They'd incurred too much debt. A house at the beach would remain a dream for a long while.
On the way down the stairs, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It was Lance. She'd been waiting for his call all day. He'd sent a counteroffer to the drug lords—her nickname for the couple who'd made the offer on Cliff Drive. Their agent was supposed to respond this morning.
"You can take that. I want to measure the office," Susan said.
"You sure?" Gwen said to Susan's retreating back. Susan twiddled her fingers over her shoulder and disappeared through the doorway. Gwen answered the call on the fourth ring. "What's the news?"
"It's good. They accepted the counter." The excitement in Lance's voice crackled through her phone. "Ten million, twenty-five thousand."
"Fantastic. When are we going to sign the papers?"
"They'll be in town tomorrow morning. We can sign then and put it in escrow on Monday."
"I can do that." Gwen would have to meet Art and the kids in Big Bear later in the day, or go up Saturday morning. This was too important to miss. He'd have to understand.
"Oh, more good news. You remember Betty from-three-doors-down? Her cousin called. She wants to look at property in the ten to thirteen million range. I'm taking her out in about an hour. Want to come?"
Gwen hesitated. They had never discussed continuing their partnership past the Laguna Beach property. It wasn't unusual for agents to join forces. The most common were husband and wife teams, but plenty had a purely business arrangement. There were advantages, shared workload, shared expenses, and so on.
In Gwen's experience, the only disadvantages arose when work ethics weren't a match. No problem there. Lance worked harder than she did. But she hadn't discussed the idea with Art. She wondered how he'd feel about her teaming up with a young, attractive male. Not positively, she thought. But she didn't feel too positively about his relation
ship, working or otherwise, with Lorelei.
"I can't make it. But keep me in the loop," she said. Whether they established an official arrangement moving forward or not, she wanted a piece of any deals that came because of the Cliff Drive property. It was originally her listing after all.
"I hope you're not too busy to celebrate going into escrow."
"Definitely not too busy for that."
"Friday night?"
"Sure. Dinner, somewhere expensive." She rang off, happiness and relief mingling inside her. She'd head up to Big Bear on Saturday morning. She deserved a night out. She was about to get the largest commission check of her life and at the same time offload a nightmare.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Coffee sloshed around in Art's stomach. He set his cup down. He'd skipped breakfast and come in early. It was Thursday. If he wanted to take tomorrow off, he had to clean his slate today. The kids were too excited about leaving the next morning to disappoint.
Only one more task to go before lunch. He picked up the phone and dialed Mission Hospital. He was anxious to see how both Olivia and Brian were doing. He'd heard Brian was talking and walking, and the prognosis was good.
Olivia wasn't there. The nurse on duty, who also happened to be the mother of a St. Barnabas student or he'd never have gotten the information, told him she thought Olivia had gone to work. She'd been in earlier wearing her Enzo's uniform.
A good sign. If things weren't going well with Brian, Olivia would never have left his side. Art pushed away from his desk. He'd celebrate with pizza for lunch and get the news directly from her.
When he got to Enzo's, he peered through the front window into the dim interior of the sport's bar. He saw Olivia's blond head flitting between tables in the back. He entered, stood by the "Please wait to be seated" sign, and watched her efficient movements.
She dropped two beer mugs at one table, a pizza tray at another. She darted from customer to customer, her face tight and controlled.
When she saw Art, she nodded. After she finished scribbling on an order pad, she wiped her hands on her apron and came toward him. "Hi," she said, picking up a plastic menu. "Just you?"
"Just me. I came in to see how you and Brian were doing."
Olivia stared at him expressionless for a long moment. Art's mouth tipped into a tentative smile. She dissolved into grief, threw her hands over her face and sobbed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gwen hung up the phone and glared at Maricela. "Some people are just so..."
"What happened?" Maricela's forehead wrinkled with concern.
"Susan Langdon, the woman I just showed Sailor's Haven to, called to tell me she's canceling our appointment tomorrow because she's in escrow."
"What?"
"Yeah. She made an offer on another house last weekend, but wanted to hedge her bets, so she dragged me out today. Talk about a waste of time."
"It happens." Maricela said.
"I know. It's one reason I want to work with higher end clients. I can't handle all these flaky people."
"Totally, I get it." Maricela nodded gravely. "The rich are so much more stable. No flaky people in those high-income brackets."
"Ha. Very funny. Okay, they're not any better, but at least the commission makes it worth putting up with their crap."
"Do me a favor, chica. Don't forget us little people when you're a broker to the rich and famous."
Gwen escaped the office to go home for lunch. She'd just turned onto her street when her phone dinged. She pulled into the driveway and read the text from Tyler. He'd forgotten his Government book and paper. The paper was due today. Could she, pretty please, stop at home, pick them up and bring them to the school? He'd mow the lawn on Saturday.
Since the family was going to be camping Saturday, this wasn't much incentive, but she was sitting in the driveway and school wasn't far. She returned the text. "Next weekend. And pick up dog poop."
"Yuck. Yes," came back.
After delivering Tyler's book and paper to him, Gwen found herself in the hall outside Art's office. She hadn't intended to stop, but there she was at the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob.
What was she hoping for? That his face would light up when he saw her? That he would drop everything, take her to lunch then home for a quick dessert like he used to? Nostalgia ached in her chest.
Millie sat at her desk in the front room as she had for the past thirty years. She'd become as much a part of the school as the statue of St. Barnabas standing in the courtyard. When she saw Gwen, she smiled.
"Hi, Millie," Gwen said.
"He's not here. I'm sorry."
When Millie referred to Art as "Him" or "He" it always sounded as if she used a capital "H", like there were no other "hims" or "hes" worth talking about.
"Oh, well, it was nothing important. I was dropping off a book for Tyler and thought—"
"How is everyone doing at home?" Millie asked. "I've been concerned about Him."
"We're fine. Art's fine."
"I'm not sure He is." Millie's face became solemn. "He hasn't been Himself ever since Brian McKibben's accident."
"Is that the third grader who was hit by a pickup two weeks ago?" Gwen said.
"Yes." Millie's eyebrows rose in surprise.
Should Gwen be more aware of the story?
"It's hit Him hard, for obvious reasons," Millie said.
For obvious reasons, what would those be? Art cared about all his students. Why was this one special? Gwen fiddled with the strap of her purse while she wondered how to ask what the obvious reasons were, without making the state of their marriage obvious.
"He does take responsibility for everything that happens at St. Barnabas, whether he should or not," Gwen said, fishing.
"Yes." Millie nodded her head emphatically. "And it's hard to get through to Him when He's blaming Himself for things that aren't His fault."
What wasn't his fault? Gwen tossed a little kindling onto Millie's fire of indignation. "It's great to be a person of character, but you can't take the weight of the world on your shoulders," she said.
"Exactly," Millie agreed. "But you know what He's like."
"I do." Gwen thought for a moment. "But I'd like to know your opinion. You know him better than anyone outside his family."
Millie inclined her head in modest agreement.
Gwen continued, "What do you think about his reaction to the incident. I mean, not the broad strokes. I get that." Gwen waved a hand to illustrate. "But the day to day stuff. The details."
Millie inhaled deeply through her nose and adjusted her glasses. "I've told Him over and over it's not His fault. It's tough for single mothers to find sitters, I understand that. But the principal of a school can't be held responsible for problems at home." She peered over the top of her bifocals, searching for understanding.
Gwen nodded, but was even more in the dark than before. How could it be Art's fault that Brian's mother didn't have a sitter?
"Children are suspended all the time," Millie continued. "Well, not all the time, but frequently enough. Brian had been in three fights on the playground."
The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. Art had suspended Brian. Gwen hadn't known that.
"Just because Dwayne Pratt is a bully doesn’t give Brian a pass. He should have asked for assistance from his teachers." Millie was on a roll now. "The child, poor soul, needs to acquire some self-discipline. I only pray he comes out of this well enough to learn it."
Understanding and sympathy welled up within Gwen. Of course, the Pratts, the bane of Art's existence. He had probably already been questioning his motives for suspending Brian; then the boy had gone and gotten hit by a truck.
This explained so much. Art was in pain, and she knew from long experience when he was in pain he withdrew. She had assumed the distance between them was all about her, or all about Lorelei.
Shame burned her cheeks. They say blondes think the world revolves around them. In
fact, this redhead had done a pretty good job of setting herself up as the planetary axis. She wanted to find Art, to ask his forgiveness.
"Do you know where he is, Millie?" Gwen asked.
"He said He was going to Enzo's to grab a slice of pizza for lunch."
"Thanks." Gwen rushed from the office and pulled out of the parking lot in the direction of Enzo's.
#
The parking lot was full with lunch crowd vehicles. Gwen circled several times before she remembered there were spaces behind the building. She cut between Enzo's and a florist shop into a service alley and parked next to a Honda with a pizza-shaped flag attached to its passenger side window.
She picked her way around cast-off cardboard boxes and stacks of pallets. The bright sunlight dimmed as she made a right into the shade of the narrow passageway between the establishments. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. A few yards in, she saw a door opened to the alley. It must be the restaurant's rear exit. As she drew closer, she heard murmurs coming from the doorway—a man's voice low and pleading, a woman crying.
Gwen stopped, not wanting to intrude on what sounded like a lover's quarrel. She stood in indecision, wondering if there was another path around the building, or if she should clear her throat and let the couple know someone was coming. Before she could do either, they came into view.
The woman was petite, blond, and attractive, even with mascara tracks decorating her cheeks. She was dressed in black jeans and an Enzo's t-shirt. She looked familiar. Gwen thought she had waited on them once or twice when the family had gone in for dinner. The man's back was to her, but she had no trouble recognizing him.
It was Art.
Art.
What the hell was Art doing in an alley with a blond waitress whose name Gwen couldn't remember? She couldn't hear their conversation. But based on the emotion on the woman's face and her tears, it seemed intense and very personal.
Neither of them had noticed Gwen. She stepped behind a Dumpster located against the wall of the flower shop. She needed a minute to process.
