“Rache, I want to have kids someday, and Joe has made it very clear he doesn’t. And even if he did, I doubt he would want to convert.”
“Why would he have to?”
“Because when you have children, everything changes. Especially when it comes to religion.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. But as far as kids, you’ve got Katy.”
“And I love her to pieces but, you know, I want my own.”
“No, I understand.”
Sarah shook her head . “It’s impossible. And now, Fr. Brian wants me to go to some stupid singles’ dance.”
“It’s actually not a terrible idea.”
“Oh my G— You, too?”
“Look, if you want to have kids, you should get married. And if you’re not marrying Joe again, you need to meet someone. That’s all I’m saying.”
Sarah got to her feet. “Glad we had this talk.”
“Anytime. You still coming by for dinner? Eddie’s been looking forward to it.”
“I’m his daughter. Why wouldn’t he look forward to it? Besides, what else have I got to do? Apparently, I’m not having sex ever again.”
“There are worse things.” There was a sharpness to Rachel’s voice, and her sister reddened as she headed for her office to make phone calls.
Nice one, Sarah. What an insensitive bitch.
Instead of turning into her office, she continued out toward the rear exit and dumped the remaining two cappuccinos in the trash. She wanted to spend the rest of the day with Joe—she needed his company. It was a powerful urge, and as she retrieved her car keys, it hit her.
It was that dream. And she was scared.
On her way to her dad’s house in Santa Barbara, Sarah thought about her last conversation with Rachel and again regretted that stupid crack about not having sex. Her sister was a widow. Her husband, Paul, was a Marine and had deployed to Afghanistan twice. On his third tour of duty, he went to Iraq. In Mosul, his unit was attacked by ISIS forces. They managed to overpower the enemy, forcing them to retreat. But on the way back, the Humvee he was riding in hit an IED, and Paul was killed instantly. Katy had just turned three.
Sarah pulled up to her dad’s modest Westside home and parked in the driveway. Rachel and Katy had moved in with their father after Paul died. It turned out to be a good decision. Eddie was getting on in years and, though he still taught at Santa Barbara City College, both his girls felt that, being a widower himself, he could use the company. Besides, he loved his granddaughter, and she was crazy about him, especially since she no longer had a father.
Though Sarah and Rachel preferred wine, Eddie liked beer, so she had picked up a six-pack of Modelo along with a bottle of pinot noir. Whenever she came back to “the old house,” Sarah’s head filled with memories. Not of ghosts or poltergeists or other phenomena. Usually, she would remember the silly things.
Her old bedroom, which Katy now occupied, was on the second floor and faced the street. Approaching the house, Sarah smiled, recalling the time she tried to sneak out through her window after curfew to meet a boy—what was his name?—in the park so they could make out. She was thirteen and had gone to the trouble of using pillows to make it appear she was in bed. Eddie caught her, though, and grounded her for a month. Good times.
As soon as Sarah walked in the door, Katy greeted her. Sarah set down her purse and plastic bags and gave her niece a hug.
“Aunt Sarah, what’s in the bag?”
“Oh, beer and wine. And…”
“Something for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I look?”
Katy went through the bags and pulled out a fifty-piece set of Art-I-San gel pens in neon, glitter, and pastel colors.
“Oh wow, I’ve been wanting these! Thank you!”
Rachel walked in, wearing an apron. Folding her arms, she shook her head as Katy ran off with the pens, saying thank you repeatedly as she disappeared around a corner.
“You spoil her,” Rachel said. “Truly.”
“And you.” Sarah pulled out the wine and showed it to her sister.
“And me. Come on, the food’s ready.”
“Hey, hang on a sec. Rache, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. That was thoughtless.”
“No, I get it. You get horny. A lot.”
“Okay, I guess we’re even now.”
Dinner was simple: salad, chicken enchiladas, rice, and beans. Rachel was the first to admit she didn’t cook as well as Sarah. But the food was good, and the company even better.
“Aunt Sarah?” Katy said.
“Yes, my love?”
“Why do you think God wants you to see ghosts?”
“Katy, for crying out loud,” Rachel said.
“The other day, our teacher was telling us about Padre Pio and how he had seen apparitions most of his life. But he’s a saint. Are you—”
Sarah laughed. “A saint? No, honey. You see, it’s the gift I was given.”
“But aren’t those things, like, dangerous? I was watching this show about ghost hunters and—”
“Sometimes, they are. And, look, Katy, I’m no expert. But I think they’re mostly sad.”
“Oh. I never thought of that.” For a moment, Sarah’s niece looked dejected. Then, she brightened. “I drew something for you today.”
Katy picked up the drawing pad she always kept with her, tore out a page, and handed her aunt a pen-and-ink drawing of a comical-looking ghost trying to order coffee.
“Oh my gosh, this is fantastic!”
“And don’t forget,” Rachel said, “your aunt was an art major in college, so her opinion counts.”
Sarah gave her niece a hug. “Thank you.”
She adored her niece, who was extremely talented. Katy looked almost exactly like Rachel when she was eleven.
“Can we please not have any more talk about ghosts?” Eddie said.
She turned to her father and noticed his irritated expression. He seemed smaller somehow, his once dark hair streaked with white and skin that was soft—almost baby-like. And those kind hazel eyes she’d gotten from him. She liked that he had kept his moustache.
“Not a problem,” Sarah said. “So, what’s going on with you, Eddie?”
“The same. Doctor keeps telling me to cut down on bad fats.”
“You should listen to him.”
“When I’m dead I’ll cut down. Which reminds me, don’t even think about canceling my pork tamales this Christmas.”
“We’ll see.”
He took another swallow of beer. “How’s the car running?”
“Fine. Although it could use an oil change.”
“Bring it over on Saturday.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”
He finished his beer and set the bottle down. “I haven’t seen Joe in a while.”
“He works a lot.”
“He’s been promising to take me to a Lakers game.”
Rachel laughed. “That will only happen if they’re playing the Knicks.”
The conversation moved on to Katy and school. Sarah took a slow swallow of wine and gazed out the front window. A low, pale fog had settled on the street. Something inside it was moving. She looked closer. That’s when she saw her. Alyssa. She was floating in the mist in the middle of the street, translucent in the amber glow of the streetlights.
She seemed to be watching Sarah.
Three
He looks so vulnerable. Sarah was standing across from a man wearing a gray Italian wool sweater and Ralph Lauren sport coat with, what, Rag & Bone jeans? Just a tad on-the-nose, she felt. Still, he was handsome. Mid-forties maybe? Her antique English oak pedestal desk stood between them as they shook hands. Joe had found it for Sarah on eBay and decided to buy it when she agreed to rejoin the firm. It was the only expensive thing she owned, other than her car, which her father had restored to factory specs.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” she said, sneaking a glance at his left hand. She took note of the line wh
ere a wedding band used to be. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name is?”
“Michael Peterson.”
“Sarah—”
“Greene, I know. It’s on your desk sign,” he said, pointing.
She stifled a cackle with her hand. “I’m such an idiot.” Then, clearing her throat, “Okay. I understand you dropped by the other day. Can I ask how you heard about us?”
“Well, to be honest, I started with a couple of realtors in Santa Barbara. I didn’t really connect with them, though—I have very particular tastes. I happened to attend Mass at Our Lady of Sorrows and saw your ad in the bulletin.” He smiled warmly. “And here I am.”
“Wow, I didn’t think anyone read those ads,” she said, laughing. This guy’s Catholic? Is God trying to tell me something? “Anyway. So why Dos Santos? You look like you could afford a more expensive neighborhood. Montecito, maybe?”
He blushed, which made him all the more attractive. “Well, I’m not what you’d call rich. And besides, I like the quiet. It’s been…a bad year. I took a drive up into the forest before coming over here. You know, to get a sense of the place.”
“And the verdict?”
“Dos Santos is exactly what I’m looking for.”
The “bad year” comment got Sarah’s attention. She had an urge to dig into the matter. And he might’ve told her, too. In two minutes, this guy had said more than Joe did in a week. In a way, it was refreshing.
“Well,” she said. “I’ve got some time this afternoon if you want me to show you a few properties.”
“That would be fantastic.”
“May I ask what you do, Michael?”
“I’m between jobs at the moment. But don’t worry—I have money set aside. I’m from New York. Used to be in banking.”
“I see. Well, what’s your price range?”
They spent the next half-hour in front of Sarah’s large computer monitor looking at properties. The only fragrance she could detect coming off him was the faint smell of deodorant. As they looked at the screen together, she could feel his warm breath on her neck and wondered if he was intentionally staying close.
“Sorry, too close?” he said.
“You’re fine.”
When they had narrowed the list down to six properties based on Michael’s preferences, she printed the listings. She gathered everything up and escorted her new client out toward the front entrance.
“Blanca, I’m on the road!”
But the receptionist was on the phone again, probably giving one of her sons hell.
“My car’s in the back,” Sarah said when they’d gotten outside. “I need to grab a coffee. Can I get you something?”
“Sure.”
The Cracked Pot was bursting with the tail end of the lunch crowd, and Sarah and Michael had to fight their way to the counter to order. While they waited, Michael appeared to be sizing up the place. He seemed to be amused by the employee uniform. Everyone, except for the cooks, wore crisp white cotton shirts, black pants, and red bowties.
“Reminds me a lot of New York,” he said.
“The food’s good here, FYI.”
“Wonderful. So, the agency. You started it?”
“No, that was my business partner, Joe Greene. I joined later. Well, re-joined. Long story.”
“Okay, and he made you change your name to Greene?”
She looked at him askance and saw that he was smiling. “Joe’s my ex-husband.”
“Ahh, got it. And you kept his name? Interesting.”
She had told this story a million times. What was one more go-around? Besides, Michael seemed like a good listener.
“I thought about changing it. But it would cost too much, what with all the business cards and the advertising on bus benches. Oh, and the supermarket shopping carts.”
“Don’t forget the pens.”
“Right. Speaking of which.” She dug into her purse and handed him a Greene Realty pen.
“Thanks. I guess that makes sense. So, what’s your maiden name?”
“Cruz.”
This guy asks a lot of questions. Does that mean he’s interested?
Finally, their coffees came, and they were on the road in Sarah’s Galaxie. The sky was clear—a good day for looking at properties. They started on a street off the main drag—a spacious two-bedroom townhome Joe had renovated and put back on the market two weeks ago. After that, they worked their way to other single-family homes scattered around town. The entire time they kept the conversation light and impersonal. Twice Sarah thought they’d found the right house. But each time Michael balked.
It was after five and getting dark when Sarah pulled up in front of the agency. They got out and stood on the sidewalk, watching as the streetlights came on. It was a charming street, filled with trendy little clothing and antique shops. A new tapas bar had opened recently, and Sarah had toyed with the idea of inviting Michael for a drink. But in the end, she didn’t feel comfortable.
“I appreciate you doing this, Sarah,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t more enthusiastic. I warned you, I’m a tough customer. You guys did some amazing work with those renovations, though.”
“Thanks. You know, Michael, I was sure one of those properties would’ve appealed to you. So, what exactly are you looking for?”
“Agents probably hate hearing this, but I’ll know it when I see it. After my wife died, I wasn’t thinking about much of anything. Certainly not buying a house.”
“I’m sorry. If you’d rather not—”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. She was killed by a drunk driver on the Long Island Expressway. She was driving back from visiting friends in the Hamptons.”
Sarah touched his hand, and he immediately withdrew it. Shit, do I repulse him?
“Sorry, I need to go,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I decide on something. By the way, I love your car. Not every day you meet a woman willing to put up with manual steering. Boy, I hope that didn’t sound too sexist.”
“Not at all. The car is a small price to pay,” she said, flexing both biceps. “Get a load of these guns.”
“Impressive.”
“Okay, um, you have my cell. If you want to do this again…” But he was already walking away. “I’m available.” Then, to herself, “Twenty-four-seven. Like 911. God, I am so pathetic.”
As Michael headed down the sidewalk toward a red rental car parked on the street, she felt stupid for pulling the Wonder Woman routine, though he seemed happy to play along.
The wind had kicked up, and it was getting colder. She continued watching as he got in without looking back, started the engine, and made a U-turn into traffic. There was something about him. And it was more than the sadness of losing a loved one. Though it was vague, she had the distinct sense he had lost so much more.
“Should I be jealous?” someone behind her said.
Sarah turned to find her ex-husband smiling at her.
“Where’ve you been all day?”
She worried he’d witnessed her earlier awkwardness with her new client. Joe was wearing fresh clothes, including a leather bomber jacket she didn’t recognize, and she knew he’d showered and changed after doing construction work. Was he planning something for the two of them?
“I thought we could grab a drink,” he said.
“That sounds good.”
“Want to try that new place?”
“Since when do you like tapas?”
“I heard it’s good. And for your information, my tastes go beyond bagels and brisket.”
“We’ll see. But first, I need to move my car. How about I meet you over there?”
By this time, all thoughts of Michael Peterson had evaporated like steam from a kettle. As Joe jaywalked across the street, Sarah thought about how much she loved the way he moved. It was masculine and all kinds of sexy. But there was a real confidence there, too. He seemed to always know where he was going. Literally. Unlike her. In high school, she’d read a book on t
he life of Hildegard von Bingen, a twelfth-century saint and mystic who had famously described herself as “a feather on the breath of God.” If she’s a feather, Sarah had thought at the time, then I must be a ball of lint on God’s cardigan.
Her appetite sharpened by thoughts of tasty Spanish food, Sarah pulled around back. As she cut through the office to the front door, she fantasized about drinks and appetizers turning into dinner somewhere, then “dessert” at her house. Cut it out, Sarah. What would Fr. Brian say?
Good thing they’d decided to come early because by the time their food and drinks arrived, the tiny venue was packed. El 600, after the street address, was owned by two gay gentlemen named Nicky and Fahim. Nicky was African-American and Sarah was pretty sure Fahim was Persian. Both were in their early thirties, impossibly thin, and loved everything Spanish. They had vacationed together in Barcelona numerous times and, after their last trip, decided to open a tapas bar. Sarah had meant to ask the inevitable Why Dos Santos? but had not yet had the chance.
“So you look like you want to tell me something,” she said to Joe after taking a sip of her Priorat.
The smells coming off the tiny plates of the food they’d ordered were intoxicating: Patatas Alioli, Canelon de Atun, Jamon con Pan de Tomate—it was all too much, and she was grateful she’d gotten in her run that morning. She made the Sign of the Cross, said a quick blessing, and tried the tuna. Heaven.
“What?” she said, noticing Joe smiling at her.
“Nice to see you have your appetite. I mean, what with the ghosties and all.”
“Shut up. Come on, dig in. This stuff is amazing.”
He tried the potatoes. “Mm. Sarah, I wanted to talk to you about the new project.”
Finally! And I didn’t have to threaten to chop off a finger.
“It’s our biggest one yet, and it’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Okay. I take it, you got it at auction?”
“That’s just it. It sort of fell into our laps. The bank approached me.”
“Why?”
“They said they didn’t want to lose any more money and knew I would pay a fair price.”
“Does that happen often?”
The Girl in the Mirror Page 3