Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  Like them popping over unannounced. Or sending Pastor Rick. Given the circumstances, think my non-date with Shane and his unexpected departure, I would have preferred Pastor Rick.

  That’s when it dawns on me.

  Mom’s so going to blame me for Shane’s sudden run for the hills. She’ll insist that I did something to scare him off, which I didn’t, unless the blonde found out I was involved in the stalker alert slash soup kitchen incident.

  “Mom!” I exclaim with the excitement of a turtle as soon as I’ve entered my apartment.

  She’s perched on the sofa, her gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. I can’t decide whether she’s seeing something I’m not seeing or whether she’s frozen to the spot.

  I should never have given her a spare key because, clearly, my parents don’t know that “strictly for emergencies only” is the synonym for “you only let yourself in if someone’s died”.

  “Darling, you’re home.” Mom seems to tear her gaze off the imaginary spot on the wall and face me. I can’t help but feel wary.

  Why is she so chirpy? What’s happened? Did my parents win a trip around the world and she’s come to break the news to me gently that they’ll be gone for a year.

  In that case, pop the champagne. I’ll even drive them to the airport and ensure they board the plane.

  “What are you doing here, Mom?” I keep my tone soft and gentle, with the slightest hint of surprise, because I don’t want her to feel as though she’s not welcome.

  “We were worried about you.” She gets off the sofa and hurries to wrap me in her arms. “But now that we know what’s been going on we understand, and we love you.”

  What is she going on about?

  “Dad’s not here?” I peer around me as though he could be hiding in the closet or blending with the walls.

  “No, dear. He’s decided to stay at home so I came alone. Took the train and everything.”

  My mom took the train? Without Dad? Something’s off. I can smell it from a mile.

  “Mom, where’s Dad? Is he ill?” I press my hand against my chest as a heavy feeling settles inside me, threatening to choke me. The thought that something bad might be happening to my parents makes me faint. I know Dad’s been having a few health hiccups lately but I never thought it could be anything serious.

  I should have spent more time with him. I should have called him more often. I should have—

  I shake my head grimly. No, I can’t go there. Regret isn’t going to help anyone at this point.

  Mom winces a little the way she always does when she’s fighting with herself. She doesn’t want to tell the truth but being a Christian and all, the commandments are everything to her. I could press her and she’d spill the beans in a heartbeat. I open my mouth to do just that when my phone rings.

  I look at my mom, my insistent gaze silently urging her to speak. She motions at the phone. “You should pick up, love.”

  “It can wait.”

  Mom shakes her head. “No, you go on. Pick up, dear. It might be important.”

  Obviously, my conversation with her will have to wait.

  “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” I hold up my hand in a warning sign, then reach for my cell phone.

  It’s Madeleine Albright.

  Out of all the times the woman could have chosen to call she’s picked the most ill-fated of moments. Then again, her phone calls always come at an unfortunate time.

  “Madeleine, hi,” I say chirpily, obviously faking it. “I meant to call you.”

  That’s not even a lie. I did mean to call her—eventually.

  “Samantha, I’m so glad to finally get a hold of you.” Her tone carries a bit of a sting to it, but there’s no trace of anger or worse—the imminent threat to demand the advance back. I look at my mother. I can’t mention the leg in her presence, so I turn my back to her.

  “Yes, well, you know, with everything that’s been going on, it was a bit tough but the book’s done.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Wait, what? How does she know? Do the walls have eyes?

  “Oh, really?” I laugh, as though it’s not creepy at all. “How do you know? Unless I’ve been talking in my sleep.”

  Or she’s hacked my computer. That’s definitely a possibility, though wouldn’t she have to go through that firewall thing that no one’s ever seen but is called a vault and sounds like you would need a lot of virtual TNT to blow up? Apple sure knows how to sell their products.

  Madeleine laughs, but the way it carries down the line, it sounds put on. “I wouldn’t have known anything about it if my assistant hadn’t talked to your assistant and she hadn’t sent it over straight away. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be reading it over the weekend and I’ll get back to you with an answer by Monday morning.”

  “My what?” She must be confusing me with someone else because the last time I checked I could barely afford my apartment let alone an assistant.

  “Your assistant.” Madeleine sounds a little impatient now. Didn’t she mention weekend? She’s probably packing her bags and heading for the Hamptons as we speak. “Anyway, I’ll let you know what I think. Keep your phone with you in case I have questions.”

  “Wait. I don’t have—” Trailing off, I stare at the empty space before me.

  She’s hung up on me. Just like that. I shake my head. The woman must have hit her head. Or she is indeed confusing me with someone else. Then again, that’s not likely given that she’s been phone stalking me for months. At some point it was so bad I think I developed an anxiety disorder, which probably explains why I couldn’t write in the first place.

  I’m ready to discard it all until I turn and catch my mother’s smug expression. She’s hiding something, and she’s proud of herself.

  “Mom?” I prompt. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  She shrugs and her eyes flicker with something.

  “What did you do?” But even as I ask the question I have my suspicions. “Tell me. You know you might just as well spill it because I’ll find out eventually.”

  She shrugs again. “That woman called us. She said something about you not delivering, and she wasn’t very friendly about it.” Her expression turns grim and all protective. My lips twitch. Mom is such a sweet person but the moment someone says something bad about her family she turns into a lioness protecting her cub. I can only imagine what went through her head.

  “Go on.”

  “She sounded mean. Not professional at all. I didn’t believe her, darling. So I told your dad that I was going to visit you. I didn’t tell him the rest because I didn’t want to worry him. When you wouldn’t answer the door, I let myself in and figured I’d wait until you got back home. But your laptop was switched on, and the file was open, and I had a sneak peek.”

  So much for privacy!

  “Mom, you can’t just snoop through other people’s computers,” I exclaim. She winces and avoids my gaze. Obviously, she knows exactly that it’s not acceptable, and yet she sets her jaw in defiance.

  “You don’t understand, Sam. That woman threatened you with horrible things. I knew you had something great because you’re a fantastic writer. Your dad and I have told you for years. But you never think it’s ready. There’s always another rewrite, another edit. There’s always something that makes you think it’s not ready.” She shakes her head. “So I read a bit and I loved it. I called that woman’s office and sent it to them.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I know but—” I peer at the way she’s wringing her hands and avoiding my gaze. “You are a good writer. You work hard. Your book is finished, and it’s a really good one. I thought that maybe you had forgotten to send it to her. You tend to have so much on your mind that you forget things.”

  Forget things? Me?

  I stare at her.

  “Are you mad?” Mom asks.

  I sigh. I should be but I can’t because she meant well. She always does. “No, Mom. Of co
urse not.”

  Her expression brightens.

  “And Dad? Is he okay?” I ask.

  “Of course he is.”

  “Oh, Mom.” I hug her to hide the unshed tears in my eyes.

  “You should have heard what she said,” Mom goes on. “Horrible.”

  I nod and release her as I realize there’s no way she could have sent a file off by herself. I mean, we’re talking about the woman who can’t even figure out how to use spell check, let alone switch on an email host, type up an email, and then add an attachment. Someone must have helped her.

  “So, how did you send the file off?”

  For a moment, Mom looks all wide-eyed at me, taken aback, and then she simply says, “I called Amanda.”

  “Of course you did.”

  I could kick myself for introducing my friends to my parents. Some lines are not meant to get blurred.

  Obviously, I can’t blame my mother for meaning well, but I sure can blame my best friend for supporting her ill-advised ideas when she should have known better. I make a mental note to get to it right after I’ve explained to Madeleine that the manuscript needs a final edit before it’s ready.

  “Can you look after Sammy while I sort out your mess? Thanks.” Without waiting for her answer, I scroll through my cell’s contact list and dial Madeleine’s office number. As the line rings, I go into my bedroom and shut the door.

  I take a deep, calming breath. This isn’t the end of the world. Once I’ve explained everything I’m sure Madeleine will give me the weekend to make the final changes. Now that she’s seen there is a manuscript, I’m sure she’ll understand.

  After the fourth ring, a recorded female voice informs me that the office is closed for the weekend with the advice to leave a message.

  I hang up and take a not-so-calming breath.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I tell myself. I still have Madeleine’s private number. Given that we spoke barely ten minutes ago, she’ll pick up straight away.

  It rings twice before Madeleine’s no-nonsense voice answers. It takes me a moment to realize it’s another recording, this one informing me that she’s spending the weekend in the Hamptons and will only be available in the case of an emergency.

  I snort.

  So, how would she know that it was an emergency if she’s not picking up the phone?

  Unless the woman’s psychic.

  I redial, silently chanting, “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” just in case Madeleine is in possession of some amazing spiritual gifts and can pick up on my mental vibrations.

  But no such luck.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I call Madeleine twice more before deciding this isn’t going to take me anywhere.

  “Think, Sam, think,” I beg my brain as I drop to the floor, pressing my back against the cold wood of the door.

  I can’t let Madeleine read the manuscript. I mean, what if she likes it? She’d probably send it off to the editor straight away and I’ll never get to make the necessary changes. And before I know it, the entire world will know about Shane, my family, Rashid, and even about Pastor Rick because I was enough of a dummy to actually mention the bush incident. And don’t get me started on the soup kitchen episode. Revealing that to the entire world would definitely blow my chances with Shane—not that there ever was going to be any budding romance, but still!

  Hope dies last, right?

  Maybe he was being honest about his intention to call me in the future. That’s just one of the gazillion reasons why I need the manuscript back.

  “Please, Lord, help me.” Closing my eyes, I send a silent prayer to the Almighty, but even as I say it, I feel as though the entire situation is hopeless.

  That’s when a thought strikes me.

  Madeleine is spending the weekend in the Hamptons. That’s not really that far away. Given that it’s mostly frequented by celebrities, it can’t be too big and they probably all know each other. Someone is bound to know where to find Madeleine. I can picture myself arriving with my dog, all poised and confident, demanding that Madeleine give me a day or two of rewrite. Nothing major. She’ll be surprised but also impressed by my audacity. Now that she’s seen there is a manuscript she’ll surely agree straight away.

  Filled with newfound hope, I speed dial the one person who knows all there is to know about celebrities and their favorite spots. It probably also helps that she owns a car.

  Amanda picks up on the second ring.

  “I’m so angry with you,” I say. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  She laughs, which tells me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She also knows that what she did was wrong, and doesn’t care at all. “Let’s be honest, Sam. You needed the push. You always do because there’s always some excuse that keeps you from putting yourself out there and making your dreams come true.”

  “That is so not—” The truth, I want to say, but I would be lying. Yes, I often have excuses but they are justified, like in this case. “We’ll finish this conversation later. Right now, I need you to drive me to the Hamptons.”

  “Why?” Amanda asks warily.

  “Because I need to get hold of the editor and stop her from reading the manuscript.”

  “Why?” she repeats in that same wary tone, albeit now it’s infused with something else. Unbelief? Sarcasm?

  I sigh with exasperation. I really have no time for this. “Let’s just say I wrote some stuff that I shouldn’t have. She cannot read that. That would be very bad.”

  “No.”

  For a moment, I’m not sure I heard right. No what? Not possible? No way? What is she saying?

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said no,” she repeats with more fervor. “Whatever you think is wrong, probably isn’t. Just give her a chance to read it. Let her tell you what she thinks of it. Close the deal, Sam!”

  That’s her favorite expression in the world, and she uses it a lot. But Amanda’s a doer while I’m a worrier. She always knows what she wants and goes for it while I’m, well, not. She’s also stubborn as a mule, and I know better than to pick a fight with her, unless I’m sure I’ll win.

  Which is never.

  Arguing with Amanda is like getting arrested—everything you say can and will be used against you, even years later. She’s also really good at building a case against you. I always tell her she missed her true profession; she would have made a great prosecutor.

  “You owe me,” I say, even though I know this is pointless.

  “Yes, I do, and I’ll pay you back with a huge piece of cake and a cappuccino once you get your publishing deal, which I believe you will very soon. Just trust me.”

  I sigh.

  How can I tell her that yes, under different circumstances I would. But not when it’s about Shane and all the things I haven’t even told her about, mostly because I can’t hear more of her “close the deal” advice.

  “You know I’m not done with you,” I say.

  “I know. Can’t wait. Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I hang up.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I consider my next step. You would have thought my best friend would try to rectify her “sticking her nose in my business” mistake but fat chance. It would have been helpful to have Amanda’s celebrity knowledge and car at my disposal, but even without her help I’ll find Madeleine.

  I’m not going to give up.

  A tiny paw begins to scratch at the door, begging to be let in.

  Smiling, I open the door and cuddle Sammy in my arms.

  “You’re a good girl. A good, good girl,” I coo, realizing who needs Amanda when I have my extremely cute puppy? “Guess where we’re going? To the Hamptons.”

  Sammy licks my chin as though to tell me she’s all in. You can definitely count on her.

  “Mom!” I put Sammy down and head back to the living room where I find my mother sitting on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap. As much as I would have enjoyed spend
ing some time with her I have more important issues to take care of. I’m sure she’ll understand given that she’s to blame for the entire situation in the first place.

  “Yes, darling?” She peers at me wide-eyed, which tells me she heard every single word and is trying hard to pretend otherwise.

  “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll call you guys later.” To make sure she gets the message, I grab her handbag and plant myself in front of the entrance door.

  She walks past me and stops in the doorway, then turns to regard me. Her expression betrays worry even before she speaks out the obvious.

  “You know, Dad and I are worried about you.”

  I nod. Suddenly there’s a huge lump in my throat and unshed tears gather at the back of my eyes. “I know you are,” I mumble. “But there’s no need to. Everything’s fine.”

  She shakes her head and before I know what’s happening she’s squeezed me to her bosom. For a moment, I’m propelled back to my childhood. Whatever the crisis, be it related to school or boys, Mom was always there, always waiting with a warm hug and one of her cups of Earl Grey that I liked to call dishwasher liquid because in all honesty, why-oh-why would you ruin it by adding milk to your tea?

  I smile ruefully as countless memories flood my mind, all at once.

  “You know you can call us any time?” Mom says, her voice strangely strangled.

  I nod.

  “And you know we love you?”

  I nod again, slowly regaining my composure.

  Mom lets go of me, and something changes in her tone. “Do you know who loves you even more?”

  Oh, no! The preaching’s starting. I would give her at least two minutes before stopping her, but there’s no time today.

  “Mom!”

  “Wait, let me finish.” She holds up a hand. “It’s our Savior, Jesus Christ, who died for us on the cross. He loves you so much and he’s waiting for you to return.”

  If only I knew how. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

  “But it is. And you know it.” She takes a second to look at me with that warmth of hers that often feels unbearable. “You used to believe so much. And then suddenly you didn’t. What happened, Sam?”