The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

  That food had saved her. No doubt about it. Sarah had carefully divided the food into seven portions. Kept the first three portions in the fridge, froze the other four so they would stay fresh and she’d have enough food to last her until payday.

  Once Sarah had paid for both hers and Mick’s portion of the groceries, she gathered up her grocery bags and headed for the exit. She stepped out into the bright Los Angeles sunshine so caught up in her baking plans that she was halfway across the parking lot before she noticed the black-and-white backing up. Don’t freak out, she told herself. This is probably nothing to do with you. Even so, she veered to the right, heart pounding, yanking the rubber band from her ponytail, tipping her face downward so her hair fell forward and shielded her face. She forced her body to move slow and steady as she pushed through the panic. Keep walking. That gray van there would be good cover. Two more cars. You can do it. Hopefully the cop is just stopping to pick up some lunch. She tucked behind the van and watched the reflections in the grocery store window. The cop car glided to a halt directly behind her vehicle, blocking it in. Oh shit. Inside the cop car, the policeman tugged his computer screen toward him and started inputting information. Even from her limited vantage point, it was clear he was focused on her car. Move. Move now! By the time she reached the sidewalk, the cop was getting out of his vehicle. He circled her car, scanning the parking lot behind his mirrored sunglasses. A city bus pulled to the bus stop in front of the store. Psshhhh went the air brakes, and the door folded open. It felt like a sign. A promise of momentary safety.

  Sarah melded into the line of people getting on the bus. Four people to go . . . Three now . . . She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. Nausea, acidic and sour at the back of her throat. Two people until safety . . . One. Trying to keep her body language relaxed. Nothing to see here. Just a woman with her shopping bags heading home. She stepped onto the bus, half expecting a heavy hand to land on her shoulder, yank her back, and slam her to the ground.

  Psshhhh. The bus door shut behind her, and the bus lurched away from the curb, causing Sarah to stumble. She grabbed the pole, and her grocery bags thumped hard against the metallic barrier. She felt a momentary flare of worry that the apples would be bruised. On the heels of that thought, embarrassment bloomed for worrying about something so inconsequential. “How much?” she asked the bus driver. Her voice sounded odd, as if she were listening to someone else speaking. It was raw and ragged, more like a croak.

  “Dollar seventy-five. We don’t make change.”

  “Okay.” Sarah nodded, rummaging in her purse, watching out of the corners of her eyes as the grocery store parking lot, the cop, and her car glided past the smeared windows. The cop wasn’t chasing the bus down, banging on the door. He had his hip resting against the side of her car, arms crossed, his face fixed on the grocery store doors. Sarah jerked her gaze away, dropped her coins into the fare box, then lurched to a seat. Her breath was unsteady as she placed her bags between her feet, tipped her head back, and shut her eyes. Her heart pounded like a brick in a dryer. Kevin must have been to Solace Island. It’s the only way he would have found out about my car, been able to trace my license plate. Stands to reason he knows what I look like now—

  “You okay, missy?” she heard a voice say. “You seem kind of pale. You need some water?”

  Sarah opened her eyes. A middle-aged woman was looking at her. There was concern in the woman’s faded brown eyes as she extended her water bottle. Sarah shook her head, managed a smile. “Thanks,” Sarah said. “I’m fine, I just . . .” She trailed off, unsure what to say. She could feel a trickle of sweat making its way down the side of her face, beads of perspiration on her upper lip. Sarah swiped her forearm across her face. “Got a few more groceries than I had planned on carrying. Heavy.”

  Sarah could see the woman was still worried, but she nodded as if they both had agreed to pretend Sarah wasn’t lying. “If you change your mind . . .” There was compassion in the woman’s soft smile. She gave Sarah’s hand a gentle pat, then faced forward again, her shoulders slightly rounded, as if the world and all its problems made her unbearably sad.

  Sarah turned her face to the window, biting her lip hard so no noises could escape as she stared out with hot, unseeing eyes. What now . . . ? What now . . . ? A nonstop litany banged away in her head as the bus took her farther and farther away from where she wanted to be.

  19

  After rereading the same page for the third time that evening, Mick tossed the script from Paramount on the coffee table in disgust. Attempting to work was pointless. Night had fallen and still Rachel hadn’t returned. He stood, scrubbed his face and scalp with his hands, hoping the massaging motion would dispel the unease that had been building in his gut since midday. The movement didn’t disperse it. Shit. This woman is too much of a distraction. Normally he would have plowed his way through a couple of scripts in the amount of time he’d spent stuck on this one. He glanced at his watch. Nine forty-five. Does she have a boyfriend? Is that where she is? A husband, perhaps? That’s probably it. She’s having a day with family or friends. He sat back down, made his body relax. It’s crazy how little I actually know about her. He leaned forward and picked up the script. What a weird world I now inhabit, Mick mused. Open my door and let an absolute stranger live in my house. Naturally, the employment agency would vet any applicant they sent over. But how thorough were their checks? She could be a bloodthirsty psychopath, for all I know. The thought made him smile. If there was one thing Rachel wasn’t, it was a bloodthirsty psychopath. The woman was an intriguing mix, the bulletproof veneer with a bruised vulnerability and an almost innocence underneath. Mick’s mind flipped to the memory of Wednesday night. He couldn’t enter his study without seeing her there in that pale-pink robe, sneakers slipped off, feet tucked under her, cheeks flushed as she scribbled down notes. Rachel had typed the notes after he had returned to his bed, and they were in a neat pile, along with a USB flash drive, waiting in the entryway hall when he left for work the next morning. The notes were perfect. On the heels of that memory came the image of Rachel leaving that morning. He had cracked open his bathroom window to let the steam from the shower out and saw her exiting her apartment. There had been a bounce in her step. It was as if he could feel joy shimmering in the air around her. He had watched her, razor in his hand, suds on his face dripping down his neck. The towel wrapped around his waist was no match for his body’s visceral reaction to her. There was something about this woman that captured his attention and made it difficult to look away. He’d watched her descend the stairs, looking lighter and more carefree than he’d previously seen her. For a split second he’d found himself holding his breath, hoping she would cross the driveway, knock on his door, and invite him to ride shotgun. She hadn’t. Of course. She’d gotten into her car.

  When she started the engine, soft music spilled forth, tumbling out of her windows. “Blue Moon,” an old Cowboy Junkies recording that flung Mick back to being a nine-year-old kid. Chastity from Desert Rose used to play that song. She hadn’t stayed at the ranch long. A couple of months and then hopped on a bus and never came back. She’d been young. Said she was nineteen, but he was pretty sure she was lying. Saw her coming out of the bathroom once without her makeup on, didn’t look more than fourteen, fifteen tops. His grandma had put her in the bedroom next to his. The walls were thin. He could hear everything. Wasn’t spying. Couldn’t help it. She didn’t like being a prostitute; that was for sure. But the johns sure loved her with her pale-blond hair and gangly limbs. More often than not, she was the one they picked out of the lineup. Got so when she would bring a customer in, Mick would grab a book, go sit outside. He’d know when her trick was done. She’d put on that song, play it after the john had left, while she remade the bed, wiped out the sink, rehung the towels, singing along, crying by the end. Always. And Mick wondered now, as he had then, what was her connection to that old song? Had it been her mother’s favorite? And i
f so, was her mother dead? Is that why Chastity was on her own so young?

  “Blue Moon.” The song haunted Mick. Except it sounded different when Rachel sang along as her car disappeared down the driveway. There was more a sense of celebration as she sang, a freedom to her voice and her movements that morning that was at odds with her conservative apparel and yanked-back, constricted hairdo. Why did she yank it back like that? It had looked beautiful unbound.

  Mick hadn’t heard her vehicle return, but it was possible he missed it. Who was she? Obviously the woman was highly skilled, so how did she end up working for me? What circumstances propelled her to take this job? And then, like a homing pigeon, his thoughts returned to Where did she go? Followed by the refrain It’s none of your business where she goes or what she gets up to on her days off.

  Nevertheless, after pacing the living room floor for a while, he found himself in the entryway. The cool night air poured through the open doorway as he stared into the darkness. He looked up first. He wasn’t checking on Rachel. Was just getting a breath of fresh air. No stars were visible. Not tonight. Too much haze. However, there was a fuzzy silver sliver of the moon hovering in the branches of the large eucalyptus tree. He heard the far-off yips of a pack of coyotes closing in on their prey, and Mick’s mind alighted on Rachel again. Hoping she wasn’t lost or in trouble. Finally, he let his gaze wander to the spot where she usually parked. It was empty. The windows of her apartment were dark. Odd the little things one gets used to. Mick hadn’t realized until that moment how much he liked seeing the apartment lit up. Sometimes her silhouette would pass by a window. It was comforting. Felt sort of like a hello-you-aren’t-alone-in-this-big-wide-world. Where the hell is she? He glanced at his watch. The Lakers game will have finished taping. Mick closed the front door, went into the kitchen, snagged a beer and a bag of salt-and-pepper kettle-cut potato chips, then continued on to the home theater.

  A little after midnight, passing by the window on the way back to the kitchen, he saw her apartment lights were on. Mick felt the knot in his stomach loosen. She was home. Finally. He could stop worrying, would go to bed now and get some blasted sleep.

  20

  Phillip stared at the elegant sports car—lit up by his headlights—that had snagged his preferred parking spot directly in front of Vicki’s town house. Generally, on Sunday evenings that space was free. During the day was iffy, because of the graveyard up the block, but Sunday evenings no one parked there. There had been a spot farther back, but he had been hoping. In the old days, he would have shrugged and backed up illegally. Never mind it was a narrow one-way street. He’d found cars would honk, but they’d get out of the way if he moved aggressively enough. Show no mercy. Show no fear. Hit the gas and go. However, the last time he tried that maneuver had been at least a decade ago. Torqueing his body to get a good view out the rear window had caused him to slip a disc, one of his lumbar vertebrae. It had been quite painful. He’d had to call Vicki from his car phone. She’d raced outside to help him out of his car. Somehow they managed to maneuver him up the stairs to her front door. It had been painted a robin’s-egg blue back then. He’d had one of his arms around Vicki’s shoulders, his other hand gripping the black wrought iron banister. Every movement caused debilitating, hot-dagger-like pain to shoot through him. By the time they got him inside to his armchair, he was sweating profusely. On the upside, Vicki had fussed around him like a mother hen. She had stuffed a bag of frozen peas down the back of his pants, then rustled up a martini for him, a dish of warmed mixed nuts, a muscle relaxant, and a glass of water to wash it down. Returning home that night had been impossible, the next night, too. He’d spent three full days and nights of painful bliss with Vicki in their love nest before he was capable of making the drive home. Memories, Phillip mused, making a right-hand turn onto McDonald Avenue. An SUV swerved, horn blasting. “Get off the fucking road, Grandpa!” By the time Phillip had his window open and his middle finger hoisted, the SUV was well down the road. With all the drama, Phillip had missed his turn, so he drove another block and then turned right, made another right and another. Luckily, no one had pulled into the parking spot he’d spied down the block from Vicki’s house, and he claimed it for his own.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, attempted the thankless task of smoothing down his eyebrows, which over time had taken on a life of their own. Then he grabbed the bouquet of flowers lying across the passenger seat and exited his Mercedes. Even after all these years, Phillip still took great pleasure in the fact that he could walk onto any car lot in the world and purchase a top-of-the-line luxury car, no problem. He tucked the bouquet under his arm, freeing up his hands to give his slacks a hike and tighten his belt. Unlike his contemporaries, he hadn’t let his body turn to fat. He still had his basketball player’s build, long legs, and bony ass.

  Once everything was in order, he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward her house, humming Paul Anka’s “Puppy Love” under his breath. It seemed apropos. Physically, he was a seventy-two-year-old man, but Vicki made him feel like a teenager in love.

  He was pleased to see that Vicki was home. Her porch light was on, and light spilled through the cracks of the drawn curtains in her upstairs bedroom. She wasn’t expecting him to arrive uninvited, but what other option did he have left? He had to see her. They needed to talk face-to-face. The anxiety was killing him. When they had landed at JFK, she had refused a ride home. Vicki had marched to the AirTrain, stepped inside, and as the doors were sliding shut behind her, she informed Phillip not to expect her in the office on Monday. She refused to answer his numerous texts and calls.

  Phillip climbed the front steps and rapped on the door, which was, at present, a fire-engine red. How long this color would last was anyone’s guess. It was one of the things he loved about Vicki—her passion and her joie de vivre. He listened for a moment but didn’t hear the sound of her footsteps approaching. He could hear soft music drifting through her cracked-open window, the sound of voices. She must have the TV on. He rapped harder on the door, leaning on the doorbell for good measure. “Vicki,” he bellowed, which was so unlike him it made him smile. Who is this new man of action? Phillip felt a sense of power surge through him as if he were channeling Marlon Brando and had become Stanley Kowalski, getting his Stella back. “Vickeeeeee!”

  A dog barked down the block. A window flew open across the street. “Shut the fuck up! I got kids sleeping in here.”

  “Make me,” Phillip called back, putting his dukes up, bouquet still under his elbow, doing a little one-two step. He might not have done it, because the guy was built like a gorilla, but he could hear Vicki sliding the safety chain off the door, unlatching the locks.

  “Seriously, old man,” the guy snarled. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Phillip heard the door swing open. Vicki grabbed his elbow and yanked him inside. “What the hell are you doing?” she hissed as she slammed the door shut. “Trying to get yourself killed?” Her hair was tousled, and he could smell a hint of gin on her breath.

  “I needed to see you. Life is meaningless without you. I think of you morning, noon, and night—”

  She didn’t look swept away by the romance of his gesture. She looked royally pissed. “I live here. These are my neighbors. Just last month Rocco chased away a crackhead who was attempting to break into my home.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “He looks out for me. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  Phillip blinked, thrown by the ferocity of her response. He needed to recalibrate. There was a thump overhead. Probably Angel, her overweight Persian cat, had knocked something over. Pain-in-the-ass cat that required Phillip to keep a sticky clothes roller in the trunk of his car to remove copious amounts of long white cat hair before he headed home. “I brought you carnations. Your favorite.” He handed them to her, but instead of taking them and burying her face in their petals to inhale their scent, she crossed her arms and the bouquet tumbled to the floor. T
his was not how he had imagined things playing out. “Lovey-dove-dove,” he said soothingly. “Don’t be angry with your teddy bear. I can’t take it. I brought you a reference letter. I wrote it myself this afternoon. Just needs to be signed.” He reached into the interior breast pocket of his cashmere tweed sports jacket and pulled the letter out and opened it so she could see he wasn’t lying. Phillip saw her glance at the letter in his hand, her expression softening slightly.