I return her kiss, just missing her skin. “I’m good. You know, back.”
“Wow. I mean, wow. This is crazy.”
“It was pretty crazy, yeah.”
“Hey, do you want to come in?”
“Are you sure? It sounds like you have guests . . .”
“Of course! You have to tell me all about this amazing adventure of yours!”
I’m sick of talking about it, but the alternative is more time in the box and my head, so I say, “That’d be great.”
“Hey, can you close that door?” a melodious voice calls from the living room. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Hold on!” She tugs me into the apartment by my arm. I close the door behind me and pull my coat from my shoulders.
“We were just about to have a drink,” Tara says.
“That sounds perfect.”
We walk into the living room. Her apartment is a mimic of mine, only instead of the muted creams and yellows I used, Tara has painted each room a shade from the fiery side of the color wheel. The living room is burnt orange, with a contrasting accent wall of lemon yellow. The couch and matching chair are turquoise, and there’s a multicolored rug on the floor. The whole room shouts Portuguese restaurant. Only the plates on the walls are missing.
There’s a very pretty woman sitting on the couch. She’s about my age and has curly auburn hair that falls past her shoulders and a round, china-doll face, set off by eyes that match the color of the couch. She’s wearing broken-in blue jeans and a faded blue argyle sweater. Her feet are bare and her toenails are painted bright red. She looks vaguely familiar.
“You wanted white wine, right?” Tara says to the woman.
“Please.”
“That okay for you, Emma?”
“Sure.”
Tara leaves without making introductions.
“Hi, I’m Emma,” I say, giving a little wave.
“Emily.”
I sit on the armchair. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”
“Nah. Tara was just telling me about her adventures in Tinseltown.”
“Did it go well? She looks . . . great.”
Her face scrunches up, revealing laugh lines around her eyes. “She’s way too thin, but I think it went well.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“How do you guys know each other?”
“I live downstairs.”
She frowns. “But doesn’t . . . Dominic live downstairs?”
How does she . . . ? Oh no. This is Emily. Dominic’s Emily. Emily who’s obviously Tara’s friend, which explains how Dominic knows her. Emily who called the night we slept together, who wanted to tell him something that he wouldn’t listen to.
Shit.
“Are you . . . living with Dominic?” she asks.
Shit, shit, shit.
“No. I mean, yes, but not in the way you think.”
Why am I sounding defensive? I’m not the one who cheated on him. I’m just the one he slept with and regretted.
I try again. “It was my apartment. I went on a trip and was away for longer than I was supposed to be, and my automatic rent payments got cut off, so my landlord thought I’d abandoned it and rented it to Dominic. But then I came back, and I had nowhere to stay, so Dominic let me stay there. I mean, he did after he checked with Tara that I was who I said I was, and . . .”
Ugh. I’m babbling like a complete idiot. And she’d have to be a complete idiot not to figure out that she’s making me very nervous.
“Maybe you saw me on TV?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I don’t follow.”
“Oh, there was some press about what happened to me. No big deal. I’m not surprised you didn’t see it. Anyway, I’m going to be moving out soon, so . . .”
“Did Dominic tell you about me?”
Why did I come up here again?
“Well . . . a little.”
“A little what?” Tara asks, appearing in the doorway with a tray between her hands that’s holding three oversized glasses of wine and some mixed nuts in a bowl.
“Did you know she’s living with Dominic?” Emily asks, her eyes accusing.
“Oh crap. I forgot all about that.”
“Forgot all about what?”
“Dominic called me a few weeks ago. The night Emma came back . . .” Her eyes turn toward mine, pleading.
“He wanted to make sure I wasn’t some crazy person,” I add. “It’s kind of a funny story, really.”
Emily looks like she doesn’t quite believe me.
“He’s not even in town right now,” I add.
Wow. I really need to shut up. Witness 101: Talking when no one’s asked you a question is a sure sign you have something to hide.
“What did he tell you about me?”
I can feel both of their stares, waiting for my answer.
“Nothing, really. Only that you were supposed to get married, and you . . . didn’t.”
“Did he tell you about Chris?”
“Who’s Chris?” I ask as innocently as I can.
Emily stands and pulls her sweater down over her slim hips. “I think I’m going to go.”
Not innocently enough, I guess.
“No, Emily, stay,” Tara says.
She shakes her head gently. “Let’s do lunch tomorrow, all right?”
She walks out of the room. A moment later the front door clicks open and then shut. Tara’s left standing there, holding the tray full of wine, looking pissed.
“So,” I say, “how was L.A.?”
Chapter 19: Exhibit A
Over the next week, life begins to fall into a routine. Early to rise, early to work, slog away at the files Matt keeps sending my way, have dinner with Stephanie, cull the classifieds for potential new apartments, early to bed. I feel like I’m treading in place, but at least my head is above water.
And where is Dominic this whole time? A question I try not to ask myself. Still in Ireland, I assume, taking pictures of the old world being eaten up by the new. Still regretting our night together, obviously, since he’s made no effort to call or email or carrier pigeon. But he’ll have to come back eventually. Nobody abandons all their stuff willingly.
I ought to know.
In the middle of my second week back at work, I have Sunshine over for dinner. She’s postponed her intended return to Costa Rica, though I protested when she told me. “Your mother would never forgive me,” she said, and that was that.
Tonight she peers at me as she unfurls a long, multicolored scarf. “Emmaline, my darling, have you been peeking into the past, by any chance?”
“How did you know that?”
“Your eyes say it all.”
I sigh. “I don’t know how you know these things, but yes. Dominic found a box full of stuff from when I was a kid. I was going through it the other day.” And the next and the next. I keep getting pulled back to it, though I never feel any better when I do.
“What’s in this box?”
“Stupid stuff. Report cards, art projects. Pictures.”
“Of your mom. Oh, and of John, yes?”
John is my father. “Yes.”
“Lead me toward the alcohol.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“I do tonight.”
I take her to the kitchen, and over a bottle of red wine and a prepackaged lasagna from the store around the corner that has kept me from starving over the years, I fill her in on the pictures I found, and the long-buried questions they’ve raised. Why he left. Where he is now. How he never came back, not once. Cradling the glass of wine in her hands, she lets me talk until I run out of questions.
“Do you want to have a relationship with him?” she asks when I finish.
I stab my fork into the
gooey noodles. “No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. Why? Do you think I should try to track him down?”
“I don’t know. It might help bring you some closure.”
I break off a corner of the lasagna with my fork and bring it to my mouth. The cheese is fresh and stringy, the sauce full of bright tomato flavor. I love this dish usually, but tonight I’m having trouble swallowing it.
“What was he like?”
“John? He was handsome.”
“Is that all?”
She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “No. He was smart. You get that from him. He could be very funny sometimes. He was . . . confident. Self-assured. He had a way of making you feel that he was in control of things. Like nothing could go wrong when he was around.”
“A fatal vision,” I murmur into my wineglass.
“What’s that, dear?”
“It’s what Macbeth says when he’s psyching himself up to kill the king. ‘Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible / To feeling as to sight? or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?’ ”
“I don’t think such morose thoughts are helpful.”
“I know. Tell me, what were they like together? Were they happy, at least at some point?”
She raises her glass to her lips, sipping slowly. “I wouldn’t say they were very happy, no, particularly as the years went on. I don’t think they were a great match, but he did love your mother, very much, I think. Maybe too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sometimes, dear, loving too much can be a problem. It didn’t matter when it was just the two of them. You see, your father was a needy man, or at least, he was with your mother. He needed her attention, and she was happy to give it to him. But then—”
A lump forms in my throat. “I came along?”
Sunshine gives me a sad smile. “Yes, dear. Your mother was devoted to you, and I think your father felt left out. He wanted to be the center of her attention, and he wasn’t anymore. That’s not to say he didn’t love you, in his own way. And maybe I’m wrong. I wasn’t around much.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong. It makes sense. Sort of.”
“Enough sense to forgive him?”
“You think I should?”
“Of course not, Emmaline. Not if you don’t want to.”
“Would you?”
She pats my hand again. “I forgave him a long time ago, dear. As did your mother.”
I shy away from this. And yet, it doesn’t really surprise me. Forgiveness was in her nature, and I never heard her speak badly about him except the one time I provoked her when I was fifteen. There was some father-daughter day at school I couldn’t participate in, and I shouted and stomped, and eventually she admitted she hated him, just as I did. Hours later, she climbed into bed next to me and said she hadn’t meant it. “I don’t want you to hate him,” she said. “Hate is so hard.” I told her I’d try to do better, and she stroked my hair until I fell asleep.
But I kept on hating him. I just kept it to myself.
“I know she did,” I say to Sunshine. “I never understood why.”
“To put it behind her, I think. And because of you. She couldn’t hate him without feeling like she was hating you.”
“Why?”
Sunshine lifts her hand to the side of my face. “You look very much like him, you know.”
I pull away. “I wish I didn’t.”
“I understand. But whatever you do, you can’t change that.”
I don’t know about that. They can do some pretty impressive things with plastic surgery these days.
“What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d do what felt right. But then again, I wouldn’t ask washed-up old hippies for advice.”
He sued,” Matt says to me the next morning, appearing in my doorway without warning, holding a thick sheaf of paper in his hands.
Yet another reason why no one survives the Ejector: Matt’s cat feet.
“I think you just gave me a heart attack.”
“Nonsense. You’re too young for that. Besides, no one’s left here on a stretcher yet.”
His eyes twinkle at me. An answering smile creeps onto my face. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“I’ll try to make more noise in the future. Victor Bushnell’s attorneys just served this.”
He hands me the lawsuit. I flip to the conclusions. Victor Bushnell is demanding twenty million dollars plus punitive damages from Mutual Assurance and the Concord Museum.
“That was quick.”
“Apparently they got wind that Mutual was considering denying coverage and decided to force our hand.”
“What did the client say?”
“They’re pissed, but they’ll pay out if they have to. Craig’s meeting with them and the museum’s president later today. Any chance you’ve figured out a way to get them out of paying?”
“Not yet.”
“What angle are you working?”
“Sophie covered off voiding the policy. I’m trying to see if we can blame the museum for having inadequate security.”
“Do you think that’s going to fly?”
“I doubt it. Whoever took the painting knew what they were doing. Even the police are stumped.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“Agreed. Our best bet is probably to negotiate a settlement.”
He nods. “Probably, but I don’t want to go there until we’ve exhausted every avenue, given how much money’s on the line.”
“I’ll keep digging.”
“Have you been to the museum yet? Something might occur to you.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Matt gives me an expectant look. “No need to say that if you could get Mutual out of this somehow, it’d be a great coup for us.”
“No need to say it.”
“You’re doing well, Emma. Keep it up.”
“Thanks . . . and maybe you could hold off giving me any more work for a couple of days?”
His eyes twinkle again. “You’re the first person who’s ever had enough guts to ask me that.”
“You mean, all these years, all I had to do was ask?”
“That’s right.”
Maybe this office will be the Phoenix, after all.
At lunchtime I take a break to go visit Peter and Karen. They’re back from Tswanaland and already working on their next project—setting up a community center in a row of old red-brick houses by the river.
They talked about the project a lot when we were building the school. They’re partnering with Habitat for Humanity, which did the major renovations while they were away.
The three old houses now have sparkling windows and gleaming sandblasted brick. The central house has a glossy black front door. There’s a shiny plaque on the wall next to it that reads THE POINT YOUTH CENTER. The walkway is well shoveled. The three steps up to the front door are protected by a woven fiber mat.
I climb the stairs and turn the shiny nickel doorknob. In contrast to the neat, clean exterior, the inside is chaos. The drywall is up and the resanded floors are being protected by thick cardboard, but there’s dust everywhere and no paint on the walls. A single bare lightbulb hanging from an ornate rosette on the ceiling casts a gloomy light in the lobby.
I ask a man in dusty coveralls where Karen and Peter are, and he points toward the archway leading to the house on the right.
I find them in the room that was the kitchen but is now a makeshift office. There are several large drafting tables pushed against the walls. Fax machines and printers sit on the old kitchen counter. Karen and Peter are standing over one of the drafting tables, flipping through a large set of blueprints.
They look up. Matching smiles light up their faces.
“Emma! Glad you could make it,” Karen says. Her curly black hair is woven into braids held back from her high forehead. She’s wearing a pair of blue painter’s coveralls, and there’s a smudge of white paint across the bridge of her flared nose.
She places her strong, capable hands on my shoulders. “I would hug you, but I don’t want to get paint on your gorgeous suit.”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t care about the suit.”
I give her a hug. Turpentine tingles my nostrils. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks. It’s mostly Peter’s doing.”
Peter laughs. “Get that on tape, will you?”
I look at Peter affectionately. Neat, small dreads cover his large, round head. His dark brown eyes brim with intelligence. He’s wearing an identical pair of coveralls, with matching paint stains.
Karen flaps her hand at him. “Please. You’d just play it over and over until your head got big.”
He gives me a devilish grin and pulls me into a bear hug. Peter is six foot two and muscular; a hug from him can have consequences.
“Will you give me a tour?” I ask when the breath has returned to my lungs.
“Of course.”
He hands me a yellow hard hat, and they show me around the building. The top floor has been made into several large dormitories for teenagers who need temporary housing, while the second floor is divided between a day care and a few administrative offices. The first floor is for the after-school program and the legal clinic.
“Come check out the backyard,” Karen says, leading me out a set of doors behind the central staircase. “You can’t get the full effect right now, but when the snow clears, it’ll be amazing.”
I follow her outside, and I can see what she means. Beyond the small wooden porch, the three backyards have been combined and replaced by a concrete basketball court. There’s a net at either end, and it’s surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Two teenage boys are shoveling a thin layer of wet snow with large, curved shovels, their breath swirling around them.
“This is amazing.”
Karen smiles broadly. “I know. I feel happy every time I come out here. Those public courts are just a recruiting ground for the slingers. But here, the kids will be able to play almost year-round without being bothered.”
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