In the Cards

by Jamie Beck

  “So, that’s a yes, basically,” I say without enthusiasm.

  “Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or speak the truth? But come on, you’ve only been in California one day and you’re already throwing in the towel. Explore the area. Give yourself time,” she encourages.

  “You’re right.” I wrap my hand around my ponytail. “It feels weird being here without Aunt Sara or any friends. And now I’ve got an unwelcome neighbor.”

  “I don’t know, Linds. Unwelcome?” I could practically hear her brows wiggling through the phone. “A sexy neighbor may be the perfect diversion.”

  I suck in my breath. “Jill, I’m not looking for a new man. I should be marrying Rob in a few days. Just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean all that love disappears overnight. And I haven’t totally given up on the relationship, either. Contrary to everyone’s opinion, I didn’t run away. I came here to think.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

  “No. I’m still too angry.” I don’t admit to the hours spent sifting through the little details of our relationship to unearth clues to his deception only to come up empty-handed. “Like I said yesterday, he only confessed when forced. It’s like he has no integrity. I can’t pretend that fact isn’t significant. If I take him back, won’t he just feel free to do it again?”

  “I doubt forgiveness would be viewed as a free pass to cheat again.” She pauses. “By the way, did you get your test results yet?”

  “I’m supposed to hear back today.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine. Try to relax. Hey, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Talk later?”

  “Sure.” I sigh. “Maybe you can come visit?”

  “Sounds fun. Bye!” The line goes dead.

  Jill’s being at work reminds me it’s Monday. Unlike her, I don’t have to rush to the office. Quitting the magazine is a welcome change even if it is a horrendous career move.

  When I first took the writing job, I’d hoped to empower women by getting them to focus on inner beauty. It sounds ridiculous now, since the managing editor and publisher ultimately dictated content. And who was I kidding? No matter how often we claim outer beauty isn’t important, we still want to be at least as attractive as the next woman.

  But despite its flaws, my job gave me an identity. I’d put on a great outfit, go to my office, work with a team, and feel a rush of pride each month when an issue appeared on the stands. A pleasant routine but not an intrinsically rewarding one. Much as Rob’s preoccupation with mergers and acquisitions annoys me, I envy his passionate commitment. He really loves his work. I want that fire for myself.

  Of course, that requires having a better sense of my own interests. I suppose that’s part of the reason I’m sitting here in Malibu, too. I’ve come here to find myself. How trite.

  Seagulls’ cries capture my attention. What a difference from the ambulances, horns, and truck engines I’m used to hearing outside my window. I walk to the open door and smile when greeted by an ocean breeze. Determined to begin my internal exploration, I take a quick trip to a local drugstore for some beach essentials.

  An hour later, I return home with a new folding chair, sunscreen, and a stack of magazines. Outfitted in a bright pink-and-orange tie-dyed bikini, I fill my eco-friendly bottle with ice water, grab my towel and magazines, and brave the beach—white skin and all.

  In anticipation of the rising tide, I set up in the sand near my steps. I inhale the salty sea air and grin. The sun’s warm rays enhance the decadence of sitting surfside on a Monday. Donning my sunglasses and hat, I insert my earbuds, crank up my iPod, and settle in to see what subjects other magazines are publishing today.

  While reading a depressing article about another insider trading scandal, I notice him, in my peripheral vision, descending his steps. As he pads toward the surf, I study his well-defined, V-shaped physique, all of it accentuated by his shorty wetsuit. Carrying a surfboard under his arm, he jogs directly to the water, drops a water bottle in the sand, and then tosses his board in the ocean. Once he paddles beyond the waves, I return my focus to Forbes.

  From behind the veil of my glasses and hat brim, I steal glimpses of him surfing and swimming, and then chide myself. Yet I can’t refrain for long, just like when I first saw him in Florida. Good grief. Obviously, I should switch to a more captivating magazine.

  Psychology Today looks promising, with marriage-centered themes promoted on its cover. Maybe an article or two will help me sort out my situation with Rob. Closing my eyes, I picture him canceling all of our plans. Did it sadden him? Is his remorse genuine?

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m seriously rethinking my choices. These dreadful articles force me to question my own behavior and responses, rather than simply blaming Rob. He cheated, not me. Don’t I deserve the freedom to cast him in the “black hat” role? Must I consider what kind of partner I’ve been, and whether my actions or neglect contributed to his straying?

  My eyes snap shut as a huge part of my brain silently screams bullshit! But perhaps I expect too much. Or could it be our love isn’t the kind of love required for a lifelong commitment?

  Frustrated, I look out to the sea and notice the tide has encroached upon the shore to the spot where my neighbor dropped his water bottle. Disliking him doesn’t mean I should let a cozy-covered plastic bottle go adrift and pollute the ocean. I trot across the sand and bend to retrieve it. As I straighten up, I catch him watching me while floating on his surfboard.

  I hold up his bottle and point to it, gesturing that I’m moving it back from the rising tide. He doesn’t respond. Shocker. Shrugging, I carry the bottle approximately six feet inland before dropping it in the sand and returning to my chair and magazine.

  Not long afterward, he emerges from the water. Salt water drips from his hair as he pushes it away from his face, reclaims his bottle, and starts guzzling. He’s still delectably hunky with his bronzed skin, wet hair, and sinewy arms and legs. My stomach flutters a bit, so I look away as he ambles toward me.

  Against my will, my pulse quickens. Hoping to avoid eye contact, I glue my eyes to the pages in front of me and feign deep concentration. God, please don’t remember me! My heart stops when sand hits my calf as he throws his board down near me and sits, forcing me to engage in conversation.

  “Thanks for rescuing my bottle.” His congenial smile reveals his dimples and rekindles my adolescent desire. The timbre of his voice makes my body resonate, like plucked guitar strings, fueling utter self-disgust. I attempt to repress both sensations.

  “No problem.” I glance at him from beneath the brim of my hat.

  “You renting this house now?”

  Clearly I won’t escape this conversation without eye contact.

  “Yes, for a little while, anyway.” Hating awkward silences, I continue, “Do you rent that one?”

  “Me? No. I bought it in foreclosure three years ago. Great deal.” His pleasant expression reveals no shame or remorse.

  Raising my brows, I tartly reply, “Not so great for the previous owner, I guess.”

  “No, not so much.” His brows rise in observation, not anger. “You say that as if I did something wrong.”

  “Well, it’s a shame some people profit off others’ unfortunate circumstances.”

  He grins, quirking one brow upward. “Someone’s usually profiting off of another’s misfortune. This time I had a full house and these folks didn’t. Someday it might be the other way around.” I see the glint of challenge in his eyes.

  “That’s cynical.”

  “No, just honest.” He studies my reaction. “Guess you’ve been lucky enough to avoid a bad hand so far.”

  I avert my eyes. This conversation’s frighteningly similar to our first discussion. Eager to change the subject, I nod in agreement and avoid prolonged eye contact.

  He turns toward me but doesn’t extend his hand. “Well, neighbor, I’m Levi.”

  Suddenly I’m very thankful we never exchanged name
s in Florida. I rest my magazine across my legs.

  “I’m Lindsey.”

  “Lindsey.” He rolls my name over his tongue and flaunts a provocative smile before noticing the magazine cover. “Are you a shrink, or are you getting married soon and making sure he’s really ‘the one’?”

  His disdainful inflection tempts me to use the word anchor in my reply.

  “Neither.”

  I choose not to risk jogging his memory with another dispute about marriage. He looks at me as if he senses my dishonesty.

  “You know, I swear this isn’t a line, but have we met before? There’s something familiar about you.”

  Oh no. In the space of two seconds, blood drains from my face and races to my toes. Can I lie? I gulp to buy time when a woman’s voice behind us suspends my internal panic.

  “Hey, Levi, what happened last weekend? I thought you were coming to our little block party,” she coos.

  I twist around to meet a midthirty-something woman in a bikini and lots of bling. She’s obviously sizing me up and evaluating my relationship to Levi. A current bed buddy of his, perhaps? She’s not my idea of his type—as if I’d even know his type.

  “Sorry, Elena. Something unexpected came up.” He offers no further explanation, but his courteous expression falters before he takes another sip of water and stares at the ocean.

  “What happened, someone die?” she teases, pressing for details.

  He winces before resuming an unexpressive countenance. “Yes, actually. My pop died.”

  Elena and I both react in shock. Given her surprise, I gather they’re not romantically involved, though not by her choice.

  “Oh gosh, Levi, I’m so sorry. Really, I didn’t mean to make such a dreadful joke. Are you okay?” As she sputters apologies, her obvious discomfort gains my sympathy. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No, thanks,” he replies. “I’m fine.”

  He digs his heel into the sand without looking at either of us.

  “I’m so sorry, and so embarrassed,” she mumbles.

  Eager to rescue her from her distress, I jump in.

  “Hi, I’m Lindsey Hilliard. I moved into this house over the weekend.” I tip my head toward my little blue cottage.

  “Oh, so you two are new neighbors?” Her tone lacks enthusiasm for my arrival. “I’m Elena. I live a few doors up. Where are you coming from? Are you married?”

  Why must I dodge recurring marriage questions today?

  “I’m from New York. I came alone.”

  Levi studies my face while I speak with Elena. I shift in my chair, feeling overheated.

  “If you have questions about the area, let me know,” Elena offers. “I’m happy to introduce you to the neighborhood. I’ve lived here for years. Lucky for me, I won the house in the divorce.” Her inauthentic smile reveals lingering pain, but she recovers and addresses Levi, whom she obviously covets. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Levi.” She faces me. “Nice meeting you, Lindsey.” Her hand flits a little wave before she struts toward her house with a somewhat exaggerated feminine gait.

  Levi rises, thankfully distracted and no longer interested in our prior discussion.

  “Well, I’ve got some work to do.” His previously pleasant mood fades as he bends to pick up his surfboard. “Enjoy the afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, too . . . about your dad.” I bite my lip.

  He pauses and examines my face. He looks like he might say something important, but then reconsiders. “Thanks, Lindsey.” Without fanfare, he trots up the steps to his house.

  My magazine remains glued to my legs while I consider what I’ve discovered about him. I’m completely intrigued at how he went from being a poor, uneducated bartender to a wealthy homeowner. Although we’ve had only two brief encounters today, he’s less sarcastic and dismissive than I remember, though still obviously closed off.

  Regardless, a smile breaks open. He said I looked familiar, which means I made a lasting impression in Florida. Maybe this is my second chance to prove I’m not the spoiled little rich girl he thought I was back then. Maybe, if I’m willing to put in some effort and risk another rejection, we can even become friends. I could use a friend out here.

  I resolve to pluck the more courageous Lindsey from yesteryear and drop her in the present.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Levi

  Since the day my mama left, I’ve never lowered my guard or shared personal business with anyone. So I can only assume my piss-poor sleep this week led to my telling those women about Pop’s death.

  Both gawked at me with their doe eyes, offering condolences. Well, I don’t want or need their pity. Regret taunts me while I spray off my board and lean it against the outer wall of the house.

  I rinse the sand from my feet before going inside to peel off the wetsuit and wash away the salt water. As I enter the shower, Lindsey’s face pops into my mind. I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before. She’d be tempting if she weren’t my neighbor. Just as well, since she makes me feel a bit unsteady. Soap and hot water ease the tightness from my skin and help me shed my edgy feelings.

  While I’m dressing, I see the box containing Pop’s things again. I curl my fingers around the phony Rolex before inspecting it up close. It’s a superb fake, but the weight’s wrong.

  How many hands did he shake while wearing it? Closing my eyes, I imagine him in the early stages of a con. He’d oh so subtly pull back his shirtsleeve, checking the time while revealing the “expensive” watch to perpetuate the myth of his own success. I know what he did is wrong, yet I smile at my daydream—at my memories of him playing the big shot.

  Removing the Sinn U1 from my own wrist, I strap on his watch in its stead. Its iciness reminds me of the morgue. My nose tingles at that particular image, but I don’t shy away from it this time. In my own home, I can experience my feelings without consequence, unlike that first year after Mama left, when I’d ended up in brawls, defending myself against schoolyard taunts about my family. Didn’t take too long to learn to mask my emotions, and that habit sure pays off at the poker tables.

  I flip open his wallet and withdraw the business card—Harper & Associates. Considering how little Pop kept, someone at that firm must be significant. I dial the number and wait for the receptionist to connect me with Mr. Harper. After a minute, an old Southern gentleman speaks.

  “Mr. Hardy?” His warbled inflection transports me back to Tifton, Georgia. He’s a good ol’ boy, just like me.

  “Yes. Hello, Mr. Harper. I’m Levi Hardy. My pop, Jim Hardy, passed away last week and I found your card among his personal items. I thought I should check to see if you represented him recently.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Hardy. Yes, I did represent him.” I hear a low chuckle over the phone. “Your pappy’s quite a character. I’m glad you called. I have some things to send you. Can you give me your address?”

  Things to send? Red flags wave through my mind. “What kind of things?”

  “His will, an insurance policy benefit claim form, and a sealed envelope, addressed to you. He appointed me as executor, but you’re his sole beneficiary. I’ll need some information and paperwork from you so I can file the proper documents with the courts and handle his estate.”

  Consumed by curiosity, I provide Harper what he needs and end our call. For a few moments, I try to predict what’s coming my way. I admit, I’m somewhat suspicious about the contents of the letter. But mostly, I’m shocked Pop had a will and an insurance policy. Did he put those things in place decades ago, anticipating the possibility of leaving me orphaned? Guess even he sometimes realized I’d be alone in the world whenever he died.

  Mama’s my only family now, if she’s even alive.

  I remember, at first, Pop told me she’d taken off on an extended vacation. Once he realized she’d abandoned us for good, he tossed all her photos. She became persona non grata in our lives. My remaining memory of her physical appearance is a hazy image of a scrawny, pale, b
londe waif of a woman with chilling blue eyes.

  For a long while, I figured I’d done something to drive her away. With time and age I grew resentful until I just became numb. Still, to this day, the bite of her rejection haunts me, causing me to question what inherent defect made me so unlovable to my own mother.

  Occasionally I’ve considered trying to find her. But I don’t even know what I’d want from the woman other than to know if I’ve got siblings. I’ve mixed feelings on that subject, too. Siblings might be nice. But blood related or not, we’d be strangers. I’d likely resent them because she chose to raise them instead of me. It’s as good a reason as any not to go searching for her.

  I don’t need her anymore, and I’m not sure I care to learn why she left. The answer might be even more painful than the act itself.

  In any case, her leaving proves Pop’s theory about trusting folks. Best to keep my distance from the start.

  I remove the Rolex and grab my own watch before returning my attention to the financial markets. It’s a slow day. I’m comfortable with my current market positions, so I don’t expend too much time in front of the computer.

  When I open the refrigerator to rummage for lunch, I realize I’m low on my dill mayo and basil butter. Maybe I’ll hit the farmers’ market to pick up a new crop of herb plants.

  In addition to the typical mint, oregano, rosemary, sage, and thyme plants, I purchase Italian and Thai basil, anise, arugula, Asian and regular cilantro, chives, curry, and dill. I load the baby plants and bags of potting soil into the back of my Jeep and return home. Once I’ve organized everything, I finally begin replanting the herbs in the ladder racks on my deck. You must carefully untangle the roots without breaking them if you want the plants to thrive.

  Within thirty minutes of working under the blazing sun, my sweat-soaked T-shirt clings to my chest. I pause to remove it and cool down. I’m enjoying a cold beer and potting the dill when I hear Lindsey yelling from below.

  “Are you planting flowers?” Her voice hangs between amazement and laughter.