The Girl in the Glass

by Susan Meissner

  He knew how much I wanted to see Florence, how much I’ve always wanted to see Florence. He had to know how much this would hurt.

  My phone vibrated as I sat there sipping, musing, and pondering; a text from Gabe.

  “You all right?”

  I texted back that I would be okay. I would. Eventually.

  “Want to do something tmro? Helping friend move but can come over when done.”

  I texted back that he could let me know when he was finished and I would see where I was at emotionally. I wanted to think that by tomorrow late afternoon, I’d be up for frozen yogurt and company instead of tissues and pity.

  I finished the glass of wine, BB moved on to a happier tune, and I got up, dumping Alex on his black-and-white feet.

  A sense of finality seemed to spread over me as I took the glass to the sink and rinsed it out. I was finished with waiting.

  Done.

  I walked over to my kitchen table where my laptop rested, opened it, and powered it on. A minute later I was transferring two hundred dollars from my checking account into my savings account. The following month I would do it again. And again the next month. And the next. By the same time next spring I would have more than two-thousand dollars saved. If that wasn’t enough for the plane ticket and food and cheap lodging, I’d beg Lorenzo to let me sleep on his kitchen floor. I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t care if I slept on tile and ate bread and water for a week straight. I would see Florence. I would let Sofia Borelli take me wherever she wanted. And I would stop at any painting or sculpture or doorknob in a church that spoke to her and ask her to tell me what Nora wanted to say about it. And I would find the statue with the beckoning hand. I would take a picture of it and have it printed on canvas when I got home, and I’d hang it over Findlay’s fireplace. I wouldn’t have Nonna’s painting, but I would have this.

  Saturday dawned brilliantly sunny, a rare treat for a coastal dweller, but I pulled the covers over my head and slept like a moody teenager until eleven. I’d missed a call from my mother while I slept. Her voice mail made it easy for me not to call her back. She wanted to know how I was doing.

  I changed into yoga pants and a cotton hoodie and medicated my smarting emotional aches with a long walk on the beach. There is a calming aura at the ocean’s edge, despite the frothing foam, crashing waves, and roaring white noise. The ocean looks the same on your good days and your bad days. Nice to know on the worst of days that there are a few things you can utterly count on.

  After a late lunch of fish tacos at a sidewalk café and then a long walk back, I finally returned to the cottage a little before two, my feet aching. A purple, orange, and white envelope was leaning up against my front door when I stepped onto the porch and opened the screen door.

  A FedEx envelope.

  I scanned the From label as I unlocked the door.

  Premier Travel out of Los Angeles. My breath caught in the back of my throat.

  I threw my keys onto the little table by the door and tore open the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper, an American Express cash card, and an airline ticket in my name. With a quickening pulse, I zeroed in on the destination.

  Florence, Italy.

  A tiny gasp burst past my lips.

  The date? A red-eye out of Los Angeles. That left that night. In five hours.

  I leaned back against the wall, dazed. It had to be a mistake. I reread the date and time. Twice. Three times.

  The ticket in my name was for that night, leaving out of Los Angeles at seven.

  I roared something unintelligible.

  How could he do this? How could he do it like this?

  I unfolded the piece of paper, and my eyes met my father’s handwriting.

  Angel,

  I hope you can forgive me for not giving you any notice. I know we were talking about later in May. I am sorry. It has to be like this, or I won’t be able to pull it off at all. Don’t let anyone talk you out of getting on that plane. Just pack your bags and get to the airport. You deserve this trip. You deserve so much more than this trip. I am a rotten husband and skunk of a man, but I don’t want to be a terrible father. You deserve this trip. My mother always wanted you to be able to go, angel. Please get on the plane. Bring the cash card.

  I love you,

  Dad

  I read the note twice, my heart pounding in double time the second go-around. I tipped my head back against the wall, the fish tacos feeling very near to my throat.

  “This is insane!” I moaned toward heaven.

  How could I even get to Los Angeles by seven? I wasn’t packed. I had no one lined up to take care of Alex. Geoffrey and Beatriz were expecting me to be at work on Monday. It was impossible. How could I even think of just leaving work unannounced for … I looked at the ticket to see for how long my father had booked our trip. The return date was open ended.

  Open ended.

  I was perplexed for only a moment.

  Dad was letting me decide how long I would stay because he wasn’t planning on coming back with me. He was staying in Florence. I would be coming home alone, just like I was leaving alone.

  He wasn’t coming back.

  My father had taken Allison’s money and gone to Florence ahead of me, and he wasn’t coming back.

  God, what should I do?

  And this time it really was a prayer.

  I stood there, my back against the firm wall, weighing my options. If I wasn’t on that plane, he would be standing at the airport in Florence tomorrow, waiting for no one. I had no way to get ahold of him.

  He was expecting me.

  He knew other people would talk me out of going. He must’ve also thought that if I waited, Allison would find a way to cancel the ticket, especially if my father had bought it with one of their jointly held credit cards.

  Plus, if I didn’t get on that plane, when would I see him again? When would any of us see him again? He was in trouble, and he was running away from it. I shuddered.

  I needed to pack.

  And I would have to find a way to LA. I dashed into the bedroom, grabbing my cell phone from my purse as I swept past the kitchen table. I pressed Gabe’s number hoping I would catch him before he left to help his friend move, but there was no answer. Next I tried Kara. Again, I had to leave a quick voice mail. Who else could I impose upon to drive me to LAX on no notice? I cringed at the audacity of it. It’s a two-and-half-hour drive to LAX from La Jolla.

  I yanked a suitcase out of my closet and pressed the speed dial for my mother. She’d think it unwise, but she’d take me.

  Again, no answer.

  “Come on!” I railed against heaven, wanting to blame someone in charge for everyone having other plans that afternoon.

  I scrolled through my contacts. I didn’t feel comfortable asking anyone else to do this. It was madness.

  Where was my mother, for Pete’s sake? It was a Saturday afternoon!

  “She should be home!” I yelled to Alex.

  And then it dawned on me that she might be with Devon. Maybe she had her phone on silent because they were out somewhere. I ran back to the kitchen and dumped the contents of my purse onto the table. I rummaged through the mess, looking for the folded Post-it note where I’d scribbled Devon’s number from his e-mail regarding the evening we had coffee. I snagged it and punched in the numbers. On the third ring, he answered. He had a soothing voice, even when just saying “Hello.”

  “Devon, it’s Meg. I am so sorry to bother you, but is my mother with you?”

  “Oh. No, she’s not. I think she has a baby shower this afternoon. Is something the matter? Are you okay?”

  He just had to sound so kind and fatherly.

  “I … I just really need to talk to her. Is the shower at someone’s house? Is it close?”

  “Uh, I think it’s at a restaurant. I’m not sure where. Meg, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  It seemed the very walls of my cozy borrowed house were pressing in on me, forcing me to realize the sit
uation was too big and too complicated. I couldn’t find a way to make it work. The next set of words spilled out of my mouth like air out of a balloon.

  “I need to get to LAX. I need to be on a plane.”

  “Los Angeles? Today?”

  “Yes, today.” I sank onto a kitchen chair.

  “Does this have anything to do with your dad going missing?”

  My mother had told him about Allison’s phone call. And probably her own phone call with me. “He sent me a ticket. I got it in a FedEx envelope ten minutes ago. The flight leaves for Florence at seven.”

  “Italy?”

  “Yes, Italy.”

  “And you’re going to go.” He didn’t phrase it like a question. His tone was indistinguishable. Did he think I was irresponsible or crazy or daring? I couldn’t tell.

  “I think my dad might be in trouble. He took a bunch of money from his wife. From her grandfather’s estate or something. And his sister called me yesterday. He apparently owes money everywhere.”

  “So is he meeting you at the airport?”

  “He sent me a cash card and told me to get to the plane. I think he might already be there. And that he’s not planning to come back with me.”

  Seconds of silence.

  “I’ve got to find out where my mom is. Did she say anything about where she was going?” I rested my forehead in my hand to knead my temple.

  “No. No, she didn’t.”

  “Great.”

  Now what? I was thinking. Would Geoffrey take me? No, no. He was going to hit the roof when he opened the e-mail he’d get Monday morning. Who else could I impose upon?

  As I pondered, Devon spoke. “I can take you.”

  I stopped kneading. “What was that?”

  “I’ll take you to the airport. When do you need to leave?”

  I needed a ride. He was willing. The perfect man, who held family in high regard, understood why I had to go. “I also have a cat,” I blurted out of nowhere, as Alex wove his warm body between my ankles.

  “Your mom and I can figure out a way to take care of your cat. When do you need to leave?”

  “Like, now.”

  “Can you be ready to go in half an hour?”

  “Yes.” I rose to my feet in a rush and Alex darted away.

  I had thirty minutes to get ready to go to the one place I’d wanted to go to my whole life.

  It’s amazing how productive a person can be when she has no choice. Twenty-eight minutes after I hung up with Devon, I was pulling my zipped suitcase and a carry-on to the door. I’d no plan for what I tossed in for clothes. What was easiest to grab was what I threw in. Skirts and cotton blouses. Thin sweaters with three-quarter-length sleeves. Rosette-studded knit tops. The one clean pair of jeans I had left. A pair of black flats, white sandals, honey-leather slip-ons. An extra bra. Underwear. A handful of jewelry. Purse-sized perfume bottles, a quick assortment of makeup, and a pink shawl. I shoved my laptop into my carry-on, as well as my camera, the charger, my passport and purse, and the two hundred dollars I keep in my sock drawer for emergencies. As Devon knocked on my door, I remembered the FedEx envelope with the ticket, the note, and the cash card.

  I was ready.

  I opened the door, and Devon stood on the welcome mat with the afternoon sun casting a haloed glow on his head. He smiled and the curve of his grin revealed an unspoken reluctance.

  “All set?” he said.

  I stood there, frozen for a second. “Not having second thoughts about taking me, are you?” I don’t know why, but his opinion suddenly mattered to me.

  “Are you?” He held my gaze, as a kind friend would, while I weighed my options one last time.

  “I don’t know when I’ll see him again if I don’t go,” I said, certain now that that was my greatest fear.

  He nodded and reached for my suitcase. “Let’s hit the road then.”

  My hands were shaking as I locked my front door and followed Devon out to his car. He pulled away from the curb, and I watched the cottage fall away behind us.

  Our eyes met as he watched for traffic, and his crooked smile cracked across his face. “Think she will hate me for this?” he said.

  “Only for a moment or two. Then she will hate herself for not hearing her phone when I tried to call her.”

  “Would she have taken you to the airport?”

  I could see he was searching for affirmation that he was doing right by my mother. Mom would’ve put up a momentary fuss, but she would’ve quickly seen my side of things. “She would’ve,” I said.

  “But she’ll be worried about you traveling solo on an international flight.” He laughed, no doubt thinking of my mom and her addiction to safety.

  “You’ll have to promise me you won’t get into a taxicab alone,” he continued. “Make sure your dad is with you if you take a cab anywhere. Otherwise stick to public transportation. And don’t walk past any parked vans if your dad’s not with you.”

  I grinned. “You sound just like her.”

  He laughed as well. “I know what she will worry about. And she’ll worry less if I tell her I reminded you to be careful.”

  My admiration for this man tumbled about inside me, and I wished we were just on our way to San Diego’s airport, a fifteen-minute trip.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said quickly. “You probably have better things to do than drive to LA and back tonight.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I don’t have better things to do than this. I know this is important to you.” He turned to me to give me an affirming nod, and his sweet empathy for the sojourning daughter off to Europe on a moment’s notice sent me diving into my purse for the Wicked CD I’d shoved inside for the drive up.

  “Well, still,” I mumbled. “It’s quite an imposition, and don’t tell me it’s not. Mind if I put in some music?”

  “Of course not.”

  I slid it in.

  “I love this soundtrack.” I sank into my seat, and he cranked up the volume.

  “Me too,” he said.

  We fell into silence as he drove, and the music careened around the car. I pulled out my phone and e-mailed my mother, Geoffrey, Gabe, and Kara, telling each one a slightly different version of where I was headed and why.

  An hour and a half later on the 405, traffic snarled a bit, and I began to panic that I would miss my flight.

  “We’ve still got plenty of time, don’t worry,” Devon said more than once, kind and calming.

  When at last he pulled up curbside at the terminal, I told him I didn’t need help getting my bags. He could just stay put behind the wheel and drop me off, and I could avoid any kind of warm, paternal hug or awkward handshake. I wanted so much to express my gratitude to Devon for bringing me and risking my mother’s annoyance, for not saying so much as one unkind word about my father, for knowing small talk on the drive up was not what I needed, for offering to take care of my cat, for soothing words and compassionate glances. But what came out of my mouth didn’t reflect any of that.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, and I reached for the door handle to dash out, grab my bags from his backseat, and send him on his way. But he reached out his arm and laid his hand on my wrist.

  “Hold on just a second.” With his other hand, he drew out folded-over bills from his chest pocket. Money. The one on top was a one-hundred-dollar bill. He held them out to me. I made no move to take them.

  “Please?” he said.

  “I … I have some cash on me. And my credit card. And I’ve got the cash card my dad stuck in the envelope with the plane ticket. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, but … but I think it’s been too crazy an afternoon for you to be able to think about that cash card and how your dad was able to get it. I think it would bother you tomorrow if you had to use it. If he really took it from his wife’s inheritance, then from the little I know about you, I think that would bother you. Am I right?”

  He was exactly right. There was no way I could use that cash card if it really w
as Allison’s inheritance from her grandfather. Tomorrow I would think of it and cringe if I had to use it. Devon never ceased to be too good to be true.

  “Yes,” I murmured.

  “Then please take the cash. Your mom would want you to. And you can pay me back when the trip is over, if that will make you feel better. It’s just a couple hundred bucks.”

  The airport unloading and loading recording was blasting in my ears as I sat there with the car door open and one foot outside Devon’s car. I couldn’t sit there pondering the options. I reached for the money.

  “I’ll pay you back.” I stuffed the bills in my purse. On impulse I reached into the FedEx envelope, pulled out the cash card, and handed it to him. “Can you give this to my mother? Tell her to send it back to Allison. Tell her to put a little note on it that we think this probably belongs to her.”

  Devon nodded wordlessly and slipped the cash card into his shirt pocket. Then he smiled. “I probably don’t need to tell you to find a way to e-mail your mom when you get there.”

  I stepped fully out of the car. “As soon as I land.”

  I yanked open his back door, pulled out my suitcase and carry-on, and pushed the door shut. The world around me was ablaze with taillights, headlights, blinking turn signals, shiny chrome and glass, all against a bronzed, pre-twilight sky. People at the curb toted their suitcases like pull-toys, dashing away from parked cars after quick kisses, to be on their way to distant places. No one leaves LAX after five unless you are headed somewhere far away.

  I leaned in the still-open passenger-side front door. I wanted to quip something like, “I owe you one,” but I surprised myself by looking straight into Devon’s kind face and telling him he had been a godsend to me.

  “Be careful. Be safe,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “You’re sure he’s there?”