“I wasn’t a good friend to you,” I said.
Her face lost its challenging veneer and softened.
More quietly, I continued. “I regret not being able to say good-bye.” I paused, wondering why I needed to explain, but pressed on. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.” I quickly amended that comment so it didn’t sound as desperate to her as it did to me. “Your friendship, I mean. And I was too…too immature to deal with it. I’m sorry for that. I…I should have been a better friend.”
Wiping at a tear welling up in the corner of my eye, I offered a small laugh and shook my head. “This is embarrassing.” I stood. “Back in a minute,” I said over my shoulder as I went to the ladies’ room.
Grateful no other women were in the restroom, I wet some paper towels with cold water and dabbed them against my face. I stared at myself in the mirror. Where is this coming from? What is your problem? Get a fucking grip. I took a few deep breaths and laughed out loud. Fuck.
As I walked back through the bar, Sarah watched me. When I sat back in my chair, I noticed a drink on the table in front of each of us.
I smiled sheepishly. “I have no idea where that came from.”
She continued to study me. “How do you do that?”
“Make a total idiot of myself?” I replied, trying to lighten the mood. “Lots of practice,” I said with a halfhearted laugh.
Her serious expression didn’t change. “No. I mean, how do you always manage to get under my skin with your devastating honesty? Jesus Christ, Cazz. I haven’t seen you in ten years, and it takes all of five minutes for you to completely disarm me. It’s maddening.” The exhalation that streamed upward from her lower lip caused a few strands of hair above her eyes to billow.
It took me several moments to analyze her comment before I could respond. The notion that something I could do could actually affect Sarah, let alone disarm her, was not a little gratifying, given her ability to seep into my every pore since I’d seen her that morning.
“If it’s helpful, I could say the same thing,” I said.
She raised her left brow—that telling feature I’d always found so perfectly Sarah—in annoyance. “It isn’t.” She gazed at me for several seconds, and eventually a smile slowly played across her lips. “Well, maybe a little.”
We simultaneously leaned forward to grab our respective drinks, sat back holding our beverages, faced one another, and took a few moments to adjust to each other through the lens of a decade.
I remembered wondering during high school whether anyone could be more beautiful than seventeen-year-old Sarah. Now I knew. Yes. The answer was literally staring me in the face: Sarah at twenty-eight. She was Vanity Fair pretty—she made me want to touch her to see if she was real or digitally enhanced. I had a feeling my comfort in her presence would disintegrate if we were to sit any closer to each other, and, for my assignment’s sake, felt grateful for what little distance was between us. Not only had my emotions already gone haywire within minutes of being alone with her, she was short-circuiting the strength of calm I’d begun to take pride in during my career. Her uncanny ability to knock me off my game seemed immune to the passage of time.
I sampled my mystery beverage that had mint leaves floating in it. “Mmm. What is this?”
“Pear Vodka Mojito.”
“Tasty.”
“You still go by Warner.” She didn’t skip a beat. Normally I would feel she was being forward, jumping in like that in no time, but given the roller-coaster ride our brief conversation had already taken, it almost seemed natural.
I decided to be coy. “You still go by Perkins.”
She gave me a playful smile. “Are you asking if I’m married?” she asked, knowing full well she’d initiated the subject.
“Yes.”
“No, and I have no desire to be.”
I puzzled at her response.
“You?” she asked.
“Unmarried, though I wouldn’t say I’ve ruled it out.”
She shrugged in a “suit yourself” gesture, as if to say marriage was overrated and it would be my loss for trying it.
“How long have you been back in L.A.?” she asked.
“You read my résumé.” Ashby’s staff made sure the positions I’d held per my fabricated experience dovetailed with my actual geographical locations to make it easier for me to recall in normal conversation by being closer to the truth. So much for my devastating honesty. Sarah gave me that deliciously mischievous smile again. Damn, I missed that smile.
“A year then?”
I nodded.
“So at least that part’s true.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her statement caught me off guard.
She promptly ignored my question. “And you graduated from Columbia?”
I nodded.
“So that part’s true.”
I was suddenly glad Ashby’s people had left out my J.D. from Georgetown.
“And you’ve been in various finance roles since that time?”
I preferred to avoid outright lies, if I could help it. I played innocent. “Didn’t you check my references?”
“Absolutely. They were marvelous. Impeccable. One might even say, scripted.” She was still smiling that smile. I decided to counter her playfulness—or was it suspiciousness—with a bit of feigned cockiness.
“Be fair. There are only so many adjectives one can use for how great I am.”
“I look forward to being impressed by your skill set.”
Blood flowed to my cheeks, warming them faster than the vodka, though I assured myself she meant no underlying flirtatiousness. I wished to swing the subject away from me.
“What’s your role there, at the Foundation?”
“It’s twofold, really. My favorite part is grant-making. I spend most of my time researching organizations to see whether our missions are in sync. I spend time fund-raising as well, but I do it because it’s necessary, and I’m good at it.” Sarah paused and appeared to contemplate something before continuing. “Unfortunately, I suppose now I’ll have to focus even more of my time fund-raising.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to take over for my father.”
“Why?” I asked again.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“He was…” Sarah swallowed with difficulty. “He was killed in a car accident just over a week ago.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper that cracked at the word “killed.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
I stared at Sarah like she’d said something very important in Latin, because it wasn’t conceivable I could have properly understood what she said. A pall fell across her face, followed by a panoply of emotions I couldn’t begin to make out, with the exception of unmistakable grief. I quickly covered my mouth with my hand and stared at her in horror. A glimmer of water welled in her eyes, which she tried to hide by quickly turning away from me. I immediately squatted in front of her, and put my hand on hers.
“My God, Sarah, I am so sorry.”
She wouldn’t look at me and was trying hard to keep it together to avoid causing a scene. I glanced around the bar, searching for something aside from the ladies’ room that could offer some privacy. Spying a door to the terrace, I noticed it was blessedly empty. I stood and grabbed Sarah’s hand, tugging her out of her chair and forcing her to follow me. I yanked her through the doorway outside and pulled her into my arms. She moved back a step, shook her head, covered her face with both hands, and started to cry. Undeterred, I embraced her again and held on tightly. After a moment, she yielded and leaned into me; her crying turned to chest-heaving sobs that wrenched my heart out.
I couldn’t stand being so powerless. I knew how much Sarah loved her father and couldn’t fathom what she was going through. She was hurting, and I could do nothing to diminish her sorrow. After several minutes, her body finally stopped convulsing in my arms, and her staggered inta
kes of breath eventually transformed into regular, nearly inaudible breathing. She stepped back and whispered into a tissue she’d pulled from her pocket.
“It’s hard,” she said.
I nodded.
“I miss him so much.” She still whispered.
I nodded again. She sniffled, blew her nose, drew out another tissue, and wiped her eyes with it. She was so vulnerable and so beautiful; I ached with a need to protect her.
She gave me a weak smile. “Some reunion this has been,” she said.
I gave her a half smile and some more space. “Do you want to head home?”
She shook her head.
“Do you want to finish that drink?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
She nodded again. “Better to keep busy.”
I waited for her to signal she was ready to head back to our table. She took a deep breath, brushed past me, and opened the door that led back to the bar. I followed.
We spent the next couple hours getting reacquainted over drinks and appetizers. My desire to be a distraction for Sarah easily outweighed my wish to maintain a healthy distance between me and anyone associated with my investigation. I wasn’t about to tell Ashby how the job stacked up against Sarah tonight. She caught me up on the lives of a few kids I’d known at Claiborne, I gave her the skinny on finishing high school in lovely Killeen, Texas (adjacent to Fort Hood), and we swapped some college stories.
I didn’t want to lie to her about my career so I kept reining the conversation in around undergrad, only glossing over post-Columbia days at the ten-thousand-foot level. Aside from the earlier personal nugget that neither of us was married, we steered clear of asking about each other’s dating lives, though I was terribly curious. The only other thing she mentioned about her father was that he was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Given how small the Foundation’s staff was, I wondered if that wasn’t too much of a coincidence—someone had contacted Ashby regarding possible embezzlement, and the managing director of the same establishment was recently killed.
Once we finished the finger food and our second round of drinks, we decided to call it a night. It saddened me that I couldn’t come clean about why I was at the Foundation and who my real employer was. I was being dishonest, which in turn made me feel I was putting a barrier between us.
Just these few hours in Sarah’s company gave me a sense of place, a sense of belonging that had escaped me for too long. She was filling a void in my life I hadn’t realized existed, and the thanks I offered in return were various shades of deceit. I was suddenly ashamed of the job I’d always been proud of until today. It was one of the most significant differences between my work with the SEC and my work with the LAPD. With an SEC investigation, although also of a highly confidential nature, I didn’t have to concoct a backstory. My education and experience spoke for themselves.
Now, however, my background was fabricated each time to mesh perfectly with whatever finance-department job opening my new prospective employer needed filled, and all my professional references (being other LAPD personnel) would confirm the story. As much as my investigations with the LAPD required such ruses, it didn’t make it sit easier with me to have to hold myself out as something or someone I wasn’t.
When we walked outside and handed our stubs to the valets, we stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder and turned our heads toward each other. Sarah broke the comfortable silence.
“I’m so glad our paths have crossed again, Cazz. I think I’ve missed you.”
I smiled shyly, secretly drowning in the sweetness of her comment. I tipped my head up and back to indicate the entrance we’d stepped through a moment earlier.
“Thanks for the fancy welcome. This was delightful.”
She turned fully toward me and smiled. “It was.”
The valet pulled up her car. The combination of joy at seeing her again, compassion for her grief, and warmth at being in her presence moved me to advance toward her and gather her in my arms. After a momentary stiffness from surprise, she returned my embrace. When we broke apart, she raised her telltale left eyebrow in disbelief while the right corner of her mouth teased up.
“Twice in one night. Since when did you become so affectionate?” she asked.
“I’m not. Not usually.” It was the truth.
She squeezed my hand. “It’s nice.” She rummaged through her purse as she walked to the open car door, gave the valet some money, and slipped into the driver’s seat. Moments later, she was gone.
As the other valet pulled my Corolla forward, my mind flashed to my confident musings of mere days ago: that no one could divert my attention from this assignment. I shook my head and gave the valet a few dollars before climbing into my car. As I put the car in drive, I offered a crooked smile to the universe. No one, that is, except Sarah Perkins.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday morning, Morrison assigned me to handle all the checks that had arrived over the past week. I had to endorse and scan them, print the bank deposit slip, and enter the data into the donor tracking system that synced with the accounting software. The latter effort was a mind-numbing task avoidable with optical character-recognition software, and I intended to suggest acquiring this time-saving upgrade to Morrison.
Apparently many of the donors were using their wallets as sympathy cards, as the memo field on some of the checks had sweet comments such as “Miss you, Luke!” or “In honor of Luke P.” People didn’t seem to realize that unless they were paying a bill and using that field to note the invoice number so someone like me could properly apply the payment on their account, no one ever used these comments; no matter what they wrote, only some lowly clerk would ever see it. I made a mental note to tell Sarah that people were missing her father.
The Foundation also received many donations via wire and electronic funds transfer, so I set about manually entering the incoming wire and EFT information into the donor tracking system and ensuring the accounting software accurately reflected the transactions. Once it was properly updated, another employee would handle sending the written acknowledgments regarding whether goods or services (such as the cost of fund-raiser dinners) were provided in exchange for monetary gifts.
By the end of the day, I’d been a productive accountant and was comfortable with the systems and processes the Foundation utilized. That comfort would allow me to interact with Morrison and keep up my front. Tomorrow I’d have to start using my investigative skills to track down whether anything was amiss financially.
Toward the end of the day, Sarah, who had been out all day in various meetings, popped her head into the office I’d been assigned.
“What are you doing first thing tomorrow?” she asked.
“Coming here.”
“I mean before that.”
“Spin class, probably. Six thirty.”
Sarah tilted her head. “You still play tennis?”
“Not in years.”
“Are you up for trying something new?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Meet me at the Pinnacle Sports and Fitness Club on Wilshire at six thirty. Wear gym clothes, and bring your work attire.”
I’d heard of the Pinnacle and doubted I had the pedigree or bank-account balance that would gain me access. “I’m not a member.”
Sarah looked at me as if my comment was asinine, then gave me a winning smile. “Tell them you’re with me, silly.” She instantly vacated the doorway.
The next morning, having no idea what was in store for me, I decided to hedge by wearing layers and going for comfort. I sported a white-trimmed navy jog bra with matching shorts in case I was going to be running. Over that I wore a tight-fitting light-gray workout tank top made of a stretchy material that felt wonderfully soft against my skin. I covered all that with a navy fleece pullover and my least-ratty sweat pants.
When I arrived at Pinnacle at six twenty-five, I told one of the three clerks at the front desk that I was with Sarah Perkin
s. The girl nearest to me immediately rose and offered a welcoming smile. “Please, right this way,” she said. I followed her into the women’s locker room. It was more like a spa prep area, complete with a closet section filled with plush white cotton robes. She pointed to an open locker from which a plastic wrist coil key ring dangled, allowing me to lock my personal items. She then motioned for me to follow her through another door and showed me a small waiting area with magazines, lemon water, and tea.
“You’re welcome to wait in here for Miss Perkins. She’s usually here no later than six thirty, so she should be here any moment.” She turned and closed the door. I glanced around and wondered if this was a waiting room for massage appointments. Lavender scented the air and relaxing new-age music wafted quietly through the ceiling speakers. Pinnacle membership was definitely above my pay grade. Moments later, the door opened and Sarah walked in.
How anyone could look so good this early without makeup seemed both unfair and impossible. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she wore a light-green V-neck tank top with pink accent stripes, matching shorts, and running shoes. The stretch of sinewy, tan leg she showed between her ankle socks and shorts was as long as the Nile. She gave me a wide smile.
“Good morning.” Her cheerful voice reminded me she was a morning person. I stood and her eyes narrowed as she appraised my outfit.
“Morning,” I responded, in my not-a-morning-person voice.
“Didn’t you get a locker?”
“I did, but since I’m not sure what’s in store for me, I didn’t know what I’d need to wear. Or not wear.”
Her eyebrow rose at that last comment and she gave me her mischievous smile. “Follow me.”
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