“Would you like me to help you find your parents?” Sarah asked gently.
The girl, who was no more than six years old, shook her head and became more upset.
“No?” Sarah asked.
“I’m not…I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the girl managed to say through her sobs.
I was standing next to Sarah, who glanced up at me briefly and smiled. “Your parents are very smart to tell you that,” she said. “We’ll stay right here out in the open and won’t go anywhere scary, okay?” The child nodded. “Let’s be friends so we’re no longer strangers. I’m Sarah. What’s your name?”
The girl’s staggered breathing made it hard for her to speak. “Em…Em…Emily.”
“Hi, Emily,” Sarah said. She waved me down and I crouched next to both of them. “Emily, this is my friend Cazz. Cazz, this is my friend Emily.”
I didn’t think Emily was up for a handshake, so I lightly and briefly touched her shoulder as I smiled. “Nice to meet you, Emily.”
Sarah attempted to make the child feel more at ease. “Cazz and I were talking about our favorite Disney characters, cuz that’s what friends do. Mine’s Cinderella. Who’s yours?” Sarah asked. I’d always admired Sarah’s ability to make people feel comfortable, and apparently she could do it for anyone of any age. How she managed to seamlessly insert the little white lie about us discussing our favorite characters, I’ll never know, but it worked wonders on Emily.
Emily looked at Sarah for reassurance, then to me, then back to Sarah. Then Emily pointed to me. “She is.”
Astonished, I glanced over my shoulder but no one was standing there. “Me?” I asked Emily, thinking she must be so distraught over being lost, she didn’t comprehend Sarah’s question.
She nodded. “Belle. From Beauty and the Beast,” she said in a more confident tone, proud of knowing her Disney characters. “’Cept your hair’s darker and your eyes are greener.”
I opened my mouth to speak but closed it and turned to Sarah for input, giving her a shrug and a look that told her I had no idea what to say or whom the girl was talking about.
Sarah smiled. “You’re right. Cazz is very pretty like Belle, and I promise she’s just as nice. Would it be okay if Cazz stayed here with you while I go find someone who can help us locate your parents? I promise I’ll be right back, and you can tell her all about Belle, okay?”
“Okay,” Emily said, appearing more relieved. She reached a hand out toward me. I took it and tried to relax by smiling at the child. I knew as much about kids as I did about this Belle character, whom I could only hope had more to her than dreams of fancy balls and handsome princes.
Sarah stood and I glanced up at her with a thanks a lot smirk before returning my focus to my small charge and getting the skinny on my animated double. A few minutes later, Sarah arrived with two harried-looking parents in tow. The mother scooped up Emily and lavished kisses on her cheeks, then extended a hand to me in gratitude. We said our good-byes and continued toward the Haunted Mansion.
“Thanks for leaving me with the kid,” I said dryly.
“She was smitten with you. It made sense for you to be the one to stay, Princess.” Sarah chuckled and gave me a light, teasing shove on my shoulder.
“I guess I do have at least one thing in common with Belle, from what Emily said.”
Sarah turned to me curiously as we walked side by side. She contemplated my comment for several moments before replying. “Oh, that’s right. She’s a voracious reader. You still a bibliophile?”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
She stopped and was nearly run into by a petite brunette who was laser-focused on the Mark Twain Riverboat. Sarah called out an apology to the woman, who was so intent on her destination she didn’t acknowledge her. Sarah turned back to me with a raised eyebrow, waiting for my explanation.
I offered a playful smile. “Apparently, Belle fell for a beast, too.”
Sarah bit her bottom lip, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. We stared at each other for several moments, simultaneously reveling in the flirtation while trying not to crack up. We both broke at the same time, bursting into laughter. Sarah lightly smacked my upper arm and shook her head. With a grin, I threaded my elbow with hers and gently tugged her into the switchback queue at the ride’s entrance.
We even lucked out with the return freeway traffic on both I-5 and 101. As we neared Sarah’s exit, I glanced at her briefly and made a suggestion.
“I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”
“Starving. I was thinking of asking whether you wanted to grab a bite, but I thought you might be sick of me by now.” Her voice was teasing and animated.
I laughed. “Aside from your subjecting me to “It’s a Small World,” which hasn’t stopped playing in my head since we left that damned ride, I had a lot of fun today. You’ve been great company. Do you like Italian?”
“Love it.”
“Excellent. I know just the place.”
We only had to wait ten minutes for a table at Little Liguria, my favorite Italian restaurant in L.A. It was a small yet intimate establishment with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, votive candles, paper napkins, and reddish-hued overhead lights that illuminated the tables in a sufficiently Goldilocks way: not too bright, not too dark. We got a table in the back and promptly ordered a half carafe of the house Chianti while we perused the menu.
Once we ordered, Sarah eyed me with curiosity. “I forgot to ask. How’d it go with Caitlin?”
I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering whom she was talking about. “Caitlin?”
“Blonde bombshell from last night. I assume she hit on you?”
I took a sip of wine and set my glass on the table. “Wow, that was last night? Feels like a long time ago already.” It didn’t seem possible that merely twenty-four hours ago I was in a hotel room kissing Sarah.
“You’re stalling.” She arched her eyebrow. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
I smiled. “Not that it is any of your business, but I’d say she was…tenacious.”
Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her chair and narrowed her eyes briefly before catching herself and relaxing her expression. She lifted her glass and replied before she took a sip. “She is beautiful.”
I nodded.
“And rich,” Sarah added.
“Even better. And I’m already in her debt, so maybe I’ll have to consider my…repayment options.” I enjoyed harmlessly toying with Sarah, pleased by the trace of jealousy in her body language.
“In her debt?” There was a slight edge in her tone as she set down her glass, waiting for an explanation.
“If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t think I’d have been accosted in a hotel room and subjected to the most amazing kisses of my life. I owe her big-time.” I pleasurably recalled my all-too-brief embraces with Sarah.
Sarah tilted her head, leaned slightly forward across the table with a quizzical expression, and searched my face as if assessing my sincerity. Then she sat back and momentarily bit her lower lip.
“You’re serious,” she said, seeming confounded. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
Our waiter chose that moment to bring us a small basket of freshly baked focaccia and a metal caddy holding olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “Ladies.” He interrupted us to set the items down.
Once he left, Sarah continued. “Make me not doubt you.”
I sat back and studied her with concern. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
She seemed to choose her response carefully. “I am.”
“Surprised? Surprised you can trust me?” A knot formed in my stomach, and I needed to make sure we were talking about the same thing.
Sarah shifted in her seat, reached for her glass, and stared at the red liquid as she swirled it several times before looking across to me. “I know it isn’t fair of me, Cazz, because you couldn’t help it. Your parents moved and you had to go with them.
But part of me never forgave you for leaving without saying good-bye. I felt betrayed. You didn’t have a choice in leaving, but you had a choice in keeping in touch. And you didn’t. You just…left.” She took a sip of wine and set her glass down before meeting my eyes. “I think to a certain extent, it still colors my interaction with you, whether or not it’s fair of me.”
The hurt took over and made me choke down the apology I wanted to offer. We were in a public place, and I couldn’t begin to explain to Sarah why I didn’t call or write after my family left L.A. I picked up a piece of focaccia, dropped it onto the plate in front of me, and tore off a little section. I was suddenly not hungry, but wanted a socially acceptable reason to avert my eyes in an effort not to call attention to how it felt to hear her say she didn’t trust me. I tossed the bread into my mouth and chewed thoroughly, staring at the plate all the while, willing myself not to shake my head in frustration. My throat felt constricted and swallowing was difficult. I tore off another piece, preparing to repeat the process, when I felt a hand on my forearm.
“Cazz.” Sarah kept hold of me until I met her eyes. “Don’t.” She released my arm.
I dropped the bread back onto the plate and forced myself not to cross my arms. “Don’t what?”
“My having an issue trusting you isn’t the same as you not being trustworthy. It’s also not exclusive to you. Don’t assume I don’t trust you. It’s just not easy for me, for a variety of reasons.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and stared into my lap, wondering how to respond. I felt her hand on my forearm again and looked up.
“Can you accept that? And know that I’m trying?”
Those last two words were a salve to my distressed ego. They helped dissolve the tightness in my abdomen and made me feel I’d received some sort of special pardon. Sarah wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable. Plus, my silence after leaving L.A. wasn’t exactly easy to understand, even if I’d bothered to explain, which I never had. And she was telling me how she was feeling, which in and of itself was a good thing, versus closing herself off from me.
I gave her a tiny smile and nodded.
At one point during dinner, Sarah asked how I liked my work at the Foundation. I hadn’t wanted to discuss it with her because I didn’t want to have to lie. I already felt guilty for withholding information from her, and it grew exponentially when she said she wanted to trust me, especially knowing now how difficult it was for her. I was loath to do anything to break that trust, however tenuous, but felt obligated not to come clean about my assignment since success in my field demanded total confidentiality.
Part of me felt I could trust her with the truth, but another part of me was all too aware that I knew virtually nothing about Sarah’s relationship to her colleagues. Especially Gregory Morrison. I didn’t want to plant any seeds of doubt that might cause her to become skeptical of anyone she worked with. I recalled Carol telling me that most of the Foundation’s employees had worked there over ten years, and I was sure they were a tight-knit group. I didn’t want Sarah’s knowledge of my assignment to come between her and anyone she cared about, especially before I was one hundred percent sure about what was going on and who was responsible. After everything Sarah was going through with her father’s recent death, I’d even begun to regret the investigation since I didn’t want her to experience any more loss in her life, should the case conclude with one of her associates being taken into custody. However justified from a criminal-wrongdoing standpoint, such an outcome would wound her deeply.
I tried for nonchalance. “It’s fine. The people are nice. The work’s steady.”
“And how’s the job hunt going?” Sarah asked as she took a bite of caprese salad.
My eyebrows lifted as I repeated her words. “Job hunt?”
“I thought this was an in-between thing for you.”
I glanced down to my plate and pushed some butternut-squash ravioli around with my fork, racking my brain for the background details of my assignment. I couldn’t recall Commander Ashby or anyone telling me I was at the Foundation under the guise of temp work. Customarily when my pilot-program colleagues and I were hired into a finance organization, the premise was that ours was a new, permanent position, even if we were on the temp-to-perm track. Although we would ultimately end up leaving the organization within a matter of weeks, we never let it be known that we expected anything other than full-time, long-term employment.
“Um, well, I guess it’s true that nonprofit accounting isn’t my expertise,” I said, cutting a piece of ravioli with my fork.
“Hmm,” Sarah murmured. I assumed she expected me to expand on my comment as several moments passed before she spoke again. “And how do you know Jim?”
“Jim?”
“Ashby.”
Sarah swirled the wine in her glass, her eyes focused on the deep-red liquid. It was the color certain to be rising to my cheeks right about now. Damn. Sarah had confirmed what I suspected: Luke Perkins was the personal friend to whom Commander Ashby had alluded. I focused on my plate and again fumbled around in my head trying to come up with the tidbits of how I was supposed to be connected to Jim Ashby. Nothing registered. Commander Ashby had failed to disclose several important pieces of information that would have prepared me for such questions. At a loss as to how to respond, I opted for a minimal, honest reply.
“I don’t, really. Know him, that is. We’ve met.”
“Interesting. Greg mentioned you’re the niece of a friend of my dad’s, but Dad told me you were referred by Jim, who has no siblings.”
I kept my eyes on Sarah, trying not to give away my discomfort with the cracks in my story. She arched an eyebrow and studied me. It seemed to dawn on both of us that Sarah’s father must have told Morrison and Sarah two different things when he opted to bring me on board. That was intriguing for a couple reasons. First, it meant Luke had reservations about Morrison. Second, it meant Luke had given both of them a heads-up of my hiring, which accounted for Sarah’s override of Morrison when I initially arrived. Unfortunately, it was also painfully obvious I hadn’t been forthcoming with Sarah as to the true nature of my employment.
“Huh,” I said, refocusing on my food. Thankfully, she let it go. It was good I hadn’t been forced to lie to her, but unsettling because her line of questioning indicated she knew I was withholding information.
“Tell me more about the grant-making side of the operation,” I said, as we browsed the dessert menu.
Sarah’s eyes darted up and she cocked her head to the side. “Why?” There was no sarcasm or irony in her question, only genuine curiosity. “It’s hardly glamorous. Not like the fund-raising events.”
I set my menu down to focus my attention exclusively on Sarah. “Because it’s important to you. If I had to guess, I’d say if you never had to attend another fund-raiser, it couldn’t be too soon. And if I had to make another guess, I’d say finding ways to help the people the Foundation supports is the reason you wake up in the morning, the last thing on your mind before sleep, and the only thing that explains the gleam in your eyes when you press the flesh at those events. It certainly isn’t the scintillating conversation.” I rolled my eyes, then finished my train of thought. “Thank God you’re able to keep it all in perspective when you attend those blasted soirees and feign delight all evening. You amaze me. Truly. I don’t know how you do it.”
I scanned the dessert options for a few seconds before peering back up at Sarah, growing concerned as her lips slightly trembled and she bit the lower one as if trying to still it. Telltale moisture crept into those wondrous light-blue eyes, eyes that hadn’t left me during my little monologue. Shit. I’d probably offended her.
“What is it?” I asked.
She slightly shook her head as she lowered it to refocus on the menu.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head again but didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Time to backtrack. “
Those events are probably super fun, and it’s only me that finds them a little trying. I know how important they are to the Foundation and I shouldn’t be so quick to—”
Sarah put her hand on mine. “Stop.”
“I didn’t mean—” I started anew and tried to pull my hand away, but she tightened her grip.
“Just…stop,” she said, her attention shifting to where her hand rested on mine. Turning my hand palm up, she cupped my fingers in hers. She focused on our hands a moment longer before meeting my eyes and gently squeezing my fingers. “Thank you,” she said with a small, sad smile. She squeezed my hand again before removing it. “You nailed it,” she said softly. “All of it.”
But if I was right, why did she look so sad?
The waiter swung by to inquire whether we were interested in dessert.
“Share?” Sarah asked me.
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Tiramisu or profiteroles?”
Either sounded heavenly. I looked up at the waiter. “What do you recommend?”
“If you’re only ordering one, go with the tiramisu. If you don’t like it, I’ll comp it,” he said.
I took the bait. “How many have you comped this week?”
He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.
That sealed the deal. “Tiramisu, please. Two forks.” I grinned back.
“Excellent choice,” he said as he plucked the menus from our hands and left us again.
My smile waned as I settled my gaze on Sarah’s face. “As much as I like to be right, I’ve obviously said something to upset you, and I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t upset me.” Smiling that doleful smile again, she set her wineglass in front of her and started to spin it clockwise in small increments, giving it her full attention. She spoke to her glass. “I’m just…it’s a little disconcerting how well you seem to…In any case, I’m not upset. Maybe a little sad, but not because of anything you said.” She tried to lighten the mood by offering a tepid smile. “Probably premenstrual.”
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