But . . . Irvine? So many miles away? That didn’t make any sense.
“Mrs. Romero, are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Sweetheart, who is that?” Beau whispered.
Kat put her finger to her lips. “Lieutenant Sanchez, what is this call in regard to?”
Beau raised his eyebrows. “Police?”
“I wanted to let you know that one of my men came upon a wallet belonging to your husband,” Lieutenant Sanchez explained.
Kat started. She turned to Beau. “You didn’t tell me you lost your wallet,” she said in a low voice.
“What are you talking about, honey? It’s right here.”
Beau pointed to the nightstand on his side of the bed. His wallet was sitting next to his “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug from Bree, his laptop, and his big, messy pile of loose change and receipts.
“My husband has his wallet. He just checked. You must have made a mistake,” Kat said to the lieutenant.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t make myself clear. I meant your late husband. Mr. David Romero.”
Kat’s gasped. “W-what did you say?”
“One of my officers found it in an abandoned home yesterday. It looked like it had been there for some time. It contained a bunch of credit cards, his driver’s license, his Social Security card, a few other pieces of ID, and two hundred dollars in cash. Oh, and a whole lot of family photos.”
Kat closed her eyes. She knew exactly which baby, school, and wedding photos Lieutenant Sanchez was talking about. She could still picture them, after all these years, just the way David had arranged them. “I don’t understand. What does this mean?” she said out loud.
“I can’t answer that question, Mrs. Romero. I’m assuming he didn’t take the wallet with him when he went sailing that day? In any case, I wanted to let you know, and also to make arrangements to get the wallet to you . . .”
But Kat was barely listening. Her thoughts were racing with this bizarre new development. David’s wallet had resurfaced after all this time . . . in Irvine of all places. How did it get there?
She remembered that day—that terrible, terrible day—when she’d gotten the news about his accident. He had gone sailing in the waters off Marina del Rey alone, saying he needed to clear his head about something. He didn’t usually sail solo, and she would have questioned him more about it as he was leaving the house. Except that the phone was ringing, and FedEx was at the door, and Kyle was late for her orthodontist’s appointment, and Kamille had spilled juice on her favorite dress, and Kass’s hard drive had crashed in the middle of some important homework assignment . . .
When the storm came up, he had called her on his cell and said he was heading back in. That was the last she ever heard from him. His boat, called The Kassidy, had turned up the next day, broken and battered, on a rocky, isolated stretch of beach near Malibu. His body was never found.
And now the police had come upon his wallet nearly five years later? In Irvine? She couldn’t even begin to wrap her brain around this. David used to keep all his belongings in a waterproof sack when he went sailing. Was it possible that the sack had turned up on shore, separately from the boat, and that some random person had picked it up? But if that was the case, why didn’t that person turn it in to the police before? Or take the cash?
When she finally hung up, Beau leaned over and cradled her face in his hands. “What’s happening, sweetheart? What’s this about David’s wallet?” he said quietly.
“I’ll tell you later,” Kat replied in a trembling voice. “Can you just hold me? For like an hour?”
“I’ll hold you all day if you want.”
Kat nestled in Beau’s arms, feeling numb. She lay like this for a long time. She knew she should just get up and get started with her day—she wanted to go to the gym, and she had a doctor’s appointment at eleven, and there was so much to do at the restaurant—but she couldn’t seem to move.
She had spent all these years putting her life back together: healing, rebuilding, moving on. And just like that, with a single phone call, she had plummeted back to the past. A past that (if she had to be completely honest) she had never quite made her peace with.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kamille
“Ohmigosh, oven mitts! Thank you, Grandma Ferguson!”
Kamille fake-smiled and did her best to sound polite. Enthusiastic, even. She didn’t care so much about Grandma Ferguson or the rest of the bridal shower guests; she mostly cared about the TV cameras that were trained on her. She didn’t want to come across to her future viewers as some sort of spoiled bitch who only wanted Tiffany and Bloomingdale’s.
Even though that’s exactly what she wanted.
Grandma Ferguson beamed. “You’re welcome, dear! I knitted them myself for you and Charles.”
“Chase.”
“What, dear?”
“Chase!”
“What are we chasing, honeybunch?”
Kamille sighed. “Nothing, Grandma.”
She turned the hideous puke-tan oven mitts over in her hand, wondering how much longer the shower was going to last. She gazed out at the dining room full of relatives (close, distant, and unidentifiable) and friends (ditto), all of whom had agreed to sign release forms and wear microphones so they could be filmed for the show. Four TV camera guys were positioned in different strategic spots, missing nothing, and the lighting crew had transformed Café Romero from a cozy restaurant into a brightly lit set.
Kat was going from table to table greeting their guests and also overseeing the food and drinks. Kamille wasn’t sure, but her mother seemed preoccupied about something.
Looking bored (as usual), Kyle thrust another present at Kamille, wrapped in silver paper with the word FOREVER on it in fancy cursive. All the girls in the bridal party had been assigned a job, and Kyle’s was to hand Kamille her gifts.
“I think it’s wineglasses or whatever,” Kyle said in a low voice. “I can hear broken glass inside.” She put the box up to her ear and shook it.
Kamille heard it, too. “Oh, fuck!” she said loudly, before she could stop herself. Hank, the director, gave her a withering look. She was definitely not supposed to drop the F-bomb when they were filming. She mouthed “Sorry!” and began unwrapping.
Kass was sitting in a chair nearby, balancing a legal pad on her lap and jotting down which gift was from whom. That was her job, so Kamille could write everyone thank-you notes later. Kamille couldn’t imagine having to write a hundred thank-you notes by hand—hadn’t anyone ever heard of group e-mails? But Hank wanted to make a scene out of it. He’d even suggested that it might be “funny” if Kamille and her sisters mixed up the envelopes and sent the wrong thank-you notes to the wrong people. Yeah, LOL!
Kass was tired looking and cranky, as usual. Some women seemed to blossom with their pregnancies; Kass was the opposite. The show’s makeup crew had done their best to cover up her dark circles and splotchy skin. (Did being pregnant give a person zits? Kamille was going to have to be careful with that one when she and Chase started their family.) They’d also tried to get her into a nice, stylish maternity outfit, versus the oversize black T-shirt and baggy leggings that had become her daily uniform, and contact lenses (like she used to wear) instead of her nerdy glasses.
But Kass wasn’t having any of that. She could be so stubborn—almost as stubborn as Kamille. And Kyle. And Kat. It must be a Romero family trait.
After the (broken) wine goblets came the next present, in a large gift bag with a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh on it. A pair of white leather baby shoes hung from the massive pink-and-pastel-blue bow.
Winnie-the-Pooh? Baby shoes? Kamille was confused. She reached inside and pulled out something that looked like a small gaming console.
“It’s a breast pump for when you can’t be there to nurse your little one,” her great-aunt Beatrice spoke up from one of the center tables. “They didn’t have those when I was young! You put it on your breast, lik
e this, and when you flip the switch your milk comes out.” She demonstrated with her hands.
“Yeah, Kamille. I bet Chase’ll love helping you with that,” Simone called out, giggling.
Really? In front of Aunt Beatrice and all the other old ladies in the room? And Chase’s mom, for God’s sake? “Shut the fuck up, Simone,” Kamille snapped.
Hank gave her another scathing look.
“I meant, shut the heck up. Aunt Beatrice, you’re so generous! And thoughtful! But you know, Kass is the one who’s having a baby. I’m getting married. This is my wedding shower.”
“Oh!” Aunt Beatrice frowned. “Which one is Kass? Is he the tall boy with the glasses?”
Kass slunk down in her chair.
Just get this thing over with, Kamille told herself. Chase was waiting for her at home with a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay on ice. They were going to have a rare night in, together, without the cameras. She couldn’t wait.
Kyle handed Kamille more gifts. As she opened them, she cast a sideways glance at the large table of Goodall women in front: Chase’s mother; Chase’s sister, Amanda; a couple of aunts; and an assortment of cute blond cousins ranging in age from eight to eighteen. Chase’s mom didn’t look like she was having a good time. In fact, she was staring pointedly at her skinny diamond watch, like she had somewhere very important she’d rather be.
Kamille had finally met Mrs. Goodall and Amanda and the rest of the family the day after Christmas, when she and Chase had driven to Laguna Beach to announce their engagement. She was surprised to find that somehow, they weren’t the superhappy, supertight clan Chase had made them out to be. His father was a big drinker. His mother didn’t drink at all but quoted the Bible a lot. Amanda seemed weirdly possessive about Chase and kept making snide, bitchy comments to Kamille. Chase’s two brothers sat in front of the TV the whole time watching football and ignored everyone.
Chase had apologized about them afterward, saying that it had been an “off” night and they hadn’t been themselves. Kamille wasn’t sure what to think; he hadn’t taken her back to Laguna since that time, and today was the first time she’d seen any of the Goodalls since then.
But really, who cared? Kamille was marrying Chase, not Chase’s family. And he was practically perfect. Especially in the last five months since their engagement. Sure, he was busy with the team and on the road so much. But when he was home, he was so sweet and attentive to her. For a brief period, around New Year’s, the bad fights and the binge-drinking and the drama had resurfaced again. But then they went away again. These days, their relationship was stronger than ever.
“Last one,” Kyle whispered as she gave Kamille a large pink box.
Kamille opened it. It was her gift from Chase’s mom: a leather-bound Bible. With rainbow-colored Post-it notes sticking out of it.
“Oh, wow, thank you so much!” Kamille said through clenched teeth. Smile and be polite, she reminded herself. She had nothing against Bibles—in fact, quite the opposite. Still, it seemed like a weird wedding shower gift, especially with the Post-it notes.
Mrs. Goodall patted her platinum-blond updo. “I’ve marked the important passages for you. The ones about how to be a good wife to my firstborn son.”
Kamille stared at her with wide eyes. Wow. Mrs. Goodall was just about the craziest woman she’d ever met, which was saying a lot. And she was about to become Kamille’s mother-in-law.
Maybe she and Chase should start drinking heavily again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kyle
“Shall I hear more? Or shall I speak at this?” Benjy said in a stage whisper.
“ ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy,” said the pink-haired girl beside him. “Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . .”
Kyle leaned back in the auditorium seat, put her feet up, and watched Benjy in action. He and the pink-haired girl were rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare, for the Wesley Eastman Academy Drama Club.
She had to admit, it wasn’t awful. It was actually really not-awful. She’d read Shakespeare plays for school, and his dusty, archaic words had put her to sleep faster than cough syrup and Grand Marnier shots (her personal remedy for insomnia). But spoken out loud and acted onstage, they were kind of interesting. And smart. And weirdly psychological.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Bree, who was home alone.
HIIIII KY! :)))))
Seriously? Again? Bree had taken to texting her a lot lately. Today seemed to be a record, with twenty, maybe thirty texts. For some reason, Bree seemed to harbor the bizarre idea that she and Kyle were BFFs. Still, Kyle knew Bree was at the house by herself, waiting for her and Benjy to come home. The parents were off running some mystery errand in OC.
Kyle typed:
HEY BRIE CHEESE. EVERYTHING OK?
YESSSSSS!!!!! R U COMING HOME SOON LOL? :)))))
YES. MAKE U DINNER K?
K LUV U LOL!!!!!! :)))))
Kyle tucked her phone back in her pocket and turned her attention back to Benjy and the pink-haired girl, who were wrapping up their scene. Mr. Weaver, the drama teacher, wandered out from the wings, waving a dog-eared script in his hands.
“Fabulous! Super!” Mr. Weaver gushed. “But, India, if I may? It might be nice to see a little more of that youthful, let us even say immature je ne sais quoi from you. Remember, our Juliet’s only thirteen.” He clapped. “All right, then, why don’t we rewind and run quickly through Romeo and Benvolio, Act One, Scene One? Is our Benvolio here?”
“He’s out sick,” the pink-haired girl, India, said. “I’m taking off now, I’ve gotta go study for my SATs.”
Benjy glanced around the stage. “Hey, Javier, can you be Benvolio today?”
“No, man, I’m trying to keep this effing prop from falling down,” Javier replied, holding up a roll of duct tape. “Can’t you get someone else to do it?”
“Yeah, like who? Everyone left.” Benjy steepled his hands over his eyes and peered out at the audience. “Kyle, is that you? Hey, can you come up here and read some lines with me?”
Kyle sat up. “Dude, I’m just here to give you a ride home.”
“Come on. A favor. It’ll take like five minutes.”
Kyle rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Five minutes, okay?”
“Great, thanks!”
Kyle walked up to the stage, hoping that her slumped posture and scowling face were communicating her displeasure to Benjy loud and clear. She did not like being pressured into doing . . . well, anything.
When she reached Benjy, she thrust out her hand. “Okay, what am I reading?” she snapped.
Benjy handed her a script and pointed to a highlighted section. “There. You’re Benvolio. I’m Romeo. We’re cousins.”
“Is Benvolio a girl?”
“No, a guy.”
“No way. I’ve gotta play a guy?”
Benjy grinned. “That’s why they call it acting, Kyle.”
Kyle sighed. “Fine. God! Let’s just get this over with.”
“Five minutes, I promise.”
Kyle glanced at the highlighted words on the script. “Tell me in sadness who that is . . . I mean, who is that you love,” she read out loud. The words felt awkward on her tongue, all twisted and convoluted. “What the fuck? What does that even mean?” she asked Benjy.
“Romeo is in a funk because he thinks he’s in love, and Benvolio’s trying to get him to talk about it,” Benjy explained. “Come on, pretend you’re bullshitting Kass or Kamille into spilling their secrets. You’re good at that, right?”
“Ha-ha.” Kyle turned her attention back to the script. “Tell me in sadness who is that you love,” she repeated, more slowly and earnestly. Okay, this time she’d nailed it.
“What, shall I groan and tell thee?” Benjy sa
id.
“Groan! Why, no. But sadly tell me who.”
“Bid a sick man in sadness make his will. Ah, word ill urg’d to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.”
“I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you love’d,” Kyle said lightly.
Aim’d so near. Ha-ha, that was clever! Like Shakespeare was comparing Benvolio’s mental guessing games to shooting an arrow at a target. Kyle was beginning to like this play. Or at least, not hate it.
The five minutes passed quickly, and she actually found herself enjoying the process of reading through lines. Even though subbing as Romeo’s boy cousin for the high school drama club wasn’t exactly a glamorous Hollywood gig. She’d always imagined her acting debut on an HBO miniseries, or maybe a cool indie movie that would premiere at Sundance, so she could walk the red carpet wearing something completely inappropriate and flip off the reporters. Still, this experience didn’t completely suck.
“Hey, you totally impressed Mr. Weaver,” Benjy told Kyle on the car ride home. “He gave me a flyer to give to you. It’s for this production he’s directing over at the community center this summer. He thought you should audition for it.”
Kyle’s mouth curled up in a half smile. Cool. So the old drama teacher thought she was good?
“Yeah, well, I’m really, really busy this summer,” she said out loud. She wasn’t about to let Benjy know that she might be interested in trying out for this play, whatever it was. She probably couldn’t get a part, anyway. She didn’t have acting experience, like that India girl. “Besides, you were supposed to be ready to be picked up like an hour ago,” she bitched. “My mom made me come get you because she and your dad had to go to Irvine.”
“What’s happening in Irvine?”
“The fuck should I know? Anyway, we have to go straight home and heat up dinner for you, me, and the Bree. I swear, she was texting me like constantly this afternoon. She needs a hobby, like maybe a new puppy to take care of.”
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