by Sally John
No way.
“Wassup?”
Absolutely no way.
“Maria, you there?”
“What do you want?”
“Mm. Bad news. I mean, I don’t want bad news. I have bad news.”
“You are bad news, Beaumont.”
“Yes, I am.” He sighed dramatically.
Rosie shook her head. Do not help him. I repeat, do not help him in any way, shape, or form.
“I messed up. I messed up big time. Did you realize that order thing meant not to even call her? Not even to say ‘hi, how ya doin’?’”
“You didn’t call her.”
“Yeah, I did. On a dare. This lovely group in the bar thought I’d blown it with her so I—”
“Give me a break. You’re still blaming others for your actions?”
“Mmm, lemme think. No. I was showing off. I admit it. So then dear Felicia called the police, and here I am, stuck in Santa Reina’s holding tank for the night without any pain meds for this aching shoulder.”
“You deserve it.”
“I do. I admit that too. Being shot and being arrested and living with excruciating pain.”
“Why on earth are you calling—how did you get this number?”
“Tuyen had it. I, in an astoundingly clearheaded moment, committed it to memory. Just in case. You know.”
“I don’t. Just in case what?”
“Just in case I needed you.”
“You need a lawyer. Is this your one phone call?”
“You got it. But I don’t need a lawyer, Maria. I need you.”
“How many sheets to the wind are you?”
“Not all that many.” His voice lost its mocking cadence. He sounded stone-cold sober. “You’re the only one who can help me.”
Heat seared her lungs again. In a flash, it spread through every nerve in her body. She gripped the steering wheel and fought back images of marching inside and smacking him.
“Rosie, help me. Please?”
Help him? As in bail him out? Tell the court he didn’t mean to harass Felicia? That he was under duress because he’d been shot? By one of their finest?
“I’ll help you, Beaumont. I won’t stand in your way. You can rot in jail first and then you can rot in hell.”
She slapped her phone shut, tossed it on the passenger seat, and started the engine.
Forty-Three
Sunday afternoon Lexi zipped shut her gym bag on the floor and straightened. One sweeping glance covered the living area of the tiny guesthouse. Through the bedroom’s open door she noted the stripped bed.
“Rosie,” she said to her friend seated at the table, “I’ll wait until the sheets are dry and make up the bed.”
“Don’t worry about it. Papi will probably find them in the dryer while I’m at work tonight and take care of it. He still spoils me like that.”
Lexi smiled. “Can I adopt him?”
“He said the same about you. We’re glad to have you stay longer.”
“Thanks.” She sat at the table. “But I’m kind of a homebody. Two nights away . . .” Her voice trailed off. Two nights away. She’d survived two nights away . . . from everything, all the comforts of home.
Rosie said, “I probably overreacted Friday night. I really don’t think there’ll be a problem. Nothing has been in the newspapers about the incident with you and Felicia. The mystery guy will most likely remain a mystery. In the big picture, nobody cares if drugs were slipped to Erik. It doesn’t change the outcome.”
“I suppose not. What about the lawsuit?”
“Against the department?” She shrugged. “A flash in the pan the suits will settle out of court. It was news for a day.”
Lexi nodded. “Rosie, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Good grief, giving you a place to stay after what I put you through was the least I could do.”
“It was more than that. Your friendship, sharing your papi.” She paused. “It just all meant a lot. Your talk, about what happened to you and about me not letting my dad off the hook . . . It-it helped. I know I have some issues to work through.”
“Anytime you want to kick it around, call.”
Lexi didn’t shy away from the steady eye contact. She imagined not much was missed by those dark pools staring back at her. Most likely Rosie even perceived Lexi’s biggest issue, the food thing. Yet she treated her with respect.
“Thanks, Rosie.”
“You’re welcome. At the risk of sounding like your mom and your grandma, God adores you and He’s listening all the time.”
Adored her?
“End of sermon. Hey, thanks for being my regular-person friend.”
She laughed.
It had been a long, long time since she laughed. Maybe life would be different, as in okay for a change.
Danny’s phone call earlier had helped. Although the conversation was brief and to the point, it was significant because it broke their week-long silence. He told her he’d talked with Erik, now at home after paying a cab driver a mint. He’d been jailed overnight for disorderly conduct; he expected to be fined for breaking the restraining order. Lexi agreed with her twin that telling Erik no went against natural tendencies, but it was the right thing to do for his sake.
And, she knew, it was right for her own sake. Erik stressed her out too much. Stepping away from him as well as Danny and every other family member—including Nana and Papa who hadn’t acted like themselves in months—felt like a major move toward something positive. Something like emotional health maybe?
She didn’t even want to stop to buy ice cream or cheese curls. She just wanted to get home and paint that gorgeous giraffe in the full glory of nonendangered life.
Hi, Lex.”
i, Cordless phone in one hand, paintbrush in the other, Lexi froze in the center of the room. A few feet in front of her, the canvas blurred from view. Zak?
She was painting in absolute quiet, windows shut, stereo off. It was an experiment. The idea sprouted from hanging out with Rosie’s dad. Esteban Delgado’s philosophy of life and of cooking revolved around upsetting what he called the “applecart of routine.” He was the most gracious, contented man she had ever met.
Due to the lack of music blasting through her apartment, she heard the phone ring. She picked it up because, well, because it just seemed like the thing to do. Not waiting for the machine to pick up was another experiment in dumping that applecart.
“It’s me,” he said. “Zak.”
“Hi.” Neutral. Cautious. Their last conversation replaying in her mind loud and clear, complete with references to his ex-slash-no-longer- ex girlfriend.
“How are you?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Um, listen. I’m at work, so I only have a minute. Some reporter came by. He’s working on a follow-up story to the Rolando Fire. A human interest piece, sort of where are they now, several months later. He interviewed me and Chad and Eddie.”
“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I told him about that. I’ll never forget your grandmother’s nicknames. How is she?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Anyway, this guy’s focus seemed to be on heroes, so I told him who the real hero was that night.”
She bit her lip.
“Heroine, I should say. I didn’t want to give him your unlisted number, so I told him I’d call and give you his number.”
“Why?”
“So he can interview you.”
“I’m sure he only wants to hear stories from firefighters.”
“Lexi, you’re doing it.” Exasperation filled his voice. “Preempting what could possibly be a good thing. You were interviewed right after it happened by everybody. Why not give it a shot? People like reading about heroines. It gives them hope that something’s right with the world.”
“I wasn’t a—”
“Yes, you were a heroine. You saved our lives. Here’s his number. Just write it down. Do you have
a pen?”
She looked at the paintbrush.
“It’s seven—”
“Wait.” She stepped to a tall bench that held her art supplies. The palette lay there, a large sheet of paper with dabs of oil paint arrayed in rows, a spectrum of hues, dark to light.
As she dipped the brush into her creation of a henna tint that just might work in the giraffe’s coat, she was struck with a sense of beauty. It was as if the colors swirled, a sudden, vivid burst of magnificence showering about her like fireworks.
She inhaled sharply.
“Lexi, are you there?”
Yes, she was there. She was there. She existed. God adored her. She had been—for one night—a heroine. And Zak was for that past moment, not this present one.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “What’s the number?”
You must be Lexi Beaumont.” The man set his grande-sized coffee on the table, slid the leather backpack from his shoulder, and offered his hand. “Nathan Warner.”
“Hi.” Returning his smile, she shook his hand.
“Zak Emeterio said to look for the cute one with long hair.”
She stopped smiling, released his hand, and let the Nice to meet you die on her lips. Why did they always have to go for a line?
“Zak really did say that and it would have been enough to recognize you.” His eyes crinkled. “So it’s not total bull, which I gather from the expression on your face is what you’re probably thinking. May I?” He nodded toward the empty chair.
“I don’t know yet.”
He flashed a grin. “Okay, God’s honest truth: I did my homework. I saw your photo in an old newspaper, from right after the fire.” He bunched up his shoulders and kept them there like a question mark.
Lexi tilted her head, as if weighing his words. God’s honest truth? She savored the moment.
Her experiment with upsetting the routine applecart that had started the previous night continued. It spilled over into Monday work habits and, to her surprise, she designed an awesome landscape. Her boss and the client couldn’t praise it enough.
Interesting how everyday life had lost its threat. She felt downright feisty and flirty. With a start, she realized she didn’t have to talk to this guy.
Likewise, she could. Her choice.
“Have a seat, Nathan.”
“Thanks.” He hooked his knapsack on the chair back and sat.
She guessed him to be not much older than herself, maybe thirty-ish. He had that kid-next-door flavor going with rumpled jeans, oversized white button down, and chubby cheeks. His coppery hair was moussed messy, but not in a deliberately stylish way.
“Uh-oh.” He tapped the side of her clear plastic cup. “Strike two. I’m supposed to buy your coffee. Or whatever that concoction is.”
“You’re making fun of my venti iced caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra whipped cream? Strike three.”
“At least I’m on time.”
“You are. Which I guess might cancel strike two. I came early and didn’t wait for you to buy my venti iced caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra whipped cream.”
“Hot dog! That leaves one strike to go. There’s still hope for an interview then?”
She smiled. “Sure. Who do you write for?”
His eyes, a curious tawny color, twinkled. He took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “I freelance. Newspapers, periodicals. I’m trying to get a column syndicated. My specialty is human interest. I’ve been doing a lot on disasters. They intrigue me—not the event itself, but its impact on people months and years after the fact.”
“The Rolando Bluff Fire last September.”
“Exactly. Anything else?”
She shook her head.
“Cool.” He pulled a notepad from his bag. “I should warn you that I’ve been accused of sounding like an interrogator when I talk to people about tragedy. So please tell me if you don’t want to discuss something or if you get uncomfortable at all. Okay?”
Din from jazz music, a dozen conversations, blenders, and coffee grinders meshed into white noise. Lexi sensed vibes roll from Nathan Warner. They touched her in the same way that sliding her feet into a favorite old pair of comfy Birkis did.
She leaned back in the chair. “Okay.”
Lexi described the night of the fire. Although she relayed vivid details, the event had taken on surreal qualities over the past months.
“Sometimes I wonder if it really happened to me. It could have been a dream or a story I read.”
“Can you compare the Lexi Beaumont before the fire and the Lexi Beaumont after she led her mother, grandparents, and three firefighters to safety, thereby saving their lives?”
“Don’t forget the cat and dog.”
“Willow and Samson.” His smile was soft. “It’s a tough question.”
“I don’t feel like a hero.”
“What does a hero feel like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither. Try to think about how you view life since that night.”
“After that night, I was flying high. It was like I couldn’t even come down. I didn’t want to sleep because I didn’t want to miss one minute of life. The world was a totally new place.” She stopped. She didn’t know what else to say.
“Past tense?”
She glanced away. “It . . . it faded, I guess.”
“Common occurrence. After a while, our lungs notice the air is too thin on the mountaintop. We can’t survive up there.”
She thought she had changed in such a huge way, life would never ease back into the old ways.
“Is that your phone?”
She heard it then and started digging through her purse, a bag the size of a small suitcase. “Excuse me. Normally I wouldn’t bother.” She shoved aside everything but the kitchen sink, vowing once again to get a smaller bag with compartments, and at last her fingers touched it. “But we’re in the middle of issues. Family junk.” She glanced at the caller ID and groaned. Erik. “I have to take—Hi.”
“I think.” Erik’s voice was faint. “I think I need help.”
“I can hardly hear you. What’s wrong?”
“There’s blood. I’m bleeding.”
“Where are you?”
“Home. I don’t know what hap—It’s my shoulder.”
“A lot?”
“Sort of. I wonder if I bumped it?” His voice sounded odd, neither loaded nor sober.
“I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, it’s not that bad—It’s just—Oh, nooooooo.”
“Erik!”
The phone went dead.
She was on her feet, frantically digging for keys, quivering from head to toe, stumbling toward the door.
“Lexi, can I do something?”
“Huh?” The keys were in her hand. She noticed then the journalist at her elbow. “Uh, no. I have to go. It’s an emergency.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Nathan Warner stayed beside her through the winter dark. He helped her find her car in the lot and get inside it. “Want me to drive you?”
She shook her head. Should she call an ambulance? Erik’s place was less than ten minutes away. If he had just bumped the wound, maybe stitches came loose. No big deal. The sight of blood had always made him woozy.
“Hey, Miss Heroine.” Nathan squeezed her shoulder. “Call me, okay? I’ll buy the next venti iced caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra whipped cream.”
That “ah” sensation oozed through her again, tingles of hope prickling from head to toe. Grateful, she smiled at the source.
He shut her door, stepped back, and waved, his feet in plain view: thick white socks and Birkenstock sandals.
Lexi knew then that she could handle whatever was going on with Erik.
Forty-Four
Erik Beaumont was not going to bleed to death on her watch.
Rosie bounded up the steps two at a time, two flights covered, one to go. She huffed and vowed to never ever again skip gym time.
Minutes before—several, thanks to Bobby’s mulishness—Lexi had phoned her, saying she was on her way to Erik’s. Considering what she reported about him, she had sounded surprisingly calm.
Rosie, however, lost it. She let Lexi disconnect. In hysterical tones she relayed the situation to Bobby beside her in the squad car. He made matters worse by serenely suggesting they send another unit.
Rosie screeched at that. “We patrol his neighborhood! At this moment we are on duty!” Like her partner didn’t know such things.
He dawdled further until she got herself under control and was able to radio dispatch. He dawdled until she informed them in a professional manner where they were going and to please put an ambulance on standby. He dawdled while she phoned Lexi. When she didn’t answer, he made a U-turn and flipped on the lights.
They had rushed into Erik’s building. While Bobby waited for the elevator, Rosie found the stairwell.
Now she bolted across the third-floor landing.
Erik Beaumont was not going to bleed to death on her watch.
As the elevator dinged behind her, Rosie reached Erik’s front door, which was ajar. She pushed it open and went inside.
On her two previous visits, she’d described Erik’s condo as “untidy.” The adjective no longer applied.
The combination living area and kitchen was basically trashed, everything from dirty dishes on countertops to an overturned lamp. It smelled of garbage and dirty clothes and stale booze.
A windstorm? Party out of control? Thieves? Or a blitzed tenant at the end of his rope?
“Lexi!”
“Up here!” Lexi’s voice came from above.
“Do we need an ambulance?”
“No.” Lexi poked her head through the single doorway located at the top of the open spiral staircase. “But we need you.” She ducked back inside.
More steps to climb.
Rosie stared at them . . . at the trail of red-black spots marring the thick ecru carpet.
She followed them up, gingerly planting her feet around the blobs.
“No ambulance?” Bobby’s voice came from below.
“Nope.”
“Yell if you need me.”
Rosie went inside the bedroom. Fresh sea air greeted her, a welcome whiff through the open balcony doors. Like the downstairs, the room was chaotic.