by Wendy Wax
She knew he was just trying to goad her into action, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. She didn’t need anyone else rubbing her nose in her unfortunate situation—especially not this bare-chested baboon. “Where I sleep is my own business,” she bit out. “And I hope to hell the government’s best shot at finding Malcolm isn’t pinned on peering in his sister’s window. What were you before you joined the agency, Giraldi? A Peeping Tom?”
His features hardened slightly, which was pretty amazing since they’d already appeared carved from stone. But his voice gave nothing away. “We’re close to nailing down his location,” Giraldi said. “And once we do we’re going to want you to make contact with him.”
Nicole didn’t respond because there was nothing to say. And because she now needed to breathe through her mouth as well as her nose.
“We know you pretty much raised him, that you put him through college after your mother died, and that you helped fund his first start-up. Frankly, I’m having a hard time believing that he stole everything you have and that you couldn’t reach him if you really wanted to.”
That made two of them.
“In fact, the more I learn the more I have to wonder if this”—he gestured as he ran, presumably encompassing her, the house, the beach—“isn’t some elaborate ruse. That you’re just pretending poverty and an inability to reach him until we give up looking for him and you two can meet up and share the loot.”
Nicole kept her gaze straight ahead and tried to breathe through her nose. “I have sold most of my favorite clothes right off my back, Agent Giraldi—and they didn’t come from Target. That is not something I would do if it weren’t completely necessary.” Nicole refused to look at him. “You clearly have a very rich fantasy life,” she said, careful not to huff or puff though her lungs couldn’t seem to get all the air they wanted. “Perhaps you should consider writing novels.”
He still didn’t sound the least bit winded, and she suspected if she actually looked at him, he wouldn’t have broken a sweat, either. She could feel the sheen of perspiration forming on her forehead and beneath the allegedly moisture-wicking spandex.
“You’re the one living in fantasyland if you think we’re ever going to stop watching long enough to let you make contact with him without us knowing.”
“Well, I hope you’ve got the patience of Job and a good supply of sunscreen, Agent Giraldi,” she replied sweetly, “because I have no way of contacting him and I’m not in on any scheme.”
They passed the Paradise Grille, which was now teeming with customers who sat at the picnic tables sipping coffee and protecting their breakfasts from the seagulls. A few more yards and the jetty would be in sight.
Several women followed the bare-chested agent with their eyes. Her own chest felt like it was going to explode. Had she protected her little brother too much? Had she allowed him to grow up without suffering enough consequences? Had she been so intent on creating a better life for herself and convincing Malcolm he could do the same that she’d failed to teach him right from wrong?
“Oh, I’m a patient man, Ms. Grant,” Giraldi said when they finally reached the jetty and she slowed to a walk, though she did not fall to her knees or even bend at the waist and gasp for breath as she would have liked to. “Patience is just part of my job description.”
He flashed a toothpaste-ad smile. “If you have a change of heart or manage to locate your conscience, give me a wave. I’ll be the one lolling around on the beach while you’re working your ass off.”
One more smile and he was heading to the boardwalk. The sun that had sweat trickling down between her breasts and soaking her back just made his broad shoulders look a little bit more bronzed.
Avery lay in bed, make that on her mattress, half dozing long after Nicole left. She’d been up on and off all night listening to the rustlings in the attic and the unmistakable scurrying sounds that were made by little rodent feet. She heard Madeline get up and go into the bathroom across the hall and then the creak of the back stair that led to the kitchen.
The rolled-up bathing suit smell had not yet been completely vanquished, but a steady stream of fresh air and large quantities of the cleaning products Nicole had deemed “perfume-like” had rendered it somewhat less gut-wrenching. Soon the smell of coffee stole up the stairs and tickled her nose, displacing a few more of the less pleasant aromas.
Despite the fact that she was lying on the floor and pretty much broke, the house itself thrilled her. Situated at the southeast corner of the house, across the hall from the master and overlooking the pass and the bay, Avery’s room was spacious, with beautifully textured walls that had once been a ripe shade of peach. The wrought-iron curtain rods were faded and peeling, but they looked to be Art Deco with an arrow at one end and circles of flaking gold leaf banding the other. With a final stretch and yawn, Avery got up, then walked through the dressing area with its wall of listing closet doors. Though dull and scratched, a fabulous old brass heat register sat beneath an oversized window through which shards of sunlight penetrated pockets of grime.
Her bathroom had a honeycombed black-and-white-tile floor with a border laid in a cube-like stair-stepping pattern. The walls were covered in white tiles with black and pink accents. The old tiles were inconsistent, not perfectly matched like they would have been if they’d been manufactured today. The glass niches and the beautifully angled trim took her back to the hours spent in antique stores as a child following in her mother’s perfumed wake. There Deirdre Morgan would negotiate with the shop owners on her clients’ or her own behalf. And while her items were written up or wrapped, she would walk Avery through the shop, pointing things out, explaining each piece’s distinguishing features. “This is Art Nouveau,” she might say, running a hand down a leg or over a curve of inlaid wood. “And this is Queen Anne. Or Mission style. Or . . .”
As Avery got older, her mother would simply point to a piece or a detail and wait for Avery to classify it properly. Avery had learned to recognize a huge range of styles and periods in an effort to please her mother, but her own interest had always been piqued by the clean lines and rounded shapes of Art Deco. Even now Avery found it difficult to pass a piece of furniture or a lamp or a figurine of this period without being drawn to it or wanting to own it. Her mother had fled; Avery’s love of all things Deco had not.
After pulling on an old pair of shorts and an even older Hammer and Nail T-shirt, Avery washed her face and brushed her teeth in the hall bath, then followed her nose to the kitchen. There she helped herself to a cup of coffee, sugared and creamed it, then pulled a granola bar out of the huge box of them they’d purchased at Sam’s.
“Morning,” Avery said as she plopped down in a kitchen chair next to Madeline, who was busy clipping coupons and articles from the Sunday paper. She peered at them more closely; one was a book review for a new release titled Life After Layoff. Beside it lay an article with the headline, “You Are Not Your Job.” A stamped envelope addressed to Steve Singer sat near Madeline’s elbow.
“Good morning,” Madeline said, folding the articles and sliding them out of sight. Methodically, she began to file the coupons in an alphabetical file folder. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay.” Avery finished off the granola bar in a few quick bites and went back for another cup of coffee. “But I haven’t slept that close to the floor since my college drinking days. It’s not exactly conducive to deep sleeping.”
“No, it sure isn’t,” Madeline agreed. “I woke up today feeling like a hundred and ten, which is more than twice as bad as I’m supposed to feel.”
“I hope I look as good as you when I hit fifty,” Avery said, meaning it. Madeline Singer didn’t have Nicole’s flashy good looks or killer vintage wardrobe, but she was attractive in a well-groomed, I-care-about-but-am-not-obsessed-about-myself way. As far as Avery was concerned, she looked and acted like a mother was supposed to.
“Thanks. But I have to confess I’m kind of glad the mirrors in th
is house are so cloudy. Fifty-two can be hard to look at straight on.” She smiled. “I would, however, like to see more clearly through the windows on the back of the house. Do we have time today to wash them?”
“Yep,” Avery said. “These first few weeks are all about getting rid of as many layers of dirt as possible. Then we should be able to move on to stripping and refinishing and re-glazing and . . . well, there’s not much in this house that doesn’t need something.” She sighed and looked around her. “And then there are the rooms that need practically everything.”
“What are we going to do about this kitchen?” Madeline brought the coffeepot over and topped off Avery’s cup.
“I don’t know,” Avery said as they contemplated the room together. “I like what they did with the space; this area was probably originally a butler’s pantry and the way they integrated these older cabinets into the plan is cool.” She pointed toward the run of painted wood glass-fronted cabinetry on the opposite wall. “But it needs to be updated with top-of-the-line appliances and countertops and all.”
Footsteps sounded out on the loggia.
“The Realtor said Dyer got a great buy because so much work had to be done, but he must have been too busy stealing to do the renovation.”
They looked up to see Nicole in the kitchen doorway. She wore what had to be designer running clothes and shoes and though those clothes were wet from exertion and her skin glowed with perspiration, her makeup was still intact. She had an odd, almost wary, look on her face.
“What did I miss?” she asked, pulling a bottled water out of the fridge and raising it to her lips.
“Just talking about the kitchen,” Avery said, watching her. “And working up the energy to start washing windows.”
Nicole closed her eyes briefly and grimaced, but she didn’t stop drinking.
“Yeah, we’re all really looking forward to that,” Avery said. “And I thought maybe we should take a look at the ‘jungle’ while we’re working outside and see if we can figure out what needs to be trimmed or removed.” She carried her empty coffee cup to the sink. “Do either of you garden?”
“No.” Nicole finally lowered the bottle; it was almost empty.
“I once got lawn of the month in our neighborhood, but that was because the real winner got disqualified for secret watering during the drought.” Madeline poured the last of the coffee into her cup and turned off the coffeemaker. “Maybe we should call John Franklin and see if he meant it when he said his wife and her garden club might be willing to help.” She said this somewhat tentatively.
“Good idea,” Nicole said.
“You’re a genius,” Avery added. “I have no desire to do any grunt work that someone else might be willing to do.”
Madeline flushed at the compliment, clearly pleased. “It’s the first rule of committee management. I learned it when I was room mom for Kyra’s kindergarten class. You can kill yourself doing everything or you can delegate.”
“Sounds good to me,” Avery said. Then deciding to try Madeline’s technique on for size, she turned to Nicole. “Would you be willing to call John Franklin and see if his wife and her garden club are actually willing to tackle the lawn and garden?”
“Sure,” the redhead said as she tossed the now-empty water bottle into the recycling bin Madeline had set up. “I’ve talked people into all kinds of things in the name of love; I’m sure I can get a couple of garden ladies to come over here for a little weed pulling and frond plucking.”
Thirteen
The days passed in an endless blur of floor mopping, window washing, baseboard wiping, and cobweb removing. Despite Robby the plumber’s constant presence they still had only one working bathroom, which required varying degrees of patience and bladder control and, at times, negotiation. Nicole had worked hard all of her life, but it had been almost two decades since that work had been physical. Pilates and jogging had not prepared her body for what was required of it now. Nor was she comfortable with the outward physical manifestations of hard labor; each jagged nail, each gash and scrape and bruise felt like a personal insult. She continued to put on makeup each morning, but she was pathetically grateful that the bathroom mirror was murky and that there were so few shiny surfaces in which she’d be forced to confront her reflection. Coming up with that “one good thing” during their group sunsets was already a challenge and the most grueling grunt work had not even begun.
It was a sign of just how radically her life had changed that Nicole was actually looking forward to going to the grocery store with Madeline. Until she realized that Madeline intended for them to go in the minivan.
Nicole jangled her keys to get Madeline’s attention and motioned toward the Jag. “Why don’t we take my car? It’s not like we’re planning to buy those huge cartons of . . . everything.”
Madeline stopped where she was and gave Nicole what she was beginning to think of as the “mother look.”
“My car does have a trunk, you know,” Nicole pointed out, trying not to sound too eager. “And we could put the top down.”
“It’s just easier with the van,” Madeline said, clicking the dratted doors open. “Why don’t we save your car for a fun ride somewhere?” She said this as one might when negotiating with a child, then slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Nicole to get in beside her. If she offered an ice cream on the way back, Nicole was going to give her some serious shit.
They drove off the beach to a Home Depot, where they wandered the aisles with a list from Avery in hand, finally finding the brass and chrome polish and extra tools she’d asked for. At the grocery store, Madeline wheeled the cart, pulled coupons from her alphabetized holder, and checked things off the list as Nicole retrieved them. All around them people twice their ages pushed mostly empty carts, which held them upright, or motored by on store-provided scooters. Many of those people stared at her outright.
Nicole stared back, taking in their age spots and wrinkles; the thin hair through which their scalps showed; the cloudy eyes that glimmered briefly with interest as they passed.
In New York you saw the occasional older person hobbling by on a cane or being pushed in a wheelchair, but they were easily overlooked in the jostle of the crowds. In L.A., she encountered very few older people—at least none who looked or admitted to anything near their actual age. She assumed the really elderly were holed up somewhere or had been tucked away by their families. By L.A. standards she was already well over the hill, but her persona as dating guru and matchmaker had kept her on the party circuit. Her income had allowed her to stave off the more obvious signs of aging, which were so prominently displayed here. Nicole shuddered slightly. If they didn’t get Bella Flora finished and off their hands, she’d have to live with whatever Mother Nature decided to do to her.
In the freezer section she paused to watch a wispy-haired woman bent nearly double over her cane traverse the aisle. The woman paused for a moment to catch her breath. Before she hobbled on, she threw Nicole a pitying glance.
Turning quickly, Nicole caught a fleeting glimpse of wild hair and a dirt streaked face reflected off the freezer case. Aghast, she stared at the image while Madeline, who must have just realized that she was no longer beside her, turned and rolled the cart back to her side.
Nicole reached out toward the reflection. The mirror image reached back.
“Please tell me that isn’t me,” Nicole whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from the train wreck of red dust-streaked hair and dirt-smeared face. The black spandex running clothes were stained and bedraggled. “I did not go out looking like that.”
Madeline winced. “We were just running out to do some errands . . .” Her clothes were equally dirty, but at least her hair was up in a banana clip.
“Well, it may be okay for you,” Nicole said. “But I don’t go out into the world like this. Not ever.”
“Thanks.” Madeline’s tone was dry. “But it’s just a grocery store. And it’s pretty much filled with strangers. Not real
ly enough to get all fixed up for.”
“But I . . .” Nicole pulled herself up as a guy with a beer belly stuffed into a stained Hawaiian shirt went by. Next came a woman in a snap-fronted housecoat.
Madeline was right. So a few elderly people felt sorry for her. So she could scare children. It was not the end of the world. Pretty soon they’d be back at Bella Flora where nobody cared what she looked like as long as she pulled her weight. And they never found out she was Malcolm’s sister. “Can we go now?”
Madeline looked at her list and then inside the basket, rifling through her coupons one last time. “Yes, we’re good.” She tucked the list into her purse and wheeled the cart toward the checkout. There they unloaded and pushed the cart toward the bagger. “But you need to stop worrying about your appearance. Even with the dirt accents and the windblown hair thing, you’re a very attractive woman.”
Partly mollified, Nicole pulled out her wallet and waited for the cashier, who might have been pushing ninety, to finish scanning their items. His name tag read Horace and his pace was too slow to be termed glacial. When he’d finally scanned and passed all their items down to the bagger and punched in Madeline’s coupon codes, he asked, “Do you want your senior discount with that?”
Nicole blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said, certain she’d misunderstood. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted your senior discount. It’ll save you five percent on your total bill.”
Nicole couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The blood bubbled in her veins, looking for an escape hatch. Madeline blanched beside her.
“Do I look like I should get a senior discount?” Nicole asked.
The cashier shrugged his bony shoulders. “Don’t get mad, now. I’m supposed to ask,” he said.
Nicole’s hands clamped on to the side of the checkout stand, which she figured was better than around Horace’s scrawny neck. “But you can’t possibly ask everyone. How old do you have to be to get the senior discount, Horace?” she asked.