French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  His response? Nothing. He'd said nothing. I would have thought he had hung up if it weren't for the female voice in the background repeatedly asking, "What happened? What's wrong? Tell me, Patrick."

  Once he'd recouped enough to form words, we'd agreed to meet as planned. After I explained what had happened, I suspected he wouldn't be firing me anymore.

  I was right. Instead of handing me a notice of termination (which I saw when I peeked into his bag, already signed and dated), he handed me a bonus for all my "troubles." I opened the envelope, readjusting my sore body on the ugly chair across from the even uglier couch in the lobby, and stared down at the three-thousand-dollar check with my name scrawled on it. It was enough to bring my bank account to positive and put a deposit down on a new apartment, should I choose to leave. "I'll understand if you want to look for a new job," Patrick said earnestly. He looked tired.

  Biting my lip, I stared down at the money that would only go so far. "I think," I replied, "I'd like to stay. I would like to be trained though." I realized over the course of the past three weeks how little I had learned from Joyce and how little Google knew about property management. Patrick readily agreed, and it was back to business as usual (with a negotiated extra week of vacation time and free laundry, you know, for my troubles).

  Back in Apartment 39, Patrick stared through the hole in the wall between the kitchen and the living room. "This never should have happened. Inspections should be done at least twice a year. We got lazy," he said, making note of such on his pad. It took nearly a week to get the eviction processed for the apartment before we could enter. Warranting two visits in one week from Patrick. The most he'd visited the community over the last five years, he'd said to me before promising to start making monthly inspections. For which I was glad. I found his company quite pleasant. "You heard from Kevin lately?" he asked.

  I nodded. "He says the plan is to get him into rehab again instead of doing jail time."

  I'd prodded Tom for more information at breakfast. He'd kept silent on the subject, scooping a forkful of pancakes into his mouth instead. I'd spent the night at his apartment. I had spent every night since The Incident there. Cuddled up in Lilly's bed, wrapped in her Frozen comforter, nearly hitting REM before my head hit the pillow.

  The day after The Incident, we had both been too physically exhausted to make food, so we'd opted for IHOP.

  Lilly had sat next to Tom in the booth, enjoying her pancake covered in syrup and whipped cream and chocolate chips with a cherry on top. Her eyes had grown about six inches when the waitress slid the plate in front of her, and she'd gasped and giggled and clapped as if she'd just won the lottery. I had pushed my Southwest-style omelet around the plate with my fork. My stomach had not quite settled. Tom had nudged my knee under the table with his, making sure I was all right. He'd, of course, offered to help me with workers' comp and to file a lawsuit against Elder Management for negligence or whatever. But I wasn't interested. I was ready to start a career and get out of the limbo I'd been in for far too long.

  It hadn't been until the waitress dropped the check on the table that I'd realized I was living out one of my Tom fantasies. We'd been sitting at breakfast as a real family—mom, dad, and child all enjoying a meal. It had been picturesque (aside from the bandage around Tom's arm, the cut on his eye, and the dark bruise on my cheek I'd discovered when I woke). I had caught Tom staring at me over the table, and I couldn't help but blush.

  A life raft from my baby daddy.

  Patrick groaned, kicking part of a broken plastic chair out of the way. "What really gets me is Chase," he said, running a hand over his bare head. "I've always had a good read on people, and he struck me as a real stand-up guy. He had good references, excellent credit, no criminal hits, and he was inexpensive. You know how hard it is to find anyone to work for minimum wage? It was too good to be true, I guess. Maybe he wasn't that great at his job, but for that price, I could live with it." He jotted down a thought on his notepad.

  "Aren't you glad you didn't hire his friend?" Part of me was still bitter about being third choice, especially now. Would either of his first two choices have basically solved an entire crime on their own?

  Methinks not.

  "What friend?"

  "His friend who applied for my job."

  He scrunched his bushy brows together. "No, I don't recall anyone mentioning they knew him. I was going to offer you the position the day after you interviewed. Then Chase called and told me you'd cheated on your application and he didn't think you'd be a good manager. At the time, I believed him to be a straight shooter. So I offered the job to two other seasoned managers who both turned it down, mainly because of the horror stories they'd heard about Kevin."

  "Are you serious?" My heart swelled. I was the first choice? It was the confidence booster I needed to confirm my decision to stay and pursue a career in property management. And yet another mark on the Reasons-You-Should-Stop-Thinking-About-Chase list. Any sane person with a heartbeat and a brain would scream "Forget about it!" Especially when looking at all the evidence—the way he'd made an advance only to pull away (douche), the drugs (liar), the arrest (criminal), the job sabotage (even bigger douche).

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Newly remodeled one-bedroom apartment. Gorgeous downstairs unit, easy access to the carports, large patio, wonderful location. Luxurious pool, spacious laundry rooms, stunning courtyards. $2,900 a month. Must provide two forms of identification, paycheck stubs, references…

  "The entire apartment is brand new from the carpet to the walls to the kitchen cabinets," I said in my best sales-pitchy voice, running my hand along the newly installed countertop. Patrick and I had gone back and forth on color options over the last month while Apartment 39 was being restored. I pushed for color, wanting to add yellow, green, and blue hues to liven up the space. Patrick wanted grays and whites and browns—blah. We "compromised" and went with silver countertops, beige cabinets, and tan carpet. Baby steps, I told myself.

  A short, curvy woman with a thin black side braid stood in the kitchen, bouncing the drooling baby boy wrapped around her chest in one of those mile-long cloth-wrap things I never was able to figure out how to use with Lilly. Speaking of Lilly, she came skipping around the corner, nearly knocking into the young mom. "Sorry about that," I said, shooting Lilly a cut-it-out look, which she completely ignored.

  She waved off my apology. "No worries. I love the family atmosphere of this place." She opened the brand-new dishwasher, noting the instruction manual still inside. "Why is everything so new?"

  "Fire." It was only a slight exaggeration. "It just came on the market, and I'm sure at this price point, it'll go fast. I have applications in the office if you'd like to fill one out?"

  She kissed the top of her baby's head. "What are the neighbors like? Are they nice, like good family people?"

  I chose my words carefully. "The neighbors are quiet." It was only a slight exaggeration. Kevin had been gone for a couple of weeks now and wouldn't be returning for some time. "There's a family with a little boy upstairs."

  She smiled. I had her.

  I locked the apartment behind us, and we traveled back to the lobby for an application. Larry cut across the lawn with a box labeled Harold's Things in his arms, Silvia walked behind him with Harold, supervising the move of her belongings. I'd arranged a transfer from her apartment to the vacant unit across the courtyard. It only shared a wall with Larry, and he was more than happy to have a new neighbor. They both enjoyed complaining—her about everyone and him about all his physical ailments. Perhaps they could complain to each other and keep me out of it.

  Or so I hoped.

  Silvia's apartment was already rented out to a wonderful couple who I was thrilled to have—Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen. Mr. Nguyen had started as our new, and much improved, maintenance man (he actually fixed the things I asked him to and didn't fraternize with felons). I'd introduced him to Patrick shortly after Chase was arrested (and never heard from aga
in), and the two hit it off. Of course, Patrick ran a thorough background check prior to approval, and Mr. Nguyen passed all checkpoints with flying colors. I didn't have to micromanage his hours either as his apartment counted as part of his compensation along with a salary.

  Lilly was thrilled with the thought of having her SoCal grandparents back, and Mrs. Nguyen promised she'd teach Lilly how to sew. And the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen were hard of hearing paired perfectly with the loud lovemaking of their neighbors, Clare and Bob. Another win for Cambria.

  Back in the lobby, I opened the door for the young mom, who was beaming at the prospect of occupying "the best apartment in the complex." She filled out the application. I took her driver's license. Checked it twice. Then one more time for good measure. Faxed it over to Patrick, and we were done. I politely shooed her out of the lobby and locked the door. I knew I was late. I knew I'd be late when I stopped to show the apartment. If I could rent it, the risk would be worth it. At least I thought so. I wasn't sure anyone else would see it that way, aside from Patrick maybe.

  Lilly bounced up and down on my hip as I sped through the community. Residents either waved or scowled as we passed. Most had forgiven or forgotten about the crime sprees, my arrest, and the gunshot. The threesome rumor had lost momentum (hallelujah). Our Rent or Run safety rating was up to 3.8 stars and run rating down to 20%. The management rating was holding steady at 2 stars. Baby steps.

  Only a few apartments remained vacant, although a steady flow of traffic and a motivated apartment manager (me) had already filled most of them. Patrick was impressed.

  By the time I made it to Apartment 36, I could barely breathe. (I still hadn't exercised. Baby steps.) I pounded on the door, checking my watch. My phone vibrated in my back pocket. I knew who it was, and I knew why he was calling. Not answering would give the illusion I was driving to the location I should be at.

  Amy opened the door. Her blonde and purple-streaked hair blown out to perfection, framing her face. "There's my girl," she singsonged and reached out for Lilly. "You ready for a fun day with Auntie Amy?"

  Lilly squealed.

  "Make sure you're super careful," I said, handing over Lilly's bag. "Don't let her out of your sight, and she can't have anything with soy because she has this rough patch of skin below her ear, and I think it could be an…"

  Amy put her hand on my shoulder. "Breathe." She took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, inviting me to join her. I took heed and inhaled and exhaled to make her happy. "You sure you don't want me to go with you?" she asked.

  My stomach was all butterflies, and my throat felt about two sizes too small. Still, childcare was more of a concern than my nerves. "I'll be fine. Where's Spencer?"

  "Right here," he hollered, emerging from the hallway in jeans and a white polo shirt. He'd made significant improvements in the wardrobe and décor department since he began dating Amy. His apartment now had a white couch and a blue love seat, decorative rug, art on the wall, and a real kitchen table. It smelled of fabric softener and cinnamon. It was only a matter of time before Amy would be submitting her own rental application to join Spencer's lease. I was thrilled.

  "Where are you guys going? The park?" I asked, my phone vibrating again in my pocket.

  "The Aquarium of the Pacific," Spencer said, grinning. He placed a hand on Amy's shoulder and said hello to Lilly. He had waited until their third date before springing the fishy brothel on her. Turns out he's a decent guy who treats her like a queen. She decided she could live with the whole fish thing, as long as it remained on the patio.

  I fidgeted with the bottom of my shirt. "That's in Long Beach, right? I mean, that's kind of far to drive, and it's super busy… What about going to McDonald's instead?"

  Amy cocked her head and gave me a look. "She'll be fine. We'll be fine. You will not be fine if you don't get out of here right now. Go."

  She had a point. I kissed Lilly's head. Made one more plea for McDonald's. Was told to leave.

  Thirty minutes later, I pulled into a parking space at the courthouse. As usual I crawled over the center console and passenger seat to exit the car then raced inside. I found Tom pacing the hall, his phone at his ear. My phone vibrated in my back pocket.

  I wore a pair of black slacks and a blue-collared shirt, the most professional outfit I could find at Target. Amy and I had our hair blown out the day before. Einstein was so silky and long, I couldn't stop running my fingers through it. I'd spent the night before watching makeup tutorials, practicing the smoky eye. I was going for a sexy business-casual look, and based on Tom's gaping expression, mission accomplished.

  I had to look my best, especially today.

  Tom lowered his phone and stared. "You look…good." He blinked, hard. "Why are you so late?"

  "This girl showed up and really wanted to see an apartment." I smiled a sorry-not-sorry smile. "I'm here now."

  He ran his hand down his face and grunted. "You have any idea how serious this is?"

  I scoffed. Of course I knew how serious this was. I was the one who had to take the stand. I was the one who had to sit through hours of questions from multiple detectives to prepare for today.

  "Tom, I'm ready. I can do this."

  "Here's the thing. You probably don't have to now."

  "What?" I'd been stressing for days and rushing all afternoon, and now I might not even have to testify? "Why not?"

  Tom looked around the busy hallway and led me to a quiet corner near the drinking fountains. His hand lingered on my arm—a life raft. But if he really wanted this, if he really wanted me, then he'd have to come right out and say it. Cause I was ready to jump on the raft and paddle to shore.

  "It looks like one of the detectives on the case blew his or her cover and came forward to testify. The DA said there's enough incriminating evidence to put Rev away for life without your testimony now."

  "Really? Do you know who it was that came forward?"

  He shook his head. "You don't need to find out either. Let's go, and you can have some peace of mind knowing you won't have to face Rev." I wasn't sure how much peace I could have knowing Wysteria's trial had not been set yet. Vincent and the mystical Malone trials had already started. No word on Wysteria. She survived the gunshot, but her baby wasn't so lucky. She would still be forced to stand trial, and I was concerned she would blame Tom or me—or both of us—for the death of her unborn child. She would plot revenge, stalk us, take us hostage—or worse, our daughter—and finish us off as she intended to do that night. My worst-case-scenario mind was clearly still alive and well.

  "I want to watch," I announced, charging down the hall. "Which door?"

  Tom shook his head and pointed the way. The last courtroom I'd entered was for Kevin. After a guilty plea for possession and public nudity, the judge sentenced Kevin to court-ordered rehab after a three-month stint in jail. Tom had wanted rehab only, without any jail time, but Kevin arrived without shoes or a shirt on, so he had to work with what he had.

  I had high hopes the rehab and jail time would serve him well. Patrick promised Kevin would have a home to return to. I removed the cobwebs over his door and placed a "welcome" mat in front. I was still in his corner, maybe because of my cousin Stephanie or maybe because he'd had a crappy childhood or maybe because I saw Kevin as the underdog and I loved a good underdog story—it was the most relatable.

  Only two days before, I had received my first letter from Kevin.

  Dear Kamebria,

  Hi! I hope you and your child are doing well. I am doing alright. Jail sucks, but my new cellmate is cool. I wrote Patrick and said I think you should get a raise. So you should be seeing that in your paycheck soon.

  Being here has made me realize I really need to get my act together. I promise once I get out of jail, I will be a model tenant. I promise I won't play my music loudly or let sexual offenders hide out in my house. I won't pee on the mailboxes, and I will wear clothes when I swim. I'm going to be really quiet and helpful. Like you said before,
I can help you manage the place! I'm looking forward to it.

  I also wanted to ask you a few favors. Can you please water the plants on my patio? I also need you to go into my apartment, but don't look in the kitchen or bathroom!!!! I have a pet snake named Viper in my closet, and he needs to eat one mouse a week. I keep the mice in a brown box on my dresser. In my hallway closet I have a few plants, and I need you to water those on Mondays and Thursdays. I have a heat lamp on a timer, and I need you to make sure that is coming on. Can you please get my mail and set it on the floor by my bedroom door? I also need you to evict Larry. Make sure he is gone before I get home.

  If I think of anything else, I will write you again. Thanks for the letter. You can visit again if you want.

  Sincerely,

  Kevin P. McMills

  P.S. My first cellmate, Doug, will be calling you. He just got out last week and is looking for a new apartment. I gave him your name and number so you can hook him up. I told him all about the place, and he said it sounds real nice. I told him to put me down as a reference.

  I had read the letter twice before folding it back up and shoving it into the envelope.

  Note to self: Don't show anyone named Doug an apartment alone, ever.

  This courtroom was much bigger than Kevin's. Men and women of all ages and races made up the jury. The judge, an older woman with dark skin and red half-moon glasses resting at the end of her nose, presided. The gallery was near empty. I chose a seat in the third row behind Scarlett Fisk, who sat surrounded by close friends there to support her. Tom sank into the chair next to me.

  A hot flash hit me like lightning when I caught sight of the back of Rev's head. His hair had grown out a little since I'd last seen him, and he was now sporting a suit. He looked like a creepy Chia Pet, which is kind of redundant. My hands shook, and sweat sprinkled my forehead.