by Greta Boris
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was this was the reason her dad left them. It wasn't her mother's fault. It wasn't even Jenny's. It was hers. She was the one who'd let him down.
The sun set. The streetlights came on. Gwen waited. The longer she sat, the longer her repentance speech became. She couldn't wait to tell him how sorry she was. Tell him she'd be brave. Tell him she wanted to be his assistant again.
It must have been past suppertime—her stomach was rumbling—when her mother eased herself on the stoop next to her. Gwen's dad wasn't going to make it. Something had come up. In the months that followed, something came up more and more often, until Gwen stopped feeling the ache of disappointment.
Three years after they broke up, Gwen's father and Jenny had a child on the way. Gwen's mother was drinking. And Gwen had learned the devastation divorce could bring.
She wanted to ask Art about Lorelei. She wanted to ask what they'd been talking about that had been so fascinating. But, truth be told, she was afraid to. Sometimes not knowing was best. If you didn't know, you could act like everything was fine and maybe it would turn out that way.
"Sure," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. "Let's go camping."
"I'll reserve a campsite in Big Bear tomorrow."
The silence resumed. Not the comfortable kind Gwen was used to. The kind in which couples who'd been married for many years could sit companionably, each with their own thoughts. This was a strained, uneasy silence. She broke it. "Art. What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You've been preoccupied. Maricela said there was an accident at school. I was wondering—"
"Not at school. A student was hit by a car near his home."
"I read about a hit and run in San Juan, but I didn't know the boy was from St. Barnabas." Gwen felt a rush of parental horror. "Was he killed?"
Art shook his head. "No. Thank God. But he's in a medically induced coma. No one knows what he'll have to deal with when he comes out of it."
"His poor parents," Gwen said. "I can't imagine."
Art massaged his temples. "That's not the only thing bothering me."
Gwen waited.
"I'm sure you heard about the agent in Newport," he said.
"Yes." Gwen felt her face freeze into an expressionless mask.
"Well? I've been waiting for you to bring it up all night."
She shook her head. "I don't know what to say."
"How about, 'I'm going to take some time off work'?"
"I got the Laguna Beach listing back. I'm putting it on the market again as soon as I can get it ready." The words came out in a monotone rush.
Dismay and incredulity fought on his face for several seconds. "I can't believe it," he said, dismay winning.
"I've co-listed it with another agent from the office. A man. I won't be there alone. I'll have to share the money, but at least I'll be safe."
"I don't care about the money." The statement exploded from him.
Emily stuck her head through the doorway. "What's wrong Daddy?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." He modulated his tone. "Go finish your homework."
"It's done."
"Then get ready for bed."
"I don't have to go to bed until 9:00. It's only 8:30." Indignation filled her voice.
"Then go watch TV."
"But, Jason—"
"Go." Art spun around and shot the word at her. Emily's face crumpled, and she ducked from the room.
"Don't take it out on Emily, Art. I'm sorry you're not happy with me, but I'm an adult. I have a business to run."
He didn't answer. Frustration pricked up Gwen's arms. "Look, I'll handle it," she said. "I'm not going to do anything stupid."
They sat without speaking for several minutes, then Art rose from the couch. "I'm going to bed. I want to get to the gym early tomorrow."
Gwen sat up for another hour, staring into a fireplace that was as cold and dark as her thoughts.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Caroline Bartlett did dumb blonde well, but it was an act. She had all the cunning of a girl who'd grown up with an undiscerning, single mother. I felt a bit of a kindred spirit.
Not that my mother had been undiscerning. She only bedded the wealthy and powerful. They usually left me alone, but my younger sister, Angela, wasn't as lucky. She had been groped and fondled by many "uncles". My mother knew what was happening, but I think she assumed her little girl was being prepared for life, certainly the kind of life my mother led.
That was, of course, the only life she knew. I don't think she was uncaring, just practical. I like to give Mother the benefit of the doubt. But Angela, being as innocent and unintelligent as a mewling lamb, suffered. It was a mercy she died young.
Caroline struck me as one who'd found clever ways to thwart unwanted advances. She wasn't beautiful, not like the lovely Vanna White. But she was attractive in an overblown kind of way. A climbing rose just beginning to drop its petals.
I'm sure she'd had her fair share of pimply boys asking for dates. However, she shouldn't have the innate security alarm I sensed in her based on her appearance alone. Those early warning systems are developed by only the very good-looking, the very rich, and those accosted early. Since she was neither of the former, I assumed she was the later.
"I know the decor is a bit seventies, but just imagine what this place would look like with a facelift." She turned and smiled at me. "Now don't you say you can imagine what I'd look like with a facelift."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I said. I didn't have to force the sincerity in my voice. I sympathize with the humble. It's the conceited, self-absorbed, pampered princesses I feel a need to crush.
"As you know the kitchen has already been remodeled. And that's the most expensive room to re-do." She pushed open the swinging door into the large stainless steel and red space. "I love the chickens—so cute. Don't you think?"
I wisely chose not to answer. The house was tasteless—chickens notwithstanding, but it seems the media had pigeonholed me. They were calling me the "Oceanview Killer" now. I realized my error immediately. There are no oceanview homes in Dallas, and not all expensive property in Orange County is at the beach. I needed to branch out if I was going to maintain my fiction. Obviously, identity theft isn't my strong suit.
"Of course, they don't come with the place anyway. Do you want to see the master suite again?" she asked.
"That's a good idea," I said.
It was the most interesting space in this tacky house. The bed was big enough for a romp and the bath...well the bath brought all kinds of fantasies to mind. I caught a whiff of Opium as I followed her up the stairs. Not the drug, the perfume. I hate Opium.
"Here we are." She threw open the double doors to the bedroom with a dramatic flourish. The bed was wonderful in a horrible kind of way. The size, the placement, the bedding, it was deliciously awful.
"Great spot for a party," I said and moved closer to her.
Killing is a funny thing. The more you do it, the more interesting it becomes. There's a thrill in the hunt, satisfaction in improving one's skills.
Her head snapped around. The smile she'd been wearing left her eyes. I'd said too much. Her sixth sense had been activated. I fingered the box cutter I stuffed in my jacket pocket that morning thinking it might come in handy.
"This bed is big enough for an army of kids and the family dog," I said, hoping to mollify her. Her shoulders relaxed a little.
We crossed a field of rose-colored carpet into the master bath. I withdrew the blade from my pocket and held it behind my back with one hand. I imagined Caroline dancing a different kind of dance than Ms. White had—fewer twirls and more leg kicks.
"Did I already tell you we had the Jacuzzi jets flushed by a professional?" the theme song from Titanic interrupted her. She fished in her white, snakeskin purse and withdrew a phone.
"Oh, I better get this." She looked at the screen. "Hi. Sorry, I forgot to leave it for
you. Top drawer of my desk," she said into the phone. "I'll be there soon. I'm at my Coto listing."
I held my breath.
"Yes. I'm here with—" She turned and smiled at me, then said my name.
I slipped the box cutter back into my pocket.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lance was already there leaning against the front door when Gwen opened the creaking gate of the house on Cliff Drive. She was a bit late, on purpose this time. She hadn't been here since she and Maricela found Sondra Olsen's body.
It wasn't that she believed in ghosts, or curses, or bad juju, or anything like that. Gwen wasn't superstitious. But she didn't want to walk through the claustrophobic entryway with its door that led down into the house's nether regions alone. The thought of going upstairs was even worse. Up was where she'd seen Sondra.
Lance was security. She was going to pay dearly for him, so she might as well take advantage of his presence. He was emotional security as well as physical. She couldn't break down in a panic in front of him. She'd have to act as if everything was fine. She lived by the adage, fake it 'till you make it. Act like things are fine, and they will be. But she'd always found it easier to perform with an audience.
"I've already walked the perimeter of the property," Lance said. "This place is a mess."
"Wait until you see the inside." Gwen put on her brightest smile. "It's worse."
"Great."
"Hey, this was your idea." Gwen pulled the key from her purse and inserted it into the front door lock.
"No lockbox?" Lance asked.
"Not yet. I think we need to make whatever repairs we're planning to make before we expose the world to this place."
The same musty smell she remembered from her last visit assailed her as soon as she entered the foyer. It was the moldy odor of old beach homes, lakefront cabins, and ski chalets where snow clothes and sleds were left to drip dry in mudrooms. A scent she used to think of as pleasant. Once it had brought back memories of childhood vacations, of trips to her grandparents' house near Lake Michigan. Now it was forever linked with death and blood.
"Oh, wow. I could totally see Morticia Addams floating down this staircase." Lance patted the handrail.
Gwen laughed. "I think we should make it a selling point, you know, target Goths and Satanists."
"I like the way you think. Instead of handyman's dream, or needs a little TLC, we go with something like witch's wonderland."
"Your own haunted mansion, crumbling crown molding, warped oak interior doors, cobwebs and ghouls throughout."
When they entered the living room, she glanced at Lance so she could watch its impact on him. She remembered when she'd first met Fiona here to write up the contract. She'd been so excited to get a beachfront listing, she’d almost gotten a speeding ticket on her way into town. Then she saw it. Disappointment didn't begin to describe her feelings. That is, until she walked into the living room.
Today the Pacific Ocean sparkled before them through the dusty windows like a diamond in a tarnished setting. Lance took a sharp intake of breath. "This'll sell."
"I think so. We just have to get them past the front door."
"Show me the rest of the place; then I'll start taking notes."
Growing enthusiasm replaced sarcasm as they toured the home. He called the outdated kitchen cupboards vintage, the scarred wood floor distressed and the cracked plaster walls authentic. It was amazing the effect an ocean view had on a person's vocabulary.
Gwen showed Lance every nook and cranny of the lower level, even pointed out the hall to the basement. She was stalling. The dread that had been building in her chest all morning felt like a boulder now, but there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere but the second story.
Her heartrate rose with every stair they climbed. By the time they reached the top, it beat against her ribs like a caged animal bent on escape. The hall leading to the master bedroom, the room she'd once been so proud and excited to show Maricela, lay before her. It looked longer and narrower today, as if someone had stretched it out like a piece of chewed bubblegum.
"You first." She couldn't keep the nerves out of her voice.
Lance gave her a small smile of support. "Let's get the master out of the way. Right?"
"Right."
He strode down the elongated corridor—a knight heading into the dragon's lair to defend his lady. When his hand dropped to the doorknob, Gwen looked away.
"Coast is clear." His voice sounded artificially cheerful.
Gwen's shoulders relaxed. She hadn't realized she'd hunched into a defensive posture. She inhaled deeply and allowed her eyes to follow the stained, floral runner down the length of the hall, wander over the doorjamb, and land on the rectangle of sunlight imprinted on the wood floor of the bedroom. It was clean. No blood. No body. She knew it would be—Fiona mentioned she’d had the room cleaned—but she exhaled in relief just the same.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
"Let's get started on the to-do list," Lance said. "It'll be a push, but I want to have our first open house this Saturday."
"That's only a couple of days away," Gwen said.
"Like I said, it'll be a push."
"I'll order the food and wine."
When they left the house, each armed with a Home Depot list, Gwen felt lighter than she had since she'd agreed to renew the listing. There was a lot to do, but the hardest task was behind her. Today they'd faced down the boogieman.
#
On her way to the office, Gwen decided to stop and order refreshments for the open house at the Barrel. She walked across the parking lot to the wine shop. The proprietor sat behind the counter with a magazine in his hands. He looked up when the bell rang.
"Hi." Gwen made her way over to him. "I'd like to order a few pairing platters."
Mo pulled a menu from under the counter. "What's the event?"
"An open house in Laguna Beach. I was thinking maybe an assortment of cheeses and sweets."
They looked over the menu together. Gwen was impressed with the man's suggestions. He certainly knew his wine.
"I'll come by Saturday morning around 9:00 to pick it up," Gwen said after paying for her order.
"As it so happens, I'm pouring for a bridal shower in Laguna on Saturday," he said. "I'd be happy to drop it off."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
Gwen fished a home flier out of her purse and set it on the counter. "It's on Cliff Drive."
"Right on my way," he said and smiled.
The clang of the ship bell echoed through the shop as Gwen closed the door behind her. One chore down, ninety-nine to go. The thought made her smile. It felt good to conquer the fear that'd been haunting her for the past weeks. A house was just a house, no matter what had happened within its walls, and this one was going to change her career.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Art shut down the Reserve America website. He couldn't wait to see the expression on Emily's face when he told her they'd be heading up the mountain next week. Whenever he thought about Brian lying in that hospital bed, he got an urge to pack up his own children and take them someplace safe, away from Orange County's crowds and fast pace. A weekend in Big Bear might satisfy, at least for a few days.
He wondered how Olivia was holding up. He hadn't seen her since Tuesday, two days ago. He looked at his calendar, and made a quick decision to spend his lunch hour at Mission Hospital.
At 12:13, Art parked his car in the half-empty lot between Mission Hospital and the medical buildings next door. He passed the spaceship fountain and entered through the glass doors.
This time there was no group in the waiting room. A gray-haired volunteer at the reception desk sent him to the Children's Hospital of Orange County Center, better known as CHOC, on the fifth floor.
He fidgeted with a thread hanging from his jacket cuff on the way up the elevator. He was nervous, and that wasn't like him. He was used to being the one in control of parent meetings. They came to him
with their worries, and he dispensed wisdom. But the accident had shaken his confidence.
He wondered now if he'd been looking at the world ass-backwards. Instead of protecting a child in his charge from a bully, he'd suspended him for defending himself. And now that child was in a coma. If he'd been this wrong about Brian, what else was he wrong about?
The small body in the big bed halted him in the doorway. Brian was swaddled in bandages and bed sheets. His face—blue-black with bruises—peeked out like a moth emerging from a chrysalis. Olivia sat on a chair nearby, her chin resting on her chest, breathing softly. Art hated to wake her.
He walked to the bed. He wanted to touch Brian, to place a hand on him and pray, but he couldn't see a way through the tangle of tubes growing from the child like wild vines. Instead, he folded his hands in front of him and bowed his head.
"Art?" A sweet voice interrupted his meditation. Olivia's short hair was disheveled, her eyes sunken, but the smile she wore was bright.
"Hi," he said and returned her smile. "How's he doing today?"
Olivia rose from the chair and motioned for Art to sit. She perched on Brian's bed, reached through the tubes and took her son's pale hand. "He's doing a little better," she said. "The doctor has started backing off the coma drugs, but he hasn't woken up yet."
"That's good news," Art said.
"Yes." She sounded hesitant. "But, I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"What's going to happen when he does? What if he can't speak, or move, or..." her smile shattered, "he doesn't recognize me?" Art reached out his hand. She clutched it. "It's easier this way. With him out. I sing to him—hold his hand. I can pretend he's sleeping."
Art opened his mouth to say, "He'll be okay," but closed it. He didn't know that. No one did.
"You know what's crazy?"
He gave a small shake of his head.
"I actually hope he wakes up cranky. That way I'll know he's himself. If he wakes up cheerful, I don't know what I'll do." She gave a small laugh. "I used to complain all the time to anyone who'd listen. I thought my worst problem in life was that he was such a bear sometimes."