Can I See You Again? (3 page)

“I'll be in touch with more details in the morning. Clear your schedule; the first interview is the day after tomorrow. And don't wear that outfit. You look like a Banana Republic mannequin.”

And like the silence of a departed jet plane, the whirlwind of Randi is gone.

Andrew drums his hands on my desk. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. Your forecast said something to this effect just the other day. Or maybe it was Jo's . . . I can't remember. Anyway, you're gonna be famous.”

“I don't know about famous, but can you believe this? The bestseller list. Never in a million years did I think that possible. And twenty-five thousand dollars? God, what I could do with the money. Buy a new copier for the office. Ramp up my advertising campaign. Pay off my credit cards.” Successful business aside, the lease on my ocean-view commercial space is a killer. “If I
am
dreaming, please don't wake me.”

“You're not dreaming. This
is
happening. You've earned this. My boss and best friend, a bestselling author—”

“
Potential
bestselling author.”

“Shush.” He swats the air with his hand. “I'm super happy for you.”

“Thanks. I am, too. Phew! What a day.” I slide open the top drawer of my cabinet and search for a client's file.

“That's it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren't you going to run a hot lap around the office, scream and flail your arms? Buy yourself that new Vuitton clutch? Anything?”

“Let's not get too excited. You heard Randi, there's a lot to do.” I pause, then close the drawer. “Okay, just for a second.”

We laugh, hopping up and down around my office like a couple of bunny rabbits.

“You landing that interview, among all the other candidates, is karma. Good things happen to good people.” Andrew slides a stray hair away from my face, then taps my chest. “And you, Bree Caxton, are good people.”

“Remember, I'm not alone in this. Congrats to you as well. You've been right by my side the past few years.”

“So, you're buying me the Vuitton clutch?”

“Nice try.”

“Well, then, how about I get off early this afternoon?”

The clock reads four p.m. “Big plans?”

“Two-for-one special today at Sun-Gun Salon. Thinking of inviting my dad, too, just to hear the terror in his voice. ‘Spray tan? Men don't get spray tans,'” Andrew says, mocking his father's throaty timbre. “‘Come spend the day at one of my job sites, swing a hammer or dig a trench. Hard work, that gets you tan.'”

“It's not a bad idea, you know.” I fiddle with the cuff of my blazer.
How'd Randi know I got this at Banana Republic, anyway?
“Your dad's got a big crew of guys. Cute, strong guys, I'd imagine.”

“Well, all the more reason for an even tan.”

“All right, go ahead, get out of here.”

“Thanks. Oh, I almost forgot. Sara called when you were talking with Randi. She's working at her new gallery and can't get away. She asked if you could stop by after work. She's only two blocks away.”

“Shoot, that doesn't leave me much time before dinner,” I mutter to myself. Along with the chocolate cake, I want to pick up a copy of
Fallen
for Jo before stopping by. I check the clock again, deciding that I'll feel a heck of a lot better if Sara and I talk face-to-face, making sure she doesn't hold any ill will toward me or my company. “Call her back and tell her I'll be there within half an hour.”

“Will do.” He returns a minute later with Sara's address. “Here you go. She's expecting you. The gallery's on the corner of Grand and Claremont, next to Einstein's Bagels.”

“Got it, thanks.”

“Okay, I'm leaving.” He slides his leather satchel onto his shoulder. “Have a fun night. Take care of you.”

“Take care of you.” I repeat our favorite line from
Pretty Woman
, the movie we watched instead of me studying for spring finals, senior year.

Twenty minutes later I stroll along the boutique-lined sidewalk toward Sara's gallery. Sean hasn't responded to my text and court should be over by now, so I make a quick call.

“Sean Thomas.” He answers on the first ring. I hear the courthouse door swing open and the sound of city traffic fill his background, much like my own.

“Hi, babe, done with court?”

“Just finished.”

“How'd it go?”

“We won.”

“Congratulations.” This is a big case for Sean, a cash cow in billable hours, and with this verdict, he's established himself
as a landmark on the map of the litigation world. So why does he sound so distracted? Almost irritated.

“I'm heading to the office. I've got a few things to tie up.”

“Sure, of course. But real quick, did you get my text about the documents?”

“I did.”

“Great, so I'll bring the forms to dinner. We can toast to our new adventure with a glass of Champagne.” I laugh into dead air. “Sean?”

“I gotta run.”

“Okay, see you at Antonio's.”

We click off before I tell him about the interview. No worries, we can chat about our day over entrées.

I reach the floor-to-ceiling double glass doors of Sara's gallery and stride into the sparse space with its trendy exposed piping, deep plum–painted ceiling, and snow-white walls. Only a few sculptures decorate the floor and a half dozen paintings, blanketed under opaque tarps, lean against wood pallets. The smell of lacquer thinner lingers in the air.

“Bree, thanks for coming by.” Sara's footsteps echo against the floor as she walks toward me in a Chanel cream pant suit, bright red ballet flats, and long dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Laden with class—twenty bucks says she has a Norah Jones ringtone—she's perfect for Nixon. Why didn't I think of her sooner?

“Sara, it's nice to see you.”

“You as well. Though you wouldn't know by the mess, we're only a couple days away from opening. Can I get you something to drink? I have a bottle of Cristal that I'm dying to uncork.”

“Sounds delicious, but no, thank you.” Cognizant that not all my clients want the world to know they've employed a matchmaker, I survey the room and once confident no one is
within earshot, I say, “Sara, I want to apologize once more for the atrocious date you had.”

“Certainly one of my more interesting evenings, I'll give you that.” Her eyes veer to the left and I fear she's still upset. Then she shrugs and says with a hint of her southern background in her voice, “But I learned there are no outstanding warrants for my arrest and they didn't make me change into one of those god-awful orange jumpsuits, so that's the takeaway, I suppose.”

We share a laugh and relief spreads a smile across my face. “A silver lining for sure. All the same, I'm here to make it up to you. I wanted to tell you in person that a very attractive, self-made, and felony-free man, with kind eyes and a snarky sense of wit, will be calling you soon. He's one of those silent-but-deadly guys.” I plagiarize Andrew.

“Ooh . . . quiet but sexy. I love that type.”

“Yes, apparently it's a popular characteristic. Anyway, his name is Nixon Voss.”

Her cheeks cast a rosy glow, matching her shoes. “He sounds wonderful.”

“I think you'll find him to be a great match, and I'm eager to see what you think of him.” I clap my hands together and say, “So, we're good? No hard feelings?”

“My goodness, no. All is forgiven.”

“Great. I'll be in touch.” I glance around the room. “This is a lovely space. You'll do well here.”

“Thank you. You'll have to come by when we're finished.”

“I'd love to. Let me know what you think of Nixon.”

The heavy glass door closes behind me and I wave good-bye to Sara before stepping away.

She waves back with an eagerness inspired by the promise of possibility.

With a smile as wide as the Pacific Ocean, I think about how
grateful I am for the people in my life. Sean and his family, my friends, my clients, Andrew and Jo. Even crazy Randi. And, with a little more hard work, something the success of my business proves I've never shied away from, I might find myself with a bestseller on my hands.

Maybe Andrew's right. Maybe good things do happen to good people.

Two hours later, the warm fall breeze tickles my calves as I climb into the backseat of a hired Uber town car. I'm bathed, wrapped in cream lace La Perla lingerie and a burgundy sheath dress, and have readied my
workspace
. Jo's book and a boxed slice of cake rests beside me.

So does a cellophane-wrapped dog bone stuffed with some sort of colorless, but unfortunately not odorless, poultry paste for Martin, Jo's gray-and-white, seven-year-old shih tzu. I picked up the treat at the pet store across the street from Sara's gallery.

My driver, a young woman whose long side braid rests on top of a fuchsia hibiscus tattoo fanning over her right shoulder, winds her way through the streets of my grandmother's neighborhood.

I've often considered a tattoo. Went as far as scheduling an appointment years ago on my nineteenth birthday but backed out at the last minute after my friend said I'd get herpes from the needle. Thank God I believed her, because my cowgirl phase was short-lived and a horseshoe with a dangling star inked
around my right calf would've been a horrendous mistake. In all the years that followed, I haven't thought of anything worthy to embed into my skin. Until now. I giggle to myself, imagining
bestselling author
inscribed in bold cursive letters across my chest.

I reach for the copy of
Fallen
and thumb through the first few pages, recalling the many Saturdays Jo and I spent together during my early teenage years, lingering in bookstores or lounging on her sofa, snacking on fruit candies and soaking up every #1. We shared a yellow highlighter and marked our favorite lines in each book, writing comments in the margins, giggling at the saucy parts.

“Here you are,” the driver says.

We've pulled curbside to Jo's house, a single-level home with a grass lawn, smooth-glass windows, an aged terra-cotta tiled roof, and ivory siding repainted a dozen times over walls that wrap around and safeguard my memories of laughter and love. I stare at the home I've spent countless hours inside, with its same seashell wreath hanging on the front door, same squeaky porch swing Jo and I nearly laughed ourselves off when Dad shocked himself tightening screws on the doorbell, same fake rock where the hide-a-key is buried, same pale-yellow room I lived in after my parents died.

Jo said she'll stay in this home until the day she dies. Begged me not to stick her in a center for “old geezers” once the time comes. “I'd rather sip on a bottle of brandy and fall asleep in my recliner, pretending your G-pa is holding my hand,” she'd said. “Promise me, that's the only way I'll leave this house.”

I promised, then asked her to talk about something less depressing.

Martin barks at my knock. His nails scape along the wood floor as he stampedes down the long hallway toward the door. I can't help but take a step back.

Over the years, I've brought Jo's four-legged companion all sorts of treats. Bought him squeaky toys, filled his water bowl, cleaned up his turds, and yet each time he sees me, he snarls at me with the ferocity of a wolverine.

“Bree?” Jo says, opening the door as wide as the chain lock allows. “Is that you?”

Martin pokes his furry head through the gap, jingling the bells on his lime green collar as he yips at my feet.

Martin doesn't like me.

I don't like him.

We both like Jo.

“Oh, thank goodness you're here. Come in. Come in.” Jo unfastens the chain, scoops Martin into her arms, and opens the door. She stands in a lilac bathrobe cinched tight around her narrow waist.

I'm taken aback by the fact that she hasn't dressed for the day, nor clipped her hair in a bun. I can tell something is wrong by the way she shuffles her slippered feet into the kitchen with its original white cabinets and gold appliances and the faint smell of grilled cheese and corn on the cob.

I set my things on the counter and, as always, confirm that her daily pill box is empty, then glance at the
Life Alert
monitor box resting beside her telephone, verifying that the power light blinks green. The remote is slung around Jo's neck and I'm comforted knowing she has this medical warning system. One push of a button and a nurse calls Jo. If there's no response, the call center dispatches a paramedic and then contacts me. Jo's required to check in with medical staff when she wakes each morning and again before she goes to bed.

“Read this.” She hands me the paper, then pets Martin's head with the nervousness of a prostitute in church.

“It's okay, Jo, whatever it is, we'll—” But my comforting words vanish as I recognize the embossed Internal Revenue
Service eagle insignia in the upper left-hand corner and read the words written in bold across the top: N
OTICE
AND
D
EMAND
FOR
P
AYMENT
.
F
INAL
N
OTICE
OF
I
NTENT
TO
L
EVY
AND
N
OTICE
OF
R
IGHT
TO
A
H
EARING
.
Jo's property address is listed and a balance due of $47,746.29.

Oh, Christ.

“What does it mean?” she asks.

“I'm not sure.” The rest of the letter is full of legal verbiage—and Jo's right, it might as well be written in Mandarin. What does “Deferred Acceptance” mean, anyway? It's hard to tell if the claim is well founded. Maybe Sean can give me some insight. No reason to get overexcited. I stuff the letter into my purse. “I'll check into it. I'm sure it's nothing. Don't worry, okay?”

She nods, unconvinced.

“In the meantime, I've got something that will cheer you up.” I open the lid on the chocolate cake as if unveiling a newly discovered Picasso. “Doesn't this look yummy? Oh, and this is for Martin.” I hand her the bone, then reach to pat his head, but his lip quivers, revealing the glint of his pointy canine.

Another time, then.

She unwraps it, then sets Martin on the floor with his new prize. He picks up the bone and prances toward the living room.

I pour her a glass of milk and grab a fork before moving toward the sink and tackling the dirty dishes. “The weather's nice, don't you think? They mentioned rain later, but I don't see any storm clouds,” I say, with hopes of lifting Jo's mood.

It didn't work.

Through the window's reflection I see the concerned look still plaguing Jo's face.

And she hasn't touched her cake.

Okay, now
I'm
worried. Jo never turns downs a slice of sugary bliss.

The letter and its verbiage come to mind, dates and warnings and illegible signatures. But the more I think about the notice, the more I think it can't be legitimate. The IRS doesn't send a letter out of the blue and say you owe them a bundle of money, pay up now or else.
Right?
No, of course not. They have guidelines and rules, timelines and statutes to follow. This letter is a fraud, albeit a realistic attempt, but fraudulent nonetheless. I scratch at a chunk of egg caked on a plate with disgust. Whoever sent this deceitful letter is a horrid human being and I'm going to turn them in. They can't get away with this. God, how many unsuspecting older people actually mail in a check? Well, we'll get their money back. All of it. Sean will save the day. Justice will be served.

Twenty minutes later, after I've turned on
Wheel of Fortune
and put a load of towels in the wash, Jo walks me to the door. She just now studies my dress. “You're dressed up fancy. Where you off to?”

“Having dinner with my boyfriend. You remember Sean?”

“Who?”

She's met Sean before, many times. In fact, the two watched the final ten minutes of the presidential debate a few weeks ago while I called her homeowner's association about a cluster of bees nesting by her front hose bib.

She doesn't seem to remember.

A sense of urgency overcomes me as I grasp her frail hands and small wrists, the skin thinning over her cheekbones. She's smaller than I remember, shrinking with each passing day, and I'm reminded again by the physical proof that so many strained years have passed. I pull her close and hug her.

Martin gets wind of my affection.

He doesn't like it.

He charges toward me and clamps his jaw around my ankle.

“Aagh!” I scream, and flick my foot, but the little snot-wipe bears down with a fierce grip.

“Martin, no!” Jo claps. “Off.” She then scurries toward the living room and returns waving his bone. “Martin, come here, boy. Want your treat?”

He releases me and trots toward his master, sitting erect, proud, tail wagging.

Suck-up.

I examine my foot, grateful to discover he didn't puncture my tender skin. I'm fine. The same can't be said for my slingbacks, whose straps are now poked with tiny teeth marks.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I don't know what it is about you. He's so good with everyone else. Maybe it's the heels.”

Or maybe he should be stuffed down the garbage disposal.

She grabs Martin and follows me onto the porch. “You'll take care of the letter for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Let me know the minute you know anything, okay?”

“Okay. But please try not to worry. We'll get it straightened out and have a laugh. I'll call you tomorrow.” I climb into the hired ride.

My scar itches. It does this at random times: typing an e-mail, pouring detergent into the wash, watering the plants.

I trace my fingers along the four-inch shameful reminder snaking the inside of my right forearm and hidden underneath the sleeve of my dress. I keep it covered.
Always.
If no one sees it, no one asks questions. If the scar is out of view, I don't have to watch the mixture of shock and thank-God-it-isn't-my-family flicker in the eyes of strangers who claim it's none of their business but are dying to know what happened. If the mark is
concealed, I don't have to rehash the moment I broke my family apart.

I glance out the window and wave good-bye to Jo.

The car pulls away but I'm unable to leave behind the pained expression weighing Jo's face.

It's far too familiar.