Say Never (5 page)

A tap on the glass brings me back to the 405. The window is partially open, but I have to turn the key in the ignition to roll it all the way down. The patrolman has removed his helmet, and up close, he isn’t bad looking. Mid-thirties, short brown hair, olive complexion, green eyes. He’d be downright handsome if it weren’t for the disdainful scowl on his face.

“Using a cell phone without a hands-free device is illegal in California,” he says, his tone similar to one you’d use to address a group of kindergarteners. I really don’t like that tone.

Just stay calm, Meg. Don’t piss off the nice police officer.

“I know,” I assure him. “I’m very sorry. I just flew in, and unfortunately, the airline lost my luggage. My Bluetooth is in my overnight bag.” I shake my head regretfully. “It was silly of me to pack it, but I knew I couldn’t use my phone on the flight, so…” I let my voice trail off.

The patrolman’s expression remains impassive. “And what is the nature of your visit?”

What’s it to you?
I almost blurt out, but stop myself by literally pinching the end of my tongue between my teeth. It hurts like hell and I swear I can taste blood. “Um…” I swallow. Yup, definitely bleeding. “Family stuff. You know.”

“What kind of family stuff?” he prods, narrowing his eyes at me.

I struggle to keep my tone light. “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

“Excuse me?” The officer looks truly shocked that I refuse to answer his question, him being an almighty CHP dude.

“Well,
sir,
” I say, sarcasm seeping through my restraint like water burrowing through cracks in damn. “If my family business were, say drug trafficking, then it absolutely would be your business. But since it’s not, and it’s personal, I don’t really feel the need to tell you.”

A long moment passes, during which neither of us speaks. Finally, the officer breaks the silence. “Step out of the car, Miss.”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “You’re kidding, right? I will not get out of this car. You have no constitutional right to delve into my personal business without suspicion of illegal enterprises occurring.” Yes, I am talking out of my ass. And I quickly realize that whether or not this patrolman is in the right, he definitely has the upper hand. If I don’t placate him, my first night in Southern California in five years might be spent in jail.

I heave a world-weary sigh and shake my head with regret, then call upon the skills I learned in my college improv class.

“Okay, officer, you want to know why I’m here? My sister—” (Just FYI, I don’t have a sister) “—was in a fatal hot-air balloon crash, leaving her six children motherless, two of them are conjoined twins, by the way, and her husband, a used farm equipment salesman who lost his arm after it was crushed by a John Deer lawnmower, just can’t handle it by himself, especially because he’s narcoleptic and keeps waking up in different grocery stores not knowing how he got there. And he’s trying to support his daughter’s rehab stay, because she’s addicted to quiffing, you know—when you use those Reddi wip cans to get high? I’m not sure how it works, cause I’ve never done it, but my niece has, which is why she’s in rehab and her brothers, Jordan and Ralph, they’ve been suspended from school twice for snapping pictures of their principal under the bathroom stall while she’s peeing and selling them online to the other fifth graders—”

The patrolman jerks his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay!” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, then opens his mouth to say something. No words come out. He closes his mouth, then opens and closes it again and I watch, fascinated. I’m always fascinated when I manage to render someone speechless.

“I’m going to go write you a ticket,” he says at last, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Yes, officer.”

“I recommend you get a new hands-free device as soon as possible,” he adds.

“Yes, officer.”

“And, uh…” He shrugs. “Good luck with everything.”

I clamp my lips together and think of my mother’s funeral to keep from smiling. My mother wasn’t good for much growing up, but thoughts of her funeral always help me out in situations like these.

“Thank you, officer.”

Welcome to the O.C.

* * *

My interlude with Ponch on the side of the 405 sobered me up instantly, but by four o’clock, as I’m heading west on Vista Boulevard, the dreaded travel fatigue starts to set in. All I want right now is to get to Danny’s and take a nap.

The sun has already begun its lazy decent toward the horizon, and the Camaro’s visor doesn’t reach down far enough to cut the glare, so I’m practically blinded. On a positive note, this area is so familiar to me, even after my long absence, that I could probably navigate the streets with a bandana over my eyes. Not much has changed, and I am both comforted and irritated by that fact.

It’s not that I particularly hate Southern California. The place has a lot going for it. Good weather, for one. And for another…
really
good weather.

I grew up not far from here, over in Huntington Beach, back when Surf City was the bastard relation to Newport Beach; just a community of middle class homes and blue collar workers and a laid-back vibe. Not like it is today, with its guard-gate communities and million-dollar mansions and chichi downtown restaurants. When I was growing up, if you said you were from Huntington Beach, people automatically assumed you were a reefer-hound, as opposed to being one of the privileged coke-heads of Newport.

I didn’t do drugs in high school. I knew they killed brain cells in that non-refundable kind of way, and I also knew I needed all of my smarts to accomplish my one goal. Which was to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Not that I suffered any cathartic or traumatic events during my upbringing. Unless you count the fact that my mother abandoned me when I was four and subsequently got herself killed when I was eleven. Other than that, my childhood was pretty much peachy keen, jelly bean. (Yes. That’s sarcasm. My childhood sucked.)

I turn onto Orchid Lane, passing the 7-Eleven I used to bike to during lunch hour, even though there was a convenience store closer to my high school. I didn’t want any of my classmates to bear witness to my unhealthy addiction to Fun Dip, plus, the longer ride insured that I would burn off all of the calories I consumed. (I still do this. If I’m going to a chichi restaurant for dinner, like the upscale Daniel, I do the treadmill or the elliptical until I can no longer stand up.)

A couple of teenagers are hanging out in the parking lot, drinking sodas and covertly smoking cigarettes. I envy them their immortal youth. They’re not worried about emphysema or lung cancer or leathery skin, the very reasons I quit two years ago. All these kids care about is defending their high score on the Xbox and not getting their girlfriends pregnant. Lucky bastards.

A moment later, I reach the entrance to my brother’s tract of houses, the planned family community of
Golden Gables
. I make the appropriate right onto the main drive, careful to keep my speed well below the residential, twenty-five mile-an-hour limit. Wouldn’t want to be slapped with another ticket by some neighborhood cop looking to fill his monthly quota on my ass.

The houses in Danny’s neighborhood are neither garish nor ostentatious, nor are the lawns and grounds perfectly manicured. But everything seems to be just as it should be, in that
Stepford Wives
kind of way. The homes are medium to large, well kept—no peeling paint or cracked sidewalks—and the grass and foliage is well-tended and amply watered. The color scheme of the houses ranges from cream to beige to sand, with the only nod to nonconformity being the occasional red or blue or forest green front door. There are picket fences, herringbone-patterned brick walkways, and lush rose bushes. Several driveways are peppered with Big Wheels or shiny red wagons or bicycles. An old-fashioned tire swing hangs in a tree here. An antique rocker graces a porch there. Suburbia at its best.

I feel nauseous.

At the stop sign, I grab my cell phone, unlock it, and search my contact list for Danny’s street address. 20871. I make the left onto Heaventree Lane (no, I am
not
making that up), and scan the numbers painted on the curbs.

I’ve only been to Danny’s house once before, on my last trip, a week before he and Caroline signed the escrow papers. I’d been less than flattering in my assessment of their future home…and life. (Neighborhood: bourgeois. Yard: postage stamp. Interior: tired. Exterior: bland. Newly married couple buying a house: idiotic. Him marrying that piece of work Caroline in the first place: totally freaking insane.) I have to give Danny credit for not completely disowning me as a sister that day, but then, if he had, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be comfortably sitting in my lovely little apartment on West 79th Street, drinking a glass of Merlot and watching bad Monday night TV, waiting for Adam to drop by to give me a much needed orgasm. Crap.

As I pull to the curb in front of the one-story ranch-style house, I realize I needn’t have worried about not recognizing it. Loudly displayed on the stucco wall beside the garage door is a large, kitschy, sign with hearts and smiley faces and the legend
The Monroe Family Lives Here!

Jesus, Danny. Could you be any more of a geek?

I turn off the ignition, take a deep breath and count to ten, then push open the car door and step out onto the pavement. My legs are still stiff from the flight—it’ll take a couple of miles on the treadmill tomorrow to loosen them up—and I stretch my arms above my head to ease the tension in my back and shoulders. I move around the car to the passenger side and retrieve my purse, the only baggage I have for the moment, then head up the cobblestone path to the house.

Before I can ring the bell, the front door swings open and my brother appears, all six foot two of him. He throws his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs and making me sputter and cough.

“You made it!”

“Barely,” I mumble into his chest. I pull back and look up into his handsome, boyish face. My brother has aged these past few years, but he still possesses that easy-going, youthful energy—the kind that no amount of Botox or filler can buy. He wears slacks and a sport coat over a collared shirt (my guess is Ross Dress For Less) and a tie hangs limply around his neck. To see Danny in anything other than board shorts or jeans and a t-shirt is a bit unnerving.

“Nice threads. You’re in sales now, huh?”

“Someone’s gotta pay the bills,” he jokes.

And, God knows it won’t be Caroline bringing home the bacon.

“You look fantastic, Meg. Seriously. Better than ever.”

I smile and make a mental note to send a Christmas card to Dr. Ing, my “dermatologist.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “Clean living’s the secret.”

He snorts again. “That must be it.”

I hear commotion from inside the house, and based on the volume, I assume it’s the TV. “What are you watching?
Rambo
?”

“With a five-year-old and a two-year-old?” He grins. “Right. I guess we’ll have to go over appropriate television programming.” He looks me up and down. “It’s great to see you, Meg. I missed you. Thanks for coming.”

“Guilt is a powerful motivator, bro,” I tell him.

He chuckles, then looks past me to the curb. “What the heck is that?” he asks, jabbing his index finger at the Camaro.

“It’s a car, Danny. You know, they drive you places?”

“It’s a Camaro!” he cries, frowning. “I told you to get a seven-passenger.”

“Right. Well, they didn’t have any.” I know, lying is not nice and all that crap, but I’m too weary to argue with my brother. I’ve got more important things to do, like fix myself a cocktail and get used to the fact that I’m smack dab in the middle of suburbia and about to babysit for the first time since junior high school.

“Oh.” He shrugs, still staring at the Camaro. “I guess it can’t be helped. Where are your bags?”

“Either Ohio or St. Bart’s,” I tell him, trying not to sound annoyed. “Should be here tomorrow. I hope. I can run out to Bloomingdales later, when you get home, and grab a few things…”

“I’m not sure how late I’ll be, sis. Bloomie’s might be closed. But no worries! You and Caroline are about the same size. You can borrow something of hers.”

Like that’s gonna happen.

“How is she doing, by the way?” I ask, because I know I should.

“She’s hanging in there.” He snorts with laughter and I give him a puzzled look. “It’s just, she’s in traction. Get it? Hanging in there? Not in such a good mood, though. Don’t tell her I was joking about it.”

God forbid.

“But the baby’s okay, right?”

He nods vigorously. “Oh, yeah. No probs. They’re taking good care of both of them. Caroline’s just going a little stir crazy.”

We look at each other for a long moment. “Are we going to stand on the porch all night or are you going to invite me in? I thought you had to be somewhere.”

Danny shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, giving me a sheepish look. “Definitely, we’re going in. I just…I want to prepare you for…you know…”