After going back to the scene of the crime, specifically our introduction, I ring her doorbell to apologize, but she never answers the door. I don’t even see the blinds move to uncover her face peering out at me.
After writing a thank-you letter, I leave it in her mailbox, and, frowning at the bright peacock, I silently beg it to give her the message. Then, getting desperate, I consider finding her class schedule and showing up. But you can’t, I remind myself. That’s crazy behavior and will push her further from you. She will wonder why it matters so much that you find her.
One night, I’m huddled on my mattress underneath the threadbare Spider-Man comforter I borrowed from the boys and staring at a pile of clean clothes on the couch—I just washed them in our community laundry room with some quarters that Diane brought home from the casino. I don’t ask if they’re her winnings or the leftover change from what she spent. I don’t ask because I don’t want to know.
Bright-yellow fabric peers out from the bottom of the pile.
Snapping my fingers, I have it—the golden ticket. Charlotte’s raincoat. She told me to just keep it, but I’m going to have to return it to her.
But how?
She’s been a ghost.
Impatient, I’ve been strolling around the lake, walking past her house, and I never see any vehicles come or go. I’m worried the neighbors are getting suspicious, since I’m always alone and out of place or futilely knocking on her door. And as much as I try to blend in, I’m not one of them.
Spending another aimless afternoon walking around the lake, I hear two women in an animated discussion about an upcoming trip to the Bahamas one’s family is taking. As they walk and jog, I stay behind them, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“What’re you going to do with Checkers?” the shorter one, wearing skintight jogging pants, asks. “The last time you boarded him, he came home ten pounds lighter and with kennel cough.”
“Well, the Carters told me about an app that pairs you with dog walkers and sitters near your location.”
My ears perk up, the conversation securing my undivided attention. “You can find someone local that comes to your house, or vice versa. We’re going to try it for this trip, see how it goes.”
The women switch topics, this time to boring housewife shit, like whose friend’s husband slept with the new Pilates instructor, but inside I’m tingling with excitement.
Inspired, I start to actually run, passing them both as I make my way around the length of the water, a fire lit under my ass. A job I can make money at that provides me a reason to be walking in her neighborhood?
Perfect.
The only issue is my inconsistent phone plan, but I have an idea.
If Diane knows I have a job and plan to contribute to bills, she’ll be willing to help. I decide to talk to her later that night.
At first, she looks skeptical.
“People need pet and house sitting that much?” Her glasses move down the bridge of her nose as she wrinkles it.
“Yes,” I say. “I can show you the app.” Diane lets me download it on her phone, just so she can scroll through the current list of available pet sitters.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” She gives me a Diane smile, which is more of a sneer. “I’ll get you some more minutes on your phone.”
Then she gives me a brilliant idea for when I set up my profile—to use the neighbor’s mutt and a feral apartment cat as previous experience. I embellish a bit, pretending I once worked at a now-closed pet store. I mention my years of babysitting experience. That has to count for something.
I upload some references and hold my breath.
Using Charlotte’s zip code as my own, I get an in-box full of potential clients before long. Because I’m flexible and can stay at their homes, I can do double duty and water plants while watching their houses as well. I reject the ones that are too far away and make up excuses for people who want their pets to come to me.
Over the next couple of weeks, I stop by Charlotte’s house and ring the bell. It goes unanswered. I’m almost positive she and Noah are on vacation. The house shows no signs of life, and even the peacock fills up with mail.
One of my jobs involves house and dog sitting a terrier named Benji for a family a few streets over from Charlotte. I stroll past her house daily, sometimes multiple times, as he sniffs his way through the immaculate lawns. I’m careful to clean up after him, not wanting to get bad reviews or complaints from the neighbors.
The assignment is a long one, over two weeks, and one day I’m rushing to catch up as he roams his way through the subdivision. Benji has stopped to mark a shrub when I hear a dull thud, and the squeak of a garage door occupies my attention.
It’s Charlotte’s stall slowly opening.
I watch her shift into reverse, my legs feeling like rubber.
It’s now or never.
I’m tired of wearing or carrying her damned jacket all the time in case I finally spot her. I yank it off.
Launching down the street, Benji yaps at my heels, sure we’re playing a game of tag. I pause at the end of her driveway, but she doesn’t notice me in her mirrors until I’m standing directly behind her, waving the bright-yellow coat like a flag.
Taking a deep breath, I yell, “Wait!”
The Jeep hesitates as her window slides down. “What in the . . .?”
“Wait, please wait.” I hurry to the driver’s side. “I still have your jacket.” Scared she’ll close the window before it’s safely in the vehicle, I hold it in the air as a peace offering.
Gaping at me, she considers me for a moment. “It’s okay, you can have it. You didn’t need to make a trip back here for that old thing.”
“But it’s not mine, it’s yours.” We stare at each other in tense silence, her eyes darting down to the twenty-pound yapping dog beside me.
“Keep it.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
Benji barks, and Charlotte peers at him. “Is that yours?”
“No.” A blush burns on my cheeks. “I’m dog sitting.”
“In my neighborhood?”
“Yeah, I’ve met a lot of the neighbors from hanging out at the lake. Someone needed a dog sitter last minute, and I volunteered.” I grin and add, “It was a lucrative job opportunity.”
She nods, her eyes shifting to the rearview mirror, and her hand lifts from the gear shift.
“Look,” I rush to add, “I’m sorry for how I acted. You were so kind and thoughtful, and I was an asshole.”
Her face tightens. “It’s okay, Elle, really. You were right: I am a perfect stranger.”
“Yeah, but you’re not.” I shrug. “You were so nice to me, and I didn’t deserve it.”
Giving a backward wave, she says, “It’s water under the bridge.”
“I can’t handle you being mad at me.”
She brusquely motions toward the street. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a nobody.” Her eyes glance at the digital clock on her dashboard. “I’ve got to be going or I’ll be late for an appointment.”
“Can we talk again?”
“About what?”
“I want to interview you.”
Her knuckles go white, and I glimpse trepidation in her eyes. “For what?”