I knew I should move away, punch myself in the face if necessary, but I didn’t do either of those things. Instead, I watched as she floated, finished her beverage, and then finally climbed out. This was a mistake. The sight of the water sluicing off her body in the violet light of the hot tub made my mouth dry, and I was making a weird raspy breathing noise in my throat. Not to mention the fact that I was essentially being a pervy Peeping Tom and I knew Jackson would slap me upside the head for it.
Sorry not sorry. I couldn’t move. She hopped from foot to foot and I suspected the cool decking was freezing under her bare feet. She shrugged into her robe, wrapped her hair, and grabbed her plastic cup. I saw a flash of the tattoo on her wrist but still couldn’t make it out. She dashed to her house and then stood perfectly still for just a moment. That should have been my warning, but I was too enthralled to look away, and that’s when she turned and faced the house. As if sensing my stare, her gaze zeroed right in on me. I rolled back, dropping the drapes.
A hot blush of shame heated my face, and my heart was galloping in my chest. I was terrified for one crazy moment that this debacle might cause me to have another episode. I pulled my phone out of my pajama pocket, getting ready to call Lupita and Juan. But nothing happened. The panic eased. My heart slowed. I was okay.
I didn’t dare look out the window again, but I knew what I had to do. Such flagrant disregard of the document I had sent her simply could not be tolerated. I rolled over to my desk and grabbed a piece of paper and an envelope. Clearly, my tenant needed a refresher on the rules.
Annabelle
7
I waited for a shout. There was nothing. I thought maybe a shaking fist would appear. That didn’t happen either. Instead, the grounds between my little house and the big house grew very quiet as if I wasn’t alone in waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.
I closed and locked my door, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten carried away. I decided to forget about it and preheated the oven to cook the frozen pizza Soph had put in my freezer. This was best friend love in its purest form.
While the pizza cooked, I took a quick shower and put on my pajamas. Several times I walked back to the windows that overlooked the yard. I stared at the curtain that I was certain I’d seen move but there was nothing. No movement, no light, no indication that anyone lived in the house at all. Maybe I had imagined it. Hmm.
I took my pizza into bed—because, why not—fired up my laptop, and watched some reruns of The Office. Since I was now working in an actual office again, it resonated. I glanced around my bedroom during the opening credits, noting again the lack of art. It was positively savage to have nothing but barren walls. Art, in my opinion, was a window to an alternate world of imagination, emotion, and truth.
That’s how I’d always viewed it at any rate. Ever since I was a kid, museums to me were like amusement parks, where every painting was a portal to another dimension of the artist’s creation. It was why I initially wanted to be a fine artist, but I didn’t believe I had the purity of talent, plus I wanted to eat, move out of my parents’ house, pay my own bills, and so forth.
I considered the plain white wall across from me. What would I hang on it? It would have to be big, huge in fact, to cover so much real estate. A landscape? Something that felt like I could step right into it and smell the sun-warmed wildflowers or the new-fallen snow or the damp darkness of a forest at night. Should it be desert mountains in all their bronze and purple glory? Or maybe a seascape to counteract the arid climate, something with big blue-green waves crashing on a rocky shore? Perhaps, a still life? A bowl of lemons so vibrantly yellow that the blistered rind seemed like it could be plucked right out of the painting and the one lemon sliced open made the viewer pucker at the potential bite of its tart juice. Yes, I would like that.
* * *
I woke up with a gob of cheese stuck to my face. I’d fallen asleep on my pizza. My computer battery was dead, and—I glanced at the clock—I was late. Later than late. I should be walking into the office right now!
My phone was on my nightstand, and I picked it up and glared at it. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Oh, the betrayal! I ran into the bathroom. One glance in the mirror, and I screamed. My hair was a rat’s nest, I had a pimple sprouting on my forehead, and I kept burping pepperoni.
I combed out my hair and twisted it into a topknot. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I dashed to my suitcases, which I had tossed into the closet, where they remained unpacked as I hadn’t had the motivation to deal with them yet.
I riffled through the first one and found my underwear. I yanked it on and then flipped the lid on the second one, which was full of acceptable work clothes. I grabbed the ubiquitous black knit dress and a zebra print scarf. I pulled it over my head, minding my hair. Then I grabbed a pair of thick socks and my beat-up black high-top Converse sneakers, which were more scuffed than not. I didn’t care. My feet were still tender and these shoes would not cause any more harm. I grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge and a granola bar from the pantry, dropped them into my bag, and raced for the front door. I was killing it! If I kept up this pace, which meant running all the way to work, I would only be fifteen minutes late.
I thought about texting Soph and making an excuse, but our friendship was too valuable for me to treat it like that, plus she was my boss now. I was going to have to take my lumps for being late and just make certain it didn’t happen again. Of course, it might have been easier if I hadn’t said I’d be there bright and early. Ack!
I grabbed my jean jacket—it was cold in the morning—and yanked open the front door. Taped to the middle of the double doors was an envelope. I snatched it off and stuffed it into my bag, barely taking time to lock the door behind me as I ran down the driveway for the street.
By the time I got to the office, I was panting and sweaty and even my comfortable kicks were chafing my feet. As I stood waiting for the elevator, I shrugged off my jacket and pulled the front of my dress away from my skin in order to get some air. I was just checking the messages on my phone when the doors opened and Carson stepped out.
He blinked at the sight of me, and a slow smile curved his lips. “Just getting in?”
“Early meeting with a client ran late,” I lied. Although maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the mysterious envelope on my door had been about a job and not someone trying to sell me life insurance. I could always hope, right? I lifted my phone to my ear to listen to the voicemail from my sister, Chelsea.
“Sure it was,” he said. His voice was whisper soft and full of doubt.
Then he shook his head, dismissing me as he stepped out of the elevator and around me as if I were no more significant than a cautionary Wet Floor sign. I knew he was trying to rattle me, but I was not about to let him.
I tipped my chin up in the air and strode into the elevator. I lifted my phone to my ear and pretended to be talking into my phone, and said, loud enough for Carson to hear me, “Hi! Yes, isn’t it fabulous? So nice to have such a huge client come on board.”