The breath I was holding comes rushing out. Did that really just happen? I press a trembling hand to my mouth while my mind trips through the last sixty seconds. What are the chances of him jumping over my counter? One in a million? One in ten million? But why was he running from –? The cops. I should go before they come back and start asking me questions that I don’t want to answer.
Grabbing my purse from under the counter, I dig out my keys and hurry to lock the front door. Making sure everything is mostly as it should be, I hit the lights, set the alarm, and leave through the back door.
The two-block walk to my car is nerve racking. I’m half-expecting the cops to jump out and arrest me for aiding and abetting, or more likely, to find them shoving him, handcuffed, into a police car.
When my old Jetta rumbles to life, I scowl briefly at the illuminated check engine light before my mind goes back to wrestling with the night’s crazy turn of events. What did he do? The short drive home is filled with speculation, though I can’t seem to come up with any crime that could fit with what little I know of him.
It’s not till I’m inserting the key in the lock of the main door of my low-rise apartment complex that I realize it doesn’t matter what he’s done. Nothing could change my opinion of him. Over the last ten months, I’ve thought about my stranger more times than I can possibly count. In fact, sometimes when I feel myself getting really overwhelmed with the urge to return to my old ways, I conjure up his appalled expression to shore up my defenses.
“Stupid door,” I mutter when the usual jiggling of the key refuses to convince the lock to turn. Through the glass, I see Mrs. Stanfield, my elderly neighbor from across the hall, shuffling closer, so I wait patiently for her to let me in.
“Piper,” she says sharply, suspiciously. “What are you doing out here?”
Not even bothering to correct my name, I give her a tight smile and hope for the best. Mrs. Stanfield and I have a rocky history. “It’s the lock again. Didn’t they just come to fix it yesterday?”
She takes the bait, thankfully. If there’s one thing she dislikes more than all the noise I used to make, it’s our landlord, Mr. Bostwick, and his lack of timely repairs around the building. Despite her small stature and advanced age, Mrs. Stanfield is no lamb. Two minutes into any conversation with her and her wolf status becomes clear. “It’s not working?” she demands as she turns to lodge another complaint.
“No, it’s not,” I lament, though really, I’m brimming with satisfaction. Mr. Bostwick is a grade-A creep, one who constantly hounds me when my rent is short. You’d think it was his job to collect the rent or something. Thank goodness, I’m paid up . . . at least for the next few days until the first of the month comes around again.
Heading down the hall in the opposite direction from Mrs. Stanfield, I curse Stephanie Lo. She, and her revoked student visa, left me without a roommate mid-semester and I haven’t been able to find anyone willing to replace her yet. With a sigh, I unlock the door to my small, one bedroom apartment.
Slumping momentarily against the door, I reach behind me to twist the deadbolt, but don’t bother to turn on the lights. A short hallway leads me into the kitchen and living area where I eye my bedding that’s still out on the sofa. I should probably move back into the bedroom now that my roommate is gone, but lately, my energy for anything more than the bare minimum is at an all-time low.
Tiredly, I throw my keys onto the island and let my purse slip down my shoulder to the floor before I kick off my sneakers and flop down onto the couch. Stretched out in the quiet, my mind picks up where it left off in the car.
It was really him.
Irrationally, I feel a twinge of regret that he obviously didn’t recognize me. But why would he? I look a lot different with my hair back to its natural brown, very little makeup on . . . and wearing proper clothes.
And of course, the context was wrong. He hadn’t exactly been in a state of mind to allow for casual reflection. You look familiar. Have we met? My lips twitch at the thought.
I wonder if he’d be proud of how I’ve gotten myself together.
I huff out a short laugh. God, I’m delusional. But having something other than my usual problems to think about is a reprieve I’m more than willing to indulge in. Instead of worrying about how I’m going to pay the rent or how much of a disaster my mother’s birthday brunch is going to be tomorrow, I drift off to sleep with fantasies of my stranger’s approval filling my head.
The next day, my heels tap out a staccato rhythm on the peony lined walkway that follows the circle drive to my parents’ front door. With so many guests arriving, valets scrambling to accommodate their cars, and vendors making last minute deliveries, the scene is chaotic. The decision to park down the block was definitely the right one. My Jetta may have fit in when I got it brand new for my sixteenth birthday ten years ago, but according to my mother, it’s an eyesore now, especially here in this very upscale Palo Alto neighborhood.
I grew up in this house . . . well, mansion, really. If the fountain in the center of the drive didn’t give it away, the size of the columns would. It’s never really felt like home though, not even when I lived here. Except when I see my father just inside the open double doors, greeting guests and directing traffic, I feel a surge of affection. He’s a good man who’s always done his best, not only for me, but for all of his children.
“Ellie,” he says, greeting me with a warm smile that crinkles the fine skin around his eyes behind his glasses.
“Hi, Dad.”
He pulls me in for a hug and then holds me at arm’s length to study me. “Ellie looks so good on you, sweetheart. You’re doing well?”
At sixty-five, my father is still a tall, imposing figure but I’m sure he’s grateful that I’ve finally out-grown my wild, unruly ways. While my sister and three brothers have contributed to some of his gray hair, I know I’m responsible for most of it. “I’m good. How about you and Mom?” My gaze skitters to my mother who stands a few feet away, talking brightly with one of her charity friends.
He leans in as if letting me in on an amusing secret. “She’s a bit . . . disconcerted with turning fifty.”
“I bet,” I whisper, my lips twitching with a knowing grin. My mom is a firm believer in looking one’s best. Beauty may only be skin deep, but she claims it’s the root of all success. To say she’s not a fan of the aging process would be an understatement.
She approaches wearing a perfectly tailored Chanel suit and a polite smile that my dad interprets for what it really is, thinly veiled contempt. “Doesn’t our daughter look wonderful, Janine?” he says quickly, hoping to head off whatever cutting comment is about to come out of her mouth.
“Piper,” my mother coos condescendingly, setting my teeth on edge. “Yes, you look . . . wonderful. But darling, must you stick with this dreary brown color?” she asks, taking a lock of my hair between her thumb and forefinger like it disgusts her.
“We can’t all be natural blondes like you, Mom.”
She purses her lips. “You’re right of course, but that doesn’t mean we have to settle for what we’re given.”
“I suppose it’s my fault,” Dad says, trying to diffuse the situation. “She got her coloring from me.”