What Never Happened, page 18
He picks up the documents again. “And?”
“It’s inaccessible by golf cart and to regular Joes. I couldn’t see it.”
“Right.” He looks up. “And that means . . . ?”
“Someone drove her there in a car and also had permission to drive the backcountry.”
His eyebrows raise. “You’re good.”
“You have no idea.” I crunch into a taquito.
He brushes a crumb from my lip, and his thumb lingers there, and I burn and burn, and I want him to lean forward and kiss me right here in this booth as Bob Marley wails from the jukebox. But his phone vibrates, and his gaze drops to read the text message.
I wait as he taps out a response.
“Sorry about that.” He puts the phone down and tries to smile.
“Who is Mona?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Who?”
“That rude couple mentioned her?”
His eyebrows scrunch, then lift. “Oh. Her. Mona’s my stalker.”
I snort.
He doesn’t. “Seriously, she’s, like, one more ‘show up naked at my house again’ away from a restraining order.”
“Yikes.”
“And I never dated her, never slept with her . . .” He makes a face. “And I know who she voted for in the last election. I wouldn’t trust her with a corkscrew, and she wants my dick in her mouth? Nope. Not gonna happen.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
He chuckles. “Am I right, though?”
“I knew a guy who was all teeth.”
“How far did he get?”
“My mouth, and afterward, it felt like I’d been eating Cap’n Crunch all night.”
He explodes with laughter, then raises his glass. “Here’s to finding smart people who know how and when to use their teeth.”
We toast.
“Okay,” I say. “So you know real estate here.”
“I do.”
“There aren’t any houses to buy.”
“Not really.” He drags a chip through the ceviche. “How is this relevant to obituaries?”
“When I was at Felicity Amador’s house this morning and at Paula Paulsen’s house back on Tuesday, I saw business cards for ‘Alessandra Verascio, Avalon’s #1 Realtor.’”
“Paula’s house is worth one-point-three million dollars,” Noah says, “and it looks like it’s been through the war. It’s crazy. Old people live in the best houses.”
I snort. “You didn’t just say that.”
“It’s true. If Paula’s or Felicity’s families want to sell, I don’t see that as a bad thing. Mateo can’t afford the property taxes. Linda’s way the hell in Atlanta, and she’s not coming back here, not after all her shenanigans. A family who can love it and take care of it deserves to buy it.”
“Deserves?” I say, eyebrow high, muscles clenched. “Back in the day, there were people on this island who didn’t think my family deserved the house on Beacon Street.”
“They were wrong.”
“I don’t like that word. Deserves.”
“My bad.” Noah squeezes my hand. “And I didn’t mean it like that. Still holding old grudges all this time?”
“Uh, yeah.” My annoyance flits like a gnat between my eyes. “Murder isn’t the same as ‘he didn’t return my lawnmower’ or ‘she slept with my boyfriend.’”
“You’re right, but . . .” He shrugs. “You’re working too hard on this—”
“I just got here,” I say, laughing. “And I just dropped a story in your lap.” I cock my head. “I mean, where was Mateo or Louis Moncur on the night Paula Paulsen died? I saw Mateo at Paula’s. Did he know her? Where are the Bonginos? Did Moncur kill them?”
He drains the rest of the beer, then holds up the empty glass to the bartender. “And eat them? And leave their bones on an altar made from chicken bones?”
“You’re mocking me. Don’t do that. I don’t react well to shit like that.” This time, my phone vibrates. A GPS notification. “Gwen’s out of the house again.”
“That a bad thing?”
“She’s losing her memory.”
“People know her,” Noah says, “and they’ll make sure she’s okay. This isn’t LA, Colette, where senior citizens go missing and Silver Alerts blow up everybody’s phones.”
I watch the pink dot—Gwen—move down Beacon Street. “I should be there—”
Noah takes my phone. “Let’s go dancing.”
After he pays the bill, we climb into our carts. The sun has set, and the island flickers with light. I follow him back into town.
The Chi Club is steps away from the sheriff’s station, in a building with a green awning.
“I know,” he says, “it’s not the Standard or the Mayan, but! ” He raises his vape pen, then blows out a cloud of that fruit-scented vapor. “It’s all we have.”
I’ve stepped into an eighties movie: there’s a dance floor and pool tables, and everything’s bathed in fluorescent pinks, oranges, and greens. “No one’s here,” I say.
No customers sit on stools at the bar. No one hangs out at the pool table.
The bartender tosses us a wave and shouts, “What’s up, dude?”
We wander to the digital jukebox and choose six songs for five dollars. Noah pulls me to the empty dance floor.
I wiggle my hips and ass to Cardi B, and he steps back to enjoy the view. Then, he pulls me close, and we rock against each other in time. The vibe slows with an R & B classic, “Knockin’ da Boots.” Noah shouts, “He-eey,” in that old-school way. I slink into his arms, and we slow dance to this slow jam.
He squeezes me and holds me tighter.
I squeeze back and press my body to his.
Our foreheads meet, and we gaze into each other’s eyes.
“So should I be worried about that matadora spearing me through the heart?”
“Not at all.”
“Should I be worried about stalker Mona?”
He smiles. “Well . . . maybe.”
I smile. “Okay.”
We dance.
His nose nuzzles my neck.
My skin explodes from his touch.
“Ready to go?” His warm breath gently tugs every hair on my skin.
I can barely whisper, “Yes,” before sort of passing out.
He leads me outside.
The cold mist hits me and clears my head some but does nothing for the fire raging through the rest of me.
Holding hands, we walk to the harbor, stopping at the fountain. The slick streets are empty—we have the island to ourselves. We stand there, we rock there, nose to nose as misty rain drifts around us.
“Who gave you this?” I tap the compass pendant around his neck. “A girl?”
“Yeah,” he says, “and I’ll love her forever.”
“Did she give it to you so that you’ll be able to find your way back to her?”
“Yep, which is why I rarely take it off. I don’t wanna be lost.”
I laugh. “Your mom, she gave that to you.”
“She did.” He smiles. “Have a good time tonight?”
“The best time,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
It is the simplest, sweetest kiss in the world.
19.
Friday, March 13, 2020
Noah tastes like whiskey and gummy bears.
Before tonight, I hated the flavors of smoke and wood on a man’s tongue. Tonight, though . . . on Noah . . . he is a feast of flavors, and his kisses taste like vanilla, oranges, and candied almonds.
Right there beside the water, we make out like nineteen-year-olds, and I’m now the girl that mothers whisper about, the one letting her boyfriend disrespect her like that in public.
“Come home with me,” I say, catching my breath.
Before he can say yes—and his lips are formed to say yes—his phone rings with “Bohemian Rhapsody.” His eyebrows furrow.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “Your mother heard you were making out on the pier.”
“I’m about to get grounded.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, and the picture of an older blonde with his eyes brightens the phone’s screen. “Sorry, I have to—”
“No need to explain.” I give him the “no problem” smile.
“Mom, hey,” he says. “Everything okay?”
I step away and give him space. Out on the Pacific, lights burn on barges that carry televisions, fuzzy jackets, and scooters. I check my own phone and find a missed call from Andrea Liszl. She’s left a voice mail.
“Colette. Andrea, hi. Seems we’re having a hard time connecting. This book, oh my goodness, we have to get going on the manuscript. Listen: I’m flying to the West Coast next week, and I’ve never been to Catalina Island. Let’s say I pop over and we meet in person? Let me know. Talk soon. Bye.”
My stomach is a storm now, and I regret listening to this message. Not that the dying mood is all on me . . .
Noah’s hand covers his eyes as he listens to his mother shout into the phone.
I don’t want to be at the hospital . . . They say I have a fever . . . Come get me . . .
“Hey, Mom.” Noah’s eyes flick over to me. “Okay . . . okay . . . she hung up.” He pushes out a breath, then runs his hand through his wet hair.
I tug the sleeve of his jacket. “Sounds like chaos.”
He tries to smile. “She’s at the hospital. No one except her nurse is there—”
“Go,” I say, shooing him away, feeling guilty about not checking on Gwen all this time.
He takes my hand, then leans in for another kiss. “I’ll walk you to your cart.”
Then, at my cart, he says, “I should follow you home.”
“I live right there.” I point toward Beacon Street. “Less than a mile away. You’re going in the opposite direction.”
“Seriously,” he says, “The night nurse is—”
“Bohemian Rhapsody” plays from the phone again, and the picture of Elle Bancroft once again brightens the screen.
“She needs you,” I say.
“I need you.” He kisses me, and my blood becomes boozy even though I haven’t had a drink since June 2001.
But I push him away. “I’m not going anywhere.”
One last kiss, and he climbs into his cart.
At the stop sign, I turn right, and he turns left.
Damn it. A tourist’s golf cart blocks my driveway. I make a three-point turn, and my shoulders and arms burn from twisting this steering wheel.
There are no other empty spaces on this short block.
Pissed, I putter along until I find a spot a block and a half away. My phone vibrates with a text message from Noah.
Home safe?
No parking on my block
Tourist Airbnb assholes
LOL
You’re sounding like a true local already
Let me know when you’re home
At hospital now
20.
Saturday, March 14, 2020
I open my eyes.
Bright light shines past the pink bedsheet. That light isn’t from a flashlight. No—that’s light from the sun.
What time is it?
I reach for my phone, and the muscles in my arm creak.
I’m wearing the same sweatshirt and yoga pants from last night. I haven’t changed position from last night’s “face up to watch flames dance on the ceiling.”
My phone claims . . . That can’t be right. It can’t be noon.
Can it?
It is the correct time.
I got all this sleep and couldn’t enjoy it?
My phone also tells me that I have messages.
From Maddy: You still work here right? Jk Seriously tho the kite fest??
From Noah:
I had the best time last night
Didn’t think I’d wake up in a hospital waiting room though
My mother has a sinus infection
No virus tho!!
Nothing from Dr. Tamaguchi.
I respond to Maddy’s message first.
Ha ha
Working on Felicity’s obit
Challenging since my only source of info came from her great-nephew
Then Noah:
Sorry to hear that and sorry that I couldn’t make your morning as sexy as you deserve
How’s your mom?
I email the literary agent and tell her that, yes, Catalina is lovely but rainy right now and that I’d love to meet her.
But not now. Right now, I need to grab my laptop and bang out a draft of Felicity Amador’s obit before leaving the bed. Distractions are waiting for me beyond this mattress.
After completing the worst draft ever written, I drag my bones to the bathroom. All of me aches, but at least I’d danced and enjoyed life. I’d been touched and I’d been kissed.
That achiness washes off me as soapsuds now circle the drain. I brush my teeth, then slather lotion across my body. I feel refreshed and moisturized, ready to attack a second draft of the Amador obituary.
Not a lot of rain today but plenty of mist and haze. The colors of the room change as the sun moves above it all.
The incident report.
I’d taken a picture of the original that Mateo didn’t care about at first. Handwritten responses fill the form.
Circumstances: death
Decedent: Felicity Amador
Clothes: black slacks, orange overcoat, sweater
Sudden/apparent heart attack
Place: Haypress Pond
The statement from Mateo isn’t any different from the story he told me yesterday.
I search the Avalon Breeze archives for “Felicity Amador” and find none. I visit social media community boards, and only three people have commented on a post announcing Felicity Amador’s death.
Delia Michaelsen: She made the best cakes and was sweeter than every pastry she ever made. RIP Fel!
Iris Puchulski: Oh no when are the services?
Graham Zoltar: Her family what losers they didn’t deserve her
I send each poster a message explaining that I’m writing Felicity’s obit and if they’d like to share a memory . . .
Graham responds. Felicity’s daughter Socorro was a teacher’s assistant in my class and Felicity’s niece Linda worked in the cafeteria. Linda and her brother Hector would beat me up behind the casino, then take my bike and ride it around. One time they bent the frame. Felicity told my mother that since the other Amadors wouldn’t make things right that she would buy me a new bike. She must’ve said something to Linda and Hector because they never took my bike again. They took other things but not my bike.
I sigh—can’t really use this memory.
Unless I spin it. Felicity was a protector of the weak. She wanted to make things right for those in need.
My stomach growls, but I refuse to leave this room. Food will be my reward. Maybe I’ll treat Gwen to a fancy dinner at the restaurant on the water’s edge.
I click on the Breeze’s calendar of events. Shit. The marathon and kite festival. I kinda remember Maddy mentioning that my attendance was required. Both events started hours ago.
I text Maddy.
Sorry for screwing up today
I’m just trying to adjust and it’s going slow
She’s responding—ellipses bubble and stop . . . bubble . . . stop . . .
What is she gonna say, and why is she taking so—
This was a pretty busy day, she texts.
Lot of VIPs and orgs ran the race
Glad I was there to interview and take pics
I know adjusting is tough
Don’t let Noah distract you
I’ll let it slide today
I answer with thank-you hands and a thumbs-up, and then:
BTW you didn’t tell me re Mateo’s criminal history
Heads-up appreciated next time
Weren’t you a big time crime editor at the Bruin?
Thought you would’ve researched on your own
Don’t think Mateo has anything to do with you being distracted by Noah tho
IMHO
Her words—and that stupid shrug emoji—hurt. They twist in my gut and in my heart; then they catch fire. Not cool being thought of as a fuckup. I’m not a fuckup, but sometimes, I have some fucked-up ways. Fuckups wake up at noon and miss marathons and skip the chance to gush over some tenth grader’s Minecraft-themed kite.
As for Noah: he didn’t distract me.
In college, Maddy said shit like that whenever I was with a guy and not doing shit for her. I saw Batman Begins with one of the starters of UCLA’s lacrosse team instead of attending a lecture with Bob Woodward for the second time that week. You’re gonna let dick distract you and keep you earthbound, Maddy had emailed me. FOCUS FOCUS FOCUS, she’d written on a whole pad of sticky notes and then stuck them all over our apartment after I’d gone out for sushi with a reporter who reminded me of Blair Underwood. I mean . . . Bob Woodward or Blair Underwood, and I’m twenty years old. Come on.
It is almost four o’clock by the time I complete the obituary’s final draft. I then organize emails and place important dates for the coming week into my calendar.
Tomorrow, I will visit the museum and check out the Esther Williams exhibit and then write a bomb-ass article on it. That makes me chuckle. Have “Esther Williams” and “bomb-ass” ever been together in a sentence? I finally open the bedroom door. My sitting room looks golden in the light of the dying day. Grit and flakes capture sunbeams and twinkle like fairy dust.
The light is brightest upstairs. Gwen, wearing a lemon-colored sweatsuit, sits on the couch with a dirty martini and plate of snacks. “The world is ending,” she slurs. “We’re all gonna die.”
The news on the screen: Los Angeles is days away from Safer at Home mandates. Thousands around the world are dying. Scientists wearing bunny suits, care teams wearing protective gear, crowded emergency rooms, weeping families . . .
“We’re not gonna die.” I grab the TV remote control. “Smart people know things—they got it under control. It’s America. Mind if I change the channel?”
She waves a hand and finishes her cocktail.
I find a random basketball game and turn down the volume. “So.” I tap her knee. “Let’s go out to dinner. Do you feel like lobster? I feel like lobster.”
A grin spreads across her face. “And crab cakes. Ooh, and a proper martini.”
