Best of Luck Elsewhere Page 3

  “As long as you don’t make mention of that in your article, Mr. Mestas!”

  “Only if you stop calling me ‘Mr. Mestas.’ It’s Adam. Now, how about that picture? Do you want it in front of your condo? The light really plays beautifully off your face from this angle.”

  I looked coyly down and to the left, but then suddenly recalled his question about a disgruntled author.

  “Can you get a closer shot? Like a headshot or something? Maybe me next to my car, or even in it, so you don’t see where I live in the background?”

  “Oh, Eliza. I didn’t mean to worry you. But I understand you’d rather not advertise your personal location. Why don’t you lean on the back of your car and I’ll close in enough that you can’t see the surroundings.”

  When he was done taking a few shots, I lingered, waiting for him to make a move.

  When he didn’t, I decided I was in too much of a hurry to just sit around waiting for him to take the initiative, and instead just offered him a firm handshake. “Well, I better get going.” I got into my car, hurrying to get away from this awkward situation, embarrassed at my assumptions of his feelings. “It was nice seeing you again.”

  But he didn’t just go, as I’d expected. Instead, he leaned on the frame of my open car door like a romantic lead in an old movie.

  “Where are you going on vacation?” he asked.

  Did he actually care, or was he just buying time?

  “I’m going to Greece for two weeks. I’m ready for a vacation.”

  “I can tell. You’re single-minded in your determination to get me out of here. You don’t even have a little time for some friendly conversation?”

  “I’m not trying to get you out of here specifically, but I do have a flight to catch. It isn’t personal.”

  “Are you leaving out of San Diego?”

  “LAX.”

  “Driving up to Los Angeles by yourself? Or are you picking up your boyfriend on the way?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m meeting up with my sister, who will drive me to the airport. But I’m traveling alone. I like a good adventure.”

  “Adventure?” He smiled and handed me a business card. “Well, Ms. Tahan, sometimes the best adventures start on your own doorstep.”

  “Or in my own driveway?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Sure, with the right traveling companion.”

  Overhead a bird squawked as it passed us, and the slight breeze rustled the strands of Adam’s ponytail. In my hand, my keys tapped lightly against each other with a metallic melody. And in the space between Adam’s lips and mine sat a heavy silence that was anything but awkward.

  He spoke first. “I expect the article to run in about two weeks, just in time for your return. I’ll save some extra copies for you. Let’s get together for coffee and I can give you the copies.”

  “Sure. I’ll call you,” I replied, trying to play it cool.

  He shook my hand once more, firmly, but holding it long enough to make me certain he was on the same page I was. “Bon voyage, Eliza. See you soon.”

  He closed the door for me, and walked around the front of my car to his. I slid on a pair of sunglasses so I could watch him without his noticing. He slipped into the burgundy-maroon Mustang hatchback and drove off without another look my way. I read his bumper sticker as he pulled away: I – heart – Steinbeck.

  “I love Steinbeck, too,” I said aloud in the solitude of my car.

  Okay, so he was evidently a smart guy with good taste in literature. His lips and teeth flashed in my mind’s eye. His smile. The way his midnight eyes sparked–was it flirting?–when he said that I should call him by his first name. That long, black, silky ponytail. And of course all the other pleasing details I’d noticed while he walked back to his car and I played voyeur.

  I slipped the key into the ignition, and my old Civic jumped immediately to attention, as did my CD player. The guitar strumming began and Tracy Chapman’s passionate voice rose into the song.

  I patted my tickets once more, slid Adam’s business card into my other pocket, and backed my car out of the driveway. I turned to head for my sister Cleo’s house.

  CHAPTER 3

  I was an English major in college, and one of the many things you cover over and over in your lit courses is that a hero-to-be must go on a journey to discover what he needs to become a hero. The circle is complete when he returns home stronger, wiser, and able to accomplish what needs to be done. Though I didn’t aspire to be a hero, I suppose I was expecting my trip to Greece to be life-changing. I thought I’d return with the confidence and follow-through to move forward in my life. Accomplish my goals. Re-order the areas of my life that were so lacking.

  One area was my love life. And I now had an idea of who might fill the void.

  And I wanted to write a novel. Not too much to ask, right? I’d come up with an interesting idea during a creative writing class in college but had only gotten as far as a brief outline and character sketch. Then I’d dumped the notebook in a box as I moved again and again, planning to eventually exhume it and write “The New Great American Novel.” Instead I’d busied myself with my flashy new job, with my intensifying relationship with Liam, and eventually with buying a condo and planning a wedding.

  At this point in my life, all of my convenient distractions had fallen short, laying bare the chaos that churned underneath. And without any of the usual reasons for procrastination, I knew this had to be the right time to push forward. I was also hoping that an adventure in the exotic Mediterranean would inspire me. I’d brought a notebook full of fresh, blank pages, fully expecting to return with it filled.

  My adventure failed to dramatically change me, however. The Grecian landscape was more beautiful than I’d imagined. The architecture was thoroughly breathtaking. And I’d even had my share of new experiences. But I was the same ol’ me when I returned home.

  * * *

  My sister Cleo picked me up at the airport, and as she drove me back to her place, she was full of questions. I was grateful for the ride, but all I wanted to do was get home and get some sleep. I dreaded the hour and a half it would take me to drive home. As I stared out the window, I tried to focus on Cleo’s honest interest in my adventure.

  “What was your favorite place?”

  “Santorini, definitely. It was beautiful.”

  “That’s the one with all those blue-domed churches, right?”

  “Yeah. Right now is the off-season, so only locals were around, no tourists.”

  “Except you.”

  “But I felt like a local.”

  “What town did you stay in?”

  “Fira. Some of those Santorini photos you see in calendars are shot there. It’s desolate in an awe-inspiring way. I stayed in a tiny pension. Very few hotels or restaurants were open, and I saw just a handful of people the entire time. I hiked around for hours, absorbing the scenery: the narrow, super-steep staircases, the stormy ocean, the deep jade hills, and the red cliffs. I lost myself in all the beauty, Cleo.”

  “I’ll bet you could hardly believe you were there.”

  “Yeah. And the views were so awesome, I could hardly breathe. Tears came to my eyes. Literally. Tears.”

  “That sounds unreal.”

  “It was.”

  “And what did you think of Athens? I’ll bet that was amazing, too, with all that history!”

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Kinda blah, if you want to know the truth. And I never felt quite safe.”

  Cleo jerked her head around to look at me. Through her lightly tinted sunglasses I could see her large, perfectly lined eyes burning into me.

  “What do you mean? Were you in danger?”

  I patted her leg, trying to reassure her. “No, no. I just didn’t feel as comfortable as I did on the islands. And even if I weren’t safe then, I’m home safe now. No use worrying.”

  “I know, I know. Oh, hey, did you keep a travelogue?”


  “Travelogue?”

  “Yeah. Like a journal about your trip that maybe other people can read. Like when I went to Washington, DC.”

  “You couldn’t write much about that.”

  “I know, not about the security screenings and meetings. But remember I wrote about all the touristy stuff? You read it, and some friends read it. Come on, Liz. You remember.”

  I thought of my empty notebook. “I remember. I didn’t really do that. I mean, I did write a whole bunch of postcards.” I thought of the cards to Adam Mestas that I’d written, addressed, and then promptly tucked away in my suitcase. I’d think it was a good idea to send just one postcard, but as soon as I’d finish writing it, I’d decide it was too soon for this and that I’d seem desperate. Until I saw another postcard that I wanted to send him.

  In the end, I hadn’t sent Adam even one postcard, and now I was relieved at my restraint. In fact, I decided I might just keep them as a travelogue. He wouldn’t care if he never knew about them.

  “I’ll keep my eye on the mailbox then.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Where did you send them from?”

  “Fira, probably. Maybe one from Paros, too. I can’t quite remember.”

  “I just love getting postcards! Mom actually just sent me one from Botswana. The picture was so beautiful. It’s like getting a little souvenir, huh?”

  “I didn’t get a postcard.”

  “I got mine last week. Maybe you got one while you were away. Or she just sent me one because I showed interest.”

  I rolled my eyes. Yes, yes, you’re the perfect daughter. “What did she say?”

  “Oh, just dumela, and that she missed us and stuff. The usual.”

  “Dumela?”

  Cleo pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “God, Liz. Dumela. She’s only been using that word, geez, since she got there. It means hello.”

  “Okay, okay. I know that. I just hadn’t heard it spoken, I guess. Don’t be so damn judgmental, Cleo.”

  Cleo rolled her eyes now, dramatically, as if mocking me, then pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes and continued as if our little spat had not happened. Thus is the life of sisters. “So I’m getting a postcard from you from Fira and, where was it? Paros? Where else? You said you wrote a lot of them.”

  “Yeah, but I also wrote them to other people.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. Did you send some to Mom? She’ll love it if you did.”

  “I sent some to Mom.”

  “Who else?”

  “Just some other people, Cleo. Come on.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head. “You sent some to Liam, didn’t you?”

  “Only one.”

  “You didn’t want me to know you sent some to him, too.”

  “Just one! And I can send postcards to Liam if I want to,” I snapped. “He’s my roommate.”

  Cleo was silent for a moment, looking at freeway exit signs. We were getting close, and she began moving her red Corvette toward the right lane in a dance with the other cars that seemed to be choreographed to the classical music on her CD player. When she had merged and was satisfied with our safety, she replied with her usual cool, “Sorry, Eliza. I know you forgave him, and I know that should be good enough for me.”

  “And I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m just so damn tired.”

  “So much for sleeping the entire way on the plane, eh?”

  I broke into a little smile. “No kidding. What was I thinking?”

  “Take a power nap at my place before heading back.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. Would that be rude?”

  “Maybe, but I’m your sister. What is rudeness between sisters? When we were little, you used to put stickers on my face while I slept.”

  “You used to try to break the locks on my diaries.”

  “Yeah, so? What is a little rudeness between sisters? Besides, I have a lot of work to do and wouldn’t be much company if you were awake anyway.”

  “You’re busy? I could have called a cab, Cleo! You should have said something!”

  Cleo shook her head, exiting and turning onto the main road to her house. “You never know about those guys. They can be crazy drivers.”

  “We’re in Orange County. Not New York!” I laughed, but Cleo remained serious.

  “Bad drivers are just as dangerous in Orange County as they are anywhere else.”

  We both fell silent. The vision passed through my mind, as it did too often, of my sister as a fifteen-year-old in the hospital, waking up broken and swollen and asking where Dad was.

  I tried to keep the memories, the pain, at bay. Every time they cropped up again, it was too soon. Too often.

  “You’re right, of course, Cleo. What are you busy with at work?”

  Cleo came out of her own memories and replied with little interest, “Stuff for the government. Homeland Security has me on a full-time contract right now.”

  I thought about the questions I’d gotten in Greece. About the answers I had given, not even knowing that Cleo was here at home with clarity on the war and clarity about her job in waging it. “It’s great that you can help.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Guess?”

  “Well, it’s just a job they want me to do. Translating some security tapes, usual stuff like that. I’m not doing much. The fact that there’s a war makes it sound like what I’m doing is so much more important…more…”

  “Heroic?”

  “Yeah. But it’s just a job. I signed the contract before Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

  “Is that the official name?”

  “Yeah. What were they calling it in Greece?”

  “Illegal.”

  We pulled up to her house and I didn’t feel at all rude about crashing in her guest bedroom for a few hours.

  * * *

  When I woke up, Cleo took a break from work and made us a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. As we talked over our lunch and cans of Diet Pepsi, all tension from the drive home disappeared. That was just how we were. Just how most sisters are, I guess.

  “Have I thanked you already for dropping me off and picking me up?”

  “Yes, you have. So stop it already, Liz. It was so not a problem.”

  “Yeah, but with work and the war, I’m sure the Department of Homeland Security is really leaning on you right now. I’m surprised they haven’t asked you to relocate to Washington, DC!”

  “They did several years ago, when I first started doing a little work for them. But everything I do can be done over the computer. They send me recordings in Arabic, and I return transcripts in English. I’m all linked in to Washington, though I don’t know how they did it. I said I didn’t want to leave Southern California, and all of a sudden some IT guys were sent over to set me up an office in the house, complete with super-secret connections and stuff. I don’t know all the logistics because I’m not a techie. And other than a meeting here and there with other local people working with them, I’m free to leave ‘the office’ whenever I want. I was happy to see you off at the airport, and be the first to welcome you home.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Now that you’ve had a little nap, are you glad to be back?”

  “Eh, sorta. I’m not looking forward to getting back to the grind. But I admit I’m a little excited to see my interview in print here pretty soon.”

  “I almost forgot! Seems like forever ago you were telling me about that.”

  “It was only a couple of weeks ago. In the car, on the way to LAX, as a matter of fact.”

  “I still think you should have said bad stuff about your bitch of a boss in that interview.”

  “I told you already, she wouldn’t be my boss for long if I had.”

  “Because her superiors would know what an awful person she was.”

  “No,” I corrected her, taking the last sip of my Diet Pepsi. “Because I’d be fired quicker than a manuscript with poor spelling is rejected.�
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  “Editor-speak.” Cleo smirked. “I hope you said enough to earn you some points with your boss’s boss. They should know how hard you work while Rain Orwell takes all the credit.”

  “Can we please not talk about Rain?” I moaned. “I blocked her from my mind during my trip, and this conversation is just reminding me that I have to go face her again in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s talk about someone else you’ll be seeing soon.”

  I knew who she was thinking of, but asked anyway, coyly, “Oh? Who?”

  “The interviewer. The newspaper editor.”

  “Adam Mestas.” I couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. I had something worthwhile to look forward to back at home.

  “Of course. I’ve probably thought even more about him than you have these past couple of weeks, which is good because you don’t want to be too eager.”

  I didn’t admit to her that I’d thought plenty about him. Instead I just laughed.

  Cleo took my soda can and tossed it into the recycle bin. “Is he Arabic?”

  “Um, no—”

  “African-American?”

  “He’s Mexican.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me like you think I’m judging you, Liz. I’m just trying to get a mental picture. Geez. Now, you said he had long hair, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And romance-novel-worthy dark eyes, and a Cheshire Cat smile…”

  “I think you’re embellishing a little.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “Tall. A lot taller than me. Six feet, and maybe a few inches.”

  “How many inches, if you had to guess?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What? Six-foot-what? That’s all! Any other measurements are between you and him.” She laughed at her own joke, opened the fridge and, not finding anything much to share for dessert, closed it again.

  “I don’t know. Six-foot-four, if I had to guess.”

  “And is he skinny or built?”

  “Cleo, I don’t know. He was dressed for work.”

  “You said he looked more casual when he came over to your place.”

  My mind flashed instantly to his tan biceps stretching the short sleeves of his classy polo shirt. “Yeah, how could I forget?”