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  I always made an effort to keep my personal life separate from my professional one, and I knew it was a bad idea to open this Pandora’s box in the middle of my workday. Nevertheless I automatically pulled from my wallet the one picture in it, and got ready to face the sadness. Yes, right in the middle of the workday.

  The picture was of our family. Mom and Dad and Cleo and I, shortly before the accident. We are all sitting by the fireplace in the living room and laughing. Mom is leaning against Dad’s shoulder to keep her balance and I could still hear their simultaneous laughter which sounded like music. Every year we would invite some of the older church members who might not have family to our house for Christmas dinner. That year, one of the older men from the church took this family picture for us. But of course, in his usual way, Dad cracked a joke just as the camera snapped and we were all cracking up. Once we all got hold of ourselves, the man from church asked if we wanted him to take another picture. Dad had said no. It was one of Dad’s favorite pictures, and he’d kept it in his wallet.

  Ever since I’d retrieved this picture from my dad’s wallet, I’d tried to remember the joke he had told. I never could remember it, but it didn’t really matter. I liked how happy we all looked. We were always laughing back then.

  Now I looked closer at Cleo. The picture had obviously been taken before Cleo’s laser surgery. Her glasses sat crookedly on her nose. Few pictures showed her with her glasses on, as she usually yanked them off before the shutter clicked. I guess she’d been laughing too hard in this one to remember to pull them off. She was hugging a Stephen King novel to her chest, Christine, though it could have been any of King’s novels. Everyone at school was reading his stuff that year, except me. My name is probably still on the high school library’s waiting list somewhere, edging toward the top with the rest of the uncool kids who did not catch onto the trend until everyone’s name was on the hold list. Maybe at my reunion, they’d assign me The Shining, with a stamp that reminded me to return it in two weeks. The librarian would warn me that there were other uncool students waiting for it, so not to be late.

  Cleo was definitely cooler than me. Certainly before the accident, at least. Maybe even after, when her friends stopped talking to her and began whispering about her. When she withdrew from her old life, she dedicated her time to studies and became known again throughout the school, this time for being the smart one.

  At the moment that the picture was taken, there was no way that any of us could know that this would be the last Christmas photo of our family. Only four months later Cleo, a happy-go-lucky fifteen-year-old with a learner’s permit tucked into her purse, climbed behind the wheel of my dad’s Chevy Sprint and changed our world forever.

  I had been in the library finishing a report so I didn’t see it happen. But my imagination pieced together the scene from the accounts I had heard and my mind played the reel over and over. Dad pulling into the school parking lot and waving Cleo over to the car. Dad getting out and moving to the passenger side, dropping the keys in her hand as they passed one another. Cleo giving him a peck on the cheek, excited but not losing her cool in front of anyone who might be watching. Cleo climbing behind the wheel, Dad buckling up and making a joke before getting serious about instructing her driving. He probably praised her on the way she maneuvered out of the parking lot.

  She insists still that she just forgot to put her glasses on, but I knew her better than anyone else and I was sure that she planned to put them on once they were away from the school. She never wanted her friends to see her in glasses. Not that such detail mattered much now. But I always wondered if she might have seen the truck speeding toward the passenger side if she’d had them on. She might have been able to see that it was not slowing down for the stoplight. Of course, she was just learning to drive and might not have been driving defensively. And Dad was about as defenseless as he could be when the truck barreled into his door.

  Like everyone in the family, I was overcome with grief for a long time. I lived in a shadow world where I was only concerned with my own despair and with fear for the next tragedy that might hit my loved ones. Slowly, slowly, I began to focus on finals, then college, then Liam. I welcomed these distractions when they came, and the hole in my heart became just a fact and no longer a preoccupation. Cleo had no such distractions. Her injuries kept her out of school, giving her endless time to ruminate, to drown in her guilt. Finally she, too, finally found ways to continue living. By the time she was back in school, it was clear that she had about as much interest in reconnecting with her friends as they did in reconnecting with her. Though Cleo refused to speak about the accident, she clearly chose to cling to Mom and me.

  * * *

  Before I knew it, my entire lunch hour had passed, and I was sitting there with cold grape leaves and a picture, sobbing. It wasn’t fair. Dad had been too young to die. Cleo had been too young to have to deal with that kind of guilt. We should be the family in the picture still.

  I didn’t want to be the perfect daughter if it took going through what Cleo had gone through.

  I checked my email once more before getting back to work. Another message had come in from Cleo. I opened it and read the short note: P.S. Mom said to tell you she loves you and misses you. Meant to tell you in the last message. Cleo.

  I wrote her back immediately, drying my eyes.

  Cleo: Thanks for the P.S. I needed that. Eliza.

  Now, back to work.

  After such a sad lunch hour, I was relieved to return to fiction. I contacted a handful of authors with the happy news that we were interested in seeing their complete manuscripts. This was a pretty good job when it came to taking my mind off real issues in my life.

  CHAPTER 8

  By six o’clock on Wednesday I still had no idea what I’d be wearing when Adam showed up at seven. Liam hadn’t been any help since he’d taken off with my car as soon as I’d come home. I gave up and rang Cleo, falling onto my bed, trying to avoid the piles of clothes.

  I’d almost hung up, thinking it was about to go to voicemail, when she picked up breathlessly. “Cleo?” I asked.

  “Eliza! What’s up?”

  “Are you with a guy?”

  She laughed. “Kinda. But not the way you think. Jorge is a friend and…well, someone I’m kinda dating. He’s working on my car right now and I had walked over to his garage to see how it was going. On my way, I had a brilliant idea to pick up a couple things at the little market down the street, without considering how I’d feel walking back with four grocery bags over my arm. Let me tell you—”

  “Not a good idea?”

  “No. I should have taken the other car and just driven over to Jorge’s and then driven to the market. What was I thinking? I’m not in Europe or Oregon, for heaven’s sake. This is Orange County! I shouldn’t feel bad about driving everywhere. Everyone else does.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sista. You don’t have to convince a Southern Californian of the virtues of the automobile.”

  “So, that wasn’t why you were calling then? To be preached to?”

  “Not tonight, I have a date. A second date.”

  I could hear Cleo’s leather couch squawk as she plopped into it. I instantaneously recalled the buttery-softness of the tan leather and knew she was at this moment about as comfortable as a person can be.

  “With the newspaper book editor?”

  “Yes, Adam Mestas. We went for lunch on Monday, too.”

  “A second date? Wow, Eliza! From the description you gave me before…woo.”

  “I can’t figure out what to wear, Cleo. An immature problem, I know. But still…”

  “And where are you going?”

  “When we spoke earlier today he said he was thinking he’d take me out to dinner and then to something more active.”

  “Active as in…” She stretched the words out like a rubber band and they snapped back with, “Physical?”

  I sat up and stared in the mirror. “I don’t know,
that’s the thing. I was not sure how to ask him. I couldn’t quite say, Are you planning on seducing me, or are we going to play miniature golf?”

  “Oh, no. That would not be the thing to say.”

  “So how do I dress?”

  “Wear something cute underneath, in case a seduction is in order. And you need to wear something nice, but probably not a dress in case you’re going to batting cages or something. Do you have some slim-fit black slacks?”

  “I have every kind of black slacks I can find at a good price.”

  “Okay, try those with some kind of hippy-romantic shirt. Do you have a tunic-style shirt, with an interesting print?”

  “Hmm…” I sorted through the shirts in my closet, and pulled out a hippy-looking shirt in a wispy fabric with wide sleeves. “It isn’t quite a tunic, but it wraps around and ties in the back. It’s red with a red-orange and orange pattern. I think it will do.”

  “Yeah, and with all those oranges, definitely wear a bright blue necklace or sash or something. There you have it. Abracadabra. How much time do you have left?”

  I glanced at the clock. “Thirty minutes. He better not be early. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it went. And thanks, Cleo.”

  “Fashion Coordinator Extraordinaire at your service,” she replied and hung up.

  I threw on her suggested outfit, complete with “something sexy,” something lacey and red, underneath. I added strappy black heels and a chunky blue necklace that I’d made during my short-lived hobby of jewelry design shortly after Liam and I broke up and I needed something to occupy my time and hands so I didn’t binge away my blues. The outfit looked great. I looked great. The wispy shirt gave me an excuse to pull my hair up off my neck and into a high ponytail, and I was ready to go. Ready to go to dinner and ready for whatever active thing followed.

  * * *

  He wasn’t early, and I decided I ought to be doing something interesting when he arrived, so it didn’t look like I had spent all evening getting ready and waiting, even if I had. I grabbed Positively 4th Street by David Hajdu, a book I had read before getting into publishing, and opened it to somewhere near the middle, reading a section about Bob Dylan joining Joan Baez on tour in the early sixties. What started as an attempt to look like I had an interesting mental life ended up reminding me of the days when I’d read constantly. I’d keep a book in my purse to read in elevators and while waiting in lines. At night I’d start reading after dinner and read myself to sleep. In fact, I now realized that I hadn’t read anything other than mystery submissions since I had started my publishing career. I needed to reclaim my nights as my own.

  The doorbell sounded and my heart raced. I marked my page with my index finger and trotted casually to the door, throwing my ponytail over my shoulder, in case he could see me through the window.

  “Hey Adam!” I said cheerfully as I threw open the door.

  I instantly took in his classy outfit, confident stance, glowing face. His matte black tie sat boldly against his brick red silk shirt. A ribbon of black hair had come loose from his low ponytail and was slashing dramatically over his right eye. He pushed it out of the way and it was all I could do to keep from swooning.

  “Eliza, hey,” he said with a dazzling smile, as though he hadn’t expected me but was happy that I happened to be here. I wondered if that were practiced, or if he just had a natural way of making a girl feel good about herself.

  “Come on in,” I invited, stepping aside.

  He closed in on me and his musky cologne swirled around me, intoxicating me. I didn’t recognize the scent, but I knew it would be forever connected to this moment. He ran a hand up my arm, my draping sleeve giving way so that his palm connected with my cool skin. “You look great, Eliza. Stunning.”

  I blushed and looked down. I noticed how his black slacks skimmed at the right times and then fit snuggly in just the right places. “Thank you. So do you.”

  He moved his hand to my cheek. “How refreshing it is to hear a woman say ‘thank you’ in reply to a compliment, instead of refuting it.”

  I raised my eyes to his. “I’m not like other women,” I heard myself say breathlessly before I even thought to check my response.

  Adam leaned down, and with his lips close to my ear he whispered, “I know, Eliza.”

  And then there was contact, glorious contact. His warm lips touched ever-so-gently the place on my neck right below my ear. I turned my face, and our eyes met.

  “So, you said on the phone that we’d have dinner and something active,” I whispered.

  He misunderstood. It was my hint that our something active could be now, could be this and what came next. My hint failed.

  Adam pulled away and straightened up. “Right. I’m so sorry, Eliza. I thought you…I guess I just read that wrong. You’re right, though, I did promise you dinner.”

  You’re kidding me! You took my hint the wrong way! But even as my mind was throwing this back I knew it was unfair to rely on hints. “I didn’t exactly mean it that way,” I tried, but the electric moment was over, short-circuited by awkwardness and explanation.

  “Well, I have a couple ideas, but I’m not sure what you’re in the mood for. Plus I’m not really from this neighborhood, so I don’t know all the options. I mostly just got suggestions from my colleagues, to be honest.”

  His pre-planning gave away that he was as excited about this date as I had been. Excited enough not to simply wing it. “What did your sources come up with?”

  “There’s the Old Spaghetti Factory, just down the street from you. I know that the one that used to be downtown’s good. Also the Fish House Vera Cruz and the California Mining Company on Restaurant Row are both supposed to be nice.”

  “Restaurant Row is only a few blocks from here, and there are lots of good places. But you know, the Spaghetti Factory is one of my all-time favorites and I haven’t been there in a while. Why don’t we go for what we both already know we like?” I replied, playfully resting a hand on his forearm. It was a solid forearm, I noted to myself. A strong forearm.

  With that, we moved out of the condo and into his burgundy-maroon Mustang. I couldn’t help noticing that this seemingly confident guy had a recently washed and waxed car. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d completed the picture with a new air freshener. I regained my confidence, knowing that we were equally yoked with anticipation.

  He must have caught me checking out his car. Instead of realizing that I was noting the cleanliness of the thing, he assumed I was not impressed with the vehicle itself. “It’s an old car, an ’88. But it runs well. Has a lot of power. I’ve been thinking about getting a new one, but I just haven’t decided what I want.”

  “Oh, I like your car. There’s no hurry when you like your car.”

  “I do like it,” he admitted, smiling. At least he knew I was not judging him by his car. “But I should get something new eventually. I don’t think it’s a good idea to show up for interviews in such an old car.”

  “The bad thing about your getting a new car,” I countered, “is that you’d have to find another ‘I love Steinbeck’ sticker.”

  “You saw that, huh?”

  “I noticed it the first time we met. I ‘heart’ Steinbeck, too.”

  “I know you do. You said your favorite book was The Wayward Bus.”

  He remembered my favorite book. “Where did you get that bumper sticker?”

  “The Steinbeck Center in Salinas. It’s a great museum.”

  “I’ve been meaning to go. I stopped by the old museum back in, I guess it was ’96 or ’97, on my way to San Francisco. It was just a storefront then. They were either building the new museum or building the funds for it.”

  “You’ve got to see the new museum. Maybe we can both go. You know, so I can get a new bumper sticker for when I get my new car.” He flashed me a smile.

  He held the door open for me and I climbed in, inhaling a deep breath of a brand-new, mocha-scented air freshener.

  *
* *

  The waiter set my plate of spaghetti with browned butter and mizithra cheese in front of me and garlic-parmesan chicken in front of Adam. He asked if we’d like anything to drink other than water, but we both said no.

  “Did you read my article about you?” Adam asked after I had taken my first bite.

  I swallowed and hesitated and searched my mind to think of a good excuse as to why I hadn’t read it. I couldn’t come up with an answer in time.

  “Oh, hey, that’s all right.”

  “I’m really sorry. I’ve been so busy that I completely forgot. The copies are in my workbag right now. I’ve brought them to and from work these last couple days. I had so much else going on that it completely slipped my mind.”

  He waved the issue away with his hand and began cutting a piece of chicken. “Please, don’t even worry about it. Just let me know when you do. I’m curious about what you think. It was incredibly hard to write, actually, and I’ve never before had a problem with interviews. But when I sat down to write, I found that my notes were disjointed. And I never take poor notes. I must have been,” he flashed me a sly smile, “distracted. I picked up the phone to call you, but then I remembered you were on vacation. I ended up recreating parts of our conversation in the article. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Oh, sure. I wasn’t expecting anything in particular, so any format would have been fine. I do hope you made me sound intellectual, maybe even brilliant, but approachable.”

  “Oh, of course,” he replied. “Those were the parts I remembered clearly.”

  “Oh yeah?” I teased. “Was it my brilliance that blindsided you?”

  “Well, yeah. You were interesting,” he grinned, “and beautiful.”

  I was both surprised and pleased. “I think that might have been the first time I stunned someone with my looks.” Immediately after saying it I regretted it. Why did I feel I could say what I was thinking? What a turn-off my reply must have been. How desperate I must sound.