Pasadena Page 10

  Parker gapes a little. Here I am, agreeing with him, and the sky hasn’t fallen. I never imagined he and Maggie were close, but he obviously knew her better than his parents did. He catches my eye and, for a moment, I can’t look away.

  Mrs. Kim breaks the silence, looking both flustered and pleased. “Oh, thank you! She’s so efficient, isn’t she?” she asks no one in particular.

  Parker yawns. “I’m not hungry,” he says. “I’m going to my room.” He presses the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and maneuvers himself away from the table, but Violetta isn’t here and the doors aren’t automatic.

  “Good luck with that,” I say with a wink. The jab feels good after the weight of his eyes on me. Maggie’s eyes.

  “Why not take a swim?” Parker replies, rolling toward the doors regardless. “I hear the water’s nice.”

  As if summoned by an invisible bell, Violetta appears and pulls the sliding glass doors open for His Highness. He flips me the bird with a lopsided smirk and wheels past a flustered Bruce, laden with miniature brownies on a silver platter. Bruce deflates when he sees them leave. “No dessert?”

  • • •

  We finish lunch with Bruce’s fudgy brownies and coffee to the sounds of Parker groaning his way through a physical therapy session with Violetta in his room.

  Mrs. Kim selects “Amazing Grace” as the hymn and we agree on a casket spray of long-stemmed bloodred roses. The funeral plans finalized, I say good-bye to Maggie’s folks and take the long way out through the yard.

  I stop in front of the pool house, by the row of lounge chairs running from the door to the far end of the water. Parker’s quiet upstairs. I look up at his bedroom window on the second floor at the back of the house, tucked under the eaves of three-layered Spanish tile. I can just see Violetta folding a towel through the closed window. She turns around, sees me, and waves. I wave back and look at where I’m standing.

  Joey found Maggie’s body by standing here. Parker’s room had a direct view of Maggie’s demise.

  I change my mind about walking out the long way and exit through the house.

  By the door sit a few pairs of shoes, Mrs. Kim’s small Coach purse, and a larger messenger bag. Violetta’s. I take a look inside before slipping quietly out the front door.

  12

  What’s up?” Joey pulls up to my house just as I round the corner on the long, hot walk back from Maggie’s.

  “Hey, sidekick. Didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” I say.

  He climbs out of the car. “Tally’s definitely not going to the funeral.”

  “Why not?”

  He comes around the side of the car, scowling at me. “She and Dane broke up, just like Luke said. You still owe her an apology.”

  I shrug. “Their breakup has nothing to do with me. All the sorrys in the world won’t make Dane keep it in his pants.”

  Joey folds his arms across his chest. “But it might make her feel better.”

  I drop my bag to the sidewalk and look him over. “Why, Joe? What’s it to you?”

  He looks past me, avoiding eye contact. “When your parents split up, what did it feel like?”

  I blink, taken aback. “What?”

  Joey sits down on the hood of his car. “We’ve got one more year together. Just the eight of us, now Maggie’s gone. I’d like to spend it with friends. There’s time enough to be alone in college.”

  I study his face, unable to tell if he’s being honest or not. Joey’s always been a bit sentimental. Maggie’s death must have pushed him overboard.

  “Fine,” I say. “On two conditions.”

  He nods, listening.

  “One, you also take me to see Dane.”

  Joey laughs, but agrees. “Sure, he deserves an apology too.”

  “And then, you listen to what I have to say, and you help me with one more thing.”

  Joey gives me a look. “Sounds like three conditions, but fine. I take it you learned something at the Kims’?”

  “Yeah. The Sunset Café makes fantastic brownies. And Parker was home the night Maggie died.”

  “So?”

  “So, his room gave him a front-row seat to her drowning.”

  Joey’s eyes widen. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not sure. But did you know that nurses keep a log of patient activities while they’re on duty? They have to share it with the supervising doctor and prove their billable hours to the home health agency.”

  Joey nods slowly. “Fascinating,” he says in a way that means it’s not.

  “I got a look at Violetta’s log from the day Maggie died and the day after,” I continue.

  “And?”

  “And they’re missing. Skipped over or torn out, I couldn’t tell. She’s already keeping a new book, even though there’s a week’s worth of pages left in the old one.”

  He hesitates. “And what does that mean?”

  I smile. “It means that the health agency is about to get an angry call from Mr. Kim for being overbilled. He’ll complain Violetta didn’t work those days and they’ll pull out the logs to prove it. He’ll demand to see them for himself, of course. And then we’ll know exactly what Parker was up to when his sister was drowning outside his bedroom window.” I tap a finger against Joey’s chest. “You do have a fax machine at home, don’t you, ‘Mr. Kim’?”

  Joey grabs my hand, trapping the offending finger. He’s trying not to laugh. “You’ve really thought this through,” he says.

  “I have.”

  “Okay. Tally first, then the fax.”

  I sigh. “Agreed.”

  • • •

  Tallulah stands at the top of the curving stairs in her parents’ debutante ball of a house. She’s wearing a bathrobe, too posh to be anything but designer, and there are tissues falling out of the pockets. Her nose is red.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she says down to Joey and me in the foyer. We loiter beneath a crystal chandelier and tuck our hands behind our backs so as not to frighten her off. When she sees we’re not storming the castle, she relaxes a little.

  “I’m sorry. I just have this awful cold and I’d hate to spread it to anyone.”

  Joey and I successfully avoid looking at each other. If she and Dane are split, she’s not sharing for some reason.

  “Want us to bring you some soup?” I ask.

  Tallulah hesitates, almost coming down the stairs a step. “Thanks, Jude. Really. That’s nice.”

  I shrug and look around. Tallulah’s house is a contractor’s idea of the antebellum South. In addition to the chandelier and curving staircase, there’s an honest-to-God Juliet balcony outside, running the entire facade of the house, covered in wisteria vines. Inside, the feeling is reflected, literally, in long paneled mirrors that face the tall windows on either side of the front door. Posh is too small a word to describe it. Tacky, however, is not.

  “So . . . what’s going on?” Tallulah asks. Awkward conversations can be made even more awkward by a flight of stairs, it would seem.

  “We just came to see how you were doing. And . . .” I look at Joey and he nods me forward with a thrust of his chin. “And I wanted to apologize for the other night. I was out of line. Losing Maggie . . .” For a second, I have to choke back an honest sob. Saying the words makes the pain sharper. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted everyone to hurt. But of course, you were her friend too. So, I’m sorry.”

  Tallulah backs away from the top of the stairs, terry-clothed arms folded across her chest, half hug, half disciplinarian.

  “Yes. Well.” She might not have a cold, but her voice has turned downright icy. “I’m sure we’re all very sorry. But news flash: actions have consequences. Maybe if Maggie knew that, she’d still be alive and Dane and I . . . and Dane.” She stops, holding back tears.

  “You deserve better
than Dane,” I say.

  The look she gives me is pure venom. “Really? And you would know? Honestly, Joey, I don’t know why you puppy-dog around this little tramp. She wouldn’t know love if it hit her in the face.”

  Joey steps forward, but I cut him off. “If it hits you in the face, it ain’t love,” I say, echoing a conversation with Maggie from long ago.

  Tallulah goes very still, and I wonder if Dane’s been rough with her.

  “God, Jude. You and Edina and your fucking hero worship. What? You think I don’t recognize a Maggie impersonation when I see one?” She takes two steps down the stairs toward us, both hands clutching the railing like an invalid.

  “Maggie killed herself, Jude,” she says emphatically. “And you’re acting like she was better than that. She wasn’t. Maggie Kim was a cliché. ‘She seemed so happy. Had everything to live for.’” She makes air quotes with one hand before gripping the banister again. “There is no prize for surviving, unless you have a life. And some of us do, Jude. We have lives. Something to get back to when our friend is in the ground. Dane and I . . .” Here she loses her cool. Tears edge into her tirade and her voice cracks. “Dane and I had each other, until you went and pissed all over it.”

  I start to respond, to tell her that one little snipe on my part does not a breakup make. They were together at Blue House, after all. But Joey squeezes my arm and I keep my mouth shut. This is Tallulah’s close-up. I let her have it.

  “Poor little Jude,” she says. “You’re the only one who’s ever been hurt.”

  She sounds like my mother. Maybe they would get along.

  I glance at Joey to make sure he’s seeing this. I’m being good. I’ve bitten my tongue, but now it’s starting to bleed.

  On her high horse, Tallulah sighs. “Maybe . . . maybe Maggie had the right idea.”

  “Tally,” Joey says, starting toward the stairs.

  She holds up a hand to stop him. “I’m not suicidal, Joe. I’m tired. Don’t you ever just want it all to stop?” She runs a hand through her long chestnut hair. “I’m going back to bed. Shut the door on your way out.”

  “Will do,” I say.

  Joey hesitates a second, but I’m already walking away. The front door and the door to Tallulah’s room slam at the same time.

  “Jesus,” Joey says, putting his sunglasses back on. “That went well.”

  Suddenly, I wish I smoked. One of Maggie’s cheap Ukrainian cigarettes might make me feel better right now. Like I didn’t care.

  “That, my young friend, is why a lady never apologizes,” I quip.

  Joey raises an eyebrow over the dark lens of his shades. “Lesson learned,” he replies. “Um, what she said back there about me. I’m not puppy-dogging you.”

  I don’t look at him. “I know.”

  “I’m just . . .” He loses momentum. I wait. “Holding on to the people I’ve got,” he finishes.

  And now it makes sense. It’s what Tallulah meant. When you bury someone you love, you need a life to return to, or you just might not make it back to the world of the living.

  Joey found Maggie’s body. He doesn’t want to see any more death. Not even the death of a friendship. When Luke broke down in front of us, he cried like a baby and didn’t care that we saw. But not Joey. He’s just been holding it in for everyone.

  I take his hand. “You’ve still got me.”

  He smiles, just barely, and we head down the garden path back to his waiting car.

  • • •

  Dane lives on that part of the arroyo designated for old money. His mother is former Pasadena royalty, one of those girls on the Rose Parade floats waving with their flashing plastic smiles.

  Joey pulls up. We’re the only car on the street. Everything else is privacy hedges and towering trees.

  “Be right back,” I say, and swing out of the car. I asked Joey not to come with me. Dane likes girls. He’s comfortable around them. And stupid. Maybe he’ll tell me something he wouldn’t if Joey was there.

  The driveway is like a private country road hemmed in with boxwood on both sides. I follow the curve until I see an eye-catching sight up ahead: Dane washing his car. It’s the little sportster in Luke’s pictures from the night Maggie died. Dane’s dad gave it to him when he turned sixteen. Cherry red, a German import from the ’60s. It’s his baby.

  He’s standing over it with a garden hose in one hand, a chamois in the other. He’s shirtless, tan, and toned. Behind him the house rises out of a bed of roses, ornate and Spanish. The terra-cotta roof shingles are stacked five thick, and rococo flourishes surround the peaked windows and wrought iron balconies.

  “You look like the centerfold in a dirty magazine,” I say by way of greeting.

  Dane catches sight of me and smirks. He cuts off the hose, and continues to soap up his car.

  “Ah. Hello. Come to snipe at me some more?”

  I close the last few yards between us, standing just outside the puddle of water surrounding his pride and joy.

  “Actually, I came to apologize.”

  Dane stops soaping. He tosses his sun-bleached hair out of his eyes. “Seriously? Can you say ‘too little, too late’?”

  I take a step closer. “I was sorry to hear about you and Tallulah.”

  Dane laughs bitterly. “Right, that’s why you brought up gonorrhea. If I’d known you wanted me for yourself so badly, I would have complied. Tally wouldn’t have needed to know.” He leans back against the car and gives me a lascivious look, nailing his pinup pose. I laugh.

  “Poor, poor little Jude,” Dane says, uncannily echoing his ex. “You’re so fucking miserable, and you want to drag the rest of us down too.”

  I’ve stopped laughing. “Fuck you, Dane.”

  “No, thank you.” He smirks. “Haven’t you heard? I like them younger.”

  “I thought you liked them on roofies,” I counter. “Like Maggie.”

  Dane spits and goes back to washing his car. “Where did you hear that? I’ve done a lot of things, even some unforgivable ones. Maybe I’ve hurt Tally, sure. But not Maggie.” He stops and faces me again. “As for the rest . . .” He spreads his arms, shedding soap foam as he indicates his body, his car, his house. “I’m Dane Hanover. I don’t need roofies.”

  “Sarcastic clap,” I say. “So, why’d you dump Tally?”

  He shrugs, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Who’s to say she didn’t dump me?”

  “Tally’s face, for one thing. She still wants you. And then there’s Maggie. You went to see her the night she died.”

  Dane sighs and turns the hose back on, running a stream of water down the hood of the car. It gleams like candy-apple-red nail polish in the sun. “Yeah, I did.”

  “And you asked her for advice.”

  Dane gives me a sharp look. “How do you know that?”

  “What did you want from her?”

  Dane finishes rinsing the car before he answers. “Maggie kept me honest. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have told Tally about the other girls. If she’d found out some other way, she’d never have forgiven me. But I ’fessed up and she actually appreciated my honesty.” He laughs self-consciously. “And here we are, coming up on senior year and I know, I just know, I’m not a one-woman guy these days. I didn’t want Tally hurting, so I asked Maggie what to do. She’d been right the last time. She said, ‘If you love her, but you can’t be good to her, let her go.’ I thought that was bullshit. You know, that ‘If you love something set it free, if it comes back it’s yours’ BS that camp counselors used to say? I didn’t listen. Then Maggie turned up dead, and you came home. Your . . . comment at dinner just underlined it. I love Tally, and I’m hurting her, so there. Finito, as they say.”

  I look at Dane, with his cosmetically perfect good looks, the studied boyish charm. The shallow jackass with the perfect life. He looks w
ounded. Not the sort of practiced look that makes gullible girls want to mother or make out with him. The tired sort that comes from a broken heart. I wonder if I’m seeing what Maggie used to see.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I say after a moment. I start to head back down the driveway when something makes me stop. There were reasons we called him and Tallulah perfect. In a lot of ways, they had been. For a while, anyway. “Dane?”

  “Yo,” he says nonchalantly, the armor already settling back into place. He’s nothing if not resilient.

  “I am sorry,” I say.

  He gives me a small smile, and I know he’s thinking of Maggie when he says, “Yeah, me too.”

  13

  This is unacceptable!” Joey bellows into his home phone. The number is unlisted. No chance of being called back.

  Joey lives in a nice house—well, nice for 1963. My mom’s little multi-lot cottage is no dream home, but Joey’s place is strictly Brady Bunch, from the orange and avocado curtains to the mustard-colored sofa set in the wood-paneled living room. When your single parent is a dad, I guess redecorating falls by the wayside.

  Joey’s bedroom is a different story. White walls, black furniture, a glass desk. It’s a New York City loft trapped inside a split ranch time bubble. It also has its own AC unit cranked to deep freeze.

  I collapse on the black duvet and spread out, willing the hundred-plus-degree heat to leave my body while he rattles the folks at the home health agency. We’ve just caught them, fifteen minutes to closing. It’s been a very long day.

  “Taking advantage of my family while I’m away on business is the kind of shenanigan that will get you reported to the licensing board!”

  I raise an eyebrow at “shenanigan.”

  Joey shrugs. He nods to the person on the phone. “No, I do not have a copy. Who’s to say it wasn’t falsified . . . signed by my wife, you say? Yes, you can fax it over and I’ll take it up with her. This is why the account fell behind. The man that pays the bills is always the last to know. Yes. Certainly. One moment.” He rattles off his fax number and hangs up. We stare at each other in the silence of the ticking house.