I turned my back on my roommate. I didn’t want to see her face. But I also didn’t want her to see the panicked expression on mine. We were drunk when we made that pact, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t ready to make good on it.
“It’s OK,” she said. “I’ll go get him.”
I could hear the disappointment in Ashley’s voice. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I wanted to give us our mountaintop moment.
And now that I knew our drunken promise wasn’t a joke, I would.
CHAPTER 13
* * *
NATHAN
I was almost to the freeway on-ramp when my phone rang. Then abruptly stopped. I peeked at the caller ID: Louisa. I pressed “Return Call,” and it went straight to voice mail. The traffic light was green, so I pulled over to try again. Once again, voice mail.
I had no one to go home to, just a beer and a ball game, like every night. I knew if I didn’t go check on her, the not knowing why she called would bug me. I wasn’t OCD, but I’ve been known to touch the iron to double-check that I’d turned it off, pat my pockets a few times to double-, triple-, quadruple-check I have my keys, wallet, phone. Plus all her talk of wills and dying had me a little spooked. So when the traffic cleared, I turned around and headed back toward Louisa’s, past a Dunkin’， a burger joint, a gas station, not one but two Starbucks. The Valley was a painfully boring, dull, brown grid, with a puzzling excess of sushi places and nail salons. But once you crossed Ventura Boulevard and started heading up the hill, it was like being transported from the bland palate of Kansas to the emerald forests of Oz. Louisa’s neighborhood was literally an oasis in the desert—a welcome respite from the monotony of the valley floor and the sandy, congested Manhattan Beach enclave I called home.
I turned off my radio as I drove up the steep cul-de-sac that led to Louisa’s house. I had never met Louisa’s neighbors, but if they were as prickly as she was, better not to disturb them. Louisa’s driveway was frightfully unwelcoming, but I’d long since given up trying to convince her to spruce it up. Her whole career had been one of perfectly manicured eyebrows, fingers, and toes, and surgically tailored dresses and pantsuits—perhaps she liked the contrast? Or maybe she just liked the witchy vibe it gave off because she wanted to be left alone.
The woods rustled with agitation as I drove past them toward the house. I always thought I saw something writhing in the undergrowth—the maze of dead leaves and branches was an ideal nesting ground for rats, raccoons, and whatever other pointy-nosed rodents needed a home. But the only wild animal I saw when I pulled up the drive was Louisa, standing on her front porch with her pistol over her head like she was Annie Oakley on her way to a shoot-out.
“Oh boy,” I muttered as I pulled up and parked. I considered putting my hands up as I walked toward her lest she mistake me for Buffalo Bill.
“Louisa, are you all right? What happened?”
“I had an intruder.”
“Please tell me you didn’t shoot anybody.” I wasn’t one of those guys who was comfortable around guns. I was a lawyer, not a gunslinger; I shot people down with words, not bullets.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded. Her voice was amped, and I could tell she was rattled.
So I suggested: “Why don’t I make us some tea.”
I did not want more tea, and I knew she wouldn’t drink it, either, but it was a way to reassure her that I would stay with her until she calmed down. She tried my patience sometimes, but she was more of a mother to me than my actual mother was these days. I got along with my mom well enough, but I was the oldest of four children, and I guess my turn to be mothered was up. Louisa started calling around the same time my mother stopped. I didn’t complain about being snubbed to the extent that Louisa did, but we both understood that feeling unwanted and unworthy was our unspoken common ground.
Louisa didn’t have an electric kettle, so I boiled the water the old-fashioned way, in a squat black pot on her aging Viking range. I pulled the cups we’d just used off the drying rack （still wet）， then dried the outsides with the linen dish towel I’d hung on the oven door just minutes ago.
I chose chamomile for its calming properties, then brought the whole shebang—teapot, tea cozy, china cups and saucers—back into the parlor. I had just set the cups on their saucers when I heard the noise. A determined scratching sound right under our feet.
“Stay here. And don’t shoot me!”
I took the fireplace poker she offered me—Lord knows why; it’s not like I would ever stab anyone—then ventured out into the yard.