People think LA doesn’t have seasons, but the crunchy carpet of leaves beneath my feet was proof that we had fall like everyone else. I stayed close to the house, because that’s what sneaky people do, as I wound my way through the side yard to the back.
I stopped for a minute, to listen. I loved the sounds of the night: frogs croaking, crickets crooning, the distant hoot of a snooty owl. There were close sounds, like the wind stroking the bark of the tree branch by your head. And faraway ones, like a truck braking slow and squeaky on the boulevard below. I lived in a condo. All I ever heard was the flat, mechanical hum of my air conditioner, working overtime to keep my upper unit cool. I much preferred the depth and nuance of the woods, but I had only my bad choices to blame for my bachelorhood and the monotonous soundtrack of my nights.
As I stood in Louisa’s side yard, I recalled the scratching sound we’d heard in the parlor. It had been tinny and rough, like nails—or claws—on a screen door. I looked down at the entrance to the crawl space by my feet . . . to see two wide brown eyes peering back at me.
“Well hello there.” I set the poker aside and crouched down to meet the quivering gaze of Louisa’s furry blond intruder. “Are you stuck?”
A fluffy tail wagged as I removed the screen and coaxed the little fellow into my arms. He was a tumble of fur and gratitude, and I was reminded how helping Louisa often helped me, too.
“Let’s get you inside.”
The little dog’s owner arrived ten minutes later. I knew from her voice on the phone that she’d be pretty, and I wasn’t disappointed. Thick brown hair poured out from underneath her trucker hat, and when she smiled her nose crinkled like a tiny accordion.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked her, not just because Louisa had said she wanted to apologize.
“Oh, I don’t want to impose.”
As soon as she spoke her little dog jumped off the couch and plowed into her like a fastball to a catcher’s mitt. She wobbled on impact, and for a second I got scared she might roll right off the porch. I almost reached for her, but she regained her balance before I had the chance.
Initially I was surprised when Louisa asked me to give her a tour. But then it occurred to me that maybe she felt the chemistry that was bouncing between us like a Ping-Pong ball and was hoping I’d score a date. Our unexpected visitor seemed like a nice girl, but I didn’t deserve a nice girl, so I let the house—with all its eclectic, zigzagging surprises—be the star.
I showed her the powder room, the dining room, Louisa’s prized library, but she really came alive when we walked into the study and her eyes fell upon Louisa’s shrine to her career.
“Is that Barbra Streisand?”
“It is,” I confirmed. I was never one to get starstruck—movie stars are just people; I never understood what all the fuss was about. From what Louisa had told me, most of them are crazy—no surprise, since we treat them like unicorns.
No tour would be complete without a trip through the secret passageway to the pantry. Ashley （predictably） gasped with delight as we squeezed through the bookcase-that-was-really-a-door.
“How wonderful,” she said as we emerged in the tiny room off the kitchen Louisa had stocked with every type of dry good known to man.
“This house is full of secrets,” I confided. I didn’t elaborate on any of the deeper, darker mysteries within this fortress in the woods, because I didn’t know them myself yet.
“And here we are back where we started,” I announced as I led her through the kitchen and back to where Louisa was waiting on that high-back couch in the parlor.
“Thank you for letting me tour your marvelous home.”
She confessed to being an actress and I wasn’t surprised. She had all the hallmarks—pretty face, bubbly personality, relentless inquisitiveness—and of course this town was full of them. What did surprise me was my aunt’s reaction: “I was a casting director for twenty-five years, maybe I can help you!”
Help her with what? “The business has changed a lot since you owned an agency,” I reminded her.
“What do you know, you’re in real estate!” I wanted to correct her that I was the firm’s in-house counsel, not some two-bit salesman peddling spacious three-bedrooms with two-car garages. But what was the point? Sure, I wanted to impress Ashley, like any man wants to impress a beautiful woman, but I was not in the market for a girlfriend, nor was I worthy of one.
“Join us for tea!” Louisa suggested. Then gave me that look like “you’re welcome,” because any normal red-blooded man would have been grateful.