In this darkening morning in a city that is never really light, I travel the freeway, afraid of what will happen or what I will learn, but afraid to do anything but keep moving forward. I can still barely believe what he’s said to me.
We meet in the restaurant parking lot. And I know I have to ask before we go in.
“You okay?” he asks. He looks concerned but not too much so, with his short, dark hair, his cool glasses, the biceps beneath the Brooks Brothers.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”
“I just didn’t make the connection. You have different last names. Lisa went by Tilton.”
“We were cousins. Lisa kept her father’s name. I kept my father’s name. Only difference is my father died before I was born.”
That appears to surprise him. “I’m sorry.” He’s still just talking, though, not realizing what comes out of his mouth.
“Don’t be. He was one of the final MIAs in Vietnam. I kept his first name as well as his last.” I turn away from the teal sky, thecrushing traffic, and look at him, just him, that face. “How did you meet Lisa?”
“A corporate trip. I saw her there, in the lobby.”
“You knew she was engaged?” I can barely contain my venom.
“Not at first.” He glances over at me. “Damn, I’m human, okay, and she was a beautiful woman. The minute I saw the ring, it was strictly business.”
I am contemplating having lunch with a man who is attracted to me because he was attracted to my cousin. I don’t want to be here, but I am committed. Later today, he has a tele-vision interview to monitor, an interview with the Killer Body candidates. I’d like to monitor it, too, but the press is excluded.
The balloon of anger that almost burst within me is slowly deflating. I’m not sure I like that. Hating Lucas Morrison has helped distract me from my true pain, my true grief. Not to mention my aunt’s need for revenge.
The restaurant looks L.A. cute—bicycles parked outside, offerings like shredded-carrot-on-hummus sandwiches. I order the southwestern salad; he goes for the only red meat in the place. When I point out that the burger isn’t Killer Body food, he admits the only times he’s ever eaten the stuff is when Bobby Warren wants his input on flavors.
He tells me he wanted to be a writer. That he went to J-school, that he ended up with a job at theTimes.
The way he speaks to me reeks of bad-date experiences in my past. It’s the ultimate bad date with someone who talks only to fill the silence. Only it’s not the silence we’re trying to avoid here. It’s the topic. Lisa.
I watch his face, the fierce eyes that his glasses only intensify. His thick eyebrows, his straight, thin lips. I always thought, as Hemingway suggested all writers should, that I have a built-in shit detector. But this man, if he is a liar, is a good one.
I need to make this fast, so that I can get to the TV station. Maybe I can find a sympathetic employee who will let me sit in on the interview with John Crosby. Yet, how can I leave what I’ve been struggling so hard to discover?
“You must visit many Killer Body centers,” I say. “Why Lisa? What was it about her?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, the solemn expression lightens.
“I’m sure you’re convinced that I use my job as chick bait, but the truth is, I rarely meet clients, just staff.”
The food arrives before I can answer. Neither of us touches our plates.
“I should have known you were related,” he says. “You look a lot like her, only—”
Only not gorgeous,I think. To him, I say, “Did you tell her she could have a shot at Julie Larimore’s job?”
“Of course not.” The statement almost brings him out of his seat; it’s that forceful.
“That’s what she told her mother.”
“Are you sure? It’s not what I said. I knew she idolized Julie, of course. I told her we could use her in some local ads, and I suggested she might want to go to work as a consultant at the center there.”
Again, I try to lie detect. Again, I see only a sincere, little-bit-too-handsome man who claims his biggest mistake was being attracted to my cousin. I sort through disjointed conversations in my head, come up with Aunt Carey’s desperate voice the day of the funeral. She told me Lisa was meeting a man in L.A., that she was being trained for television commercials. And when I insisted that only Julie Larimore was in the Killer Body commercials, she had said, “She didn’t misunderstand. He told her Julie Larimore was quitting.”
I pick up my fork and force a piece of lettuce coated with ranch dressing and barbecue sauce into my mouth. As if I’ve given him permission, Lucas picks up half of his burger.
I wait until he takes a bite and swallows. “She said a man told Lisa that Julie was quitting.”
