I didn’t mention any of it to Bailey last night—her father’s brief appearance. His disappearance.
If we had been alone at dinner, I might have talked through it with her. It was good that we weren’t alone, so I could process it on my own first. It was good that the new boyfriend, Shep (a little too new to be labeled boyfriend yet), walked me through his entire history over dim sum and garlic-butter noodles and heaping bowls of spicy soup.
I forced myself to focus as Shep emphasized all sorts of things in an effort to impress me (Harvard University, Bridgewater, his parents’ country estate in Bedford, New York). None of that impressed me. But the way he held on to Bailey’s hand and laughed genuinely at everything she said—that did.
Bailey. I consider calling her. But it’s just past 8 a.m. She will be showered, pouring herself some coffee, getting ready to dive into work. I don’t want to hit her with this at the beginning of her day. And I can’t discuss her father with her on the phone anyway.
I take a deep breath in, the salty air centering me. But I can’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just a random visit—that it wasn’t just that enough time had passed, that Owen started to feel safe enough that he could come to see me. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s the opposite. Suddenly, it feels less safe than if he’d stayed away.
This is when my phone buzzes.
I look down at my cell to see an incoming call. I check the caller ID, the Los Angeles Lakers main office number popping up. It’s a safeguess that it’s the team doctor calling, wanting to make plans to get together.
Jules (forever my dearest, most indefatigable friend) became friendly with the doctor after interviewing him for a piece in theChronicle—and she’d insisted on introducing us the last time she came to town for a visit.
Despite my reluctance, I understood why Jules wanted to introduce us. He is kind and smart and openhearted. I’d want to introduce him to my best friend too, if my best friend were open to being involved with anyone in a real way. Which, apparently, I’m still not.
It isn’t that I’m sitting at home, sad and brooding. I’m not waiting by the window with a lamp on. I have my work, which continues to fulfill me; and I have my close friends, whom I love; and, most importantly, I have Bailey and the little family we’ve managed to keep strong. The family that we’ve managed to make strong—the days of Bailey and me failing to understand each other, far in the rearview. It’s the two of us, together, first and foremost. And then it’s also the family from which Bailey came—all of whom have embraced me, becoming my family too.
And still. I’m nowhere close to wanting to pick up the doctor’s call. I’m not interested in meeting him for dinner or drinks or a walk by the beach.
I’m not interested in pretending I’m not (still) someone else’s wife.
So I hit decline and start to put my phone back down on the small side table when a text comes through.
It’s an international phone number I don’t recognize. A +61 in front of it. The country code is familiar to me. I had a client who had a vacation home in Kiama, a beachside town just outside of Sydney. She’d had a +61 code.
Sydney. Australia.
I click on the text.
Check your pocket.
My breath lands in my throat and I quickly reply to the text.
Who is this?
But I get an automated reply, coming up fast and final:The person you’re trying to reach is not accepting messages.
Check your pocket. I head inside, walking at a fast clip straight to my bedroom, and over to the closet. I pull out the dress I was wearing yesterday, reaching into the pockets. There’s nothing inside either of them. What else had I been wearing? I walk into my office to find my leather motorcycle jacket draped over the small bench by my desk.
I reach into the first pocket, nothing there. And I start to feel relief. This is probably a crank, or a scam. Just a wrong number.
Then I reach into the other pocket and feel something hard and small.
A flash drive.
My heartbeat quickens, my skin heating up. My first question to myself isn’t: What is this?
My first question to myself also contains the start of an answer:Why did Owen need me to have this?
The doorbell rings, startling me. I walk back out onto the balcony and look down over the railing’s edge, down to the sidewalk below. A repairman stands at my front door, wearing a SoCalGas uniform. He is burly and large, his thick muscles pushing out over the short shirtsleeves.
I call down to him. “Can I help you?”
He squints up at me, blocks his eyes from the sun.
“Sorry to trouble you, miss. We have reports of a gas leak from your neighbors. The Waldmans?”
