“He lives in Laguna. We can just swing by real quick and, I don’t know—”
“See if anyone at his house wants to kill you?”
“Exactly. It’ll just be a quick stop to rule it out.” I hope.
CHAPTER
NINE
Frederick Montcalm’s house teeters on the tippy top of a mountain overlooking the PCH, a glass shoebox propped up on chopsticks. I can see it for three turns of the road before we arrive.
Max whistles. “Damn, Mia. This one is richer than the last.”
“What can I say? I might be a slut.” I’m making boyfriend jokes too easily at this point, but the potential affair with Frederick Montcalm disturbs me.
Max waves a hand dismissively. “You probably set this guy up with his wife. You’re successful. People are going to talk about you.”
I think he’s trying to say “haters gonna hate.”25
A beat later, I say, “I hope you’re right. I’ll be disappointed if I find out I’m a giant slut.”
At the front gate, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and hit the button on the intercom box. “Is Frederick home? It’s Mia.” I could introduce Max, but I want to see if whoever answers says, “Mia, you bitch!” or “Come on in, sweetie.”
Someone buzzes the gate open without commentary and I pull the Ferrari up to the turnaround. The housekeeper (of course there’s a housekeeper) ushers us into the house and leads me to Frederick, who has a blanket covering his lap, a half-finished crossword puzzle clutched in his hand, and no hair. It’s not male-pattern baldness, it’s just that all of his systems have started failing due to age, including his hair. He’s probably ninety.
There’s no way I was having an affair with this man. Then I look around and realize maybe I was having an affair with his house. Did I pay for this view with an occasional blow job? I hug my chest as if to protect myself from the old pervert or maybe to restrain the demon inside me who would blow an old guy for a beautiful view. I look at Max with the fear of God in me and silently mouth,Am I Anna Nicole?
He gives me a genuine smile.No.
I certainly hope not. “Mr. Montcalm,” I say. He’s dozing and my voice brings him to.
He takes a minute to look around. “Hi, dear. You’re home early.”
Fuck. He recognizes me.
Max extends his hand. “Hi, sir, I’m Max Charles. Nice to meet you.
“Are you an artist too?”
Frederick thinks I’m an artist. Snapchat hearts practically spring from my brain spontaneously and encircle my head like a fairy princess wreath. This is my favorite misconception since waking up.
The room instills a zenlike calm in me, even considering the fact that I’m possibly meeting my ninety-year-old lover.
I exhale and decide to go for one hundred percent honesty. How else am I going to get to the bottom of everything? “I’m so sorry, Frederick. Do you know me? I’m having trouble remembering things.”
He laughs. “You’re so funny, sweetheart.”
Fuck. Iamhaving an affair with this geezer. I flash a panicked look at Max.
Frederick sets down his crossword puzzle. “What do you think of that latest painting from Jeric? I think it might be too obvious. I hate obvious themes.”
I’m still staring at him. Am I an artist having an affair with this guy? I can’t fit that in with everything else I’ve learned.
“Lauren, did you hear me?”
I don’t respond. I just can’t.
“Lauren?”
