I tail Tessa’s husband like the detectives do in my novels, with three cars between us, sunglasses obscuring half my face, fingers nonchalantly tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the oldies station. When he pulls into a small corner lot and parks in a reserved spot, I hang back on the street. Tessa’s husband steps out of his car and stretches exaggeratedly before scanning traffic, then darting across the street, away from the storefront where he’s parked. He walks through the lot of a strip mall but stops abruptly when he sees a man leaning against the wall at the far end. The man stands up when he notices Tessa’s husband. It’s the man from the beach. Handsome, Middle Eastern, manic. As they talk, Tessa’s husband’s back is to me, blocking my view of their faces. I debate inching my car forward to get a better angle, imagining what Elizabeth Best fromThe Thursday Murder Clubmight do in this situation. Tessa’s husband turns around, his hand gripping the other man’s upper arm as he forces him toward the street corner. Now I can see their faces clearly. Tessa’s husband looks stern, the other man terrified. They stand at the corner in silence as they wait for theWalksign. When it changes, Tessa’s husband escorts the other man halfway across the street, where he stops and jabs his pointer finger in the air, motioning him to keep walking. Then Tessa’s husband heads back to the strip mall, unlocks a door, and disappears inside.
The man from the beach mutters to himself as he steps onto the sidewalk and heads down the block in my direction. He continues hisconversation with the ground until he looks up, not fifty feet from my car. Abruptly, he halts and stares right at me. His curiosity shifts to revelation, and my heart begins to race. He recognizes me. How could he recognize me? He didn’t even glance in my direction at the beach. He begins to charge toward my car, and there’s no doubt that he intends to engage me. My hands shake as I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb. When I pass the building where Tessa’s husband has parked, I read the name.Longevity Fertility. The man steps into the street, motioning me to stop. I tug at the wheel, the car screeching as I disappear around the corner.
A few blocks away, once I’m certain he hasn’t followed me, I pull over outside a bright-yellow bungalow. My hands are still shaking as I search “Longevity Fertility” on my phone. Sure enough, it’s located in Santa Monica, led by one Gabe Irons, whose photograph matches Tessa’s husband. In my day, all gynecologists were men. Now I assume they’re mostly women. Who would see a man about fertility struggles when you could see a woman instead?
The bio under his photo proclaims Dr. Gabe Irons a pioneer in fertility. He has a 50 percent higher success rate than the national average, which he credits to a combination of wellness plans, acupuncture, and state-of-the-art technology. Testimonials lavish him with praise: a doctor who actually listens and cares. There’s a link to a scheduling email but no other signs of anyone who works with him, as though Dr. Irons is a solo operation, which from nearly fifty years of human resources, I know is impossible. It’s arrogant to exude a facade of independence, like everyone who works for you is replaceable.
Here I go again, taking on someone else’s injustice as my own. Something about him bothers me, though. I can’t quite put my finger on it, and the altercation I just witnessed with the man from the beach certainly doesn’t help. Still, I’m beginning to doubt this has anything to do with Regina. Maisy must have gotten it wrong. Or maybe Regina’s mystery man was someone else. There are other husbands along the canals. Or wives. What about the woman Regina met at the bar? WouldOfficer Gonzales have told me if she lived along the canals? I need to find her.
After fifteen minutes, I pull away from the yellow bungalow and creep back to the commercial street. I park in the lot of the strip mall where Gabe Irons disappeared, then tiptoe toward the door I saw him open. The windows are opaque. One word in lowercase font is imprinted on the frosted glass door:rosebud. I press my face to the door and make out a faint light down a hallway. I’m so focused on seeing through the darkness that I don’t realize the door’s being pushed open until it knocks into my leg. Reflexively I jump back, bending down to massage my knee.
“Do you need something?” a woman asks. She’s dressed in black slacks and a red blouse with rubber clogs best suited for gardening.
“Is this a medical office?”
The woman peers at my knee. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?” Her tone indicates that she’d prefer I decline this offer.
“Just a glass of water would be great.” I hobble toward the door. She continues to block the entry, motioning with her chin toward the corner.
“There’s a convenience store at the end of the block.” She gestures me along, waiting at the open door as I scamper away, trying to ignore the ache in my knee and feeling foolish.
In my car, I settle behind the steering wheel, deciding my next step. I’m miles afield from Regina. I have no business being here. No reason to question Gabe Irons, the husband of the one friend I’ve made since arriving in LA. Still, something about him irks me. Something about this clandestine office doesn’t seem right. I google “rosebud.” It’s a popular name for businesses. Florists, of course. Also coffee shops, preschools, nail salons, none located at this strip mall. I type in the address along with “rosebud.” It doesn’t appear to be listed anywhere online. I lean back and revisit the events of this morning. There’s something here I’m not connecting. The doubt percolates with a growing certainty that this has nothing to do with Regina. I try to ignore it, to convince myself that Elizabeth Best wouldfollow this wherever it leads, all the while knowing I’ve been wrong before. My mistake got me fired. Upended my life.
I should have retired when Covid hit. I should have become part of the Great Resignation rather than having to help my firm deal with it. It was an overwhelming time. The market was uncertain, clients were panicking, everything was shifting to remote work. I’d never heard of Zoom. I didn’t have the interest, much less the expertise, to run new training programs, tackle new forms of harassment, support people through their anxiety. It was only a matter of time before I couldn’t keep up with my field. I just expedited my departure.
I’ve always liked Dick, Linda’s husband. Despite his name, he’s anything but. He’s the kind of man who drives across the state for his grandson’s Little League games and signs up for mentoring programs with his alma maters. He’s never made me feel like a third wheel when I join them for dinner, never taken Isaac’s side, never unduly criticized him either. And above all, he’s never been handsy or flirtatious with me.
Jessica was a Covid hire, in large part thanks to Dick. He and Linda are friends with her parents. She’d already been working at the firm for a year before we were back in the office. Although we only required people to be in the office twice a week, many of our employees came daily, the older ones eager to regain normalcy, the younger ones hoping to impress the partners with their commitment.
I was heartened when I saw Jessica and Dick leave together for lunch. He was taking her under his wing, making sure she succeeded. It didn’t surprise me when they returned, deep in conversation, laughing. Then, their goodbye at her cubicle was a little too long. He stood a little too close, pinning her to the outside partition as he whispered in her ear. When she angled away from him, he leaned in deeper, undeterred.
Later that day, I called Jessica into my office. She scuttled in like she was in trouble. Already I was handling it wrong. I should have popped by her desk. Instead, we had a stiff conversation where she said she couldn’t be happier.
And Dick?I asked.He’s the mentor you want?
She laughed, seemingly confused.Why would I want someone else?
All I could think was,You poor girl, you don’t even understand the situation you’re in.
What situation was she in? I’ve had lots of time to revisit this on my own and with my therapist. I know what I saw, the angle of his body, the recoil of hers, his mouth on her ear, his arm possessively on the wall, trapping her.
As the head of HR, I had access to everyone’s email, and I’d check when necessary, always with someone from IT as witness. I’ll never be able to sort out why I didn’t follow protocol with Jessica. Maybe it was because it had to do with Linda’s husband. Maybe it was because, in a different life, Jessica could have been Regina. Maybe it was because I knew I had no business checking her email.
When I searched her email, there were numerous exchanges between her and Dick, all professional, with the occasional note to say hi to her parents. Whenever they returned from lunch or crossed paths in the hall, I remained vigilant, but I never saw anything untoward between them again. Still, I knew what I had seen. I checked Jessica’s calendar, went to happy hours I had no business attending to get a sense of how she was faring. In the end, the person who made her uncomfortable was me.
I realized I’d overstepped when I found myself on the other side of the conference table from where I usually sat. Camille, whom I’d hired and groomed to be my second, looked tortured beside the three founding partners. Although I grasped I was in trouble, my interactions with Jessica, searching her email, were far from my mind. I thought it was about the sexual harassment videos I’d commissioned, which were not as current as they should have been, with stereotypical casting and caricaturized lechery. I was ready for a scolding. It took me longer than it should have to grasp why I was there.
Forty-seven years, and it ended that quickly.
In addition to the unsanctioned email investigation, they had a list of complaints about me. I’d made several recent hires uncomfortable by asking questions that were too personal. Before I could argue mycase, Camille placed a folder on the table and asked if I’d thought about an early retirement. I was about to turn seventy. Calling itearlywas a kindness. The package was too generous to refuse, particularly since they left me no room for refusal.
The partners hurried out, leaving Camille and me alone at the long conference table to discuss the details of my retirement. I’m not sure anyone ever knew that it had to do with Dick. That was the one relief in the unjust and horrible affair.
Despite everything that happened, it still doesn’t feel wrong that I tried to protect Jessica, that I’m trying to protect my daughter now. I’m just not sure that’s what I’m doing as I spy on Gabe Irons.
In my periphery, something moves. I glance up to see Gabe Irons slip out of the Rosebud storefront, holding a small shopping bag as he makes his way toward the crosswalk. He checks his phone while he waits for the light to change. I’ve poised my index finger on the ignition button, ready to follow him by car, when a knock on the window startles me. It’s the woman from Rosebud who caught me snooping, her face lined with anger. She motions for me to roll down the window. I wave to her, press the starter, and back out, leaving her monitoring me with that constipated expression. My heart clatters as I pull into traffic, away from Gabe Irons, away from Longevity Fertility, away from Rosebud, whatever that place may be.
Chapter Seventeen
