“Getting there,” I said, crossing my left elbow to my right knee. “The plumber showed up yesterday. I consider that progress. At the rate he’s working, I’m estimating a few months. If I’m lucky, my new bathtub might be in by the time the World Series starts in October.”
“Sounds like a party to me.” Tess strolled in and rolled out a mat next to me on the floor. “All this crowd needs is food, music, and ice in the tub for the beer. I love baseball. What time is the game tonight?”
“First pitch is at 7:10 P.M.,” Gretchen said from across the room. “The players are out on the field by 6:30.”
I paused mid-crunch and caught Gretchen’s eye. “Are you a Dodger fan?”
“I’ve been a baseball fan since high school. My boyfriend gets me tickets,” Gretchen said with a superior smile.
At seven-fifteen, I finished my sit-ups and stretched, picked up a towel, then removed my backpack from the shelf of cubbyholes where the club members left their wallets and keys in open slots on the honor system. I took my gear and headed to the ladies’ room for a fast shower. Rush-hour traffic willing, I had just enough time to collect the boxes of my old books from Jarret’s garage before he took his morning run, and then drive home to Studio City to let in Stan with, hopefully, my new tub.
I scrubbed and toweled in record time, jumped into my jeans and a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and decided to let the stifling August heat wave blanketing Los Angeles take care of drying my hair. Makeup? To meet Jarret or the plumber? Not even lipstick. I opened the ladies’ room door and stopped short.
A giddy laugh I knew too well pierced through the music and crowd noise. Laycee Huber stood near the desk with Kyle, Billy, Gretchen, Earl, and Tess. She called to me as I turned to escape through the back.
“Liz, Liz, oh Liz! Kyle told me you were here.” Laycee ran over, fluttering her hands like a baby bird. She wore her dark brown hair parted into matching pigtails, a trick to cover her pointed, Spocklike ears. Stunning in a turquoise tank top, black tights, and pristine white cross-trainers, Laycee greeted me like the Atlanta bra-under-the-bed incident was forgotten or had never happened, then stopped short, showing as much concern as her Botoxed forehead allowed. I think one eyebrow actually twitched with pity as she studied my face. “Oh, Liz. Has it really been that long?”
Good ol’ Laycee—the Southern belle who loved a good dig to make herself feel better. Note: never again assume I don’t need makeup.
She threw her arms around me in a histrionic hug as I stiffened, backpack dangling from my hand. Air-kissing my cheek with pink-glossed lips, she batted her lashes and said, “I missed you.”
I missed her like I missed a case of food poisoning. The people circling us took in our little reunion, grinning. Well, actually, I suspected the men admired Laycee’s spilling cleavage. Their gazes were fixed below her neckline.
“What are you doing in town?” I kept my tone as light as my disdain for her allowed. The tips of my ears sizzled with annoyance—I wanted to get away from her with my temper in check.
She glanced over her shoulder at Kyle and Billy then said to me, “I’ll tell you later. Can we get together? Do lunch? Go shopping? I’ll be here a few days, maybe longer if everything goes well.”
“I’m having work done at my house. I don’t have time.” Especially for you.
“Oh, come on. Just for an itsy drink? The workers don’t sleep at your house—or do they?” She winked. “Do try to call me. My cell phone number is exactly the same. We must catch up, Liz. I want to hear all about your new life here. I need all the details. Let’s do coffee early tomorrow morning after we work out. The café at my hotel opens early.”
“We’ll see,” I lied, glancing at the clock. “I’m in a rush. I have to pick up some boxes then meet a contractor. Enjoy your trip.”
Tess trailed me to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, Liz.” She cocked her chin back toward Laycee. “That woman has one chaotic aura. I want to hear her story.”
“She’d probably love to tell you herself, Tess.”
Ventura Boulevard traffic jammed in a slow crawl through Sherman Oaks and became a worse mess after I turned left on Sepulveda, costing me precious time on the way to Jarret’s. I passed the entrance to the 405, creeping behind traffic until my right turn into the exclusive Royal Oaks section of Encino. I checked the dashboard clock: twelve minutes until Jarret left for his five-mile run around the Harvard-Westlake track. He stuck to his ritualistic regimen with superstitious caution, especially on game days. Any break from the routine threw him off. He wouldn’t hang around to wait for me if I arrived late.