Standing there in the kitchen afterwards, I’m not sure what to feel. My heart rate is wild, and too many old emotions have risen to the surface in the space of a moment, but even worse? Some small part of my heart hopes Jake finally misses me.
And some even smaller part of me also wants to believe that he finally regrets breaking my heart like he did, dumping me flat on my ass two weeks after I left the hospital, my face and career ruined. My body torn and broken, in need of countless months of physical therapy and operations that would never fully do the trick. Now, even three years later, I’m still stunned that he chose that exact moment to drop me because dating me was no longer advantageous to his career. Especially for that booby blonde who was just waiting to slide into my leading role on my hit prime-time television show. And into my boyfriend’s cozy bed.
Huh. Moments like this, and I realize I’m really a Georgia girl—not a savvy jaded California one. Otherwise, there’s no accounting for the naive optimism that a single call from Jake Slater can elicit.
Because despite everything I logically know, I can’t help it: I still wonder why he’s calling, especially after all this time.
***
Pulling into Michael’s driveway, I’m struck again by the beauty of his bungalow. I love the old 1930s style architecture of these houses in Studio City. There’s something wonderfully charming about them, something reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage, or The Three Little Bears. Then again, maybe I really did spend too much time in those fairy tales as a child; you can blame my mother the librarian for that.
I approach the house, studying the climbing vines along the steps, when suddenly I notice little Andrea sitting on the stoop, shoulders hunched, just watching me. I give her a warm wave, and she lifts her small hand tentatively in greeting as I walk up the driveway.
“Hey!” I call to her brightly, and she rises to her feet.
“Careful,” she admonishes, and I’m not sure what she means until she points down at the walkway beneath my thong sandals, and I come to a dead stop immediately. There’s a vibrant design scrawled across the stone steps in pastel chalk. “Wow!” I say, staring at the ground in amazement. “Did you make that?”
She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sundress, shyly nodding her head. “It’s a picture of my grandma’s house.” I cock my head sideways, trying to piece it all together, because the image is divided across a series of steppingstones, strung together like a haphazard jewel necklace.
“Show me what each part is.”
With her pale hand, she gestures to one flagstone. “This is her big front porch,” she explains softly. “With the rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets. That’s her cat, Doldrums.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes bright and dancing. “My daddy named him that when he found him.”
That tells me so much about Alex’s sense of humor that I have to smile myself as I settle on the bottom step and listen as Andrea describes the whole house to me, every detail from the mansard roof to the wedding-cake latticework. It’s unbelievable to me that an eight-year-old could be quite so capable with a simple set of sidewalk chalk, and I tell her so.
She stares at the stones, twirling a shiny lock of red hair around her finger. “Well, we were just there, and all. In Santa Cruz, where my grandma lives.”
“Santa Cruz?” Michael’s “disappearance” over the past week is becoming much more clear to me.
Andrea turns away, reaching for a gray piece of chalk. I’m not sure I hear her right, as she bends over her picture and whispers, “My daddy died yesterday.”
My body stiffens and I want to say something. Anything at all, but I’m frozen, afraid of sending her scurrying away. This must be how Michael feels around her all the time. But I get brave. “So you went to your grandma’s house,” I venture cautiously, and she bobs her head.
“And we went to Daddy’s grave yesterday.”
“How did that feel?”
She stands, brushing off her hands, and gesturing toward her picture. “Look, all done.”
“I’m absolutely impressed. It’s beautiful.”
“You should see my Aunt Laurel’s paintings.” She mops her brow as she studies her own handiwork. “They’re great. We used to have some, but Michael took them all down after Daddy died.” My curiosity piques at that statement, but I’m smart enough not to ask.
I’m also smart enough to realize that she’s never going to answer my question about visiting Alex’s grave, so instead I suggest, “Let’s go find Michael and tell him I’m here, okay?”
She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to her, and slips right past the step where I’m sitting. For a few moments a bridge had formed, but it’s retracted just as quickly, which gives me a brief glimpse of one reason Michael stays in so much pain.