I only grunt in reply. Casey’s the master of the wordless apology, and that’s what these flowers are really about, but I’m still pissed at him about the other night. An awkward silence falls over us as he stands, brushing loose dirt off his hands. He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his long nose, past the bump in the middle, a memento from when he broke it back in his high-school skateboarding days.
Despite years of sunblocking, Case is one of those guys whose skin has been leathered by exposure to the elements. Years of hiking and skiing and surfing and landscaping have left him permanently freckled and wrinkled beyond his forty years of age, and right now, he’s scowling at me in a way that doesn’t do justice to his golden-boy good looks.
“So where you headed?” he asks after an uncomfortable moment.
“Andie’s over at a birthday thing,” I explain, nodding toward the YMCA at the end of our street. “At the Y. Gotta go get her.”
“Huh. I thought maybe you were going to see your girlfriend.” I don’t miss the derision in his voice, his lip curling up over the word.
“That’s later,” I snap, pushing past him down the walkway. To hell with him and his opinions.
“Tonight?” he calls after me, and I nod my head, refusing to continue our discussion.
“Well, don’t forget the key.”
I stop in my tracks and slowly turn to face him. I’m not sure he means what I think he means, so I repeat, “The key.”
“To my beach place, man,” he nods. “There’s nothing like the ocean for a little romance. Girls dig that stuff, you know.”
And then he smiles. One of those great, unexpected Casey Porter grins, and despite him being such a jerk lately, I have to smile, too. It’s like the summer sun has unexpectedly pierced a mantle of gray. “Thanks,” I say, forgiveness forming inside of me.
He just waves, still grinning at me. “No problem, Straight Guy.”
***
Despite Rebecca’s clear directions, I have to circle her secluded block in Beverly Hills several times to pinpoint the Malone mansion. By the time I do finally locate it, on a hill off Wilshire, my Chevy truck feels more like a maintenance vehicle than a date mobile. But I’m after the prize, my date with Rebecca O’Neill, so I shuck the working-class attitude, and motor up the vine-secluded drive toward the main house. Right past the steep, ivied walls, topped by pivoting security cameras, and right past the pool house, acting like I sure as hell belong in this part of town.
Making a last inspection in my rearview mirror, I realize that I nicked myself shaving, and rummage through the glove compartment for a tissue. All I come up with is a discarded Starbucks napkin, and I blot the mark away, feeling a scratchy protrusion of beard beneath the rustling paper. Damn dull razor—and it’s a fancy party tonight, too, so I’ve got to look good. That’s why I did something I haven’t in more than a year: I pulled out my own Armani suit, a gift from Allie a few years back. He always loved to see me dress full-tilt, and thanks to him, I do like putting on the dog every now and then.
There’s a sweet smell in the air. Summertime’s blooming already, and like the bumblebees buzzing around the flowerbed, I’ve got a strange fluttering feeling of my own this evening. But then, killing the engine, I stare down at my hands. Worker’s hands: calloused hands, tanned and coarse—ridiculous in contrast to this elegant suit. And then there’s my silver commitment band glinting against my skin, another absurd contrast. Just couldn’t leave Alex’s ring totally behind. Tried, but didn’t have it in me yet—so I switched hands. The sign of a widower, wedding band on the right hand. Felt so damned disloyal, I wound up adding Al’s Rolex to my wardrobe mix just to compensate for the suffocating guilt.
Walking up to the garage I realize there’s no obvious entryway to Rebecca’s apartment. No side door, no stairs, nothing. For a moment, I stand there and scratch my eyebrow, then a throaty voice calls out, “Young man, why don’t you use the intercom?” It’s Mona Malone dead ahead, sipping a martini poolside, wearing an embroidered kimono bathrobe. Under the umbrella, I glimpse her silvered hair, drawn into an elegant bun. When she gives an undeniably flirty wave, I sure am glad Rebecca warned me about her landlady’s identity.
I step closer, shielding my eyes against the piercing late-day sun. “Ma’am?” I call out. “I don’t see an intercom.”
“The castle has a secret entry,” she answers coquettishly, and I get the impression this might not be her first martini of the evening. Staring back at the garage, I still don’t see an entry point, and she adds more soberly, “It’s around the side, covered by a patch of ivy. The intercom.”
“Thanks.” I smile, giving a slight, respectful bow and a big southern grin. Not sure how else to pay proper respect to someone this old and famous.
Finally, after a little recon work, I do locate the intercom. Pressing the button, there’s a ringing inside, then Rebecca’s sultry voice. “Yes?” she calls, drawing out the word.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair.” I flirt for all I’m worth, leaning up against the side of the building.