“Wow, so it’d be like, not just a guy, but a kid, huh?” she says. “That’s interesting.” Great, my little tidbit worked like a charm, and she leans in, pecking me on both cheeks. Then, as she’s sliding into the seat of her car, and I’m letting loose a sigh of relief, she looks back, calling, “What about the ex? What happened to her?”
Trevor peers at me, a slight smirk on his face. I was nearly home free for a moment there. “We’ll talk about that part later,” I call to her, noncommittal as I wave goodbye. “It’s a long story.”
“Oh, oh, oh.” Cat laughs through her open car window. “Girlfriend’s gotten herself into a big mess, hasn’t she, Trevor?”
He slips his arm around me, making peace. “Well, it’s a lovely mess,” he answers pointedly, winking at me. “We’ll give our girl that.”
“And it’s a mess that makes me happy, unlike some of my other messes,” I say to Trevor as we wave goodbye to Cat.
“Darling,” Trevor says with a wry grin, “the happy messes are the only ones worth bothering about.”
Chapter Sixteen: Michael
Waiting in baggage claim for Laurel to arrive seems to last forever, a real study in patience for a guy like me. It’s damn hot for one thing: an oppressive heat wave spiked temperatures into the upper nineties by late morning, and now that the afternoon’s here, the city’s a regular boiler room. I only hope the weather’s not some kind of omen about this visit.
Andrea keeps wandering off, too, which makes me crazy, and I have to keep following after her. “Andie!” I call to where she’s flipping through some tourist brochures. She doesn’t even glance my way; in fact seems to turn her back more pointedly against me as I call, “Andrea, come back over here with me.”
When I reach her, she rolls her eyes. “Michael, it’s not a big deal. You can see me fine from right over there.”
“I don’t care. Come back over now,” I insist, glancing up the escalator for any sign of Laurel. “Besides, it’s not polite to be over there. You need to be waiting for your aunt.”
“I am waiting,” she argues, and finally I just give up, wiping the sweat away from my brow, closely watching my daughter from the sidelines.
When the sign flashes that Laurel’s flight has arrived from Albuquerque, my nervous anxiety spikes upward by a few notches, and I try to rein Andrea in. “Sweetie, look, her plane’s here, so any minute now she’s gonna be coming down that escalator. Any minute.”
To my surprise, Andrea does become compliant then, standing beside me dutifully, chattering about all the things she wants to show her aunt. The art project that won the Best Overall award for third grade; Jerry’s World Famous Deli down at the end of our street; her new doll, the one Laurel sent her a few weeks ago. But to my supreme mortification and anxiety, Andrea is most interested—more than absolutely anything else—in sharing my new girlfriend with her. Rebecca O’Neill and the Richardson family are on a collision-course trajectory, and while I knew it was coming, I’m still not sure what to make of it.
“There she is!” Andie scampers away from the baggage carousel to the foot of the escalator, waving exuberantly at her aunt. Laurel looks as beautiful as ever, maybe even thinner, and she’s always been rail-thin to begin with. Long and willowy, that’s Laurel’s look, with porcelain skin. She has shiny black hair down the length of her back, gypsy style. And clear blue eyes exactly like her late twin’s. That’s what I notice when we first make eye contact, and it spooks me in spite of myself.
“Hello, Michael.” Laurel steps off the escalator, leaning in to kiss my cheek. A delicate whisper of a kiss, practically like air brushing past, and then her full attention locks on Andrea. “Hello, my pumpkin!” she cries, folding Andrea tight in her embrace. Andie buries her face against Laurel’s shoulder, holding on hard. I doubt I’ve gotten a hug like that out of her in more than a year. Over Andrea’s head, again Laurel’s translucent eyes meet mine, and I’m not sure exactly what it is I see. Affection? Guilt? An apology?
I don’t keep the gaze long enough to find out. “Look, we gotta go get your bag.” I gesture toward the carousel. “This is L.A., you know, not Santa Fe.”
The words come out like an accusation of sorts, but Laurel gives me one of her opaque looks and nods. “Of course, Michael,” she says, holding onto Andrea’s hand as she rises to her feet. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
“No problem.”
“And thank you for inviting me.” She searches my face, but this time I say nothing. After all, I didn’t invite her here, never would have; I simply complied with her plan because I have no other choice in the matter. Not when she’s made it painfully clear that when it comes to Andrea, she’s the one with all the control. “I’m hoping we’ll have a nice visit,” she persists. The three of us walk toward the carousel, the flopping sound of her thong sandals loud on the polished floor.