Once, she and Will met with a real estate agent, just to see.
“Incredible,” the agent had gushed. “This whole house is incredible. You’d never know all this was back here!”
This was true. Tucked into the hillside at the end of a steep, rocky driveway choked with blackberry bushes, one could drive right by and never know the house was there.
The agent ran her fingertips over the railing on the staircase and cooed at the attic’s soaring beams, high and polished like a cathedral. From one shelf in the attic, she picked up a toy car with one wheel missing. Erik’s car. “We’ll need to get rid of all this stuff, of course, before we list,” the agent said.
They decided not to sell.
The toy car is still there. Tova picks it up and slips it into her robe pocket.
This time, it’ll be different.
IT’S VERY LATE when Tova makes her way to bed. Cat sleeps in a little pile on the bedspread, his flank moving gently up and down. She pulls the covers back carefully so as not to wake him. She smiles to herself. Never would she have imagined sharing her bed with an animal, but she’s glad he’s here.
She drifts into a strange world. A dream, it must be, but she’s not entirely sure, for it feels so mundane. In the dream she’s lying right here on her firm bed cradled in her own arms, then the arms start to grow, weaving around her like a baby’s swaddle. The arms have suckers, a million tiny suckers, each one pulling at her skin, and the tentacles grow longer until they’ve created a cocoon and everything is dark and silent. A powerful feeling washes over her, and after a moment Tova recognizes the feeling as relief. The cocoon is warm and soft, and she is alone, blissfully alone. Finally, she succumbs to sleep.
Not Glamorous Work
Cameron sits at Ethan’s kitchen table, not sure whether he’s supposed to be hanging out here, or what. Ethan called a buddy of his who drives for a towing company, and although the guy hadn’t seemed thrilled about it, he hauled Cameron’s camper here, at no charge, to Ethan’s house, and deposited it in the driveway. Cameron thanked him about a million times. The flat tire still needs to be dealt with, but at least he’s not stuck in a grocery store parking lot.
But all of that took hours to sort out. It’s five now. So much for getting back to Brinks Development as planned.
“You sure it’s okay if I park here?”
“Long as you keep the noise down in the morning.”
“I’m not exactly a morning person,” Cameron says, laughing. At least he won’t have to worry about finding some shady parking lot to sleep in tonight. Taking another sip of whiskey, he feels his shoulders ease infinitesimally. For the first time since he left Modesto, he feels almost relaxed.
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad for a bit of company.”
“Same,” Cameron agrees. And even though Ethan had said he didn’t know Simon Brinks, he might be of use. He seems to know everyone here. How many degrees of separation can there be? Even rich guys like Brinks must need to buy milk once in a while.
An idea seizes Cameron. A brilliant one. “Ethan,” he ventures.
“Aye?”
“Is the Shop-Way hiring?” Cameron leans across the table. “What I mean is, would you hire me?”
Ethan seems to consider this for a moment.
“I can work a register.” Cameron has never used a cash register in his life, but how hard can it be? “Stock shelves. Wipe tables. Whatever.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s just not enough work.” Ethan shakes his head. “I’d have to give Tanner the axe.”
Deflated, Cameron drains his glass. “Right. Never mind.”
“But if you’re lookin’ for work, I might know of something.” Ethan pours him another scotch. The amber liquid lets off a warm, intoxicating smell as it swirls into the glass. “I can put you in touch if you want.”
Cameron props his chin on his fist. The damn camper tire. Ethan’s tow-truck buddy whistled low as he squatted down to examine it. Something about a cracked rim, a bent wheel well. Not good. When he jacked up the rim on his old Jeep a few years ago, repairing it cost several hundred dollars. Not to mention that his luggage is still missing, and he needs to pay Aunt Jeanne’s cruise money back. He needs to generate some cash.
“It’s a maintenance position, of sorts,” Ethan adds. “Not glamorous work.”
“Not a problem.” Cameron lifts his head. “Can you hook me up?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got the application here somewhere. My mate gave me a stack to set out on the deli counter at the store.” Ethan rises and stalks out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder that he’ll be right back.
Moments later, he returns, waving a sheet of paper.
“I’ll fill it out now.” Cameron picks up a pen that’s sitting on the table.
A slow grin spreads over Ethan’s face. “Well, on my recommendation, you’re a shoo-in, laddie. So what do you say we have some fun with it?”
THE NEXT MORNING, at quarter to eleven, Cameron returns to the aquarium. This time, the door swings open.
Ethan apparently called his “mate” first thing this morning, then banged on the camper door at ten, stirring Cameron out of a heavy sleep. Ethan’s green eyes were bright; it seemed he was completely unaffected by their late night. In a chipper tone, he told Cameron to be down there in an hour for his interview.
“Remember, his name’s Terry and he’s a bit of a fish geek, but he’s a fantastic bloke,” Ethan had explained for what felt like the tenth time. “Just relax, and I’m sure he’ll offer you the job on the spot.”
The guy who swivels around in the office chair is not what Cameron had expected for a so-called fish geek. He could be a linebacker. He’s clearly in the middle of a phone call, but he nods at Cameron to come in.
Sorry, he mouths, before turning back to his phone conversation.
Cameron hovers in the doorway, caught in the awkward place between not wanting to eavesdrop but wanting to follow instructions. He doesn’t need to start off a job interview by flouting orders.
The fish geek lowers his voice. “Tova, look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told you last time you called. If your doctor says six weeks, I insist you take it.” Brows furrowed, he scowls at whatever response comes from the other end. “Okay. Fine. Four weeks, and we’ll reevaluate.” Another pause. “Yes, of course I’ll make sure they’re capable.”
Pause.
“Yes, I know how the scum builds up around the trash cans.”
Pause.
“Yes, I’ll make sure they use pure cotton. Polyester will streak the glass. Got it.”
Pause.
“All right. You take care, too.” At this, a note of tenderness creeps into his voice, which lilts with some vague accent that might be Caribbean. Not that Cameron has ever been to the Caribbean.
Letting out a long sigh, the fish geek replaces the receiver, shakes his head, and stands to offer his hand. “Terry Bailey. You must be here for the interview?”
“Yeah.” Cameron straightens, remembering what Ethan told him. “I mean, yes, sir. The maintenance position.” He passes his application over the desk.
“Good, good.” Terry sits back down and starts to scan the paper. Cameron sits, too, suddenly regretting everything he wrote. He and Ethan had thrown back most of that bottle of scotch, and Ethan had assured him that whatever he wrote didn’t matter, that his recommendation truly was good as gold.
Maybe they’d had too much fun with it.
Terry frowns. “You managed tank maintenance at SeaWorld?”
“Right.” Cameron nods.
“And you were on the crew that constructed the shark tank at Mandalay Bay? Like . . . in Las Vegas?”
“Yeah.” Cameron feels his mouth twitch. Too far?
Terry’s voice falls flat. “The shark exhibit at Mandalay Bay went in back in . . . what was it, 1994, I think?”
“Yep. Gotta love the nineties, man.” Cameron chuckles, trying for nonchalance.
Terry’s not buying it. “You couldn’t have even been born yet.”
Cameron was born in 1990, but it doesn’t seem wise to point that out to Terry. Instead, he says, “Yeah, so some of that might be an exaggeration.”