That, or Mimi never really liked me. That was also possible.
“I would think my name would pop into your head before anybody else’s,” Frank said.
“How could your name pop into my head when it’s always in there already?” Mimi asked. “I never stop thinking about you, Frank. Not even when I’m sleeping.”
“That makes perfect sense, now that you’ve explained it. I have one more question. What happens to the little boy in your book after the story is over? What happens to him in the end?”
We’d made it through the light at last and left the Valley for the downhill slope of the Schwab’s side of Lookout Mountain. Mimi watched Los Angeles rushing up to meet us for about a mile before she said to Frank, “I wish I knew.”
( 29 )
I’D PROMISED I would leave as soon as Mimi’s book was done, so I booked a seat on a 6:00 A.M. flight out of Los Angeles and packed my bags as soon as we got back to the glass house. Mr. Vargas would follow in a couple of days. At least that’s what he told me.
I said good-bye and good night early and hustled off to bed. For probably the first time in my life I was glad to set my alarm for 3:30 A.M. A predawn departure, I decided, would cut down on the chances of a tearful farewell. As if either Frank or Mimi were ones for that. There’s something to be said for being an emotional flatliner. I can appreciate that now.
I woke up before my alarm went off, but only because Half-Pint E. F. Hutton had put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Alice, wake up.”
I bolted upright and switched on the light. “What’s wrong, Frank?”
“I just performed an inventory of your suitcases.”
“Of course you did.” I’d left them packed and ready by the front door. I might as well have attached a note to them that read, “Search me.”
Search you? Why? Do you have the answer on a piece of paper tucked in your pocket? Is that the sort of thing you’re writing when you’re scribbling in that notebook?
Oh, Frank. I cleared my throat. “Did I forget anything?”
“Just this.” Frank plunked a leather bag I’d never seen before on my lap. It looked about a hundred years old, like something a doctor might have carried on his horse-drawn buggy to make house calls.
“Did that bag belong to your grandfather, Frank?” I asked.
“This bag? Yes. Don’t tell my mother. She doesn’t know I know where she keeps it.” He opened and extracted the chocolate heart he’d bought me on our way to pick Mimi up at the psych ward. That seemed a lifetime ago but it hadn’t even been a week.
“Okay,” I managed to choke out.
“This heart was on the shelf in the repository of my childhood, so it’s not surprising you overlooked it. The bad news is I’m not sure it will fit inside either of your bags. Trust me, I tried.”
I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath or two. “Alice,” Frank said. “Are you asleep again?”
I opened my eyes again and checked my watch. The alarm wouldn’t go off for forty-five minutes yet. “Nope,” I said. “Get your flashlight and meet me in the kitchen.”
AFTER WE GATHERED up our tools, we eased out into the yard. The moon was still up and close to full, so we didn’t need the flashlight. I’d changed out of my pajamas and into the clothes I’d laid out to wear on the plane, so Frank did the digging for us. He used a big silver serving spoon from the kitchen to shovel a grave for my chocolate heart, under what was left of the tree outside Mimi’s office.
“I may not have stayed here as long as Dr. Livingstone lived in Africa,” I said to Frank as he pushed the dirt back in the hole with a triangular pie server and used that to pat it smooth, “but this heart of mine still belongs here with you. Since, you know, I’m still using the real one.”
Frank sat back on his heels and stared at the ground so long that I worried he was tuning up to cry. Until he said, “We need to put something heavy over this so the raccoons don’t dig that heart up.”
He could have used my real heart to cover the hole, since it weighed about a ton after he said that. While I was wallowing in how much I’d miss him, Frank was thinking about raccoons. Of course.
We ended up manhandling the blue slate paver from under the closest downspout, where it had been placed to keep the cataracts of guttered rain from washing away the hillside. “You have to put this stone back before it rains again, Frank,” I said once we flopped the thing in place. “Tell Xander the next time you see him. He’ll help you do it.”
“I’ll help Frank do what?” Xander asked. Forget raising your hand to make a taxi appear. The way the guy showed up at exactly the right time was pretty close to magic.