I hung up and put a pillow over my face, though I knew there wasn’t any point. I was awake and I might as well get up and shower so I could get on with my day. So what if it was a weekend and I was unemployed? Worse things had happened. Not that I could think of one offhand.
By the time I brushed my teeth, showered, shaved my legs, shampooed my hair, dressed, descended the spiral staircase, and consumed my bowl of Cheerios, I could see the bright side of what might have seemed insulting at first blush. Lauren McCabe had turned out to be a pain in the ass. I was glad to be shed of her, and Hollis as well. Fritz was a first-class jerk and whatever became of him henceforth was no concern of mine.
I washed my bowl and spoon and left them in the rack. Then I snagged my car keys and my shoulder bag and drove to the office, coolheaded enough to exercise all the proper security precautions, making sure Ned Lowe wasn’t lurking in the bushes when I unlocked my door and disarmed the system. The whole rigmarole felt silly, but I resisted the urge to relax my vigilance. I locked the door again, armed the perimeter, crossed to my desk, and pulled out my portable Smith Corona. I removed the hard cover and set it aside. I found a sheet of letterhead stationery, a carbon, and a second sheet and made a neat paper sandwich that I rolled into my machine. By way of formalizing the change in our relationship, I typed the following: Attention: Mr. and Mrs. Hollis McCabe
As per our telephone conversation this morning, I am writing to confirm that our professional relationship has been severed. Enclosed is a check in the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars, which represents your advance payment to me for services, which you have deemed unsatisfactory. As of this date, September 23, 1989, the business arrangement between us has been terminated.
Respectfully submitted,
I signed my name with a flourish, folded the letter, and found an envelope on which I typed the names and the address. I pulled out my checkbook and wrote a check for the twenty-five hundred dollars. I slid the letter and the check into the envelope and licked the flap. I affixed a stamp and hopped in my car and drove to the main post office, a few blocks away. When the doors opened at ten, I was the first one in line. I sent the letter by certified mail, signature required and return receipt requested.
That done, I went home and did a massive fall cleaning. I must have been more upset about being fired than I thought, because my Cinderella complex had been kicked into high gear. I moved furniture away from the walls and dusted baseboards. I vacuumed. I scrubbed tubs, sinks, and toilets, mopped floors. I dusted the shutters. I took a toothbrush and cleaned the grout between tiles. When the studio was properly spit-shined, I changed into my sweats, jogged for three miles, and then went to the gym, where I lifted weights for an hour. After that, I took a nap, which had all the benefits of a coma without my being close to death.
At 3:45, I crawled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and took another shower, then put on the same tights, skirt, and turtleneck I’d worn the night before. Between the wardrobe shortcut and the absence of makeup, my so-called beauty regimen took thirteen minutes. Coming out of the studio, I spotted Pearl in her wheelchair, her feet propped up on one of the Adirondack chairs. She was sunning herself, eyes closed, but she turned her face idly in my general direction when she heard me shut and lock the door.
“Henry says keep an eye out for Ed. Cat’s been gone since last night.”
“Really. Well, that’s worrisome.”
“You know him. Henry’s been out walking the neighborhood, calling him, but so far, no luck.”
“Well, if he doesn’t show up soon, let me know and I’ll pitch in.”
“He’ll probably wander home, but keep an eye out just in case.”
“Will do,” I said.
The drive to Perdido, which should have taken twenty-five minutes, took fifty. Late-day traffic on the 101 is sluggish even on the weekends and I knew enough to allow way more time than I’d ordinarily need. With the ocean to my right and the autumn sun beginning to fade, I felt myself relax for the first time that day. The drought had turned the chaparral a ghostly gray, patches of vegetation so dry that they formed a silvery haze that hovered over the hillside as it undulated along the coast. The rugged hills that rise straight up from the highway are considered young, a geological casserole of sandstone and shale, with occasional outcroppings of limestone appearing in the western portion of the range. Five million years ago these mountains were lifted along the San Andreas Fault, which tracks like the ragged spine of some prehistoric beast some eight hundred miles through California. The Santa Teresa coastal plain is so riddled with cracks that it’s a wonder we don’t have daily temblors sufficient to rattle our china off the tabletops.
I had checked my Thomas Guide for the address Phyllis had given me and I took the Sea Side Boulevard off-ramp and followed the road toward the harbor, where a small community of restaurants and beach shops was flourishing. Her condominium development, the Haven, was located two blocks from the water, a complex of twenty-two buildings that more nearly resembled the architecture of New England than the usual California style. These structures were symmetrical, with double-hung sash windows, balustrades, and dormers. The frame siding was painted gray with white trim. The rooflines were just irregular enough to be interesting. The buildings were three stories high and stood shoulder to shoulder, with the outdoor living spaces cleverly arranged so that they were not directly visible from one to the next. Privacy was probably an illusion, as I was guessing the construction allowed sound to carry, sometimes amplified, from one condominium to the next.