Did he overemphasize my last name or am I paranoid? He removes one of my flats and slips on a Louboutin in its place. It’s as different as climbing into a shiny new Porsche when you’re used to driving a Camry. Or a rickshaw.
He takes the other shoe from the box and makes the swap as well.
“A perfect fit.” He presses his hands to his thick thighs and stands. He’s closer than before. We’re not quite chest to chest, but it wouldn’t take much to bring him there. God, he smells good. “That’s the shoe you belong in, Vivian.”
He tips my chin with his knuckle and I have the crazed thought he might kiss me. Which is insane. I don’t want him to kiss me. I decide I’ll drive my four-inch spiked heel into his toe if he kisses me.
“I have reservations for tomorrow night at seven thirty at Villa Moneta. Join me.”
I’m tempted to refuse, but I’m not sure what he knows, or what he might tell Daniel about me. I suspect Nate Owen could make my life hard if he wanted to. I came to Clear Ridge for an attempt at normal. Have I failed?
“Tomorrow it is,” I reply coolly, my mind a hectic scramble.
“I’ll send a car.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I argue.
“Very well. And, Vivian”—he pats my cubicle wall before he leaves—“wear the shoes.”
Chapter Five
Vivian
I arrive home to find an urn on my doorstep.
At first I thought a florist paid me a visit and the neighbor’s cat dragged off the greenery, but at a second and then third take, I recognize the container for what it is. It’s resting on top of a tiny-font, graphic designer’s nightmare of a menu from the local Chinese restaurant. They deliver. Which is super convenient if you want to eat a lot of deep-fried food covered in syrupy orange sauce while lounging on your sofa.
I stoop to pick up the menu and flip it over, recognizing my brother’s tall, thin cursive when I do.
Dad belongs with you.
I take a step back from the urn as if my father might rise out of it like Marley’s ghost and warn that I’ll be visited by three specters tonight.
“Hi, Vivian!”
I nearly leap out of my thrift-store dress at the sound of Mrs. McAffey’s voice behind me. I turn to my left and find her juggling two bags of groceries awkwardly while trying to insert her key in the door.
“Would you mind, dear?” She smiles, but her smile vanishes when she notices what’s at my feet.
“No problem.” I stuff my brother’s note into my purse and take a bag of groceries from her, positioning myself in between my neighbor and my dead dad.
“Is that…?” She points with her key. “What I think it is?”
“Yes,” I say solemnly. “My cat.”
Ms. McAffey frowns. “You had a cat?”
“My family’s cat. My brother dropped him off. He doesn’t want to keep him in the house. He says he’s having nightmares.”
Before my elderly neighbor can accuse me of having had a really big cat, her expression melts into grandmotherly concern. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
She smashes me into a bosomy hug with her free arm and I pat her while trying not to squish the bag of bread sticking out of the top of the paper grocery sack. “Thank you,” I say, my voice muffled.
“I used to have the sweetest boy,” she says, finally opening her door. I follow her into the kitchen. “His name was Dapper and he was jet black with a little white diamond on his forehead. Prettiest cat you ever saw. What’d your baby look like?”
“Oh, uh…” I glance around the room for inspiration, which doesn’t help. Floral patterns as far as the eye can see. “He was a, um, a gray cat. We found him. In an alley.” There, that’s generic.
“And his name?” She sets down her bag and takes the one from me.
“Steele,” I blurt.
“An appropriate name for a gray cat. I’m sorry for your loss, Vivian.”
“Thank you. I should—”
“Yes, go! I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your grieving. If you ever want to swap cat stories, you let me know.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m out of there in a flash and picking up my father’s remains. Inside my apartment, I pace the urn from living room to kitchen and back again, indecisive. I have no idea where to put him. Or it. I don’t even know what to call this.
Also, I’m going to choke my brother when I find him. You might think this is a sure sign he’s using again but this stunt reeks of sobriety. Of responsibility, which isn’t something he’s known for.
When news came that my father passed away, I sure as hell didn’t claim the body. Evidently my brother did.
I place what’s left of Walter, Senior on the counter next to the coffee pot and chew on my lip while I think. I grab my phone and video-call a friend from my former life. One of the only people, except for my brother, obviously, who knows I changed my name and ran away from my last life.
Marnie Lockwood picks up on the second ring.
“Vivvie!” Her face fills the screen and I’m happy just seeing her. I haven’t kept in touch like I should, but she’s one of those friends you can fall back in with no matter how much time has passed. “I miss you, doll!”
“I miss you too.” She also makes me miss parts of the world I told myself I was glad to leave behind. I minimalized when I left the world of the wealthy. How much stuff does a person need, anyway? “Your skin looks incredible.”
“Pierre,” she explains, touching her cheek. Pierre is her esthetician. He’s a miracle worker. If I had two-hundo for a facial, I’d totally get one. “You look…well, I love you, but you look not good.”
She doesn’t mean my skin, though I should exfoliate more.
“I’m not.” I flip my phone around and show her the urn. She gasps.
“Is that…”
“In the flesh.” I scrunch my nose. “Or not. You know what I mean.”
“Where? How?”
“Walt dropped it by my house.”
“I thought your brother was in Atlanta.” Marnie smooths one caramel-colored eyebrow with a manicured fingernail. I miss mani/pedi day too.
“Well, evidently he’s in Clear Ridge.” I look out my front window like he might leap out of the bushes. “I’m surprised he didn’t dump the urn into a trashcan somewhere.” I admire the decorative chalice holding my late father. It’s nice. If urns can be nice. “Or sell it for drug money.”
“He must be clean,” Marnie says, arriving at the same conclusion I had.
For now, I think but don’t say. It’s too sad to say aloud.
“What are you going to do with it? Or should I say ‘him’?”
I shake my head at my friend. “No idea.” On either count.
“I have something else to show you.” I tilt one Louboutin and point the phone at my feet.
Marnie gasps. Again. She knows I don’t wear anything showy in my new life. “Where did you get those?”
“From a billionaire.” I smile at my friend’s shocked expression. “I went to shut down his construction site and broke a heel. He showed up at my office with these.”