“Securus?”
“The company that runs the prison phone system. They’ve got contracts all over the country.” A dry chuckle. “I’m guessing they make good money, from the amount they charge for those calls.”
He finally called on Sunday afternoon, while Michelle was packing her bags for Los Angeles.
An automated phone tree called, rather, that same flat, cheerful woman’s voice that was always sorry when you spoke and it “didn’t get that,” and asked if she was willing to accept a collect call from an inmate at Harris County Jail.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her Armani jacket spread on her lap. She could hear noise in the background, men’s voices, shouting, laughing, what sounded like metal doors slamming, now and again.
Now that he’d called, she didn’t know what to say.
“How are you doing?” she finally asked.
“Okay. You? Things are good?”
She couldn’t actually tell him anything. Couldn’t tell him where she was, what she’d been doing, where she was going. These phone calls were monitored, and not just if you had a Gary in your life.
“You know, it’s complicated. But I’m okay. Keeping busy.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I figured.”
He got it. God knows, if she told him the story of how she got her first $50,000 payoff, he’d probably nod, roll his eyes and say, “Fucking Gary.”
That Gary, such a crack-up.
“Did you get a hold of…?”
Sam. He had to mean Sam. “Yeah. He’s looking into it.”
“Good. Thanks.”
What could she tell him might actually help?
“I’m sorry I can’t come to the hearing,” she said.
“Don’t be. Look.” A long, drawn-out exhale. “You don’t need to be anywhere near this. I don’t want you to. Just…”
He couldn’t say what he wanted to either.
“I really think you should take a break from all this, Em. You’ve got other stuff on your plate. Me and the lawyers can handle my situation. You need to take care of yourself.”
Was this code? Was it truth? She didn’t know.
Maybe it was a particularly awkward breakup.
“Okay, I don’t know how you’re feeling right now, but the reality is, we’re both in this situation. I can’t just… run away and take a vacation from it.”
Her words came out on a rush of irritation. The two of them were stuck together, whether he wanted to be or not, and even if he’d said it because he cared about her, practically, it made no sense.
She wasn’t going to outrun Gary on her own.
Silence.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I hear that. Just… take care. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Was there something else she should say?
“You too.”
Chapter Thirteen
Los Angeles.
Stepping outside from baggage claim, she saw and felt it: the unmistakable quality of the light, that stretched-out, faded blue, the air that wasn’t desert dry but still slightly astringent.
She scanned the curb for the town car that was supposed to pick them up.
“Does it feel good to be home?”
Michelle turned. Caitlin stood slightly behind her, hand resting protectively on her suitcase, which sat on the luggage cart.
They could have done without the cart, really; the things cost $4.00, and Caitlin’s wheeled suitcase wasn’t even that big. But Caitlin had insisted. “Oh, hon, I don’t feel like dragging that thing around. Let’s just get a cart.” She’d drunk a few glasses of wine on the plane, and Michelle suspected she’d also taken whatever it was she took for anxiety; she had that blurred quality to her, like a charcoal drawing that the artist had slightly smeared.
Michelle smiled. “It’s nice to be back.”
She wasn’t really sure that it was.
LA wasn’t her home anymore; she was sure of that.
Michelle had booked them at Shutters, because Caitlin had wanted something special, and because it was on the beach. She’d been reluctant to book herself in a place that expensive, but Caitlin insisted. “It wouldn’t make much sense for you to be at a different hotel. Besides, this is a special occasion.” She’d smiled. “I’m going to get started on those changes I need to make.”
Now they stood in the lobby, wood, and leather and brocaded couches with striped pillows, all very Cape Cod. The whole hotel looked like that, wood with light gray siding, white balconies and dark gray slate roofs, like they’d shipped it from the Hamptons.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Caitlin said.
“It has a spa and a nice gym, and a restaurant with a really great wine list. Plus there’s all kinds of places we can walk to from here.”
“Now, I thought nobody walks in LA,” Caitlin said, with an obligatory laugh.
Michelle forced a smile. Nearly every out of towner she ever encountered seemed compelled to make that joke. “Well, this area’s a little different.”
“Why don’t we change and go get a glass of that wine?” Caitlin said. “Maybe take a little walk on the beach.” She laughed, this time with an edge of embarrassment, or at least it seemed that way to Michelle. “I don’t think I’m ready for yoga today.”
“Sure,” Michelle said. It was almost 4:30. She was tired, aching, and though yoga would do her a world of good, a glass of wine sounded better. Easier, anyway.
The glass ended up being two.
“Oh, this is so nice,” Caitlin said. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. But though repeating herself could be a sign of too much wine and whatever else Caitlin had taken, Michelle had to admit, it was very nice.
She’d forgotten what it was like, being in places like this.
They sat out on a terrace with a view of the beach and the ocean stretching to the horizon, the sky streaked with clouds glowing from the late afternoon sun. She’d ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc; Caitlin stuck to her chardonnay. They’d also ordered a few small plates: roasted baby vegetables, charcuterie and cheese. Watching Caitlin eat, Michelle could see how she stayed so thin in her late thirties without getting much exercise: she hardly ate anything. Most of her calories were in wine.
“So, for the event tomorrow,” Michelle began. They had barely discussed it.
Caitlin did her dismissive wave. “There’ll be drinks and hors d’oeuvres, people will mingle, we’ll have dinner. Then speeches and presentations. Lord, I hope it doesn’t go on too long.”
“And you’re speaking.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “The usual heart-rending appeal.” She drained her glass, and lifted her hand to call the waiter.
“It sounds like you’re a little tired of it,” Michelle said cautiously.
Caitlin shrugged. “Well, what else am I going to do with myself?”
“Ladies, can I get you another round?” The waiter had appeared, a young man with sandy hair who Michelle would bet had a headshot.
“Absolutely.” Caitlin beamed at him. “How about you, Michelle?”
“Well, if we want to take a walk…”
“Look how high the sun is. We have time for another glass.”
By the time they reached the boardwalk, the streaky clouds were turning a watercolor wash of pink, orange and yellow. Beach cruisers, rollerbladers and skateboarders wheeled by. The air was soft, moist, with a snap of salt and kelp.
Caitlin took in a deep breath. Smiled. “If this doesn’t look like a TV commercial.”
“They do film a lot of them here,” Michelle said. “Is this your first visit?”
Caitlin laughed. “Oh, no. I’ve been out to LA more times than I can count. We’ve actually got a condo in San Diego.” She paused for a moment and gazed out toward the water. “I do, I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” Michelle said without thinking. Without stopping herself from saying it.
“Yeah, I know. Everyone is.” Caitlin stared at the horizon. “It’s a funny thing. I keep waiting to feel better. Four years out. I don’t, really.” She turned to Michelle. “Do you?”