Bear licked her hand. Beside him, Baby was down on her haunches like a sphinx, coat glistening, her massive head tilted, staring at Arthur. Henry was ashen, holding on to the edge of the pool. His lips moved, and she knew that he was saying something, but it felt as if rushing water filled her head.
He was dead. Her father was dead. If only she’d gotten there sooner. If only she hadn’t stopped for that Egg McMuffin. They had to call an ambulance. Or the police. Or the fire—
“Deirdre!” Henry’s voice penetrated. “Are you okay?”
Deirdre tried to speak, but the breakfast sandwich was backing up in her throat. She burped and her mouth filled with acidic coffee.
“Stay here. I’ll call 911,” Henry said and hoisted himself out of the pool.
“I’ll go,” she said, reaching for her crutch.
Her weak leg was folded under her. She struggled to her feet, threw Henry the towel from the lounge chair, and clumped as fast as she could, hand over her mouth, through the gate, across the yard, and into the house. She reached the bathroom just in time.
Afterward, she stood at the sink, splashing water on her face and then drinking from her cupped hands, trying to wash away the nasty aftertaste. She looked into the mirror. Her long dark hair was wild around her face, like Medusa’s snakes in the Caravaggio portrait, her father’s haunted eyes staring back at her. She shivered, realizing that her dark leggings and top—an oversized T-shirt with XENO ART, the name of her gallery, silk-screened across the front, the neck artfully torn out—were completely soaked.
All she could find to dry her face was a ragged hand towel. She blew her nose and grabbed a few extra tissues for later, tucking them into the waistband of her leggings.
Numb, moving like a defective robot, she limped into the kitchen. The phone hung on the kitchen wall. She punched 911 and sank into a chair at the kitchen table, trying to collect herself.
An operator picked up. “Beverly Hills 911. Where is your emergency?”
Where? Deirdre wasn’t expecting the question. It took her a moment to come up with the address of the house where she had grown up.
“Thank you. What’s the emergency?”
“My father. He drowned in the pool. He’s dead.” Her voice sounded as if it were coming from someone else’s throat.
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
Deirdre closed her eyes. She could see Arthur’s stiff, clawed hands. “He’s dead.”
“Is anyone there with you?”
Deirdre squeezed the receiver. “Please send someone.”
“They’re on their way. Are you alone?”
“My brother . . . He’s—” She stood and gazed through the window, past white ruffled café curtains that she’d helped her mother hang. Her vision blurred. She had to call her mother.
“Hello?” The dispatcher’s voice sounded far away. Deirdre was trying to remember where she’d written the phone number her mother had given her months ago, before she’d checked into that Buddhist retreat. It had to have been in her datebook. Which was . . . she tried to recall where.
She hung up the phone, belatedly registering the dispatcher’s “Please stay on the line . . .”
She must have dropped her bag on the patio. She went to look. Sure enough, there it was. She opened the sliding door and shouted to Henry, “They’re on the way. I’m calling Mom.”
A minute later she was dialing, even though she knew no one would answer—it was a silent retreat for God’s sake. At least she got an answering machine. “Cho Bo Zen Buddhist Temple. Please leave a message. Gassho.”
After the beep, Deirdre said, “This message is for Gloria Unger. I’m her daughter. Please tell her—” What? That something had happened and to please call back at once? No. Her mother would worry that something had happened to Deirdre or Henry. So she just said it: “—Arthur died. Suddenly. He . . .” Deirdre pulled the handset away from her face and stared at it, then put the receiver back to her mouth. “Mom?” Her eyes misted over and her throat ached. “Daddy drowned.”
Deirdre ended her message with “It’s Saturday,” because who knew if there was a date stamp on the phone messages or how often the monks checked the machine. “I’m staying at the house. Henry’s here. And I wish you were here, too.”
The doorbell chimed just as she managed to croak out, “Please, call back.” Could the police have gotten here that fast?
Deirdre hung up the phone, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and went to answer the door. She expected to find paramedics or grim-faced police officers outside. Instead, a woman about her own age stood there, arranging a white bow at the neck of the blouse she had on under the jacket of a dark pantsuit that was a size too small.
“I’m here to see Arthur Unger,” the woman said. Her gaze traveled to the crutch Deirdre was leaning against. Deirdre was used to that.
Was that a siren in the distance? Deirdre looked past the woman.
“Deirdre?” The woman wiped away beads of sweat that had formed on her upper lip. She seemed vaguely familiar. Maybe an actress? Arthur was always having hopeful young women over to the house to read lines, even when everyone knew that Arthur’s only lines were the ones he used to convince the world that he was still a player.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman said.
Finally Deirdre really looked at her. Auburn hair. Sloping eyes. Pale soft flesh and freckles like sugar sprinkled across her nose. Deirdre did remember her. Of course she did.
“Joelen?” Joelen Nichol. Deirdre hadn’t seen or spoken to her in what, at least twenty years? Not since high school. Not since that night. She was the daughter of glamorous Elenor “Bunny” Nichol, a movie star known for her spectacular silhouette, electric blue eyes, and lousy taste in men. Joelen had confided to Deirdre that her father’s name was Joe. That explained her unusual name, pronounced Joe-Ellen—a combination of Joe and Elenor.
Joelen had her mother’s incredible aquamarine eyes, luminous complexion, and radiant smile with dimples on either side. “It’s so good to see you.” She grasped Deirdre’s arm, oblivious to the sirens that were growing louder. “This is so amazing. I had no idea you’d be here, too. Did he tell you that we had an appointment?”
“He?”
“Your father. I have a meeting with him this—”
“No.” The word came out louder than Deirdre intended. Joelen recoiled. “I’m sorry. He . . . he can’t see you now. It’s too late. He’s—” Deirdre couldn’t finish it.
“What? Did he change his mind? Is this a bad time?” Joelen started to back away, tripping over her own feet. The siren was screaming now. “I can come back. No problem. Another time?” She pulled a card from the outer pocket of her briefcase, lunged forward, and gave it to Deirdre. “Tell him to give me a call and—” Joelen broke off midsentence when the sirens fell silent. She turned and stared out toward the street.
Deirdre brushed past her. She moved through the courtyard, jerking her crutch loose when it got stuck between the paving stones. A police cruiser was parked in front of the house, lights flashing. Pulled up behind it was a red truck with gold lettering on the side: BEVERLY HILLS FIRE PARAMEDICS.
Deirdre was dimly aware of Joelen scurrying from the house, crossing the street, and getting into a dark compact car as Deirdre pointed two paramedics to the backyard. One of them carried an oxygen tank. Another maneuvered a wheeled stretcher that clattered up the driveway. A pair of uniformed police officers raced around ahead of them. Deirdre trailed behind. Henry was waiting at the gate to the pool. He’d wrapped up in the towel and, in spite of the heat, was shivering. He had the dogs on tight leashes, sitting tensed at his side.
The EMTs raced for the pool. Henry watched them for a moment, then led the dogs back into the house. Deirdre waited on the patio for him to come back out. She crossed her arms, feeling stiff and chilled as she watched one of the paramedics kneel beside her father. The oxygen tank lay abandoned on the ground.