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“Liz—Liz McGinnis. That’s my husband, Phil,” I gestured to Phil’s retreating form, a dark shadow preceded by the beam of his flashlight. “I’ve met your wife and son a few times.”
“That’s what I hear. Fran said it was nice to have another normal person around.”
I laughed. “I feel the same way.”
Again, the scream came. It was louder this time, and definitely female. I whirled around, trying to get a sense of its origin.
“That’s it,” Doug said, digging in his pocket. “Woman screaming? I’m calling the police.”
Phil was coming back from the clubhouse, his flashlight zigzagging toward us.
Doug took a step away, speaking into his phone. “Yes, I’m calling from The Palms. Alameda County, outside Livermore.”
“It’s not coming from the clubhouse,” Phil panted. “Everything’s shut up for the night.” He frowned at Doug Blevins, overhearing part of his conversation.
The scream became a breathy wail, carried by someone coming off the trail at a sprint. Footsteps pounded closer, and Phil stepped in front of me. “Who’s out there?” he called.
The running figure became first a woman, then Deanna Sievert in a fitted running tank and shorts, hair escaping her ponytail. Seeing us, she cried out again, more sob than scream this time.
“Deanna? What happened?” I called.
She stopped short in front of us, nearly collapsing. Phil caught her by the arm. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and when she straightened up, her face was blotchy with tears. “There was—something—” she wheezed. “On the golf course. These two glowing eyes—”
“You saw someone out there?” I asked.
“No, something. At first—I thought it was someone’s dog. But the way it moved—it was feline, just massive—” She doubled over again, hands on her knees. Phil still had her by the arm, as if he were propping her up. “It disappeared when I screamed, and then I ran like hell.”
Doug joined us, phone in hand. “Police are sending out a patrol. I’m supposed to call back to update them. What did you see, exactly?”
Deanna repeated her story, only this time the predator seemed larger, stronger, faster, like the great fish that got away. She seemed less scared now, enjoying her position as the center of attention. I focused on Phil’s thumb, which was rotating in a circle on Deanna’s twenty-four-year-old shoulder.
Doug nodded knowingly. “Sounds like a mountain lion. We’ve had those before, off and on. The drought brings them out here to the golf course. They see all that green and think they’ve got a better chance of finding food.”
Headlights rounded the curve at the end of the block, blinding us with sudden light in the middle of the street. We didn’t move. It was a dark sedan, but it couldn’t have been the police, especially if they were coming down the winding access road from Livermore.
“Hey! It’s the Mesbahs.” Deanna waved to them, and Victor rolled down the window. He was wearing a tuxedo, a bow tie unclasped at his neck.
Myriam leaned across his body, alarmed. “What’s going on?”
Deanna called into the sedan, “I just saw a mountain lion on the trail!”
“My God.” Victor shifted the car into Park. Heat radiated from the engine.
“Well, we don’t actually know—” Phil tried.
Doug said, “The police are on their way. Actually, I need to call them back, give them an update.” He took a few steps away, redialing.
Myriam stepped out of the car, holding up the hem of a midnight blue dress, its fabric pooling near her ankles. “You must be so terrified,” she said. Deanna collapsed immediately against her shoulder.
“You don’t want to mess around with mountain lions,” Victor boomed in his too-loud voice, as if he were educating all of us, everyone in The Palms. “Have you ever seen a mountain lion going after something? They’re just stupendous creatures.”
“My God, yes,” Myriam said, patting Deanna’s head. “They can just tear something from limb to limb.”
No one seemed to be listening to Phil, but he kept talking. “We need to keep cool heads here. Deanna’s not sure what she saw, exactly.”
“Who’s that?” Deanna sniffed, pointing down the street.
It was the Jorgensens, dressed in dark jeans and white shirts. The hard soles of Sonia’s sandals smacked the asphalt. “Is everyone okay?” she called.
“Sonia! It was horrible, you wouldn’t believe—” Deanna began.
“So horrible,” Myriam echoed, as if she had been on the trail, too, taking a lap in her evening gown.
Tim Jorgensen shook hands with Victor and Phil and nodded at me. Deanna repeated her story, trembling when she got to the glowing eyes.
Doug was back, sliding his cell phone into his pocket. “They’re going to send out some kind of wild animal team in the morning.”
“In the morning!” Myriam scoffed. “What good will that do?”
“I don’t suppose there’s much they can do out there in the middle of the night,” Doug said. “And we hardly want them driving out on the golf course.”
Tim looked shocked. “No, of course not. They could do a lot of damage out there.”
“But we need to let people know,” Deanna protested. “I mean, think of all the people who jog first thing in the morning. The Browerses, for one. Sometimes Daisy’s out there, too. And then there’s the Berglands, with all those kids. You don’t think a mountain lion could hop one of those fences along the course, do you?”
“I don’t see why not,” Victor said. He clapped Phil on the shoulder. “What do you say, mate? I’ve got a handgun. If you give me a minute to change out of this monkey suit, we could head out there in my cart and chase down some mountain lions.”
I could feel Phil’s annoyance. He hated the Crocodile Dundee act, the assumption that all Australians were swashbuckling men in dungarees and a hat rimmed with jagged teeth. “Let’s keep a cool head here,” he repeated.
“But we want to be sure,” Victor said. “It’s about keeping our women safe, right?”
“A handgun, Victor? You’re not serious.” Myriam shook her head. “And I don’t think the cart is charged, even. When’s the last time you went golfing?”
“Rich has a .22,” Deanna offered. “He’s in the city tonight, but you could take it. And I know our cart is charged. Mac was on it earlier today. He’s too lazy to walk anywhere.”
“We could make some phone calls,” Myriam said. “I have the HOA directory.”
“What do you say?” Victor said. “Give me ten minutes?”
Phil’s eyes met mine, a swift glance that told me everything he was thinking—that this was a ridiculous idea and these were ridiculous people, but it was his job to cater to them even at their most ridiculous. He nodded slowly. “Okay, then. We’ll just take a look around. But watch that trigger finger, Victor.”
Victor guffawed, slapping him on the shoulder. Myriam picked her way back to the car in her heels, and a moment later their sedan passed us, the taillights winking around the curve and disappearing. “Well, good night, all,” Doug called over his shoulder.
“Mom?”
I whirled around. Danielle was on the lawn, dressed in the cargo shorts and T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier that day. Again, it took me a moment to recognize this version of her, the adult version with the cropped hair. Kelsey was behind her on the lawn, barefoot in her baby-doll dress. One of her spaghetti straps trailed down her arm.
“Did you get your hair cut?” Deanna squealed, her previous terror forgotten.
Danielle came forward, grinning, and Deanna ruffled fingers through her hair, first mussing it and then rearranging it before pronouncing it “smashing.”
“Kelsey, come on,” Tim said. “You’re walking home with us.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a mountain lion out there, and I don’t want you walking home by yourself. That’s why.”
Kelsey dropped her sandals to the ground one by one and wiggled her feet into them.
“Faster,” Tim barked.
“We have things to do, Kelsey,” Sonia warned.
I watched as the three of them set off down the street, Kelsey trudging ten feet behind, as if she weren’t part of their group. I felt sorry for her, understanding suddenly why she preferred to be at our house.
“Doesn’t she look so grown up now?” Deanna was cooing. “You’ll have to beat off the boys with a stick.”
Danielle blushed.
Phil had loosened up a bit, maybe accepting the reality of the night ride with Victor. “Believe me, I have a big stick at the ready,” he said. There was a moment of embarrassed silence. “That came out wrong. I meant—”
But it was too late. Deanna had doubled over, laughing. “I bet you do. I bet you do...”
* * *
Later, I grabbed a broom and dustpan from the outdoor utility closet and swept up the remnants of my broken wineglass. Nothing bounded past me in the backyard, nothing bared its teeth, but I didn’t take any chances. It may have been nothing—I wouldn’t have put it past Deanna to exaggerate a house cat into a mountain lion—but I felt uneasy on our patio, as if I were being watched.
Upstairs, I puzzled over the mess on the floor of the master suite—jeans and skirts and complicated, sparkly tops—before remembering that Danielle and Kelsey had used the room for its full-length mirror. I scooped up the clothes and tossed them onto the floor of Danielle’s room. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, thumbs tapping her phone’s keypad.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I forgot about those.”
“I’m not your maid,” I said, kicking at the clothes I’d just dropped, which already blended in with the other clothes on the floor.
She looked up. “I never said you were my maid.”
“Well, this place is a mess,” I said, stalking through the room. “Half of these clothes are Kelsey’s, and there are wet beach towels...”
“I know. I’m going to clean it up, don’t worry.”
I nudged a pair of shoes to the side of the room with my bare foot. “Tonight, before you go to bed.”
“It’s almost eleven o’clock. I’ll do it in the morning.”
“Tonight,” I repeated, and something in my tone caused Danielle to finally put her phone down.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, bewildered. “Are you mad at me for something? Is it still the haircut?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. Everything, suddenly, felt wrong. Things were feeling more and more wrong from one moment to the next. “Just do what I said,” I told her—that parental cop-out, that all-purpose directive I’d hated when my parents used it on me.
I ran a bath and soaked in it, lights out, until the water ran cold. What was wrong with me? I closed my eyes, but I could still picture Phil’s hand on Deanna’s shoulder, the slow circling of his thumb. I wondered if there was a way I could turn it around, make a joke out of it. Poor Deanna. Thank goodness she had you to comfort her. No—it wasn’t even funny. Besides, Phil would be annoyed about his ride with Victor; he would be grumpy when he came upstairs. I waited until my skin was wrinkled and soft before toweling off and sliding, still damp, into my pajamas. I tossed the pile of throw pillows out of the way—a silly splurge, since neither of us could be bothered to make the bed properly in the morning—and that’s when I saw it: a tiny black strip of fabric, tucked along the bed skirt on Phil’s side. I stared at it for a long time before touching it with my toe, spreading it out to see what it was.
A thong.
Not mine. Not Danielle’s—unless she’d spent her back-to-school money on silky black underwear.
There was a brief, horrible moment where I could picture Deanna Sievert in our bedroom, shedding one thin layer, then another. It was possible, of course—Danielle and I had been out of the house, and Rich had been out of town. And then I laughed out loud, shocked at how easily that image came to mind.
Of course not.
The thong was Kelsey’s—she’d been changing clothes in here; she was exactly the sort of teenager who wore a black silk thong. Why she felt the need to strip down altogether when trying on a few skirts, I had no idea.
I shook my head, remembering her standing on the front lawn in her short baby-doll dress, then casually following her parents down the street, apparently au natural. Apparently not worried about sudden gusts of wind.
I thought about flinging the underwear into Danielle’s room, one more item for her to clean off the floor. She would express disgust, and I would say, “Tell Kelsey to keep her panties on next time.” But it wasn’t worth the mention. Instead, I pinched the thong between two fingers and airlifted it to the wastebasket in the bathroom, where I shoved it deep beneath crumpled tissues and an empty bottle of shampoo.
PHIL (#ulink_64334f93-7c5d-557b-a3dd-5fc55486b21a)
I didn’t say anything to Liz about Kelsey in the beginning, and then suddenly, it was too late. Liz was already suspicious of Deanna, who had nothing better to do than chat for half an hour here, an hour there. I could have said something about Kelsey, but it would have been more grist for the mill, more fodder for Liz’s jokes about The Palms. And that was when it was a mindless flirtation, a situation that I figured would blow over and be gone, like a bit of dandelion fluff.
Later, mentioning it would have given it too much weight in our lives. Even saying her name would have been dropping clues about an affair I wasn’t having. I tried it out in my head, worked on the phrasing. There’s this girl who has a bit of a fixation on me. It’s probably just a little crush. I haven’t done anything—much—to encourage it. It’s nothing. But it wouldn’t be nothing to Liz. She wouldn’t have been able to let it go. I knew how she was, how at her core was a kernel of insecurity, dormant until we’d moved to The Palms. She’d never been especially concerned with her own appearance before. She’d never obsessed about exercise. Her wardrobe had been a steady rotation of black pants and button-down shirts, the occasional jacket. In the mornings, every morning of our lives before moving to The Palms, she simply ran her fingers through her wet hair, added a bit of lip gloss, and was ready to go.
I’d loved that about her.
Now, she weighed herself each morning, frowned at her face an inch from the mirror. She bought expensive clothes that hung in our closet, receipts dangling, while she made a final decision.
“You look sexy,” I’d murmur in her ear, nuzzling along her neck, and she would frown, not buying it.
“I love you,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose. “You just said that ten minutes ago.”
“It’s still true.”
* * *
I thought that Kelsey’s friendship with Danielle would be a good thing, that she would drop the flirtation when those worlds intersected. What kind of fifteen-year-old girl was interested in her friend’s stepfather? But overnight, she wormed her way into our lives. I hadn’t figured on the logistics of Kelsey in my home, coming out of the bathroom late at night when I climbed the stairs, eating a bowl of cereal in the morning, her nipples outlined against the thin fabric of her tank top. In the afternoons, she paraded through our house in her bikini, letting the strap slip over her shoulder until the top of her breast was exposed. She’d already caught me looking. One night at dinner she brushed her leg against mine under the table and I jumped up, saying that I wanted to catch the end of the game.
I tried, in a general way, to get rid of her. I joked: she’s eating all our food. I complained: they’re too loud at night, and I’m not getting enough sleep. I coaxed: I wish we could just be alone, the two of us, without the girls always in our hair.
I wanted Liz to see it, without me having to say it.
It was a mess, but I told myself I could ride it out. What other choice did I have? Kelsey Jorgensen would outgrow me eventually. School would start, and she would find a real boyfriend, someone her own age. She would look at me and see thinning hair, wrinkles around my eyes. If I didn’t encourage her, she would wander off—like a stray dog.
* * *
The morning after the mountain lion sighting—the “alleged” mountain lion sighting, I told Jeff Parker, checking in—Deanna came by my office to make copies. In giant, bold font, her flier said WARNING: PROTECT YOUR FAMILIES AND YOURSELVES, with a picture of a mountain lion, jaws bared, feline haunches rolling. She offered to walk the fliers door-to-door herself, no doubt planning to relive the experience for anyone unlucky enough to be at home. When Deanna left, clutching an armful of thick orange card stock, Marja Browers stopped by, wondering if I could draw up some kind of schedule for “running buddies.” I was fumbling my way through a spreadsheet when Kelsey came into my office, draping herself across the chair in front of me. I was already in a foul mood, not to mention exhausted from spending half the night on the golf course with Victor Mesbah, who’d been so full of bloodlust I was afraid he would shoot himself in the foot. Or worse, shoot me. Liz had already been asleep when I came in, and she’d been frosty this morning, as if I’d been out for a night on the town without her.
