And She Was Page 7

  We grab stale muffins wrapped in chemical-smelling plastic wrap left over from the “continental breakfast” in the lobby, and head out.

  The day is beautiful. Only a few clouds in the sky, not too hot. The kind of day when street sweepers and jackhammers sound like music. Everyone seems to be in a good mood—even the workers in suits and heels lining up to get lunch from the street vendors. I’d almost forgotten it’s a weekday. Just because my world has been flattened and flipped upside down like a pancake doesn’t mean everyone else’s lives are on hold too.

  Oh crap.

  “I need to make a couple calls,” I tell Sam halfway across the parking lot and pull my phone out. Remarkably, there haven’t been any other calls or texts from Mellie. I guess she got the message.

  I call the juice stand first.

  “Jolly Fruit Juices and Smoothies, this is Arielle speaking, how may I help you?”

  Arielle’s the manager—just the person I need to speak to. “Hey, Ari, it’s Dara.” I can hear the piped-in adult contemporary music and sounds of the mall shoppers passing by the kiosk.

  “Oh hey! What’s up?”

  “I’m really sorry for the short notice, but something’s come up and I’m not going to make it in for my shifts the next few days.”

  There’s a pause. “Including today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re supposed to be here in three hours, Dara. You need to find someone to cover if you have to switch.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But I had to leave town unexpectedly. I didn’t have time to ask anyone.”

  “That’s not my problem.” She’s pissed now.

  “I’ve been working there for two years,” I say, starting to get annoyed too. “This is the first time I’ve canceled a shift at the last minute.”

  “I know that, but your track record doesn’t help me today. It’s the summer: I have three employees out on vacation, and Jonathan’s already worked two doubles this week. If you don’t show up, I’m going to have to stay. And that means paying a babysitter to pick Aiden up from preschool.”

  I swallow guiltily. “I’m sorry—”

  “I have a line. I have to go. If you don’t show up for your shift, I’ll have no choice but to replace you. Permanently.”

  “But … I’m in Philadelphia,” I say, stunned. “There’s no way I could make it back in time.” Even if I wanted to.

  “Then I’m sorry. You can come collect your final paycheck any time after Friday.” She hangs up.

  I realize I’ve made it to the car, but I haven’t unlocked the door. Sam is standing by the passenger side. “Everything okay?”

  I stare at the phone. “I just got fired.”

  “Really? I thought your manager was cool.”

  “She usually is.” I can’t believe it. My savings are already dwindling because of this trip, and now I’m out of a job. The pro circuit just got that much further away.

  I unlock the car doors and slide into the driver’s seat. But I don’t turn the car on. I have to call Bob now. Today’s Wednesday and my next training session isn’t until Friday, but I should give him as much notice as possible. I don’t need him to fire me too. Not that I have any idea how I’m going to pay him.

  “Dara Baker, my favorite person,” he says upon answering.

  “Hey, Bob. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well! Mary had a productive session this morning, and I just got some terrific tomatoes and fresh herbs at the farmer’s market.”

  I smile. “That’s great. So, I actually need to cancel our session on Friday.” And maybe next week’s too, if things with the Pembrokes go well, but I don’t want to jinx anything.

  The silence on the other end of the line gives away his surprise. “Are you sick?” It’s a reasonable question—I can only remember canceling one session before, and it was when I had a nasty, flu shot–resistant flu.

  “No, I … It’s a long story, but I guess you could call it a family emergency.”

  “Is Mellie sick?”

  “No. Everyone’s fine.”

  “What’s going on, then?” he asks.

  “It’s … complicated,” I say. I can’t get into it right now—and not because Mellie asked me to keep quiet. I just … can’t.

  “I understand.” He’s clearly displeased.

  I hate disappointing him. In a way, Bob’s always sort of filled the dad role in my life. Which is ironic, in light of recent events. The guilt I felt when speaking to Arielle fizzles and reconcentrates here. “Actually, I have good news,” I say, hoping to alleviate his disapproval. “I’m going to enter a tournament! Not the Toronto one, because I don’t know if I can get a passport in time, but one somewhere.” Probably not a good idea to tell him that I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to cover the expenses. Or that today’s workout consisted of jumping on a couple of hotel beds.

  “You’re going to knock their socks off.” I can hear his smile. Phew. “I’ll see you next week. And keep training … if you can.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  I drop the phone in the cup holder and turn the car on.

  “Ready?” Sam asks.

  I look over at him, and then straight ahead, not answering.

  The GPS app says the drive to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, will take twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes is all that stands between my future and me. Or is it my past?

  I don’t know what I’m going to find when I knock on the door of their house. Will they recognize me? Will they believe me?

  What if they’ve moved on? Forgotten all about me.

  What if they hate Mellie so much that they hate me too, by default?

  What if we don’t have anything in common, apart from a few genes?

  Or … what if they love me? And what if I don’t know how to be in a family? What if I do everything wrong?

  A solitary question rings in my ears, a clear soprano, as I back out of the parking space: Am I only rushing into this because Mellie doesn’t want me to?

  No, I answer. No, this is for me. I need to do this.

  There’s no traffic, no red stoplights, no detours. Nothing is standing in our way. Since when is the American highway system so accommodating?

  I try to keep my anxiousness from Sam, try to stay über-confident and focused, like I’m about to begin a match. I don’t want to have to admit out loud to being terrified of the one thing that just last night I was so resolute to do. I want to be confident. Fearless. Certain that running away, giving up my job, and letting down Bob were worth it. But I’m not able to stomach eating any of that muffin, and my breaths are becoming a little erratic. Sam can tell. He’s always been able to tell when I’m not right.

  Once in third grade it was my turn to take the class rabbit home for the weekend, and I completely forgot to feed him. He didn’t die, but come Monday morning he wasn’t doing so hot, either. The teacher asked, rather unforgivingly, what had happened, and I stood there, stammering and sweaty, reluctant to own up to my own carelessness. Sam had no idea what I’d done, but he got up from his desk, came up to the front of the class, and covered for me anyway.

  “I bet Steven has that disease a lot of pet rabbits have been coming down with. It’s like the flu. Didn’t you hear about it on the news?” he said with a completely straight face.

  The teacher looked surprised. “No, I didn’t. Poor Steven! Thank you for telling me, Sam.” She looked at me again. “Don’t worry, Dara; this wasn’t your fault. I’m sure you took very good care of him this weekend. You may take your seats.” She poured some food into Steven’s dish, which he immediately devoured.

  I shot Sam the most relieved, grateful smile I could manage through the crushing guilt.

  And now he’s saving me again. As I drive, he reaches over, places a hand lightly on my arm, and squeezes reassuringly.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  The GPS was wrong: Only twenty-one minutes after leaving the hotel, we’re driving through a well-lan
dscaped, unmistakably wealthy area, and then we’re pulling into a long, circular drive. I stare up at the house, butterfly wings flapping against my rib cage.

  I cut the engine. “Are you sure this is the right address?”

  “Yep. This is it …” There’s no mistaking the awe in Sam’s voice.

  This isn’t a house. It’s a castle.

  The front of the palatial, three-story stone house is shrouded in brilliant green ivy, perfectly pruned around the windows and doorways, and trimmed in a neat line just below the sloping roof. The lawn is as manicured and sprawling as a golf course, and the massive weeping willow in the front yard transforms the property from intimidating to inviting.

  I know Mom said the Pembrokes had money, but I wasn’t expecting this. It makes me both excited for what might lie ahead and sad about how things could have been. Not that I would have expected … I don’t know, fancy jewelry and private schools or anything. But there’s no telling how far along my career could have been by now if only I’d had the funds to make it happen.

  Looking at this house, a picture forms, and the blanks become filled. I don’t know how, but I’m suddenly certain I know who the Pembrokes are. The lawyer and his perfect wife. Their beautiful blonde daughters. Family dinners around the table each night, family vacations each summer. Well-dressed, well-liked, well-intentioned. Generous donations to charity and hefty Christmas bonuses to their housekeeper and gardener each year. An old cat who bears a silly name chosen by the girls when they were younger. Grandkids and extended family filling the house on holidays, with at least four kinds of pie laid out on the table for dessert.

  They never stopped looking for me. They’ll welcome me into the fold of their family like I’ve been there all along. They’ll tell me stories about Celeste and show me pictures and videos. They’ll give me something that belonged to her, a doll or locket or handmade picture frame, something they know she’d have wanted me to have.

  Now I’m really glad I wore this dress, even if it is a little uncomfortable. I glance at Sam—I wonder if he should take off his ratty old Converse before entering the house.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. “Let’s do it.”

  We get out of the car and I place one foot in front of the other until we’re on the stone doorstep. I ring the bell, wipe my palms on the sides of my dress. A few moments later, the door opens. A thirty-something woman with her face perfectly made up and a small redheaded child on her hip stands there.

  “Yes?” she asks.

  “Hi.” My voice comes out squeaky. I clear my throat. “I’m Dara Baker. Or Hogan, I guess. I’m, um …” Spit it out. “I’m looking for Ruth or William Pembroke?”

  The woman’s eyes squint in confusion, but her forehead remains unlined. I wonder if that’s a result of the makeup, good genes, or some expensive cosmetic procedure.

  Shame tugs at me. I’ve never cared much about traditional beauty. My hypersensitive relationship with my own body has made sure of that—I take good care of myself, but despite that, or maybe because of it, I don’t have the typical lithe, waifish physique most people find attractive. I hate that finding out about Mellie has made me start scrutinizing people’s faces and bodies in a way I never used to.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I think you may have the wrong house.”

  “Isn’t this four-twenty-two Maple View Lane?” Sam asks.

  “Yes.” She nods.

  “And there’s no one named Pembroke here?”

  “No.” Something dawns on her face. “Oh, you know what? Now that I think about it, I believe that was the name of the family who lived here before us.” She nods, remembering. “Yes, the Pembrokes. That’s right. Very nice people.”

  All the apprehension and excitement dries up and forms a thick, dull pit in my chest. “When did you move here?” I ask quietly.

  “Let’s see, I was pregnant when we bought the house, so … that was about two and a half years ago now.”

  “Do you know where the Pembrokes moved to?”

  She shakes her head. “We mostly dealt with the realtors. Only spoke to the previous residents once or twice.” The kid in her arms squirms and starts to whine. “All right, Matthias.” She sets him down and he runs away, squealing, into the house. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” She closes the door.

  Sam and I stand there for a minute. I stare at the door, my reflection distorted in the shiny black paint.

  “Well, shit,” Sam says eventually, and I look up at him.

  “Yeah.” The dress, the nerves, all for nothing. We turn and walk slowly back down the path to the car. Once we’re buckled in, I grab my phone. “When you looked up the address last night,” I ask, “what exactly did you put in the search engine?”

  “Ruth and William Pembroke, Cherry Hill, New Jersey.”

  “Okay.” I do a new search, and leave out the name of the town. Just “Ruth William Pembroke.” It takes a few minutes, but I find a different address. It’s just outside Charleston, South Carolina. There’s only one phone number on record for them, and it has a New Jersey area code. Well, maybe it’s a cell phone, and they kept the number regardless of where they’re living now. I highlight the number and press “call.” Immediately I get an out-of-service recording. Damn.

  I turn to Sam. “How would you feel about next-leveling this road trip?”

  He looks wary. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I found another address for them. But it’s in South Carolina.”

  He presses his lips together, observing me, thinking. “I’ll go, but only under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We have to get Philly cheesesteaks first.”

  “I’m training for the pro tennis circuit, Sam. I can’t eat that stuff.”

  Something flashes in his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “What?”

  “We’re essentially on the run right now, your entire life has been turned upside down, I packed a bag and got in this car with you without even knowing what was going on, we just found out we’re going to have to drive a lot farther than we thought … and you’re not going to have one freaking cheesesteak with me?”

  I gnaw on my lip. He’s not wrong; I could use a little comfort food. And I probably do owe him this, as a thank-you for being such a great wingman.

  I sigh and start the ignition. “Fine. We have to go back to Philly to get our stuff from the hotel anyway.”

  We park the car and find a street vendor. When Sam and I came to Philadelphia two years ago on that school trip, it was all Betsy Ross House and Independence Hall and bag lunches and following an overzealous tour guide holding a red, white, and blue flag above her head. There’s a photo from that day on Sam’s refrigerator: him and me and a couple of his other friends—including Sarah, who wasn’t yet his girlfriend but clearly wanted to be, from the way she stood so stupidly close to him—posing in front of the Liberty Bell.

  Sam orders for both of us. Street meat, gobs of processed dairy, and refined white flour are as foreign to me as Saturday night dates and million-dollar trust funds. But Sam’s aunt lives in Philly, so he’s visited with his family a bunch and knows a lot more about the city than I do.

  We sit in a park and I take my first bite. My eyes practically roll back in my head as I let out an involuntary moan. “Oh my God, that’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  I take another bite, then another. Sandwiches are a staple at home—quick, relatively healthy, and easy for Mom to pack in her insulated lunch bag—but I’ve never had one like this.

  After a few moments I notice Sam is watching me, his uneaten sandwich hovering halfway to his mouth.

  “What?”

  He blinks, and quickly takes a bite of his own cheesesteak. “Nothing. Good, right?”

  “It’s amazing.”

  “So, I was thinking …” he says. “What if we just spent the rest of the day here in the city? We’ll keep the hotel reserva
tion since it’s already paid for anyway, and then get a fresh start out on the road tomorrow morning.”

  I swallow my most recent bite. “I don’t know … I don’t want to lose my momentum and chicken out.”

  “There’s no way you’re going to chicken out. Once you put your mind to something, there’s no stopping you, Dara.”

  I bump into his side, a nonverbal Aww, shucks.

  “I know all of this is super intense. Walking up to that house today was scary for me—I can’t imagine what you were feeling. And for them to not even be there …” He shakes his head. “But that’s part of the reason I wanted to come back here and chill for a little bit. You always go, go, go in everything you do. Sometimes I wonder if you put too much pressure on yourself.” He says it without looking at me, as if it’s hard for him to admit. Then he shrugs. “Anyway, I thought it might be good for both of us to take a breather, clear our heads, have a little fun.”

  I polish off the last few bits of cheesesteak, using it as an excuse to consider what he said. How long has he thought this? For some reason, I don’t want to ask.

  So all I say is “Okay.”

  “Okay?” His face brightens.

  “Yeah. We’ll get back on the road in the morning.”

  We spend the rest of the day exploring. You know what’s way more exciting than the Liberty Bell? The discovery that I love cookies-and-cream milkshakes even better than the plain vanilla or chocolate ones I’ve indulged in on special occasions.

  Sam takes me to a place called the Magic Gardens, which is basically a plot of land in the middle of a city block that’s completely covered in glittering mosaics all done by the same artist.

  “This is my favorite spot in the city,” he tells me as he guides me through the cavernous walkways. I get why they call this place magic; I feel like we’re in Wonderland or the Emerald City. Every surface is covered in little mirrors, colored glass, and slivers of ceramic. Some form faces and other images, some just patterns. Some don’t have any shape at all, but there’s beauty in the chaos.

  Sam snaps a bunch of photos. We’re in some of them but mostly they’re of the art on its own. He brings the LCD screen of his camera close to his face as he studies each shot, and I know he’s envisioning the possibilities of what he can do with the pictures when he gets back to his laptop.