Writing on the Wall Read online

  Marco moved away to join Phil in front of the fireplace. Ignoring the introductions of the various neighbors, Del scanned the room. Maybe a dozen people were seated. Another dozen or so hovered around the edges of the room, and Del was glad to see that most of them were familiar. She zeroed in on the new neighbor. It had to be her. She was the only person Del didn’t recognize. It was hard to see much of her, because her head was down.

  Phil asked the stranger to introduce herself. Startled, she blushed and stood with thinly disguised reluctance. She looked like a recent escapee from some crazy Christian cult. Too pale, no makeup, crazily long hair, dowdy clothes.

  “Hi.” The woman’s soft voice barely reached around the room. “My name’s Lola, Lola Bannon. I just bought the yellow house, the one with the white door?” Several people nodded and smiled, but Lola Bannon was looking down and probably didn’t see them.

  She sat, cheeks still flushed, and Del examined her discreetly as the meeting progressed. Pretty eyes in a baby face. Thirties? Average everything, height, weight. Maybe. Her figure was hidden by bulky clothes, boxy gray sweater, jeans, cheap sneakers. No purse, no jacket. Bulge of keys in the left front pocket of very loose jeans. Sick? Drugs? Maybe not, the fair skin and brown eyes were clear. But the eyes were ringed with deep, dark circles. Someone wasn’t getting much sleep. The woman was vanilla wafer, all the way. No, not even that—soda cracker without the salt.

  Del almost missed it. She had lost interest by then and let her gaze drift over to Marco. It was his smile and the surprise in his eyes that made her look back.

  Lola Bannon was smiling at Marco, and she was—Del couldn’t think of a word that sufficed. Beautiful. Stunning. Breathtaking, that was it. She was breathtaking. Wow. Del sucked in air, fighting the urge to laugh. She looked like a completely different woman! Suddenly, she had sparkling eyes, pink cheeks, and a sweet, sensual mouth. How could a smile change someone’s face that much?

  Del could usually sum people up in short order. It was part of her job, and she had developed the habit long before her training at the academy. But Lola Bannon was hard to read. Del narrowed her eyes, intrigued. Lola’s smile faded, but her eyes were still bright. She nodded at something Phil said, and then smothered a laugh when he told a joke. Del smiled at that and was surprised to realize that she was attracted to the little mouse. When was the last time she’d been attracted to anyone? Not since Janet. Not that it mattered. She was done with love forever. Allergic to it. Sick of it. Closed for business forever. She fixed her gaze on Phil, willing herself not to sneak glances at Lola and only cheating three or four times.

  She tried to look attentive to the topic of “Noticing Suspicious Behavior or Persons” per the annoyingly reflective laminated sign propped on the fireplace behind Phil and Marco. The SAFE rep was wrapping things up quickly, and Del turned back to the food as soon as she decently could. Tomorrow was Friday, and she might actually get to have a real weekend. Maybe. If nobody cheated or lied or stole anything or burned the toast or forgot to water the plants or whatever it was people did to make somebody want to kill them.

  Chapter Two

  Lola sat at her computer, watching the cursor blink. She was starting a new chapter and was stuck. Her fingers twitched. Stop thinking, she told herself. Just stop thinking about it and do it. But she couldn’t.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Orrin’s voice was low, not yet angry, almost conversational. She shook it away. Not real, she reminded herself.

  Orrin had asked that question a lot. So had more than one social worker and nearly every foster parent. Even Mrs. Polachek, a good-humored mountain of a woman with seemingly endless patience for just about every other kind of personal failing, had been baffled and irritated by Lola’s inability to speak up, to answer even the simplest question. She’d never mistreated Lola, but she hadn’t exactly warmed to her, either.

  One day, she asked Lola what her favorite book was and received only a worried frown in response. Lola wasn’t sure how to answer. Was Mrs. Polachek familiar with The Faerie Queene? It wasn’t really a book, not the way Mrs. Polachek meant, but it was Lola’s favorite story. What if Mrs. Polachek didn’t recognize Spenser’s epic poem and thought it was a kid’s picture book and told Lola to read something more appropriate? What if she thought Lola was showing off? Or that she was lying? She might get really mad. There were too many bad possibilities, and Lola panicked and couldn’t answer. She had tried very hard to please Mrs. Polachek by cleaning up after the other kids, getting up with the little ones at night, staying awake to avoid having loud nightmares that would wake up the whole house. But obviously it hadn’t worked. Mrs. Polachek waited a long time for an answer, resting her thick arms on her massive chest and eying Lola’s downcast face.

  Finally, she said, “I can’t put my finger on it, Lola, but there’s definitely something wrong with you. What do you think it is?”

  Lola, ten or so at the time, shrugged and apologized and waited to be released. Then she went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, trying to figure it out. What is wrong with me? There were obvious answers. She was neither charming nor beautiful. She was bright enough, but not really anything special. She was not charismatic or personable or friendly. Too quiet. Too plain. Too timid. She had always been disappointing. Maybe, she thought, that was why my parents didn’t want me.

  But there were a lot of people who were not charming or beautiful or charismatic or anything special, and they had parents and even friends. Lola didn’t find it hard to believe that she was unlovable. But, like Mrs. Polachek, she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason why.

  She thought about imitating the popular girls at school and in that way become more lovable. Popular girls seemed to know by some instinct who was powerful and who was weak. They teased and tossed their hair and flirted with the powerful, and they flayed the weak mercilessly. And they could accurately assess the constant, and to Lola, unreadable, changes in an invisible power structure, seemingly without effort. How did they do that? Could she learn to do what they did? No, she decided after much thought. She could not. She was doomed to flounder alone in the uncharted sea of humanity.

  At the neighborhood safety meeting, Lola noticed Marco’s concern for the blonde woman when she darted over to the food. He’d mentioned her to Lola the day before, Del something? He seemed very fond of her, though he also seemed wary of saying much about her. She was certainly attractive. Lola watched her with interest. Aside from being famished, she also seemed very guarded. She stood with her arms crossed, her feet planted wide. Like a Roman guard or something. A cop, no doubt about it. She scanned the room, her face inscrutable. A Roman guard crossed with an Amazon warrior. The Faerie Queene, Lola thought with surprise, she’s like the Faerie Queene of the modern age. The fanciful thought made her smile, but she ducked her head to hide this. Del, though she looked like a proud, beautiful Faerie Queene, might think Lola was laughing at her.

  She’s strong, Lola decided, fiercely independent, and maybe standoffish. A throwaway kid? She was beautiful and obviously unaware of it, but she looked hard, too. Tough, prickly, maybe disdainful. A little mean, perhaps? A good person to avoid, probably. Lola also noticed Del’s scrutiny after the embarrassing introduction of herself she was forced to make. She saw Del dismiss her as nothing special, a boring nobody. This irked her for some reason she couldn’t name. Generally she liked to let people’s gazes glide over her. Maybe, though, it was time for that to change.

  She thought about this the next day while showering. She was still using a cache of shampoo and soap cadged from a housekeeper’s cart and drying with a threadbare motel towel. I’m a thief, she’d realized only after driving away from the shabby fleabag she’d lived in for a year. I have now become a person who steals. This didn’t feel as bad as she’d have once thought.

  She was still sleeping on the floor, using her coat as a blanket and sweater as a pillow. Ever since she’d left Folsom, she’d spent all her waking hours writing,
unable to focus on anything else. She loved having the freedom to focus on that. But it wasn’t good, living like that for too long, first in the motel and then in the new house, and it was time to make this place a home for herself.

  A home, wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? Of course, she’d wanted a family, too, but it was well past time to accept that she would never have that. She shook that aside to focus on the fact that she finally had a real home of her own. It had been terrifying, signing all of those papers, committing to this place. And she hadn’t originally planned to buy at all. She’d looked online after her lawyer warned her about the tax implications of her new money.

  “Buy a house,” he said, “or you’ll lose all your money to Uncle Sam.”

  She liked the way he said that, Uncle Sam, as though there were some greedy old man waiting to snatch cash from her wallet. She made a wish list and sent it to the top fifty realtors in the state, unable to choose a city or a neighborhood. Among the dozens of listings she received, this was the only one she felt a connection with. It was almost tangible, her desire for this house, and she defied logic and practicality and a lot of fears to get it.

  Her new home was a symbol of everything she wanted to become. It was bright and open and uncluttered. It was filled with light, and she’d only reluctantly and with some difficulty installed curtains and drapes. And it was clean and fresh smelling and untainted by any old memories. It was a complete break from everything she’d ever known. Her mind skirted away from the subject of everything she’d ever known, and she repeated her new mantra aloud: “The past has passed.”

  The house belonged where she did, in the here and now. Best of all, it was hers, bought and insured in her name alone and belonging only to her. As proud of the house as she was, it was hard to believe they’d let her buy it. Surely she didn’t deserve such a beautiful house. What if someone came and took it away from her? This thought crept into her mind often, though she knew there was no real reason to be afraid. Was there?

  She snapped her fingers and pushed away the question. It’s okay to be happy, she reminded herself. It was time to start over, to make a new and better life, and all she’d done was skulk around and bury herself in writing. Enough of that. It was time to start living. She peered into the bathroom mirror and wondered what her new life would be like, and who she would be in it. Her reflection looked pale and scared and not at all brave, and she turned away from it.

  “The past has passed,” she repeated, and her voice echoed in the empty hallway. Time for a new life and a new Lola.

  Lola’s resolve to take action carried her through the next several weeks. She made a beeline to the nearest consignment store, grim with determination to make the house her own. She bought beds and chairs and tables and paintings, not with any plan in mind but because things appealed to her. She even broke down and bought towels and sheets and blankets, picking over the discount and thrift store bins with care. She didn’t want to waste a single penny, but she wanted to only buy things she really liked. Orrin would have disapproved of everything, she knew, and that made her like them all even more.

  Even now, she was frugal in her choices. She tried to talk herself out of her worry, but she agonized nearly as much over a fifty-cent towel as she did over an eighty-dollar couch. Whether a thing was stylish or valuable wasn’t a consideration. She bought a battered ottoman upholstered in rich, gorgeous red, knowing that it was old and worn and should be reupholstered. She didn’t care. She loved it. It felt warm and real to her. Orrin would have pronounced it junk. Her hand rubbed its velvet side as though to soothe it, and she was glad she’d rescued it from the thrift store.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to the thing, “I’m old and worn out, too.”

  When the house was finally furnished, she decided to work on her appearance, again feeling that she was somehow defying Orrin. It was both exciting and scary. On the morning of her appointment at the chic salon down the street, she counted out the cash she’d allotted for the day and realized that it was more than she’d spent on furnishing the entire house. She was horrified by the wastefulness of it.

  “Well,” she asked the mirror, “is it a waste, really?”

  She’d cut her own hair with kitchen shears since she was twelve. She wanted just once to go to a real hair salon and see what she could look like if she were someone else, some better and luckier version of herself.

  She forced herself to walk into the upscale storefront, immediately intimidated by the lavish décor and fashionable clientele. Her feet wanted to carry her back out again, but she smiled with false courage and let a smooth young woman lead her to a chair. She’d chosen the salon carefully, figuring the outrageous prices would make them be nice to her. It was strange and a little scary, letting all those strangers stare at her and touch her and discuss her like she was a problem to be solved.

  “Those eyebrows,” one young woman lamented, tilting her elaborately pierced face and frowning at Lola.

  “Don’t worry,” a voice murmured from somewhere out of Lola’s sight, “Pasha’ll fix them. She’s a genius.”

  “Good God, look at that hair,” one young boy said, frowning. “What is he doing with that hair?”

  “He’s cutting off about two feet of it,” said an authoritative voice from somewhere she couldn’t see, and Lola twisted around to see a tall man wearing all black. He was the most beautiful human being Lola had ever seen. She gaped at him, unable to greet such a magnificent creature. He was blinding, with white-blond hair and deep blue eyes and tanned skin and white, white teeth. He was hard to look at, like a searchlight with eyes. She turned back around and gripped the arms of the chair.

  “Hello, Lola,” he said, his voice softer.

  Lola smiled in his general direction, but she was muted by terror. What on earth could someone so beautiful think of an ugly, horrible, frumpy nobody like her? This had been a huge mistake. She was definitely in the wrong place. She tried to think of a way to leave.

  “Hi.” She forced out the word but couldn’t tell if he heard her.

  “Don’t you hate that?”

  She looked up into the mirror at his reflection’s eyes, nonplussed out of her shame and fear.

  “You know, people talking about you like you’re furniture?”

  She grimaced, trying not to agree too enthusiastically. “I guess it’s a professional hazard.”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. Just unprofessional. And rude.”

  “Sorry, Adonis,” murmured one beautiful young woman. She actually batted her eyelashes, tinged a bright purple, and he laughed. Lola exhaled with relief. He wasn’t angry? No, he really wasn’t. It was okay.

  “Behave, children,” he said, shaking a finger, and the cool, glamorous youngsters actually giggled! Lola suppressed a smile.

  So, this was Adonis. The receptionist had said that he would try to stop by but wouldn’t have time to do her whole makeover.

  “He’s overbooked for months,” the receptionist had chirped. “It’s a privilege to be seen by one of his protégés.”

  “Thank you for stopping by,” Lola said in his direction, assuming that he would turn her over to a junior stylist.

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  Lola opened her mouth but couldn’t speak, afraid he was offended, but he laughed again.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

  Maybe he’d had a cancellation. Maybe he enjoyed a challenge. Maybe no one else was skilled enough to fix such a huge mess. That was probably it. That was certainly it. He couldn’t let her walk out of his salon looking like an ogre. It would be bad for business. That made sense. She nodded grimly.

  “Smile! Today is going to be the best day of your life,” he promised, and Lola tried to comply.

  “O—kay,” she said, and he laughed.

  “I’m serious.” His dark eyes widened. “Listen, I know this is scary. But by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be able to hold
your head up high.” He leaned over and peered into her eyes. “Lola, I see you. You’ve hidden yourself behind all of this,” he waved his hands, “and now it’s time to unveil the real you. Little Lola, Lolita mia, no more hiding.”

  He was so beautiful. Even without his gorgeous hair and stylish clothes and perfect teeth, he would have been beautiful. How could he understand what it was like to be unattractive? Of course, weren’t his kind words part of what she was paying for? She was plain, at best. She knew enough to know that. But arguing would only force the poor man to pile on more empty flattery, so she just smiled and murmured something that sounded like agreement.

  “Are you donating the hair?”

  “If you think they’ll want it.”

  He didn’t respond. He just ran his fingers through the lengths of her hair, pulling it away from her head and letting it drop against the side of the chair. It was so heavy! She hadn’t noticed that it hung past her hips. How long had it been since she’d cut it? Several years, at least.

  “Of course, I’ll donate it. And, Adonis,” she leaned back to look him in the eyes, “thank you.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet, Lolita. Don’t thank me until I’m done waving my magic wand.” He flashed a brilliant smile and started plaiting her hair. She saw that he was done talking to her. He seemed completely focused on something inside his own head. Was that what she looked like when she was writing? None of his assistants or protégés or whatever they were seemed inclined to interrupt him. They stood back as if watching a great artist at work. Even other clients turned to watch him.

  Were they laughing at her? She forced the thought away. They’re being nice to you, she reminded herself. Isn’t that enough? Adonis ordered her to close her eyes. She drifted into her favorite daydream, in which she had made all the right choices instead of all the wrong ones.

  Some unknown time later, she was still sitting there with her eyes closed. A soft something danced lightly over her eyelids, and it tickled. Her head was cool. Her hair felt gone, just gone. She snaked a hand out to see if Adonis had shaved her head, and he lightly slapped her hand away.