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Kat
August
Scott began pushing me to get my banking back online, and after a week, I agreed. “Just because I can’t be online doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be,” he’d said. “And it’s better than it used to be. You’ll have complete control, no middleman, no opportunity for someone like Meg to interfere.”
He’d also warned me to continue being careful around Meg. “If you’re out to lunch with her, don’t leave your purse unattended. Don’t let her borrow your phone, or even let her sit in your car unless you’re there too. She might get ahold of your registration and cause all kinds of problems.”
“I don’t need you to hold my hand,” I said, but the truth was, when I was with her, I found myself forgetting for longer and longer stretches of time that Meg wasn’t who she said she was. That huge parts of her past were completely fabricated.
But every outing with Meg shows me something new. Tonight, I’m on my way to meet her for an outdoor concert at the park, and the prospect of sitting in lawn chairs with a bottle of wine is an appealing opportunity to see if I can find out more about her mystery buyers.
I meet up with her on a grassy expanse that slopes downward, where a stage and lights have been erected. People are filtering in, carrying blankets, chairs, and coolers. Tall sycamore trees arch overhead, and as the sun begins to set, the air takes on a chill.
“Cold?” Meg asks as I suppress a shiver. Below us, the band takes the stage. People around us quiet, conversations falling off one by one.
“A little,” I whisper. “It’s been so hot these past few weeks, I didn’t think I’d need a coat.”
I’d left my coat at home on purpose, remembering the one Meg always kept in the back of her car. Michigan winters leave an impression, she’d once told me.
“I have one in my car, if you want,” she says, digging her keys out of her pocket. “It’s in the back.”
I feel a flash of triumph and take her keys, jogging back to the parking lot, eager to have ten minutes to look around. When I was Meg’s client, she had a folder with my name on it with listings she wanted me to see. She also has one for Ron. I’m hoping there will be something—if not a folder, then a business card or a phone message, jotted on a scrap of paper—that might tell me who these buyers are, and from there, maybe I can figure out how they might be collaborating with Meg.
I unlock the doors and start in the backseat, which appears empty. When I check the seat pockets, all I find is a pack of travel tissues and a ballpoint pen.
Next, I reach under the seats, hoping she’s tucked her purse under there, like I had with mine. I imagine what I might find in her wallet: Business cards with names I can look up tomorrow. A receipt shoved in the side pocket of her purse with a restaurant name I can visit. Something that would point me in the right direction. All I need is one lead I can chase.
But there’s only dirt, a few old leaves, and an old coupon for a dry cleaner.
Behind me, the band leads off with a Fleetwood Mac song.
I move on to the glove compartment, which contains a car manual, a map of California, and underneath it, a piece of paper. It’s an old listing from one of the homes Meg showed me that first day. And at the top, in her now familiar script, is a note. Aunt Calista—$$—unclear how much. I stare at the words, trying to imagine what she was thinking when she wrote them. What she would do with the information if she got it.
The rest of the car turns up nothing. I put everything back the way I found it and make my way to the trunk, where I find the coat tossed into a corner. It’s a little heavier than people wear in California, but the minute I put it on, my shoulders release, my body warming up quickly. I scan the trunk for anything interesting, but it’s empty as well. Locking the doors, I check the time on my phone before dropping it into an interior pocket, and make my way back to the concert.
As I weave through the parking lot, the click of a lighter just to my left startles me, and I jump back, swallowing down a scream.
A man stands, hidden between two SUVs, smoking a cigarette.
He must see the terror on my face, because he holds up his hands, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark. “Sorry to startle you,” he says. “Just sneaking a cigarette.”
I offer a weak smile, but grip Meg’s keys in my fist as I scurry through the remaining rows of cars and back to the park. I take several deep breaths and try to center myself. Just a guy having a smoke. Nothing more.
By the time I get back to Meg, I’ve mostly recovered. “Thanks,” I say as I slip into my chair, tossing her car keys back.
She hands me a plastic cup of wine and says, “I need to run to the bathroom.”
She grabs her phone and hooks her purse over her shoulder, and I watch it bounce against her hip as she walks away.
***
The band is phenomenal, energizing the crowd with hits by Blondie, the GoGo’s, Fleetwood Mac, and Joan Jett. Soon, we’re on our feet dancing, singing at the top of our lungs along with everyone around us.
For a few hours I let myself drop my questions. I forget about Scott’s concerns and missteps, and set aside my growing unease that I’ve acclimated so much to who Meg is as a person that I’m no longer able to see her clearly. At one point, I catch Meg watching me with a smile, and I wonder who she sees when she looks at me. A wealthy woman at loose ends, trying to figure out her next step, or a journalist who let herself get too close?
I close my eyes and decide I don’t care.
***
