Johnny Temple - USA Noir - Best of the Akashic Noir Series

“Your brother said you’re a teacher.”

Brother? Then I remembered.

“I was, back east,” I said. “Taught drama and English. I’ve been substitute teaching since I moved here. Not a lot of work these days for teachers without seniority.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, touching my shoulder to direct me into the living room. He must have noticed how my gaze fell on the baby grand because he said, “You play?”

“Used to.”

“Like riding a bicycle, don’t you think? You’re welcome to…” He nodded toward it.

“Ah, no, maybe another time.” Being able to play piano impressed people, but it didn’t impress me. You could learn anything if you wanted to.

“Your brother said you like to bake.”

“I’m obsessed with making pies.” When we have extra money, I almost added.

“You’re welcome to bake here, anytime. I can’t remember the last time a pie came out of that oven. Just give me a list; I’ll buy you what you need.”

If it were possible to fall in love with a house, I was falling—hard—especially for the kitchen. With that kitchen, I could bake a million pies and never grow bored.

“Like something? Coffee? A soda?” he asked, sticking a glass into the opening of the fridge’s front panel. He pushed a button. Ice dropped and chinked into the glass.

“Diet Coke?”

“Sure thing,” he said, taking one from the fridge. He moved toward the cabinet.

“No glass,” I said, so he tore a paper towel from the roll and wiped the top of the can clean before handing it to me. No one had ever done that before, and I swear, he looked different after that. Charming.

We talked about my background and his needs, and an hour later, when the kids were dropped off, he gave them big bear hugs and introduced us. “Bella and Dante, this is Mimi. She might be helping out. Want to show her your rooms?” The kids appraised me like I was a new piece of furniture, and then Bella took my hand.

“My room first,” she said. Her little brother led the way, running his Hot Wheels police car along the wall.

They showed me their rooms and I liked them. Levi stuck in his head and said he had to run off for a while, and when he returned at five, he seemed hyper, strange, and rushed me to go.

As we pulled away from the curb and headed down the tree-lined street, Levi said: “He’s not bad, right?”

“He was fine,” I replied, almost adding, He was more than fine . “And you’re lowdown.” I had never felt so cold toward Levi. But he didn’t seem to notice.

“He tell you what he does for a living? I think he’s a developer or something.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Major bucks.”

“Construction’s taking a dive.”

“He tell you that? Don’t believe it,” he said, turning onto a street with houses behind high walls, pulling over and putting the truck in park. He scooched over to me, took me in his arms, and started kissing my neck. Melted me every time. Stupid guys who were cute made the best lovers. It was the truly smart ones you had to watch out for, who could fracture your heart with one skewered word.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be mad. It’s a way for us to get ahead.”

“But his kids weren’t brats. They were sweet.”

He pulled a blanket from under the seat, covered us as he pushed me down with kisses, and said, “After this, we’ll go eat. I’m starving.”

We sat across from each other at Wahoo’s Fish Tacos, a popular haunt on Placentia, down the street from where we lived. The exterior was covered with chipping teal paint. Surf stickers smattered the windows. The menu offered Mexican entrees that weren’t gourmet, but were good enough, priced for artists and people on limited incomes, and for rich Orange Countians who wanted to feel they were getting away with something. As he talked about what we’d do with the money—a new truck for him, a kitchen for me—you’d think I was one hungry fish, the way I went for it. I must have been beyond bored. We’d go slow and easy, figure things out, and when we had all the pieces, we’d make our play, he said. But I had a bad feeling.

Levi started staying up late, figuring out where we’d escape to once we had a few of Shepard’s more high-end belongings that Levi would give to a friend of a friend who would split the proceeds. I did a bit of research and learned that Shepard had paintings and antiques worth thousands. He had one Chagall lithograph, The Artist with a Goat, #1026, that was worth thirty grand. Even inane simple drawings of dolphins that lined the hallway by that overrated Laguna Beach artist, Wyland, sold for three grand apiece. Levi’s idea was we’d leave Costa Misery for Mexico. No one can find you down there, he said.

A week into my new nannyhood, as Levi and I were wrapping it up for the day and I was saying goodbye to the children, Shepard said, “The kids are going to their aunt’s. Why don’t I take you out to dinner, my thanks for coming to our rescue.”

Levi didn’t miss a beat. “Go ahead, sis,” he said. “It’d be fun for you.”

Sis?

I scanned what I was wearing—jeans, a purple pullover, lowtop red Converse. “I’m not exactly dressed up.”

“You’d look gorgeous in a flour sack,” said Shepard.

Levi winked at me. I shrugged. “Okay, then.”

Levi hurried off a little too quickly with a nonchalant wave.

“Let’s have a taste before we go,” said Shepard. “Pick anything you like from the wine cellar and I’ll meet you out by the pool.”

The cellar was a converted closet off the kitchen with a slate floor and thermostat that said fifty-three degrees. I chose a 1987 Tondonia because I liked the name. He carried our glasses to the back patio that overlooked the pool. This pool was a million times better than the one at the Arms.

“I could get used to this,” I said, after we clinked glasses.

“I hope you do,” he said, his voice all syrupy and warm, like the wine.

Soon Shepard and I were in his Jag cruising up Newport Boulevard to Habana, a Cuban restaurant in a funky open-air mall with an oil-drum waterfall and tattooed, pierced hipsters. Habana was dark, lit only with candles. You could barely see who was sitting next to you, but the waiter could see well enough to recognize Shepard and make a big deal, and it was different being with someone before whom people groveled.

Shepard ordered a bottle of Barolo red, which he explained was the king of wines. We toasted and he said to order whatever tickled my fancy. Those were his words. During dinner, a second bottle of wine arrived and for dessert we shared a Cuban flan. Our fingers brushed against one another.

“We’re delighted you came to us, Mimi. The children like you very much.”

“They’re sweethearts,” I said.

“Actually, to be honest, I’m the happiest.” He stroked my arm and focused on it as if it were a great treasure. “You’ve got great skin.”

“This light would make anyone look good,” I said, feeling guilty over how much I enjoyed his attention. Then I thought, What the hell. Levi got me into this , and I gave in. Right then and there I felt myself loosen and open to Shepard. When his hand found mine, I let it. And when he brought my hand to his lips, I let him. We left the restaurant and returned to his Jag, his arm laced around my shoulder. He opened the passenger door and I slid onto the butter-soft leather seats that reclined at the touch of a button. He got in and buzzed down the windows. He turned to kiss me and I kissed him back, tongued that gap in his front teeth. The wine was talking; I’ve always been an easy drunk. His hand found its way under my pullover and then he was in my jeans. I pressed against his fingers and before long I shuddered. Who cared if he was a conservative and a bit too husky—he had the touch of an angel and I liked how sweet and considerate he was. He was different from anyone I’d ever been with. Maybe older guys with money could afford to be patient, considerate.