Мэри Эндрюс - The Newcomer

“You like it?” Ava stood in the doorway with a bundle of fresh towels in her arms.

“I can’t believe we get to live here,” Letty said, gesturing toward the patio. “I didn’t even know we had a space like this.”

“We’ve got three courtyard units, but this is by far the nicest. And that’s because of Harry. He grew a lot of these plants from seed in his greenhouse back home, and the rest he bought at a nursery down here. Every year he added something new.” Ava pointed to a small concrete birdbath in the shape of a seahorse in the right corner of the garden. “He just bought that birdbath last month.”

“I’ve never had a garden before,” Letty said. “Unless you count a Chia Pet. I don’t know how to take care of any of this. What if I kill it all?”

“You won’t.” Ava handed her two sheets of paper. “Harry left you detailed instructions. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it was his idea to move you over here. He knew some of the others would be lining up to get this unit, and he thought you and Maya should have it. He didn’t say as much, but I think this is his way of thanking you for saving his life.”

“I didn’t save his life,” Letty protested. “Joe’s the one who got the ambulance here, and the doctors at the hospital did the rest. All I did was give him some aspirin.”

Ava arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t want this place after all?”

“No! I mean, yes, I want it, but I don’t exactly deserve it. That’s all I’m saying. And thank you. Thanks so much, Ava.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t kill the lemon tree, okay? I count on those for my iced tea.”

Letty uploaded the last of the photos of the efficiency unit onto the Murmuring Surf’s website and allowed herself a tiny, self-congratulatory pat on the back. Even she had to admit the efficiency had undergone an amazing transformation. She’d convinced Ava to replace the nasty old shag carpet with a boring but unobjectionable indoor-outdoor carpet that almost looked like seagrass. With Ava’s permission she’d painted the battered dresser and the mismatched nightstands with a homemade chalk paint she’d created with a quart of flat turquoise enamel mixed with non-sanding grout mix from the hardware store.

Letty had “borrowed” from Maya’s stash of seashells and hot-glued them in a mosaic pattern around the frame of the dresser mirror.

Then she’d raided the motel’s linen supply and found four white cotton chenille bedspreads, and used clip-on curtain rings to transform three of them into drapes, while the fourth bedspread was actually used for its intended purpose.

There wasn’t much she could do with the dated dusty-pink bathroom except scrub the tile and style the photos with a pile of folded towels on top of the closed commode and a vase of hot-pink hibiscus blossoms plonked into a water glass on the sink.

“Okay, done!” she said, closing the lid on the laptop.

She poured herself a glass of wine and took it out to her new patio garden. Isabelle and Maya were baking cookies together at Ava’s, so she had a rare and precious hour all to herself.

If she turned her chair in just the right position, she could see a patch of the Gulf through the row of palm trees lining the Murmuring Surf’s swath of beach. The sky was the color of an orange Creamsicle, and tourists were perched in chairs at intervals along the sand, awaiting the nightly sunset ritual.

It was a ritual Letty could get used to, sitting in her private little paradise, with the smell of jasmine and gardenias and a tiny plot of velvety grass beneath her bare feet. Today, as the last of her clothes were folded and placed in the dresser, and her toothbrush and Maya’s were lined up on the bathroom sink, it occurred to Letty that she was finally in a good place.

Maya seemed happy. The meltdowns and night terrors were fewer and farther between, and the new routine—working alongside Letty in the mornings, then spending late afternoons with Isabelle—seemed to suit her.

Letty liked her job, liked the feeling that she had something to contribute to here. She’d grown fond of her employer, and of her daughter, and even the regulars seemed to grudgingly accept her presence at the Murmuring Surf. Maybe, she thought, she could relax here, let down her guard, live in the moment.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar figure strolling down toward the beach, fishing rod in one hand, with a cast net looped over his shoulder and a bait bucket in the other hand.

There was no way Joe DeCurtis could see her here, through the tangle of greenery, but just in case, she slumped lower in her chair. He was dressed in a long-sleeved white T-shirt that clung to his muscled back, and baggy neon-orange board shorts. Joe planted the butt of the fishing rod in the sand, then waded out into the surf. He held one edge of the weighted net between his teeth, then folded a section of the net over his outstretched right arm. While she watched, fascinated, he grabbed the weight line with his right hand, reached back, and flung the net out in an elliptical arc. After fifteen seconds, he drew the net in, wriggling with hundreds of minnows flashing silver in the fading sunlight.

He made a handsome sight, silhouetted against the glittering turquoise water. A postcard: WELCOME TO FLORIDA.

She heard a ping coming from inside the apartment and got up to fetch her phone.

It was a text from Zoey.

Girl—I hope you’re okay. A lawyer came here today, looking to see if I knew where you’re at. I acted dumb and said I hadn’t heard from you, but don’t think she bought it. She says she’s your sister’s lawyer and needs to talk to you. Wouldn’t say what it’s about. Here’s her card. Take care, you hear?

The next text message contained a screenshot of a business card.

Samiya Chritesh, attorney-at-law. There was a phone number and an email address. Written in neat block letters on the bottom of the card was a note.

Ms. Carnahan. I represent your late sister’s estate. It’s urgent that I speak with you. Please call.

25

LETTY DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER TO laugh or cry. Tanya had an estate? She didn’t recognize the lawyer’s name, but knew this Samiya woman was not the attorney who’d represented her sister in her custody battle with Evan.

She’d met that lawyer, a sharp-eyed older man recommended by one of Tanya’s Mommy-and-me friends, when she’d been deposed in the court fight.

Was this some kind of trick? Letty typed the name Samiya Chritesh into the computer’s search engine.

A moment later, she was reading the woman’s online biography. Graduated top of her class at Northwestern, NYU law school, sole practitioner at Samiya Chritesh LLC, specializing in trusts and estate planning.

Letty studied the photo accompanying the bio—of a thirty-something woman with smooth brown skin dressed in a sedate lawyer-lady blazer—and realized she’d met her before.

Could this be Sammi? Tanya’s yoga friend? That was how both sisters always categorized Tanya’s eclectic roster of friends and acquaintances. There was Vida, no last name, her modeling-agency friend; and Heather and Jenn and Portia and Liza, her ex-friends, because they were married to Evan’s friends; and Demetria, her nutritionist, whom she’d met through Portia, but who’d stayed loyal to Tanya because Demetria wasn’t married to any of Evan’s friends. And then there was Sammi.

Letty had steadfastly resisted Tanya’s pleas to accompany her to yoga class, because she didn’t want to become a clichéd yoga-practicing kombucha-drinking Manhattanite, but she’d once, in a moment of weakness, agreed to meet Tanya and a new friend for coffee after class.