The Elizas: A Novel(11)

“Um, explain?” I ask, trying not to let my voice shake.

He looks sheepish. “I happen to know you’re an author. I even requested a copy of your book.”

For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. “The Dots?” I bleat, finally. He nods. “H-how did you know I wrote that?”

“Forgive me, but after they took you away in the ambulance, I Googled you. I thought it would be important to know about the person whose life I just saved. And I read a press release about your book. It seemed right up my alley, so I requested a copy through the Amazon Vine program.”

It strikes me as odd that a man like this thought my book would be right up his alley. Then again, I have no idea who my ideal reader is—except myself.

“But I didn’t receive it.” Desmond sounds disappointed. “Amazon said it wasn’t available until publication.”

“Yeah, we didn’t end up going with the Vine promotion.” I pick at a loose splinter on the table. “But how did you know my name at all? Did the cops read it off my ID or something?”

“You told me it. After I pulled you out. You were lucid. Talking. Once I got you breathing again, that is.”

My cheeks burn. I’d forgotten about receiving mouth-to-mouth. I imagine Desmond’s bristly facial hair scraping against my skin. On instinct, my chin starts to feel rashy.

“I don’t remember that at all. What did I say, exactly?”

“Just your name, and something about a murder taking place at the resort in the sixties. And then your eyes got very big and you said, It is I!”

I wrinkle my nose. “Huh.” That sounds like something Gloria Swanson would say in Sunset Boulevard as she swirled into the ballroom in all her jewels. I used to watch that movie at least once a month.

“Anyway, after that, the paramedics showed up—my companion had called 911.”

“Your companion?” I picture an older, moneyed fellow leading this guy around on a studded leash.

“Paul. A work friend. I did all the rescuing, though.” He smiles. “So how did you come up with your book idea? I find authors so intriguing. I’m hoping I might write a book someday.”

“I’m not sure I’d call myself an author, per se.”

His face falls. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve only written one book. And it’s not even out.”

He smiles at this, like I’ve told a joke. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll write others.”

I don’t know about that. And I have no idea how we’ve gotten so off-topic. I clear my throat. “So on Saturday, you and your companion just happened to be strolling by the pool area when I fell in, or . . . ?”

“That’s right. I was showing Paul around the grounds. It’s a beautiful resort, isn’t it? But then we heard thunder and started inside. We cut through next to the pool area, and that’s when I heard the splash. I looked over the fence and saw there were no lifeguards. Then I noticed that whoever had jumped in wasn’t coming up for air.”

He says this boastfully, as though this is Sherlock Holmes–level sleuthing. “So you jumped in and fished me out?” I ask.

“Exactly.” He smiles proudly. “I didn’t waste a moment. You were easy to pull to the surface. So light! Like a hollow piece of wood!”

I’m not sure I’ve ever been compared to a piece of wood before. “But there was no one else in the pool area?”

“I believe everyone had been told to leave. Paul had to run for help. By the time a guard came, I’d already revived you.” His eyes shine. “Do you remember?”

“I already told you. I don’t remember anything.”

“Ah.” Desmond nods. “So! I suppose you want to know about me, then? Your dashing rescuer who brought you back to life?”

I blink. Maybe this is why normal people invite their rescuers over: to thank them. To stroke their egos. To promise them their firstborn. Or to find out what their rescuers are like, so they can tell said firstborn. I want to laugh, but I don’t want to wound Desmond’s pride. He might leave.

But before I can say anything, Desmond goes, “Oh, now, don’t be shy. Let’s see. My middle name is Lawrence. I was born in December—a Capricorn. I drink a lot of absinthe. The real kind, not the tripe they sell here in the States. I have a dealer in Nice.” He leans back. “Have you ever tried it? The only true way to drink it is the way the artistes did, in Paris, poured over a sugar cube on a spoon.”

“Sounds gross,” I say absently, because I fear any enthusiasm might usher in an invitation to an absinthe-drinking event.

Desmond looks wounded. “It’s not gross. It’s transcendent. I got into it during my side job. I’m the lead Caesar at the Circus Maximus in San Fernando.”

“The what?”

“The Circus Maximus! In the Valley? The celebration of ancient Roman and Greek culture? Among other things, we do a reenactment of the Pompeii volcano disaster and all five acts of Julius Caesar. It’s quite well-attended.” I must be looking at him with confusion, because he adds, “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the Circus Maximus. I thought I read you were an English major.”

I wonder what else he’s read about me. “What does being an English major have to do with knowing about a Renaissance Faire in the Valley?”