And Now She's Gone(52)
28
The aroma from Gray’s bag of soul food trumped whatever musky creature Mrs. Kim was now sautéing behind her apartment door. The hipsters were blasting Macklemore, and “Good Old Days” echoed through the hallway. Gray thought she’d already hated Jessica and Conner at full capacity, but tonight …
A sticky note had been taped to her door: a delivery down at the security desk. What now? A certified letter from the IRS about being audited? A collections notice from Columbia House Records from 1992?
Her phone rang.
“Are you Gray?” a young woman asked.
Gray said, “Yep, and this is…?”
The caller took a deep breath, then pushed out, “This is Noelle Lawrence, Isabel’s friend. You talked to my mom this morning.”
Gray paused in her step, then unlocked her front door. “Hi. Thanks for calling—”
“Listen. This whole thing with Isabel is just … crazy, and—” A car horn in Noelle’s world honked and honked.
“Do you know where she is?” Gray dropped the bag of food on the breakfast counter.
“Yeah. Well … kind of. It’s complicated. She used to have me do some shady shit. Last time I asked, she sent somebody—Oh, fuck. Hold up.”
Gray said, “Noelle—”
“Can’t talk right now,” the young woman whispered. “Come to the Grove tomorrow. No, go to … Phillips on Centinela. Like around six. Gotta go.”
The dial tone hummed in Gray’s ear.
Down in her building’s lobby, Melvin the guard sat behind the security desk. He had a tiny head and a heart as big as a golden retriever’s. “Something special came for you today.”
“I have no idea what it could be.”
“Best kind of surprise.” He took the notification from her, then waddled back to the storage room. A few seconds later, he returned with a crystal vase of lavender roses.
Gray clutched her neck. “They’re gorgeous. You sure those are for me?”
“Your name, your roses.”
From waking up to text messages from Sean to the Hank-hatred that she’d clung to all day … All of that was now shoved off a cliff by the dizzy joy twirling inside of her like Julie Andrews in the Swiss Alps.
Back in her apartment, the refrigerator’s humming was scratchy, like it had caught a cold. Ignoring it like management had ignored her request for a new fridge, she set the vase on the dining room table.
The flowers had already made her house into a home. Those flowers warmed up the part of the couch that had rarely hosted another’s rear. Adding to that, the aromas of soul food and gravy now sloshing at the bottom of the plastic bag reminded her of home cooking. Mom Naomi’s meatloaf with that ketchup topping. Mom Twyla’s fried chicken legs with those burn spots here and there.
Maybe Gray would eat at her tiny—no, intimate—dining room table. Use one of her nice wineglasses, a stemmed one instead of a tumbler. Maybe she’d listen to Luther or Maxwell or that old D’Angelo album she’d played all the time back in the day. Maybe she’d do all of that instead of sitting in her place on the lived-in side of the couch, in front of the television and the Netflix home page.
She plucked the bouquet’s card from its envelope.
You take my breath away.
Typed. No signature.
Hank—he’d said the same thing to Gray last night. He’d said it again before he’d left her apartment this morning, as the sun kissed the sky.
How had he guessed that lavender roses were her favorites, in this life and in her last? She took a picture of the arrangement, then texted the former marine. They’re beautiful!!
Gray moved the vase to the coffee table as ellipses from Hank bubbled on the phone’s screen. She checked the ORO license plate reader app—no alerts—and security video from her doorbell camera—no visitors except for Melvin placing the delivery notice on her door.
She hadn’t received flowers from a lover in years—living by the five-second rule meant there was no room for others. Hank Wexler, though, had managed to sneak through.
Her phone vibrated.
U trying to make me jealous?
Huh? I just wanted to thank you.
For?
The flowers dude
Phantom crows dropped frozen pebbles into her belly.
The fridge clattered again.
Her phone buzzed, and she startled as though a gun had gone off an inch from her ears.
I didn’t send those. Sorry. Didn’t think we were there yet.
Cheeks burning, she typed, Oops, with a blushing face emoji.
More frozen pebbles filled her belly. With stiff fingers, she texted Nick. Hey! Did you send me something today?
As a thank you for taking the Lincoln case? As a—
No I didn’t
Ian O’Donnell didn’t know Gray’s home address, so he couldn’t have sent …
Gray’s stomach cramped from all those cold stones, because who …
Oh. Oh.
He found me.
Sean had not only found her phone number, he had also found her address.
Shit.
She plopped down on the couch. Hugging her knees to her chest, she sat there, as still as a possum under threat.