Chapter 5
FIVE
Ella
The next day, I still haven’t made up my mind entirely on the question of whether or not to quit my job at Maids in Heaven. It’s on my mind as I work at Dorado Terrace, though, cleaning the halls and wondering if my time really would be better spent working on my art.
During a break, I call Melinda, the owner.
“Ella, hello,” she says, her rich voice warm and comforting.
“Hi, Melinda.” Words catch in my throat. Suddenly, I can’t remember how to talk.
“Is everything all right?” she asks quickly. “You’re at Dorado Terrace, correct? Did something happen?”
“No, not at all,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Sorry to scare you.”
“Not a problem,” she says.
Before things can get even more awkward, I blurt out, “If I wanted to quit, what would happen if…if everything failed. Would you hire me back?”
She sighs.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I say.
“No, Ella, I’m not mad at all,” she says. “I knew this day would come eventually.”
“You did?”
“You’re a dreamer.” There’s a smile in her voice. “You have more ahead of you than what my company can provide.”
I don’t know what about me makes her think that, but there’s no denying the warm bubble of happiness in my heart at the idea.
“I wish I could guarantee you everything,” she says, “but Maids in Heaven can’t afford that kind of safety net. I’ll have to hire someone to replace you, and I can’t just fire them if you decide to return, you know?”
“You’re right, that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Now, I don’t think you’re going to fail. But there are no guarantees in life. And if for some wild reason, something happened and you needed this job back, I would hire you in a heartbeat. There just might not be the hours you’re used to.”
“Okay, thank you. I guess I’m mostly wanting to know I wouldn’t be burning any bridges.”
“Oh, Ella. No. You’ve been a delight to work with.” She pauses. “Should I interpret this conversation as your two weeks’ notice?”
“Heck no,” I say. “Not yet. I’m still doing some thinking.”
“Smart woman,” she says. “Call me when you’ve made your decision.”
“Will do.”
“And Ella?”
“Yes?”
“I’m hoping you choose to follow your dreams.”
It’s something my dad would have said to me. Throat suddenly tight, I say, “Thank you,” and hang up before I burst into tears. It’s time to get back to cleaning, not dissolve into a puddle of salt water.
After work, I tell Squid and Cora that I have to check out a place in Old Thirty-Three.
I still don’t have a clue what the story is with Tommy.
For all I know, he’s just off on an adventure, and those idiot loan sharks or whoever they are, are just messing with me.
It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve tried to scare me.
Cora maneuvers Ironwood’s shiny black SUV through widening streets as we escape downtown San Esteban and move into the Old Thirty-Three neighborhood.
Named for the numbered street, 33rd, which forms the spine of the area, the Old Thirty-Three boasts tiny, single-story houses with tiny yards.
The only thing big about Old Thirty-Three are the trees—towering oaks and maples that throw shadows onto the streets and onto the older, dingier cars parked along the curbs and stuffing the narrow driveways.
Every time I come here, I’m hit with nostalgia—I grew up in this neighborhood, clinging to the lower end of middle-class.
Tommy, last I checked, still lives in this neighborhood, although in an apartment, not in the house we grew up in. Our childhood home had to be sold soon after Dad got sick.
I give Cora directions to a shitty little apartment complex on the corner of 32nd Street. She pulls up to the curb and looks doubtfully around. “Is this the place?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You can park anywhere.”
There’s a spot a couple of houses down, so Cora parks and the three of us get out of the car and walk to the apartment complex.
“Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” Cora asks.
I hesitate. But keeping this a secret isn’t serving anyone.
Whoever has Tommy— if someone has him—hasn’t spoken up or made any new demands.
I can’t figure this out alone, and I know I can trust Ironwood.
So I say, “I’m looking for my brother. I’m kind of worried about him.
It’s probably nothing, but I want to check in. ”
Cora gives a short nod. “This will have to go into our report, as a safety concern.”
“I understand.” I’m pretty sure Tommy is already listed as a safety concern, after what happened in that alley with Sebastian and those goons.
The apartment has open hallways, so we march up to the second floor.
A pregnant woman passes us going down the stairs, so the three of us scootch to the side to give her more room.
Once we’re all the way up, we have to travel around to the other side of the complex.
There, we stop in front of what should be Tommy’s unit.
There’s no name placard on the door, but I don’t recall there being one last time I visited.
The only difference is a potted, vibrant red geranium next to a well-worn welcome mat.
If nothing else, the geranium is a signal that Tommy doesn’t live here anymore. But I have to try. Taking a deep breath, I knock.
No answer.
“Tommy?” I call through the door.
When nobody responds, I try calling him. There’s no sound of a phone ringing inside. His phone clicks over to voicemail, but I don’t bother leaving him a message. I’ve left him probably sixty messages over the past few days.
I turn around to face Cora and Squid. “I don’t know what to do. I feel so helpless. Do you guys mind if we talk to the apartment manager?”
“Not at all, this is our job,” Squid says.
Following me around is their job, yes, but I hope they’d stop and tell me if I was acting like an idiot.
We tromp back downstairs again. This complex is big enough that the manager has their own office, although it’s tiny. The door has a window on the top half, and I can see the manager through it.
“I’ll wait out here,” Cora says.
Squid and I go in. A slender woman with the shade of red hair that can only come from a box and wrinkled, leathery skin that speaks of too many hours lying in the sun or tanning salon waves us toward a couple of chairs in front of her desk.
Squid and I sit down, perching on the very edges. We don’t plan on staying, obviously.
“Sit, sit,” she says, leaning back in her own chair. “Are you two looking for a place to rent?”
“No, I’m looking for my brother, actually,” I say. “Does Thomas Marchand still live in the complex?”
“He does,” she says, giving me a side-eye.
“Have you seen him around lately?” I ask.
Shaking her head, she says, “No, I haven’t. But most residents, if they don’t come to my office or cause other trouble, I don’t see them at all. I mind my own business, I do. Everyone’s happier that way.”
“Do you think I could get into his apartment?” I ask. “I know it’s probably not good for you to leave me there, but just let me peek?—”
“Sorry, I have to stop you there,” she says. “No can do.”
“I want to make sure he’s all right. I promise not to touch anything, and you can stand right there at the door.”
“It’s not allowed,” the manager says. “I’m sorry, but that’s just policy. His rent is up to date. If you need a wellness check, you have to get that through the police station.”
I slump back into the chair, feeling defeated to my core.
Then the manager grins and points through the window on her office door. “Maybe your brother can let you in.”
I whip around so fast, I feel dizzy. Because there he is—messy curly hair, and bright blue eyes wide in shock at the sight of me.
Frozen in surprise, all I can say is, “Tommy?”
* * *
Sebastian
It’s been a long fucking time since I ran through sets with a band, and I’m surprised at how much fun it is.
Ella and I have fun jamming, too, but this is a different experience, with extra people around.
There’s an extra vibe of urgency here in Pat Chrome’s basement-turned-studio, and a need to prove oneself.
With Ella, I’m comfortable and at peace, and inspired by the synergy of our music. With Church of Fortune, it’s like being in a pool filled with barracuda. I better never stop swimming or I’ll get eaten alive.
Song after song, I practice with them—even on the songs I won’t be performing. It’s just fucking fun, that’s all, and Pat and Bret have great voices.
We’ve been at it all morning and stop to get lunch delivered from a nearby deli.
Bret, who is apparently allergic to everything under the sun—no dairy, no gluten, no eggs—finishes his joyless-looking salad before the rest of us are done with our sandwiches.
He strums his guitar absently, and after a few minutes, I recognize one of Ella’s songs.
“Been watching Cinderella’s videos?” I ask him.
He nods, not looking up. “She’s got good stuff. I’m glad Pat found her.”
I’m glad, too.
“Do you think we could get Cinderella’s permission to use one of her songs?” Pat asks.
I look around at the group and realize she’s asking me.
“That Cinderella chick is hot,” Landen says around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Shut up, Landen,” Bret and Pat say at the same time.
“What, she is,” Landen says.
Bret throws a guitar pick at Landen. “Don’t be a douche—Sebastian is dating her.”
Landen’s bleach-blond eyebrows shoot all the way up to the rim of his backwards baseball cap. “The fuck, seriously? You’re like twice her age, man. No offense, but you’re old.”
“Thanks, noted,” I say.
“Are you some kind of perv?” Landen asks.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Pat says in a no-nonsense voice. She’s the only one Landen listens to, it seems, and even then, his “listening” is done begrudgingly. “Sebastian, if you could ask Cinderella, that would be fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I say. “It might need Helena’s approval, though, too, and you know how she is with new artists.”
“Aw, shit. Never mind, then,” Pat says.
“I’m still going to tell Ella, though,” I say. “She’ll be flattered.”
“You should bring her around sometime,” Pat says. “We could all jam.”
I can only imagine Ella’s squeal of excitement at the invite. “I bet she’d like that.”
Landen shoves the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth and scowls at the rest of us. “Are you all done eating yet?” he asks, almost spraying food. “We should get back to work.”
Pat and I finish eating, and I take a different look at this band. They’re all in their twenties—Ella’s age. I’m forty-three. I don’t think of them as literal kids, except maybe Landen, who is showing that he’s immature as hell.
As we run through song after song, with Pat and I configuring who will sing which verses, where to join in on the chorus or the bridge, and who takes the lead where, an uncomfortable idea takes root in my mind.
I can’t shake the thought that I am too old for Ella…
but at least I’m not a child. If Landen is an example of the other guys out there who want to date her, well, I can say for certain I will treat her better than this douchenozzle ever will.
But…am I too old? Shit. I could be. What’s the “rule” I read on the internet somewhere? Half your age, then add seven years. Let’s say I’m forty-two, since that’s an even number and I’m trying to go easier on myself. Half of that is twenty-one, plus seven, is twenty-eight.
Ella just turned twenty-six.
Fuck, maybe I am a pervert.