Chapter 15 #3
The background noise goes hushed, like a hand over a speaker. “A spokesperson from the zoning commission reached out about the town hall. She said I should have some prepared remarks and be ready for any questions the members might have.”
A horn pierces through the tumult. Cece watches as protestors circle, signs held aloft, faces locked in grim resolution. A stubby middle finger appears from the driver’s side window of a dump truck as it rumbles by.
“What do you need from me?”
“Just make sure Santiago doesn’t crack any skulls,” Richie says.
The din on the other end of the line grows louder, more persistent. Cece thinks she can make out the crackling feedback from an amplifier. “Aren’t you worried about them?”
“Not really. I called in a few favors.”
Cece doesn’t know what he’s talking about until two trailers carrying enormous motorboats show up outside the gate and park directly in front of the protestors so no one can see them from the road.
Cece heads to the warehouse where she runs an inventory of their supplies, the steady chant of the protestors keeping her company.
Daylight is fading. Cece’s taken off from work an hour early to move the last of the boxes to her alarmingly small trunk. Cece’s ears are still ringing from the protestors’ chants. They were kind of catchy, she must admit.
It feels strange, leaving under such hostile circumstances.
All week, the curtains in Lorraine’s house have been drawn.
She’s watching; Cece just doesn’t know from where.
On her way back to the pool house, she stops to survey the view of the tranquil garden and pool, the scent of freshly cut grass thick on the air.
She’ll miss this—the peace and quiet, the illusion of escape.
She’ll still be in the area for work, but she knows it won’t be the same.
Living on Lorraine’s property, in this quaint and tree-lined neighborhood, the echoing screeches and whoops of children playing in the night—there is something here…
ineffable and fleeting. A mosquito buzzes by Cece’s forehead, and she swipes at it. Nostalgia’s a dangerous thing.
Bernard paces the empty rooms of the pool house and sniffs every freshly exposed area. After doing a final sweep, Cece puts the keys in an envelope and licks it closed, the glue bitter and astringent.
“About time we went, don’t you think?” she says to Bernard, who is sitting on his haunches, his eyes moving warily to his crate.
Cece takes out her phone and checks her messages for what feels like the millionth time this week.
Her last text to Morgan remains unanswered, taunting her.
She’d gone so far as to call the phone company to make sure she’d paid this month’s bill.
It isn’t like him to ignore her texts; then again, maybe it is.
What does she know? Cece has driven by his house more than she’d care to admit in recent days, each time left more despondent at the sight of lights on inside.
It occurs to Cece that she is not as good of a person as she thinks she is.
She thumbs out a message, then deletes it.
What is she apologizing for? Leading him on?
Trying to maintain a friendship on the most tenuous of terms?
Living her life? Occam’s razor says jealousy—the reason for his radio silence.
So typical of a man, to tell you they can be friends with you only to hold it against you in the end.
Cece is caught off guard by her anger, or maybe it’s simply hurt.
Even though he doesn’t look like he needs it, she decides to take Bernard for one more walk around the neighborhood.
The last thing she wants is to pull over somewhere on I-95 for some canine emergency, at least that’s the rationale she’s going with.
After heading down to the river, following their familiar path along broken sidewalks and overgrown hedges, Cece hangs a left and turns around in the now-infamous cul-de-sac.
The night air grows inky and soft. Cece presses on, doubling back from where she came, working up the courage…
After more circuitous routes, she finds herself, bug bitten and sweaty, in front of Morgan’s home.
His truck—the truck that started it all—sits parked on the street.
Cece’s pulse quickens, her heart in her throat.
Nails scrabble on the pavement. The dog pushes forward, straining against his collar, eager for the familiar.
The living room lights aren’t on—no glowing TV or yellow reading lamp.
Towards the back, a golden square of light washing over the side yard—Morgan’s bedroom, if she’s remembered the layout of the house correctly. Time is all we’ve got.
Up the stairs, Bernard at her heels, restless and expectant, Cece’s knocking on the door before knowing what she will say or how she will explain her intrusion.
In not-so-uncertain terms Morgan has told her this is the end.
He’d accepted her declaration. Then maybe we ought to see less of each other.
And yet, like a petulant child, she is here—knocking on his front door.
She waits, the solid oak door absorbing the sound, swallowing it whole.
Nothing. Cece knocks again, this time with the fleshy side of her hand.
She wonders what might happen if he opens the door.
She lets her mind drift to those first days of summer, wine on her lips, Bernard yapping, Mr. Shipyard, Morgan.
The dog whines and paces back and forth. She’s about to knock a third time, but she stops herself. Enough, Cece thinks. Enough. She makes her way down the porch, steps grumbling, and heads back. The side yard lies in darkness, the lamplight snuffed out, the grass a cold blue in the moonlight.