by Robyn Amos
Grant Forrest stood naked in his remodeled bathroom,
grinning with pride as his day-old hot tub filled with water.
Anticipation had pulled him out of bed thirty minutes before
his six o’clock alarm.
Just as he was about to dip his toe into the
hot, bubbling water, he heard the Union Tribune land on his
doorstep. Grant wasn’t big on morning coffee, but the
one thing he did need to get started was the daily news.
Without thinking twice, he grabbed a towel
off the rack and wrapped it around his waist. A hot soak and
the morning paper—what could be better?
Halfway to the bathroom door, he caught his
reflection in the mirror and shuddered. He could just imagine
what his neighbors would think if they caught him creeping
around his front porch in nothing but a pink bath towel.
Thanks to his ex-wife, all his towels and sheets
were pink. The day she moved out, she’d washed his crisp
white linens with everything red she owned—approximately,
half her closet.
It was true; he preferred things simple, if
not plain. That fact had driven Katrina crazy during their
short marriage. Leaving him with nothing but pink sheets to
sleep on was her cheap attempt at revenge.
Eventually, he’d buy new white linens—or
maybe even beige, but for now, he let the feminine hue remind
him to be careful who he let into his heart and his home.
This wasn’t a lesson he took lightly.
As a marital therapist, he knew not to let one failed marriage
sour him on love. But, after two failed marriages, Grant was
giving up on walking down the aisle. He’d seen enough
battered relationships to know that marriage wasn’t
for everyone.
Marriage with Katrina hadn’t been easy,
but it was a picnic compared to his marriage with his first
wife, Charlotte. How could two little words like “I
do”, change a woman so completely? He felt a dull ache
in his chest and quickly pushed the bad memories aside.
Grant dashed downstairs, stepping over his
twin white Persian cats, Dr. Ruth and Westheimer.
Gripping his towel at the waist, he cracked
the door open, hoping the paper had landed within reach. Instead,
he spotted it at the far corner of his doorstep.
“It figures,” he muttered.
Moni Lawrence squinted at street signs in the
hazy light of dawn. “Was that Bernardo Mesa?”
She slammed on the brakes, sloshing tepid coffee all over
her handwritten directions.
“Poop,” she swore, trying to mop
up the spill with the first thing handy, her sweatshirt sleeve.
Blue ink ran together on the page, and Moni couldn’t
make out if she was supposed to make a left or right hand
turn.
If it weren’t for each home’s distinctive landscape,
Moni wouldn’t have been able to tell one neighborhood
from the next. All the houses featured red Spanish tile roofs
and stuccoed facades.
Backing up to make a three-point turn, Moni
hung the directions out of the window, hoping the air would
blow them dry.
She’d been driving for most of the night, and for the
last hour and a half, she’d been hopelessly lost. Six
a.m. was way too early to start knocking on doors for directions
to 1405 Paloma del Rio.
Moni was noticing that most of the streets in
San Diego had Spanish names. Around here, they all sounded
alike. She’d been searching for Bernardo Mesa and instead
found Bernardo Vista and Bernardo Valley. Things hadn’t
seemed nearly so confusing with the real estate agent by her
side several weeks earlier.
The excitement of being the proud new owner
of her first home had fizzled six hours ago when the eighteen-hour
drive from her best friend’s home in Portland had turned
from an adventure to a scavenger hunt.
Moni made a left turn on Bernardo Mesa and
crossed her fingers. Her eyes were so tired they burned, she
had a painful crick in her neck, and to make matters worse,
she was suffering from a severe case of cramps.
All she wanted was to find her new house so
she could take a hot shower and a long nap. She didn’t
even care that her nap would have to take place on a sleeping
bag because her bed wouldn’t be delivered until the
next day.
Turning up the radio, hoping to force some
energy into her sleep-deprived brain, Moni almost missed her
next turn. Jerking the wheel hard enough to screech the tires,
she made a wide turn onto Paloma del Rio.
Grant scanned the surrounding houses relieved
to see they were as dark as the early morning sky. Pushing
the door open wider, he leaned all the way out. His fingertips
had barely brushed the plastic sleeve, when he felt a rush
of movement at his ankles.
He tried to close the door, but one cat had
already slipped through his legs.
“Westheimer, get back here.”
Still clutching his towel, Grant lurched forward,
making a grab for the cat. He stumbled as Westheimer evaded
his grasp and sprang into the yard in hot pursuit of a squirrel.
The squirrel scampered across the street and the cat followed,
right into the path of an oncoming car.
“Look out!” Grant raced after his
pet, barely aware that he’d lost his towel.
Westheimer stood frozen as the brown station wagon sped toward
him. Tires screeched and the car swerved sharply to the left,
missing the cat by a whisker.
Just as Grant’s mind registered Westheimer’s safety,
he realized that the car was now headed directly for him.
The station wagon jumped the curb and came
barreling across the lawn.
Grant turned and ran. The anticipation of lethal impact fueled
his heels. Like an Olympic sprinter, his body sliced through
the wind.
His feet slid on the slick grass, and his head
whipped around. The car was still coming for him. The woman
behind the wheel was shouting, but he couldn’t make
out the words.
Grant picked up speed. There was nowhere to
run. He’d never make it to his door before this woman
flattened him.
Hurtling toward his fence, Grant leapt up and
hooked his arms over the top. The fence shuddered and bowed
as the car crashed through a few feet from where he hung.
Following a resounding splash, a cascade of
water arched over the fence and rained down on him. At once,
Grant knew the station wagon had landed in his swimming pool.
Grant dropped to his feet, and a sudden chill
settled over him. He looked down and froze.
“Good Lord, I’m naked.”
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