expecting to see the big, scarred desk that my mom had given me when she moved to L.A., but in its place was a playpen with yellow mesh sides and a jumble of brightly colored toys.
“Kelly McGraw,” I said, yet even that came out a little unsure.
The woman gave me the sweet smile again. “Oh, you’re Kelly McGraw! I’m Beth Maninsky. We never did meet you at the closing.” She held out her hand.
“Closing?”
“Sure. We bought this house from you, but you gave your lawyer power of attorney, so we never officially got to meet you when we closed on the house. We love it, though. Did you stop by for old times’ sake?” She tried the smile again, but when I didn’t shake her hand, the grin faltered, and now she was looking as perplexed as I felt.
“Closing?” I said again. “I sold this house?”
She nodded, gazing at me warily.
From somewhere above, I heard the cry of a baby, short at first, then a full-on wail. Beth Maninsky’s eyes shot to the ceiling as if she could see through it.
“A baby?” I couldn’t seem to form a full sentence.
“Scottie. I should get him. Now can I help you with anything?”
I just stood there. What was happening?
“Kelly? Are you all right?”
Beth Maninsky looked almost scared now, so I just nodded and moved to the door, then out to the stoop. I stood there looking at the house, my house.
Beth Maninsky stood in the doorway, fairly blocking it with her body. “Can I call someone for you?” There was warmth in her voice.
It took me a second to answer. “No. I’ll go to my boyfriend’s place.”
“Okay.” The wail of the baby got louder behind her. She glanced in the house, then back at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“When you…” I paused, barely able to say the words that didn’t seem true “…bought this house. Did you learn why I…sold it?”
“Our Realtor told us that you thought it was too big for one person.”
“Right.” I nodded as if I could convince myself that this was really happening, that someone named Beth Maninsky, who looked like Toni, owned my house.
“Nice to meet you,” Beth Maninsky said.
My front door closed, and I heard the lock click inside.
2
As I walked along Bissell Street again, the fall wind felt brittle instead of crisp and the city seemed cool and gray instead of filled with warm autumn tones. I didn’t notice the light on the buildings anymore or think about the photos I could take. Instead, I concentrated on figuring out what had happened. There had to be an explanation. I knew that. I hadn’t gone to college or worked in the straight-lines, think-inside-the-box world of finance for nothing. There was always a reason for things.
So I hoofed it all the way up to Ben’s place in Wrigleyville, entertaining several possibilities. One—this Beth Maninsky was a covert operative for the CIA who’d taken over my town house in order to set up an elaborate cover. Crazy, outlandish, I know, but I’m fond of spy novels, and it was the first potential that came to mind. Two—Beth Maninsky really was Ben’s high school girlfriend, Toni, who was still crazed about him and had somehow arranged to take my place in his life. This also seemed a little outrageous, since I’d only set out for the dry cleaners that morning. She would have needed to work pretty damn fast.
But was that actually true? Had I really left for the dry cleaners just a few hours ago? Suddenly I wasn’t sure. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and put my head down, concentrating on each step, each seam in the pavement. My sense of timing still seemed off. I couldn’t remember waking up that morning or going to my mother ship, Starbucks, for a Venti Nonfat White Chocolate Mocha, my usual Saturday-morning treat. Still, that kind of memory trick happened, didn’t it? It was like driving home on your normal route and suddenly discovering you’re in your driveway and yet you can’t recall the drive itself.
Something niggled in my brain—a third possibility. I really had sold my town house and I really couldn’t remember it. I felt even colder with the thought, and I turned my collar up against the wind. Ridiculous, I said silently. Preposterous.
Luckily, I didn’t have to argue with myself much longer because I’d reached Ben’s building, a squat, multi-unit place that made up for its lack of character with cheap rent and a great location, only a few blocks from Wrigley Field. I peered at the vertical list of names next to the buzzers, and, thank God, there it was. BENJAMIN THOMAS, fifth from the top, right where he should have been. I hit the buzzer.
A shot of static came over the intercom. “Who is it?” said a woman’s cheery voice.
“Sorry. Wrong buzzer.” Please, please, please let it have been the wrong one.
I peered at the list again, and with exaggerated slowness, I put my finger on the brown button next to Ben’s name and pressed.
Same staticky burst. Same woman’s voice—not as cheery this time—saying the same words.
I froze. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong. But somehow my eternal optimism (or maybe my eternal stupidity) kept insisting there was a logical reason for all of this—something I would laugh about later.
I couldn’t laugh now, though, couldn’t even manage a smile, just a simple question laden with trepidation. “Is Ben home?”
“Kelly?” the woman said, clearly irritated.
“Yes?”
“Jesus. Not again.” A fizz of static, and then the intercom went silent.
I stood chewing on my bottom lip once more, debating what to do—piss off this woman in Ben’s apartment by hitting the buzzer again or break in and kick her ass. After about fifteen seconds, someone appeared behind the glass door. I squinted and made out Ben’s small, lean frame, his rock-hard legs in blue jogging shorts. Raising my hand, I gave a half wave, then let it fall.
Ben opened the door, but he didn’t invite me in or even come out on the front stoop with me. He just sighed, holding the door open with one arm, shoving his other hand through his damp brown hair. He’d obviously just come back from running. He had that pink flush to his cheeks.
“Kell, you’ve got to cut this out.”
I tried to get my mind around his statement. I forced myself not to rush inside and hug him. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Stopping by like this, calling at all hours. She wants me to get a restraining order.”
“Who?”
A chest-heaving exhalation. “We’ve had this conversation. Don’t make me go through it again. I love you. I always will.”
Just like you’ll always love Toni, I thought.
“But
