Chapter 37

I swear for the last twenty-four hours I’ve felt like my seven-year-old self, waiting for Christmas morning. I couldn’t wait to get up and open all the presents Maman left under the tree. I wonder what Nurse Marley has in store for me. My imagination runs wild.

Showered and dressed in my travel clothes, a slick black tracksuit, and equipped with my overnight bag, I stealthily leave the house. Managing not to wake up Ava or our sleeping baby.

At this early hour on a Sunday, there’s virtually no car or foot traffic on Sunset; even the homeless are still asleep. I know where Marley lives from having taken her home what seems like only yesterday. It takes a mere fifteen minutes to get to her house. It looks the same as before—just more depressing with the gloomy gray weather.

I get a text from Gabe, but choose to ignore it. I don’t need him giving me a morality lecture, not today. I’ve thought long and hard about it. I want Nurse Marley more than anyone I’ve wanted in my entire life.

And I’ll be discreet. No one will know. Not Gabe. Not the Japanese investors. Not my wife.

And besides, it may just be a one-time thing. I need to get Nurse Marley Manners out of my system.

I park my bright-yellow Lambo down the street from her house, though in retrospect I should have driven a less flashy car. So much for discretion. Taking my phone and wallet, I jog up to her front door and ring the bell. My heart is beating a hundred miles a minute. I feel jittery. Jumpy. I pick off some lint from my pants. Maybe I should have brought flowers.

The door opens. Marley is standing in the entrance. Barefoot, clad in white cutoff denims that barely graze her smooth, bronzed thighs, a cropped white T-shirt that exposes her taut abdomen, and this adorable little ruffled apron wrapped around her waist. Her lustrous blonde hair is gathered at the top of her head in a messy bun.

She gawps at me. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

My stomach roils. Is this all a mistake?

Then she breaks into a seductive smile. “Ned, by now, don’t you know I’m razzing you?”

Rolling the “r,” she sounds just like my mother. Relief washes over me.

Wearing white disposable gloves, she adjusts her apron, tightens it. “Come on in. I was just cleaning up.” She ushers me in, my eyes glued to her backside.

I take in the main room. It’s on the small side, with stucco walls and a coved ceiling. The dingy white paint is peeling and I’m surprised there’s no furniture. Not a stitch. Several packed cardboard boxes are scattered on the worn hardwood floor. It looks as if she’s either just moving in or she’s about to move out. I ask which it is.

She stops in her tracks and faces me. “I’m moving out. The gig with my friend is over. Plus, I need a bigger place, one with two bedrooms. More child friendly.”

Should I tell her she can move into my house? We’ll have an extra bedroom after Ava’s mother leaves. Instead, I ask, “Where would you like me to sit?” It’s either on one of the boxes or on the floor.

In one swift move, she slides down the zipper of my Gore-Tex jacket. The hiss gives me goose bumps.

She takes my hand. “Follow me.”

A few moments later I’m in her bedroom. The walls painted mauve, it is occupied by a queen-size mattress with pristine white bedding that sits on the scuffed floor. Across from it is a large, mirrored armoire that looks like it came out of some thrift store. In a corner, perched against the wall, is a medium-size suitcase on wheels and, next to it, a canvas backpack, and a leather handbag that’s big enough to hold a laptop.

She shoves me down onto the mattress. The sheets smell of her. Her lilac essence. “Make yourself comfortable, Ned.”

“I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Neither do I.” She licks her plump lips. “I’ll make you a deal…”

Now, she’s talking my kind of language.

“Remember that full-body massage I promised you?”

I nod, though I was expecting more. Then again one thing can lead to another. My body buzzes with excitement.

“Why don’t you get undressed and relax while I go make us a nice cocktail.” She breathes out the word “cocktail,” accenting the first syllable.

“Um, sure. Sounds good.”

Already undoing the drawstring of my joggers, I watch as she sashays out of the room.

It takes me no time to get out of my clothes. I strip down to my boxer briefs. Despite being the neat freak I am, I toss everything onto the floor in a crumpled heap and then lean back against the wall as there’s no headboard. I fantasize my massage, her hands all over me.

“I’m baaack,” she singsongs, carrying a tray with two tumblers filled with blood-orange-colored drinks, topped off by lemon wedges. There’s also a platter with assorted cheeses and what looks to be a cheese knife wrapped up in a napkin. Still wearing her apron and gloves, she carefully bends down, sets the tray on the bed, and then lowers herself beside me. She eyes my arousal before lifting one of the tumblers.

“Cheers,” she says, proposing a toast. “To moving up in life. Getting what you want.”

“Touché.” My mother loved that word.

I lift my glass and clink it against hers. Ping.

With a wink, she takes a sip first and I follow suit. The cocktail assaults my taste buds. I like it. It’s different, a tingly combination of bitter and sweet. I take another swig and swallow.

“This is good. What is it?”

“It’s called The Killer.”

Like in killer massage? I take another glug. “What’s in it?”

“A combination of amaretto, gin, passion fruit, and grenadine…and one other secret ingredient. It’s inspired by one of my favorite movies… Jaws.”

“That’s one of my favorite movies too.” Moving my glass stealthily like a deadly shark, I hum the infamous John Williams impending-doom theme.

She laughs. “Notice how the lemon wedge is cut in the shape of a shark’s fin and how the grenadine makes the drink seem bloody.”

“Clever. Where did you learn how to make this?” I ask after taking another long, pleasing mouthful.

“In Italy. While I was working on the yacht of this fabulously wealthy American couple.”

That’s weird. My parents had a yacht they kept anchored in Positano before it blew up and killed them both. It’s not a secret, and I’m pretty sure we’ve talked about this before. About to ask her for more details, including their names, I feel my throat constrict. A hot metal ball forms at the base. I can’t swallow or catch my breath. Simultaneously, abdominal cramps fist my stomach, the pain so great I want to scream. The tumbler falls out of my hand and the blood-orange liquid soaks the sheets. One hand clutches my neck, the other my gut.

My face and body contorting, I watch as she stirs her drink and a wicked smile crosses her lips.

“In case you were wondering, Ned, the couple’s names were Edward and Isabelle…Sinclair.”

My parents!