done, I thanked Marsha and gave her and the manicurist a healthy tip after I made sure her fee had been taken care of by Dolce.
She told me to have a good time wherever I was going. She said she’d come by the shop to look at the new collections on her day off next week. I was sure that meant she wouldn’t be buying anything. Just like her brother, she was a window-shopper. Having heard about their background, I understood why. If I wasn’t employed by Dolce, I’d probably be in their same boat wearing off-the-rack clothes. I shuddered at the thought.
When I got home with my new clothes in a shopping bag and my new hair, I wished I had somewhere to go. But I knew I had to rest my ankle for tomorrow. When Nick called and suggested coming by after his last yoga class with some cabbage rolls his aunt made for him, I couldn’t say no. It was better than eating a bowl of cornflakes and feeling sorry for myself alone on a Saturday night.
Funny, only a few weeks ago I had expected to be home alone on a Saturday night. In fact, I was always alone on Saturday night and most every other night too. Now I’d gotten spoiled with three men in my life. I knew it wouldn’t last, so I told myself to relax and enjoy it while I could. Who knew when Nick would be overbooked giving classes and Dr. Jonathan might fall for one of those nurses?
Actually Nick wanted to talk about his classes instead of my doctor or me. He didn’t say a word about my hair. Instead, he told me all about aerial skills, tumbling, conditioning and break dancing until I was almost nodding off on the couch while he heated the cabbage rolls. And he didn’t say anything about my joining his class. We ate in my living room so I could keep my foot up on the coffee table.
“How do you like Aunt Meera’s
I assured him I wouldn’t. Besides who has time to make a sauce, stuff a cabbage and then bake the whole thing for hours? Not me. But I was very grateful to anyone who had that kind of talent and time. Someday I’d learn to cook. I’d take classes at the California Culinary Academy and throw little dinner parties for my friends after shopping for fresh ingredients from the Farmer’s Market. Until then I would happily eat anything someone brought me, like this ethnic Romanian dish.
“Delicious,” I said, scooping up the sweet and sour tomato sauce on the plate with my spoon.
“Not only delicious but good for you,” Nick said. “Packed with many vitamins. They say it can cure ulcers and it is frugal too, which makes it a perfect food.”
“Your aunt must be a wonderful cook. I would love to have her recipe. Does she live around here?”
“In Marin County. When your foot is well, I will take you on her tour.”
“She gives tours of Marin County?”
“She gives vampire tours of San Francisco. She is Romanian after all and knows where they live. In the tunnels under the city. Right here.” He pointed at the floor of my living room.
After minoring in Romanian in college, I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear his aunt believed vampires had taken up residence beneath my house, but I was. “How . . . how did she find out where they are?” I asked as if there were nothing unusual about vampires being nearby.
“She’s been studying vampires since a long, long time ago. She is now one hundred and twenty-seven.”
“Years old?” I couldn’t help gasping.
He nodded, his mouth full of
“And then she is a vampire herself,” he said with a wink while wiping the sauce off his mouth with his handkerchief. “Which is how she says she knows many histories of San Francisco. Famous people she knew like Mark Twain and other forty-niners. It is all on her tour. Huntington Park, Pacific Union Club hotels and cafes. You will see what a good actress she is.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, sure that Nick didn’t actually believe his aunt was a vampire but just went along with it. How I wished I could tell my Romanian professors about this one-hundred-twenty-seven-year-old so-called vampire. After I took the tour, I could send in her story to my alumni magazine along with a picture of the two of us on her tour. Of course, no alums believed in vampires. But everyone loves a good story. I’d take my camera and get some shots of the two of us at historic spots where the vamps supposedly hung out.
When Nick refilled my glass, I protested, but he quoted the old Romanian saying, “Three glasses of wine are just enough. The first for your health. The second for your delight. The third for a good rest.”
He left before I had a third glass of wine, when I kept yawning. I told him it must be the pain pills that made me sleepy. Certainly not his vampire stories. He suggested a trip to the Palace of the Legion of Honor to see the Impressionist exhibit the next day, but I wanted to rest up and give myself a facial before my big date. So I said I had some e-mail to get caught up on. He promised to get us tickets for his aunt’s tour in a week or two. Before he left he kissed me on both cheeks as they do in Romania, I suppose.
Nine
I pampered myself all day Sunday. First I washed my face with a gel cleanser, then I gave myself an exfoliating scrub, which left my face tingling. After that it was time to steam open my pores. I filled the bathroom sink with warm water and pressed a warm wet washcloth on my face three times. Next step—the mask. Some people make their own with glycerin, honey and oil, but I used a commercial hydrating clay mask. I had to keep it on for twenty minutes, so I went out to my back patio in a pair of old gym shorts and an extralarge T-shirt to sit on my deck chair and soak up some vitamin D on my pale legs. I slapped on my earphones, taking care not to disturb a single strand of hair, and listened to some tunes on my iPod to make the time pass.
I couldn’t believe it when the sound of my front doorbell penetrated right through my earphones. I debated whether to ignore it and pretend I wasn’t home. But maybe it was a special delivery package. Who cared if the delivery man saw me in my gray mask? I was sure he’d seen worse. And my hair still looked perfect. If he cared.
I rushed through the house to the front door so he wouldn’t just leave a notice and drive his truck away with my package in it. But when I opened the front door, it was Detective Wall. I almost slammed the door in his face I was so startled and embarrassed. After a brief hesitation and a quick cover-up of a wry smile, he said he was sorry to bother me.
“It’s no bother,” I said stiffly so my face wouldn’t crack. “It must be important for you to be working on a Sunday.” I was more convinced than ever he was a workaholic either immersed in his police duties or his volunteer efforts.
“It is,” he said. “I just received a series of photos from the newspaper taken at the Benefit. If you have a moment, I’d like to show them to you.”
Realizing I didn’t have a choice in the matter, I could only hope this would only take a moment. I glanced at my watch. I was afraid what might happen if the mask hardened on my face. I mean really hardened. I pictured myself trying to remove it with a sharp tool. Maybe having to call 911. How embarrassing that would be.
“This won’t take long,” he assured me. “I know you must have other things to do on your day off.” I knew he was thinking, “like painting your face with gray sludge.”
“Yes, I do.” It was only weeks ago I couldn’t say that. But my life had changed. I backed into my living room and sat on my usual couch, the same couch where the detectives had interrogated me previously. If Jack Wall could ignore the fact I was wearing a mask, then I could too. He handed me a manila envelope full of black-and-white eight-by-ten photos and sat down next to me.
“Take your time. See if there’s anyone you recognize there.”
I slid the pictures out on the table. “Actually I recognize several of these people. They’re our customers.”
I flipped through the pictures, naming names as I went. “Liz Forester in Gucci. Not my favorite design. Anita Halperin wearing a white trench over last year’s gown. Not bad. Margot Fielding in an edgy design from Camelia Skaggs. Looks good in it, don’t you think?”
