“Except the flag on your shirt is hanging from the nipples of a girl in a bikini. And below the girl it says ‘Osama Sucks.’”
“So?”
“Never mind,” Rivera said. “Just wear all white. No words, no pictures. And if you have to talk to people about someone who died, don’t eat.”
As Brenda closed the front door, the noise echoed.
She stood a moment to get the feel of Mrs. Krause’s villa. Quiet and cool, almost like a tomb. She opened the door on her right. The glossy bulk of a large, vintage white Buick loomed in the darkness. Like a hearse, she thought.
She closed the door, stepped across the foyer and glanced in the guest bedroom. Then the den. Her pumps clicked over ceramic tile as she moved toward the living room. At the far end, a glass door wall revealed a concrete deck and small swimming pool. All of it was covered by a screen cage.
An open door led to the master bedroom. She went in, flopped her suitcase and laptop on the king-size bed, then looked in the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling travertine marble, a walk-in shower, lots of old-lady doodads arranged around the Jacuzzi tub.
When she returned to the living room, the stark white walls made Brenda think again of her condo in Michigan.
Before Thanksgiving, her own walls had been gray. That’s when Charlie made his third visit. How long since you painted? he asked. Never, Brenda told him. It was this way when I moved in seven years ago. Hands in his hip pockets, Charlie had surveyed the living room’s battleship-gray ceiling. In her whole life, she had never given paint a thought, but watching him made her feel defensive. Fine, he said. I’m here to see you, not your walls.
Brenda stepped to the glass door wall and looked at the swimming pool. That November afternoon, she had all at once realized something both simple and profound: you revealed yourself, not just by what you wore and read and did for a living, but also by what color walls you lived with. That meant she must think of herself as a nun. Or a crewmember on a nuclear sub.
The following day, she dragged Charlie off to Home Depot, bringing home paint chips and brochures. There, on the Saturday afternoon following Thanksgiving, she had realized for the first time that you could actually choose the colors you lived with. She kept asking him what he thought, holding up Banana Republic Beige against the ugly wall, Mellow Mauve, Lemon Frappé. Looking resigned, Charlie gave her neutral answers. It’s for you to decide, he said. Yes, but what was his opinion? Staring down at the paint chips on the rug, finally he pointed. Pink? Why was pink good? I’m not sure, he said, but they use it in jails. It’s supposed to be calming.
That was pure Charlie Schmidt. A perfect, quiet zinger.
The memory made her feel awful. She pulled open the sliding door and stepped down to the pool. It was glittery and smooth, the water crystal clear. She knelt and stroked the surface. It was warm to the touch, dancing with sunlight.
The phone rang inside. She stood and ran back in, found the phone in the kitchen and snatched it up before the third ring.
“There you are,” Marion Ross said. “I tried earlier. How do you like it?”
“Hi, Marion.” Brenda swallowed her disappointment, stuck in her throat like food. “It’s good,” she said. “Perfect. I love it.”
“What do you think of Mom’s new ceiling fans?”
Brenda looked up. A fan was slowly turning above her. It meant nothing to her, but it was new, and she should say something. “Very impressive,” she said. “The blades look like real palm fronds.”
“Mom got them last winter. All Hands on Deck installed them. Did they pick you up?”
“Right on time.”
“And the crazy silk flowers in the corner.” Brenda looked to the living room and saw them. “I think the tropical climate down there gives you permission to try things,” Marion said.
“I like the white walls,” Brenda said. “They work.” It was a lie. White made her think of hospitals.
Marion cleared her throat. “Pardon me? Did I hear you say they work?”
“People change, Marion. Time marches on.”
“True. Except for personal boundaries. Deep-seated attributes. You’re a fine journalist and a great friend, but you are not qualified to say they work. Not about home decorating after the Neolithic period.”
“You haven’t seen my place lately,” Brenda said. “It’s pink.” Nothing followed. “Dusty Rose to be exact.”
“You painted your condo? Pink? I don’t believe it.”
“I helped. Charlie did most of it.” A mistake, she thought. Now would come questions.
“Ah.” Marion let it out slowly for effect. “I think I understand. The enigma wrapped in a mystery is starting to come clear.”
Brenda said nothing. But her clever lawyer friend would pick up on the silence.
“I see,” Marion said finally. “Well, I’m sure you have more important things on your mind than home decorating. Just don’t go overboard with a whole new change of direction, you have to…”
She stopped talking, and silence descended on both ends. Overboard. Like in spades, the word had opened a sudden black hole. Overboard. May, June, July—Brenda counted the months. August, September, October. She was holding her friend steady in the jittery, brilliant circle of a rifle sight. A hundred yards away, Marion sat on a dock, on a bench, wearing a white sweater spattered with blood. She was holding herself, looking over her shoulder at Kettle Falls.
November, December, January. In those nine months, there had been four or five such moments. A glossy black speedboat just like Charlie Schmidt’s on a trailer parked in front of an Eddie Bauer store. A man with bleached hair working behind the counter at Starbucks. Hair like the man she’d killed.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, Bren.” Marion sighed. “Please
