I sighed, remembering our first and last dinner together—okay, our only dinner together, the same evening of the accident that sent my Fiat to a junkyard in South Phoenix where apparently cars go to die. The automobile wasn’t the only casualty. I, too, had been pretty banged up. Half my face looked like a cantaloupe wearing makeup. But I had a date with Tristan, it would be our first time being together for more than ten minutes without talking about real estate.
And no dogs or horses or cars were discussed for that matter. No. The whole evening had been dedicated to Tristan Dumont’s determined explanation as to why three years ago he’d married Angelique, a much older woman from Martinique, who, in Tristan’s own words, had her whole life been madly in love with Tristan’s father. I don’t remember what we ate. I know we sat in a corner booth possibly in the restaurant’s darkest spot. And Tristan scooted close to me to show me the family photos he had brought along in a large manila envelope. The highlights of his life in Technicolor. Unreal.
That had been just the first of the evening’s many shockers.
I did know about Angelique being from Martinique, although my awareness of the island had been a lucky coincidence—thanks in part to my history teacher and to my infatuation with Napoleon Bonaparte, whose wife Josephine was also from Martinique. Angelique didn’t look anything like Josephine. God, could I be any more judgmental? Comparing Tristan’s wife to the portrait of a woman from the eighteenth century. Okay, not just any woman, Josephine de Beauharnais the first Empress of France. Why was I thinking about that poor soul who died alone when she was barely fifty? Younger than Angelique? Maybe. All those thoughts, crowding my mind.
Anyway, Tristan’s large envelope contained a mini story of his dad and Angelique, from when they met as teenagers to when they reconnected after Tristan’s mom’s sudden death. Heartbroken and alone, his dad had gone back to France where he was from, while Tristan, in a rebellious act he would soon come to regret, dove into a year or so of craziness aimed at keeping his mind from remembering and his heart from aching.
I guessed most of the emotional part. Tristan had kept it simple, mentioning only the actual unfortunate sequences. By the time family friends tracked him down in Colorado, his father was already in a coma in a private clinic in Mexico, he died without regaining consciousness the same day Tristan finally made it to the hospital. Apparently, his dad had suffered a heart attack while driving a rented car down the Baja peninsula coast on the way to the famous El Arco, the arch of Cabo San Lucas. He lost control of the car that went down a low cliff, and his bride-to be was thrown from the passenger seat of the convertible two-seater. She ended up in the same private clinic with extensive non-life-threatening injuries.
“Your dad’s bride-to-be?” I blurted out.
He nodded. “That’s how I met Angelique Chervais for the first time.”
Flickers from the flameless candle on our table painted weird shadows on Tristan’s face. I had watched him grow old and sad in the blink of an eye. My hand found his before my brain could stop me, and his sorrow faded when I laced my fingers through his. Without letting go, I nudged the photos, manila envelope and all, to the side, hoping to will his hurtful memories away, if only for a while.
THREE
I FLIPPED THROUGH the tops hanging on the lower rack of my closet. What to wear, what to wear? Today was Wednesday, or as Americans like to joke, Hump Day. I had enough trouble spelling Wednesday correctly (kudos to the inventor of autocorrect) I wasn’t about to start saying Hump Day. It sounded like a sexual innuendo. This particular Wednesday was also my assigned monthly day at the office.
Some of us at Desert Realty rotated sitting at our desks all day once a month and answering calls pertaining to properties listed by our office or any other specific real estate questions. Of course, all incoming calls went through Kassandra, but since she wasn’t a licensed Realtor, she would forward the call to the agent on duty.
And today, that would be me. It wasn’t a mandatory task, but highly recommended to newer agents because often the callers didn’t have a Realtor, and if they liked our telephone exchange, we might get to work with them. Since not all days were alike, it was a little like spinning the wheel of fortune at one of the local casinos; luck had a lot to do with the end results. A lot, but not everything.
And on that thought I picked my light blue acrylic sweater, black denim jeans, my mid-heel black boots that zipped on the side, and a black imitation leather jacket with silver studs around the collar. There, not too dressy, not too casual, just right. To the outside world I may have appeared calm and self-assured. I wasn’t. The fact that I hadn’t had my cup of coffee, didn’t help my mood much. Today, I’d be counting on Kassandra for some coffee once I got to the office. Fingers crossed.
With my purse and my briefcase, a Christmas gift from Brenda, safely resting on the passenger seat, I buckled up and slowly backed out of the garage. Still couldn’t get used to not seeing Brenda chasing after me with a mug of steaming java or goofy Dior barking and wagging his powerful tail while circling my idling car. Yeah, I missed them, but I missed Tristan most.
I hit the 51 southbound and
