Dry as Rain (4 page)

“Not long, I suspect, although permanent damage isn't unheard of.”

So Kyra might spend the rest of her life thinking I was dead? “Can't I just go to her and show her I'm alive?”

He unlocked his hands and wagged his finger at me. “I wouldn't. When I told her you were down here, she didn't believe me. She called me a liar, then started hyperventilating. So I'm fairly certain that's not the best avenue to take right now.”

“So we just let her walk around the rest of her life thinking I'm dead?”

“Of course not. She's here for a forty-eight-hour observation anyway—”

I set my palms flat on the table. “Forty-eight hours? No way. I'm taking her home today.”

“Mr. Yoshida, hitting the table and yelling at me isn't going to get your wife out of here any sooner.”

I looked down at my stinging hands, then back at him. I hadn't yelled, had I? “This is nuts. My wife has a concussion, so she gets locked up in a psych ward?”

“I
suspect
she has a concussion, Eric. I'm not positive. If that's all it is, she'll most likely regain her memory in the next few days and I'll be releasing her.”

“She's here for two days no matter what?”

“At least.”

I leaned back in the chair and ran a hand through my hair. Maybe I needed to call a lawyer or Kyra's doctor. Of course, the forty-eight hours was practically half up anyway, and her being in here would at least give me time to smooth things over with Danielle. “She's safe?”

He scribbled something else in his pad. Probably
sucker
. After he finished, he looked up. “Perfectly.”

“What if it isn't a concussion? What if she—?” I stopped myself. Of course there was a medical reason for her memory loss. This was Kyra I was talking about, not some lunatic.

Dr. Hershing stood. “I don't like to deal with ifs, Eric. There's no sense in trying to cross a bridge that hasn't been built yet.”

Four

Inside Thompson's Imports, the smell of brewing coffee began to eclipse the scent of new rubber tires. I glanced inside my empty mug and wondered if it was too late to get just one more refill. My watch told me I'd better not.

Danielle strolled by my office for the third time in an hour. Again, I pretended not to see her. Her expression grew darker each time I didn't greet her with my usual playfulness. I was going to have to deal with her soon, but hopefully not today. My head was still reeling from learning my wife had been institutionalized.

Before I could even attempt an explanation to Danielle, I would need a good night's sleep and some time to make sense of things myself, so I could make sense of them to her.

A car alarm blared. I grunted and picked up the phone. Through my wall of windows, I watched Stan Jacobs answer my call. “Hey Jacobs,” I said into the receiver, “go show Jim for the hundredth time the difference between the trunk release and the alarm button.”

Stan held his thumb up high enough for me to see and we both hung up. Before he could push away from the front desk, the alarm stopped.

I pulled another contract from the pile in front of me and began to review it.

“Hey man, what'd you do to Danielle?”

I looked up to find my best friend, Larry Wallace, standing in my office doorway. The overhead light reflected off the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, making him look possessed. I squinted at him. “Say who?”

He frowned. “I asked her to work the back end of my deal and she sulks through the entire presentation. Needless to say, we didn't sell them any extras.”

Tilting to the side, I slid my hand in my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. “What's the spiff on Scotchgard? Fifty bucks?” I counted two twenties and a ten and held out the money.

Larry kept his eyes glued to mine. “That's not the point and you know it.”

Hoping he would get the hint, I put the cash away and went back to reading. “You know how women are.”

He crossed his arms over his protruding gut and frowned. “So how are they, Eric. Or more specifically, how is
she
?”

Knowing the gig was up, my heart stopped. Still, I did my best to look like I had no idea what he was talking about. “What are you getting at?”

“I think you know.”

I picked up my mug and took a sip, remembering too late that it was empty. A drop of cold, sickeningly sweet coffee hit my tongue. I grimaced and set the cup back down. “Know what?”

“Ever since Kyra kicked you to the curb, you and little Miss Sales Associate have been fawning all over each other.”

Beneath the desk, I rubbed my damp palms down my dress pants. “Danielle? Give me a break.”

“You give me a break.” Larry scratched his goatee. “You know you can lose your job over this? Try to remember that you're her boss, Einstein.”

Sitting up straight, I gave him what I intended to be a threatening look. “I'm yours, too.”

“Not for long if you don't—”

Juan Santana appeared in the doorway, cutting off Larry's lecture. One rogue curl broke away from the rest and lay plastered against his perspiring forehead.

Glad for the diversion, I swiveled my chair to face him. “What do you need, Santana?”

Neither finishing his thought nor turning around, Larry just kept glaring at me. If he was trying to unnerve me, it was working.

Behind Juan, a businessman was busy kicking proverbial tires on the showroom LX.

“Dude's upside-down on his trade,” Juan said. “There's no way we're going to be able to eat that difference.”

I tried to ignore Larry's eyes on me. “Putting up any cash?”

Circling his thumb and finger to make a big, fat, zero, Juan shook his head.

Larry finally turned around. “What car do you have him on?”

“LX,” was Juan's reply.

I glanced through the window at the man. He looked like he had money, but then so did every sales guy on the lot in their crisp, tailored suits. I'd learned a long time ago all that glittered wasn't gold. “Move him down to an LT.”

Juan hesitated. No doubt he wanted the bigger commission, but sometimes aiming lower meant not losing the sale altogether. “He really likes the leather seats.”

Larry shrugged. “Tell him he can't be drinking Dom Perignon on a Budweiser budget.”

I dismissed Juan with a wave of hand. “You heard him. The LT, Santana. Tell him cloth's warmer.”

Looking dejected, he nodded.

When Juan was out of earshot, Larry turned back around. “Where were you last night?”

I had planned my answer for the inevitability of this question. Why my friend hadn't asked earlier in the day was the only surprise. “I was feeling sorry for myself, so I went to Millstone's, had one too many, and woke up in the backseat of my car in their parking lot.”

His eyes narrowed. “Millstone's, how appropriate. Was she with you?”

I laughed, hoping it didn't sound as phony as it felt. “C'mon Larry, is she old enough to even drink?”

He sucked his teeth. “You tell me.”

I tried to answer him, but he barreled ahead. “She's a pretty girl, man, but she ain't your wife.”

“I just told you I wasn't with her last night.”

“I'd like to believe you, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But I don't.” He took his glasses off and pointed them at me. “You're talking to someone who's been cheated on. The damage you're getting ready to do can't be undone.”

I wanted to tell him that he was a day late and a dollar short with his warning, and that this was nothing like what he had gone through with his ex anyway. Tina had cheated on a faithful, hardworking man who adored her. I only strayed after Kyra accused me of it then kicked me out of my own house. “You know, as long as we've been friends, I would think you'd have a little more faith in me. That you'd know me better than that.”

“I do know you, and that's why we're having this conversation. You've been eyeing Dani like a cat in a canary cage and she's been sprinkling herself with hot sauce.”

Just then, my cell phone beeped three times, indicating I had a text message. Even before I looked, I knew it was from Danielle.

Hey U. Can we talk?

I had all the talking I could stand for one day. After deleting the message, I set the phone on my desk. “Man, give me a break. You're my friend, not my mother. Next you're going to tell me as long as I live under your roof, I have to do as you say.”

“You don't have to do anything. But I ain't going to aid and abet a cheater. You're separated, not divorced. Big difference.”

Juan stuck his head back in the doorway. “I need your dealer tag.”

I huffed. “Where's yours?”

“I got a guy out on demo.”

I yanked the desk drawer open and grabbed the metal plate. “You just gonna let everyone drive our cars around, or you planning on closing one of these deals?”

Juan looked like he might cry. Of course his basset hound eyes looked like that even when he was laughing. “I'm working on it.”

Paper clips clung to the magnet bar on the back of the plate. I swiped them off and handed it over. Smiling a thanks, he hurried out with it.

“What are you doing tonight?” Larry asked.

I shuffled papers around my desk. “Working, what else?”

“I mean after.”

“Hopefully, sleeping on your couch.”

Tucking in his lips, he nodded at me. “Good. Do the right thing, brother. Not just for Kyra or Danielle, but for yourself.”

“When are you off again?” I asked picking up a pen and trying my best to look disinterested.

“Tomorrow and you know it.”

“Good.” I pulled an invoice off the top of my inbox, scanned, and signed it.

“But just because I'm not here to keep an eye on you doesn't mean you're not being watched.”

Static broke in from the overhead speaker. “Larry Wallace, please report to the service center.”

I looked up at the ceiling speaker, then him. “That'd be you, Larry. Go take care of your business and let me take care of mine.”

Five

My father, looking as though he'd lived to grow old, stood beside my mother and stepfather, Alfred, in the house I grew up in. In this strange dream, the three of them were a couple, which didn't seem at all unusual to dream-me. When I held out my glass to have it filled, it was toward my dad, not Alfred. Looking dejected, Alfred shook his head and shuffled sadly away.

I felt awful and knew I should go after him, but I didn't. I just stood there filled with regret. I turned to my father for advice, but just like in real life, he was gone.

I started to call for him, but instead of words, my mouth rang like a cell phone.

Realizing the noise was real but the dream was not, I opened my eyes. In my semi-comatose state, I thought it was my phone alarm telling me it was time to get up for work. I reached over and hit the snooze button and drifted back off.

What sounded like a tiny and distant Benji said, “Dad? You there? Hello?”

I bolted to a sitting position and grabbed the phone off the floor. I guess I hadn't hit the snooze button after all. “Benji?”

“Hey, Dad, we must have a bad connection. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling dazed. “What's going on? Are you okay?”

There was a pause, followed by, “Well, that's why I'm calling.”

Adrenaline slapped the sleep off me. “What's wrong?”

“They're making me call.”

“What is it?” My mind reeled with possibilities, each worse than the last.

“It's stupid really.”

“Will you tell me already?”

“I'm in the infirmary.”

Even though he was still in boot camp, I pictured my son lying on a MASH-style cot, with a bandage around his head and stumps where his legs used to be.

“I was bitten by some fire ants and had an allergic reaction.”