2

“This, too, as they say, shall pass,” Dr. Curtis said. He glanced from the clipboard in his hands to me.

I was lying in a bed in the emergency ward of Boston Medical Center. My hospital johnnie was bunched up beneath my back and my throat was raw. This is what happens when you choke on a one-carat cushion cut solitaire in a platinum setting and then instead of spitting it up, you swallow it.

“What does that mean?” Jeremy asked. “Is she going to be all right? No permanent harm?”

To his credit, he seemed more concerned about me than he was the engagement ring.

Dr. Curtis was a tall man, very thin, with a shiny dome for a head and glasses that perpetually slipped down his nose. He pushed them back up and smiled at me. He had a gentle smile that made me feel cared for, which helped exponentially, given the current ambiance of the woman in the bed on the other side of the curtain who kept moaning and the random profane shouts of some guy down the hall who sounded like he was being waterboarded.

“I suggest a high-fiber diet, some prune juice, and patience,” he said. He unclipped a picture from the front of his board and handed it to me. It was a print copy of the X-ray. I glanced at it. Sure enough, there was a diamond ring in my belly.

“If I make myself throw up, will that dislodge it?” I asked.

“No, don’t do that,” Dr. Curtis said. “It could damage your esophagus on the way back up, and trust me, you don’t want that.”

“So she’ll have to—” Jeremy began but stopped as if he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Poop it out,” I said. I figured I’d best be blunt so we were all on the same page. “Once it has, um, reappeared, I’ll get it cleaned and get it back to you.”

I glanced away from Jeremy. While a part of me felt that I had every right to be annoyed that he’d put the ring in my drink—who does that?!—another part of me was well aware that I was rejecting his proposal in front of an emergency room doctor, as if I needed a witness, and his feelings were likely going to smart a bit. Okay, more than a bit.

“Yes, well.” Dr. Curtis started edging away from the bed as if he didn’t want to be present when I crushed Jeremy’s plans under my bootheel once and for all. “If you have any questions or complications, be sure to follow up with your personal doctor.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”

He shook Jeremy’s hand and then patted my arm in a gesture of sympathy. I wasn’t sure if it was for what was to come with Jeremy or my upcoming colon cleanse, but I appreciated the kindness either way.

Dr. Curtis drew the curtain shut as he left. Suddenly the circle of cloth that separated us from everyone else in the emergency room seemed thick enough to suffocate. I smoothed the thin sheet that covered my legs.

I could feel Jeremy staring at the side of my face. I knew I was being a coward by not looking at him, but the truth is I hate conflict, I despise making people feel bad, accidentally or on purpose, and he was my best friend. But there was no way to avoid hurting him because I was absolutely not going to agree to marry him again no matter how bad I felt.

We both knew he’d been about to propose marriage when I’d tried to slap it down by announcing a move to Phoenix. I supposed the mature thing would be to tell him that I wasn’t going to take the job Sophie offered, that I had caught on to his proposal and had cowardly tried to avoid hurting him instead of being honest. Fortunately, I am not known for my maturity, and weirdly, once the words I’m moving to Phoenix had flown out of my mouth, the idea had taken root in my winter-bundled soul, and now the thought of being in a swimming pool, sucking down a margarita in February, was blooming inside me with all the fervor of an early spring.

Did they make prune juice margaritas? Sign me up! But first, I had to hash this thing out with Jeremy and try not to lose our friendship in the process.

“So Phoenix, huh?” he asked.

I glanced up and my heart squeezed tight. Jeremy, with his precision-cut blond hair, bearded jaw, and kind eyes would always be my first love. Of that there was no doubt, but I imagined that would be cold comfort to him now.

“Yeah,” I said. I slid my hand across the bed and put it over his. He didn’t pull away. I took that as promising. “A ring, huh?”

He shrugged. “It was just an idea, unless . . .”

I shook my head. He looked crushed and it took everything I had not to take it back and swivel my head into a nod. It was killing me to see his look of deep disappointment, but marriage between us hadn’t worked the last time and I sincerely doubted we’d changed enough for it to work now.

I was an artist and he was an engineer. To him, on time was late, while I aimed for ish, as in if my appointment was at seven, I aimed for sevenish, which was a built-in buffer of fifteen minutes on either side of the appointed arrival time, and hoped for the best. He had a place for everything and everything in its place, and I had already lost years of my life looking for my house keys. We simply didn’t suit beyond friendship, and Sophie was right, I hadn’t been doing us any favors by pretending we could sleep together and just be friends.

“What am I going to do without you?” he asked. He sounded plaintive, like a lost kitten, and my resolve started to wobble like a table with one short leg, but then his tone changed and became accusatory. “I came to Boston for you.”

The wobbling stopped. I had never asked him to come to Boston. In fact, I had been shocked when he left Georgia, and his mama, behind. Suddenly, Sophie’s words rang true. I was a lawnmower! I had been making his life easier, going to functions with him, charming his superiors to compensate for his social awkwardness, clearing my calendar for him when he needed someone to talk him through his moods and his mother wasn’t available. Enough.

“I have to go, Jeremy,” I said. I put every bit of resolve I had into my voice. Mercifully, it worked. He met my gaze for a moment and then glanced away.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” he said. He slipped his hand out from under mine and walked to the curtain. “I’ll take you home when you’re ready.”

---

It took three days for the blasted ring to pass. I won’t go into the details because . . . ew. Suffice to say, upon its reentry, I had the ring professionally cleaned and delivered to Jeremy. I simply couldn’t face him.

During the three days I spent afraid to leave the close proximity of my bathroom, I noshed on more prunes than was healthy, sublet my apartment to an eager grad student and his Labradoodle, packed and repacked my bags five times, and arranged for my other things to be stored in my dad’s basement.

When I called Soph to accept the job and explained about the proposal giving me a change of heart, she told me I’d made the right choice, after she laughed herself stupid at the ring debacle, of course.

My family was amazingly supportive, mostly. My dad was thrilled to have me in Arizona; I suspect it was because the golfing is exceptional there, and who doesn’t want to get away from winter in Boston? Sheri, my stepmother, was more in tune with my abrupt need to flee the city—and more accurately, Jeremy—and she came over to help me pack, along with my older sister, Chelsea, who, having just had her own life-changing adventure, was full of words of encouragement and support.

Here’s the thing: Nothing makes me doubt my own decisions more than other people telling me that I’m doing the right thing. It’s as if their approval is a red flag warning me away from logic and reason. I think it’s my freewheeling impulsive nature that rejects positive reinforcement, as if because people approve of what I’m doing, then surely I must be making a mistake. My plane ticket had been bought, however. I was paddling in the rapids now.

---

Sophie and her husband, Miguel, met me at Sky Harbor International Airport. I’d left Boston before the sun was up and it chased us all the way across the country, catching up and passing us before we landed. It was midday when I stepped off the plane, wearing my thick knee-length wool coat and stylish black leather boots. Within minutes, I was sweating. It was glorious.

When I passed the security checkpoint, I spotted Sophie immediately. She is blond and blue-eyed, petite but muscled in the way only a former cheerleader who was always on the top of the human pyramid could be. She bounced on her toes, scanning the crowd, and I thought she’d leap into an air split when she saw me. I was not completely wrong. She began to jump and clap and then she ran at me. I had only a second to brace myself for impact.

“You’re here, you’re really here,” she cried as she locked me in a hug that strangled.

I laughed and hugged her back, feeling the rightness of my decision to come here sweep through me. It had been years since Sophie and I had lived in the same city. No matter how this turned out, it was going to be great to spend time with my best friend again.

“Babe, you’re going to choke her out.” Miguel chuckled from behind us.

Sophie let me go and stepped back to study my face, making sure I was still breathing.

“Hi, Annabelle,” Miguel said. He reached over his diminutive wife and hugged me.

Miguel was the poster boy for tall, dark, and handsome. He was Phoenix born and bred with a large family who had embraced Sophie as one of their own. The two of them had met during a post-college internship at a graphic design firm in Los Angeles. He’d asked Sophie to marry him within three months of their first date, and she’d said yes and moved to Phoenix to be with him. They’d been together ever since, building their business and their life together. They were relationship goals for me.

“Hi, Miguel,” I said. He was a few inches taller than me and a good hugger. Strong and solid, with an affectionate pat on the back that let you know he really liked you.

He took my carry-on and led the way down to baggage claim. Sophie looped her arm through mine and pulled me close as if she was afraid I’d get away.

“So how was the flight?” she asked.

I laughed. “That’s not what you want to know.”

She blinked at me. “I’m trying to be mature and ease into the good stuff.”

“Please, this is me,” I said. “No easing required. You want to know if I’ve talked to Jeremy since having his ring returned via a messenger.”

“Don’t assume I only want the gossip,” she said. She emphasized the first syllable of the word.

“I see what you did there,” I said. I sent her a mock scowl.

“Cheeky, isn’t she?” Miguel asked. There was a wicked twinkle in his eye.

“Okay, get all your butt jokes out now,” I said.

“I think the moment has passed,” Sophie retorted.

“Much like the ring,” Miguel quipped.

They exchanged a super-annoying high five.

“Remind me again why I agreed to come work for you two nerds,” I said.

“Because you’re fleeing the shitstorm you made out of your life,” Sophie said. She blinked at me. “Oops, I did it again.”

I sighed. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll stop making cracks about it.” Sophie paused to snort. “In a year or two.”

“Why, oh why, did I buy a one-way ticket?” I asked no one in particular.

“Come on, now,” Sophie said. “Look on the bright side, you don’t have any exes here.”

“Your past has been wiped clean,” Miguel chimed in. They both cracked up.

I rolled my eyes. This was the problem with good friends—they knew all of your damage and were not afraid to abuse you with it. Repeatedly.

I followed the laughing idiots down the escalator to baggage. While we stood by the carousel, waiting with the other passengers from my flight, Sophie described the place they’d found for me to live. We’d arranged it while I was still in Boston, and I’d signed the rental agreement and paid first and last months’ rent and a security deposit.

“Nick Daire, your new landlord, was a member of Miguel’s entrepreneur group before he, well, retired. Your place is a sweet little guest house on his property that he is happy to rent out to you for six months while you decide if Phoenix is the perfect fit for you—which it is,” Sophie said.

Miguel made a pained face and I studied him, trying to figure out what that meant. Was his look of doubt about Mr. Daire or me?

“I take it ‘happy’ isn’t exactly the word to describe how he feels about leasing his guest house?” I asked, trying to gauge what he was thinking.

Miguel shrugged. “He offered so we accepted.”

I got the distinct impression there was much more to this than he was telling me, but I decided to see the place before I panicked.

“Rents in Phoenix, while not as bad as Boston, are insane,” Sophie said. “This place is perfect because it’s right down the street from the office. You won’t even need a car.”

That seemed promising. My bags appeared, and Miguel hauled them off the carousel. I had three big rollers so we each took one and headed for the parking garage. As soon as we stepped outside, I felt the desert warmth engulf me. I had a feeling I’d be packing my winter coat away for the duration of my stay. Not a hardship.

As we drove out of the garage, the midday sun—bright beautiful sun!—was blinding, and I dove into my handbag for my sunglasses. We were in their SUV, and I had taken the back seat. Sophie turned around to face me, pointing out the features of the area—Camelback Mountain, which really did look like a camel lying down; Tovrea Castle, a crazy wedding cake–looking building that some guy had built for his wife; and Tempe Town Lake, yes, an actual man-made lake in the middle of the city—as we cruised toward our destination.

I’d been to the desert only once before, for their wedding, and while I remembered being awed by the red mountain vistas and humungous saguaro cacti, I’d mostly been in a frenzy of wedding prep, which meant a lot of spa time and poolside margaritas, so my memories were shrouded in a lime-infused tequila haze.

We drove through the sprawling city, passed tall apartment buildings, offices, and restaurants. I gawked at the bushes and trees and planters overflowing with blossoms, some of which I recognized, such as petunias and pansies, and others I did not. How long had it been since I’d seen a flower blooming? Months. It made my heart sing.

“How about some dinner before we get you settled into your new place?” Soph asked. “There’s a great Mexican food joint in the neighborhood, unless you’d rather I make you a home-cooked meal—”

“No!” Miguel and I said together with matching tones of horror.

Sophie frowned. “What? I can cook.”

“Of course you can,” Miguel said. “But we’d miss you too much if you spent your evening in the kitchen.”

“Exactly,” I jumped in. “I mean I just got here.”

“All right then, Blanco Tacos and Tequila it is,” she announced.

I don’t think I was imagining the look of relief on her face. The truth is that Soph is not at one with the culinary arts even though she would like to be, and I imagined she wanted my first meal to be one that was actually edible.

Dinner was amazing. Shrimp fajitas to die for chased down by a margarita on the rocks with the salt on the rim just as the good lord intended. We reminisced a little, talked about their business, and autopsied the sad remains of my personal life. The consensus was that I needed to get back out there, but I was unconvinced.

It was early evening when we arrived at my new home. Judging by the size of the houses, we were in an exclusive neighborhood in the Biltmore area. This particular road was small and tucked away, camouflaged by enormous olive trees, which lined the quiet street. Miguel punched a code into the keypad in front of the massive wrought-iron gate, and with a lurch it slid open.

Instead of driving up the main driveway to the massive modern structure ahead of us, he took a narrow road that ran parallel to the main drive before veering off to the right. Tucked under a line of olive trees was a petite version of the big house. Small and square, it was a block of modern glass, steel, and concrete with wooden accents. I liked its austerity and the way the gray of the concrete blended with the silvery leaves of the olive trees that surrounded it.

When we climbed out of the car, there was a scuffle in the neatly trimmed oleanders beside us, and a pair of Gambel’s quail squawked and scurried deeper into the bushes as if fleeing certain death. They seemed comically overwrought, which made me laugh. I didn’t get this sort of wildlife in the center of Boston, so this was definitely a check in the plus column for Phoenix.

I glanced up at the trees, wondering what else was waiting to be discovered, but my attention was diverted by the sky. I moved away from the overhanging branches to see it better. The sunset over the city was a spectacular swath of deep burnt orange streaks and dusty splashes of purple. I stopped to stare at it, and Sophie noticed my rapt expression.

“Arizona has the best sunsets in the world,” she said.

“It makes me want to paint again.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to her or myself because I was preoccupied with the itch in my fingers, a feeling I hadn’t had in years, that used to mean I was eager to get to a canvas and play with colors.

“Excellent,” Sophie said. “You’re a brilliant artist. It’s past time for you to get back in the game.”

I turned my head and grinned at her. I felt lighter, as if by coming here and starting over, I’d buried my troubles in a snowbank in Boston and left them there.

Miguel unloaded my bags out of the back of the SUV and hauled them up the wide concrete steps to the front entrance of my house. It had thick glass double doors done in a swirled pattern that made them opaque. Gorgeous. They were bookended by two square bronze metal planters that were overflowing with trailing asparagus ferns and spiky lavender stalks. Miguel turned and handed me the keys to the house.

“I’m going up to the main house to let Daire know you’ve arrived,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I come with you?” I asked.

He and Sophie exchanged a look. Then he shook his head. “Nick Daire is a bit reclusive. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually, but I’d wait for him to take the lead on that.”

He walked down the steps and took a side path that cut through the olive trees and led to the front of the main house. I watched, taking in the very large house that perched behind my baby house like a mama hen hovering over its chick.

I turned to Sophie. “So what’s wrong with him?”

“Miguel? Nothing!”

I frowned. Why would she think I was asking about Miguel?

“No, Mr. Daire,” I said. “What’s wrong with him? Because reclusive seems like code for weird, odd, or possibly pervy.”

She took the keys from my hand and unlocked the glass doors.

“Belly, I am shocked. Shocked that you think I would put you up with a pervert,” she said.

“Just sayin’,” I said. “Spill it. What’s his damage?”

Sophie opened her mouth and then closed it. She looked me right in the eye and said, “Listen, I think it’s best if you just steer clear of the main house. Nick Daire is fine, seriously, but you don’t need to meet him, befriend him, or know him in any way other than to send him your rent check on the first of every month, okay?”

“Do you even know me?” I asked. I pointed to myself. “Extrovert. I like people. I like to be friendly.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “And since I do know you better than most people do, for once, listen to me. Steer clear of your landlord and all will be well.”

Clearly, she did not know me as well as she thought she did if that was her idea of keeping me away from my mysterious landlord. Now I was irrationally curious to meet him.

She turned on her heel and led the way into the small house. I was about to continue my interrogation, but I caught sight of the interior and completely forgot about my new landlord, the fact that I was exhausted, or that I needed to call home and check in.

The place was perfection. The glass front doors opened up into a large living room that had two squared-off couches in a pale blue-gray with black and white accent pillows, and a large-screen television was over the glass-enclosed gas fireplace. I could absolutely picture myself under a chenille throw with the fire blazing, a glass of wine in one hand, and a book in the other.

A door on the right led to a compact kitchen with granite counters, stainless steel appliances, and a matching sink deep enough to bathe a golden retriever. I wasn’t much of a cook, but this setup would certainly do.

The far wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, which bracketed a set of French doors that led out to a divine patio. The wall of windows let in the natural light, which came from the north, making it perfect for painting. I took it as another sign that it might be time to revisit the fine arts. I crossed the room and gasped as I took in the stunning backyard full of lemon and lime trees, which circled an in-ground azure pool and hot tub. Both of which looked so inviting, I almost grabbed my swimsuit and forgot all about unpacking.

Beyond the pool was the backside of the mansion I had glimpsed. Like my little house, it was very modern with loads of glass and squared edges framed in steel and concrete. I wondered if the interior was decorated the same, because the one thing I noticed about my little house was the lack of art or color of any kind. The walls were painted a soft creamy white but were completely devoid of any pictures. At all. There wasn’t even any cheap motel art on the walls. It felt barren and bereft. Where was the art?

A door to the left led to a large bedroom and bathroom. Like the kitchen, they were immaculate. A king-size bed with a black frame, more blue-gray for the bedding, and a matching black dresser took up half the room. A small writing desk with a black leather office chair had been placed in front of the window. It was cozy and perfect, and I knew I could work quite happily here as soon as I hung up some pictures or bought some colorful pillows or possibly a throw.

Soph and I wheeled my bags into the bedroom and then headed back to the kitchen to take stock of what I would need to survive.

“The place comes with dishes and cookware, and I put some supplies for you in the cupboard this morning,” she said. I opened the surprisingly deep pantry and noted there was stuff in there.

“Oh, you didn’t have to—” I began but she interrupted.

“Please.” She held up her hand in a stop gesture. “I’ve lived with you. I know your essentials. Coffee, sugar, and your breakfast granola are in the pantry; milk, yogurt, and wine are in the refrigerator; and a couple of frozen pizzas are in the freezer just to get you started. We can hit the grocery store this weekend for a bigger supply run.”

I tipped my head as I gazed at my sister from another mister in surprise. “Look at you, momming me.”

“No. Nope. Nuh-uh,” she said. “I am not mom material. Not yet at any rate. I am merely being a fabulous boss because I don’t want you to regret coming here, and I know if you wake up without coffee first thing tomorrow, you will examine your life choices in a fit of insufficient caffeine and regret everything.”

She knew me so well. I supposed it came from years of drowning our sorrows in cheap booze and pints of ice cream after bad breakups, followed by holding each other’s hair out of the toilet while we threw up, which we then topped off by sharing the greasiest breakfasts we could find in the wee hours of the morning at some fairly sketchy city diners.

Ours was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of friendship, forged in dubious choices, heartache, drunken texting, and the complete acceptance and understanding of our individual gifts as well as our flaws. I’d take a bullet for Soph without question, and I knew she’d do the same for me.

“So work tomorrow, huh?” I asked.

She met my gaze. “Yes. You don’t have to work the whole day, but I am just so excited for you to see the office and meet everyone.”

She was dancing on her tiptoes again, and I was afraid a high kick of excitement was headed my way.

“I was just confirming,” I said. “Of course I’ll be there bright and early.”

She hugged me tight, pulling me down to her level while she hopped up and down.

“Is she trying to choke you out again?” Miguel asked as he strode through the kitchen door.

Sophie released me and turned to him. “I think I have been remarkably self-contained, given that having Annabelle here is a dream come true for me.”

“Yes, I know.” His smile was tight as he slid his arm around her back and gave her a half hug. When he looked down, I noticed his smile was not reflected in his eyes when he asked, “And you always get your way, don’t you?”

Sophie blinked at him. A look of hurt flashed across her face, but she visibly shook it off. I didn’t know if I was just overtired from the long day I’d already put in, topped by margaritas, and was being oversensitive, or if my feeling that there was something wrong between them, and that something appeared to be me, was accurate or not.

I forced a laugh, because, as I’ve mentioned, I hate conflict and will always try to laugh it off, but then Miguel held out an envelope to me, stifling my awkward attempt to keep things light. The letter-size envelope looked thick, like something the IRS hand-delivers to your house if you forget to pay your taxes.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He blew out a breath. “Daire’s rules for the renter.”

I looked at him and then at the envelope. I weighed it in my palm. It had some heft. I glanced back at Miguel. “How many pages is it?”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Feels like fifty-eleven.”

Soph frowned at the envelope. “I thought we hashed all that out when she signed the rental agreement.”

“Apparently, Daire got to thinking about it, and he has some additional house rules that he’d like Annabelle to follow,” Miguel said.

“Like what?” Soph asked. She sounded annoyed on my behalf. “She paid her first and last, put down a security deposit, and signed the lease. What more could he want from her?”

Miguel sighed. “It’s details. He has too much time on his hands. It makes him overthink things. I don’t think these are hard-and-fast rules but more like suggestions for peaceful neighbor cohabitation.”

“Oh, in that case,” I said. I tossed the envelope onto the counter to be ignored with all the other junk mail that was sure to find me within the week.

“Don’t you want to look at it?” he asked.

A big jaw-cracking yawn slid out of me. “Not tonight. I’m going to shower, put on my jams, and pass out. The ‘rules’ can wait until tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But you will look at them just so that there’s no misunderstandings, right?”

“Sure.” I squinted at him, suddenly suspicious. “Question.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Why is some old retired guy, who lives in a huge house and is clearly not hurting for money, willing to rent his guest house to a complete stranger?”

“Uh,” Miguel stalled. I’d obviously caught him off guard.

“Because Miguel saved his life,” Soph said. “He collapsed and Miguel happened to be the one who found him and called an ambulance. Daire doesn’t like to be indebted to anyone, and he’s been badgering Miguel for a way to make things square. When we couldn’t find a reasonably priced apartment for you nearby, we suggested the use of his guest house for six months as his payback. Daire jumped on it.”

I jerked my thumb at the envelope. “Do you think he’s reconsidering?”

“No,” Miguel said. “He’s just a pain in the ass.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, I’ll do my best to abide by his rules.”

“Perfect,” Soph said. She grabbed me in another hug. I yawned. Miguel hugged me, too. I yawned again. They shared an amused look and left me to my new home, promising to pick me up on their way to the office in the morning. My eyes were slamming shut as I locked the door after them.

In the quiet after their departure, I took another look at my sparsely furnished abode. Whoever had put it together had minimalist taste, which was perfect because it gave me enough room to make the place my own.

I picked up my phone and texted my family that I had arrived and all was well. I glanced at the envelope on the counter, thinking maybe I should read the letter now. The neat script on the front read Tenant. As a graphic designer who had a special place in my heart for fonts and the feelings they could evoke, like the global loathing for Comic Sans, I tended to look at people’s handwriting with the same critical eye. Mr. Daire’s handwriting was very square, very neat, and almost painfully precise. It’s not that it spooked me exactly, but it certainly didn’t give off a happy, carefree vibe. No, it was more like a “drop and give me twenty” feeling of military precision.

I decided to ignore it just like I would a spider in the pantry, because maybe it was a good little bug eater or maybe it would bite me. Yeah, I could absolutely wait until tomorrow to open that letter and find out what I was dealing with because, judging by the handwriting, I was guessing my landlord was the bitey sort.