Back in Richmond, my aunt’s house would barely make the historical record. But on the West Coast, her three-bedroom craftsman was considered old. I pulled into the narrow driveway designed for a Model T and opened my door. Ready to get this over with. But Felicia stayed in her seat. She clutched a Styrofoam carton of take-out teriyaki, purchased by Jack. Clutching it because I said if one drop touched the seat she would go straight to the homeless shelter.
Not only did she not spill a drop, she gave me hope.
“I kinda abandoned your mom, didn’t I?”
This was the part of Felicia that kept me hoping. The part my mother never forgot. Derelict, damaged, so self-absorbed she put herself before her children, Felicia’s heart was also capable of making sudden changes, like a baseball that looked like it was headed for foul territory, only to swerve inside the white line at the last possible moment.
“Felicia, I think you were trying to help.”
“I should’ve tried harder.”
And with that, she got out. Slung the backpack over her shoulder. Headed for the house. As though nothing of importance had just been spoken.
Madame followed her up the front steps to the porch, but since I didn’t see Aunt Charlotte’s decrepit Volvo in the driveway, I walked over to where the key was hidden under a fake granite boulder. I kneeled down, feeling fear and relief and guilt. But mostly fatigue. I was so very tired, and I was prying my fingers under the rock when the front door creaked open.
I stood up.
“I remember you,” the voice said. “I read your aura.”
Oh, dear God. No. No, no, no.
“Felicity, right?”
“Felicia.”
I felt a flash of rage. I repented—and things were only getting worse. It felt like God was piling on the frustration. Felicia wasn’t enough. Here was the woman who had yanked the plug on my life, sending my mother swirling down the drain. The woman who opened her big mouth on the cruise to Alaska and told my mom I was an FBI agent.
Claire the Clairvoyant.
“Raleigh!” She had a voice as tuneless as a dented trombone. “I thought you were on some secret mission.”
“Some secret,” I muttered.
“Charlotte wanted me to check on the cats. Their auras have been a little off. She’s been busy at the store.”
My aunt’s store, Seattle Stones, was flypaper for goofy New Agers. People like Claire, who right now was trying to restrain the cats with her stubby legs. The cats were probably desperate to get away before Claire read their auras again. I looked around for Madame. She had stepped off the porch and stood on the small front lawn. I turned back to Claire. My headache was getting worse.
“Tell Aunt Charlotte I’ll call her soon. And Felicia needs a place to stay.” I looked back at the dog. My heart sank. “Felicia, can you watch Madame for me?”
“Really?” she said.
“Feed her whatever you’re eating. Make sure she gets walked. Don’t give her chocolate.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business,” I said.
“You’re doing something secret again, aren’t you?”
I opened my mouth, savoring my chance to speak the truth and tell her that for a clairvoyant she was the densest person on the planet. But a horn suddenly blasted from my purse. I actually jumped. The cell phone. Muzak. It wasn’t “Camptown Races.” But it was just as annoying. I pawed through the bag. Jack’s idea of a good joke. Old-fogy tune. Retirement music on the cell phone.
“That’s Tijuana Brass.” Claire started imitating the horns. A natural affinity. “Whaa-whaa-whaa-whaa.”
I headed for the car and Madame followed.
“No, girl.” I could barely speak, sending her away again. “You have to stay.”
I turned my back, like the coward that I was, and looked at the caller ID. Emerald Meadows. I flipped open the phone.
“Hello?”
“Where are you!”
Eleanor.
I bent down and gave Madame a kiss, then pointed to the house. Eleanor, meanwhile, was informing me that I was heartless, that I had no idea what it was like for an old lady to worry, and how dare I do that to her, and did I know how abandoned she felt? I watched Madame walk slowly up the stairs, her tail down, as Eleanor described her attempts to reach me at the condo because she couldn’t remember my cell phone number. When I climbed into the Ghost, driving down the street, turning on Pike and feeling like my eyes were on fire, she began quoting something about getting old. I pulled over to the curb and waited until she took a breath.
“I quit.”
“That’s just grand,” she said. “Giving up, right when I need you. Here I thought you were made of tougher stuff.”
“The FBI has relieved me of the undercover assignment.”
That closed her mouth.
So I continued. “I decided to quit. Effective immediately. Raleigh David is gone. And I’m no longer an FBI agent.”
“They fired you?”
“No, I wasn’t worth firing. Which is different from being worth keeping. Didn’t you once tell me most people’s lives are trails of debris?”
“Mrs. Venable, she said that.”
“She was half right.” The other half—the half that mattered—was what we did with the debris.
“And you’re going to leave me,” she cried, “with all this mendacity?”
“I’m sorry. But it’s your car. Your condo. Your checkbook.”
“I hate apologies. Especially for the truth. Who said that?”
“You did.”
“Never mind. Will you work for me, on the same terms?”
I took a long, deep breath. The relief washing over me was greater than what I’d felt in the SAC’s office. Because this wave was grace.
“Raleigh?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here. And I’ll work for you.”
“Good. What do we do now?”
“Call Mr. Yuck.”
“What a ghastly beginning.”
“Call him and tell him the truth. About me.”
“Must I?” She sighed. “This charade has brought me so much delight.”
“And tell him I’m on my way. I need to talk to him. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Raleigh,” she said, “everything is a matter of life and death.”