8

LEILA GATHERED HER things and left the office. Everyone but Samantha was already gone.

Wow, leaving later than Cox and Tommy. That’s rare.

Wait. Why was she congratulating herself? She never wanted to think that way. That kind of mindset would squeeze all semblance of balance out of her life, making her like Samantha. But the boss was not a model for the kind of woman Leila wanted to be.

As the elevator doors closed in front of her, she saw Samantha’s office light go out. She didn’t hold the elevator. Samantha always fussed around before leaving, and Leila really wanted to get home.

There was nothing to hurry for. She would heat up the leftovers Carmen sent her home with yesterday, have a cup of tea, and put herself to sleep with a Gabriel García Márquez story. She enjoyed the simple pleasures of her nights after the clamor and chaos of her days.

That was what she had worked for. No use complaining now that she had it.

The elevator clunked to the bottom. Leila stepped out the back door of the building into the parking lot. She stopped. She had spotted Ashford. Their eyes locked. He was parked in an SUV across the lot with the window rolled down.

His face registered recognition, and he straightened in his seat. His crisp blue eyes pierced through the shadows. His expression made it clear that he had thought of her once or twice since their encounter in Sedona.

She stood for a moment beneath the sharp cone of light on the doorstep, holding his eyes. It would be polite to go and say hello. But Samantha might already be in the elevator behind her. She didn’t like the idea of her boss coming out of the building right then and learning that they knew each other. That hint of secrecy was strangely stimulating. She smiled at Ashford, then dipped out of the lighted doorway and walked to her car.

It was a small moment. It would be a stretch to call it a flirtation, but it had been a long time since she had given someone that kind of smile. She enjoyed it.

The broad streets were quiet, even for a Monday evening. The spring training crowds had dispersed, vanishing as quickly as they had descended upon the Phoenix valley a month before.

As she drove into Scottsdale, she caught herself still smiling. She laughed.

Her life must be really boring if such a little thing could excite her. But a boring life was what she wanted. She was better off without excitement, which had proven to be a double-edged sword. The last thing she needed was any excitement involving her boss’s son. Her life was too steadily speeding down the right track. Things were just where she wanted them.

Her friends called it a lonely life, but she didn’t like that. Loneliness was a form of self-pity in which she chose not to indulge. She had other priorities.

Yet she couldn’t help being drawn by the image of those blue eyes shining out of the shadows and the face of a young man she barely knew.

She pulled her Toyota into the desert-tan apartment complex, parked, quickly glanced around the empty lot from her car, then got out of it and hurried up the outer staircase to her second-floor unit. An indignant meow greeted her as soon as she opened the door, and a black shadow darted away toward the bedroom.

“Romeo, come say hello.”

When she had put down her things and taken off her shoes, the cat came back and rubbed against her legs, crying for his dinner. Her tardiness would be forgiven after a can of tuna.

She had lived in this same little apartment since saving up enough money waiting tables after high school to move out. It was an easy drive to work and to her father’s house. Now that she was doing so well, everyone told her she should buy her own house—mortgages were her business, and she could afford it. But home prices had increased so much in Phoenix this last year that she was hesitant. So, she saved as much money as she could, content with her little rental.

After eating her leftovers, she opened her coat closet and took out the guitar case that leaned upright inside. She took the instrument out and checked the tuning. Close enough. She sat back down and plucked out one of the Colombian folk songs she remembered from her childhood. The beauty of her homeland tugged at her heart through the song.

It was a children’s song, a lullaby. She wondered how she heard it the first time and who might have sung it to her. She had barely known her mother, who died when she was so young. Leila remembered her through feelings more than images. She liked to think her mother had sung this song to her as an infant.

She imagined that she was singing it to her own child. Deep in her heart, the destiny of motherhood tugged at her. She sometimes dreamed of her child—a daughter, usually—with such vividness that she felt it was reality. Her love for this imagined child was so strong that it made her afraid. Pain could cut deepest across the strongest love.

Most of the time, this future seemed distant, but music brought it closer. Making the dream a reality would require risks. Would she ever be brave enough?

She put the guitar back in its case and prepared for bed. She opened her bedroom window—the night breeze in springtime was so nice. This evening, it felt warm enough to leave the window open for the night. She took her earplugs out of the bathroom drawer so the city noises wouldn’t keep her awake.

Leila had chosen this simple life. She worked her tail off to earn it. It gave her what she needed and kept her from getting hurt.

But what about now? She had done the work. She had “made it.” Was it time to believe life could mean more?