Between Us Girls (4 page)

But it suited Sam. She sometimes wondered why the Casa de Vida complex, aka House of Life, remained her sanctuary after four years and a monthly salary that surpassed what her mother had ever seen in a year. It
could be that deep down she was still simply Samantha the Weirdo, bucking the system without really trying.

She hoped the girl she'd met earlier in the day, Lisa Kingman, would not be saddled with that same moniker for the next twenty years. Maybe having a dad as mayor would make a difference.

At least her boss, Randy, accepted her for whatever she was. That afternoon, when she had told him about the PR session ending with the Lisa Kingman personal tour, he stood and reached across his desk to give her a high five.

“Way to go, Sam!” His grin had been unbelievable.

“Yeah, well, thanks, but don't send me again anytime soon, okay?”

“Okay.” He had paused, keeping eye contact in his way that both unnerved her and made her feel safe.

She liked Randy Hall a lot. Forty plus years, marriage, and fatherhood were attractive on him. His three towheaded boys looked like mini versions of their dad, minus the expanding waistline. He understood engineering inside out and always had her back.

She had seen his eye lockdown thing before. He was concocting some wild plan. He wanted to color outside the lines. Somehow, she was involved.

“Sammi.”

Oh, no. He used the nickname. It was a dead giveaway.

He blinked away the lockdown and his hazel eyes shone. “I have an idea.”

No kidding.

“Here, take a look at this.” He spun his laptop around.

The screen showed a page from UC Berkeley.

She bit her lip and reminded herself that once in a while his schemes did not see the light of day.

“Trust me,” he said. “See this?” He clicked and scrolled, clicked and scrolled. “Six weeks and you'll have these two courses under your belt. You haven't taken these, right?” Not bothering to wait for an answer because he already knew it, he went on. “It's perfect for Collins and Creighton. You're already our go-to person for environmental remediation, but the firm is still lagging. Just six weeks out of your summer—and wow. You're on your way to another master's, maybe a PhD, and you make us look good, really good.”

He wasn't talking about a boost up the ladder. This was serious business impacting the firm. She had earned her master's in civil engineering at UCLA. The environmental side of things intrigued her. She'd dabbled in it enough to pad her credentials.

But…summer school? Out of town?

It was way worse than the PR gig at the community center.

“Randy, I can do it online.”

“And lose your sanity.” He glanced at her. “Sam, you already give us twenty-four/seven. Besides, there's no hoity-toity factor in that.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. Prestige was C and C's middle name. Randy liked poking fun at it.

“And it would take too long.”

“Too long for what?”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug.

The gesture indicated something was up, something big, but he couldn't discuss it with her. “Think of it this way. It's not PR.”

She muffled a groan. “Berkeley?”

“You'll love it there. But don't pack your bags yet. I have to run this by Collins. Ever been to San Francisco?”

Now, in her cottage, she groaned out loud and opened another plastic container from her landlady. No, she'd never been to San Francisco. Not interested. Not interested in a PhD, either.

She took out a brownie. Cream cheese filled. Ooey-gooey milk chocolate frosting.

Who was going to feed her at Berkeley? More importantly, where would she sleep? She did not want to move, even temporarily. She was home. Casa de Vida was the best home she'd ever had in her life.

Sugar melted on her tongue as she watched the news. A video was running from the Midwest. Frame after frame after frame of rubble.

She swallowed and placed the brownie back in its container.

What would it take to construct a completely tornado-resistant school or house? Maybe she'd learn that at Berkeley.

She snapped shut the lid, moved aside her plate, and slid her laptop into its place. No reason to delay apartment-hunting. At least the relocation would be for only a short while.

And, at least, unlike those people on the news she would have a home to come back to.

Five

September 3

Seaside Village, California

Standing in the arched gateway of her courtyard, Olivia McAlister watched a stranger pace back and forth just a few yards away on the grassy tract near the street's curb.

The woman—a wisp of a thing in a sleeveless yellow dress—babbled on and on. Was she talking to herself or into some wireless device? It was tricky nowadays to tell the difference.

Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a disheveled ponytail. A striped beach bag, oversized and overstuffed, hung from her shoulder, weighing it down, making it droop. She was clearly agitated and—

And what did it matter?

Liv sighed. She was not, she absolutely was not going to get distracted by a needy person today. She had promised herself to devote the day to friends. No matter that it was a holiday and that holidays—even a minor one like Labor Day—tended to upset the street people already burdened by so many—

Oh, no.

The woman had stopped pacing and was now hunched, bent nearly double, leaning against a parked white SUV. Her arms crossed her stomach, as if she were in great pain.

Liv stepped from the gateway, her promise to ignore the needy a fading
memory as she strode quickly down her walk and across the public sidewalk to the woman.

“Excuse me, dear. May I help you?”

The woman looked at her with the loveliest eyes she'd ever seen, a shade deeper than blue, almost a violet. They glistened with unshed tears. “I parked it here! I'm sure I did!”

“Your car?”

“Yes! Oh, this can't be happening. This cannot be happening.” She sank onto the grass. “Not again!”

Again? Liv didn't ask. A more urgent question was if she knelt on the ground beside the stranger, would she be able to get back up? She considered the distance between her knees and the ground. Although she was fairly nimble for being within sight of seventy years, the hours spent gardening yesterday had left certain reminders in her joints.

The young woman burst into tears.

Liv went down on her knees. “Oh, honey, don't you worry your pretty little head. We'll figure this out. I'm Olivia, call me Liv, McAlister.” It was always how she introduced herself, offbeat enough to help people remember her name. As a businesswoman, that was a plus. “What's your name?”

“Jasmyn,” she blubbered, and then she took a ragged breath. “Albright.” Faint crow's-feet at her eyes suggested over thirty but south of forty.

“Nice to meet you, Jasmyn Albright.” Liv touched the woman's arm. It was an olive tone, lightly tanned. There were traces of dried salt water. Swimsuit straps were visible above the neckline of her dress. Typically street people were tanned much more darkly. They did not wear suits and swim in the ocean. Perhaps Jasmyn was not, after all, homeless.

“Are you absolutely sure this is the right place?” Liv asked. “Seaside Village looks a lot like the other beach communities.”

“I'm absolutely, positively, completely sure!” Her voice matched her slight stature. Even in a high pitch of distress, it was soft. “Seaside Village is my favorite.”

“Well then, you know that the streets all look alike here. It's quite easy to confuse them.”

The younger woman shook her head, adamant. “This is Westwind Avenue.” She gestured toward a distant corner. “And that's Surfrider Street. I've parked here in this exact same spot every single day for the past week.”

Liv eyed the endless row of vehicles smushed together, bumper to bumper, up and down the long block. It was true that her street was ideal for parking because it was only three blocks from the beach and, unlike spaces closer to it, had no meters to feed. From Memorial Day until Labor Day, it looked like this. To find the exact same spot every day would have been impossible.

“The exact same spot?”

Jasmyn nodded. “I come early.”

“How early?”

“Six thirty.”

“My, you must really like the beach.”

Jasmyn pulled a large towel from her bag and wiped her face with it, leaving dots of sand on her freckled, sunburned nose. “I love the beach.” Her voice dropped to a hushed, reverent whisper. “I could live here.”

“Where do you live now?”

Her chin trembled. “Out of my suitcase.”

“Oh.” So much for Liv's conclusion that Jasmyn was not homeless. “And that suitcase was in your car?”

Tears gushed again. Her mouth formed an
O
, and out came a heartrending wail.

Liv leaned over and wrapped her in a hug. She smelled of fruity shampoo and coconut suntan lotion.

The scents were curiously clean for a person living out of her suitcase. Like the swimsuit and new tan, other things did not add up. Her toenails and fingernails were neatly painted a pretty shade of coral. Then there was the matching beach towel and bag, their stripes bold and the fabrics unworn.

Perhaps Jasmyn Albright was new to the homeless business.

Movement on the sidewalk caught Liv's attention. She looked up to see a neighbor, Sean Keagan. There was a question in the tilt of his head and humor in the slight curve of his lips.

Liv almost burst out laughing. His sudden appearance was no surprise. Keagan—as he preferred to be called—had a knack for showing up whenever she was about to get involved with a total stranger.

The girl whimpered into the beach towel.

“No worries.” Liv gave her one more squeeze and raised an elbow for Keagan to hold as she stood. “The cavalry has arrived.”

Her one-man cavalry would never be mistaken for—what was the slang term?—a hottie. He was most definitely neither muscle-bound nor handsome. His hair was a nonshade between brown and blond that he kept short as stubble. A whisper shorter than her own five foot ten, he had a compact physique.

Nevertheless, his strength rivaled a pair of oxen's. One time she had watched him haul half a dozen bags of cement mix on his shoulders down the block.

“What's up?” he said.

“Well, this is Jasmyn, and this morning she parked her car right here. That SUV is not it.”

“Hmm.” He pulled out his cell from a pocket of his jeans, decisive as always about what to do in any given situation.

That was the other cavalry-type thing about Keagan. He hummed with an energy that radiated competency and security.

He punched in a number and put the phone to his ear. “Now what are the odds of having a car stolen right in front of Liv McAlister's gate?”

She chuckled. He knew the odds were good. Lost lambs had been showing up on her doorstep for years by various means. A car theft, however, was a first. Rather dramatic as well.

So much for her silly notion to avoid needy people that day.

Six

Jasmyn pressed the damp, sandy towel against her face and cried as hard as she had ever cried in her whole entire life. She must look like an idiot, sitting there in the grass, bawling. But what else could she do? Everything was gone. Her friends were halfway across the country. She had no money, no clothes, no phone. She had sand in her eyes and—

“Jasmyn, dear.” The stranger spoke. Something about her low voice comforted. Maybe it was the way she said
Jasmyn dear
as though it were one word. As though
Jasmyn
and
dear
meant the same thing and one couldn't be said without the other.

Her tears slowed. She craned her neck to look up at the woman, now standing. What was her name?
Olivia, call me Liv.

Liv smiled and her whole face twinkled, not just the blue eyes behind silver rimmed glasses. “My friend here is calling the police. Are you—”

“The police!”

“Well, yes. We have to tell them your car was stolen.”

“Stolen! Stolen?”

“Oh, my. You hadn't realized that?”

Jasmyn shook her head. “No. I was just…I just…” Just what? She was just stuck in a black hole with a whole lot of confusion and panic. Were all of her belongings really gone? How did this happen twice in one lifetime? Why—

“Honey? Can you talk to them?”

“Them?”

“The police.”

Jasmyn took a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Thatta girl. This is Keagan, my neighbor.”