The Scent of Shadows Free with Bonus Material (20 page)

“Okay, but you’ll call if you remember anything, anything at all?”

“I’ll call,” I said, practically tripping over myself to get away from him.

“Olivia!” I stopped, closed my eyes and turned back slowly. When I opened them he was standing just as before, but he didn’t look as angry from a distance. He just looked alone. “You know when I first ran into Joanna again I gave her this generic list of attributes, characteristics to tell her how well I knew her…or thought I knew her.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “I bet stubborn was on that list.”

At least he could smile at that. “Yeah, and so was restless. And impatient. But I forgot one.”

“Really? Which?”

“Mine,” he said, his fists bunching at his side. “She was mine.”

And he walked away, leaving me staring, wordlessly, behind.

Leave it to Cher to think a nice pick-me-up after a sister’s death would be a spray-on tan. I was ushered indoors, signed in, and naked in such short order that my head was actually spinning, and the sight of the spray gun had thoughts of comic books, construction workers, and even Ben Traina scuttling to the back of my mind. It looked like a machine from
Ghostbusters
.

“You want me to spread what?” I dubiously asked the technician for the third time. She was Russian, heavy on the makeup, light on patience, and obviously a great fan of her own product. She muttered something under her breath, sat back on her heels and glanced in Cher’s direction.

“Come on, Livvy,” Cher said. “You’re acting like you’ve never done this before. Now bend over and show Yulyia your talent.”

I grimaced as the two women hooted with laughter, but did as I was told, following Cher’s lead.

“Whoo! Olivia, are you getting dizzy yet?”

Inverted, I looked over at her. “No.”

Red-faced, she turned an accusing gaze upon me. “You’ve been eating again!”

The spray hit my ass before I could reply. Perhaps, I thought desperately, it would help to try and think of something else. Fortunately or not, I had a lot to think about. I wanted to tell Warren about my strange encounter in Master Comics, and ask him what Zane had meant about me being “the one.” I wanted to see if he thought it was all right for me to swing by my old house as Olivia, knowing even if he didn’t, I probably would anyway. I wasn’t the sort of person who took orders easily. Unless, I was discovering, there was a can of tanning solution pointed at my naked ass.

I also needed to figure out what to do about Ben. And how to do it as Olivia. I frowned, thinking of the time I’d spent studying her home. I’d been all over that apartment in the past two days; read every piece of paper, viewed every video diary, even every recipe she had written down in the place. It was possible she had a safety deposit box I didn’t know about, but I’d found no key, and no mention of one. There was also her beloved computer, but that was the one place I
couldn’t
access, not that I believed any of the above could help me solve this problem.

How to stop him? How to help him? How to keep him from getting killed?

“What’s wrong, Livvy?” Cher said, arms raised so Yulyia could spray beneath her pits. “You’re not talking much.”

What to say? I’d been half listening to the conversation, and so far it had lacked any meaning, direction, or obvious import. These two seemed to pluck topics from the sky and fold them like origami into something with meaning. For instance, I now knew there were eunuchs in Afghanistan who made more money than prostitutes, that Cher’s mother had decided she needed to share with her adult daughter everything she thought about sex—I had to groan with her on that one—and I’d learned that Yulyia’s motto in life was, “No cheaters, no beaters, no little peters.”

Call me crazy, but I had the sneaking suspicion that my concerns over my recently acquired superheroine status weren’t going to score very high in comparison with these eclectic topics.

Or would they?

“I was just wondering,” I started conversationally, as Yulyia tagged my left pit, “if you could be a superhero, what kind would you be?”

“You mean to have save me?”

“Not X-Man and no He-Man,” Yulyia said before I could answer. She motioned expansively with her spray gun. “I want G-Man.”

“G-Man?” We both looked at her.

“To help me find G-spot. That’s my kind of hero.”

“Good point!” Cher exclaimed.

Too much information. I grimaced and tried again. “I meant what kind of superhero would you
be
?”

“A cute one, definitely!”

“With fur-trimmed cape trailing behind as I fly through the night!”

“Fox fur!” yelled Cher, getting in the spirit.

“Marten,” Yulyia purred, shuddering delightedly.

Did this spray kill brain cells?

“Okay, but other than—you know—
cute
, what kind of
powers would you have? You know, how would you use them to fight evil and save mankind?”

They both looked at me in a moment of profound silence.

“The power to make any man fall in love with me!” Yulyia exclaimed.

“I already have that,” scoffed Cher. “How about the power to have spontaneous orgasms, and never grow old!”

Yulyia squealed and Cher giggled. I sighed and tried not to breathe in too deeply.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the day spa’s lounge area; tanned, dried, and wrapped in short terry-cloth robes. I was reclining in a vibrating massage chair, while Cher poured us fizzy water from a pitcher filled with lemons, ice, and cucumbers. About a half a dozen other women were scattered about the room, like a bunch of seals sunning on a rock. But the melodious chatter of dulcet female tones gradually melted into a sea of serenity. I hadn’t been in this environment before. I’d either shunned it in favor of a sports massage, or all chitchat had ceased when I entered any ultrafeminine domain. I was surprised to find the smell of peppermint, cucumber, and estrogen to be a heady and profoundly relaxing mix.

“Do you want to get French pedicures?” Cher asked, handing me a glass.

I sipped, and considered making up an excuse to leave, something I’d have readily done only one week earlier. I’d never had another woman look to me for companionship. I knew Cher believed I was really Olivia, but it felt good to be the recipient of her open smiles and concerned attentions. I remembered how fondly my sister spoke of Cher on the video diaries, and for that alone I would have said yes. Besides, I reasoned, what would Olivia do?

“Why not?” I said, smiling.

Cher seemed pleased to lead the conversation, and I was content to let her. She started off talking about a new pill that was supposed to shrink the waist, lift the breasts, and
put color into your cheeks—being tested on mice as we spoke—then moved on to a story about a lingerie saleswoman who’d copied her phone number from her check and was making threatening phone calls about how many times Cher had sent her back for a different size chemise in magenta rolled silk. At some point, through the rhythm of Cher’s narrative, I began to understand the rhythm of my sister’s life in a way I previously hadn’t. I also began to wonder why I’d never gotten a spa pedicure before. The foot massage alone would have done wonders after a training session with Asaf.

Of course, thinking about Asaf led me to think about all the things I’d loved about my old life. My coach and his family, the training that had started as an outlet for my youthful anger and turned into a daily comfort, not unlike prayer. I thought of my home, my darkroom, and the camera that had been as much a part of me as another limb. Why couldn’t there have been, or still be, a merging of the two lives? And that thought led me back to Ben—

“…I mean, can you believe she said I was high-maintenance?”

Uh-oh. It was the first time Cher had stopped to ask me a question. Quickly, I thought, what would Olivia say? “That bitch.”

Cher drew back, looking at me blankly. Her pedicurist did the same. Mine stopped massaging the balls of my feet.

“What?”

“Did you just call my mother a bitch?”

“No! No.” Shit, I thought, and cleared my throat. “I thought you were still talking about the lingerie girl.”

“No, darlin’, my
mother
. But I told her that
she
was the one who was demanding. I mean, at least I can make my own appointments.”

I looked at her. “Do you really tell your mother everything?”

She raised a perfectly waxed brow. “You know I do.”

“It’s just I can’t imagine that,” I said, and leaned my head
back in the cushioned chair. I thought about everything I’d learned of my mother lately. The truths that had been lies, the greatest lie being our lives together.

Cher placed a hand on my arm and, surprisingly, I didn’t shake it away. “Mama’s been asking about you, you know,” she said softly. “She has this idea of fixing you up with a—how did she put it?—‘a very well-to-do southern gentleman.’ She wants to know when you’re going to come by again.”

I fought off a full-body shudder and thought, Never.

“Of course you could avoid her blatant matchmaking attempts if you’d bring your own date,” she said, pausing. “That guy you were talking to looked like he might clean up well.”

“Ben? Not my type, and I’m definitely not his.”

“Olivia, honey, you are every man’s type.”

“Not Ben Traina’s. He was always into Joanna.”

To my surprise, Cher said, “Oh,
that
Ben! Well, I have to say, he didn’t look half as unhinged as people say. A little dangerous perhaps, but who doesn’t like a strong little chaser to wash things down. An ex-cop might fill that bill nicely.”

I glanced at her, too sharply, and looked away quickly, feigning interest in the color being applied to my toes. “What do you mean ‘ex’? He’s just taking some time off.”

Cher lifted a hand, studying her nails. “That’s not what they said on the tube, honey. And I don’t blame the department. You should’ve seen him at the funeral. He went absolutely apeshit. Attacked some poor, innocent man who was just offering him his condolences. We can’t have a guy like that patrolling our streets.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Poor? Innocent?”

Cher rolled her eyes. “Okay, so they did say the guy cheats at craps. Either way, I know what I heard. Ben Traina has been put on an indefinite leave of absence.”

“But he said—”

“But he lied. It happens with the mentally unstable.”

But he wasn’t mentally unstable. He happened to be right. And I, for one, wasn’t going to give up on him. I
knew
him. That boy who saw things as black and white, right or wrong, was still there. Besides, I was partly responsible for this…this transformation. Both of them, I decided. Both times.

“Ben’s different,” I muttered. “He’s been through a lot, and he never stopped caring for Joanna.”

“Well, don’t you think that’s precisely why he might go right on over the edge?”

I wanted to shake Cher so hard her teeth rattled.

Something of my thoughts must have shown in my face because her own softened. “Oh, don’t listen to me, honey. I have such bad luck with guys…what do I know?” she said, sighing. “I always look for the one thing that’ll make them run. Then I do everything I can to make sure they do.” She practically deflated on the next sigh, showing a vulnerability that surprised me.

I let the subject of Ben drop, filing it away for later. Like when the smell of bubble gum and acetone wasn’t coloring my every thought. “Maybe it’s because you don’t let them see the real you.”

“Darlin’, all of me is real,” she said in that haughty tone I used to hate.

This time I only snorted and leaned my head back into the neck rest. “Then maybe that’s the problem. Maybe all they see is boobs and hair and nails…oh, and a really great tan.”

“Thank you. I think.”

I smiled over at her. “I’m just saying. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.” And I was surprised to realize I meant it. “You just need to find someone who will look at your internal beauty first.”

“Really?” she asked softly.

“Of course, really.”

She lifted her chin. “You’re right. That would be my kind of hero, anyway…you know, when you were asking earlier? I’ve been thinkin’ about it, and I’ve decided I wouldn’t need someone from the pages of a comic book. He wouldn’t have to leap over buildings for me, or even surprise me with the latest designs from fashion week. I have a personal shopper for that. But if somebody would just…be there.”

“Girl, that ain’t a hero,” one of the nail techs put in. “That’s a prince.”

Cher tilted her head and thought about that for a moment. “You think Wills or Harry would be interested in a slightly experienced southern woman?”

We all laughed, but a small part of me sighed.
Be there? Ben would have done that.

Later, as we lounged in the dressing area, now surrounded by a comfortable silence, Cher said, “Thanks for letting me take you out today, Livvy-girl. I’ve really missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. This was…the most normal thing I’ve done in a long time.” I ran the back of my hand over my eyes, mortified to find myself close to tears. All this girly stuff was getting to me. I probably just needed to hit something.

“I’m sorry we argued before.”

“It was my fault,” I said, shaking my head. “You were right. I had shut down. Thank you for being a good enough friend to say something.”

On a sob, Cher opened her arms for a hug. Thrilled—it was an indisputable sign that I’d passed this test—I held open my arms too. I’d no more than taken two steps toward her when she gasped so violently I jumped and whirled to defend myself against…anything.

“What?” I said, whirling back. Then I realized she was pointing at my chest. “What?”

“You’re streaked! The bitch streaked you!”

I turned to the full-length mirror and looked for myself.
Sure enough, there was a medium-sized white blotch right in the middle of my chest.

“Shit.” Would this have happened to Olivia?

“Now you don’t have an even, all-over tan!” Clearly more distraught than I was, Cher had tears rolling down her face. “You’re not going to look cute naked! Oh, sorry.”