roomâstrike thatâsterile room, wondering how Iâd been immune to the starkness for so long. Maybe I was just hypersensitive since Iâd spent the past week in Archâs grandfatherâs apartment. The Bloomsbury flat was twice this size, but you could barely move what with all the clutter. In addition to the late residentâs own artistic creations, the flat had exploded with eclectic collections of paintings, sculptures and ceramic figurines. Not to mention art-history books, mystery novels, videotapes and impressive antique furnishings. Helping Arch sort through and decide what to sell off or give away had been difficult because, to me, everything was worth keeping. Bernard Duvall had surrounded himself with a lifetime of charming treasures.
Iâd created a shrine to midlife crisis.
Mental note: tomorrow buy something cheery and useless. Even toss pillows would be an improvement.
Pillows made me think of bed, which made me think of sleep. But first I needed to make a few calls. I kicked off my cushy suede clogs and plopped down on my sofaâa boring contemporary piece that Iâd picked up on sale. At the time I hadnât cared that it was monochromatic gray. Mental note: opt for colorful, whimsical toss pillows.
I reached into my I Love Lucy travel tote for my cell phone. My fingers connected with my journalâthe keeper of my innermost thoughts.
Although I had little trouble expressing myself to Arch, in general I internalize. It stemmed from a suppressed childhood. My mom, a conservative high-school math teacher, didnât understand my liberal artistic temperament. My brother was as uptight as Mom. My dad, though a right-brained workaholic, seemed to get me more than they did. Knowing I bottled my emotions, he gave me a diary when I was a kid, telling me when my heart and mind got jammed to pour my feelings onto the page. Iâve since filled a hundred diaries. Okay, thatâs an exaggeration. But you see my point. Diaries were a staple in my life. I pulled out the newestâa gift from Archâand placed it in my lap. A bright yellow journal featuring a photo of tropical skies and a brilliant ball of fire. Sunshine. Aware of my nightly habit, heâd bought the thoughtful memento in the islands.
I opened the book and smiled at the chicken scrawl on the inside cover. For private stuff. Arch
I basked in his kindness while turning to the next page and my own purple-penned scribbles. Iâd titled the first page The Chameleon Chronicles. Iâd already filled a good twenty pages with my adventures in London. Iâd also penned a few hopes and fears and some personal stuff about Arch. Private stuff. Stuff I didnât intend for him to ever know. Especially since we were now absolutely, officially, just friends.
Frowning, I set aside the journal and snagged my cell. I immediately checked the battery. Sometimes I forgot to recharge it. Okay, a lot of times. According to the bars, I had full power. At least one of us had juice.
Falling back against the blah-boring sofa, I checked my messages, imagining fifty calls from Arch begging me to return to London. I cannae live withoot you, yeah?
But instead of a Scottish accent, I heard the nasal twang of a high-school rival. âEvie? Monica Rhodes here. Since youâre too busy to attend the Greenville Civic Theaterâs upcoming benefit, I wondered if youâd solicit one of the casinos for a donation. Surely you know people. A weekend stay would bring a tidy sum at the auction. I would have e-mailed, but you donât respond in a timely manner and Iâm in a hurry to wrap things up. I asked your mom for your number. Hope you donât mind.â
âActually, I do,â I said, even though I was talking to a recording. Monica Rhodes had been the president of my high-school drama club. Later sheâd snagged the role as director of our hometownâs civic theater. She was and still is a bossy,