This Is Not Over Part 8

She adjusts the brim of her floppy hat. It looks like it's macrame. She's got beach style while I'm in an Hermes scarf. Her hair is light brown and flyaway, hanging to the middle of her back. It's a young woman's style, with an old woman's thinning hair. Not old-mature. She's my age.

"I'm uncomfortable with what I have to say." She touches the hat again, as if it's a talisman that gives her strength.

We're not friends, just friendly. We've known each other since I took over my mother's seat on the board of the Homeowners a.s.sociation. Everyone loved my mother, including Violet. They wouldn't even recognize her now. My mother was effervescent, where I'm reserved. She was sparkling wine, I'm pinot.

I don't really have friends anymore, only friendly acquaintances. My social world shrank as Thad's problems grew. I was more consumed with him yet less able to speak about him. It hurt to hear about their children's achievements, so that made me feel mean and spiteful, and then when we got to Thad, it killed me to hear their pity, their false rea.s.surances: "He'll get better soon, it's just a phase." Sometimes they didn't know what to say at all, which I preferred but they didn't, so as many friends.h.i.+ps drifted into acquaintances.h.i.+p at their hands as at mine.

My social world reminds me of a science project Thad did in elementary school. It was one he loved because it incorporated art. He made concentric circles out of wire, a sun at the center, and the trick was placing the different planets with the correct proximities. He was most into painting the Styrofoam b.a.l.l.s perfectly, so I had to coach him through the placement. I'd say, "No, Saturn doesn't go there; Pluto is the farthest."

Now every friend I've ever had is Pluto, and it's not even a planet anymore.

Mostly, that's okay. I was surprised to find how little I missed them as they moved outward, concentric circle by circle, through drift and design. It was probably because I still had my mother, and we used to be so similar that I could tell her little and she'd know everything. But I try not to think about the encroaching loneliness. Dwelling never helps.

Violet takes a deep breath, like she's about to say something important. "I found out that you've been renting your home out for less than the requisite thirty days." She brushes her hair back from her face, keeping her eyes on the table. "Don't ask me how I know. But you need to stop or you're at risk of being prosecuted by the city attorney."

I stare at her, flabbergasted. Prosecuted! I'd be humiliated. Larry would be horrified.

I suppose I shouldn't be this shocked. I should have prepared for this possibility. But everyone knows that the city attorney doesn't even investigate these sorts of cases, let alone prosecute them.

Someone brought this to Violet's attention. Someone who's been lying low, waiting to strike. A viper with the initials D.T.

"Who gave you this information?" I say.

"I can't answer that."

"I deserve to know my accuser."

She gives me a strange look. I'm behaving strangely, in other words. I take a deep breath myself, recomposing. Dawn can't make a fool of me; only I can do that.

"I have a well-connected friend," Violet finally says. "She wants to protect the reputation of the a.s.sociation, so she pa.s.sed this information along to me. She's no 'accuser.'"

"But someone must have called in a tip. I need to know who it is in order to properly defend myself." There, that sounded better.

"My friend didn't give me a name, and I couldn't give one to you even if I knew it. Listen to me. I'm doing you a favor." Her eyes bear down on mine. "They have your listing from Getaway.com. They have your address, confirmed, on a rental agreement."

"A rental agreement between me and who?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"But I know. I've been set up. By someone who's vindictive. She's out of her mind. Doesn't that matter?"

Violet looks at me like she's just discovered I've been living a double life, like she doesn't know me at all.

I want to tell her that she doesn't, in fact, really know me, or my situation. She doesn't know why I need the money from the short-term rentals. She doesn't know that I tried to comply with the ordinance in the beginning, to find tenants for thirty days at a pop, but it didn't work out. Long-term renters didn't want to pay what the house is worth, whereas the nightly rent is in line with my financial needs. Besides, I couldn't give up my parents' home for a month or more at a time. It was the site of their greatest joy. I couldn't let someone live in it and deny me access for so long. I like visiting each week, usually more often. It brings me a sense of well-being and peace that I can't seem to find anywhere else, not even in my own home.

What I don't like is letting Larry think the profits are less than they are so I can skim off the top for Thad; I don't like the dishonesty. But these are not choices. They're necessities. Does Violet have any idea what that's like, living over a barrel?

Don't panic. Just stay calm.

I can afford to lose the rental now that Thad is talking to me like a real person. He's going to agree to a sober living house, and then none of this will matter, not in the slightest.

Except that I'm even more afraid. Now that Thad's being sweet, there's more to lose. What if he still doesn't want to go to sober living next month, and I can't subsidize him any longer? He'll go back to the Thad I've been used to, the one I can only follow on Twitter.

I need that money. It's an insurance policy.

Can Violet even fathom what it's like to feel this way about your own child?

I would never attempt to tell her, not with the way she's looking at me.

"I'm not the only one doing this," I say. "Do you know how many listings there are on Getaway.com for Santa Monica rentals? Not to mention the other websites?"

She looks startled. Perhaps I was supposed to be chastened, apologetic. Grateful. Small, that's what she was hoping for. I'm supposed to grovel at her feet.

Any sympathy in her face is gone; I'm left with disdain. "I used to tell my son that just because everyone's jumping off a bridge, he doesn't have to," she says.

That seemed pointed. Does she know about Thad?

Dawn's got me paranoid. Or maybe she's got me seeing clearly for the first time. Violet looks almost happy. Superior. She must have had it out for me for a while. An expression like that, it doesn't materialize from nowhere. Her house is nice, but it's at least ten blocks from the beach, and not nearly as beautiful as my parents', and it's her only one. She couldn't rent it out if she wanted to.

"This might go without saying," she says, "but it would be best if you resigned from the a.s.sociation."

"And then when I do, when I can no longer besmirch the a.s.sociation's honor, your friend will turn me in?" I say.

She seems surprised, and a little hurt. "Of course not. This is between us. All the city attorney wants is for you to comply with the ordinance. Prosecuting you wouldn't help anyone."

I don't know what to believe anymore. I'm not sure how to construe Violet and her "friendly" warning. She could have come here with the best of intentions, and then thought I'm the one who turned on her.

What I do know is this: the rumors will swirl, and my reputation as well as my livelihood will be destroyed. Dawn has scored a direct hit.

"It's not what people think," I say.

"It never is." Violet's smile is spiked with pity. Right now, that's probably the best I can hope for.

Dawn can't get away with this, except she already has.

17.

Dawn

5-Star Home, Best Location Gorgeous Two-Bedroom in the Heart of Santa Monica!

Luxury Beachfront Townhome Oceanview Penthouse Family Beach House, with All the Tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs Your Own Spanish Villa Santa Monica Stunner!

I scan and scroll. Miranda's listing isn't on page one, where it used to be.

Not on page two either. Or three. Now I'm into the listings that are $700 and $800 a night, so . . . mission accomplished. I've vanquished her from Getaway.com, which is the most important thing. That house is out of circulation. Miranda is a host no more.

I keep hoping that something will mark the turning point for me, that I'll find the measure of satisfaction I need to stop this ugly obsession with Miranda. I realize that's what it is, and that it's unhealthy for me, and for my marriage. Last night with Rob was just off, there's no other way to put it. It's the worst thing in the world, to be self-aware but without self-control.

I want to be as good a person as Rob is-not only doing the right thing, but wanting to do the right thing. Sometimes I can't help but think that he's had a much easier road to becoming that person, with loving parents and a comfortable childhood and a private Christian college. He's been surrounded by goodness and light.

Stop making excuses for yourself, Dawn. You're surrounded by light now, too. Just be better.

Why is it so hard to be better?

Because Miranda has been provoking me, goading me, dragging me back into the darkness.

But she's not on Getaway.com now. It's over. Done. I've finished it.

I stare at the laptop screen and tell myself that I've won. I force myself into a kind of pleasure, though it begins to evaporate almost instantly, like a melting snowflake. I don't trust it.

I have a long history of not trusting happiness. On my wedding day, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for what seemed like ages (with dimmed lighting, of course-I always install dimmers in rental units, no landlord ever minds). Soon, I'd drive myself over to the Sheraton where Rob and I were to be married in one of the smaller banquet halls, not even a hall really, more of a meeting room where they'd hold corporate conferences for a hundred people or fewer and look at PowerPoints and munch crudites. But beggars can't be choosers, and I didn't have many guests to invite, and Rob's family was paying because, well, just because; that's always the best answer where my family is concerned. I'm looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, already in my wedding dress, a $99 David's Bridal special, but for once I think I look beautiful. I tell myself, "This is how it all starts. This is happiness."

I'd felt ecstasy before-h.e.l.l, I'd done plenty of ecstasy-and I'd been sorta happy before, but on my wedding day, I felt a happiness that was pure and clean and true. I was that bride who's full of hope. Later, when I danced in Rob's arms to our first song ("I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie), I felt actual joy. The joy of more joy to come. If not fulfillment, exactly, then the strong promise of it.

But in the bathroom mirror beforehand, putting on the finis.h.i.+ng touches for my big day, I was just plain happy, and it felt weird as s.h.i.+t. I kept squinting at my reflection, and fortunately, the light was too dim and my makeup too expertly applied to see any blemishes. All I saw was a woman who looked exactly right, and felt precisely what she was supposed to feel. Sure, I wasn't supposed to be alone. I was supposed to have a gaggle of girlfriends sipping champagne and exclaiming over me; I was supposed to have my mother. But I don't like all that noise, and I didn't need it that day, not to be happy. To be poised on the cliff of joy.

But it creeped me out a little. No, not a little. A lot. This joy precipice. This joy fault line (since we are talking about the Bay Area). The only thing scarier than wanting is getting. Because after the getting can come the losing.

"Is anyone sitting here?" It's a male voice, flirty in that languid twentysomething way. That's the problem with trying to get anything serious done in the student union. They think I'm younger than I am, and they're too young themselves to glance at ring fingers before they speak.

I keep my eyes on my laptop screen, providing no encouragement. "No," I say.

"Cool." I look up only when I hear the chair sc.r.a.ping away from my table to his.

Then it hits me: Getaway.com is just one site. Miranda could have migrated to another. She could think the oversight is lax in Santa Monica (which it obviously is, or the city attorney wouldn't rely on whistleblowers like myself). She could think I'm too stupid to find her and report her again. She probably changed the text of her ad, or priced it higher or lower to throw me off the scent.

Speaking of scents, the Chick-fil-A is especially pungent right now. It makes my stomach lurch in protest. You'd think that lardy Taco Bell would overtake it, but no, Chick-fil-A is the winner in a nostril a.s.sault contest. It's not even eleven A.M., people.

I lift my coffee cup to my nose and breathe deeply, the way you do at a department store between sniffs of different perfumes. It cleanses my olfactory palate.

Going through the other sites will take a long time, since their search engines are all slightly different. But I don't mind. What else am I going to do, look at job listings?

Grim determination is strangely enjoyable. I like being dogged. I like knowing that I can't be beaten, that I won't be beaten, not even by someone with money, i.e., power. Miranda's not going to squash or silence me.

"Hey!" I didn't see Salina coming. "What are you working on?" She cranes her neck to see my laptop. "Planning another vacation? Rob is too good to you."

"Not till the fall, at least," I say. "I'm just daydreaming."

Salina wilts into the chair opposite me. Tall, skinny girls can do that. If this were the 1920s, she'd make the most of a fainting couch. Her skin looks amazing, as always. I'd kill for laser treatments. "How's it going with the job search?"

"Great."

She doesn't even catch the sarcasm as she grins broadly and leans in. "I think I met him."

I lean in, too. "The One?"

"Please. But he is the one in a million. He's a f.u.c.king unicorn. Seriously, his d.i.c.k's as big as the horn." She spreads her hands absurdly wide.

"Ick. I don't want someone to puncture my small intestine."

"Trust me, it's worth the risk." She flutters her eyes in a pantomime of o.r.g.a.s.mic delight. "We've seen each other twice, and we've f.u.c.ked ten times. Ten! I'm telling you, I believe now."

"In unicorns?"

"In unicorns, in G.o.d, in the oneness of the universe." She rummages around in her bag. "I'll show you."

"I'm a married woman. I can't look at your d.i.c.k pics."

"I was going to show you his face. Give me a little credit." She continues her search. "s.h.i.+t. I lost my phone again. I should go retrace my steps." She can't even muster annoyance; she's too buoyed by the unicorn.

I can't remember the last time I was so properly f.u.c.ked that life's cares couldn't touch me. It's rare in married women. A properly f.u.c.ked wife is a unicorn.

No, that's not true. I have o.r.g.a.s.ms practically every time Rob and I have s.e.x. Salina is in an unsustainable phase. What I envy is that she can know that and still enjoy the experience to the fullest. She's not going to try to turn her unicorn into something he's not. She won't try to put a bridle on him. She's not going to romanticize him into The One.

I get it now, this whole Miranda thing, why I can shut down her listing and still feel less than sated. It's because even if I look at every site and find her rental on none of them, there are things I can never know.

Miranda might not realize I'm behind it; she might not care. Maybe she was starting to think a rental property was more trouble than it was worth, having to deal with people like me. She might even think that I did her a favor. It's not like she needs the money.

I've got no resolution. No satisfaction. It's s.e.x without o.r.g.a.s.m.

Miranda's left me with blue b.a.l.l.s.

18.

Miranda