Checking my own phone, I saw I’d gotten several messages during my drive home. There was nothing yet from Shahbaz Effendi, the Egyptology student, but I told myself that didn’t mean he was blowing me off. He could be sleeping. He could be off on an archeological dig. He could be in a different time zone, halfway around the world. He didn’t necessarily think I was some lying weirdo.

At least CeeCee had gotten back to me. She’d been busy since I’d last seen her, only a short time ago:

CeeCee Do you have any idea how many women/girls/babies with the first name Lucia have died in the state of California in the past ten years? It’s one of the most common female names in the US (it means “light”).

Unless you can give me some narrower search parameters (city/county/year/cause of death), it’s going to take me days to sort through these.

NOV 16 5:45 PM

I was definitely going to have to upgrade that gift card.

One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to tell her that Adam MacTavish may have been ignoring her calls and texts, but he’d replied right away to an e-mail I’d sent him:

To: suzesimonmissionacademy.edu

Fr: adam.mactavishmichiganstate.edu

Re: Your House

Date: November 16 8:33:07 PM EST

Hey, Suze! Great to hear from you. Glad things are going so well . . . or not so well, I guess, given the news about your old house. Sorry about that.

Thanks for the congrats, CeeCee’s right, I did make Law Review. It’s not as big a deal as people think. Although I’ll admit I’ve been partying pretty hard since I found out ;-)

But you managed to catch me in a sober moment.

I looked at the attachment you sent me, and though real estate/construction law is not my specialty, as far as I can tell, your old house was purchased (along with the others around it) by Slater Industries, which is a private company, through private sales. So they aren’t in violation of the rule of eminent domain.

The houses are also situated just outside the historic preservation zone of Carmel-by-the-Sea, in the Carmel Hills.

You can get the place retroactively declared a historic landmark, but that will take at least sixty days. Only then will you be able to secure an injunction to stop the demolition. However, the work is scheduled to begin next week.

In other words, Suze, I’m sorry to tell you: you’re screwed.

I’ll be home next week for Thanksgiving break. Let’s get together with CeeCee for a cup at the Clutch like old times!*

Adam

*I keep forgetting her aunt changed the name! I mean the Happy Medium.

Well, that was discouraging, but not as bad as I’d thought. At least there was something I could do. It was better than what I’d been picturing, which was standing outside my old house facing down Paul’s bulldozers with a baseball bat.

I wasn’t giving up hope . . . not yet, anyway.

I rolled over on the couch so I could get a better look out my balcony’s open sliding glass door at the pool below. From where I lay, I could see that the exterior landscaping lights had come on, including the pool’s. The unnaturally blue water beckoned to me. I knew it was full of chlorine and chemicals and probably the pee of my neighbors’ children, but I didn’t care. It was kept heated in cold weather and doing laps in it was heavenly compared to forty minutes on the elliptical in the gym.

It also helped me think. I had a lot of thinking to do.

Because while in addition to hearing from CeeCee and Adam, I’d received a few pleasant texts from classmates at school asking if I was going to join them for happy hour (bless their boozy little hearts), as well as an invitation from my stepbrother, Jake, to join him at his place for “brews and za” (but only if I brought along Gina after she got off work. Jake was so transparent—he’d been crushing on Gina for years), I’d also been left a few concerning voice mails.

The first was from Sister Ernestine, wanting to know how—how on earth!—I could have left the office looking the way I had, and just what I proposed we do about the triplets, my stepnieces.

The next one was from the triplets’ mother, my stepbrother Brad’s wife, Debbie, demanding to know who Sister Ernestine thought she was, suggesting that her daughters might have ADHD, when in fact they were only naturally high-spirited and creative little girls.

This was followed by a voice mail from Brad, asking if I could please get “that old windbag Sister Ernestine” off his back, as she was ruining his marriage. Then he wanted to know if I was joining Jake for “brews and za,” and if so, could he tag along—anything to get away from Debbie, who was driving him crazy.

Great. Just great.

This was in direct contrast to his youngest brother, David (known to me privately as Doc, since he was also the most intelligent of my stepsiblings), who texted me a photo of himself in his dorm room at Harvard, wearing—for reasons he did not explain—a woman’s bustier and full makeup.

I wasn’t certain if he was coming out of the closet or purposefully challenging gender stereotypes for some class assignment. Knowing David, it could be either, both, or none of the above.

But I responded to his message immediately—as opposed to the ones from his older brothers, which I ignored—with a thumbs-up sign.

Last—but never least—there was a text from Jesse:

Jesse Quieres jugar al médicos?

NOV 16 5:47 PM

Medico meant doctor. I was pretty sure jugar meant play, as in jugar al tenis.

Was he teasing? Was he actually asking if I wanted to play doctor?

I was busy replying:

Mucho gusto!

NOV 16 6:15 PM

when my cell buzzed, indicating I was receiving another text. I eagerly clicked on the screen, hoping it might be Father Dominic (or the Egyptology student) calling with the answer to all my problems (or, even better, Jesse on a break from his rounds at the hospital, simul-texting me), when my smile froze on my face.

It wasn’t Jesse.

El Diablo Go ahead, don’t text back. I know I’m going to see you on Friday 8.

Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret, Suze. Well, that YOU’ll regret.

NOV 16 6:42 PM

El Diablo was the nickname I’d assigned to Paul in my phone. It seemed appropriate, given that I was pretty sure he was Satan.

After that I felt a little sick and knew I couldn’t stay in my apartment a second longer, no matter how homey it felt with my pet lab rat chewing on his carrot stick and my boyfriend playfully propositioning me in Spanish.