All he knew was that he
had
to keep moving. Doing so
had
to be better than staying where he was, stuck beneath a figurative black cloud of despair and misfortune. Lately, it felt as if the universe wanted to rain on his parade full-time, Damon thought as he rescued another photo and added it to the growing pile in the crook of his arm. Everything he touched turned to shit.
His run of bad luck had started, appropriately enough, in Las Vegas. Damon had awakened the morning after Natasha’s defection, still hungover from the night before, to find that during the night, several of his misdeeds had caught up to him.
The housekeeping staff, usually so understanding and forgiving when it came to him and his transgressions, had reported his suite’s chocolate-covered wreckage to management. His hotel bill had skyrocketed. He’d been banned from the luxury hotel and all its associated properties for life. The French acrobat he’d entertained the day before had blamed Damon for her being late and losing her job in her troupe’s popular show. And the board of directors for the chocolate-industry conference had explained to him in no uncertain terms that he would
not
be welcomed back to present a workshop the following year.
What’s more, Damon hadn’t even been able to leave Las Vegas properly. When he’d finally,
finally
wrapped up things with the hotel management, the acrobat, and the board, he’d learned that his driver wouldn’t be showing up. Ever. He’d decided to remain in Las Vegas and try his luck at being a stand-up comedian.
Without Natasha on hand to wrangle a replacement, Damon had been forced to hitch a ride to the airport on a crowded, non-air-conditioned, vaguely bacon-y smelling van full of tourists. He’d alighted with relief, stretched his stiff arms and shoulders, then subsequently beelined to the nearest coffee stand ... only to find his wallet and cash missing. Apparently, during the cramped ride, someone had pickpocketed his ID and all his credit cards.
Naturally enough, the theft had led to Damon’s being unable to board his scheduled flight. At first, he’d tried to pull some strings. That hadn’t worked. The airport security wouldn’t budge. Next he’d called Jason and begged his friend to make the round trip between San Diego and Las Vegas. Jason had agreed. But because he’d brought along Amy and their two toddlers, Isobel and Manny, Damon’s escape from Las Vegas had turned into a raging diaper-palooza road trip full of crying and gassiness—not to mention multiple reprimands (and then the silent treatment) from Amy, who had clearly sided with Natasha in her decision to leave.
“You deserve this, Damon,” Amy told him. “Every painful minute. I know Jason tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen.”
By the time the Huertas had dumped Damon on his doorstep, he’d been ready to declare celibacy for life. He was
that
sure that babies and toddlers (and self-righteous wives) were
not
for him. As luck would have it, the women in his life had uncannily agreed. For days now, Damon had been receiving breakup phone calls, e-mails, and even texts (
texts
!) explaining that all the fascinating women in his life wanted him to leave them alone.
Their rejections had been unexpected. And humbling, too.
Apparently, Damon had learned, there wasn’t enough charisma in the world to convince so many women to give him another shot. After the first dozen “Dear Damon” messages, he simply gave up.
He had other problems to deal with, anyway. Because as he probably should have expected, his virtual mugging on the smelly airport van ride from hell had led to his identity being stolen and several of his bank accounts being cleaned out—a matter that Damon was still trying to sort out with the bank.
Evidently, these days his engaging smile didn’t get the same mileage it used to, either. Because when he tried to expedite the process by turning on his usual charm with the bank representative, she’d reacted with hostility, unhelpfulness, and a lawsuit threat. Some of the female employees at work had suddenly become invulnerable to his charms, too. Prompted by rumors of Tamala’s “kinky Las Vegas sexcapades” with Damon (although no one had yet seen the photos), they’d banded together to insist that Jimmy host another round of mandatory sexual harassment training at Torrance Chocolates headquarters.
Jimmy had done so. Then he’d tactfully suggested that, as an alternative to being fired outright—as Damon was still in danger of being—he take a temporary leave of absence from work. Looking weary and disappointed, his dad had explained to Damon that he needed to focus on the company’s future (“now more than ever,” Jimmy had added enigmatically, “for your mother’s sake”)—and on choosing his eventual successor—and that Damon’s “antics” were a distraction from that.
Blindsided and hurt, Damon hadn’t been able to do anything except agree. He’d gotten into his car, intending to take a long, head-clearing drive to the mountainous areas near Alpine, east of the city. But even his trusted BMW had failed him.
Damon hadn’t found relief and calm during his drive. Instead, he’d wound up stranded with an alarming quantity of smoke coming out of his engine
and
a flat tire. Getting home again had required multiple phone calls, another awkward ride with Jason, and a final damning declaration from his friend.
“Look, I can’t keep bailing you out, bro,” Jason had told him, looking uncomfortable. “Amy says you’re taking advantage of
me
now, instead of Natasha. And she’s right.” His friend jutted out his chin pugnaciously. “You’re going to have to figure out things on your own for a while. It will be good for you.”
Good for him
. Right. Damon had had his doubts then, and he had his doubts now—now that he’d come inside after being dropped off to discover that his house was ruined and uninhabitable.
One of the contractors he’d called waded toward Damon. His practical waterproof fishing waders kept him a lot dryer than Damon’s ensemble of bare feet, bare legs, and rolled-up pants.
“Hmph. It’s the damnedest thing.” The contractor peered at his clipboard. He gazed at Damon’s formerly lavish living room. Then he looked through the window at the serene beach and ocean, scratching his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. None of your neighbors were affected at all. No flooding next door or anyplace else along the beach. Near as I can figure, something funny happened with a city water main nearby, and all the water got diverted straight into your house.”
A water main
. “All these years living next to the ocean, and it’s the municipal water system that finally gets me.” Damon shook his head at a bundle of sodden, uprooted weeds draped over his state-of-the-art home entertainment system. “The odds of a flood like this happening have got to be astronomical.”
“Probably, yeah.” The contractor seemed unperturbed by that morose observation. He thrust his clipboard full of paperwork at Damon. “Here’s my estimate. It’ll take a while to pump out all the water. That’s what’ll happen first. Then my crew will dry out everything, repair the structural damage inside and out, perform a series of mold treatments throughout the house—” He broke off, dollar signs practically dancing in his eyes. “Well, you can see for yourself there on the estimate sheet.”
Damon looked at it. “How long will the work take?”
“Two, three weeks. Maybe more. It’s hard to say. Depends on if you want us to Dumpster the ruined furniture or leave it.”
Oh. That meant things were even worse than he’d thought. Of course his furniture was ruined, too. But a two-to-three-week work time was probably just as well. Damon might need that long to sort out his troubles with the bank; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to pay at all. “Fine.” He scrawled his signature.
“I hope you’ve got someplace to stay,” the contractor told him as he tucked away his clipboard beneath his arm. “You sure as hell won’t be staying here. Even the upstairs needs work.”
Upstairs. That’s where his bedroom was. Damon hadn’t even waded that far yet. At the thought of his own private sanctuary being destroyed, he felt worse than ever. No matter how far in the world he’d roamed, he’d always loved coming home to his own bedroom—and especially to his own familiar, comfortable bed.
“There’s always a hotel,” the contractor said. “Sometimes the insurance company will pay for something like that.”
Given the way his life had gone lately ... “I doubt it.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re
the
Damon Torrance, then.” The contractor grinned. “You must have plenty of rich friends who’ll help you.”
“You’d think so.” Since the workshop debacle, though, many of his friends had been strangely “busy” when he’d called. Newly depressed at the remembrance, Damon did his best to rally. He smiled, then shook hands with the contractor. “Thanks for everything. I appreciate your coming out on such short notice.”
“Hey, no problem at all. A job this big is going to single-handedly pay for my kids’ Christmas this year—and I’ve got three of the little rug rats. So I’m more than happy to do it.”
The contractor beamed at him. Damon felt strangely cheered. Natasha would have loved to know that he was indirectly giving some junior San Diegans a major-league holiday ... provided he had access to his bank account or credit cards sometime soon.
How was he going to pay for a hotel without them? Damon wondered suddenly. Where was he going to live for the next several weeks? The uncertainty of it all nearly overwhelmed him.
Natasha would have found a way, Damon knew. Because Natasha was clever and resourceful and not easily discouraged. He missed those qualities in her. Hell, he missed
her
. Period.
He didn’t want to admit it, but it was the truth. He missed seeing Natasha in the expansive office they shared at Torrance Chocolates’ flagship La Jolla headquarters, perkily talking on the phone or diligently typing notes on her computer. She’d always had a smile for him, he remembered, no matter how wired, hungover, or late he’d arrived. He missed hearing Natasha laugh her husky laugh. He missed seeing her take charge of things. He missed feeling her always uplifting presence in his life.
Without Natasha, Damon realized, he was ...
Not himself. At all. He was listless, unmotivated, and dejected. Worst of all, he was demonstrably
unlucky
.
How was he supposed to psych himself up, Damon wondered with a jab of defensiveness, without the promise of earning Natasha’s smile at the end of the day? He’d done so many things, he’d realized too late, partly to earn her approval. Without that dangling carrot to pull him along, life was full of sticks.
“Hey.” With evident concern, the contractor squinted at him. “Are you okay? You look like you’re taking this kind of hard. I swear, we’ll get this place back to normal. We will.”
Damon shook himself. “Thanks. I know you will.” He considered his predicament—and the fact that his BMW was currently being held hostage in an auto repair shop in Alpine—then aimed an earnest look at the contractor. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare worker with a truck handy, would you? I obviously can’t stay here, and I could really use a ride.”
The contractor frowned. For an instant, Damon expected him to refuse. That’s just the way his life had gone lately. Then ...
“Yeah, I’d like to help you with that. But my other guys are all out on jobs, and I can’t spare the few I brought with me today. Sorry.” The contractor pointed toward the kitchen peninsula, a granite slab that divided the living space. “I think I saw some spare change in that big bowl thing on the counter. You could take a bus.”
Damon glanced at the “big bowl thing”—a limited-edition Dale Chihuly sculpture he’d picked up on a trip to Seattle.
“Yeah. All right,” he said. “The bus it is, then.”
“Have you ever
ridden
a bus before, Mr. Torrance?”
Damon shrugged. “I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the stops.”
“Okay. That’s a start, I guess.” The contractor seemed to be stifling a guffaw. He shook Damon’s hand again. “Good luck.”
Good luck
. Ha. For the first time, Damon understood why Natasha had once accused him of sarcasm when he’d said that to her. When good luck felt totally out of reach, hearing someone wish you a dose of it just felt like a cruel taunt.
“I don’t have to go very far,” Damon said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I hope that’s true, Mr. Torrance.” This time, the contractor
did
laugh. So did his workers. “All the same, my professional advice to you is: phone a friend. Get a ride.”
Damon wished he could. “If I could, I would,” he said.
Then he took himself upstairs, packed a pair of Louis Vuitton overnight bags with as many undamaged belongings as he could cram inside them, and went to find the nearest bus stop.
Chapter 10
Having an unexpected sabbatical from work
sounded
heavenly. At least in theory, it did. Voluntary joblessness left Natasha’s days free to spend time with her family and friends, catch up on chores, organize her closets, do some reading, and finally get through the backlog of TV shows on her TiVo. But that vacation mind-set only went so far, Natasha discovered during her first week of freedom. Because after a while, she got bored.
Not just ordinary, garden-variety boredom, either. No, what Natasha experienced was full-on, mind-crushing ennui. Nothing satisfied her. What she needed, she decided, was to feel productive again. She didn’t want to make a decision about accepting a new job just yet, but she didn’t want to laze around all day, either. What she needed, she decided further, was to apply her newfound good luck to an entirely different arena.
That’s why, late in the first week following her walkout on Damon, Natasha gathered her courage, picked up a feather duster, and headed out to the garden shed behind her duplex apartment.
She hadn’t been out there in a while. Not since ... well, not since shortly after she and Paul had moved into the duplex. But with her ex-husband in Mexico and her own life moving forward, Natasha decided it was time to confront the demons of her past.