Page 63 of A Hidden Past

“Sure. I’ll take a glass.”

“Good. Let’s sit in the kitchen, though. Staring at those boxes is too depressing.”

I sit in the kitchen and watch her as she opens a bottle of Chardonnay and pours two glasses. I notice the lines at the corners of her eyes, but they only make her look even more beautiful to me.

She hands me a glass, then takes the seat across from me and lifts her own glass. “To treasured memories.”

I lift mine. “To memories.”

We touch glasses and drink. Then I ask, “So where are you moving?”

“Agoura Hills. Do you know where that is?”

“Just inland of Malibu. Yeah, I know. Isn’t that fire country?”

“Everywhere’s somewhere country,” she says. “I’m moving there because it’s quiet and scenic, and the neighbors don’t care what you do as long as you don’t make it their problem.”

“Well, that’s not too far away,” I say. “I could visit you every now and then. Not like… that, but… you know, as a friend.”

She gives me the same sad smile she does at the door. I think she knows as well as I do that tonight will be the last time we see each other. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She sips her wine, then asks, “So what happened at the Kensington place yesterday? I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“We got them,” I say. “Me and the cops. Clara confessed to killing her, and Julian helped cover it up.”

She purses her lips. “So Clara’s saying she did it?”

“Yeah. You don’t believe her?”

Vivian shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. God knows neither of them are the salt of the Earth. But Julian’s worse. Clara’s a drug addict who’s probably gone permanently insane from it, but Julian’s a sociopath. I mean that literally.”

“I believe you. If it makes you feel better, it looks like Clara’s helping the cops put Julian away for a previous murder.”

“A previous murder?”

"Yeah. I guess he killed a guy who wouldn't sell his software company to him. Or had him killed. He and his business partner covered it up."

“Jesus.” She shakes her head. “Yeah, I’m going to miss this house, but I will not miss this neighborhood.”

“I don’t blame you. Neither will I.”

“Oh, are you quitting your job?”

“No, but I’m not coming back next summer.”

"You should. It's good work. Just be more like your friend Marco. Act like an appliance, not a person."

I laugh at that. She laughs too, but says, “I’m serious! It’s good money. If you can handle the arrogance and immaturity, you can fleece us rich bitches for all we’re worth. And, at the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, don't sleep with any other lonely divorcees, and don't make friends with any more rich kids. Just show up, clean the pools, and go home.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll come back. I have a feeling I’m going to end up famous, so I don’t know if I can get away with being an appliance anymore.”

She flips her hand. “Oh, you’ll be fine. I guess you don’t have to come back here either if you don’t want to. I just think you should learn to push through adversity instead of hiding from it.” She looks at me and reddens a little. “Sorry. Getting motherly advice from me is probably the last thing you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say, even though she’s right. “I appreciate it.”

We fall silent again, and I sip some more wine. The warmth is starting to caress the outer edges of my senses, and I decide this will be my only glass.

“What do you want to do?” she asks out of nowhere. “With your life?”

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