Remember Tuesday Morning Read online

  Back before 9/11.

  Holly hurried herself along. She had four appointments today, not counting walk-ins. Each would require a detailed tour, paperwork, and a discussion on financing. On top of that, there were follow-up calls to make and more documents to file. She was checking her calendar when a black Mercedes sedan drove up. Holly hadn’t seen the car before, so she could only assume the obvious. Prospective buyers. She glanced at the decorative flags that marked the walkway to the front door. They weren’t flapping as hard. Good. The wind had died down some.

  The two men climbed out of the car and headed up the walk, both of them with straight backs and tailored suits, sure signs of their status in the business world. Holly met them at the front door, introduced herself, and welcomed them in. “How can I help you?”

  “Actually, you can help me. My brother’s just sort of along for the ride.” The taller of the two pointed an elbow toward the bald man with him. “We work together and met for coffee this morning. I decided to show him what I’d found up here.”

  Holly tried to place the man. Anyone who had been through the model home or toured the neighborhood had to go through her. When she wasn’t giving tours, the gates were shut at the base of the road, and no one could gain access up. “Have you been through before?”

  The man chuckled. “Not officially.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sam Baker. My wife and I drove by last weekend, but there were six other couples taking up your time.” He grinned. “I told her I’d come check it out today, and if I liked it I could bring her back later.”

  Holly was surprised and slightly uneasy, but she didn’t show it. Not once in the past few weeks had she been too busy to give a potential buyer the tour. There might’ve been one other couple walking the grounds, or even two, but six? Not lately. Still, she motioned for the men to follow her. “Let’s take a look at the site map.” She led them to a dramatic, glass-covered model of the development. “As you can see, only two of the homes in Phase Two are sold.” She crossed the room and led them to a second detailed model. “The previous phase was larger. Twenty-five homes.” She pointed to a cul-de-sac area. “Five homes remain for sale in that phase, but none of them have the views of Phase Two.” Or the sticker price, but Holly didn’t mention that.

  The men stared a little closer at the second model and talked quietly between themselves. Holly was used to this, giving her customers plenty of alone time to talk openly about their likes and dislikes. But as the men talked, Holly noticed the shoes of the taller man. He wore beat-up tan loafers — the kind more suited for Dockers or jeans. Strange, she thought. Most business men shopping for homes in this price range wore the right shoes. Dark wing tips, fine Italian leather. She let the observation pass. “I’ll go put together a packet for you.” She smiled at the other man. He wore his baldness in an intentional sort of way. “Would you like one also?”

  “Uh,” he looked at his brother and shrugged, “sure. If you don’t mind.”

  “Absolutely not.” She returned to her office, but as she was putting the two packets together, her strange feeling about the men remained. She picked up her radio, the one that would signal the developers that she needed their help if any trouble arose in the model home. She clipped it to her belt and tried to get her mind around what it was about the men that bothered her. Maybe the one named Sam was trying to impress his kid brother, make it seem like he was on the verge of purchasing a five-million-dollar home. She’d certainly caught people lying about being in this affordability bracket. Whatever the reason, she was sure of one thing.

  She’d never seen him up here before.

  Holly returned to the men and handed them each a packet. By then they were fairly focused on the newer phase. “I don’t have an appointment for another hour.” She looked from Sam to his brother. “Do you have time for a tour?”

  “Definitely.” Sam smiled. “Tell me, what protection do these homes have against fires? The bigger brushfires?”

  Something about the way he asked the question sent a chill down Holly’s back. “Well,” the question was a strange one, not the usual curiosity about square footage and lot sizes. But maybe because of the wind … “We have a sprinkler system around the perimeter of the development, and fireproof tile roofs on every house.” She led them toward the front of the house. “Homeowners’ dues will provide for brush clearing on an annual basis. That sort of thing.”

  She chastised herself for letting the man’s question distract her. “Let’s take a look through this estate first.” She moved toward a sweeping staircase, marked by distinctly designed cherry wood and set against an entire wall of wainscoting and detailed high-end molding. “We call this model Bella Noche.” For the next twenty minutes she led the men through the house, describing more than a hundred features, forcing them to linger in the rooms with the most breathtaking views.

  The whole time she felt strangely nervous. Maybe because the men hadn’t had an appointment, or because of the question about fire or the way the taller man’s shoes didn’t work with his look. Whatever it was, something about them didn’t add up. She kept her hand close to her radio, ready in case the men threatened her in any way. But as the tour came to a close, Holly felt herself relax. The men were talking like any other potential buyers, going on about the benefits of being up here in the hills versus on the valley floor closer to the freeways, and wondering about whether this model or the one next door would better suit their needs.

  “You have children?” Holly held her clipboard to her chest as they walked slowly toward the front door.

  “Three, and they need all the space they can get.” He rolled his eyes. “They don’t exactly like each other.”

  “That’s an understatement.” His bald brother gave Holly a knowing look. “What is the square footage in the other models?”

  “They range from sixty-five hundred to just under ten thousand.” She felt proud of the fact. Not that she’d ever be able to afford anything close to the homes she sold, but the developers had done a brilliant job with Phase Two. Each estate took advantage of the limited flat land, and included oversized windows that let in every possible view.

  Holly still had time, so she led the men outside and along the walkway that ran in front of the entire street of homes. At the end she pointed to the largest of the homes, one that was just being framed. “That’s Bella Grande, the most spacious property in this phase.”

  The men seemed to take careful note of the place. “Sits right in the hillside.” Sam seemed impressed with the fact.

  “The developers made the best use of the natural topography, while maintaining a building pad large enough to include half-acre front and side yards.

  “You have a picture of the place?” Sam’s brother opened the packet he’d been carrying and thumbed through the glossy material inside.

  “Yes. You’ll find every model represented in the brochure.” She pointed down the street. “The homes at that end will be finished first. The others have a completion date of next spring.”

  With that, the brothers seemed satisfied. Holly was walking with them back to the black Mercedes when Sam turned to her as if he’d just remembered a final thought. “I’d like to bring my wife up. How late are you here?”

  “This is my long shift.” She caught her hair in one hand so the wind couldn’t whip it against her face. “I’ll be here until nine o’clock, same as the late work crew.”

  Sam smiled. “Very good. Look for us sometime after dinner.” The men left, and five minutes later Holly’s first appointment showed up — a couple in their late fifties, with their realtor in tow. The hours melted away, and it was two o’clock before she knew it, the time each day when the developers took a break and met at the model home for lunch and an update on the sales prospects.

  Ron Jacobs was the first through the door, followed by his father and a team of assistants. He found Holly in her office organizing a stack of follow-up sheets. “Hey …” she stood, her voice soft. “How’s t
he building going?”

  He leaned against the doorframe of her office and smiled at her. “With everything my dad’s built in these hills, this is it, Holly. The crown jewel. Best of the best.” He came closer and reached for her hand. His fingers felt sweaty, the way they often did. “You were busy this morning.”

  She told him about the two brothers and about the others who had come with appointments. “The one guy, Sam Baker, will be back tonight with his wife.”

  “Good.” Ron gave her hand a quick squeeze and released it. “That’s what we’re looking for. Return visits.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You’re beautiful.” He brushed a strand of hair off her face. “The windblown look suits you.”

  Her cheeks warmed under his gaze. “I’ll be out in the kitchen in a minute.”

  “I have a few subs to check on, but we can spend the last few hours together. If you don’t get too many walk-ins.”

  Holly nodded and waited for him to leave. As he did, she exhaled and stared at the pile of papers on the desk in front of her. Ron was a generally attractive man. Kind and diligent, a churchgoer who didn’t ask more from her than she was willing to give. But he was a decade older than her and never married, a man for whom work and helping others came before anything else. Every other night there was a charity auction or benefit dinner, something that drew the attention of both father and son.

  The one difference between Ron and his father was that Ron had never wanted marriage and a family. Development was his true love, something even he joked about. Holly had known Ron since she’d been hired by the company, but in the past year he’d shown a change of heart in his priorities. He’d stay late just to talk to her, and sometimes on slow afternoons he’d tell her that he was beginning to believe there had to be more to life than building beautiful homes and attending charity events.

  Indeed.

  Holly pulled a rubber band from the top desk drawer, gathered her hair behind her, and pulled it into a ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She cared about Ron, she did. No one else had come along, and there was no point living in the past, so maybe this was it — the man her parents had prayed for all those years when she was growing up. She wiped her still-damp hand on her black dress slacks and sighed.

  At the same time, something caught her eye, a photo on the front page of the Times’ Metro section. Even from this angle there was something familiar about the build of the man in the picture. Earlier she’d been too busy to even glance at the headlines, but now she rolled her chair to the left a few inches and as she did, the photo came into view. She gasped before she could stop herself.

  Her lungs couldn’t process the breath and again she tried to breathe while her heart dropped to the floor. The picture showed a stern-faced sheriff’s deputy standing at attention, a trophy in his hand. Beside him was a stoic-looking German shepherd, his ears forward, body rigid and alert. Holly let her eyes fall to the caption beneath the photo because she had to see it, had to read his name in print before she could actually believe it. And there it was.

  Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy Alex Brady and his K9 partner, Bo, receive an award for excellence at a recent ceremony. Her eyes moved back to his, and she felt her heart limp slowly back to place. If it weren’t for the distinct angles of his face and the way he held his broad shoulders back, she wouldn’t have had a clue who he was. His eyes were so hard it hurt to look at him.

  She brought the paper a little closer and studied him. Oh, Alex … you never made it back, did you? Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked so she could read the rest of the caption. It wasn’t long, not even a complete story. Just the fact that Alex and Bo had made more arrests than any other K9 team in the department for the second straight year. The only quote from Alex was a brief one. “I’m doing what I love.”

  Holly looked at him once more. The eyes of the Alex Brady she had known had been filled with light, same as his face. That Alex had spent his Sunday mornings at church and his weekends taking her on long walks, laughing over Fresh Prince re-runs, and whispering on the phone until late at night … No one could dampen the life that spilled into everything they did together. Holly allowed herself to remember those years like she rarely remembered them anymore. There had been a time when she could look into Alex’s eyes and easily know who he loved and what he loved and how much he loved.

  But now? No matter what he said to the reporter, Alex’s expression told a different story. That he didn’t love anything or anyone at all. She took a last look at the paper, folded it carefully in half, and slid it into her bag for later. Still, even as she tried to tuck the memories away into the shadowy corners of her heart, they came back to life.

  As vivid as they’d been in the days after 9/11.

  FIVE

  As far as Holly could tell, the change in Alex happened as soon as he got the news about the Twin Towers collapsing. Alex became a different person overnight, as if a piece of him had been buried in the rubble of Ground Zero.

  She went to his house the morning of September 12, and his mother answered the door. The two of them hugged and cried, muttering about how maybe Alex’s dad was alive, and maybe he would be rescued any minute. Finally, Holly took a few steps back and looked into the other room. Alex was sitting on the sofa, staring at the television. His eyes were red, his cheeks tearstained. Holly looked back at his mother. “Can I … can I talk to him?”

  “You can try.” She dried her cheeks, her tone weary. “He found out this morning that he wasn’t allowed down there.” She turned in his direction. “So he’s watching it on TV.”

  Holly was heartbroken for him, but even so, she never expected the reaction she got that day. She went to him and sat beside him on the sofa. “Alex …”

  “I can’t talk.” He didn’t look at her. “Sorry, Holly … I have to watch this. I have to know.” He stood and walked closer to the screen. “He’s alive in there somewhere; I can feel it. They just need to get to him.”

  The pain in his voice frightened her, and she slid back deeper into the sofa. For two hours she stayed, wanting to help or hug him, trying to offer him some sort of comfort. But he was driven by the action on the screen, as if by watching carefully he could somehow will the rescue workers to find his father.

  Alex stayed that way all day and for the next several days until the captains in charge of the rescue operation declared that the work had become a recovery. No one could possibly have survived the collapse of the towers and still be alive so many days later.

  Again Holly went to him, but this time Alex met her at the door. “I can’t talk.” His eyes were dead, closed off in a way they’d never been to her. “My mom and I have a lot to work through, Holly. Try to understand.”

  She tried, and at first she figured he was in shock, the way most of the country and particularly the people of New York City were. But as the horrible days turned into weeks, his distance from her and indifference toward her remained.

  Whereas before the attacks Alex had spent most of his free time with her, afterwards he wanted only to come home and study, or run at the track. He finished senior football season with his best numbers ever, but he seemed to find no joy in playing or in anything else.

  “I’m worried about him,” his mother admitted at one of the home games when Holly sat beside her. “He told me he doesn’t believe in God anymore. Not if God could let all those firefighters die.”

  The weeks became months. Over Christmas break, Alex talked to her just once. “I’ve been a jerk, Holly. I know it.” He looked at her, but not really. Not the way he used to. “It’s like I can’t feel anything anymore. Like I’m stuck or something.”

  Holly remembered one time that spring when they happened to meet after school in the 400 Building. He saw her from the other side of the hallway. Of course, he saw her. But he barely looked at her, and he never even slowed as he approached her.

  “Alex.” She called his name, and that was when he finally stopped and really noticed her.
r />   “Hey …”

  Holly felt strangely awkward, the way she had never felt around Alex. “Wanna go get something to eat? We need to talk.”

  His eyes never softened, never showed even a hint of emotion. “No, thanks. I have to get to work.” He started walking away from her. “See ya, Holly.”

  So many times that year she had wanted to shake him, stop him in the school parking lot or in the cafeteria, and yell at him in front of the whole student body, if that’s what it took. Because Alex Brady wasn’t the only one suffering from the disaster of 9/11. At their school alone, nearly half the kids knew someone who died, someone who was hurt or grieving the loss of a loved one.

  Support groups began meeting after school, and counselors were available for kids who couldn’t shake their sorrow. But Alex was different from any of those. As far as Holly knew, he never once went for counseling or met with one of the support groups. Whatever he was feeling, he never voiced his sorrow or grief. Instead, he simply let the Alex Brady he had once been die. At the graduation party when school ended, he pulled her aside and gave her more of a window into his new life than he’d given her all year. “I’m moving,” he told her. His look still wasn’t the clear-eyed one she had known before, but his tone was kind. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  She asked him where he was going, and when he explained that he was headed out West to fight crime, she suddenly understood. His life, his heart, his days … all of it had become taken up by one single focus — taking out the sort of criminal that had killed his father. A year later when she went to LA, she was sure he would’ve found his way past the hurt and anger. If he wasn’t seeing anyone, she expected him to welcome her with open arms and apologize for how he’d acted. But not once since September 11 had she seen him look even remotely like the guy she used to love.

  She had talked to his mother several times — mostly in the first few years after the terrorist attacks. “He’s hurting, Holly. He won’t deal with it, so the pain stays in his heart where it’s killing him.”