A Place of Hiding

China had arrived at this conclusion yet again by the time she reached her bungalow: one thousand square feet of 1920 architecture that had once served as the weekend getaway of an Angeleno. It sat among other similar cottages on a street lined with palm trees, close enough to the beach to reap the benefit of the ocean breeze, far enough from the water to be affordable. It was definitely humble, comprising five small rooms—if you counted the bathroom—and only nine windows, with a wide front porch and a rectangle of lawn in the front and the back. A picket fence fronted the property, shedding flakes of white paint into the flowerbeds and onto the sidewalk, and it was to the gate in this fence that China lumbered with her photography equipment once she ended her conversation with Matt.

The heat beat down, only less marginally intense than it had been on the hillside, but the wind wasn’t as fierce. The palm fronds rattled like old bones in the trees, and where lavender lantana grew against the front fence, it hung listlessly in the bright sunlight, with flowers like purple asterisks, growing out of ground that was thoroughly parched this afternoon, as if it hadn’t been watered this morning. China lifted the lopsided gate and swung it open, her camera cases weighting down her shoulder and her intention to head for the garden hose and drag it over to soak the poor flowers.

But she forgot this intention in the sight that greeted her: A man, naked down to his Skivvies, was lying on his stomach in the middle of her lawn with his head pillowed on what appeared to be the ball of his blue jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt. No shoes were in evidence, and the soles of his feet were black beyond black and so calloused at the heels that the skin was canyoned. If his ankles and elbows were anything to go by, he appeared to be someone who eschewed bathing, too. But not eating or exercising, since he was well built without being fat. And not drinking, since at the moment his right hand clutched a sweating bottle of Pellegrino.

Her Pellegrino by the look of it. The water she’d been looking forward to downing.

He turned over lazily and squinted up at her, resting on his dirty elbows. “Your security sucks the big one, Chine.” He took a long swig from the bottle.

China glanced at the porch where the screen door hung open and the front door gaped wide. “God damn it,” she cried. “Did you break into my house again?”

Her brother sat up and shaded his eyes. “What the hell are you dressed like that for? Ninety frigging degrees and you look like Aspen in January.”

“And you look like an arrest for exposure waiting to happen. Good grief, Cherokee, show some sense. There’re little girls in this neighbourhood. One of them walks by and sees you like that, you’ll have a squad car here in fifteen minutes.” She frowned. “D’you have sunblock on?”

“Didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out. “What’s with the leather? Delayed rebellion?” He grinned. “If Mom got a look at those pants, she’d have a real—”

“I wear them because I like them,” she cut in. “They’re comfortable.”

And I can afford them, she thought. Which was more than half the reason: owning something lush and useless in Southern California because she wanted to own it, after a childhood and adolescence spent trolling the racks in Goodwill for clothes that simultaneously fit, were not completely hideous, and—for the benefit of her mother’s beliefs—had no scrap of animal skin anywhere on them.

“Oh sure.” He scrambled to his feet as she passed him and went onto the porch. “Leather in the middle of a Santa Ana. Real comfortable. That makes sense.”

“That’s my last bottle of Pellegrino.” She dropped her camera cases just inside the front door. “I was looking forward to it all the way home.”

“From where?” When she told him, he chuckled. “Oh, I get it. Doing a shoot for an architect. Loaded and at loose ends? I hope so. Available also?

This is cool. Well, let me see how you look, then.” He upended the bottle of water into his mouth and examined her while he did so. When he was sated, he handed the bottle to her and said, “You can have the rest. Your hair looks like crap. Whyn’t you stop bleaching it? Not good for you. Sure not good for the water table, all those chemicals going down the drain.”

“As if you care about the water table.”

“I’ve got my standards.”

“One of which obviously isn’t waiting for people to get home before you raid their houses.”

“You’re lucky it was only me,” he said. “It’s pretty dumb to go off and leave the windows open. Your screens are complete shit. A pocket knife. That’s all it took.”

China saw her brother’s means of access into her house since, in Cherokee’s typical fashion, he’d done nothing to hide how he’d managed to enter. One of the two living room windows was without its old screen, which had been easy enough for Cherokee to remove since only a metal hook and eye had held it in place against the sill. At least her brother had had enough sense to break in through a window that was off the street and out of sight of the neighbours, any one of whom would have willingly called the police.

She went through to the kitchen, the bottle of Pellegrino in her hand. She poured what was left of the mineral water into a glass with a wedge of lime. She swirled it round, drank it down, and put the glass in the sink, unsatisfied and annoyed.