Izzy pulled out her phone to jot down the name of the taqueria Michaela gave her.
“Thanks, Michaela,” she said. “I appreciate it.” She took a deep breath. “And can you just tell Beau that I said he can email me anytime about the memoir? I’m not an expert, or anything, maybe he’d rather talk to Marta, but if he just needs some encouragement, or reassurance, or anything like that, I’m happy to help.” Why had she said any of this? Oh well, it’s not like she had anything to lose here.
Michaela gave her that look again. Like she could see right through her. “Sure, Isabelle,” she said. “I’ll let him know.” She slipped on the sandals by the front door. Sandals in February, amazing. “Here, I’ll walk you to your car. I need to check the mail anyway.”
And she probably wanted to make sure Izzy actually left.
They walked down the sloping path together, and Michaela turned toward the mailbox at the bottom of the path. And then she slipped, or tripped over something, so fast that Izzy couldn’t reach out a hand, and she fell, right at Izzy’s feet.
“Oh no!” Izzy bent down. “Are you okay?”
Michaela looked up at her. “I think I twisted my ankle.”
Izzy knelt down. “Can I help you up? Let’s see how it feels.”
Michaela held on to Izzy as she stood up, and then winced as she tried to put weight on her left ankle.
“Do you think you can walk up to the door?” Izzy asked.
Michaela tried to take a step, and stopped. “Can you help me inside?”
Izzy put her arm around Michaela as they turned to the door. “Of course. You need to get ice on that.”
They moved, very slowly, back up to the front door.
“Thanks so much for your help,” Michaela said. “I don’t want to get in the way of your mini vacation.”
“What was I going to do, leave you sitting on the ground?” Izzy said. “The tacos will be there.”
When they finally got to the front steps Izzy helped Michaela up them and through the door.
“I hate to ask,” Michaela said, “but can you help me into the kitchen?”
Izzy pushed the door open. “No problem.”
They made their slow way down the long hallway. Izzy took the opportunity to glance around to see what Beau Towers’s house was like. The floor was tile, the doors were all big and wooden—and mostly closed—and there was lots of art on the walls. Hmm, this wasn’t the kind of house she’d expected Beau Towers to live in. It was a lot homier than she would have thought.
They finally got to the kitchen. It was sunny and warm, with fancy appliances and a cozy-looking breakfast nook with a round kitchen table under a big window. Izzy helped Michaela to a seat at the table.
“Here, sit down and put your ankle up. I’ll get you some ice.”
Izzy grabbed a dish towel off a hook on her way to the refrigerator. She pulled open the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas. It was sort of comforting to see that even this rich guy had frozen peas in his freezer.
“Here.” She wrapped the bag in the dish towel and handed it to Michaela. “Put this on your ankle, but give me a second—I’ll fill up another bag with ice so you have more than one ice pack.”
Michaela set the bag of peas on her ankle and let out a sigh before she looked up at Izzy. “I would say you don’t have to do all of that, but I imagine that wouldn’t do any good, would it?”
Izzy shook her head. “None at all, so I’m glad you didn’t bother to say it. Now, do you have any of those gallon plastic bags? The ones that seal.”
Michaela pointed. “That drawer, to the right of the dishwasher.”
Izzy pulled a bag out and surveyed the ice maker on the fridge. “Oh wow, multiple kinds of ice. Perfect.” She pushed a button and crushed ice flew out of the ice maker and straight into the plastic bag. “Now, put one underneath, and one on top. Wrap your ankle in the towel first, though, otherwise it might be a little too cold. And remember that these frozen peas have been used as an ice pack.”
Michaela laughed. “I should label them somehow, just so I know.”
Okay, Izzy had to ask.
“Do you live here? Are you and Beau…?”
Michaela stared at her for a moment, then laughed very hard. “Oh, no, no. I’m his assistant.” She gestured to the kitchen. “And also his cook. I do a little bit of everything around here. But no, I don’t live here. And no. We aren’t.”
Ahh, okay. Though what Beau Towers needed an assistant for, in his long days of not responding to emails and not turning in his book, Izzy had no idea. But then, rich people lived very different lives than people like her.
“Got it.” She was embarrassed now that she’d asked. “Sorry, I was just…wondering.” She should probably get out of Beau Towers’s house now and stop asking his assistant questions. “I should go. Oh, wait—you should take some ibuprofen. Do you have any?”
Michaela hesitated, then shook her head.
“Okay, hold on,” Izzy said. “I think I have some in my bag.” She turned to grab her bag from where she’d set it on the counter and rummaged through it for a minute. Finally, she found the bottle.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
She slowly looked up. And that’s when she saw him. Leaning against the kitchen door and staring at her.
He was big; that was the first impression she got about Beau Towers. Tall, muscular, solid. How had she not heard him walking toward the kitchen?
He looked like an unkempt, unstyled, and very unhappy version of his publicity pictures. Light brown skin, curly hair, a very unruly beard. Gray sweatpants that looked like they’d seen better days, a black T-shirt, and a hoodie that probably cost more than Izzy’s entire outfit.
And he looked furious. Angry and mean. Before she’d worked for Marta, she might have been scared of that look. But now she just smiled and walked over to him. What did it matter if this guy was mean to her? She might as well introduce herself to him, since she was here. And she’d better do it before he yelled at her.
“Hi, Mr. Towers, I’m Isabelle Marlowe, Marta Wallace’s editorial assistant. I’ve sent you a few emails, you might recognize the name? I came here to—”
“I said I didn’t want to talk to you. Did you break into my house to ask me about a book? You should leave.” He raised his voice. “Now.”
She’d expected him to yell at her, and now he had. She hoped Marta would be happy, at least.
“She didn’t break in,” Michaela said. “She helped me inside after I did this.”
Beau looked over Izzy’s head at Michaela, and his whole face changed. He rushed over to her.
“Oh no, Kettle, what happened? Are you okay?”
Michaela gestured to her ankle. “I’ll be okay, but only because of Isabelle here—I went out to check the mail, and I slipped. Thank goodness she was there. She saw me fall, got me inside, and got me ice. Otherwise, I’d probably still be sitting out there shouting for someone to help me in.”
Izzy waved that away. “I was happy to help.”
“Have you taken anything?” Beau said to Michaela. “You should take some ibuprofen.” He looked around, like it was going to appear in front of him somehow.
Izzy sighed. “I was just saying that. I have some right here.”
Beau smiled at her for a half second, before he apparently remembered who she was and scowled again. “I’ll get water,” he said to Michaela, and stalked over to the cabinet.
When Izzy handed the bottle of pills to Michaela, Michaela gave her a very pointed look in Beau’s direction. Was she trying to tell her to do what Izzy thought she was trying to tell her to do? Michaela nodded. She was apparently a mind reader. Izzy might as well try, right?
She turned around to face him. “Mr. Towers, I’d love to chat with you about your memoir. It’s okay that you’re behind on getting it to us, really. We just want to open the lines of communication and help you with it, in any way we can. We can set you up with a ghostwriter—that would be totally confidential, of course. Or Marta or I can talk through an outline, or pages, or a particular chapter with you, whatever the bottleneck is. And I’m great at pep talks, so I’m always available for those, if that’s what you need—there’s no shame in it!”
Beau set the glass of water down in front of Michaela, that furious look back on his face. “Now it’s time for you to go.”
Michaela caught Izzy’s eye and motioned for her to keep going. So, for some reason, she did.