With the holiday weekend looming, honking traffic snakes toward airports and beaches. Helmeted cyclists whiz along the bike lane, veering around potholes and double-parked vehicles. Kids on skateboards weave around curbside lines at food trucks, deliverymen with loaded dollies, pedestrians pushing baby strollers and wire grocery carts, and fellow dog walkers, some of them professionals with several per leash.
Vinyl-sided houses and brick apartment buildings are interspersed with small shops, ethnic restaurants, and bodegas bordered by buckets of cut flowers. Their perfume is lost in air thick with hot tar, hot food, and hot sun, directly overhead now in a sky that’s faded to the soft shade of frayed denim. A dozen different songs blast from car speakers and open windows. Nora recognizes none of them, but they effectively banish “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
As she passes a plywood-barricaded construction site, orange-vested workers greet her with wolf whistles and catcalls.
“Yo, Blondie!”
“Lookin’ fine!”
Nora clenches her jaw and looks straight ahead, glad she’s wearing sunglasses. She isn’t used to this. Back home she doesn’t often find herself in such close proximity to strangers.
She crosses the street and makes her way into the park, a shade-dappled oasis beyond a low stone wall, looking for a private spot. The street din fades as she follows a winding gravel path lined with ancient trees and colorful perennials in full bloom. Keeping an eye out for leering men and potential muggers, she sees only joggers and strolling families, senior citizens congregating on benches and teenagers shooting hoops on a basketball court.
The park might be different after dark, but right now, it’s idyllic. Coiled tension unfurls like fiddlehead fronds as she sits on a vacant bench and dials Teddy’s number.
It rings right into voice mail.
“It’s me. I know you’re traveling, but I just wanted to let you know that we made it. We’re here, all moved in, and everything’s okay. I’ll try you again over the weekend if I can get away, or next week for sure. I love you.”
She hangs up and watches a hummingbird dart among a blazing star’s bottlebrush purple spires. Kato noses along the path, then appears to be settling in for a nap. He’d be content to skip the dog run, but she isn’t ready to head back yet.
She tugs the leash and they move on, past a fountain, an ice cream stand, and a baseball field populated by adolescent girls, bases loaded.
Nora thinks of Piper, who inherited Keith’s athletic prowess and played soccer and softball back home. Of Stacey, who did not.
The large fenced-in dog run is crowded. A few owners are playing with their pups while others are congregated and chatting like old friends. All the benches are occupied. Nora unleashes Kato and he trots toward the water fountain, tongue hanging out.
“Aw, somebody’s thirsty,” a female voice comments.
She turns to see a striking woman. Her lipstick is that ideal shade of red that’s always eluded Nora—not so bright it’s clownish, not so dark it’s closer to maroon. The rest of her face is masked by enormous black sunglasses. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon. She’s wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck, trim cropped black pants, and black flats—Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Nora thinks, returning her smile.
“What’s your dog’s name?” She bends to pet him.
“Kato.”
“Wow, he’s adorable. You’re adorable, aren’t you, guy?” He licks her hand, and she laughs. “Is he always this friendly, or am I special?”
Nora smiles and shakes her head. “Not that you’re not special, but . . .”
“Way to burst my bubble. He’s like this with everyone, huh?”
“Pretty much. He showed up at our house one day and just kind of stuck around like he belonged there.”
“Oh, so he’s named after Kato Kaelin? The guy who lived in OJ Simpson’s guesthouse?”
“Exactly. At the time, my daughter was reading a book about that case—she’s kind of a true crime buff,” Nora adds quickly, lest this woman get the wrong idea.
Which is . . . what? That something’s wrong with a teenage girl who enjoys reading about murder and mayhem?
The woman nods and moves on. “So, I’m Heather, and those guys”—she points at an enormous, shaggy mixed breed and a small corgi—“are Mutt and Geoffrey. With a G.”
“I’m Nora. With an N.”
Heather grins. “Where do you live?”
“Glover Street. We just moved in.”
“Wait . . . today? Do you mean 104?”
“Yes, how did you—”
“We live at 128 Glover. My wife saw a moving van this morning. That house has been empty forever. The owner is a foreign businessman, I think in Spain or something?”
She pauses as if Nora might know, and at her shrug, continues, “Well, anyway . . . he had the whole house renovated and I guess he must have been planning to sell it, but he obviously changed his mind and decided to rent it. Yay for you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks. Wow—it’s kind of crazy that you live a few doors down from us.”
“Yeah, Brooklyn is the biggest small world in the world. You’ll see. Where are you from?”
“LA.”
“No. Way! Same!”
“Really? Where?”
“Encino. How about you?”
“We just moved from Woodland Hills.”
“Well, LA’s not as small a world as Brooklyn, but— Sorry, my phone is buzzing.” Heather digs it out of her huge black shoulder bag, glances at it, and deftly answers a text, not missing a conversational beat. “So, when you say we . . . you have a family?”
“Husband and two daughters.”
“How old?”
“Forty-five but if you ask he’ll claim thirty-nine.” The quip is rewarded with a broad smile. “The girls are fourteen and seventeen.”
“No. Way,” Heather says again, as though she’s just been told that Nora’s kids are her own long-lost children. “Our daughter is fourteen, and our son turns eighteen in October.”
“So they’re around the same age.”
“I bet you and I are, too. Forty-four?”
“I will be in December.”
“I just celebrated my birthday! And my wife turned fifty the same week. Too bad you missed her birthday bash. Are you into seafood?”
“Uh, sure.”
Talking to Heather is like popping popcorn in hot oil without a lid, kernels flying in every direction.
“You would have loved this party. We did a backyard clambake. No sand—you’ve seen our yard—I mean, not our actual yard, but you’ve seen yours, and it’s the same, right? So anyway, I can give you the name of the place that catered it if you’re interested. But wait, you probably don’t know anyone here yet, do you? You don’t. We’ll hang out. Our kids can get to know each other. Are they excited about the move?”
“The girls? One is. The other isn’t.”
“They sound like our two. What are you doing Sunday? It’s not a school night or a work night, with the holiday. How about dinner at our place?”
“Um . . . sure. That would be fun.”
“Great. What’s your number?”
Heather dials the digits as she recites them, and a moment later, Nora’s phone buzzes in her pocket.
“That’s me. Add me to your contacts. Last name’s Tamura.” She spells it, asks for Nora’s last name, and saves it in her phone. “What don’t you eat? Not just you, all of you.”