Lost Canyon. Nina Revoyr
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But he knew it wouldn’t mean anything to her.
She took another sip of her coffee. “And who’s going again?”
“The Pattersons—you remember them, from the Children’s Hospital dinner? And a couple of people I don’t know. Some Hispanic real estate guy, and a black woman who works for a nonprofit. We all work out with Tracy, who’s arranged the whole thing.”
“I do remember the Pattersons. Your trainer, huh? Isn’t she kind of attractive?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never noticed. I’m usually too busy crying in pain.”
“Hmm. Out there in the wilderness with another woman?”
“Oh, come on, Kelly,” he protested. But he was secretly pleased at her jealousy. Normally it didn’t occur to her that anyone else might find him attractive. “I don’t think of her that way.” And neither would Kelly, he knew, if she actually saw her—his wife and all of her too-thin friends would consider Tracy “solid,” substantial. He noted that Kelly didn’t seem worried about the black woman, and this made him dislike her just a little.
“And why are you doing this again? I mean, why don’t you just stay in a hotel?” She paused. “I’ll bet you’re going to stink when you come out.”
He laughed, not sure whether to be hurt or amused. “Thanks! It’ll be good for me, honey. Good to be out of range for a while. But I’ll call you the second I’m out.”
“Four days with no phone or Internet?”
“It’s kind of the point.”
“Well. If the Colsons can live without you for four whole days, then I guess we can too.”
He smiled at this reference to his nightmare clients. “Being out of touch with them for a while will be the best vacation I ever had.”
“What should I do if they call here?” Kelly asked.
“Tell them they have the wrong number.”
“I don’t think that will work. They know my voice.”
“That’s true. Bummer. Tell them I went out to the wilderness. Tell them I got eaten by a bear.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “But don’t.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Fifteen minutes later, he had hugged both his children, kissed his wife goodbye, and watched them drive away.
* * *
Todd had met Kelly during their second year of law school. He’d been walking home to his apartment in Palo Alto one Sunday, enjoying the spring air, when he saw an impatient-looking woman standing beside a black BMW. He recognized her from his torts class; he’d often stared at the fine lines of her jaw as Professor Zaslow droned on about unintentional harm. She’d dropped something off at the building next door, it turned out, and now her car wouldn’t start. She barely registered Todd as he offered to take a look, and he realized the problem was simple—a dead battery. After trying unsuccessfully to give it a jump with his own car, he drove to an auto supply store and bought her a battery. From there it was easy: disconnect the old battery, put in the new. He sat in the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The leather was so creamy he thought he might melt into it. He looked at the gorgeous instrument panel, the high-end sound system, and his pulse quickened with excitement. He had no right to be touching such a classy machine. When the car finally started, Kelly sidled over and thanked him, and said, “You know, you look familiar.”
“I’m in your torts class,” he replied, and now she tilted her head and opened her blue eyes wide, as if seeing him for the first time.
Todd sat at the kitchen table and finished his coffee, listening to the quiet. It was strange, unnerving, the silence of a space that was normally full of life making the space itself feel totally different. He put his cup in the dishwasher and took one final look around—everything was in order—and carried his backpack and duffel out to the car.
Within minutes he was on Sunset heading east. As he saw the buildings of Century City off to his right, he looked up at the one he worked in, feeling a rush of guilty pleasure at driving right past it, like a usually responsible student ditching school. And he loved that he would soon be unreachable to the Colsons.
Skip and Dolly Colson had originally hired the firm five years ago to represent them in a land use deal, and now Todd was lead attorney on one of their business ventures. They had created a watermelon-based sports drink, Suika, that was supposed to provide a jumpstart for intense activity, stave off colds, and slow the aging process. With a major branding effort and marketing push—a Lakers star and Oscar-winning actress were among the celebrity endorsers—Suika was a surprise success, and now the Colsons were trying to take down any drink or food manufacturer that used watermelon in their products. Dolly called Todd at least five times a day, starting before eight a.m., and sent at least a dozen e-mails. If he didn’t reply to a message or e-mail within the hour, he’d get a scolding call from Skip.
The Colsons’ special brand of attachment had not gone unnoticed by other people at the firm.
“Todd, it’s your favorite lady,” his assistant, Janet, would warn when Dolly called. Rachel McDermott, a dark-haired, sharp-eyed junior associate, would simply say, “Todd, it’s your girlfriend.”
Then in January, when he came back from a trip to Aspen with Kelly’s family, he’d walked into his office to find an explosion of color: green and pink and orange While You Were Out stickies covering the ceiling and the walls, stuck to his desk and computer, his chair and his lamps and the bookcase.
Dolly called, read one of the pink notes, pasted on his phone. Wants to know who you like in tonight’s Lakers–Mavericks game.
Skip called, said one of the green notes, affixed to his chair. Had a question about the real benefits of going gluten-free.
Dolly called. Was curious about your opinion on index funds.
Skip called. Wondering if you can shine his golf clubs.
Dolly dropped by. Saw the picture of the kids on your desk and says you really need to work on another.
Skip called. Says hi. Just feeling lonely.
And on and on, over three hundred of them, all written by hand. He kept turning, seeing new ones, a bit overwhelmed, but happy, touched that his coworkers would tease him about his troubles. When he turned back to the doorway, there were a dozen people standing there, grinning.
“You guys,” he said, shaking his head.
Todd inched down Sunset, past the Standard, Chateau Marmont, and finally to La Brea, where he took a left to get up to Franklin. He passed Yamashiro, the Hollywood Bowl, turned north again toward Griffith Park. As he got farther from the Westside, he felt the tension subside, felt his job and the Colsons and even his stale marriage become part of the world he was leaving behind.
He was tired of it—tired of wealthy, entitled clients and of helping people who didn’t really need help. He was tired of worrying about his hypertension, which was what had killed his father. He was tired of socializing with women who wore full makeup to retrieve the paper and with men who could recite daily LIBOR rates but couldn’t put up drywall. Most of all, he was tired of how he felt about himself for doing what he did, which didn’t do a damned thing to make the world a better place.
When he and Joey had stayed at the Malibu campground, he’d spent some time with one of the other dads, Paul Halstead, a former venture capitalist who now ran the Oakwood School, a private high school in Beechwood Canyon. When Todd had told him of his discontent with practicing law, the master’s degree in History he got before he went to law school, Paul had asked, “Why don’t you become a teacher? I see how you are with kids. And you like history too? Go get a credential. I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”
And