Black Out by Lisa Unger Page A

say when she was in one of her Jesus moods. Or, in my case, work for idle minds.
    “That’s wonderful,” the woman in white says with a smile, real or fake, who can tell? “It’s the most important job in the world.” Everything about her is perfectly manicured: her fingernails are square and pink, her lips lined and glossed, her eyebrows plucked into high arches. A huge diamond glints on her hand. She is painstakingly casual in a flowing linen skirt and top, leather thongs on her feet.
    The conversation falters, mainly because I don’t participate, and she moves away, raising her glass and muttering an excuse. I’ve come alone to this party because I promised Gray I would attend just to “get out of the house and be with people other than Victory,” but I’d rather be home with her and Esperanza watching
The Incredibles
on DVD for the hundredth time.
    I lean on the fence that edges the pool deck and look out onto the black stretch that ends in the Gulf. I can’t see the water because of the elaborate lighting and landscaping on the property, but I can hear it and smell the salt in the humid air. My mind is full of thoughts I’m trying not to have—my black patch, my dream, Gray, the man looking for Ophelia. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not cocktail-party material even on my best days. I endure things that other people find entertaining.
    My eyes fall on a girl standing alone a few feet away. She’s leaning on the fence like I am and lost in thought looking out into the night. She must have felt my eyes on her, because she turns to look at me. I recognize her then, but I can’t place her. I suddenly feel a terrible need to remember who she is; my heart starts to beat a little faster with the urgency I feel. She’s pretty and far too thin, wearing just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, a ratty old pair of sneakers. She’s not the type to be at one of Ella’s cocktail parties—too young, not enough money. I wonder if she’s the new maid Ella’s been complaining about. We’re staring at each other, neither one of us looking away. Finally she smiles. But it’s not a friendly smile; in it I see some combination of malice and pity. My gut lurches a bit. I look away quickly.
    “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not a very social person?” Ella says, coming up behind me. I jump slightly, and she laughs, surprised. “You need another drink,” she says, patting my back. “You’re too tense.”
    “Who’s that girl?” I say, looking back over in the stranger’s direction. But she’s gone.
    “Who?” Ella asks, following my eyes.
    I scan the crowd. I don’t see her among Ella’s well-dressed guests.
    “She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Pretty, young, too thin?” I’m still looking for her. In fact, I feel almost desperate to see her again.
    “If she’s here, we should kick her out,” says Ella, mock jealous.
    “Your new maid?” I say, hopeful.
    “No, she’s off tonight.”
    I can feel Ella’s attention shift from curious to concerned.
    “You okay?” she asks after another moment.
    “Yeah,” I say, smiling a bright fake smile. “I just thought she looked familiar.”
    She gives me another rub on the shoulder, then returns my smile. “When’s Gray coming back? You’re lost without him at these things.”
    “At the end of next week,” I say vaguely. I’m still looking over her shoulder.
    “I never realized insurance executives had to travel so much,” she says. I snap back to the conversation and listen for signs of skepticism in her voice. But there’s just her usual light and musing tone, the wide-open expression on her face.
    “Client risk assessment, large claim investigations,” I say with a shrug, as if this should explain it. She nods.
    “Still,” she says, “he leaves you alone too much.”
    She’s not looking at me. She’s looking out into the night. I can’t tell if she’s just making conversation.
    “You’re one to talk,” I say with a smile.