Fallen from Grace Read online

  Sara looked around at her new apartment. "You don't like it?"

  "I can't believe you gave up a condo in Richmond for this."

  "You know why I gave up the condo. And let's not," she added hastily, "argue about it again. The condo is sold. End of story."

  She'd made a sizeable down payment on the place seven years earlier, and then she'd paid for significant improvements to it a couple of years later, using the money from her first book sale. The condo's location in a desirable neighborhood north of Golden Gate Park also helped to ensure that, upon selling it last month, Sara had made a tidy profit.

  Miriam shook her head. "It happened too fast. You put that place on the market on the basis of a desperate, impractical impulse, and two days later you had a buyer. You never had a chance to come to your senses." Miriam tried to shove some moving boxes aside, discovered she couldn't, and wound up squeezing awkwardly past them as she entered the kitchen. A moment later she called out, "This is your kitchen?"

  Sara sighed and remained in the living room. "There's nothing wrong with the kitchen."

  Miriam squeezed past the boxes to re-enter the living room. "It looks like it hasn't been renovated since Eisenhower was president."

  "I like it," Sara opined. "It's homey."

  "Sara, you had that gorgeous modern kitchen—"

  "This one's bigger."

  "This one has appliances that poor people brought over from the old country before we were born."

  "It's not the apartment that bothers you, it's the choices I've made."

  "That's true." Miriam put her hands on her hips and looked around. "But the apartment makes it clear just how bad your choices are."

  "Mir, this is how I lived before I got the condo."

  "But now you're thirty-five and unemployed, instead of twenty-seven with a good job."

  "I hated that job. And I really appreciate the positive way you've expressed my circumstances."

  "Of course, I probably don't have to worry about you becoming destitute in a year, because it's very likely you'll soon die of a heart attack climbing those stairs."

  Sara grimaced. "The stairs are a little daunting," she admitted. "The movers looked like they were going to throw up by the time they finished, and they charged me two hundred dollars more than the estimate."

  Glen Park was a hilly neighborhood with curvy streets. It was safe, charming, and more affordable than the more famous San Francisco neighborhoods north of here. Sara thought it had a real community feeling, almost like a mountain village. But there were undeniably certain steepness issues here—particularly within the building.

  "It's pretty obvious why this place was vacant despite the reasonable rent," Miriam said. "Not one person in a hundred could face climbing those stairs every day."

  "They'll keep me in shape."

  "Don't try to look on the bright side. There is no bright side."

  "I'll get used to them," Sara lied.

  This eccentric old Victorian building was near the summit of a big hill, and Sara's second-floor apartment was at the top of two long flights of steep, uneven stairs which leaned precariously to one side—with nothing but a flimsy railing to prevent a dizzy climber from the sort of fall usually favored by bungee jumpers and suicides.

  Miriam looked at Sara's enormous, cushiony couch and wondered, "How on earth did the movers get that up here?"

  "I had to shame them into it."

  "And what," Miriam said, turning to look at the long wall which separated this one from the apartment next door, "is that?"

  "It's a mural. The guy downstairs—he owns the building—is a mural painter."

  An elaborate abstract mural covered the entire wall, floor to ceiling.

  Miriam asked, "Has your landlord ever been imprisoned for his crimes against art?"

  "You don't like it," Sara gathered.

  "I'm sure that, like the stairs, it'll grow on me."

  Sara studied the mural. "I think it's kind of... stimulating."

  "Stimulating? I can't decide if it's obscene, or violent, or pastoral, or—"

  "That's what stimulating about it. I haven't a clue what it is. I figure I can sit at my desk and stare at it, seeing new things in it every single day."

  "Yes, I know. Writers spend a lot of time staring into space." Miriam shook her head. "But wouldn't staring at thin air be preferable to this?"

  "I also have a nice view to stare at," Sara said, heading toward the French doors on the far wall. "See?" She opened them and led the way out onto the balcony.

  "Wow." Miriam's eyes widened as she came out into the breezy late afternoon air. "Okay, this is nice. I admit it."

  The balcony, which overlooked Glen Canyon Park and part of the neighborhood, was enormous, a large wooden terrace jutting out from the building, bordered by big, sturdy railings which came up to Sara's midriff. The late afternoon sun beamed down upon a dozen potted plants positioned around the balcony.

  Miriam noticed these. "You don't grow plants."

  "They belong to the guy next door. We share the balcony."

  Miriam squinted at her. "What's he like?"

  "I haven't met him." She reminded her sister, "I just moved in three hours ago."

  "So you're sharing your balcony with a strange man."

  "He may not be that strange."

  "A man who can look through these windows into your home whenever he wants to. A man who will have access to these flimsy French doors at all hours of day and night." She paused in her critical examination of said flimsy doors. "Good God! The lock doesn't work!"

  "I'm going to ask the landlord to fix that," Sara said.

  "You have gone crazy."

  "Look, there's only the one neighbor—"

  "Oh, good, he can rape and murder you in perfect privacy."

  "And Lance—the landlord—says he's a nice, quiet guy."

  "And the LSD-crazed manic-depressive who painted that mural in your living room is undoubtedly a shrewd judge of character whose definitions of 'nice' and 'quiet' are above suspicion."

  "It's quite possible," Sara said, "that my neighbor is not a drooling rapist or slavering serial killer."

  "It's equally possible that he is."

  "Equally possible? No, I don't think so. There are only so many of those in the city, after all. The odds—"

  "You are so naive."

  "Excuse me, I am the eldest here. Besides, Mir, I am the mystery writer, not you. I know more about—"

  "Were the mystery writer," Miriam reminded her.

  "Ow. That hurt."

  "And writing whodunits about medieval Jews does not mean you know anything about survival in the modern world. Far from it!" Miriam sighed. "Reality has never been your strong suit."

  Sara flinched as something shrieked behind her.

  "What's that?" Miriam cried.

  "His bird."

  "Whose what?"

  "My neighbor's bird." Sara pointed to the tall bird cage standing in the shadowy corner of the balcony beyond her neighbor's own set of French doors. It was on wheels, presumably so the owner could roll it outside on sunny mid-summer days like this and easily take it back inside at night.

  Miriam crossed the balcony to look at it. "This cage is so big. And so ornate."

  Sara came to her side and stared into the cage with her. A little orange-and-teal bird stared back at them.

  "It's a small bird for such a big cage," Miriam said.

  "Look at all those toys," Sara murmured.

  "He spoils it," Miriam concluded.

  "See? He's probably a nice, quiet guy, just like Lance said."

  "I'm sure the Birdman of Alcatraz was nice and quiet, too, despite being a depraved killer."

  The bird suddenly pounced on a toy that looked like a miniature bird and started pecking it with vicious intensity.

  "Well," Sara said. "I think we've covered everything. I'm making a terrible mistake with my life and my finances. I've chosen a dreadful apartment. And my neighbor will murde
r me in my sleep, but only after he rapes and mutilates me."

  "If I've forgotten anything, I'll send you an e-mail." Miriam kept her eyes on the violent bird for a few moments before finally saying, in a different tone of voice, "I just worry about you."

  "I know. That's why I put up with your shit." Sara sighed. "But I hope you're done now, because Dad will be here any minute, and I can't deal with the two of you ganging up on me. Moving day is bad enough without that."

  "Okay, I'll stop," Miriam promised. "I won't stand up for you, but I'll stay out of it when he starts in on you."

  "Fair enough."

  Sara supposed she could understand why her family was appalled by the gamble she was taking now. It probably did look crazy to any sensible person. Still, she had to do it. Her heart wouldn't let her do anything else.

  The French doors swung open, nearly hitting them. Miriam grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the flying door. Sara whirled around, startled into momentary alarm—and found herself face to face with a man.

  He looked even more surprised than she felt. He glanced from her to Miriam, then relaxed a little. "You're the new tenant?"

  "Oh!" Sara smiled. "I'm sorry. Yes. I'm Sara Diamond. I moved in today. This is my sister, Miriam. You must be my neighbor?"

  He smiled, too. Soft and slight, but a nice smile. Friendly. His blue eyes were bright, warm. She liked his eyes.

  He was not a serial killer.

  "Ryan Kinsmore." He looked down at the load he carried: an armful bird supplies. "I'd shake with you, but my hands are a little full."

  "We were gawking at your bird," Miriam confessed.

  "She has emotional problems, doesn't she?" Sara said.

  He sighed. "Is she beating up on that toy bird again?"

  "Ah," Sara replied, "so it wasn't something I said?"

  He smiled at her again, then peered into the bird cage and shook his head. "I don't know why she does it. Does she think it's a guy bird, and she hates men? Does it smell like some enemy species she thinks she has to destroy? Does it look like her ex?"

  "Actually," Miriam said, "I think it looks a little like my ex."

  "No wonder he's ex," Ryan murmured.

  Sara reached for the bag of bird seed Ryan was holding and said, "Here, let me help you out."

  "Thanks."

  Miriam eyed his supplies. "Those look like welder's gloves."

  "They are," Ryan replied.

  Sara said, "You were planning on doing a little welding before dinner?"

  "They're for cleaning Mrs. Thatcher's boudoir."

  "Excuse me?"

  He nodded towards the bird cage.

  Sara snorted. "Mrs. Thatcher?"

  "Her previous owner named her. An English guy who used to live in your apartment."

  "He left her behind?"

  Ryan nodded. "He moved back home after I moved in here. Said it was too hard to bring animals back to England. None of his friends here would adopt Mrs. Thatcher—"

  "Go figure."

  "—and I was afraid she'd die if he just turned her loose."

  "So you took her in."

  "I can tell what you're thinking." He grinned at Sara. "Sucker."

  "I didn't actually say that."

  "I have to feed her and clean the cage." Ryan flexed his hands inside the elbow-length padded gloves, "Believe me, this is something only a brave man would attempt. You ladies might not want to watch. It could get ugly."

  "No," Sara said, "we'll stay. There should be eyewitnesses."

  "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

  He waited for the bird to turn her back to him, then opened the cage door and shot his gloved arm inside. Mrs. Thatcher shrieked and attacked him.

  After watching in astonished amusement for a moment, Sara glanced at her sister. Very quietly, Miriam whispered, "Hubba hubba."

  Sara nodded in agreement. About six feet tall, maybe a shade less, Ryan had a long-limbed body with straight, square shoulders, a flat stomach, and a tight butt. His pants and shirt, both good quality, were cut well enough to show off everything without being vulgar. His thick, medium-short hair was a little ruffled by the wind; it was a sun-seeking brown color, looking almost as if it wanted to turn blond in a few places. He had a light tan, long-lashed blue eyes, a nice nose, and a mouth that... Well, a guy with a mouth like that had better be a great kisser, or it was a criminal waste of lips.

  He was obviously younger than Sara. And she didn't think he was from San Francisco. There was a slight drawl in his vowels, a softness around some of his consonants. It added to the melting-butter quality of his voice.

  Drooling rapist? Hah! He'd probably been defending himself from worshipful women since puberty.

  He was talking to Mrs. Thatcher now, trying to soothe her as he restocked her food and water and cleaned her cage, all the while wearing those bulky welder's gloves. Immune to the seduction of his gentle murmuring, the bird was clutching one of the gloves with both feet and biting it like a mad dog.

  "That is not a well animal, Ryan," Sara said.

  "She's got some issues," he admitted, "but she just needs a patient touch. Ouch!"

  "You're working wonders with her, I can see that."

  "Come on, sweetheart," he crooned. "Let go now. Let go of the glove."

  Man, if this guy crooned to me, I'd do whatever he wanted.

  Mrs. Thatcher, however, was made of sterner stuff than Sara. She shrieked and redoubled her efforts to amputate one of Ryan's fingers.

  "Shall we call 911?" Miriam asked.

  Sara said, "It's too late for help."

  "No, no," Ryan assured them through gritted teeth. "Everything's under control."

  "He did say it could get ugly," Miriam reminded Sara.

  "Try shaking your arm," Sara advised Ryan. "Dislodge her."

  "She's just a little bird. I could hurt her."

  "I had no idea a four-ounce bird could be this menacing."

  "Ow! Damn it, bird, give me back my hand!"

  "So much for the sweet talk," Sara said.

  "Try distracting her," Ryan instructed Sara.

  "Distracting her?"

  "Yes. And since I think I'm bleeding now, could you move a little faster?"

  "Oh! Okay."

  Sara approached the cage and put her hand on one of the bars. Mrs. Thatcher immediately lost interest in maiming Ryan and leaped towards Sara—who flinched and jumped back. Mrs. Thatcher shrieked at her. Ryan removed his arm from the cage and slammed the door shut a split second before Mrs. Thatcher could escape to kill them all. Then the bird returned to shrieking at Sara.

  She asked Ryan, "Why did you care that Mrs. Thatcher might die if you didn't adopt her?"

  "It just didn't sit well with me."

  "What do you do when I'm not here to rescue you?"

  "She's not usually this bad." He eyed Sara. "Your presence seems to upset her. I don't think she likes you."

  "Sure, blame me."

  "Maybe she resents sharing the balcony with a prettier female."

  Caught off guard by the flirtatious comment, Sara looked into the cage. With no human victims to attack, Mrs. Thatcher returned to beating up her toy bird.

  "That isn't healthy," she said. "You should take that toy away from her."

  "I gave it to her, I can't take it back. Anyhow, it makes her happy." He winced as he flexed the hand Mrs. Thatcher had bitten.

  "So you make her happy, and she makes you bleed."

  "The universal story of men and women," he said.

  "Not from where I'm standing."

  He smiled. "Probably not from where she's standing, either."

  Sara smiled back, and their eyes held—until a sudden pounding on Ryan's front door surprised them both. Then Sara heard a gruff, half-hearted bark.

  "You have a dog?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Macy. He hardly ever barks, though. Excuse me." He brushed past her and went through the French doors.

  "Okay," Miriam said, "maybe this apartment was
n't such a terrible idea, after all."

  "So you've given up your theory that he's going to kill me in my sleep?"

  "Maybe he'll be busy doing other things in your bed."

  "Miriam!"

  "What?"

  "Don't be stupid."

  "Stupid about what? Come on, you can't tell me you're not interested. I know you, and you're interested."

  "I'm also older than him."

  "What, five years?" Miriam said.

  "Maybe ten."

  "Oh, so what? He's well above the age of consent, and he obviously likes you, too."

  "The point is—"

  "Sara! Sara!" a man's voice shouted.

  The sisters looked at each other.

  "That's Dad."

  "What's he doing bothering Ryan?"

  They stuck their heads inside the living room just as Ryan was opening his front door to their father.

  "You're not my daughter," said Abel Diamond, applying the razor-sharp perception that had made him a renowned scholar.

  "That's true," Ryan agreed while the large, hairy, black dog at his side—Macy, presumably—wagged its tail. "But Sara's right here."

  "Dad!" Sara said, coming inside.

  "There you are." Abel was breathing hard and looked flushed. "My God... is that a dog... or a bear?"

  "I'll get you a glass of water, sir," Ryan offered and headed for the kitchen.

  "Thank you, young man." Abel collapsed into a burnished leather easy chair and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Sara," he panted, "I don't want you... to take this personally... but I am never... visiting you again."

  The dog greeted Sara and Miriam, then investigated Abel for a moment. Evidently deciding the old man wasn't that interesting upon closer inspection, Macy lay down and gave an exhausted sigh.

  "I'm sorry about the stairs, Dad."

  "So am I," Abel wheezed, "because we've always been very close."

  "But I have a big balcony and a good view."

  "And I'm sixty-four years old... with arthritic knees."

  "You probably came up the stairs too fast. You should pause to rest on the landing halfway up."

  Ryan returned. "Here's some water, Mr. Diamond."

  "Thank you." Abel gulped down half the contents of the glass, then closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair. "I'm not even going to ask... why a handsome young man... whom I've never met... knows his way around my daughter's kitchen."