Free So Close by Emma McLaughlin

“Love, Amanda Beth, (newly appointed) Head Volunteer of the Inn.”  I was finally part of something bursting with potential that wasn’t my mother. 
     
    One afternoon, about a month later, I was making my way back across the steady traffic that separated us from the Office Max.  Four bags straining with discounted printer ink slapped at my calves as I saw the Davis’s car pulling in from a fundraiser.  They were on their way inside when Lindsay froze, her hand still in her purse.  “It’s not here,” she called to Tom and he spun back.
    “Everything okay?” I asked as I approached, blowing my bangs from my eyes.
    “No,” Lindsay shook her head in concern.  “It’s not.”
    “How can I help?” I asked.
    “Let’s not lose time on this,” Tom said, checking his phone.  “I’ll just run back to the luncheon and grab it.”
    Lindsay took me in for a second before reaching out a splayed palm in revelation.  “You know them.  She knows the hosts,” she paused Tom from turning to the car. “Wait, this will work.”
    “Let’s just send a staffer,” Tom said.
    “I’ll get someone for you.”  I went to go in as Tom switched his folded blazer over to his other arm.
    “No.” Lindsay stopped me.  “I don’t want—I know her,” she said to Tom.  “She’s discreet.”
    She did remember me.  “Amanda.”  I turned back, seizing the opportunity to re-introduce myself.  “Head Volunteer.”  I put down the bags to extend my hand to Tom.
    “Yes.”  He shook it firmly.  “The Amanda who figured out how to open the window in the bathroom.  Your reputation precedes you.”
    “There was gum on the hinge.”
    “Well, we’re dammed glad to have you.”
    “Happy to be here.”  I tried to temper my grin.
    “We’ve met before, though, right?”
    Eager to get me on my way, Lindsay interrupted him, “Sorry, but, Amanda, I’ve left Tom’s talking points at the luncheon.  In the hostess’s sitting room—right on her desk, where I set down my bag.  One of the programs that . . . I’d rather not have just sitting around.  We have a meeting or I’d go back.  John will take you, but if you could just slip in and grab it we’d be grateful.”
    “No problem, let me just run these in and—”
    “I got it.”  Tom lifted the bags, his arms dropping.  “Oof.  You’re tough.”  Lindsay grabbed his blazer before it hit the asphalt.
    “Scrappy,” I demurred.
    He laughed.  “Thanks, Amanda.  Seriously.”
    “Yes, seriously.”  Lindsay opened the car door for me.  “Just bring it by our hotel on your way back if you could.”
                  I happily stepped into the back seat of the sedan, which immediately peeled out.  Of course, the minute I replayed the conversation I realized where I was headed.  We only had one luncheon host in common—the Westerbrooks.  I looked down at my jeans, wishing I was at least wearing a blouse, instead of a tee-shirt.  But the odds against seeing Pax were in my favor.  It was the middle of a weekday, for God’s sake.  The guy must have a meeting or golf game or hangover.  And the whole point was to get in and out without drawing attention to the fact that I’d been sent.  He’d never know I was there. 
    John’s talk radio droned as he took me over the bridge and under the towering palms.  He dropped me in the Westerbrooks’ drive behind the caterer’s van and I slipped into the loop of people breaking down the luncheon and in through the staff entrance of the stucco mansion.  I tucked my head as I made my way quickly through the kitchen to the dining room.  Through the oversized French doors I saw a tent off the pool where women milled about air-kissing goodbyes.  The Westerbrooks were hopefully still out there.  And in Pax’s case, out there out there.  Spain, ideally. 
    Whatever Lindsay assumed, my last visit hadn’t seen me past the foyer so I had no idea which room was allotted for his mother to