Out of Touch Read Free Page A

whatever scene he chose to play. He could dramatically dry her feet with a paper napkin, and still seem most refined with his perfect posture and elegant clothing. Sarah gazed at the shiny black curls that brushed the collar of his sapphire peasant shirt and wondered why he’d stayed her boyfriend for three years.
                  The sappy thoughts dispersed as Phil asked, “Was the accident nearby? Is everyone all right?”
                  “An old car went into a creek by my mom’s house. I saw it, so I hit 911 and went down to check. There was just the man driving the car, and he’s in the hospital now. They say he’ll be all right.”
                  “You got him out of the car?”
                  “Yeah. It didn’t seem safe. The car caught fire later.”
                  Reggie stopped, warm hands tight on her foot, “It caught fire? How much later?”
                  “I had the guy safely up the hill by then.”
                  “But what if . . .” the questions kept coming. Clearly the agenda had been dropped in favor of hearing how Sarah ended up at the meeting late and in soggy sneakers. She replied, trying to sound steady but plain, “I was just driving home . . . Anyone would have done the same.”
    Sarah was glad her dramatic opening had been well received, but she wished she hadn’t said anything. People like Reggie, who ran places like Pronoia International, floated wit as social currency, but would rather be mute than appear to be trying too hard. Sarah generally kept to the sidelines as others competed with clever remarks and personal anecdotes.
                  She felt Reggie slide his wool dress socks over her calves. She knew he kept a suit at work, in case he needed to look impressive. Not that Reggie ever looked unimpressive, whatever he put on. Part of it was an innate sense of style inherited from his rich Italian mother. He only chose good clothes, and he always wore them well. The socks from his suit were wool, she knew; they had to be hand washed. But they were silkier than anything she’d ever called wool before meeting Reggie. They were also warm, or was that because Reggie was the one slipping them on her while she quietly described the events of the evening? Sarah felt herself begin to blush and hoped those listening would attribute it to her story.
     
                  Chill fog lingered the next morning as Sarah knocked on the carved oak door up the hill. There was a brass doorbell to the side and a heavy brass knocker just above center, but Sarah always knocked on doors with her bare hand first. She heard a click before the door opened, revealing a woman of Chinese decent who stood silently staring at Sarah.
                  “Hi, um, sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for this cat?” Sarah held up a photo she’d printed out. “I think he sometimes goes in your yard-“
                  “You’re the girl from the house behind us? Come in. I’m Mei Mei Chen.”
                  “Sarah Duncan. Uh, glad to meet you.”
                  Sarah stepped in as a memory of her mother reminded her to never enter a stranger’s house. She slipped off her Birkenstocks where she saw other shoes lined up beside the door. Her feet pressed against the smoothness of marble as she followed her hostess through a dim entryway then turned toward light and white carpet.
                  The room before her seemed all Chinese, though Sarah had never been to China. Still, this must be what fancy Chinese restaurants were trying to imitate. There was a dining area to the left with a glossy mahogany table. The chairs had red upholstered cushions and ornately carved backs with lions in the design. The sitting area, ahead of her and a step down, had carpet almost entirely covered by a red Oriental rug, with another rug placed