The transformation began innocently.
At eight o'clock Laine Hanson stumbled half asleep into the downstairs bathroom of the condo and lathered up his face. He stared absently into the mirror, rinsing the Bic in the bowl of hot water. "Hey, boy, tomorrow's your forty-fourth birthday, don't look so glum," he told himself with mock enthusiasm--
Jesus. The significance of today's date registered on his consciousness like a migraine headache: Mackenzie had died a year ago today. She'd been only fifteen, freaked out on acid, wandering naked across the southbound lanes of 101 near Novato at three in the morning when a big rig, hauling lumber down the coast from Arcata, ended her trip. Fully awake now, Hanson blinked and began to shave on automatic pilot. He hadn't really known his daughter. She'd been a teenager living upstairs in their big house in Novato, who he'd sometimes nod at in passing.
Thump, thump, thump.
"Laine, unlock the door, please!"
Goddamit, he swore silently. Two bathrooms in this place, and, no matter which one he was using, Bobbi always had to get in right now. He shook his head, actually relieved by the intrusion on his depressing thoughts, and opened the door.
Bobbi was fully dressed, but needed to do her hair. "Thank you," she snapped dryly. "Why do you always lock the door?"
A good question, Hanson thought, at a loss for an answer. He shrugged, staring at his wife for a moment. In the twenty years of marriage they'd grown up together, then apart; but she was still a fine-looking woman.
Bobbi ignored him and bent over, rummaging through the drawers under the countertop. Finally she stood up, an exasperated expression on her face. "Darn it! You haven't seen Loren's extra curling iron?"
Hanson shook his head. Nope, he hadn't seen any curling irons. Leaning over the sink, he rinsed and wiped his face. When he dropped the towel, he noticed Bobbi staring at him in the mirror, the irritated frown gone from her features. She reached out and gently touched his face, near the corner of his right eye. "My goodness, Laine," she said, "what've you been using on your skin?"
He looked at himself in the mirror. "What do you mean?"
"Your wrinkles are almost gone. See--?"
Why she was right! The deeply-etched grooves radiating from the corners of both eyes were barely noticeable, only pale lines; and his forehead creases were only faint traces, too. Puzzled, Hanson glanced at his wife in the mirror. "I haven't been using anything, Bobbi."
She'd lost interest and was looking under the sink. "You certain you haven't seen Loren's curling iron?" she asked, her pitch rising. "I can't seem to find mine upstairs, and I've got less than an hour before I'm due at the club to supervise the decorating committee."
"No, I'm sorry," he replied, knowing she was under a lot of heat. Today was the annual fashion show and luncheon at Silverado Country Club, a charity benefit for Community Projects--a BFD, as his friend John liked to call such social affairs. And Bobbi was chairing the whole maryann, her first such opportunity since they'd moved to Silverado several months ago.
Suddenly she snapped her fingers, relief softening her features. "It's upstairs. I didn't unpack it last week." She'd just returned from a quick visit to her sister's in Santa Cruz. Without another word, Bobbi spun around and left the bathroom.
Hanson leaned close to the mirror and checked his face again. Actually the change wasn't as dramatic as he'd first thought ... Still, the wrinkles did seem to be fading. "Hmmm..." His thoughts shifted to the name Bobbi had mentioned a few minutes earlier, Loren. Who the hell was Loren? And what was her curling iron doing in their bathroom? He didn't think any of Bobbi's friends were named Loren. When he barged in late last night from the home office in San Rafael, all six of them had been dressed in white sitting around a flickering candle, holding hands like some kind of ceremony. They'd all looked up guiltily, like children caught in sexual play. Later, when he asked Bobbi what they were doing, she'd mumbled evasively something about a collective consciousness thing--whatever that meant. No, he was sure none of that weird bunch was Loren.
With a sigh he shrugged off the uncharacteristic dwelling on home life and tightened his tie, shifting his attention to the business of the day. He was headed for Pinole to go over details of setting up a new branch office, including staffing interviews for two property managers--one for the Top of the Hill Mall, the other for the Hercules townhouses. He felt a slight twinge of regret for neglecting the new office. The Pinole/Hercules area, about twenty miles north of Oakland on Interstate 80, was the fastest growing community in California, homes springing up from the rolling brown hills like weeds. The new office would be an important addition to the company.
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