off the Internet, and her pizza came frozen and delivered to the door in a box with cereal, milk, bread, maybe a little cheddar. It was still too much to go to the store, every turn into a new aisle another opportunity to be recognized. This much she had learned: hiding out was much easier when one stayed hidden. And Hannah made it a point never to leave home. She walked a well-worn path to Gus’s house every morning but she hadn’t been out in her own garage, let alone driven her red Miata, in ages. But that’s what one did in the Hannah Protection Program, of which she was the president and only member.
“No one even remembers,” Gus had chided gently one time, trying to get Hannah to come to a cookbook launch party in Manhattan.
“No one ever forgets a scandal,” Hannah insisted. It was difficult for someone who hadn’t been publicly embarrassed to understand the sting. That she could still feel it after all this time. Hannah could enjoy good day after good day if she followed her own rules: she stayed put, she never drew attention to herself, she never wrote about sports, she always used her initialson her articles—H. J. Levine—and never her full name. Because she’d once thought as Gus did, had hoped that no one remembered. And then found herself the subject of a “What Ever Happened To . . .” story on cable. This is what she had given up for privacy: dating (though she hadn’t ever had much time for that in her previous life anyway), shopping (clothes had always been sent to her so she’d never had quite the “malling” experience as a teen), and making friends (Gus was the persistent exception). In return she could breathe.
Even so, she put in an appearance at Gus’s holiday and birthday parties, so sure of Gus’s power to protect her, so sure no one would dare to mention that she looked familiar. It would have been in poor taste to comment on her past troubles, of course. And Gus brought out the very best manners in all her guests.
Hannah’s devotion to her only friend was strong enough that she had risked everything—her peace, her quiet, her safe seclusion—to help save Gus’s show. What had she been thinking?
With trepidation she trolled online at her desk, every link a catch in her throat as she read the list of page titles on Google. A lot on Gus. Good, good. Nothing whatsoever about Hannah Joy Levine. Even better. She leaned back in her cushioned gray desk chair, careful not to tip over as she’d done more than once. And the floor was hard, still the original red oak, though worn in places and covered with a series of mismatched rugs. The room was designed to be an eating area though Hannah had never invested in table and chairs. Just a long L-shaped desk she purchased from IKEA more than a decade ago and two televisions mounted to the wall. All the better to watch the news, my dear, she told Gus the first time she let her inside. Hannahdidn’t want to forsake the world. She simply wanted to watch it behind glass.
The carriage house had been Hannah’s first—and only—major purchase,other than a red sports car, which sat, its battery disconnected, covered under a sheet in the garage. A memento from another time. The compact home had been an investment, a cute little cottage that caught her eye as she drove to practice, her rackets stowed on the seat beside her. She’d bought it eighteen years ago, when she was still a teenager, never imagining that she would show up on the doorstep a short time later, with a suitcase and not much else. In all those years, Gus was the only neighbor who knew her. She didn’t mind. She liked it that way.
Thinking about the past always made her anxious and therefore hungry. Hannah opened her bottom desk drawer, reached in without even looking. She had her candy stash memorized. Her eyes never veered from the CookingChannelWeb site message boards.
“Who’s hotter: Carmen Vega or Gus Simpson?” read the title of one thread. Hannah smiled. In
“No one even remembers,” Gus had chided gently one time, trying to get Hannah to come to a cookbook launch party in Manhattan.
“No one ever forgets a scandal,” Hannah insisted. It was difficult for someone who hadn’t been publicly embarrassed to understand the sting. That she could still feel it after all this time. Hannah could enjoy good day after good day if she followed her own rules: she stayed put, she never drew attention to herself, she never wrote about sports, she always used her initialson her articles—H. J. Levine—and never her full name. Because she’d once thought as Gus did, had hoped that no one remembered. And then found herself the subject of a “What Ever Happened To . . .” story on cable. This is what she had given up for privacy: dating (though she hadn’t ever had much time for that in her previous life anyway), shopping (clothes had always been sent to her so she’d never had quite the “malling” experience as a teen), and making friends (Gus was the persistent exception). In return she could breathe.
Even so, she put in an appearance at Gus’s holiday and birthday parties, so sure of Gus’s power to protect her, so sure no one would dare to mention that she looked familiar. It would have been in poor taste to comment on her past troubles, of course. And Gus brought out the very best manners in all her guests.
Hannah’s devotion to her only friend was strong enough that she had risked everything—her peace, her quiet, her safe seclusion—to help save Gus’s show. What had she been thinking?
With trepidation she trolled online at her desk, every link a catch in her throat as she read the list of page titles on Google. A lot on Gus. Good, good. Nothing whatsoever about Hannah Joy Levine. Even better. She leaned back in her cushioned gray desk chair, careful not to tip over as she’d done more than once. And the floor was hard, still the original red oak, though worn in places and covered with a series of mismatched rugs. The room was designed to be an eating area though Hannah had never invested in table and chairs. Just a long L-shaped desk she purchased from IKEA more than a decade ago and two televisions mounted to the wall. All the better to watch the news, my dear, she told Gus the first time she let her inside. Hannahdidn’t want to forsake the world. She simply wanted to watch it behind glass.
The carriage house had been Hannah’s first—and only—major purchase,other than a red sports car, which sat, its battery disconnected, covered under a sheet in the garage. A memento from another time. The compact home had been an investment, a cute little cottage that caught her eye as she drove to practice, her rackets stowed on the seat beside her. She’d bought it eighteen years ago, when she was still a teenager, never imagining that she would show up on the doorstep a short time later, with a suitcase and not much else. In all those years, Gus was the only neighbor who knew her. She didn’t mind. She liked it that way.
Thinking about the past always made her anxious and therefore hungry. Hannah opened her bottom desk drawer, reached in without even looking. She had her candy stash memorized. Her eyes never veered from the CookingChannelWeb site message boards.
“Who’s hotter: Carmen Vega or Gus Simpson?” read the title of one thread. Hannah smiled. In
Similar Books
