Caught Up In Me

Virginia Gray

This is primarily a work of fiction. With express permission, the names and identifying characteristics of some specific characters herein have been used. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Caught Up In Me, formerly titled The Carrot

Copyright © 2014 by Virginia Gray

ISBN: 978-0-9905236-2-8

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferrable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, whatsoever without written express written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact, www.virginiagraynovels.com

First Edition, July 2014

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-publication data is available upon request

Cover: GP Designs

To my precious children and patient husband who are my very definition of love

Contents

- Dedication

- Other Books by Virginia Gray

- 1. Greed and Hunger

- 2. There’s No Place like Home

- 3. Serial Killers, Marsh Men, and Zombies

- 4. A Girl Named Mona

- 5. Unhappy Hour

- 6. Archeological Find

- 7. Ambush!

- 8. Personal Banker

- 9. Carrot Top Throw Down

- 10. Meeting Queen Elizabeth

- 11. Sabotage

- 12. Sweet Liberty

- 13. Deal with the Devil

- 14. Unexpectedly Detained

- 15. What to Wear When You Just Don't Care

- 16. Purple Boa

- 17. Murder

- 18. My Mother's Orgasm

- 19. The Funeral

- 20. Chicken Necks

- 21. Sayin’ Grace

- 22. Flying Faux Butter

- 23. Uh Oh!

- 24. Big Fat Liar

- 25. My Damned Earring

- 26. That’s Gross

- 27. Memorial Day Cookout

- 28. The Green Flash

- 29. Mona's Big Date

- 30. Thunder

- 31. Shell Island

- 32. Revenge

- 33. An Introduction

- 34. When Ya Gotta Go…

- 35. Spilt Seed

- 36. I Don’t

- 37. Cheating

- 38. Road Construction

- 39. Survival of the Luckiest

- 40. Off to See the Wizard

- 41. Rip Tide

- 42. Tick Tock

- 43. Gold Watch

- 44. Neptune

- 45. 1492

- 46. Cardiac Arrest

- 47. Trick or Treat

- 48. Retail Therapy

- 49. A Close One

- 50. Parking Lot Prophecy

- 51. When Pigs Eat Doughnuts

- 52. Loverboy

- 53. Clarity is a Delicious Thing

- 54. Take Me Back to Paradise

- 55. Kidnapped

- 56. Not This Again

- About the Author

- Author's Notes and Disclaimers

- Acknowledgements

Other Books by Virginia Gray

Suddenly Susan

Back Where I Belong

Next Time

1

Greed and Hunger

Holy crap! Two weeks ago, I was blissfully enjoying my fairly perfect life. Now I’ve just boarded a plane to Hell—the real one, with the heat and the desperation and the… What is that smell? And it’s not even my fault—well, not technically, anyway…

♥

As the plane pierced the cloudbank, the tone chimed, and a disinterested, yet cheerful voice explained that the Fasten Seat Belt sign had been turned off and it was now safe to fire up every electronic device you’d ever owned. An aside: It is my firm and sincere belief that Instagram will not bring down a 737.

Racing against every other business person on board, I pulled out my laptop and began flipping through client accounts. My boss wasn’t kidding when he said the eastern region—my shitty new region—was a difficult place to grow business. At least I knew why.

You see, I was born Southern, raised Southern…but I did not want to be Southern. I simply wanted to be Susan: Susan Wade of some random, non-controversial, non-embarrassing place. So I left, quite literally. I didn’t climb out my window and run away from home, though I’d tried several times. No, I bided my time, planned and plotted, took all the necessary measures.

And when the opportunity presented itself, I afforded a single sidelong glance at the sleepy, mist-encircled Pilot Mountain—the megalith looming over my entire existence, and made my thrilling escape to Chicago, racing from heritage and homeland to an unexplored, but surely more enlightened harbor.

After crossing the Mason-Dixon Line—for the first time in my whole entire life—I tossed the last of Mom’s country ham biscuits out the window and laughed maniacally. Okay, what really happened is this: I totally freaked, pulled to the side of the interstate, and hurled up said biscuits. While on all fours, I finished the job properly by purging terms including, but not limited to y’all, ain’t, hey, and anything ending in in’. The soil absorbed them hungrily.

Determined to successfully graft, I’d studied this Northern species: its culture, mannerisms, and customs. Mimic. Infiltrate. Become. And, as I skimmed the outskirts of this vast city, I reviewed my crucial list: do not wave, do not speak to random strangers, do not make direct eye contact in elevators or enclosed spaces, do not freely smile, and for God’s sake, do NOT hug anybody! Though daunting, in the end abandoning Southern tradition was simply part of the decontamination process; a re-tooling of body and brain to perform in a novel fashion; the price paid for admittance to the new world.

Northwestern University was a mad mix of people from the other three-quarters of the country; my clean slate; my opportunity to convince those around me that I was someone to be taken seriously, someone special…someone who did not need others!

And to that end, I set to the task of developing a steel core of self-discipline, earning me top grades in both my majors. And if missing parties, skipping football games, and avoiding serious relationships was the price of success, then so be it.

Four years later when I left Chicago, parchment diploma in hand, I’d emerged from my chrysalis a liberated, sanctimoniously free-thinking person, completely cleansed of all things Southern; a woman with an extraordinary career lying at her feet; a woman en route to that shimmering city called Philadelphia.

And I dove headfirst into its glimmering ocean of urbanity, learning to swim through its gridlocks of hostile motorists, evade its lurking tow truck drivers, and though scoring my ethical peel, feed on its indifference. It was the only way to survive.

After a fairytale marriage to INTech Corporation, one of the largest Internet technology companies in the world, I plunged into its corporate sea with the same zeal. Here, at its world headquarters, hostility took the polished form of manipulation, the lurking sharks were far better dressed…but the indifference was exactly the same.

Now a sage at twenty-nine, having grown talons for clawing and sharp teeth for biting, I was a great deal meaner, significantly more jaded, and rarely forgiving of those who got in my way. I was also tremendously sophisticated, wholly independent, and thoroughly exhausted most of the time. And I loved this grown-up Susan. And I loved my all-consuming career. And I loved my life just the way it was, dammit!

The crux: I was hungry, and maybe a little greedy, though I certainly didn’t see it that way at the time.

The invitation to sate those needs came one crisp winter morning, hand-delivered by my closest ally and self-appointed champion, the District Manager of Rhode Island. Taking form beside me, her face gleamed with smug pleasure as she announced, “We’ve had a breakthrough.”

“Oh?”

“This is the one!”

When not busy shredding her underlings to bits, Kirsten tirelessly searched for ways—alleyways—to get me promoted. She knew it was all in the world I wanted, but my work ethic and faith in perseverance were simply farce to her.

During my short career, I’d already risen to an important position within the corporation: a highly-rated regional service representative. In company terms, I negotiated and vended computer service agreements and eradicated both technical and software interface issues. In layman’s terms, I cajoled people into buying service contracts and then fixed their computers. I was quite good at my job…but my job wasn’t quite good enough for me.

“North Carolina!” She whispered the words as if they were magic. They were—the black kind.

“N-North Carolina?!” I sputtered, almost choking. “Did you say, North Carolina?” The concept defied words.

“Susan, you’ve got to take risks if you want to move up. Surely you realize that.” She stopped suddenly and scowled at the secretary, arms full of paper, who dared hesitate at the copier nearest us.

“Of course I do,” I snapped, glowering over her shoulder at a world she could not see. “But not there!”

That was bomb number one. She had a pocketful that day.

“I’ve already spoken to Bob on your behalf, and he loves the idea.”

“You what?!” I squeaked. “How could you do that without speaking with me first?” Kirsten dismissed my outburst with an elegant wave.

“You would have said no, and no won’t get you promoted, hun. Your meeting’s at one-thirty. You’ll thank me later. Ta!” And with that she turned on her heels, leaving me gasping.

“Ta” about summed it up, too, because regardless of my protests, feet-stamping, and the rather embarrassing tantrum I’d thrown at lunch that day, here I was, hurtling at some high velocity towards this terrifying destination. And by my own doing…sort of.

“WADE!” Bob Shillings, Senior Vice President of the Eastern US Retail Service Division, known simply as God Almighty, bellowed down the hall that same afternoon.

I was scared shitless of the man because, other than holding my career—aka world—by its whiskers, he wasn’t actually my boss; he was my boss’ boss’ boss. Beth Stamler, my now-on-maternity-leave-having-thoughtlessly-left-me-in-the-hands-of-the-likes-of-this-man district manager was my immediate supervisor. Hers was a vice president who’d been loaned out on “special assignment”—whatever that meant. So, as of now, there was nothing but thin air between the two of us.

As I scampered to Mount Olympus, I passed “Strategy Girl”. She gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and I glared back, seriously weighing the merits of flipping her off.

“Shut the door,” he ordered, failing to look up from his computer screen. “I’m surprised you requested this assignment. I don’t usually send seasoned reps to low-grossing areas.” Ha! “Unfortunately, this project’s become high profile.” His expression turned nasty as he continued typing. “If you’re successful there, you’ll get noticed, so I can see the enticement. But know now, there’s a real downside if you aren’t.” Not so Ha!

“Oh,” I softly responded, my Greek salad turning to leafy lead in my stomach.

“What’s the problem with West Penn?”

For the last four years, I’d run Pennsylvania’s western region. It was a lucrative part of a lucrative state, housing several substantial cities including my crown jewel and part-time lover, Pittsburgh.

“No problem, Bob. I, I love West Penn,” I stammered like an idiot. “I have a great sales team, my customer base is excellent and—”

“As you’ve no doubt read between the lines, INTech, or rather I have a situation in North Carolina,” he said, plowing over me in his tyrannical style. “Problem seems to be public relations. It’s a damn mess down there, and I need it cleaned up.” As he grimaced at his monitor, I stood quietly, wondering if he’d notice if I bolted back down the hall.

“I’ve reviewed your records. You hit your numbers consistently. More to the point, you’ve had no customer complaints, and that’s saying something.” He shook his head succinctly. “Overall, I’m pleased with your work.”

“That’s good to know, Bob,” I responded feeling warily pleased.

“What I don’t understand is your timing.” He took off his thick-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If you wanted a transfer, it could have been settled last week during Quarterlies when everyone was in town.”

INTech’s Quarterlies, a week-long affair occurring four times a year, summoned everyone to the Mothership for company-wide meetings, training seminars, re-organizations, promotions, etc. Oh, and transfers.

Bob looked up at me for the first time, and I stared back blankly. Finally, he raised his eyebrows sharply and cleared his throat, and I realized he was waiting for some sort of explanation—one I didn’t have. It wasn’t like I could say “oops” to the man, and “Kirsten made me do it” wasn’t exactly going to fly either.

“Um, well, I’ve been considering my options for career advancement—that part was true—and this seemed like a unique line of approach.” “Unique”? Yeah, that was one word for it; “stupid” was another. “If the timing’s off, perhaps we should revisit this discussion before next Quarterlies.” There, that should get me out of this mess.

Smiling at him with faux confidence, I squared my shoulders and waited for him to say something like, “Fine. Go away.” But after a moment of suffocating silence, he simply said, “I see.” His eyes returned to his screen, and his fingers flew across the keyboard. Standing over him, I had a perfect aerial view of the top of his head. Freckled pink skin peeked through an interceding, mostly gray comb-over, and I wondered just how old he was.

“This region’s particularly challenging for some reason,” he finally continued. “But Kirsten tells me you grew up in Carolina.” I opened my mouth then gulped for air like a caught fish.

Since joining the company, I’d carefully hidden my roots under a big rock, hoping that deprived of sunlight, they might just wither and die. My aim was to completely dissociate myself from the misconception that Southern girls are cute but stupid; I was neither.

Familiar with the mask I wore, as with so many of my life’s private details, Kirsten had used this poison tidbit to leverage my—her—advantage. She hated losing. Ever. And though her brashness shouldn’t have surprised me, for once, it did.

“Yes,” I confessed, fidgeting with the paperclip I’d forgotten to toss before entering the sacred realm. Born there, raised there, escaped from there, hoped never to return there.

“Good. That means you speak ‘Southern’.” Abruptly, he stopped typing and his lips turned up into a fiendish grin I’m certain I’ll never forget. He looked at me with eyes that had just seen clear to checkmate and eased back in his loudly protesting chair.

“Alright, Wade. I’ll send you to North Carolina. But, let’s be clear; I want this region off my plate. For. Good. Understand?” I smiled tightly, having absolutely no idea what he was talking about. “And as an incentive, I’ll make you a deal. A district manager position may open up in the Midwest later this year. If you increase numbers down there by, say…twenty percent over the next six months, I’ll consider you for the slot. Agreed?” I nodded like a bobble-head doll, trying to hide my astonishment. She was right!

“In some ways, I’m glad it’s you who volunteered. You’re competent. Maybe you can end this nightmare for me.” His dreamy expression weirded me out almost as much as his never-before-seen-by-human-eyes smile.

Vacillating between sudden euphoria and abject terror, emphasis on the latter, I meekly asked, “Bob, since this assignment is only temporary, if I don’t hit the twenty percent mark, can I assume I’ll return to West Penn?”

“Susan, that’s not how it works.” After saying my actual first name, his bizarre expression faded, and he returned to his normal grumpy self. “No ‘ifs’. Get North Carolina fixed!”

“Right.” I swallowed hard as a surge of vertigo hit me.

“You’ll train your replacement next week. Then you’ll head south.”

“So soon…” I whispered to myself. And then: “Dear God, this is really happening!”

“We’ll meet again end of the week to go over particulars. Close the door behind you.”

That had been Bob’s “Ta”, though I doubt he’d ever used such a word.

I hit save and the date popped up. Today was March fifteenth: the Ides. How appropriate to return to North Carolina on the unluckiest day of the year. Sullen, I sipped my Fresca and pressed my forehead against the scratched Plexiglas window. The sky had cleared, and with detached foreboding, I watched the ground below morph from wedding gown white to lettuce green. My restless mind wandered to places it hadn’t visited in a very long time; places it didn’t want to go; places of pain and nightmare, of childhood memories. Home.

Rubber found cement, and the plane came to a hurtling stop.

I so don’t want to be here…

2

There’s No Place like Home

If the saying, “You never get a second chance to make a good first impression” is true, then Havelock missed its chance. INTech’s eastern regional home office was housed—God only knows why—in this dot on the map between the booming nontropolis of New Bern and the are-we-there-yet? town of Morehead City, the latter’s only redeeming quality a single bridge leading to the Southern Outer Banks, better known as Atlantic Beach…or the glorious beach…or Paradise Found, depending on your point of view.

I knew I’d arrived at its smoldering gates when the Croatan National Forest, home to a billion telephone pole wannabes, suddenly gave way to a plethora—okay, a couple dozen small businesses, comprised primarily of mobile home dealerships, cheap furniture stores, military surplus outlets, and pawn shops; as Cherry Point Marine Base was nearby, there was plenty of surplus and lots to pawn. These unattractive establishments littered either side of the divided highway along with a fair amount of trash. Billboards advertising restaurants, hotels and various beach-related attractions stuck up from the mess like too many birthday candles. Havelock.

And that’s when I saw it, and I had to rub my eyes to make sure it wasn’t some sort of terrifying hallucination: A porch…for sale. Neither house nor trailer nor even a storage barn: just a porch. The spectacle was displayed on a patch of grass beside the highway. It would have been hilarious had it not been a reflection of these, my native people, and to an extension…myself.

Geographically, my state is a wonder to behold; a mind-bendingly beautiful mantle, the collar lavishly encrusted in sapphire and amethyst mountains, its fabric rushing eastward in folds of lush emerald forests interlaced with gleaming threads of frothy waterfalls and glistening rivers, trimmed finally by an intricately woven golden coastline. Ahh, to a tourist, the landscape and resort offerings are everything The Travel Channel could promise, but us, its citizens, are damaged goods.

After leaving my home state, I’d never looked back—not once, unless forced by the media. And then I just hid under a table until the news cycle admonishing whichever North Carolina fool had done/said/both whichever societally offensive thing had run its course. Thanks to archaic Hollywood caricatures, not so off-the-mark reality shows, embarrassing politicians, TV evangelical scandals, and random acts of idiocy, I hid often.

For all the visual distractions, I almost missed the “exit”, aka right turn. A horn blared behind me as I fishtailed onto Route 101, the main artery of Havelock—the only artery, according to my research, and really more like a capillary. Both the addresses of my office and the pre-furnished condo INTech was providing me were on this road. My first impulse was to drive directly to the office building, but no more than a quarter-mile in, a brown metal sign indicating a downtown caught my eye. I decided to drive around the penitentiary a bit before viewing my cell.

All two blocks of Main Street, with its Americana shop-lined layout, was almost charming. Wide enough for curbside parking—free curbside parking—the street terminated at the water’s edge. The beauty of this sparkling random bit of sound, the joining of fresh and ocean waters, took my breath. Stepping from the car, I leaned against the fence railing, simply taking it in. Water tugged at my soul; it always had. Especially, North Carolina coastal water.

My family didn’t often visit the coast, but when we did, it was like a pilgrimage to Mecca for me. I breathed in the salty air and laughed—my first since leaving Philly. I laughed elatedly, even knowing this same beautiful water—this water which formed the complicated fringes of my region would be the very impediment of quick travel to clients; that this glistening liquid would soon become my sworn enemy.

Back on the main road, I quickly found 7220, the street number for my new command center, and pulled into the lot. The office was housed in a standalone building sharing a neat asphalt parking lot with First Sun Bank of Havelock. The two buildings were designed similarly: modern one-story structures with pale stucco exteriors and high-peaked roofs. Decorative columns adorned both, and an attractively landscaped island separated the parking lots. This was so much better than I’d feared.

Though my condominium complex was practically across the street from the office, in the name of exploration, I continued down 101. In the mess of billboards on Highway 70, an advertisement for a bar three miles into Havelock had caught my attention. As I was certain to need much alcohol over the next six months, I made finding it my next goal.

Williams Road, the professed street address, was little more than a cow path, paved in a mixture of dust and pressed gravel. Perched on a lilting metal pole, a sad excuse for a sign informed me I had in fact arrived at The Rusty Frog. Underneath a large green blob vaguely resembling said amphibian, a sloppy red arrow pointed in the general direction of a little rundown shack pitched like a tent in a forest of pines. While most probably the only bar in Havelock, I wouldn’t be caught dead in there. Punching the accelerator in disgust, I set off on a new mission: find liquor store.

I was surprised to discover several attractive subdivisions in the next few unsuccessful miles. The nicest of them had a pretentious looking entranceway, suggesting a gated-type community. Unfortunately, its red brick wings quickly petered into nothing more than a curbless paved road. Also, it lacked an actual gate.

Past the last residential street, I came to a sign welcoming me to the Community of Seagate. Here, a wide river, labeled Core Creek, flowed underneath a long arched bridge, the closest shore hosting a surprisingly large marina. I followed the long sloping drive to the sparkling water’s edge. Beyond the docks, the “creek” was a living presence, the movement of its steady current something I could feel rather than see. Oh, to have a boat and endless time to investigate every inch of this area’s water. Sighing, I headed at last for the condominium complex and my sad reality.

♥

The parking lot was sandwiched between a matching set of two-story condominiums, the façade of each unit different: a parade of architectural styles. After retrieving the key from the manager’s office, I parked in front of my colonial style unit. Bright pink azaleas, rising from a sea of brown pine needle mulch, flanked the walkway. I hopped up the steps, running my hand lightly over the warm railing. My front door was painted white with a polished brass knocker; the key slid into the lock all too perfectly.

While the exterior was stylishly attractive, the inside was, well…hideous. Judging by the scent of a recently vacated janitorial crew, the unit appeared to be clean and well maintained, however, the décor looked very much like Laura Ashley had spewed vomit in all directions—Laura Ashley on a beach vacation, that is.

The living room had as its centerpiece an overstuffed couch covered in wildly colored floral upholstery. The matching curtains coordinated perfectly with the painfully yellow, papa bear-sized chair in the corner. Voluminous throw pillows in colors encompassing most of the visible spectrum tied the assemblage, noose-like, together. And while in step with the rest of the natural disaster, the pale green carpet, much the color of chemical treatment plant sludge, made my corneas bleed.

After a quick glance at the dismal kitchen, I shored my courage and mounted the stairs. To my dissatisfaction, the bedroom was exactly as ugly as I’d imagined. The closet, however, was surprisingly generous. I sagged in relief; at least my wardrobe would be happy.

All-in-all the place was tolerable for six months, and even if it hadn’t been, it didn’t really matter; home was simply a place to shower and change before going back to work. After a quick unpack and shower test drive, I threw on some fresh clothes and went in search of food.

As with most extremely small towns in the South, the modern utilitarian conveniences are distanced from the residential areas: an afterthought. I found a cruddy looking strip mall two miles east of Havelock. The aging building housed a grocery store, pizza delivery place, a soon-to-be-extinct movie rental franchise, and, mercifully, a liquor store.

Food Lion would certainly provide all my basic needs, but according to the cardboard sign with the word “shrimp” scrawled across it, if I wanted fresh seafood—and bait—I should talk to the man in the folding chair, roadside. I imagined by summer the same guy would also be peddling tomatoes and peaches.

The overly air-conditioned store sold everything from milk and eggs to sunscreen, t-shirts, and fishing tackle. I tossed a large can of coffee, a pint of milk, and an armful of yogurts into my basket and headed for the cookie aisle. My figure was just going to have to take a backseat to stress-induced snacking for a few days. I also needed bottled water. My first gulp from the tap had been sickly sweet, thick, and somewhat slimy. Iced tea was popular down here for a reason.

I could happily live without water, but Fresca…now that was another story. Panic-stricken, I searched the drink aisle from top to bottom, cursing under my breath.

“Yew need some help, honey?” a small-statured, uniform-less man asked.

“Do you work here?”

“Well, no. But I know the store like the back of my hand. Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“Fresca,” I said irritably, already ascertaining there was none.

“What is that?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“It’s a drink,” I said, impatiently. “Surely this stupid store has some.”

“Oh, it’s coke,” he announced as if solving one of the great mysteries of the universe.

“No, I said Fr—” Then I stopped myself, remembering that all carbonated beverages in the South are called “coke”, regardless of flavor or company of origin. “Yes, it’s a coke-like substance.”

“Well, I never heard of it,” he said. “Donny’ll know, though. I’ll be right back.” He reappeared, towing a teenager. “This lady wants somethin’ called Fresca. Do y’all have that here?”

“Naw, we ain’t got nothin’ like that. Just coke’s all.”

“Is there perhaps somewhere else I might purchase it?” I asked, with strained patience.

“Raleigh, maybe,” he said, smacking his gum loudly.

“Raleigh?!” I gaped at them both; that was two hours away.

“Well, yeah…I guess. New Bern, maybe.”

“I’m in Hell,” I muttered.

Groaning, I dumped the already ripping bag in the trunk. I’d only been in the state a few short hours and already the practiced cordiality and twangy accents were eating into my brain like wriggling worms. A worldly, hard-assed Northerner for so long now, I was having very serious doubts I could re-acclimate to the South. Forget could, I did not want to re-acclimate. Fear gripped me suddenly. I’d actually just moved here…and I had groceries…and paper products! Panicked, I looked around the parking lot only to realize I was an alien in a land I’d once called home. My eyes fell on the one place that might dull my throbbing anguish.

The state-run ABC store, the only place one can purchase bottled liquor in the great state of North Carolina—A, B, and C being the first, and therefore most important three letters of the alphabet—was only a few steps away.

“Are yew havin’ a party?” the man whose name tag read Brian asked, eying me curiously as I handed him my credit card.

“No, just stocking up,” I replied dejectedly.

“Spring break?” He grinned. I stared back blankly. “I’m gonna have to see some I.D., ya know,” he said, continuing to look me over. Confused, I fumbled in my wallet and handed him my license. I wasn’t old by any means, but as I usually wore dress clothes and only patronized high-end bars, I wasn’t used to being carded. He studied my license as if he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Penn-syl-va-ni-a,” he announced, emphasizing every syllable.

“Ever heard of it?” I was being rude again, but my heart ached suddenly, and I wanted to go home—Philly home.

He looked at me oddly, but then shrugged and said, “’Course I have. It’s pretty cold up there. Are ya down on vacation?”

“No, I just m-moved here.” Oh no, I’d gone and said it out loud. “I mean, I’m just here for work. Temporarily.”

“Whew-hew. That’s a long way to come just for work.”

“You can’t imagine.”

“Long drive, huh?”

“I flew,” I responded tapping my foot impatiently, wanting nothing more than to go back to my condo, crawl onto my ugly couch, and have a good cry.

“Oh. I ain’t never been on an airplane before—always wondered what it would be like.” Then he eyed me oddly for a moment and said, “Ya know, we get lots of tourists from Pennsylvania and up that way, but yew don’t exactly sound like one of ’em. Where’re yew from, originally?”

“Look, Brian, do you think you could just ring me up so I can get on with my life?”

“Well, sure, honey. I didn’t realize you were in a hurry.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Once my purchases were bagged, he asked, “Do ya need any help gettin’ all that to your car?”

“No,” I replied curtly.

“’Course ya do, honey. Here, give me them bags. They’re too heavy for a little girl like yew to be carryin’.” He then had the audacity to wink at me.

“I am not little, I do not need help, and I’m not your honey,” I snapped, heaving the clanking bottles off the counter and hurrying to the door…which just happened to open inward. Dammit.

“Here, let me at least get that for ya,” he said jovially.

“Thanks,” I grumbled, before marching across the parking lot, arm muscles burning, refusing to show any weakness. Plunking my purchases down with a thud, I rooted through my purse for keys. The next sound I heard was an ear-splitting crash as one of the sacks slid off the hood and committed suicide on the pavement.

“Fuck!” I yelled slamming the door I’d just opened—a brilliant move, I might add, since the jolt helped the second follow in a lover’s leap.

“Dammit. To. Hell!” I stared at the mess, so angry I was shaking.

“Now, I told yew they were too heavy for ya.”

Spooked, I whipped around. “No, they weren’t. I just set them down in a bad place, that’s all.”

“Here, let’s get that broken glass up before ya run over it and blow your tire.” Brian stooped over and began picking up pieces of glass and placing them in the cardboard box he’d brought with him.

“I don’t need your help,” I said mutinously, squatting beside him and plucking a large neck from the pavement. The ground smelled strongly of distillery spirits, making me slightly dizzy.

“Sure looks that way to me,” he replied, carefully placing another large piece in the box. I grabbed a jagged bottom.

“Be careful ya don’t cut yourself, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the endearment, I continued, “In fact, I really don’t need anyone’s help at all.”

“Everybody needs a little help now and then.” He smiled warmly. “Helpin’ each other’s the Christian thing to do. That’s why the Good Lord put us on this earth in the first place.”

I cringed, waiting for him to start witnessing to me, and then tossed the bottom of an Absolut bottle in the box. It made a loud cracking sound, and I burst into agitated laughter. “Not my day, I guess,” I said, biting my quivering lower lip.

He patted my shoulder. “Honey, it’s gonna be alright. Why don’t yew come back inside, and we’ll start all over.”

I left the ABC store for the second time with a large jug of vodka, one small bottle of vermouth, a jar of olives, and an old man named Brian helplessly shaking his head in my wake.

“See you next week,” I called over my shoulder.

♥

After a couple—okay, several—dry martinis shaken in an empty jam jar I’d found under the sink, I slept well, waking Saturday to a much too bright morning. I was only halfway through my first cup of coffee when the movers arrived. Yea, my wardrobe!

Though a small moving van was more than adequate to transport my few belongings, moving employees around the country was something my company was famous for. I still remember the humored smirks the movers had given me when they packed up my dorm room in Chicago, stacking all five boxes in the full-sized semi. Needing little more than that now, I took advantage of the space, arranging for my most prized possession to be transported along with the scant cargo.

Gleaming like a ruby sunrise, my beautiful BMW rolled slowly down the ramp. With its natural good looks and acceleration of the Mach One, it was not only my dream car, but my desired descriptor: smart, important, and upwardly mobile. Diligently, I’d saved pennies for two years and used last quarter’s tidy bonus to buy it slightly used. Not part of the company’s generic fleet, it was mine: my testimony to success.

At sixteen, my first car was an orange 1972 Ford Maverick. The black racing stripes and Confederate Flag license plate were my daddy’s idea of style. It would have been any redneck’s wet dream, but dressed all Southern in my plaid madras Bermudas and coordinating headband, desperate to simply fit in, I regarded it as child abuse. Before I left for college, Daddy kindly fixed the hole in the muffler, and I slipped the plate in a garbage can at the first rest area I came to in West Virginia.

Many Southerners still fume over losing the war—the only really important one; the one that ended in—wait for it—1865. And though Yankees and those damnable Carpetbagger transplants are tolerated out of pure necessity, under the surface they’re still not particularly welcome. While this concept might seem utterly absurd to your average twenty-first-century INTech service representative, it’s the god-awful truth. And if unable to recognize, or moreover, accept this mentality, he/she/it was destined to fail in the land of Winn-Dixie. I understood North Carolina culture. More importantly, I was not fazed by it.

I spent the next several hours unpacking and creating my living space, but it was my workspace that needed attention. Earlier in the week, I’d spoken with INTech’s in-house sales representative with whom I would share the building. She had my set of keys but was out of town, which annoyed me greatly. As I was unable to get into my new office without breaking and entering—which, believe me, I seriously considered—I was alone, with very little to occupy myself. So, I did what any idle mind would do: I visited the Devil’s workshop.

What are you wearing? I texted. My phone rang immediately.

“Baby, the question is, what are you wearing?”

The environment in which I worked was highly competitive, “eat or be eaten” its theme. And…it was a lonely place. I was rarely alone in the literal sense—I don’t mean that. I was constantly surrounded by people, spending every day with clients, colleagues, and members of my sales team. But between crazy travel schedules and overwhelming workloads, I’d barely been able to carve out time for things most people considered important or even standard. For example, personal relationships.

I’d ignored the remnants of my small family to such an extent that now I rarely even got Christmas cards. The theoretical friends I’d had in high school had turned out to be just that, and my college friends were all but gone now, having scattered to the four winds. And for years I suffered from a lack of functional romantic relationships as well, though, in retrospect, I’m not sure I’d ever really had one of those. In sum: I really didn’t have a whole lot of people in my life anymore.

This poignant state of affairs hadn’t happened all at once, of course. People slipped away slowly and fairly painlessly. And the odd thing was, for the longest time this gentle disintegration of self didn’t bother me. Work, like muddy floodwaters, backfilled any emptiness, my career becoming my ultimate priority, the only thing I thought I really needed. But careers lacked arms and legs, hands and lips, so I began looking for someone who owned those appendages, someone who understood my life and respected it, someone I could trust. Ryan Vittorio possessed all of those qualities and a very dirty mind to go with them. Smiling, I bit my lip and laid back on the bed.

Ryan and I had met at a Quarterlies wrap–up party two years ago. A vice president in corporate sales, he oversaw close to $100 million in annual revenue. Cunning, with an innate sense of company politics, he’d risen through the ranks quickly, as I hoped to do. His work conquests fascinated me, and I coveted his lifestyle. Powerful, attractive, and highly successful, he was my kind of man all around. And, since we were both focused individuals who valued our careers above all else, we fit perfectly. That’s probably what drew us together in the first place—that, and pure sexual attraction. Hanging up after our in-depth anatomical discussion, I felt a bit empty, so I picked up my very warm phone and dialed it again.

The Pizza Palace delivery boy and I became acquainted thirty minutes later. He was very attentive and talked to me until I finally threw a large tip at him and shut the door in his face. The condo had a small study equipped with a desk, so my pizza and I broke out my laptop and started working…and then it was midnight.

3

Serial Killers, Marsh Men, and Zombies

I awoke feeling somewhat optimistic and decided to spend the day driving around the area to get my bearings. According to the omniscient, and possibly omnipotent, Google Maps application, there was a multitude of little hamlets along the coastline waiting to be explored. Early morning clouds gave way to beautiful streaming sunshine, the forecast promising warm temperatures by afternoon—hot by my winter standards. I pulled on a light cotton crew and a pair of jeans, and after yogurt and a second cup of coffee climbed behind the wheel of my beautiful car. I wasn’t exactly sure where to drop off the rental; the in-house rep could help me with that tomorrow.

Havelock’s militarized zone lay opposite Hwy 70 from us civilians. This was the other side of Havelock: a place I was sure to spend a good deal of time.

“The base’s entrance is ’bout a quarter mile down the road past the Hardees,” the gas station attendant informed me as his eyes caressed every curve I owned. Evidently, he liked what he saw, because he spoke directly to my hearing-impaired breasts. “It’s right ’cross the road from the elementary school—or the gentleman’s club,” he added, winking.

“So is it across from the strip joint or the school?”

“Well, both,” he replied with a shrug. “They’re right beside each other. Ya can’t miss ’em.” I raised my eyebrows and he grinned widely, exposing the large chip in his right front tooth. “I ain’t seen yew before. Did ya just get transferred to the base? I can tell ya everthin’ ’bout the place. I’ve lived here my whole life,” he proudly boasted, running his greasy hand through his hair before replacing his NASCAR ball cap.

“My condolences,” I said dryly, taking my credit card back from his outstretched hand. “I think I can figure it out by myself.”

“If ya want, I get off work at three. I could maybe show ya ’round a little.” I turned in disgust and pushed through the soiled aluminum-paneled door.

If downtown was the faintly beating heart of Havelock, Cherry Point Marine Air Station was its fortified soul. The impressive entrance to the base with its jet fighter lawn ornament was right where ol’ Chippy said it would be. And according to the two signs across the street, there was a PTA meeting on Tuesday at the school and a midget stripper performing all week at the gentlemen’s club. Lovely.

I peered through the imposing white gates at the massive complex. Later this week I would spend a good couple of hours obtaining my minimum security clearance, a fancy visitor’s badge, and a guided tour of the heavily guarded compound.

North Carolina is big on fighting, hosting a hefty supply of military installations, including Cherry Point Marine Base, Camp Lejeune, and the infamous Fort Bragg—FayetteNam to locals—along with three Coast Guard stations and a small Air Force base in Goldsboro. INTech held the Defense Department contracts for these facilities which would surely be my saving grace. Moreover, because few employees were local, there would be no need to do any public relations tap dancing.

Razor-barbed fencing ran parallel to Rt. 101. When it disappeared into the trees, I turned left onto Rt. 306. After passing two miles of pine trees on this lonely road—narrowly missing a creeping turtle in the process, I came to a series of streets, all beginning with the word “Cherry”: Marine housing. Just past the last neighborhood, the road promptly terminated at the water’s edge, where a large brown sign displayed ferry times and tariffs for transport to Arapahoe.

When I again met up with the turtle, which had made about an inch of progress since my first pass, I pulled to the shoulder and hopped out to do my good deed for the day; it was Sunday, after all. When I grabbed him, planning to assist him in the final leg of his quest, the little bastard hissed at me. Squealing, I jumped, and he flew head over scaly tail through the air, landing somewhere in the tall grass.

“Yeah, well as far as I’m concerned, you can get eaten by a raccoon, you stupid turtle. It’ll serve you right!” I huffed loudly and stomped back to my car. A twig cracked, and I heard a snorting sound that could have passed for muffled laughter. Feeling suddenly exposed, I hopped back in the car and locked the doors. Speeding off, I wondered how many heavily armed and desperately bored marines had been watching me from the woods. I shivered at the thought.

The tour of Cherry Point concluded when 306 dumped back into 101, and I found US/Rt/Hwy/whatever 70 again. I turned into the sun and cruised to my next exotic destination: Morehead City. Actually, I was kind of excited to see it again after what felt like eons, and I wondered how much it had changed. This was just idle curiosity, though, because it wasn’t the town I wanted to see; it was what lay directly east of it. After passing the first marina, visions of water began peeking between houses, and I felt the same fluttering in my stomach I had as a child pressing my nose against the window of our smoke-filled minivan. Though bittersweet, I laughed.

Even on Sunday morning during the off-season, Morehead City was significantly more bustling than Havelock. It also offered a hefty supply of national restaurant chains, small businesses, car and boat dealerships, and department stores. Behind the commercial façade, well-kept neighborhoods were visible, and I felt I’d come upon a thin slice of civilization. But as the “city” was surrounded on three sides by water, it lacked depth. Really, the town was just a bigger, fancier version of Havelock. Only this town had a view!

I signaled into the turn lane and followed signs to the bridge that crossed over Bogue Sound, the fill between the mainland and barrier island in the distance. The water was blue and prancing in the sunlight, and several small boats were already traveling its considerable breadth.

Even before reaching the other shore, the ocean began pulling me like iron shavings to a magnet. It wasn’t my imagination either, I could feel it! I’d forgotten the sea’s magic—just forgotten, and I was helpless against the draw. After parking in the first public access lot I found, I mounted the dunes and gasped. There it was: live, honest to goodness, North Carolina beach, with waves and shells and everything. Tossing my shoes by the wooden marker, I scampered down the path.

The sand was warming in the morning sun, and I wiggled my toes, reveling in the feel of soft baby powder against my skin. The empty beach was for the moment in my sole possession, so I rolled up my jeans and walked towards the foam, letting the cold water wash over my feet. Breathing in the salt-scented air that is so unique to the ocean, my heart beat a little faster, and I fought the strong urge to run around in circles like a crazed child.

Cutting through the sun’s warmth, the cold breeze off the surf was strong, and I retreated, climbing dune-top to survey my unlimited domain. Gulls and little beach birds returned to the place I’d vacated, and I watched them dodge the ocean’s white froth to peck at tiny shellfish brought in by the surf.

Grudgingly, I crossed back over the bridge to Morehead and made a right at the stoplight. I followed signs to the marina district and found a metered lot. Walking the boardwalk, I peered through gift shop windows and studied the fishing boats rocking to and fro. I found a small café serving brunch and sprawled in a chair on the deck.

After passing signs for Radio Island, Duke University Marine Research Center, and the Department of Transportation, the divided highway merged into two lanes, and I ascended the giant arched bridge that would see me across the intercoastal waterway to Beaufort. At its apex, a huge shipyard and the ocean beyond sprawled to my right. To my left, I saw an oddly shaped complex resembling an upside-down tea set, complete with bulbous kettle and several cups: a phosphate storage facility. Now, had not been the best time to roll down the window, I discovered belatedly.

I spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the Cape Lookout Lighthouse, investigating one village after another, reading historical signs I didn’t care about but found awfully amusing, and generally having a really lovely time. It was a beautiful land, and I felt a quiet longing I couldn’t place.

Early evening glowed amber across the dark mirrored waters of endless marsh bordering both sides of the highway, and the tall grasses in their winter dormancy shown a rich gold, the color of wheat. This peaceful place seemed the very essence of nature: innocent, void of all human influence. Minus the road, I imagined this place hadn’t changed since the first settlers arrived.

Now that I’d proven to myself with certainty that the ocean was right where I’d left it long ago, work’s equally strong tug pulled me to the present and the need to prepare for Day 1 of 180. When the sign for the Cedar Island Ferry—one of only two ways to reach the Outer Banks, proper, came into view, I knew it was time to turn back.

Wait a minute! Void of human influence; untouched by man; isolated? The eloquent simplicity of the mathematical equation was so very easy to solve: no man equals no business equals no sales equals no job equals no money! Fuck. I looked through new eyes at the teeth-bared, savage landscape. This road I traveled went from nowhere to nowhere, and I would be nowhere near success in six months. Frantic, I swerved the car around in a tire-squealing U-turn.

A spastic jolt flung me toward the dashboard as the car lurched to a complete stop. I sat in shock for a moment wondering what I’d hit and then climbed from the car, my feet immediately sinking. The narrow road had forced my tires onto the shoulder—a shoulder soft as confectioner’s sugar. I was stuck in the damned sand. Unbelievable.

Sand was slippery like snow, I reasoned, and I was a fine driver in the snow; I lived in the North for Pete’s sake! I’d gotten stuck in the snow before—everyone had at some point. Sure, my car was rear-wheel drive—less desirable in such situations, but that didn’t matter so much. It was simply a matter of rocking back and forth while slowly turning the wheel.

Circling the car, I assessed the situation, and then slid confidently behind the steering wheel, smiling at the console. My BMW was equipped with a “winter package” that started the car in a lower gear, reducing torque. Ha! Engaging the system, I tapped the W button and pressed the accelerator. Spinning tires, whirring engine—nothing. I applied more pressure to the pedal. The engine growled in vain, a spray of sand shot up in the air behind me, but I did not move. One trick after another dug me deeper and deeper into the mess. Finally, I got out and glared at the tires which had now disappeared to the rims. Son of a bitch. “Son. Of. A. Bitch!” I shouted.

A duck squawked loudly in response, rocketing out of the marsh and breaking the eerie silence. I surveyed my surroundings as my heart slowed. The sun had dropped below the distant treeline and the marsh was rapidly growing dark and foreboding. Hopping back in the car, I locked the door. I was a smart woman; surely I could get out of this by myself. I drummed the cushioned steering wheel with my fingertips. What to do…what to do?

Finally exhaling in defeat, I fished my phone from my purse. I hadn’t been here two whole days and already look at me; stuck in the sand in the middle of absolute friggin’ nowhere—a metaphor, or was it a premonition? Maybe both. Trying to remember the names of the last couple of dots I’d driven through so I could report my approximate location as other than “the marsh”, I dialed directory assistance.

“Hello?” No answer. Redialing, I said, “Hello!” with force. Still no answer. Was it break time? Change of shift? Did Information take breaks? I pressed the phone harder to my ear and realized I wasn’t hearing a dial tone. What was wrong with my phone? I looked at the face to see if it had died. Nope, three-quarters charged. Wait a minute… No bars. None? For real?

Horror-struck, I looked through the windows. The road was empty—like, no sign of human life empty—and marsh spread in all directions. Nowhere to even put a cell tower. What the hell were people supposed to do, walk? Oh shit…walk! How far had the last house or trailer been—miles? Walking was dangerous. People didn’t walk; that was absurd. You could get mugged walking, or attacked by a serial killer…or, or a marsh-man could capture you and drag you home to be his marsh-wife and force you to hunt alligators with him on some god-awful reality TV show! And what about zombies?

I was not helpless and I refused to be afraid of zombies. Serial killers—definitely! But come on, statistically, what were the odds? Exiting the car again, I rubbed my arms while pondering my next move—one that didn’t involve walking. The damp air quickly seeped into my clothes, chilling me.

I popped open the trunk, hoping I had something I could use for traction. Unless spare computer parts could magically turn themselves into a state-trooper, I was out of luck. Maybe there was something in my emergency toolkit that could help. Could I let some air out of the tires with the gauge, maybe? My daddy told me about doing that once. Did I have a tire gauge? Flares? Did I actually have an emergency toolkit? Rifling through my INTech paraphernalia, I found nothing useful except a tiny flashlight. Well, that was something. I slammed the trunk down with a juicy curse.

Digging! Digging was logical. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Dropping to my knees, I jammed my hands into the cool soft sand and began scooping it away from my stupid back tires. With the mindset of a dog hiding a bone, I took out my frustrations on this granular earth, dredging up all the reasons I resented this assignment, losing myself to my whirling emotions. I lamented the restaurants and cool bars and the semi-frigid people and everything else I would not be enjoying for the next six months. I hated being separated from my lover and my best friend, and from shopping and corporate. I was already freaking about Bob’s directive—the pressure of it. And then there was the clientele…

And what if I failed? Ryan wouldn’t want to be with me because I was a loser who couldn’t get promoted. And, and Kirsten would be so disappointed. Bob could fire me! Then what? I’d be stranded in Havelock forever, with no career and no life, and I’d have to work at Applebee’s or, or Bert’s Surf Shop selling fifty scents of Sex Wax to burnt-out surfer dudes and tourists who think Sex Wax is cool because it says “sex” on the package. And the fanciest store I’d even seen today was a Belk’s in the Morehead City strip mall. And I might not even be able to afford to shop there! What if I could only shop at—oh please, no—Walmart?

Then it got really bad…

A deep chill ran through me, and I shuddered as wicked childhood memories forced their way to the surface, piercing me like so many darning needles. Myriad blistering assaults tore savagely at my already pox-marked soul: inflicted snobbery, raw violence, callous and unfaithful boyfriends, cruelty, my father—untold gallons of wept tears. There was nothing innocent about this place, nothing beautiful. I hated North Carolina! My eyes pricked, and I started to cry. Then I stopped digging altogether and just sobbed.

♥

I didn’t hear the car pull up behind me—didn’t even notice the lights. I hadn’t even realized how very dark it had gotten. Wilderness dark.

“Hey there, Miss. Looks like you’ve got yourself stuck. Want some help?” I froze in my sprawled position. Oh, shit…a serial killer!

“No, I’m fine.” I wiped the hair from my face with the back of my sand covered sleeve, my heart thumping like a kettle drum. Visions of headlines some ten years from now flashed before my eyes: Woman’s Decayed Remains Found in Marsh by Man Duck Hunting.

“If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, I think otherwise.” Scrambling to my feet, I faced him, but even shielding my eyes from his blinding headlights, I couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Really, I’m fine, thanks. Just…go on about your business.” He began walking towards me, and I tensed like a violin string. Now illuminated, he had a kind face and was dressed in nicely pressed jeans, dark lace-up shoes, and a collared shirt. His hair was neatly combed and parted to one side: very normal. Just exactly what a serial killer would look like. On TV and in the papers they always looked completely normal. Normal and psycho. Though I couldn’t make out the make or model of his car, it appeared to be some kind of sedan. Too normal.

“Look, I don’t need your help. I’ve got it under control. Please go. Now.”

He fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket and flicked his lighter, making him appear very sinister. I watched the glowing orange tip float as he walked around the car, finally kneeling on his haunches to look at my handiwork.

Returning to my side, I realized he was a few inches taller than me, but certainly not huge. Still, I began shaking and feared my voice would quiver if I spoke. My heart was now a whole percussion section, blood pounding in my ears as I considered my sparse options. If I ran for it, where could I go? I would be lost in the darkness, which I suppose would be better than being cut into pieces of sushi.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said after a moment of silence. “Everybody gets stuck in the sand once in a while. Let me see what I got in the trunk.”

The man disappeared beyond the wall of lights, and after a minute of rooting for what I could only assume were rope and a weapon of some sort, returned with a small jack in his hand. Interesting choice. By now I’d made peace with dying as long as it was quick and relatively painless.

Instead of crushing my skull, however, he dropped to his knees, positioned the jack under the back of the car and began cranking the handle.

“See,” he said in a strained voice, the smoke from his cigarette wisping in the light, “ya gotta get the sand away from your chassis or you’re never gonna move.”

Relief flooded me as I realized he probably wasn’t going to kill me after all. This relief was soon replaced with fresh terror as a second set of headlights appeared from the other direction. The pick-up truck crossed the double yellow line and parked grill to grill with mine. He had a partner!

“Y’all alright?” This one had a foot on the ground before the cab door fully opened. I started to say, “No,” but then stopped. What was the point?

“John, is that yew?”

Serial killer number one glanced up and said, “Well, hey Charlie, how’re yew?”

Serial killer number two, aka “Charlie”, wore Carhartt-type overalls with matching jacket, a dark crewneck shirt of some sort, soiled ball cap, and knee-high rubber boots. He scratched his scruffy beard and walked toward us. He wasn’t a serial killer, after all. He was a Marsh-man! What were the chances? And, if I was really lucky, they would both stake their claim, get into a fight over me, and then I could steal one of their cars and drive away before either noticed. Now that was a brilliant plan! The sedan would be better because it was pointed in the right direction, but the motor of the truck was still running. Truck!

“Alright, I guess. Alma’s in the hospital again,” the neatly dressed one—John—said gruffly.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Heart?”

“Yep.”

“Where’re yew comin’ from?” Charlie asked.

“Revival meetin’ over at Cedar Point.”

“Is that right?” Charlie then lit a cigarette, the glow illuminating his wild and tell-tale Marsh-man eyes.

“Yeah. I figure I can use all the help the Good Lord’ll give me. Where’re yew goin’?” the bible-thumping, normal-looking killer named John, asked.

“Night fishin’.”

“Good evenin’ for it. Tide’s right.”

“Yep. So what we got here?” Scruffy Charlie squatted on his haunches beside John. The two men started conversing, their discussion broken occasionally by straining and groaning sounds as one cranked and the other dug. In fact, set in their task, it was as if they’d forgotten me altogether. I became annoyed. I hadn’t flagged them down, helplessly. I hadn’t asked for assistance. They were forcing their help on me whether I wanted it or not,  and ignoring me in the process. Some outlaws they were. And where were all the zombies? Were my brains not worth eating either?

Twenty minutes later, the last five of which filled with my thanking them both profusely, I was twisting on desolate asphalt back to Havelock. And though filthy, exhausted, and with ego sorely bruised, I had not been robbed, beaten, chopped up, enslaved, or eaten.

It was approaching eleven o’clock when I pulled to a stop in front of my red brick façade. The tremors had long subsided as had my tears of relief. Stripping in the laundry room, I left my sand-clad clothing piled on the floor. Once in the bathroom, I gazed at my frightening reflection. My face was heavily powdered in a designer shade of dirt, my normally rich, well-conditioned brown hair was now gray, twisted, and snarled. Overall, I looked very Bob Marleyish, or like a zombie that had just clawed its way out of the grave. No! I looked exactly like a Swamp-wife! I burst into hysterical laughter.

Once clean, I swallowed two straight shots of vodka and climbed into bed, my mind searching for something normal and non-North Carolina to latch onto. Finding Ryan in the stew, I clung to the memories of our last night together…

“So I guess this is goodbye for a while,” he had said softly, nuzzling my neck. It had been painful to hear those words.

“For a big while,” I corrected, my voice catching. He pulled back to look at me, his strong Italian features full of concern.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll call you all the time, and we’ll email constantly. You’ll get sick of hearing from me.” He’d laughed in that beguiling way I loved. “And when you come back for meetings, we’ll make up for lost time.” He pressed my body tightly against his, and his hand slid down to my backside, cupping and gently squeezing it. “Then, Baby, when you get promoted…who knows?” I raised my eyebrows wondering what that was supposed to mean. Would we move in together? That would put Bob’s carrot to shame.

He released me finally, and I buttoned my coat, hoping to keep the warm feel of his body blanketed against me a little longer. He grabbed both ends of my scarf and tugged me in for one last heated kiss. The elevator opened, breaking the spell.

“Take care of yourself, Baby. Make sure you hit your clients hard. Don’t slack off just because you’re at the beach.” I bit my lip, trying hard to keep my emotions in check; he had little tolerance for tears. I pressed G and his face disappeared behind the closing doors.

My heels had clicked hollowly on the cold sidewalk, echoing my inner thoughts as I stepped to the curb. I gazed up at his mirrored building, ever entranced by the spectacle of traffic lights bouncing from its face only to be reflected back again by wet pavement. The city streets teemed with energy and life, even at this hour, and I turned in a circle taking one final look at my glamorous urban surroundings. I would miss this.

“Miss! Hey, lady—” Brought back to reality, I glanced down the sidewalk at the street person, swathed in several layers of tattered clothing, staggering towards me. “You got any money?” he yelled.

Hopping in my car, I hit the locks and sped towards the expressway. “Well, I won’t miss that part of city life,” I’d muttered.

Snorting, I realized that maybe I already did.

4

A Girl Named Mona

Even after my delay at the one and only traffic light, it took exactly three minutes to get from my condo’s parking lot to the front door of my new office; near miraculous compared to my typical commute. The lights inside weren’t on yet, so I fidgeted, anxious to begin the countdown to Judgment Day. On so many levels I needed to work. On the phone, the in-house rep had seemed pleasantly professionally and very Southern. So where was she?

After a few fruitless moments, I got out of my car to enjoy the rich warmth of the Carolina morning. The tenacious humidity had swaddled my immaculately filthy car in a thick blanket of dew, and I wrote I Hate Havelock in large blunt letters across the trunk to pass time.

When a white Toyota pulled into the lot, I hastily retrieved my black leather briefcase and bundle of folders. My sunny side up smile faded when the sedan veered right, parking in front of the bank. A plump woman with poufy hair hefted herself out and I glanced at my watch, suddenly annoyed.

A scant five minutes later—not long enough for that ever-ready balloon of anger to properly inflate, my new officemate arrived in a charcoal Honda. Interestingly, she parked at the other end of the small lot. Rudeness in the South? Surely not.

Following a flurry of activity, a young woman emerged looking way too harried for this early in the morning. She juggled a huge stack of papers in one hand and a large cup from the 7-Eleven across the street in the other. A newspaper was wedged under her arm. She shut the door with the bump of her hip, and then crossed the pavement towards me, canvas purse swinging from the crook of her elbow, sandy brown hair swishing back and forth to the clicking beat of her camel sling-backs. Through the wad of keys dangling from her front teeth, she attempted a smile, but her large feminine eyes pleaded for some show of mercy.

Taking the cue, I carefully set my bundle down on the dusty hood, which had now dried from the vague heat of the engine, and gingerly removed the keys and cup before the poor creature received third-degree burns from drenching herself with steaming coffee. Once at the entrance, I studied the mass of jumbled metal in my palm.

“The siyalvur whun” she said in a clearly relieved, unmistakably North Carolina dialect.

“Right!” I found it quickly and unlocked the framed glass door.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, her drawl making the words sound like “thayank yewa”. I tried to conceal my smirk.

The thing is, if you’ve got a few extra syllables lying around, why waste them? The pace of Southern dialect is slower, with words pronounced to their fullest potential. There is nothing hard or clipped about a North Carolinian’s speech pattern, proffering the illusion that nothing is all that urgent. That’s not the case, of course. People just want what they have to say to be completely understood. In fact, in times of crisis, syllables elongate even further, and spilling coffee on one’s brown heather coat is universally considered a crisis.

My new colleague heaved a huge sigh of relief and dumped her belongings onto her otherwise pristine desk. “Okaaye, thaut’s uhlot bedder… muhch bedder. I’m goin’ seven ways to Sunday this mornin’,” she murmured under her breath. Suddenly, she faced me with a big, bright, first day of kindergarten smile and stuck out her hand in welcome. “Hey, Susan, I’m Ramona Taylor, but you kin call me Mona.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Mona.” I shook her petite, extremely soft hand, noting the firm grip. I was immediately struck by her pale skin. Considering Eastern North Carolina was pretty much a tanning salon, I thought this unusual.

“Sue? No, ya look more like a Susie, maybe one spelled with a zy. Am I right?” Her heart-shaped face cocked to one side, glowing with undisguised inquisitiveness—another North Carolina trait.

“Susan,” I said, through gritted teeth. Then I amended, forcing a smile, “Susan will be fine.”

Nonplussed, she said, “Oh. Okay.” Then, in an almost childlike gesture, her hazel eyes, fringed with a set of lashes reserved for mascara ads, looked me over slowly, taking in every detail until I felt rather uncomfortable. “You’re really pretty,” she said suddenly. “And I like your shoes.”

“Um, thanks,” I replied. Not sure how to respond to the “pretty” part, I deferred all attention to my glorious shoes—and they were thrilled by the compliment. “Yours, too.” Customary, regardless.

I tried to hand her coffee back, but she shook her head. “That’s for you. I didn’t know if ya liked it with cream and sugar, or just cream, or maybe sugar only, or maybe you might be dietin’, though now that I see ya, clearly that’s not the case, so I just brought ’em all.” She laughed enthusiastically, and opened her purse, displaying her bounty of coffee additives amongst the usual items: Lipstick, lip-gloss, a rather large hairbrush, a handful of pens, wadded up tissues, mints. She began pulling out little packets of sugar, artificial sweetener of varying colors, and non-dairy creamer, fanning them out on her desk.

“Um…thanks?” I said, baffled. “Why did you bring me coffee?”

“It’s your first day!” she replied enthusiastically as if that explained everything. She shoved the mass of packets towards me like the winnings at a roulette table and I made my selection.

Abruptly, she smacked herself on the skull and then giggled. “I swear I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck. I forgot to give ya your keys! Okay, now hold on a minute.” She fished a white letter-sized envelope from her bottomless handbag and, after ceremoniously removing it from the pouch, jingled the silver key ring in the air. “I am sorry again for not gettin’ these to ya this weekend, but I was visitin’ my folks and I didn’t get back ’til late last night. It was my mamma’s birthday—well, it’s next week, actually, but we decided to celebrate early ’cause my uncle Ralph’s nephew’s weddin’ is next Saturday over in Salisbury, so we couldn’t do it then.”

“That’s quite alright,” I said, amused. She then explained the nuances of the keys, holding them up one at a time.

“This one’s for the front door,” she said, nodding to the entrance, “and this one’s for the alarm system.” I followed her eyes to the pad on the wall. “I’ll show ya how to work that hateful thing later,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I don’t like usin’ it, myself. It goes off every time the power blinks, which almost always happens during a storm. And down here, boy do we get some doozies.” She shook her head and let out a quick mmm mmmm sound from the back of her throat. “Then, ’course, they call me to come over and turn off the silly thing. It’s annoying as all get out.” She huffed before turning to the hallway behind the alcove of her desk. “Come on and I’ll give you a tour.”

The walls were an unobtrusive cream color with a beige chair rail breaking the otherwise barren surface, giving the space a very clean, albeit sterile feel. She stopped in front of double doors and opened them wide. “This is the supply closet. I don’t imagine ya brought too much stuff with you, so help yourself to whatever you need.” A great lover of office supplies, I rubbed my imaginary hands together in greedy anticipation of sacking it as soon as everyone left for the day. Multi-colored adhesive tabs—Joy!

“Now I do lock the storage room and file cabinets each night before I leave, however, and I’ll ask you to do the same. She held up yet another key. “We have a cleaning staff,” she said in an ominous tone. “See, we’ve lost some things in the past. And once, I came in on a Monday and there was a Xerox of…well, a man’s privates,” she said delicately. “I’m sorry. I know that never happens at corporate.”

“No, never,” I responded gravely. Except for about once a week.

Now I hope ya like what you’re gonna see next,” she said anxiously. She took a few steps forward, but then stopped so quickly I almost banged into her. “Oh gosh, I forgot to make you a key for it! I’m scatter-brained as all get out this morning. You must think I’m half crazy,” she exclaimed, turning back to me with another giggle. “I’ll go out and get one made for ya later.”

Mona came to an abrupt stop in front of the last door to the left and took a deep breath before placing her hand on the knob. “Okay, well…here it is.” She opened the door and swept her hand across the entrance to a lovely office—my office. The friendly scent of fresh paint hit my nostrils and I stepped into the spacious, sunlit room and gazed with wonder. Windows—two!—one facing east, the other, south. The walls were unmarred and…actual walls—full floor to ceiling, real live drywall barriers. In the middle of the room on a nice woodgrain laminate desk, a shiny new INTech computer gleamed. I was momentarily stunned into silence. I realized Mona was hovering beside me.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“You don’t like it, do ya?” I glanced at her crestfallen expression.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your office. It’s not much, I know. But maybe with a few pictures on the walls or somethin’ it might not be so bad. I could have it repainted a different color if ya’d like.” Her anxiety was laughable.

Though inside I was dancing barefoot around the freshly cleaned carpet, singing, “a view, a view”, and touching my real-live door with each pass, I tried to act nonchalant and simply said, “It’s fine.”

“Really? I was worried you wouldn’t like it. I’m sure it’s not as fancy as your office back at corporate.” I smiled at her, my inner self still twirling around my non-cubby hole. “The chair’s new. I hope you don’t mind me picking it for ya. It’s a very good one, I promise. Ergonomically designed and all that. I sat down at her insistence and tested it out. The chair was firm and comfy and swiveled ambitiously.

“Very ergic,” I said, standing again.

“So you really like it?” she asked, looking around the room once more.

“It’s great, Mona.” She beamed up at me and I fought the strong urge to pat her head.

“Whew, thank goodness. Soon as I found out you were comin’, I fixed it up as best I could. I thought it looked pretty nice, but I’ve spent my time worryin’ ya’d hate it. Ya know, tiny building, bumpkin town, too, I guess.” She laughed with deprecation. “I’ve been up to headquarters before. I don’t know how y’all don’t get lost in those skyscrapers. And all the security and the visitor’s badges and the fancy meetin’ rooms…” On that tour, clearly, she’d missed the cubicles where they kept us veal. “I don’t know how you’re gonna like it down here.” Pain. “What on earth did ya do up there to get trans—never mind, it’s none of my business. Here let me give ya the rest of the tour.”

She turned on her heels and marched across the hall. “This is the break room. Oh, and meetin’ room, too.”

The space was approximately that of my office. A small round table with six chairs was the central feature, a small refrigerator by the west window. The long folding table stretched against the interior wall held a series of small plastic woven baskets overflowing with condiment packets, plastic utensils, napkins, and shiny foiled bite-sized Snickers bars. A dorm-sized microwave and a very large coffee pot ended the buffet. Several INTech ceramic mugs were turned face down on a white paper towel on top of the microwave. A commercial water cooler stood beside a smaller table dedicated entirely to a stack of Styrofoam cups.

“As you can see, since this was just office space, I had to get creative. There’s no sink, of course, but you’ll find a small washtub, sponge and some dish detergent in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.” She tossed a finger over her shoulder without looking back. “I’ll show ya that next. Oh, and you can put your lunch and whatnot in the fridge, there. Don’t worry about labelin’ anything, since it’s just the two of us.”

That’s the exact moment I choked on my coffee.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch any of your things.” She smiled reassuringly.

“No, the two part.”

“Well, yeah, we’re it.” She shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just…you and me?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my disbelief.

“Uh huh. It’s been just me for the past month or so, so it’s really, really nice to have another someone around.” Her smile was an inch short of beatific.

“Great!” I squeaked. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass on the bathroom tour just now.”

“Okay. I suppose you probly want to get all set up. I can show you the stuff in the bathroom later.

“Yeah, that,” I mumbled drifting back to my suddenly less appealing office. I separated two of the metal mini-blind slats and stared into the parking lot, not really seeing the asphalt. Here I was trapped in an empty office complex with a flighty, sensory-deprived Southern woman in a town that barely existed. My eyes finally registered the briefcase still perched on my car. I marched out to retrieve it, wiping the bottom furiously. The urge to peel out of town was almost overwhelming.

When I returned, Mona was seated at her desk, talking on the phone. She gave me a happy wave and I replied with a tight smile. It wasn’t long after that I felt eyes on my back. I glanced over my shoulder and jumped with a start. “Whoa, I didn’t see you standing there!”

“Startled ya, huh?” she said, standing awkwardly in my threshold.

“A little.” I had by this time freely raided the supply room, so I began busily arranging my pens, pads of paper, and paper clips, in part so I could start off neatly before working my way into complete disarray, but mainly so I didn’t have to look at her because she was freaking me out. “It’s just that it’s so quiet here. I’m not used to the silence.”

There was always a din of background noise at corporate, due not only to the fact that so many people worked in the building but also because a few years ago, some executive had instituted the brilliant idea of creating an “open office environment”. This left everyone with absolutely no privacy. Any conversation within earshot—and they were all within earshot—could be easily heard and thus chimed in upon. My desk was surrounded by chest-high partitions separating it from maybe thirty identical spaces. This arrangement also invited anyone to step into what little personal space one had to “chat”. There were conference rooms with real, even lockable doors that I raced to whenever Ryan called, but only the big bosses like Bob, and Ryan for that matter, had real oases of privacy.

Since my task had taken the better part of a minute, I pulled out the sliding shelf with hidden keyboard and entered my company I.D. and password. The company network wasn’t accepting either. As I typed them in repeatedly, becoming completely annoyed, I forgot about Mona altogether. I cursed it out loud.

“Okaay. You probly want me to leave ya alone so you can get back to work,” she said. Spooked again, I looked up. She was still standing there! Growling was my knee-jerk response, but then I had the startling realization that “Ramona Taylor” was the only full name I actually knew in this strange and parallel universe. Plus, she said probly instead of probably the way my mother did, which was somehow a comfort.

“No, it’s fine.” There was a chair just inside my office door. I motioned to it and she gleefully sat, daintily crossing her legs at the ankles, the very picture of a sweet Southern girl. Everything was in place from her hair to her pink manicured nails. She wore a little more makeup than necessary, but it was put on well. A string of delicate seed pearls with matching earrings accented her very non-clingy lilac sweater set and conservative below-the-knee beige skirt.

She was dressed business casual. I was business serious; black tailored suit, crisp cotton blouse with French cuffs, black spike heels; high end and so very not here.

“So how cold is it up there?” she asked, her voice drenched with sympathy.

It may have been spring in North Carolina, but Philly was still very much dressed in winter. “Not too bad. Upper twenties with just a dusting of snow. Fairly normal for this time of year, actually.” I chuckled at her expression of horror.

“I am sooo glad I don’t live up there. I don’t know how y’all stand it,” she declared shaking her head.

“You get used to it. Besides I used to live in Chicago. Believe me, Philly’s a cakewalk.”

“Goodness gracious! Well, I guess so then.” Her expression bordered on awe. “Well, I think it’s cold here. I guess it must feel pretty good to you, though, huh?” I hid my smile. Good didn’t come close. She became quiet, presumably processing the remnants of our deep weather-related conversation. Suddenly, she barked out a laugh.

“Where is my head?” She bonked herself in the temple again. If she didn’t already have brain damage, she surely would soon. “I swear if it wasn’t nailed on, I’d lose it for sure.” She was out of the room in a shot, returning a moment later out of breath. “I forgot to give you your phone messages. I told everyone on the sales team you were comin’ down this week, and they all want to meet ya.”

“That’s quite a few,” I said, raising my eyebrows at the inch-thick stack of pink memo slips. She handed them to me with bizarre trepidation. I noticed she had clipped the slips in neat little groups.

“These are from the sales reps?” I asked.

“Oh no.” She threw up her hands helplessly. “Those’re customer complaints.”

“All of them?” I gasped, looking at her for correction.

“Uh huh.”

“Exactly how many messages are there?” I asked, thumbing through the stack.

“Twenty-one,” she said solemnly.

“Seriously? From customers?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” She broke eye-contact and became seemingly focused on the rectangle of morning light slowly receding across the pale carpet. “Bad” was an understatement. “Disaster” was more apt. I took a cleansing breath.

“Alright Mona, let me tell you where I am and you fill me in on the rest. How about that?”

“Okay,” she said warily.

“I just got this assignment two weeks ago and I spent most of that time training my replacement. I was told there were some customer problems that needed rectifying—mostly PR. Plus, our service contract numbers are way off.” A fact I was only just now beginning to understand as I sorted through the hostile messages in my hand. “I asked around at corporate and all I learned was the last guy who worked here left the company. So, I’m starting at about zero. And you,” I said, placing the notes on my desk and steepling my fingers, “are going to get me up to speed.”

Playing secretary wasn’t part of her job description, and she clearly wasn’t happy about the twenty-plus calls she’d already endured. And if she was anything at all like me, she was beyond ready to dump this disaster into someone else’s lap and get back to her own job, but I needed her help and I wasn’t going to accept no. I stared directly into her eyes without blinking—a trick I’d learned from Ryan, designed to make people feel uncomfortable and bend them to your will. She didn’t look remotely intimidated, however. In fact, she smiled warmly and said, “Oh, I know.”

Then she abruptly stopped smiling and looked at me in astonishment. “Oh wow!” she exclaimed.

I decided she’d played me, so I leaned back against my padded headrest ready to strike back with some juicy sarcasm. “Wow, what?” I said flatly.

“You’re from here, aren’t you?” She cocked her head to one side and placed her index finger under her chin as if examining an abstract. “Not from here, exactly. But from here!” I swear she started glowing.

“I, ah…yes, I am, originally,” I stammered. So didn’t see that one coming. In fact, this was my second day of being surprised by the unpredictable.

She then gasped and her eyes became round as saucers. “The situation must be worse than I thought if INTech’s sendin’ in a corporate person from North Carolina.” Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, smiling slyly. “I bet you’re pretty unique up there, aren’t ya?” Her randomness was making my head spin.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Frowning, I looked over her with renewed interest. “Where exactly did you get that information?” I already knew the answer. She had a friend in HR and had been snooping around; maybe she’d noticed my mother’s phone number in the emergency contact section and had connected the dots. If that was her game, this was going to get ugly very quickly.

“Oh, I’ve just got a good ear for accents.” Innocence? So that’s how she wanted to play it.

“I don’t have an accent.”

“Yeah, ya do. I knew there was somethin’ about the way you talked. And that’s what it is!” She pointed a finger at me. “And you’re not from down east, either,” she said with an affirmative nod and a beaming smile. “You sound like home to me.” By now I’d decided she was either a stalker or a company spy, though I wasn’t aware we had any of the latter. But still.

“Where exactly is home for you, Mona?”

“Charlotte. And I know you’re from nearby. Where?”

“I’m from Winston-Salem,” I replied grudgingly. In the land of tobacco, grazing cattle, and rolling foothills, Mona and I were from cities less than ninety miles apart. No doubt, we shared a wealth of similar experiences—assuming she wasn’t a spy.

As with so many things North Carolina, my state hosts several subtle accent variations. There is an almost Scottish verbiage prevalent in the rural mountain areas—my grandmother’s accent. The eastern accent—more pronounced as one nears the coast, clings to remnants of the British tongue left over from the colonies, most prevalent in words like boat and house (I was reminded of that little tidbit last night, when it took three tries before I understood my serial killer friend was asking how far my “haowse” was from the marsh). The very functional accent of the bigger towns to the west—Mona’s—had immigrated to the New World with the unyielding, pig-headed Germans. Toss in a heavy dash of jaded sarcasm and voila: Me! Clearly, this should be entered into Wikipedia under “exotic languages of the South”. I must get right on that!

“That’s about what I figured,” she said, smiling ecstatically. Then jumping up, she hurtled to my desk and threw her arms around my neck. “Welcome home, Susan!” I sat stiffly as she squeezed me half to death. Finally, she stepped back and nodded in approval. “I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

If she was the litmus test for my survival here, then I must have passed, because she was smiling at me a little like a long-lost cousin and a lot like she wanted to hug me again. Mona assumed her former station by the door and began telling me all about herself, her graceful hands moving with the words. My mother did that, too, and I’d always found it amusing as if one form of communication at a time was just not enough. This strange girl was mesmerizing to watch, and I realized what I hadn’t before; she was really quite lovely, if not a little fragile.

Mona had received her degree in marketing from UNC-Charlotte and was hired by INTech right out of school like me. Trained in sales at our Atlanta office, she’d been transferred to Havelock three years ago when promoted to In-house Sales Rep. She explained she was responsible for maintaining long-term corporate accounts and direct systems purchases, managing equipment delivery and warranty paperwork, fielding service requests, and running stark naked through the building at two-thirty on Wednesday afternoons. As the office population dwindled, she’d been forced to assume most other facets of the regional business including fleet rentals, reimbursement vouchers, etc. And, of late, supervising the fifteen-person—excuse me—fifteen-man salesforce. No wonder she was crazed.

Managing them was absolutely my responsibility, so at least I could relieve her of that particular burden, immediately. I planned to run them into the ground to get the numbers I needed and was completely certain they would burn my picture in effigy a soon as I left—something I didn’t care about it in the slightest.

As her hands continued dancing, I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That struck me as odd somehow; she seemed the family type. Most women our age—the non-career obsessed ones, were married, possibly with a litter of pups. I wondered what her story was.

I started to ask, but then her predominately one-sided conversation shifted suddenly into a recitation of her family tree. I smiled despite myself. The significance of this was something no one at corporate could have understood. People didn’t discuss lineage and relatives there. In fact, I realized I knew nothing about my best friend’s parents. Hell, Ryan couldn’t even remember which state I was from, and I was sleeping with the man. Our commonalities were firmly planted in business. Mona’s and mine, however, were rooted in soil and blood.

Six months wasn’t much time to form a real friendship, especially with my being on the road for much of it, and I wasn’t really looking to expand my tight circle, but even if she was unusual, perhaps we could develop a nice working relationship. I smiled to myself, thinking she was right: we might get along just fine.

After our chat, Mona escorted me back up the hall to the restroom. “Toilet paper’s in the supply closet. Oh, and we’re low on hand soap. Don’t worry, I’m gonna run out at lunch and buy some more just as soon as I get you a key made,” she yelled after me as I closed the bathroom door. I drowned my laughter by flushing the toilet. Office chores such as procuring hand soap weren’t part of my job description—hers either. Mona may have been okay wearing that hat, but I was not doing that crap.

I heard the jingle of bells as I reentered the hall. As they had a cute little red bow attached to the top, I assumed Mona had installed them as well.

“Hey, Steve,” she said, waving to a burly man carrying a large tank of water over his shoulder.

“Hey, Mona,” he said, a huge grin slapped on his face.

“The other one’s only ’bout half empty. It’s just been me drinkin’ it again this week, so you don’t need to change it if ya don’t want to.”

“No, I want ya to have fresh water every week, so I’m changin’ it even if ya’ve hardly drunk a drop,” he said almost protectively.

“You’re always takin’ care of me.” She smiled at him pleasantly, and his skin flushed red from his collar to the tops of his tanned ears. He hesitated, looking down at her with a hopeful expression, but she dropped her head and went back to work.

As he lumbered down the hall, I fell in behind him. Mona sneezed and Steve swung back around, water jug and all, and said, “Bless you!” I tried to step out of the way, but the bottle caught me right in the forehead.

“Shit!” I yelled, grabbing my head and sliding down the wall.

“Oh!” He swung the rest of the way around and I covered my face to avoid further injury. “I am so sorry ma’am.” Steve dropped the water bottle on the floor and grabbed my elbow.

“Oh my goodness. Susan!” Mona yelped, flying around the corner. When she reached us, she began fluttering around me like a moth. “Are you okay? Do ya want some ice or some water or somethin’? Maybe ya need to lay down. Steve, help her to her desk.”

Steve bent over to what—lift me? “No! I’m fine,” I growled, sliding away. “I’m just fine. Really. It didn’t even hurt!” After about fifty more “Sorry, ma’ams” from Steve, Mona recovered her fine social manners.

“Steve, this is Susan Wade my new…well, she’s workin’ here now.” He flushed even further from embarrassment…or possibly Mona’s voice. I wasn’t sure.

“Nice to meet ya, Ms. Wade.” I believe he would have tipped his hat had he been wearing one.“And you as well, Steve. Please call me Susan.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll, I’ll just go and change this,” he said quickly, and then with a fleeting glance in Mona’s direction, disappeared.

I raised an inquiring eyebrow, but she shook her head no and tucked a few strands behind one ear. Her hair was cropped in a very feminine bob, parted slightly to the left. The cut framed her face sweetly, curling forward gently at her jawline. Very Charlotte.

Unfortunately, as I’d discovered over the weekend, I had a slightly more than a minor situation with my hair. In Philly where the humidity in the summer is modest at best and nonexistent in the winter, a little product and a flat iron kept my hair straight, shiny, and at bay. Not so here. In this oppressive humidity—only to get worse as the season trudged on—my hair had returned to its natural state. Simply put, I was Medusa’s first cousin on her mother’s side. The ocean-like waves so easily beaten back up North had sprouted long tendrils with lives of their own, and I feared no amount of product would help. Therefore, for the next six months, my hair, as it was today, would remain bound tightly.

At noon Mona left for the store, offering to pick up salads on her way back. Having no idea where to get such an animal, I gratefully accepted. This was a good time to visit First Sun Bank of Havelock. I walked across the already quite warm parking lot under bright blue skies, fighting the urge to lie down on the asphalt, spread open my arms, and bask like a giant iguana.

Directed to a series of small offices to the left of the teller counter, I was introduced to the Assistant Manager, Ms. Carol Heiss. The few strands of silver woven through her voluminous black hair gave her a sufficient air of authority. With a dramatic wave of her hand, she motioned me to be seated.

“You’re new to the area, is that correct?” she asked politely while eyeing me like a customs agent.

“Yes,” I replied—I mean lied.

“Now, where did yew say you’re from?”

“I live in Philadelphia. I’ve been transferred here temporarily.”

“Oh. Well, I am just so delighted that you have chosen First Sun for your banking needs during your sojourn, as it were,” she said, way too graciously. Unlike an outsider, I was acutely sensitive to women like her; sweet as molasses and insincere as hell. I’d grown up stirred in a cauldron with such types—just one of the thousand reasons I luuved the South so much.

Smiling back with equally false politeness, I said, “Why, thank you so very much,” all stretched out like a limousine. She cocked her head slightly and looked at me with interest, and I was very proud of myself for keeping a straight face.

I opened a small savings account—enough for free checking, got my ATM card and arranged for my paychecks to be direct-deposited until I moved. The procedure was fairly seamless and I thanked one of her many faces as she waved goodbye.

Back at the ranch, Mona and I presided over mediocre salads at the round lunch table. She drank sweet tea with extra lemon, and I had water. After a few minutes of idle chatter, I’d had enough.

“Mona, what happened to the last service rep?” She looked up with startled eyes that then dove right back into her lettuce. “Mona?” She exhaled heavily and dropped her shoulders.

“He got fired.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Failure to meet numbers.”

“How long was he here?” Mona shifted in her chair.

“Um, about six months.”

“Okay. It would be helpful to track down his predecessor to get some background information. Do you know how I might get in touch with him?” She looked up, studying me.

“No. He got fired, too.”

“Okaay. Why?”

“Failure to meet numbers,” she said flatly.

“Well, how long was he here?”

“Six months.” My jaw dropped. I did not like the trend I was seeing with my two data points.

“And before that?” I asked anxiously.

“Fired.”

We looked at each other in silence. I folded my arms in front of me to ward off evil spirits. She did the same. Then her hand flew over her mouth and she gasped. “They didn’t even tell you, did they?”

“Tell me what?”

She shook her head like a furious kitten and said, “Oooh, some of those people are such jerks.” I stared back blankly. “Well, okay.” She exhaled again and then slumped back in her chair, all pretty posture gone. “Since I’ve been here no service rep has lasted more than six months. They were all fired for the same reason…”

“Failure to meet numbers,” we said simultaneously.

I put my face in my hands and practiced breathing. “No wonder I couldn’t find anything about the former reps in the system,” I mumbled to myself. “I just assumed they were all transferred elsewhere, not fired.” I looked up at Mona who was now very pale. “That can’t be why I’m here. Bob just needs me to fix things. He told me so! This is a temporary assignment. It’s only supposed to be for…six months.” An unwelcome tremor ran through me. “And if—no, when—I boost the numbers, which I will, by the way, I’ll get promoted to district manager! That’s what’s going to happen. They aren’t trying to get rid of me, Mona. They aren’t.” Admittedly, there was a thread of hysteria in my voice. I heard it and I know she did, too.

“I sure hope you’re right,” she said, her voice dripping pity. “But Susan, honey, ya need to understand somethin’. This is where service reps come to die.”

I banged my forehead against the table a couple of times and then glared at her. “Well, if you assumed I was going to get fired, too, then why the red carpet?” Yes, I sneered!

“I was hopin’, ya know, that maybe… And with you bein’ a woman and all. Well, I just wanted you to be comfortable, long as you were here. Hey, maybe that’s why they sent you. Maybe you’re gonna, ya know…end this,” she offered helplessly.

Abruptly, I stood. “Excuse me, Mona. I need to make a call.”

♥

“Kirsten, I’m so glad I caught you!” I squealed into the phone.

“Susan!” she said, enthusiastically. “How was your trip down? How’s the office? Can you see the beach?”

It was a good thing I’d harnessed my superhuman strength or I would have crushed the phone into bits. I couldn’t decide whether to feel grateful to hear her voice or just really angry. I decided to stay within my comfort zone.

“Kirsten, did you or did you not get the full story before you so kindly committed my career to this assignment?” I hissed.

“Of course I did. What do you take me for, an idiot?” she snapped in return. “I never stick my neck out if I’m not certain a plan will work.”

“You mean my neck, don’t you?”

“Don’t be infantile.” Then she dropped her voice. “Hold on a minute.”

I heard her heels tapping on the linoleum, muffled voices, a door shutting, and then the faintest squeak of a cushioned chair. Glancing at my open office door, I quietly shut it as well. Though Mona’s desk was at the other end of the hallway, the last thing I needed was someone I’d just met eavesdropping on my conversation—or more importantly, discovering I was scared shitless.

“Now, what the hell is your problem?” she demanded.

“My problem is: the last, like five reps sent here were fired—each within their first six months! And please forgive me for freaking, but something is very wrong here.”

“Oh. My. God! Where did you get your information?”

“The in-house rep. She said they’ve been rolling through here like sagebrush.”

After a moment of silence, she said, “Have you considered the simple fact that she might be lying?”

“I seriously doubt that. What would be her motive?”

“Obviously, she wants your job. People will do anything to get ahead in this company. Be very careful choosing who to trust. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you’re not exactly the best judge of character.”

I’d barely known Mona half a workday, but she seemed very genuine—not even a blip on my bitch radar screen. I dismissed the possibility immediately.

“Look, I know you meant well, I really do. But…shit, Kirsten, I can’t lose my job. It’s my life.”

“Susan, you’re overreacting.” I could almost hear her eyes rolling. “If all this is actually true, and I don’t believe it is, I’m sure the last SRs were young and inexperienced. Do you know who they were or how long they’d been with the company?”

Actually, I didn’t…to either of those questions. Mona would know, though. When I didn’t answer right away, she said in that patronizing way she exclusively reserved for her district minions, “I didn’t think so.”

West Penn had been a stable region when I’d acquired it. I’d grown my numbers, of course, but there hadn’t been much of a downside. This was different. Until a few moments ago, I hadn’t realized just how different.

“If all this is true, this could be a good thing, actually. All the better to make your mark, to show everyone what you’re really made of,” she continued.

“But what if I fail to meet these ridiculous expectations?”

Kirsten sighed dejectedly. “Susan, if you don’t think you can handle the assignment, I suppose I could talk to Bob on your behalf. He’d be furious, of course, but I could intercede and try to convince him to transfer you to another region.”

There was no way I could go to Bob after my first friggin’ day on the job and beg for an undo because I didn’t like the odds; that would undeniably be career suicide. I shivered, remembering the eerie look of satisfaction he’d worn that fated afternoon.

“I know there are others who would love—”

“No!” I screeched. “I mean, I can handle this.” I tried my best to sound convincing. “I just needed to vent a little, that’s all. You know, new place, first day jitters and all that.” I made a pathetic attempt at a breezy laugh.

“That’s my girl. Don’t worry about those other SRs. Focus on yourself. And for God’s sakes get a grip! It’s only six damn months. It’s not like you’re going to be there forever.” I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. The woman was an inspiration.

“Oh shoot, I’ve gotta run,” she said suddenly. “Meeting. I’ll ask around and check out this girl’s story, okay? What’s her name, again?

I told her, and then said, “Thanks, Kirsten. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t either,” she replied, laughing lightly. “Don’t forget, Susan, I’m totally here for you. And remember, if this assignment doesn’t work out, you can always come work for me!”

“Gee, thanks, that’s very reassuring.” I’d seen dogs treated better than her people.

“Hun, we girls have got to stick together, right?” That was her registered trademark mantra. Whenever she counseled me, she always said the same thing. I relaxed perceptively.

“Yep.”

“Oh, and Susan…call me if you decide to have another nervous breakdown.” And with that, she hung up. Exhaling sharply, I spread the ominous stack of pink message slips across my desk like a deck of Tarot cards and began reading my future.

After a few hours, I’d returned all the umpteen phone messages, enjoying each and every berating to its fullest. I’d also scheduled as many service calls and introductory drop-bys as humanly possible, a feat sure to leave me utterly exhausted by Friday. I was trying to coax myself into optimism, but after replaying a number of client conversations, several complete with friendly threats, things really looked pretty dismal.

I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. Was accomplishing a twenty percent revenue increase in six months even possible? What was I thinking? I’d need a year—two, maybe—to accomplish something of that magnitude and staying here that long was absolutely unacceptable. And this whole “downside” business…what did that mean, exactly? My job had never been in jeopardy before. I was a card-carrying member of the “up and coming”. I’d never even thought to look back before…or down.

“Hit the ground running” were Bob’s last words to me—Ryan’s, too. However, neither had pointed me in any specific direction. In an act of sheer desperation, I gritted my teeth, bridled my pride and reached out to the one man that could. He answered, himself, and on the first ring—highly unorthodox behavior for upper middle management.

“Tom, this is Susan Wade. I was wondering if you had a minute.”

“Well, hello Miss Wade, how can I help you?” Tom Ridgeway was North Carolina’s longtime district manager—a man I’d hidden from my whole career, fearing one day he’d root me out and have me transferred home for his own evil purposes. Now, here of my semi-own accord, I not only found myself in the unpleasant position of having to formally introduce myself to one who could easily destroy my hard-earned reputation as a highly intelligent, hard-edged businesswoman, but to ask for help—something I didn’t do well.

Tom reported to Bob—when he felt like it. He wasn’t a maverick, exactly, but rather an inexplicable anomaly. Carrying enormous seniority over any other district manager in the company—actually, over just about anybody, period—he could, and did do whatever he pleased. What astonished me was he “pleased” to stay in North Carolina. For some unknown reason two years ago, however, he’d washed his hands of the entire eastern region, rearranged the boundary lines, and turned what was left over to Bob.

After patiently listening to me verbally stumble through an explanation of my newfound predicament, he laughed. At me! Once his chortling fit waned, he informed me under no uncertain terms that this region was Bob’s problem—ergo mine, not his. Then, as I sat stung and astounded, he dispensed a healthy dose of advice and cordially offered to meet me in Raleigh if that’s what I needed. Indignantly, I declined and hung up, confused, red-faced, but armed with a compass.

My first day coming to an unpleasant close, I was angry; at the situation, at Kirsten’s general lack of concern, at this pit of a region I was forced to work in, at North Carolina in general! Even the weather with its blue skies and warm temperatures and lying sun that had lulled me into genuine optimism just yesterday now pissed me off. I don’t know what I’d expected stumbling out of Bob’s office that day, but it sure wasn’t this. The term blindsided came to mind, followed immediately by the term I need a drink!

The sound of cheerful humming floated down the hallway. Sticking my head around the doorjamb, I appraised the highly suspect, possibly deranged girl named Mona.

“Happy hour?” I asked grimly.

“Absolutely!” She beamed at me, and after loading fresh paper into the copy machine, diligently locked the supply closet and practically skipped back to her desk.

Heaven help me!

5

Unhappy Hour

As I followed Mona’s car, the pines lining 101 got thicker. She drove slowly as if I might lose her—snort!—and hit her turn signal at Williams Road. Oh, you have got to be kidding me! Either Mona was into some serious backwoods stuff or this really was the only friggin’ place in town to get a drink. On a darker note, maybe Kirsten was right and Mona was purposefully testing my constitution, or flat out trying to scare me into leaving. Well, we’d just see about that.

The local watering hole was just that—a hole; a shack that looked like it might fall down if the breeze blew the wrong way. The paint had long ago faded, leaving the wood a weathered gray. Neon beer signs flashed blue and red in the windows, and Southern rock spewed from outdoor speakers.

Scattered around the bar’s surprisingly generous lot were various and sundry crap cars. Insulted by association, I parked my once again clean and shiny BMW as far away from the automotive riffraff as possible. Mona, on the other hand, pulled right in the front row without hesitation. I eyed her suspiciously as she beckoned with an innocent smile. Activating my car alarm—twice, I squared my shoulders and walked towards her as if I were totally used to this type of glamour.

Though ensconced by the looming pine canopy, the building’s rusted tin roof sheltered the front porch. Sidestepping an ancient pick-up truck parked crookedly beside the entrance, I mounted the steps. Mona was leaning against a 4×4 post battling a small spider web with a wadded tissue—as if that would somehow detract from the shabby entrance. Having successfully won, she turned to me with an air of satisfaction.

“The Rusty Frog’s about it for bars around here. I mean there are some places back in New Bern and over in Morehead City, of course, but they’re long drives, and well…I just really like it here. I hope you will, too. The people are real friendly.” I smiled tightly. “There is one other bar in Havelock, but don’t ever go there. They have strippers,” she added, whispering emphatically.

I followed her to the door. Just above the knob, a rustic wooden sign read, “Bar closed Sundays.” What kind of self-respecting bar wasn’t open Sunday afternoons with fifteen TVs blaring ESPN? Then it dawned on me: Ten Commandments. Once more, I’d forgotten where I was.

“Oh, and there’s not really a happy hour here,” she continued, “basically ’cause the drinks are always the same price and the only real food’s popcorn. They used to serve roasted peanuts—the kind ya shell yourself, ya know? But the shells kept endin’ up all over the floor and gettin’ stuck in people’s shoes, so Jimbo stopped doin’ that.” Jimbo? “I like the popcorn, though. It’s pretty good.” Mona opened the door for me. I held my breath and stepped inside.

Heads turned, followed by a beat of silence, but then an exuberant chorus of “Hey, Mona” sounded as my partner came into view. A regular? Interesting.

“Hey, y’all,” she shouted back, waving to a cluster of men seated at a large table in the back corner. “Come on over,” she said, motioning to me. “I want ya to meet some of my friends.”

The men varied in age from mid-thirties to possibly sixty, and with the exception of one rather grungy looking character, they all wore ball caps of some military flavor: Navy, Marines, Coast Guard. Water.

“Y’all, this is my new friend, Susan.”

“Hey, Susan,” they responded in unison. It was like an AA meeting, but with beer.

“Susan, this is, well, everybody.”

“Hello,” I said, halfheartedly.

“Susan, grab you a seat and tell us all about you,” the man wearing the Marine cap said, quite warmly. I bit my lip and looked at Mona. She smiled back.

“Y’all, Susan and I want to talk a little, ya know, woman-to-woman.” This last part she said delicately. “We’ll come back over later.” Okaay…

I followed her past a bank of five curved, restaurant-style banquettes looking very much like they’d been stolen from a Pizza Hut. Smashed side-by-side, they lined the better part of the wall. One seemed held together primarily by gray duct tape. She chose the unit nearest the bar. After sliding across the cushioned bench, she lightly patted it, inviting me to join her. Mentally shrugging, I scooched in and found myself cradled in the arc at an odd angle to her.

“So, what exactly do we need to talk about ‘woman to woman’?”

“Oh, nothin’ in particular. I just thought ya might want to get your bearings a little before divin’ in with those boys. They’ll talk your ears off. All ya have to do is say ‘woman’s stuff’, though, and they shrivel like flowers.” She burst into silly giggles and fell back into the sparkly red vinyl.

From my vantage, I took in the room’s interior. Hanging nearly everywhere were colorful signs, random license plates and obnoxious posters of scantily clad women advertising a variety of products. Various shapes and sizes of wooden tables were scattered around three sides of a dance floor lined out in black electrical tape. Unlike my favorite haunts in Philly, the place was well lit and felt more like a bingo parlor than a meat market. Glancing from male to male, I wasn’t sure how well-stocked the meat department was, anyway, or for that matter, the sanitation grade.

In the back, just right of the cluster of veterans, a large movie theater-style popcorn machine was popping up a storm. The smell was intoxicating, overpowering the scent of stale beer and…Wait a minute…

“Mona, is this a non-smoking bar?” Glancing around, I didn’t see a single ashtray.

“Yeah. They all are, now.” She pointed to the “No Smoking” sign posted above the counter. I was shocked—pleasantly so, but shocked. “Not too long ago, a bill slipped through the legislature prohibiting smoking inside public places. I think it’s great myself.”

Considering North Carolina played host to several of the oldest and most lucrative cigarette companies in the nation—one in my hometown, and the state’s main cash crop since before it even became a state was tobacco, the passing of such a law was absolutely miraculous. I leaned back feeling smug.

“Do you smoke?” Mona asked.

“No. My parents did, of course. My mother quit when I was little, but that never stopped Daddy. I loathe it.”

“My parents quit a few years ago, but Mamma still sneaks ’em. She uses one of those hanging air fresheners in her car, but I can still smell it,” Mona said, wrinkling her nose.

As we drifted into silence, my mind floated listlessly into the unpleasant past, and then back to my unpleasant present.

“Hey, are you okay, Susan?”

“What? Oh, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You were just frownin’, that’s all. Ya do like it here, don’t ya?”

“Love it!” I lied charismatically. “Lots of character.”

“Good. I was hopin’ ya would.” She glanced at the men who had broken into a fit of laughter and said, “I’m hungry. Want some popcorn?” At the mere mention of food, my stomach growled. That unfinished salad at lunch followed by an afternoon of fretting had left me starved.

“That would be great. You get the popcorn and I’ll buy the first round.”

“Okay,” she replied, an amused expression on her face. But after craning her neck toward the counter, her look changed from hopeful to anxious to defeated, in rapid succession. Then she sighed. Following her eyes, I saw nothing out of the ordinary except the absence of a bartender.

“What is it?”

She sighed again. “Oh, nothin’.” I raised my eyebrows. “It’s just…I was hopin’ that… Oh, never mind, it’s not important.” She scooted out of the booth and I did the same.

“What would you like to drink, Mona?”

“Beer, please.”

“On it.”

There weren’t any stools at the counter, which I found odd, so I propped against the worn oak ledge contemplating my shitty new existence. Scanning the shelves mounted to the wall, I noted there weren’t a whole lot of liquor choices—no decent brands, either. Popping on my tiptoes I leaned over the top and was immediately disappointed by the absence of any kind of wine rack or standing wine cooler. I grimaced at the small condiment tray by the soda fountain over which several fruit flies hovered. Clearly, beer was the best option. Looking around, I wondered where the bartender was, exactly.

As if on cue, a headless stack of boxes wearing grungy cargo shorts and beat up tennis shoes, untied and sockless, came weaving towards me, making intermittent grunting sounds. The box-monster then clumsily pivoted, and darned if there wasn’t a human head behind it—a head with a slightly flushed face and an unruly mop of blond hair.

If nothing else, I had learned three key lessons growing up. One, there is no such animal as security unless you depend solely upon yourself. Two, people will hurt you if you open yourself up to them. And three, the South is writhing with snakes—blond ones.

He glanced at me and a huge grin spread across his face. “Hey, darlin’,” he said with a cheery groan. “Be with ya in a sec.” I raised my eyebrows and nodded to the teetering case on top threatening to knock him unconscious. He righted the stack, and then had the audacity to wink at me before setting it on the floor with a thud. After wiping his hands on his faded Rusty Frog T-shirt, he popped up on the counter in front of me, leaning on his elbows like a little kid.

“Now, you’re new,” he said, breaking into another wide smile. He was…really good looking, actually, wavy hair, cut on the long side of short, a flop of side-swept bangs hovering above mischievous sea-green eyes, great tan, perfect teeth. That cocky smile and that rich Southern voice… I didn’t like them; not one little bit. Memories tagged with warning flags shot up before my eyes; more reminders of why I didn’t like the South. I scowled at him.

“Two beers,” I ordered curtly, turning my back to him and making a show of surveying the luxurious surroundings. Other than Mona, a couple at a side table, and the men in the back, there was only one other patron; a man sitting at a table by himself looking plain ol’ pissed off. Wearing a suit and tie, he was as overdressed as I—a kindred soul, perhaps. He didn’t look up.

“What’s the magic word?” the voice sang behind me. Oh, he did not just go there!

I rarely said please to anyone, anymore. In fact, I’d all but purged it from my vocabulary. I tested the word with rank displeasure. Nope, couldn’t do it, especially for a bottle of crappy domestic beer. Pivoting slowly, I gave him a level stare.

“It’s bite me, I believe.” Clearly not used to this sort of response, his eyebrows shot to his cowlick and his mouth worked soundlessly. “You do serve alcohol here? I mean, this is a bar, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered mechanically, his expression absolutely hilarious. I badly needed a target for my anger and frustration, and who better than a good ol’ Southern boy—one, the carbon copy of so many who’d plagued my youth. Tonight, he could take the fall for them all. “Let me guess, Bud or Bud?” He continued staring at me blankly. “Do you speak English?” I said, very slowly, my inner self rolling on the floor with laughter.

At that, he regained his composure.

“Well, aren’t you a little popsicle?” he said, chuckling arrogantly.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’ve been called way worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He stood to his full height and sized me up. I jutted out my chin and did the same.

“Beer,” I said impatiently, giving him my long ago perfected I think you’re dumber than shit look. I waited for a solid retort. Instead, he ignored me, altogether, and glanced at our booth.

“Well, hey Mona,” he said enthusiastically, the smile returning to his face. “I didn’t see ya over there, darlin’.” Her face lit and she waved. Stalling until I say please, is he?

“Do you even work here?”

“Only when I feel like it,” he replied, yanking the soiled towel off his shoulder and tossing it on the counter. He then pulled two beers from the ice bin, and I watched in amazement as he strutted to our booth, leaving the bar area completely untended. He nudged Mona over and gave her a light peck on the cheek.

“Pete!” she giggled, swatting at him. Wonderful! I’d just insulted Mona’s boyfriend and lost any hope of an office ally in the process. I looked around for a rock to crawl under.

The guy—Pete, draped an arm over her shoulders and made a show of admiring the mundane bottle as if a work of art. His eyes then shot to mine, and in deliberate challenge, he raised it to his lips in slow motion and took a big swallow. Then he tipped the neck towards me in salute, a big ol’ shit-eatin’ grin smearing his face.

I was torn. If I sucked it up and offered some vague excuse for my behavior other than “Sorry, but you totally remind me of every jerk I ever dated in high school,” I would suffer a big purple bruise on the backside of my pride, but at least Mona wouldn’t think too badly of me. Another bright and shiny option was to simply march over to the table, snatch up my purse, and storm out. Either way, he won. How could I win?

While weighing my options, I realized something wasn’t quite right. For one thing, Mona wasn’t sporting that special goo-goo-eyed expression reserved exclusively for boyfriends and lovers. And for another, she was currently in the process of extricating herself from Pete’s arm. Then I heard Mona say to him in an almost pouty voice, “I thought you told me Jimbo was comin’ in tonight.”

“Oh, well, he had to run over to Barco to check on his mamma. He’ll be back later.”

“Oh okay,” Mona replied, looking significantly relieved…and dreamy. Aha! There’s the look. She’s seeing the other bartender—the real bartender, evidently, which explained the angst a few minutes ago. Hmm… It now appeared I was free to move about the cabin.

“Helloooo?” I began tapping my foot in an attempt to summon Young Master Pete back to his station.

He glanced in my direction as if I were disturbing him and drawled, “Ya know, you look kinda cute standin’ there with your hands on your hips like that. Doesn’t she, Mona?”

Ribbing him, she cleared her throat and gave him a dirty look. He rolled his eyes dramatically and trudged back behind the counter. Reaching into the chiller, he produced an icy Budweiser and pleasantly untwisted the cap before setting it down in front of me just hard enough that foam seeped over the lip and oozed down the sides. He smirked deviously.

I snatched the napkin from his outstretched hand and wiped the bottle. I then crumpled it into a wet wad and dropped it on the counter in front of him.

“Thank you,” I hissed, stalking away. Before I got to the table, however, Pete quickly slid in next to Mona again, forcing me to take one of the rickety chairs across from them.

“Pete,” Mona then said formally, “this is Susan Wade, my new regional service representative. Susan, this is Pete.” Her voice was all perky and she smiled at him as if he were some great thing.

“Pleasure,” I said, glowering.

“All mine,” he replied.

A long awkward silence followed, ending when Pete said, “Mona, isn’t this, like the third rep you’ve had this year?” He raised an eyebrow and then stretched his arm out so it was behind her shoulder again.

“No, the second,” she corrected, nudging him with her elbow and smiling at me helplessly.

“I guess INTech doesn’t send their best and brightest down this way, huh?” I smiled indulgently. It is so on!

“I’m on a brief assignment from corporate, Paul,” I said smoothly. “So don’t go worrying that pretty little head of yours. I won’t be staying in this godforsaken place very long.”

“Aww, now that’s a shame, ain’t it Mona? A real shame.” She completely blanched.

“If you want to be grammatically, and phonetically correct for that matter, the word is ‘isn’t’, not ‘ain’t’.” Silent on the duh.

He narrowed his eyes. “Well, thank you so very much for clearin’ that up for me,” he replied sardonically. “I can’t never keep them two straight.”

Turning at the sound of laughter, I noticed two men in loosened ties leaning against the counter. Seizing the opportunity to rid myself of this nuisance, I nodded in their direction.

“So, tell me the truth. Is this really a self-service bar? I’ve never seen one in real life.” He glanced at the men.

“Hey, Pete, how’re y’all doin’?” they chanted.

“Gentlemen,” he replied. Then he stood and said, “Excuse me, ladies,” looking solely at Mona. “Evidently, I do have to get back to work.” Lifting her hand, he kissed it all antebellum Southern gentleman-style, which made me want to yak, and then said to me, “I suppose you’d like one as well. I doubt ya get many kisses.” What was I thinking before? I love this guy!

“Have you had all your shots?” I replied eagerly.

Unable to keep a straight face, he simply shook his head no, and disappeared. Mona put her head in her hands. “Oh, that did not go well. I am so sorry, Susan. Pete is usually really easy to get along with. Everybody likes him. I just don’t know what’s got into him tonight.”

“I’m sure he’s just a doll baby,” I scoffed.

“Actually, Pete isn’t even supposed to be workin’—”

“If that’s what he calls ‘working’, I can see why,” I interrupted.

“No, what I mean is Pete’s—”

“It’s okay Mona, really. You don’t have to apologize for him. I’m sure he was just born that way.” At the sound of an uproarious laugh, I glanced over my shoulder to find him staring right at me. As our eyes met, he had the audacity to wink…again.

“I think he’s adorable, myself,” she said. “Most girls do.” I snorted.

“I imagine he thinks pretty highly of himself as well,” I said, eating a piece of popcorn.

“Don’t ya think he looks like that actor in that wedding movie?” she asked, smiling impishly into her beer.

“Ugh! I hate that guy.”

“How could you hate that hunk of man?”

“Because he’s Southern.” I didn’t bother hiding my distaste.

“Yes, he is!” She feigned a swoon.

“Men like that think they’re God’s gift to womankind.”

“Yeah, okay, but you gotta admit he’s nice to look at.”

“He has a certain eye-candy appeal, but that’s just packaging. I’m sure his core’s as rotten as the rest of them.”

“Susan, you are harsh.”

“When it comes to Southern men, yes, yes I am.” I saluted her with my bottle.

“But, what’s wrong with bein’ Southern?” Mona asked, watching Pete vanish to the back.

“Mona, I hate to break it to you, but the only people who love Southerners are other Southerners. The rest of the country either ignores us or laughs at us.”

“I don’t believe that, Susan. I just don’t,” she said, knitting her brow.

“Trust me.”

She pondered that a moment, then randomly changed topics. “So do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I’m seeing someone back at corporate.”

“Anybody I know?” She smiled scandalously.

“Since you’re in sales, probably. Ryan Vittorio.” She gasped audibly, her jaw literally falling open. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I said, chuckling. “I take it you know him?”

“He’s not in my management line, thank goodness—no offense, but I did meet him once at Quarterlies shortly after I joined the company,” she replied, frowning slightly.

“He’s what I call a package,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess…” She seemed momentarily distracted. “A lot of people know him in Atlanta.” Bigger frown.

“Why the face, Mona?”

“Oh nothin’,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Again with the nothin’s.

“I know he rubs some people wrong. He’s pretty intense.”

“Yeah, that’s the word,” she mumbled. Whatever thought she had dissipated and her eyes brightened again.

“So how long have y’all been goin’ out?”

“About two years now.”

“Oh.” She became quiet again and began picking at the kernels in our communal bowl.

“How about you?” I asked, finally. “You’re not seeing Pete, right?”

“No. We’re just friends, that’s all. I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said softly. A slight pinch formed between her eyebrows.

“Really?” Considering her healthy dollop of cuteness, that surprised me.

“Unh uh.” She shook her head sadly.

“So…who is that guy you asked Pete about?”

“Ya mean Jimbo?” she said wistfully, her eyes lighting again.

“Aren’t you two going out?”

“No,” she replied dejectedly.

“Is he married?”

“Gosh no!” She looked absolutely appalled.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s…complicated, I guess.”

“Well, he’s either blind or a fool then, because you’re absolutely adorable!”

“Thanks, Susan.” She blushed at the compliment, but it didn’t seem to raise her spirits.

Changing the subject, I asked about the area. She explained in great detail the many attractions Eastern North Carolina offered—aka the beach, and what the locals did for entertainment, which basically amounted to fishing and swatting mosquitos. By the time we’d finished our second bowl of popcorn, our drinks were empty and I was in the mood to toy with Mr. Bartender some more.

I caught his eye, which wasn’t difficult, and pointed to my bottle. To my great satisfaction, his face actually changed color. He exhaled in a short burst and walked over to our table.

“Waitressin’ is not part of my contract,” he said dryly.

“Perhaps we could renegotiate that with your boss.” At that, his eyes lit up like candles.

“Why, Susie-Q, I think that’s a wonderful idea! I’ll mention it next time I see him.” I felt my face changing color.

“If you don’t mind, my name is Susan. Not Susie, Susie-Q, Sue, Darlin’, Sugarpie, Sugarplum, Honeybunch, or any other ridiculous nickname you have in mind. It’s just Susan.” Pete’s smile dripped with satisfaction and poor Mona resumed her head-in-hands posture.

“Whatever you say, Susie-Q.”

“Mona, darlin’,” he then asked affectionately, “you want another beer?”

“Yes, please,” she replied, her voice muffled through her fingers.

Then he turned to me. “Ya know we do have other poisons. Faster actin’ ones.”

“Yes, but they’re all cheap-ass brands. I’ll have another beer, too.” Then, tilting my head, I coated my voice with pure 100% cane sugar, batted my eyelashes, and said as insincerely as humanly possible, “Pretty please.”

He left us, mumbling to himself.

Our conversation turned towards work. We discussed the region’s client base and the sales team I would soon meet. Mona confirmed several key trouble spots, adding specific dates, testimonials, and the promise of incriminating evidence to the depressing mound of information I’d already acquired. Maybe Smokey the Bear was right; quenching fires would have to take top priority. I laid out my initial game plan and she wholeheartedly approved. Eventually, Mona and I traveled to her friends’ table and she formally introduced me. Good with faces and names was a job requirement, but these would have been memorable, regardless.

In his late fifties, Joe Pat wore metal-rimmed aviator-style glasses and worked at Cherry Point Marine Base as a retired veteran turned contractor. Vic Jr., the slightly mangy one, and Buddy Williams, who was somehow related to the long-dead namesake of the road outside, were ex-Coast Guard. All three were bachelors; Joe Pat and Buddy, each divorced once, Vic Jr., twice. They called themselves “The Regulars” and assured me they visited the Frog at least three times a week.

Joe Pat said he came almost every evening. “See, Susan, I don’t drink all that much, I just got nothin’ better to do.” The others chortled boisterously.

As if crossing the Mason-Dixon Line at some point in one’s life meant we had something in common, Buddy slid his chair closer to mine and leaned in. “Now, I was stationed in Boston briefly,” he explained, smiling broadly. Having been there many times, I nodded knowingly and began asking him questions; in which restaurants had he eaten, the name of his favorite bar, had he wandered Harvard’s campus? His answers were vague and noncommittal. Finally, he confessed his ship had once docked in Boston Harbor for all of three days and he’d only left it once for supplies.

“I’m Havelock’s Postmaster, now,” he boasted. “And if there’s anything yew need from the USPS, like change-of-address forms or stamps, you just let me know. Also, I can make sure your mail’s held for ya when you travel out of town. Just ask for me, personally.”

“I’ll do that,” I promised.

Billy Gray, who’d removed his US Navy cap as soon as we joined the table, had, until now, said very little. Single as well, he was stocky with crystal blue eyes, thick white-blond hair and a Santa Claus smile. When I directly asked, he explained with a tenor voice that he was in distribution for the Maola Milk Company out of New Bern.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a milkman, boy,” Joe Pat belched out.

“Well, that’s what distribution is, jackass,” he retorted indignantly. Suddenly he turned quite red and nodded to us. “Pardon my language, Miss Mona, Miss Susan.” I tried very hard not to laugh.

When he excused himself a few minutes later, I realized he stood quite possibly 5’5”. Bowlegged as a safety pin, I watched him meander through the increasing crowd. He bumped into the well-dressed man I’d noticed earlier and was repaid with a dark look.

“What’s his story?” I asked the table.

“I believe he works in the banking industry,” Joe Pat offered authoritatively.

“Yeah, he comes in here fairly often. Sits alone grumblin’ to himself, mostly. He don’t bother us and we won’t bother him,” Buddy Williams added.

“He’s not from here,” Vic Jr. stated flatly.

As my eyes swept over him, I felt a wave of pity; he looked so alone. I realized with a start that without Mona by my side, I’d look exactly the same. Glancing at her smiling profile, I argued that maybe she wasn’t after my job or trying to frighten me after all, that while an INTech anomaly, maybe she was genuinely…well, genuine.

I was a curiosity to the men, not only because I was new to town, but because I held the grand mystique of living in Philadelphia, a strange and unexplored land. Swamped with questions ranging from weather and winter driving conditions to the need for skyscrapers and the price of gas, I also endured detailed commentary on linguistics. Bottom line consensus: Northerners cannot speak proper English.

My fresh set of ears also prompted all kinds of stories, accompanied periodically by Mona’s whispered apologies. Some of the anecdotes must have been told so often that occasionally one or more of the other men chimed in to correct or add a detail. Enjoying their stories, I decided I was glad I’d come; glad I’d been wrong about this place.

Eventually, Mona and I returned to our booth, which, as luck would have it, had not been taken.

“I told ya they’d talk your ears off,” she said as we slid in.

“Yes, but they seem like good guys.”

“Oh, they truly are. It’s nice to have the company sometimes.” An odd comment, but I didn’t pursue it, partly because our relationship was too new to pry, but more importantly because I’d had three beers and I really needed to pee.

“I’m going to the ladies room. Do you need anything while I’m up?”

“No thanks. I’m fine. It’s over there,” she said unnecessarily, pointing in the direction Billy had taken earlier.

“Mona!” an unnaturally red-headed woman shouted.

“Well, hey, Dottie!” Mona returned. I quickly retreated before I was ensnared in a long and urologically painful conversation.

Though the men’s restroom was aptly labeled “Men”, my door was marked “Little Girls”. I rolled my eyes and entered the chilly cinderblock room. Both stalls had working locks and were loaded with toilet paper. And while the hideous yellow paint assaulted the eyes, the room was remarkably clean—or at least smelled it, and the graffiti highly entertaining; evidently, Pete was quite popular. Three granddaddy longlegs clung to the wall near the ceiling and several moths circled the exposed incandescent bulb, but otherwise, the place was fairly bug-free as well. Rust stains colored the sink basin’s overflow slits and the water only ran cold, but there was soap, which was more than I’d expected. After drying my hands on scratchy paper, I glanced at my watch; it had gotten late.

As I negotiated through the crowd to settle my bill, a very excited bleached blonde backed into me as she hit the punchline of her joke. I was tossed into a huddle of business types that looked a lot like some company’s sales posse; I hoped not mine.

“Oops! Sorry,” I said, righting myself.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” one of them said in an unmistakable New Jersey accent. I didn’t remember them from earlier, but frankly, I’d been too absorbed with “The Regulars” and their antics to notice much else. The man who’d spoken wobbled a bit, suggesting this might have been his second happy hour of the evening.

“I’m not sure,” I drawled back, matching his tone. This man played in the same Northeastern, hard-edged sandbox as I, and the rules of engagement were different. The culture was different, too; frosty, a little mean, and brutally honest—that was the best part for me; unsweetened honesty.

“I’m just looking for a little Southern comfort, darlin‘,” he replied in a mock Southern accent that grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. “And, you’ve got Southern written all over you,” he slurred, leaning in way too close. “All y’all girls is so cute.” His associates howled, egging him on.

I hated the way non-Southerners faked the accent, made fun of it like it was a joke. It wasn’t; that’s just how people spoke here. And while this type of behavior generally made me squirm with embarrassment—and if I’d been in Philly, I would have vaporized on the spot—tonight it infuriated me. Tonight I felt like standing up for all the people I’d just met, and especially Mona; fragile and kind.

“You wanna dance, darlin’?” He waggled his body, bumping into me repeatedly.

“Nope.”

“Aw c’mon, just one little dance.” I realized he was corralling me into their circle.

Looking up into his plump sweaty face, I said in a low, controlled voice, “Get the hell away from me.”

“I bet you’re a spitfire in bed,” he said, pressing himself against me and gyrating his hips. His friends continued to encourage him with helpful tips and nudges.

Men did not gang up on women in the bars I patronized. They circled solo like predators, fondled with their eyes, leaned in a little when they spoke, but there was a great deal of aloofness as well; aloof was safe. When a woman said no, they usually moved on. This one was too big and too physical and I was beginning to feel a little panicky, and that feeling made me angry.

“I’ve got two words for you, buddy. Piss. Off!” I placed both hands on his chest and shoved him as hard as I could. He stumbled back only slightly because, in truth, I wasn’t all that strong.

“Wait a minute, that’s not very nice.” I wasn’t one of those who said nice things anymore, and certainly not to my own kind.

“You’re right, that was rude of me. How about piss off, please. Is that better?”

“I thought you girls were supposed to be all sweet down here,” he said, looking genuinely disappointed.

“Dude, I’m from Philly. There’s nothing sweet about me.”

“Shit! Sorry, I didn’t know.” He took one giant step back, hands raised.” I felt the others disperse as well. That was the reaction I’d expected earlier—hoped for, anyway. I sighed internally, but couldn’t help wondering what it was about Southern women that encouraged men to act this way?

“Now, run along boys and go bother someone else,” I said dismissively.

At my final destination, I rapped my knuckles on the counter, trying to catch Pete’s attention. Now at his mercy, he blatantly ignored me, of course. Eventually, I gave up and made my way back to Mona’s booth.

I bent down so she could hear me above the music. “I need to cash out and head home. Tonight was really fun. Thanks.” And I meant it. I pulled a twenty from my purse and laid it on the table. “I couldn’t get that idiot’s attention to pay. It’s on me, but do you mind airmailing it to him?”

“Oh, you don’t have to pay,” she said, smiling. “Our beers are on the house.”

“Really? Why?”

“They’re always on the house,” she said with a little shrug. I raised my eyebrows and glanced at the arrogant man behind the bar.

“Yours may be, but mine aren’t.” She shook her head and pushed the money back across the table.

Halfway to the door, I turned to wave goodbye in proper North Carolina fashion, but to my horror that drunk Jersey reject was staggering to our booth with Mona in his sights. Crap. He was so loud I could hear him from where I stood.

“Are you Southern?”

“Well, ’course, I am,” she replied pleasantly. The man grinned.

“You’re a sweet little thing, too, aren’t you?” She blushed and started to speak, but then he added, “I bet you taste just like honey.”

Mona looked stunned for a moment, and then rose from the table, grabbed her purse, and without making eye contact, said, “Excuse me.” She marched straight for the ladies—forgive me—Little Girl’s room, looking positively mortified.

“Aw, don’t be like that, baby doll,” he called, stumbling after her.

Did they have a bouncer here, I wondered. Of course not. Hell, they barely had a bartender. I glanced toward the men at the back table hoping to catch an eye, but they were completely engrossed in conversation. I had an awful vision of that beefy man backing Mona into one of those stalls and forcing himself on her, so I did the only honorable thing I could think of—and the dumbest; I stepped in his path.

“Sorry, asshole, but that’s exactly how she’s going to be.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me in close to his face. “What’s it to you, bitch?”

Adrenaline skidded under my skin like acid, but instead of screaming, I turned into my very icy friend Kirsten and looked him straight in his bloodshot eyes.

“Oh please, you’ve been rude to my friend and now you’ve called me the B-word. Tsk, tsk. I had hoped for something more original, but, oh well, if that’s the best you’ve got…” I tried to look cool and collected, but angry heat crackled through my thin crust of ice. I noticed his friends were coming over, hopefully to retrieve him, and Pete, miracle of all miracles, was weaving through the crowd towards us as well. I tried to yank my arm back, but he had an iron grip.

“Let. Me. Go,” I growled.

“You bitches are all the same. You lead us on with your sugar and spice routine, then leave us blue-balled. You’re all a bunch of fucking teases,” he spat.

“The only spice I’m sporting tonight is pepper spray,” I said, feeling a little more confident now that Pete was by my side. The man’s friends put their arms on his shoulders and tried pulling him away, but he was having none of it.

“Everything alright here?” Pete said in a low, commanding voice.

“I’m just having a little domestic squabble with my girlfriend,” he replied loudly, yanking me like a ragdoll. “What’s it to you?” he slurred. Pete took on a very impressive look of menace.

“You need to let go of her. Now,” he growled.

My Jersey cousin was just drunk enough to be stupid.

“Bill. No!” his friends yelled, making an honest attempt to hold him back. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time Bill had gotten into trouble at a bar. Launching a meaty fist at Pete, he released me roughly, and I landed firmly on my ass. At the same time, somebody hit the mute button and the whole bar went silent. Pete blocked the punch easily and landed his own in the guy’s stomach. As my new “boyfriend” doubled over, Pete leaned down and spoke calmly in his ear. “Ya need to learn some manners, boy.”

Then he stood up and glared at the other men, who immediately put their palms up. “We’re cool here, right Bill?” The man grunted, which they seemed to take as a yes.

Pete gently helped me to my feet, for which I felt both grateful and incredibly embarrassed, and said, “Now apologize to the lady.” He scowled hard at Bill.

After giving me a look of utter contempt, as if his idiocy was somehow my fault, Bill mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Accepted,” I said, rubbing my arm and glaring back at him.

Gathering up their withered friend, they shuffled him to the door.

“Hey, loverboy,” I called after them, “that piece of jewelry you’re sporting on your left hand ain’t gonna getcha very far down here.” He threw me one last scornful glance before disappearing.

The door slammed behind them, someone hollered, “Damn Yankees!”, and laughter erupted. Several patrons slapped Mr. Fabulous on the back.

My arm began throbbing, and I realized I was shaking a little; I wasn’t used to being manhandled. And though I was relieved Pete had come to my rescue, I had no intention of telling him so. I turned to leave, wanting nothing more tonight than a hot shower and a comfy bed.

“It’s your night for makin’ friends, isn’t it?” Pete said acerbically. I turned on him.

“You know, I didn’t need your help.”

“Yeah, Susie-Q, you had it all under control.”

“That’s Popsicle to you,” I sneered. He cocked one of his eyebrows, crossed his arms, and stared down at me. “I suppose you expect me to be grateful to you for defending my honor.”

“I don’t really care whether ya are or you’re not, but ya should be.” He continued with the staring business.

“What? Are you waiting for me to say thank you?”

“Well, that would be polite.”

“You’d better find a chair, buddy, because you’re going to be waiting a while,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, mirroring him. “Really, you should be the one thanking me.”

“For what?!” he stammered incredulously.

“For giving you the opportunity to show off for your friends.” He gaped at me, planting his hands on his hips.

“Are you crazy?”

“No. I just call things the way I see them.”

He regarded me like I was from another planet, and then said, “Is this how you always set up shop?”

“Sure, Pete. I just love riding into a new town, getting my arm yanked out of its socket by some drunken jerk, and then starting a big ol’ bar fight. Yeah, that’s my M.O.”

“A first impression’s a lastin’ one, ya know,” he said seriously.

“Thanks for the tip. Do you get all your wisdom from Old Spice commercials?” The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“All I know is you’re a whole lot of trouble, Miss Wade.”

“My middle name. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home.” And with that, I pivoted and marched toward the door.

“Home, like back where you belong?” he called behind me. I whipped around and narrowed my eyes.

“I’m thinking of a finger right now, Pete. Can you guess which one?” Then, I kicked the door open, stomped onto the porch, took a deep breath, and began counting to twenty. I was on five when someone opened it behind me. I glanced back, surprised to find Pete standing there.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m escorting ya to the parking lot,” he said, like I was some kind of idiot.

I waited for the rest of the insult. When it didn’t come, I asked, “Why?”

“I don’t want those guys takin’ another crack at ya.” I rolled my eyes.

“I’m sure they’re long gone by now. And you can save the chivalry act for someone who appreciates it.”

“Actually, I’m basically responsible for your butt while you’re on the premises, so hop on that broomstick of yours and fly home. Safely,” he added.

“Gee,” I said thoughtfully, putting my index finger to my chin. “I wonder where I left that thing.” I pointed my fob into the lot and hit unlock. My car beeped eagerly, flashing its lights. “Oh, silly me, there it is.”

I turned back to him as I stepped off the porch. “One favor, if it’s not too much to ask. Check on Mona, will you? My pal was after her in the first place. I was just running interference.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and studied me for a moment. Then, after scanning the quiet lot, his whole demeanor changed. He smiled broadly, his eyes practically twinkling, and said, “Good night Susie-Q.” He disappeared into the crowd as the door shut behind him.

I hadn’t had a real nemesis since college. And while he was the Southern ghost of Christmas past, I could use some form of entertainment to get me through these next six months. So what if I burned a few bridges along the way? Like Kirsten said, it wasn’t like I was going to be here forever.

6

Archeological Find

INTech service representatives had a glorious history of failure in Eastern North Carolina thanks to my predecessors. In fact, from what I’d unearthed, it was a wonder we’d retained any small business contracts at all. Luckily, we offered a good line of products and our service agreements were generous. One of our smallest and certainly most disgruntled clients was a Mr. John A. Dupree, esquire.

Nestled in the heart of Carteret County’s quaint village of Swans Quarter, Mr. Dupree’s office was a mere two-hour drive from Havelock—a fact I’d been made painfully aware of. The attorney had embarked on a six-month letter-writing campaign, careful to remind Bob in each and every correspondence that Dupree & Dupree was not only a highly influential law firm but also of its close proximity to Havelock. Bob had kindly forwarded the entirety of these declarations to me with a curt note making it clear he didn’t want to receive another—ever.

Dupree & Dupree had been the very first business I’d contacted. Mr. Dupree Sr.’s earliest convenience was one week from Wednesday. Fishing, I’d discovered that John Dupree Jr. was a defense attorney in Raleigh and had never contacted INTech for any reason whatever. Mona earnestly cautioned me that Senior had been instrumental in the demise of our last SR, whose name, I’d learned, was Stanley Procter. Stanley had been green, as Kirsten predicted, having been promoted to the position from Minnesota. And Stanley had been stupid. End of story.

Swans Quarter, set on the romantic banks of the Trent River, was a sleepy place no larger than downtown Havelock. I found the firm on a narrow waterfront boulevard lined with trees streaming Spanish moss; a scene so idyllic it could have been a Monet painting. I parked in the neatly paved lot under an ancient magnolia tree. A shiny gold Cadillac and a faded blue Toyota filled the other two spaces; the former symbolizing a gentleman of wealth and power, the latter, an underpaid secretary.

Subtly raised off the ground to prevent flooding, the building was quite lovely and very old, sporting a handsome historical plaque mentioning something about a Dupree ancestor. Gold-tipped black iron fencing ran along the sidewalk, protecting the tiny lawn. Excessively wide cement steps ascended to an impressive white wooden entranceway, the door having an honest-to-goodness bronze lion’s head knocker.

Preparing for the imminent tongue lashing I would receive, I had dressed well to impress upon Mr. Dupree that my company was sending a real professional this time. Crossing my fingers that an Academy Award was still up for grabs, I’d also retrieved my formal, floor-length Southern accent from long-term storage.

Rather than holding it in front of me for protection, I shouldered my briefcase and assumed an air of calm confidence as I entered the sitting room. Behind an elegant antique desk, the bewildered secretary stood, revealing a skintight short-sleeved mock turtleneck and floral print skirt ensemble, both in blindingly bright coral pink. Her very blond hair was teased and pinned up, showcasing a thick gold necklace, its elaborately engraved gold pendant drawing the eye to the appropriate double-D location. I could hear Kirsten cackling all the way from Philly.

“Can I heyullp yew?” Her voice was soft and Marilyn Monroe-breathy. I’d discovered early in my career that turning acrobatics for secretaries was an incredibly useful activity. They reigned supreme over the appointment calendar and got you through otherwise closed doors. Of course, if you pissed one off, she had the power, as did this one, to jerk you around. I was absolutely committed to winning her over.

I stuck my hand out—clearly a first for her, and looked directly into her heavily shadowed eyes.

“Hi. I’m Susan Wade, your new INTech representative. I have an appointment with Mr. Dupree—for anass-whoopin‘—at one-thirty.” I smiled congenially.

“I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. Let me check.” She ran a shiny nail down her appointment calendar. Befuddled, she flipped a page forward, then two back, and then to today again, chewing on her glossy lipstick. “I don’t see…” Then she looked at me again. “I’m sorry, now who are you, again?”

“Your new computer service representative.” Still confused. “I’m here to help you with your computer,” I said very slowly, pointing at her monitor. “I’m going to make sure it’s running smoothly for you—and Mr. Dupree, of course. We spoke on the phone last week,” I prompted.

“Okay…?” she said slowly. “I’m Donna Hicks, Mr. Dupree’s secretary.” When we finally shook hands, I was amazed at their softness.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Hicks.”

She conferred with her book once more, and…x = eureka!

Her expression morphed from confusion to suspicion, and with measured scrutiny, she looked me over from head to heel, eyes narrowed, pouty lips set in an unpleasant scowl. She’d screwed me. When I’d made the appointment, she’d assumed I was Stanley’s secretary. I sighed internally but kept a pleasant smile on my face.

“Oh my. Well, please have a seat. Mr. Dupree is meetin’ with an important client just now, but I expect he’ll be along shortly.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hicks.” I turned to find a good campsite in the waiting area.

“I wish I could offer yew some coffee,” she said after a moment, “but we just ran out of filters.” Her smile was glassy.

Southern women, no matter how angry, are notoriously polite. They could be shaking with rage and still offer you something to drink. This did not bode well.

“I completely understand,” I said, laughing lightly. “That happens all the time at our office”—not.

After settling on the leather couch, I began shuffling through my briefcase, organizing my paperwork for the rest of the week. I could just as easily have completed a knitting project or read an entire trashy novel before I would ever see the inside of Mr. Dupree’s office. Donna began running back and forth to her copy machine, looking busy—probably driven by guilt. I envisioned her filing her nails and smacking gum loudly had Stanley been waiting.

About thirty minutes later, I stood, stretched, and walked to her desk. I cleared my throat several times. She tensed but pretended not to hear me. I made more noise. Nothing.

“Excuse me, Ms. Hicks,” I said loudly.

“Oh, uh huh?” she said as if surprised I was there.

“I do need a little caffeine after all. I’m going to run around the corner to the 7-Eleven. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank yew,” she said, her eyes darting away.

“Very well, I’ll be right back.”

“Uh, Miss Wade, was it?”

“Yes, Ms. Hicks,” I said, looking back.

“Mr. Dupree is an important man—silent on the ‘unlike yew’—and does not like to be kept waitin’.”

“No doubt,” I replied. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Judging from her rueful expression, she realized I’d caught onto her game and was calling her bluff. Just because her clothes weren’t smart didn’t mean she wasn’t. When I returned with two large Diet Cokes, she was quietly sitting at her desk squinting at her computer screen, the flurry of copying complete.

“Since you’re unable to make coffee, I brought a Coke for you.” I placed the sweating drink on her desk. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said, continuing my supplication, “but I also took the liberty of purchasing filters so you don’t have to go out later.” I focused intensely on her eyes but smiled innocently. She hesitantly accepted the box, her guilt-riddled expression confirming I’d won this round.

“Well, aren’t yew sweet? Yew didn’t have to do that, Miss Wade.”

“It was no trouble at all. And please, call me Susan.”

“Well, Donna’ll be fine, too, I suppose.” Yes! I had been upgraded to human.

“Donna, it is. Now, isn’t there anything about your system I can help you with?”

“Well, I might have a teensy question or two.” She glanced anxiously toward the back of the lobby. “But you’ll have to talk to Mr. Dupree first.”

“Of course, but please know, I’m available for even your smallest question.” I went back to the couch and settled in for a long winter’s nap.

Mr. John A. Dupree, Esquire was somewhere between sixty and one-hundred years old. Huffing and puffing, he made his entrance at two-forty-five in the p.m. through a side door. He smiled affectionately at his secretary, and then glanced into the waiting room, stopping short when he saw me. After appraising me, he nodded to Donna and disappeared into his office. About ten minutes later, a buzzer sounded. After a few “uh huhs” and an “unh uh” or two, Donna turned and said, “Mr. Dupree will see yew now.” The look she gave me was one of pity and remorse.

The prosecuting attorney was a rotund man with forever flushed skin. Dressed in a fine, summer-weight suit, he was decorated with all the necessary accouterments of an old-school Southern attorney: Monogrammed cufflinks, fancy silk tie, shiny gold tie clip, and peeking from his open blazer, brass-buckled suspenders.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Susan Wade, Regional Service Representative for INTech Corporation, and very glad to have the opportunity to meet with you,” I said respectfully, shaking his hand firmly enough to feel his heavy gold class ring.

“Please, have a seat,” he replied, motioning to a brass-tacked burgundy leather wingback. His expression was exactly that of a cat cornering a plump little mouse.

“Thank you, sir.” The chair sat lower than I expected, forcing me to look up to see him. Classic!

“Now, young lady, tell me why you are here and why Mr. Procter is not,” he demanded sternly. “Young lady” is a derogatory term reserved exclusively for scolding little girls and belittling adult women. My return smile was a very pleasant fuck you.

“First of all, sir, I need you to know that my company is completely aware of your situation—thanks to the five million letters you’ve written to Bob—and we intend to make sure you are 100% satisfied with our products. INTech is absolutely devoted to serving clients such as yourself, Mr. Dupree.

Sidestepping the load of bullshit I’d just dumped on his mahogany desk, he said, “I’ll ask again. Where is Mr. Procter?”

I exhaled dramatically, as if he’d already forced my hand, and leaned towards him. “Sir, because of complaints from several important clients, and your letters in particular, Mr. Procter has been removed from servicing this region.”

“That’s not exactly the result I was hoping for…Miss Wade, was it?” Really?

“Yes, sir. To be less discreet, Mr. Procter has been fired.” I tried to look chagrined.

Tugging at his sagging jowls, his lips formed a large, satisfied smile. His chest expanded with pride and he settled back in his manly chair, getting nice, comfortable, and all Hot Damn! I’ve finally brought that big, bad Yankee-company to its knees. I sagged with relief. Bomb defused…hopefully.

“Mr. Dupree, INTech has sent me directly from our headquarters to personally address your concerns. He regarded me with new interest. “Your secretary hinted that she had questions about her current system, and I would love nothing more than to answer those while I’m here. And if you have any, sir, I want to assist you as well, of course.” And, by the way, I know you’ve never touched a damn computer in your entire life.

Mr. Dupree took his time in responding, forcing me to wait in awkward silence. Sitting as straight as I could, I hummed the theme from Jeopardy to myself while his eyes traveled over me like a swarm of ants.

Opulent, with its burled walnut paneling, his office screamed old money. Pleated taffeta drapes hung from ornate rods, framing a large picture window with a lovely view of the nearby river. An impressive bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes served as the backdrop for his grand and ostentatious desk. His two diplomas hung on the wall, and I studied them. His undergraduate degree in business from The University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill came as no surprise—they accepted anybody with half a brain. Breaking common tradition, however, his law degree was earned from Wake Forest University—somewhere you needed a full brain to attend.

Wake Forest was located in my hometown—not five miles away from my mother’s house. Had it not been for its general location, aka The South, I would have gone there myself. But as it was, I didn’t bother applying.

Located right off Reynolda Road, just down the street from Reynolda Manor, and the other side of Reynolds Coliseum, the college was bought and paid for by The R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. Sometime in the nineteen-fifties, the Reynolds family, or rather, Marianne, the starlit second wife of RJR Jr., decided she wanted her own university; after all, the Dukes had one, for heaven sakes. So her husband did what any decent, red-blooded, ridiculously wealthy American tycoon would do: He bought her one.

Wake Forest was the smallest of the quartet of colleges in the Raleigh-Durham area. The family lured it to Winston-Salem with promises of land, endowments, and prestige—all of which it made good on. Now, Wake was a major powerhouse, not only in academic excellence but way more importantly, in basketball.

It wasn’t to the college or home that my mind drifted. It was to R. J. Reynolds High School, the scene of the crime—crimes, rather; all committed by beautiful fair-haired boys. I was surprised I didn’t have permanent skid marks running down the front of me—they were there, I mean; just invisible on the outside.

As we continued sitting in silence, my eyes traveled along the pictures decorating his shelves. Dressed in golf attire, Mr. Dupree stood arm-in-arm with famous people, mostly politicians; governors, congressmen, a Southern vice president.

After what seemed forever, I could take no more of the clock-ticking business, so I stroked his ego by remarking on the photos, the diplomas, and our common ties through my city. After a few laughs and fifteen stories I cared nothing about but sat, rapt, a temporary truce of sorts was established and I was able to get on with my job.

As predicted, Mr. Dupree informed me he rarely used that “thing” in his office; he was a pen and paper man himself. Interestingly, when our meeting concluded, he escorted me to Donna’s desk and hovered behind me while I worked. Her computer was on life support and she was hopeless, but I believe I impressed him, not only with my technical skill, but with my backside as well.

This scene repeated itself during each of my next three visits, all taking place within the span of a two-week period. Mr. Dupree was making sure he got his money’s worth. Wearing some of my tighter skirts, I made sure he received a healthy dose of quality viewing time for good measure. It was in the midst of these trips that I came to understand why his secretary dressed the way she did. Knowing the old man was going to leer at her, anyway, she made wardrobe choices that provided added job security.

During my most recent visit, Mr. Dupree announced he’d decided to purchase another system from my company. John, as he insisted on my calling him now, was so pleased with this flurry of attention that he felt his “boy” should have a new machine, too. And somehow in the midst of our meetings, I’d become the sole owner of INTech, Inc.—what with the “have your company” this, and the “make sure your company” that. Boy, was Bob going to be surprised when he got that memo!

I convinced John to purchase extended service agreements for his existing systems and a long-term contract for the new one that would soon begin collecting dust. He agreed wholeheartedly to all my suggestions, and just before I left he said in a loud voice, “Donna, I think you’re gonna need a new one of these things soon.” I left feeling like I’d won the lottery.

♥

On the day of Jr.’s install, I spent a good deal of time in my closet. I could either wear my ultra-professional suit to convey I absolutely knew what I was doing, even though I was a mere woman, or I could pull out all the stops and let him have at it. What the hell, I decided. For the new business he was throwing me and the cessation of hate mail to Bob, the old codger deserved a reward.

My appointment time for the installation was one-thirty. But unlike my first visit where the actual time was closer to three o’clock, the lawyer was pacing the lobby.

“Ah, the lovely Miss Susan. How are you this fine afternoon?” Along with acquiring a billion dollar company, I’d also been promoted to “Miss Susan”, a term both respectful and endearing.

“Just lovely, Mr. Dupree. And yourself?” I inserted my hand into his large, sweaty cocoon and waited for him, at length, to let go.

“Marvelous! Quite marvelous. Are we ready to begin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me John. I mean that, now.” I smiled and nodded. “Would you like some coffee? I had Donna brew you a fresh pot before she ran out on her errands.” Plural. Hmm… After accepting a cup, he said, “Well then, after you, my dear,” and I accompanied him to the uninhabited office adjoining his.

Knowing there wasn’t enough Viagra on the planet to make this man dangerous, I’d settled on a very formfitting black pencil skirt, dramatically slit up the back. My breasts strained against the blue silk of my blouse, unbuttoned enough to show the right amount of what God and Victoria’s Secret had given me. I wore my highest spiked pumps and my favorite Ann Taylor “I will never let you down” hose, a single seam running up the back of each leg. Ryan loved this ensemble—actually, except for my lucky earrings, he’d paid for it. And though it was edging towards hot outside, I purposefully left my suit jacket on as I entered the office.

Per my request, the system had been removed from its packing and the parts laid out by one of my sales associates. I took my time delicately shrugging out of my jacket like a high-class stripper and then bent down very slowly to begin the installation. Mr. Dupree stayed with me the whole time “just in case I needed any help”. I explained the process as I went along, knowing he didn’t understand a single thing I was saying and didn’t care. I also candidly shared that I’d insisted INTech give him a big discount to make up for past disappointments. Of course, we had. We weren’t stupid!

By the time Mr. Dupree and I were finished, Donna had returned from her errands. Her eyebrows rose slightly as she took in my outfit, and she hid a smile, casting her eyes back at her screen.

“You, my dear,” Mr. Dupree proclaimed, once again grasping my hand, “are smart as a whip. And I want you to know I have already written your company, extolling your virtues. Donna is tickled pink with you as well. Aren’t you, dear?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dupree,” she replied, continuing to type.

“I’ll call you early next week to check on the system, Mr. Dupree—John,” I corrected when he held up his hand. “Goodbye. Oh, and thank you for the coffee, Donna. It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Susan.” And damned, if she didn’t look absolutely sincere.

I high-fived myself in the parking lot. This had been my first really good day since I arrived South, and I was going back to Havelock with a big smile on my face.

7

Ambush!

A few miles outside of town, I received a call from Mona. An established client needed help installing his new data system. He was slotted for service next week, but apparently, his order had arrived early, and in lieu of waiting, he’d decided to do it himself. Great. I always hated when customers—typically, men—decided they were suddenly computer experts because they had an instruction manual and an Allen wrench. Invariably, it just made more work for me.

“Yeah, he was about halfway through when he got stuck, and he wants to know if you can come by today,” Mona said, relaying the message. Duh. Of course, I can. I’m the can-do girl. Besides, one more customer today opened a slot on next week’s docket. I was slowly knocking out initial visits, even with Mr. Dupree’s ridiculous demands.

“Give me the address. I’m on the way back from Swans Quarter now.”

“Susan, you are spendin’ way too much time over there,” she clucked.

“Tell me about it. I’m thinking of moving there to shorten my commute. At least I’m making money!”

“Yeah, at least that.”

Mona sounded almost timid as she relayed the customer’s information to me. “Are you okay? You sound a little off.”

“No. I mean yes, I’m fine,” she said in an elevated voice.

“Are you sure?”

“Uh huh!”

“You want to hit the Frog tonight after work? I’m buying.” I hadn’t been back since my inaugural visit, and she’d been bugging me to go drinking with her again. I kept refusing because I was too overrun with work. Plus, I wasn’t in any hurry to have another run-in with that obnoxious bartender. But with the ink barely dry on Mr. Dupree’s contract, I was feeling confident and very pleased with myself. And now, as the juicy cherry on top of my happy sundae, I was about to service two clients in a single day. Amazing!

“Well…okaay, but I might be the one buyin’,” she muttered, hanging up quickly. Sometimes that girl was just plain bizarre.

Plugging the address into my phone, I sped towards Morehead City absorbed in thought. Today had barely been a drop in an oversized bucket. Could I manage Bob’s expectations? Was twenty percent even possible? Next week I was meeting with my entire sales team to have a serious heart-to-heart about our futures. If I got my way, we’d all skip hand-in-hand to our early graves.

Paying little attention to my surroundings, I suddenly realized I was on the bridge to Beaufort. Quickly turning around, I found the address and pulled into the lot. Glancing at my scribbled note, I noticed Mona had neglected to give me the client’s name. From the equipment order, I vaguely remembered it began with a W. Walker, Walters…something. I grabbed my briefcase and toolkit from the trunk and walked to the entrance. The company placard read, “Coastal Architectural Design, Walsh and Associates.” Walsh! That was it.

Toasty this early spring afternoon, summer was going to be absolutely unbearable. With sweat beading on my nose, I certainly didn’t need my jacket, but in this outfit, I had to show some semblance of professionalism. Hit with a blast of cold air as I opened the door, I wondered how people kept from catching pneumonia down here, going from the icy indoors to the bread-baking outdoors; a hardy bunch—or a stubborn one. I tended to think of people from the upper Midwest or the Dakotas as tough because of the beyond inclement winters, but this environment was just as harsh—maybe worse in some ways because it was snowless, blue-skied and beautiful—the beach part, anyway.

Unremarkable on the outside, the Walsh building’s interior was architecturally interesting and beautifully designed. The roof was slanted at an unusual angle, inviting filtered sunlight to gently spill through its glass panels. Exposed rafters, painted the same pale shade as the walls and ceiling, provided an airy feel to the space, the color both reflecting the natural light and practically hiding the track lighting mounted discreetly on the beams. Lovely black and white photos of European-looking buildings, each with penciled titles on their mattings, decorated the walls. Nice…very nice, and virtually opposite the dark, pretentious country club office that I’d just left.

The client reception area to my right funneled into a short hall leading to a single door. Centered on the pale wood floor, a lovely, uncomplicated Tibetan rug in rich hues of blue and ruby encircled the waiting room furniture. Two contemporary, navy suede chairs, and a matching couch with sharp lines were set opposite one another, a bi-layered, clear on frosted glass coffee table with streamline metal legs, the divide. The intense color of the rug and furniture contrasted thoroughly with the walls, focusing the eye on the business at hand. Perfect. And so my style. It was somehow comforting to know someone here had taste.

Seated at a workstation to the left, a woman was completely absorbed in some blueprint-looking figure filling a billboard-sized computer screen set ten inches from her nose. The unit was one of INTech’s high-end CAD design models—big yea! She jerked her mouse around impatiently as she fought to get a word in edgewise in a phone conversation.

“No, this is Laney Meyer from Coastal again. Yes. Am I coming through clearly?” she snapped. Ah, the beloved conference-call; convenient, cost-effective, and an utter nuisance. Frowning, she covered the mouthpiece and tilted her head towards the hall. “He’s back there.”

“Thanks,” I mouthed.

What caught my attention immediately was that the room was excruciatingly neat. The giant office was spatially divided between a very large drafting table and a sleek, steel desk. Rather than facing the door, the latter was positioned at an odd angle, enhancing the view of the computer screen from the table. Two tall wooden cabinets, looking much like wine storage units, sat side-by-side against the far wall. Instead of holding bottles, however, the diamond-shaped slots were filled with rolls of blueprints. And…that was it. The office space was otherwise spartan.

Mr. Walsh was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to me, our owner’s manual lying open in his lap. A nest of papers stamped with INTech’s logo encircled him, and two large boxes and their pile of packing material and paraphernalia littered one small corner of the room. The sleeves of his light blue shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows, and he held a wrench in his left hand—never a good sign. After flipping another page, he let out an exasperated huff and raked his fingers through his thick, wavy hair, cut just long enough that it curled at the nape of his neck. I couldn’t help noticing the way his shirt fit across his broad shoulders and tapered toward his waist. A brown leather belt looped through his parchment colored slacks, and he wore attractive leather loafers. Nice gold watch. No wedding band. Mm mm mm.

I made it a point never to date clients; it was bad for business on several levels. And though I flirted occasionally, I always made sure no one took me seriously. Besides, I would never cheat on Ryan. But, as I hadn’t heard his voice in over a week, and the only other gentleman I was seeing on a regular basis was Mr. Dupree, a breath of fresh, attractive air—one, not one-hundred and fifty years old—would be awfully nice to breathe. I knocked lightly on the doorframe.

The client rose fluidly and turned around slowly, the primary feature on his snotty face a big ol’ shit eatin’ grin that threatened to split his cheeks wide open. Heat flooded through me despite the chilled air. Standing there in all his glory was that blond-haired, green-eyed pain in the ass from the bar! My really great day had just been ruined. Damn Mona and her perky little Southern voice to the fiery pits of Hell. A complete ambush!

“Well, hey there, Miss Service Rep,” he drawled. I was a fly caught under his glass, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “I was so busy fendin’ off insults the night we met, I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself. I’m Peter Walsh, architect extraordinaire. But don’t worry your pretty little head,” he said, eyes sparking with the kill, “I only moonlight here.” He extended his hand and raised his eyebrows when I didn’t take it right away.

Clenching my jaw, I forced a polite smile and coolly met his gaze. Aloof. Go for aloof…and breezy. “Hello, Mr. Walsh. As you already know, I’m Susan Wade.” I mechanically accepted his hand, gripping it solidly as we shook.

“Yeah, your image is scorched into my memory.” Remain professional. Remain professional.

“How may I be of service to you today, Mr. Walsh?”

“It’s Pete,” he corrected. “Do you mind if I call ya Susan…or is there some ridiculous Southern nickname you’d prefer?” Clearly on the verge of laughter, he bit his lip. Oh, you think this is so funny! I cocked my eyebrow slightly but chose not to answer in any of the ways I wanted.

“Susan’s fine.”

He gave up completely at this point, his ribs quaking with silent laughter.

As the initial shock of the situation waned, I retreated into business mode. Surveying the pile of unconscious machinery crammed on his desk beside the new, I stepped carefully through the scattered papers to the model he was most likely destroying.

“May I?” I asked, before placing my briefcase on his desk.

“Of course,” he answered, gesturing with too much enthusiasm. “First things, first, though.” I cast my eyes to the heavens.

“Yes?”

“I need to know if you’re gonna ease in with some preliminary insults or just blast me with flames right away. ’Cause if it’s the latter,” he continued, his voice quivering, “I’ll need to get a clipboard to shield myself.”

I narrowed my eyes and threw his words back at him. “Neither, Mr. Walsh.” If possible, his eyes burned even brighter.

“Pete,” he corrected.

How about asshole, hmm?

“Mr. Walsh, INTech and I are pleased to assist you with the installation and maintenance of your new business equipment.” And by the way, I loathe you! I smiled wanly. “And, let me be frank with you up front, I take my job very seriously.” I lifted my eyebrows hoping to convey my message.

“Of course ya do, Susie-Q.”

Now hot with rage, I unceremoniously removed my jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. Then I knelt down beside his desk to see what havoc he’d already wreaked. I felt his eyes on my back, checking out my ass no doubt.

“Do you always dress so nicely for service calls?” Yep, the ass.

I turned to face him. “Is my outfit a problem for you, sir? Because if it is, I’ll be more than happy to come back wearing something less…offensive. I believe my next opening is in two weeks.” I curled my lips in a malicious smile.

“It’s not a problem at all. In fact, ya look quite lovely. And the blouse…” His eyes trailed down the front of me very slowly. That’s when I realized I’d forgotten to re-button it. Crap!

“To answer your question, I had a very important meeting with an attorney in Swans Quarter, earlier, and I wanted to look especially nice,” I responded, swallowing my embarrassment. “Had I known I was on my way to see you, I would have dressed more conservatively.” Like, in sackcloth—with no buttons!

“May I ask who that might have been?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“You weren’t visitin’ Johnny, Jr., were you? He’s married, ya know.”

My jaw dropped incredulously, but I caught myself and quickly squared my shoulders. He wasn’t going to find any weak spots in my armor.

“No, Senior, actually,” I answered calmly, after taking yet another cleansing breath. If I didn’t stop with the extra oxygen soon, I was going to pass out.

He stroked his chin and then chuckled. “Ya ought to be nice to poor ol’ Mr. Dupree. He’s well-respected down here.”

“Yes, he’s made that very clear to me; however, I’m not planning on requiring his services.”

“Well, ya never know.”

“That’s true,” I said as visions of homicide danced in my head.

He made a deliberate show of running his eyes over me again which made me absolutely livid, and then said, “So ya wore that outfit for Mr. Dupree?”

“Yes, I believe I stated that already.”

“Ya really shouldn’t dress that way around him.”

“And why not?” I asked, staring at him murderously.

“Well, in that getup, you’re likely to give old John a heart attack.”

“Maybe that was the effect I was going for,” I replied, unable to suppress a wicked smile.

“Hell, you’re about to give me one.” I pursed my lips. I could be so lucky.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr. Walsh.”

“Well, just so ya know, it’ll get ya everywhere with me,” he said, winking.

“By all means, hold your breath.”

“Aw c’mon, I thoroughly enjoyed your delightful jousts at the bar, and I really do need your help. This system is completely different from my old one.” He was moving from a stationary hard drive to a laptop docking station. The latest software had been entirely reconfigured as well. He would’ve had a hell of a time figuring it out on his own, blond hair notwithstanding.

“I wasn’t able to pull your paperwork since I was in my car when your dear friend Mona sent out your distress signal. Of course, she conveniently neglected to mention who I was coming to see. Luckily, I was able to squeeze you in, and I’m quite certain I can fix anything you’ve inadvertently broken.”

He looked down at his feet for a moment, smiling ruefully. “I wasn’t sure ya’d come if ya knew it was me.” I bit my tongue before I said something I might regret, like damn straight!

“Yes, well, as I said, INTech prides itself on customer service, so I would have come regardless of my personal feelings towards a client.” One side of his generous mouth twitched.

I decided while I was trapped, I might as well press what little advantage I had at the moment; I needed another sale badly, so I softened my voice. “Seriously, Pete, you should consider investing in a long-term service agreement so you can get assistance after I’m gone. I nodded to his desk and the two systems resting there. “It looks like you’ll need it.”

“I don’t know,” he said, hesitating for way too long. “I may need help again before ya leave.” His eyes danced as he looked full into my face. I turned back to my work pretending I was in my happy place…like, anywhere else. He walked around to watch what I was doing.

“So…Winston-Salem, huh?” he said after a few minutes.

My head snapped up so fast I almost got whiplash. “There’s is no way you got that on your own.”

“I thought I detected a little accent there,” he teased.

“I don’t have an accent, thank you very much,” I snapped, snatching a pen from his desk to write down a serial number.

“Yeah, ya do.”

“Do not!”

“To the trained ear, ya do, Susie-Q.”

“If you’re hoping to get under my skin with the ‘Susie-Q’ bit, it’s not going to work.”

“Oh, I think I’m already under there,” he replied confidently.

“You and your fantasy world are tight, huh?” He gave me a toothy grin and I returned to the installation, ignoring him.

“World headquarters of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts,” he continued after another moment.

I abandoned my tools completely.

“Even if you think you perceived some trace of accent—which you didn’t, there is no way you could place it there.”

“Are ya sure?”

“Quite. I’m also sure that your pal Mona shared that little tidbit with you.” He’d been checking up on me. He was probably a stalker. And could he not stop smiling? It was like a knee-jerk reaction to everything I said.

He shrugged. “Believe what ya want.”

“Have you ever been there, or do you dare not leave the coastal region?” He snorted.

“As a matter of fact, I have. I rarely miss the opportunity to enjoy a fine dessert.”

“Well, it’s no wonder we don’t get along,” I retorted. “I don’t eat sweets.” That wasn’t technically true. I just didn’t around Ryan.

“How on earth can ya live in the land of doughnuts and sugar cake and not eat sweets?

“Hello…figure?” He snickered and shook his head. “And, by the way, I don’t live there anymore. Besides, I’m really much more of a barbeque fan, myself.”

“Lexington-style, I presume?”

“No, eastern, actually. The best two things you have going for you down here are beaches and barbeque.”

In North Carolina, barbeque is regionally unique. Eastern-style, the kind I’d enjoyed my first day, is clever-hacked pit-roasted pork, steeped in a vinegar mixture. Lexington-style, served exclusively west of Raleigh, is prepared much the same way, except the meat’s sauce is red and vaguely sweet.

The coleslaw varies as well. Eastern-style, or “white” slaw is a mixture of cabbage, onions and sweet pickle minced into microscopic pieces all held together by a hefty portion of mayonnaise. “Red” slaw to the west is similar in composition, but seasoned with a watery version of the meat’s red sauce. Really, it’s all very simple, but excruciatingly important as is everything, North Carolina.

Regardless of geographic location, however, hotdogs come fully loaded with the same exact thing: Mustard, chopped onions, chili—not the bean kind, and coleslaw—white, always. Also, they are bright red—the dogs, themselves. I do not know why they are red, or sweet for that matter, and I do not want to know. They just are.

Sitting down at his desk, I began connecting cables. The sooner I finished this job, the better. Moments later, like a prayer answered, the computer sprang to life. “Yes!” I whispered. I began typing madly, becoming completely absorbed in uploading software. In this, my technological dreamscape, I was alone and so very happy.

“So what happened to your accent?”

“What?!” I looked up at him, perturbed he existed.

“Your accent. Why’d ya loose it?” Admission. Ha!

“Gave it up for Lent, Petey, my boy.”

“That’s a cute one.”

“Just kicking around a few. It’s one of the less colorful euphemisms I’ve been mulling over. At least it can be used in mixed company.”

“So, why don’t ya want to sound like a proper Southerner?”

“Ahh, the new 2180. This system is quite an upgrade,” I said, glancing at his old one.

“Yeah.”

“I can tell you right now you’ll be pleased with this product,” I said, quickly paddling forward. “It’s the newest in our line. Very cutting edge. Mona said it was delivered yesterday?”

“Yep.” I was pleased to find that he, unlike Mr. Dupree, was easily diverted.

“And you waited a whole day before you called for help? Impressive.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I wanted to do it myself.”

“Thus, the wrench,” I said, cocking an eyebrow. “Well, you’re in luck, actually. I just completed a training class on this model. If you want, I can tweak it so it rocks!” I’d forgotten myself in the moment. Sue me if I’m a bit of a geek, but I loved talking software, and this CAD system was frigging amazing.

“Is that so?”

“This unit’s very powerful, and I enjoy maximizing output. It can be a little temperamental until you get used to it, though.” He was a customer after all. Besides, if I allowed our less than professional conversation to continue, I’d be here until midnight.

“Great. Another temperamental woman…and from the same company,” he added sardonically.

“You can insult me all you wish, but do not take your frustrations out on this magnificent piece of equipment. And what makes you think it’s female, anyway?”

“All complicated machinery is female,” he said, dangling a lifeless wire from his former system in the air. “In Italian, all things have a gender; there is no neutral. If this thing has an attitude, she’s female.” I rolled my eyes. “Her name is Beatrice, by the way.”

“You named your computer Beatrice?” Freak!

“Beatrice Two, I suppose. I name all my machines.” Mr. Bartender/Architect/Stalker/who knows what else was a nutcase! I shook my head and laughed.

“So…ah, hello Beatrice, nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I see you don’t have one.”

“See, I knew you had a smile under there. And it’s a pretty one, too.”

“Remind me to thank my orthodontist next time I see him,” I replied, un-smiling.

“No, I just meant I wasn’t sure if that scowl on your face was permanent or not. I’m glad to know it’s not.”

“Nice.”

Plucking the manual off the floor, he plopped it down beside me and leaned over my shoulder pointing to the top of the page. Okay, way too close… And what is that smell? “Now, show me how to use the damn thing.”

During the tutorial, all jokes ceased and he became surprisingly focused. He asked intelligent questions and, tossing his enormous ego aside, had me repeat anything he didn’t immediately grasp. He was like an entirely different creature. But as soon as he was comfortable with the dynamics, he turned back into a social deviant.

“So, how long did it take ya to learn all this?”

“I attended a two-day training seminar. It was fascinating.”

“Two days, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it only took me, what? Forty-five minutes? I must be a damn genius!”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Maybe one day, INTech really will send down one of their best and brightest. I doubt they’ll dress as nice as you, though.” Narrowing my eyes I snatched my up jacket and shoved my arms through the sleeves, glaring at him all the while.

“So are ya goin’ over to the Frog tonight?” he asked, as I began rapidly collecting my things.

“Are you going to be there?”

“Yeah, I’m workin’ tonight.”

“Then, no.” I’d have to cancel on Mona, which wasn’t a problem now since I hated her.

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen you in action. I’ll get much better service if I just stay home.” I reluctantly offered him my business card. He all but snatched it from my hand, studying it like a Japanese businessman. “If you have any more technical problems, give Mona a call. I know you have her number.” And I’ve got yours!

“I work late some evenings. Do ya have another number where I can reach you directly…ya know, in case of an emergency?”

“Well, there’s always 911,” I snarked. Pursing his lips, he raised a contemptuous eyebrow. I sighed and said, “My cell’s at the bottom of the card. Feel free to leave a voicemail. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Like, when hell freezes over. Mona can get in touch with me anytime, assuming I have service.” I shivered at the memory of my misadventure in the marsh.

“Ya know, I may have a lot of problems with this gal. I hope you’re available at a moment’s notice.” Not likely.

“Mr. Walsh, I run the entire coastal region, so I could be anywhere.”

“The whole region, huh?”

“Yes. My domain goes from Corolla to Calabash down the coast and west to just this side of Raleigh. Some parts of this region are rather remote, as you surely know.”

“I guess you put some miles on your car.”

“A few.”

“I know this great mechanic…”

“Is he as good with a wrench as you?” His facial expression was hilarious. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need any help.”

“Of course not,” he said dismissively, as I slung my strap over my shoulder.

“So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be going. I’d like to say it was nice meeting you again, Mr. Walsh,” I said, sticking my hand out. Smirking, he took it and I squeezed as hard as I could.

“Here, let me escort ya out,” he said, his voice laced in humor. “Oh wait, didn’t I have to do that last time we met?” Ignoring the remark, I walked faster.

I’d almost made it to the exit when Pete said, “Hold up a minute, please.” I stopped and turned to him. “Susan Wade, this is my associate, Laney Meyers.” She was packing up for the day and looked completely disinterested. “Susan’s our latest INTech victim,” he continued proudly. I smiled and reached out my hand. She rolled her eyes at him, and then gave me a half smile and a quick shake.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Meyers,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever.” I clamped my mouth shut, stifling a laugh. She was totally not Southern; I was in love!

After holding the door for me and wishing me a long and happy life and a bunch of other crap, he disappeared back inside.

♥

“I’m not speaking to you,” I informed Mona as I climbed into my sizzling car.

“I was afraid of that.”

“You set me up!”

“Well, y’all didn’t exactly hit it off the first time ya met, so I wasn’t sure how you’d take it when ya found out who you were goin’ to see, and well I was kinda afraid you might not go if ya knew who it was,” she said all in one breath as I merged into traffic.

“Mona, let’s get one thing straight right now. I am all about my job. Regardless of my feelings towards a particular client, I get it done. Bottom line.”

“I’m really sorry. Forgive me?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

After a moment of silence, she continued as if the matter was settled. “Susan, I can’t wait for us to go to the Frog tonight. Jimbo’s gonna be there and I want to introduce ya to him!” she bubbled.

“Who’s Jimbo? Oh yeah, that bartender you like, right?”

“No silly. Well, yes I like him,” she admitted. “But he’s the owner. Pete’s his cousin.”

“The inbreeding continues,” I muttered.

“I tried to tell ya that, but you and Pete started goin’ at each other like a couple of dogs—no offense, and honestly, I couldn’t get a word in, edgewise.”

Suddenly, I understood. Today wasn’t about jerking me around; today was about doing a favor for her crush’s cousin.

“You know what? I just decided to forgive you. But I’m not meeting you tonight.”

“Why not?” she whimpered.

“Well, I was so mad at Pete, that when he asked if I was going, I said no. I hate to lie, even to him,” I said in disgust. “So no, I’m not coming.”

“Oh.” She sounded utterly dejected.

“But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go with you tomorrow night.”

“Well…” she hesitated.

“Best deal you’re getting.”

“Okay. And I really am sorry about Pete. I didn’t mean to make ya mad.”

“See you tomorrow, Mona.”

♥

Walking into the Frog the next evening, I noticed Mona was sitting in the same booth we’d shared on that first fateful night.

“Hey, Susan,” she yelled out over the music, motioning frantically. There wasn’t a drink on her table, so I held up a finger and went to the counter.

Mercifully, there was a different bartender tonight. Wearing a green faded t-shirt like Pete’s, his nondescript baseball cap was pulled low over strikingly large, crystal blue eyes. Though tall and lean, the muscles in his forearms suggested he was someone to be reckoned with. And unlike his coworker’s goofy grin, this man wore a serious expression; one suggesting he’d seen more of life than most.

Since my first encounter with the bartender had been a total train wreck, I opted for a different approach.

“Hi,” I said, smiling all perky.

Nodding, he said, “Evenin’. What’ll ya have?” Pleasant and businesslike; a professional.

“Two beers.”

“What kind?” Assuming they only served one type, I was taken aback.

“What do you have?”

“Coors Light in cans and Bud on draft.”

“Nothing bottled?”

“Not on weekends,” he replied, succinctly shaking his head.

“Two Budweisers, then.” Mona liked Bud. As if summoned, she was at my side. “I was just getting one for you, Mona.”

The bartender’s head snapped up, his face softening like butter. “Hey, Mona,” he said, pink creeping up his neck and onto his clean-shaven cheeks; an honest to goodness blush. Did she have this effect on all men? He placed the two cups on the counter and I took a large sip.

“Hey, Jimbo,” she said, grinning back. Sputtering, I almost choked. The Jimbo I’d envisioned—anyone with that name, actually—should be burly, potbellied, possibly grizzly-bearded, and wearing a plaid dress shirt with the sleeves cut-off to properly display his dumbassed tattoos. This man was the anti-Jimbo.

“This is Susan, my new officemate. Ya know, the one I told ya about.”

“Nice meetin’ ya,” he said, reaching over the counter to shake my hand.

“I’ve heard a whole lot about you,” I said smugly, watching Mona blanch. She was owed. And then I wondered exactly what she’d told him about me; the little minx was full of surprises. “You’ve got a nice place here,” I commented. The Rusty Frog wasn’t so bad for what it was. In fact, though the atmosphere was alien to me, I hadn’t been completely repulsed my first visit.

“Thanks.”

“So, you’re Pete’s cousin, huh?”

“Yep,” he said, smirking slightly. Okay, Pete had definitely gotten to him already. So much for good impressions.

When he turned back to her, his eyes flamed bright as birthday candles. “So, how’re ya doin’ tonight, Mona?”

“I’m just fine, Jimbo. How’re you?”

“Good. Real good.”

“Good,” she said, smiling bashfully.

They looked like they wanted to say much more, but the conversation stalled out at “good”.

“Okay…I’m going to the table, now. Nice meeting you Jimbo.”

“Same here, Susan. Let me know if y’all need anything.” He looked at Mona as if he meant it in every possible way—house, car, TV remote. She returned his gaze with the same exact expression.

“Will do,” I said, nodding.

“Bye Jimbo,” she finally said as I dragged her away.

“Bye Mona.”

“So, how long have you liked him?” I asked, scooching in beside her.

“Oh, a while, I guess.”

“But you’re not dating?”

“Well, we haven’t…I mean, he hasn’t… No, we’re not.” She began knitting an elaborate afghan with her fingers.

“You told me he wasn’t married. Is he seeing someone else?” A look of terror flew across her face.

“Gosh, I hope not!”

“Then, what’s his story?”

“Well, it’s maybe because…well, I suppose…” She sighed in resignation. “He’s just a little shy, I guess,” she said, trailing off despondently.

“You like him. He clearly likes you.”

“Do ya really think so?” Hope bloomed in her eyes and I rolled mine.

“Have you tried asking him out?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she said, shaking her head and frowning.

“Why on earth not?”

“I just couldn’t, that’s all. It wouldn’t be proper.” She looked down at her lap, the subject apparently closed.

Over the next hour, Jimbo gave Mona about a hundred hooded glances. Anytime business slowed, he was looking. And when he wasn’t looking at her, she was looking at him. At eyeball-tennis, they were perfectly matched. Watching this spectacle, I idly wondered how to push Mona across that invisible barrier. Pete seemed the meddling type. I was surprised he hadn’t intervened. But then again, he was probably too self-absorbed to notice.

And when you think of the Devil…he appears. Mona’s face suddenly broke into a beatific smile and several “Hey, Petes!” followed in quick succession. Smiling brightly as if he owned the world, he spotted us quickly and swaggered directly to our booth.

“Hey, Mona, you sweet little thing. How’re ya doin’ tonight?”

“Just fine,” she replied, beaming.

Then he turned toward me. “And hello, Susie-Q. So happy ya climbed down off your pedestal to join us riffraff tonight.” Executing a courtly bow, his eyes were filled with challenge. It’s going to be like that, is it?

“So Pete, how have you and your new girlfriend been getting along?”

“Like all women,” he drawled, “she’s complicated and dangerous.”

“I imagine most women seem that way to you.”

“Well, she hasn’t bitten me yet, but she has shocked me a couple of times.” He raised an accusatory eyebrow.

“Shocked you?” I said in alarm. If the electrical system was acting up already, we were in for trouble. And worse, a lot of office visits.

“Yeah, I think it’s just her way of sayin’ hello. Ya know, like the way you nip people with your fangs.” I gave him a scorching glare. “Although,” he continued, undaunted, “if she turns out to be anything like you I might just have to take her out.”

“I wouldn’t threaten that if I were you, Pete. Reincarnation would require a whole lot of one-on-one time with me, and I guarantee you wouldn’t like that very much.”

“You’re right, Susie-Q. Ya might scare away all my customers!” And with that, he left to join his cousin behind the counter.

“Mona, he’s gone. You can look up now.”

“Oh dear…”

8

Personal Banker

James City, located just east of New Bern, was a quick skip away, so of course, I’d left myself no extra time to get there. And, as Murphy’s Law would have it, before the small sign registered, I was launched over the confusion of water that is the Neuse/Trent/I really have no fucking idea what it’s called river towards Bridgton. Crossing the arched monster of a bridge once again, I was forced into the right lane by a truck that refused to move. That maneuver thrust me into the arms of yet another bridge—one looking very much like the humane animal traps people use to transfer raccoons to nearby parks. Suddenly, I was in downtown New Bern. Huffing, I turned around in the parking lot of a fancy-looking hotel and headed east again. Late would not make a good first impression.

Just as I was about to re-cross the bridge, a strange looking traffic light flashed red and a large black and white striped arm fell across the road, forcing me to slam on the brakes. What the hell? With a loud groan, the pavement in front of me began rising. Stupefied, I looked to the line of cars forming behind me for guidance. No horns sounded; no one walked up the centerline gaping at this spectacle. In fact, the man behind me cut his engine and began reading the newspaper. Was no one else concerned about this?

In perfect amazement, I watched the two halves of solid asphalt I’d just driven over without a thought rise until they were sticking straight up in the air. At any other time, the mechanics of this drawbridge would have fascinated me, but as it was, I was growing later by the moment. A thousand years later, a sailboat lethargically floated under the inverted V, followed some five hundred yards behind by another. Really? Didn’t those things have motors? I glanced at my phone. Seven o’clock in the frigging morning and people were sailing? Hello? Rush hour traffic, here!

Fifteen minutes of swearing and fidgeting later, both boats were merrily sailing up the Trent. The bridge groaned as the pavement slowly reconnected. Car engines started. The railway arm rose and the stoplight turned green. I gunned it. I did not miss James City on my third attempt; the exit, I discovered, was simply a right turn off of Highway 70, which pretty much said it all.

The call from First Sun Bank of my breakfast nook had come in yesterday afternoon just before close of business—theirs; mine never closed. The cheery voice informed me their outdated server had lost its connection with the automated teller machine. Actually, it was more like “Our ATM’s not workin’”. Clearly needing to be back online immediately, I offered to rush over but was told not to put myself out because they were all going home. Don’t put myself out?

First Sun was the only bank in James City, and had I been unable to access my money at three in the morning, I would’ve had a conniption fit. I shuddered, imagining the pack of disgruntled customers that would be waiting at the bank’s doors later this morning. As it was, I planned to be long gone by then. I’d be back soon enough, however, and the thought made me absolutely dizzy.

Less than a month ago, First Sun, Incorporated, renewed its systems and service provider contracts with INTech, the caveat—not!—being that all new units must be in-house and online within three months of signing. When Bob forwarded the memo, I just about wet myself. The full-scale meaning: Over the next eight weeks I would be installing fifteen—yes, that would be one, five brand spanking new 1725s, plus integration components, plus accessories. Joy! What’s more, because their infrastructure considered each branch a separate business unit, I got to sell individualized service plans to each. “Percent” that, Bob.

Brandon Burnett, Branch Manager, was pacing the floor when I arrived. Crap! According to Mona, his managerial training wheels had recently been removed, and her friend Sarah had told her blah, blah, blah… Mona had a subtle, yet purposeful way of doling out information—one I was only beginning to understand, but really? Like I cared about local gossip. The intelligence she offered could be neatly summed up in one enigmatic warning: He is NOT from North Carolina. Gasp!

This branch’s building was a Lilliputian version of the one beside my office, having the same arched entryway and set of thick columns. The interior proved similar as well; high ceiling, blue patterned industrial carpet, teller veal stall. One difference, though, was the branch manager’s office was a glass-walled fishbowl to one side of the waiting area. Pick your nose, everyone sees. At least my cubicle in Philly was walled with high quality, cloth covered particle board, affording me the luxury of sneezing in private.

The manager’s face was contorted in a grimace, so I prepared myself for a beating over INTech’s unreliable and mercilessly vindictive networking system. However, his expression changed from irritation to blank confusion when I walked towards him. He was a boy, one barely of drinking age; so young in fact that his forehead still hosted a colony of pimples. The spray of orange freckles across his nose matched the color of his very short hair. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Mr. Burnett?” I asked cheerfully.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Susan Wade, your INTech service representative.” He didn’t shake my hand, but instead narrowed his eyes and looked at me like I was going to rob him. Feeling slightly uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I dropped my hand and put my chipper face back on. I was late, after all.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. I had the misfortune of getting stuck on the drawbridge. I don’t know how businesses run smoothly with traffic stopping every time a boat floats by.” I laughed lightly.

Shifting his stance to make himself look as tall as possible, which was approximately the height of Kirsten in flats, he said, “What do you want?” Okay…

“I’m here to fix your server. Someone called yesterday afternoon. I understand the ATM and internal system aren’t on speaking terms.” He looked at me oddly again. This guy was impossible to connect with.

“Oh,” he finally replied. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s not working.”

“If you’ll lead me to your server, I’ll get started.”

“It’s over there.” He nodded, pointing in the general direction of the teller counter.

“Thanks.”

I located the interface on a small dedicated stand. There wasn’t a chair and the teller seats were the elevated, permanently bolted to the floor kind, so I kidnapped one of the lobby’s twins and dragged it behind the wooden partition, feeling childlike as I crouched under its lip. And to my inner child’s delight, blooming over the rim of a small wicker basket above was an enticing bouquet of cellophane-wrapped suckers—the kind resembling pacifiers with those twisted paper loops. Be still, my heart! Poring over the endless selection of red, purple, green, and yellow treats was the best part of getting dragged along to the bank when I was little. Now, with direct deposit and ATMs, I rarely stepped foot inside a bank for personal business. And when I did, the last thing on my mind was a lollipop.

Leaning over the arm of my fairly uncomfortable chair, I rifled through my briefcase and retrieved the technical specs for this system. I flipped through the document, rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work. A few minutes later the door opened, the chime mimicking a doorbell. The sound was designed to encourage customers to think of the bank as home, or so said one of my banking clients at Pittsburgh National. He’d shared that top secret piece of trivia while hitting on me repeatedly.

I couldn’t see who entered, but I jumped when the manager shouted, “You’re late!”

“I’m, I’m sorry Mr. Burnett. I had to stop for gas,” a timid feminine voice replied.

“Get gas on your own time.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice said quietly.

“There’s no coffee. Make some. Now!”

“O-okay, Mr. Burnett.”

Head bowed and pale-faced, a woman looking mid-thirtyish scooted past me. When she saw me, she cried out with a startled, “Oh!” I smiled and waved. The name tag on her cabled sweater read, “Sarah.” Mona’s friend. Something about Sunday school, but I remembered little else since that’s about the time I pressed the mute button on Mona. I sorely wish I’d brought my remote control with me this morning. Jeez!

“I said now!” Brandon’s voice boomed again. We both jumped. Sarah vaporized through a swinging door, marked “employees”, and I went back to troubleshooting as my heart slowed. Bob had a tuba of a voice, but it never sounded malevolent like this guy’s. If he yelled again, I was afraid I might jerk out a router cable by mistake.

The ding-dong chimed again and I heard the sound of several more female voices.

“Good morning, Mr. Burnett,” sang the chorus. It was the type of Southern that said one thing but meant something entirely different, like we hate you, motherfucker.

“No doughnuts this morning I see,” he sneered. “You, in the pink—whatever your name is, get back in your car and go to the bakery.”

“But, Mr. Bur—”

“Now!” he yelled.

I heard the door ding again, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. Two women slowly filed past, looking downtrodden. Neither noticed me as they carried their purses and lunch bags to the back. I heard loud whispering, but couldn’t make out the words. I didn’t need to, really. I was pretty sure of the gist.

One of the ladies emerged from the back, shaking her head. Mona had mentioned morale was a little low at this branch. Understatement. This man-child had poorer people skills than a squid and no idea how to manage employees. In fact, the only area in which he was succeeding fell in the harassment category.

“Well, hey there,” a woman whispered, peering down at me.

“Hi. I’m Susan. I’m just working on your ATM connection.”

“Nice to meet yew, Susan. I’m Peggy, the Assistant Manager. I was the one that called y’all yesterday.” She was a short rotund woman with a kind face and teased brown hair, dusted gray. “Coffee’s brewin’ in the back. If yew want some, help yourself.” I nodded and she smiled warmly. “Just let me know if yew need anything, okay?”

“Thanks. This shouldn’t take very long.” A quick swipe with my voltmeter told me there was a blown fuse; a simple thing to replace. I kept basic parts in my bag along with a multi-tip screwdriver and a small wrench—that I actually knew how to use, unlike some people who are blond and shall remain nameless. I left larger parts, like spare motherboards, cables and the like in my trunk.

“Yew just take your time,” she said very sweetly, like the grandmother she probably was. Her ample bosom led the way as she marched the path behind the stools. Using keys fastened to her blue telephone cord-type bracelet, she unlocked the cashier boxes, and then punched a series of numbers on an electronic keypad that unlocked the vault. Disappearing inside, she re-emerged moments later carrying a tray of neatly wrapped stacks of money. She began counting out the denominations and filling each of the teller drawers. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard at the station nearest me and she whispered, “Is it okay if I turn this on?”

“Sure. I’m not working on that part of the system.”

“Oh, well, I wasn’t sure.” She chortled quietly. “I mean, I can turn ’em on and use ’em and all, but I don’t know a thing about what goes on inside.”

“That’s why you have me,” I replied and returned to my work. When she didn’t move, I asked, “Are you having problems with those computers?”

She looked at me uncertainly. “Should I be?”

“No. But if you do, call me and I’ll zip over.”

“Well, aren’t yew sweet.”

Sarah appeared beside me, then. “Hey there,” she croaked. “You’re Mona’s friend, right?” Her mascara was smudged and her eyes puffy. Great way to start the day! Smiling sympathetically, I nodded. She started to say more, but after glancing toward the manager’s office, she listlessly walked to the far station, adjusted her seat, crossed her ankles, and proceeded to sit there lifelessly. A third lady, whose name tag read “Audrey”, ghosted in after Sarah and took the middle position. She forced a smile when she walked by, but that was it.

After locking the safe again, Peggy bent down beside me. “I’m really sorry about all this,” she whispered. “It wasn’t like this when Mr. Rawson was here. He was such a nice man. He used to bring in Danishes on Fridays.” Wringing her hands, she shook her head sorrowfully. “I just don’t know how much more of this we can take.”

The absence of cheery office chatter I was so accustomed to hearing on the job gave this bank the cozy feel of a funeral home, muffled sniffles and all. I found the situation disturbing on several levels. It was easy to argue Brandon was a prick that needed his face punched—that much was obvious, but he was only part of a multivariable equation.

Though I’m sure they’d see it differently, these women had made a deliberate choice in allowing themselves to be treated like dogs. And this was a learned behavior. In the main of twenty-first century America, women are more than willing to say anything they please—and they do. Not so in the South, however. Too many girls learn the “art” of being demure at their mothers’ knees; that it is socially acceptable—respectable, even—to bite one’s tongue until it bleeds and festers, rather than contradict.

And when these girls grow old enough to put down their crayons in church and listen to the sermon, they are attacked four Sundays a month by pastors wielding St. Paul’s writings like mighty vagina-castrating swords. Mondays through Saturdays, these same creatures are trampled over by men, who learned that craft at their Fathers’ knees; some, equally unaware of their transgressions. In my opinion, the South is a collectively coalescing, synthesized culture, generationally perpetuated until the toxin, lingering in the fine humid air like a blanket of carbon monoxide, chokes them all.

Southern women are strong—yes. They endure—nothing new there. But instead of sealing their lips and sitting on their hands as taught, they should be shouting. And these women—Peggy, Sarah, Audrey, the chick that went for doughnuts—they should be shouting from the hilltops! But they hadn’t, and they wouldn’t; I knew that. And even if Brandon Burnett left, there was the real possibility that some other tyrannical being would take his place.

I refused to be bound by these cultural chains. I refused to join the ranks of my mother, her friends, my female relatives. But I also refused to make it my life’s mission to effect change. I had no problem serving as a behavioral role model, however. And if expressing myself fully was not only unladylike but shocking to others, then so be it.

In all his bullying zeal, this adolescent had forgotten I had a ringside seat to the show, and I was becoming more outraged by the second.

“Is my coffee ready yet?” A collective feminine sigh rose beside me. Sarah flew from her chair and raced to the back like a crazed bat, to burst through the door again carrying a steaming blue mug, the smell of freshly brewed coffee trailing in her wake.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burnett. I’m really sorry. Here’s your coffee, sir.”

“It’s about damn time,” Brandon growled. Sarah returned to her post with clenched fists, her lower lip trembling. No one should have to deal with this kind of abuse. I had witnessed more than enough.

The last thing I heard before the roaring blood in my ears drowned out all other sound was, “You women are so goddamn lazy, I ought to fire all of you right now!”

Any Southern left drained right out of me, backfilled with hot fury, my anger poised to boil over into the physical. I was back in Philly in a pounding heartbeat, ready to go to blows with anyone who dared speak that way. Clenching the handle of my briefcase, I stood up, swung around the partition, and stormed across the reception area like Godzilla—Godzilla who had to keep her head and her own job.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Huh?” Looking bewildered, he took a step back as I marched right into his personal space.

“Don’t you dare speak to these women like that.” His face flushed red to the tips of his ears.

“I’ll speak to them any damn way I please. I’m the manager of this bank and I own them. And if I were you, I’d shut my mouth before something bad happens.” He grinned with malice.

“Is that so? Well, I’m a regional manager for a multi-national corporation, but more importantly, I’m a First Sun customer. And just so you know, I really don’t appreciate being threatened.”

While transfixed in our out-and-out standoff, it came to me like a vision; this was just like that awful training video I’d endured during a manager’s seminar. Only, in this case, the actors were much more believable. I glanced up at one of the ceiling-mounted security cameras that had just recorded our little Shakespearian play, and then back at him, smiling smugly. His eyes followed the track, and then in real time his skin’s flush, fueled by seething anger, bled white as the magnitude of his gross misjudgment began sinking in. I knew there was no way to erase any of the footage because it fed directly into a central offsite monitoring system—a suddenly useful piece of trivia gleaned from my former banking suitor.

“Oh God!” he whimpered, taking several steps back. I smiled, swishing my invisible leopard’s tail.

“Nope, just a guardian angel.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he audibly gulped, and he asked in a small voice that suited his age, “Is there any way I can make things right?”

“You can start by letting your employees do their jobs in peace,” I said, nodding behind me. Then, as I was about to tell him he could also go to hell and hand him a map to Havelock, I got a better idea. Avenging Sarah, whose jaw now rested comfortably on the floor, seemed like the better thing to do, and much more fulfilling.

I dropped my voice to library volume. “Look, Brandon, I can only imagine the kind of pressure you must be under. Believe me, I know what it’s like to find yourself in a new job with big expectations from upper management; it’s enough to cause anyone to snap. I can help you with this situation if you’d like.” I smiled at him reassuringly.

“Please,” he whispered.

I had at this point recalled where I’d seen him before and it gave me inspiration. “I’ll be at the Rusty Frog over in Havelock tonight after work. Do you know the place?” He swallowed hard again and nodded. “Good. Maybe I’ll see you there and we can talk…privately.” He nodded furiously, his expression turning hopeful. We were going to talk this evening, alright. It just wasn’t going to be the conversation he had in mind.

Without another word, I walked past the shocked faces of the mortally betrayed, sorted through the small wicker basket, and fished out a cherry sucker. Popping it in my mouth, I winked at Sarah. She fixed her gape, flashing an Oh, I get it smile in return.

“You’re back in business, ladies,” I announced as I swung open the glass door and stepped into the grand embrace of a beautiful Southern morning.

♥

Mona practically tackled me when I entered the building later, firing an arsenal of questions at me before I could even set down my briefcase. I raised my hand and smiled with the promise of later, then plunked down in my chair and swiveled toward my monitor. Using my Google Ouija Board, it was the work of a minute to obtain the information I needed. Chanting Kirsten’s “us gals have got to stick together” mantra, I picked up the phone and dialed the ten-digit number.

“This is Chenethra Washington, how may I help you?” Jackpot! The VP of human resources for First Sun Bank, Incorporated, was not only female but thoroughly lacked a Southern accent. After I reported the very disturbing sexual harassment incident I’d witnessed and expressed my shock not only as a customer but as a fellow female professional, she thanked me profusely; assuring the matter would receive her utmost attention—today!

Feeling beyond pleased with myself, I strolled up the hall, whistling a jaunty tune. “I’m heading to Jacksonville, Mona my love, and we’re going to the Frog tonight.” She smiled the same beatific smile she always did whenever I mentioned that dumb bar. “And why don’t you invite your friend Sarah to meet us there.”

9

Carrot Top Throw Down

Because my Jacksonville trip took longer than expected, Mona and I were forced to work late polishing our weekly justifying our existence spreadsheets. After inhaling salads, we made a beeline for the bar. The bank had been closed for hours, now, and if Brandon had decided to come to the Frog, there was a very good chance he was already completely faced; faced and furious. And even if he didn’t show tonight, his chat with Ms. Washington would be sweet vengeance for those ladies.

We arrived to find the building completely surrounded. Mona lucked out, sliding into the only semblance of a space left in the lot. My car allergic to door-dinging, I opted for spillover street-parking. I finally understood why Jimbo needed such an enormous lot. Whatever he had going on inside was big!

Hobbling up dusty Williams Road past all makes of cars emblazoned with East Carolina University window stickers, I concluded the Kappa Alpha’s, a very old Southern fraternity, had set up camp here tonight. A whole pack of twenty-one-year-olds and their baby brothers fidgeted in line outside the door trying to convince Vic Jr., who stood sentinel there, to let them in without proper ID. I snorted, doubting he would know a fake ID if it bit him on the ass. Sidestepping a legion of grumbling boys, I crossed the porch. Vic Jr. grinned fiercely when he saw me, his missing molar completely visible. He held out his hand and I shot him a stern look. Shrugging, he stepped aside gallantly.

“Worth a shot,” he said, winking. He’d been trying to guess my age since we’d first met. My decrepitude was my own business, and he was not getting hold of my license!

“Keep the dream alive, Vic.”

Jimbo’s entrepreneurialism was impressive. Beach music piped through the speakers in honor of his out-of-town guests and their money, and the “Five Dollar Cover and Dollar Draft” banner, sloppily tied to the railing, was a complete ruse. He would make a killing tonight.

Inside, the heads of children decked in plaid madras Bermudas, pastel polo shirts, and flip-flops bobbed like buoys. As the weekend had begun, local patrons were in heavy attendance as well, making for an interesting mix. Mona, bless her soul, had managed to secure her usual booth, and when she saw me she hopped up and waved both arms. Interestingly, that same booth had been vacant every time I’d come here with her. Even as busy as it was tonight, I imagine that table had been empty…waiting.

Along with free beverages, I was beginning to suspect Jimbo offered her exclusive reserved seating. She never seemed to expect it, but was always pleased to find that particular table—the one closest to him—unoccupied. She was no fool, of course. Perhaps she simply accepted it for what was; his gift to her. Maybe that and beer were the only things he was capable of giving. I snorted; Jimbo might possibly die if she stopped showing up.

It was easy to spot Brandon’s carrot-top in the crowd. And, as predicted, he was hitting the liquor hard—bourbon, it appeared. Shrouded in a cloud of hostility, no one seemed to be bothering him. I searched for Sarah with little hope. Earlier, when I asked if she’d be joining us, Mona explained that this wasn’t a place she frequented—“what with the drinkin’ and all”. A vague second to sin may have been that she didn’t want to be anywhere near this place if the shit hit the fan. And who knows what Brandon had said or done before packing his cardboard box.

Swimming through the sea of hormone-riddled humanity, I was making respectable headway towards the counter. From the corner of my eye, I saw His Royal Pain in my Ass emerging from the back, looking especially grungy. It was spooky, but whenever I thought of him—which was more often than I cared to admit—he magically appeared.

Forced to take circuitous routes, Mona and I arrived at the same time. Jostled by the kid next to her, who smiled slyly as he left with his booty, she gained Jimbo’s immediate and undivided attention, and they began their usual meaningless drivel. Pete spotted me moments later and slapped on a stupid grin. I looked at him in disgust, which only made him laugh.

Two beverages appeared in front of us before we even ordered. I was touched that maybe I’d been accepted into the flock, but then realized any niceties were probably out of courtesy to Mona. Of course, the second one could have been for Pete, who grabbed both of the smaller-than-usual cups and delivered them to our booth. He raised a stern eyebrow at two kids who’d claimed it, and they fled without a word.

“Good evenin’ ladies.”

Winking as he ceremoniously placed Mona’s cup in front of her, he was rewarded with one of her trademark giggles. I was coming to love that girl, but the giggling had to go; mainly because it only egged him on. He nodded solemnly and set the other in front of me, but didn’t release it.

“For me? You shouldn’t have,” I said, feigning shock—okay, so I wasn’t really feigning it.

“Only if ya say pretty please,” he replied, grinning maliciously.

“Starting in right away are we?” I said, ripping it from his grasp and taking a big sip before he could taunt me with it further.

“Well, ya know what they say…‘Early bird gets the snake’.”

“I believe that’s ‘worm’.”

“I win either way,” he said, laughing loudly. Then he leaned in between us. “Three’s a charm, ya know.” His green eyes twinkled, eagerly awaiting my volley.

And while tempted to simply stare at him unblinking until he left, I retorted, “You’d better go ahead and hit me with number three then, because you need some charm.”

“Oh gosh, here we go again,” Mona said. She didn’t cover her face this time, but the night was young.

It appeared Pete was getting off on our little tête-a-têtes as much as I, though I tried to hide it. And while forced to hold my tongue when dealing with him professionally—as much as I was capable of, anyway—here, I had carte blanche. Plus, he was really the only person I’d met who could seriously banter. And, I suppose I needed that; needed to laugh.

Before either of us was able to make another wisecrack, Pete glanced back at the counter. “I’d love to stay and chat, but if I don’t get back to work, I’m afraid Jimbo’ll pass out!” He pecked Mona’s cheek, and then snatched up my cup, draining half of it before my eyes.

“Hey!”

“Mmm!” he said, handing it back before tearing off.

I spent the next hour watching Sarah’s boss with growing interest. And I was not alone. He was on Jimbo’s radar as well. And the more attitude he copped with Crystal Ann, Jimbo’s one and only weekend waitress, the darker Jimbo’s expression became. Disturbingly, that darkness seemed to fit him like a well-worn glove, and I wondered once more what events had conspired to forge this quiet man.

The Frog was to capacity now, and Crystal Ann had to hustle to keep up with orders. From her reaction, Brandon had said something rude when she was slow with his refill. The frown on Jimbo’s face mirrored her own. He gave Pete a meaningful look, and then there were three, no four frowns, if you counted Mona’s. I noticed that some of the locals had begun paying attention as well. Energy was building over this address, and Brandon Burnett was the lightning rod!

Returning from the bathroom, he finally spied me. When I smiled and waved my fingers, his face screwed up with anger and disbelief. He stalked to our table, shoving several boys out of his way in the process.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” he said theatrically. “If it isn’t the Wicked Bitch of the West, herself.”

“I’m the one from the East, actually,” I corrected. “But please continue, I really do love the classics. I will warn you though, it takes a lot to offend me, so be creative.”

“I’d like to do more than offend you,” he threatened.

“Sorry kid, I know we kind of had a date tonight, but I realized you’re just not my type. I mean, I know you a have a way with the ladies. It’s just not a good way.” I knew taunting him was dangerous, but this bar was filled with good men. And if things didn’t go as planned, I was certain Pete would be more than happy to escort me to my car, offering up a barrage of clever insults at no extra charge.

“I bet you’ve got a way with the ladies, too,” Brandon sneered, glancing at Mona. Hmm…interesting. Let’s explore that, shall we?

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

“I’ve seen you in here before with your little friend, all snuggled together.” He smiled wickedly, pointing back and forth between us. “She looks alright, but I don’t know what she sees in you.” I beamed, giving him nothing but more rope; going after Mona in the general presence of Jimbo was an amazingly bad idea. “Sooo…how long have you two been fucking? That is what you call it, right?” he asked, plowing on.

For me, this was the ultimate in foreplay; for Mona, not so much. All blood drained from her face and her jaw daintily dropped. Clearly, she’d never been called a dyke before. Along with several other lovelies, it was a pretty common insult where I lived, however, it was an excellent, if not unprecedented tactic here. And frankly, I was quite impressed he’d risen to my challenge.

“You know, I’d get all upset and everything, but if my choice is between you or her, I’m definitely picking her,” I said flatly. Glancing at Mona who was now vampire white, it occurred to me that she might stop inviting me here, altogether if I continued drawing this kind of trouble.

Just as Pete, alerted by his Doppler radar, began breast-stroking towards us, Crystal Ann hustled past carrying an order to another booth. Brandon grabbed her by the arm with a jerk, spilling her tray. I’m sure she could hold her own just fine with the inebriated masses—she appeared to be an honest-to-goodness professional, but volatile aggression was surely another thing.

“Where’s my drink, you lazy bitch?” he yelled, at the same volume he’d used at his former place of employment. Checkmate!

Several regulars jumped to their feet, and before Pete could even get to her, Jimbo plowed through the crowd, parting the madras sea like Moses.

“Get your damn hands off my waitress!”

“I’ll let go of her when I’m goddamn ready,” Brandon fired back, spit droplets spraying in the air. Jerking Crystal Ann’s arm again, he roared, “Bring my drink, whore!” Then he smiled malignantly at Jimbo, daring him to do something.

“Let go of her. Now.” Jimbo’s voice was low and lethal. Crystal Ann tugged at her arm and he released it, pushing her at Jimbo. Pete intercepted, swinging her off her feet and out of the way.

“She’s a worthless piece—”

Jimbo struck like lightning, hitting my redheaded beauty in the temple. Brandon stumbled back and fell into a hovering Joe Pat, who shoved him forcefully right into Jimbo’s next blow. Before Brandon could raise a fist, Jimbo went airborne, the two crashing into a table. Patrons jumped to get out of their way as they thrashed on the floor, fists flying.

“Aw hell,” Pete said, shaking his head at Jimbo, who appeared to have gone insane, straddling Brandon and battering his body with blows. Finally, Jimbo drew back and delivered a solid, clean hit to his face. Blood fountained, Brandon’s white dress shirt soaking up the red. Jimbo then rose, straightened his splattered t-shirt, and stood over the bloody mass that had rolled onto one side.

He then hoisted Brandon to his feet by the collar and yanked him over to where we were all standing. “Now apologize!” he growled.

Brandon, blinded by his own blood, turned toward us, but Jimbo steered him to Crystal Ann, who was busy wiping her tank off with a towel.

“Her first!” he snarled.

“Sorry,” Brandon mumbled.

“Louder,” Jimbo ordered, jolting him.

“Dammit! I’m sorry,” he coughed out.

Crystal Ann glared at him but didn’t say anything. Jimbo then pointed him toward us.

“Now them!” he barked. There was no way he could have heard the words, but based solely on Mona’s expression, there was Hell to pay.

Wiping his eyes with the tail of his shirt, Brandon glowered at me. I stared back coldly as blood continued dripping from his chin. At Jimbo’s violent wrench, he looked only at Mona and said, “Sorry.” Mona had regained some of her colors, but she wouldn’t make eye contact with him—or me for that matter. Maybe she thought I actually was a lesbian. And, wouldn’t that have been humorous under different circumstances?

Jimbo then said slowly, “Now you’re gonna leave, and you ain’t ever comin’ back. D’ya understand me, boy?”

“Don’t worry,” he said loudly. “That bitch already took care of it!” Brandon jabbed his finger at me. Jimbo gave him one last hard shake, served him his red card, and then dragged him across the room.

With the re-emergence of the Frog’s proprietor, the spell was broken and the party resumed. Mona rushed up to check on Jimbo, who, still grumbling to himself, had just shoved his raw fist in ice. His hard expression melted at the sound of her voice and he smiled shyly at her. Pete, on the other hand, crossed his arms over his chest, raised his eyebrows, and looked at me. I put my cup to my lips and looked really busy until he walked away. Crystal Ann, already back to work, was cashing in on some nice sympathy tips. I planned to leave her a big one as well.

The atmosphere was now supercharged with testosterone, and not ten minutes later, another fight broke out between a college kid and a local man. The next thing I knew, mayhem erupted with boys trying to prove they were men, and men proving them wrong. Males were rolling all over the floor, throwing punches at each other and crashing into tables. Jimbo pulled Mona behind the counter, before launching himself into the mix. Squealing, I clambered to safety, too, when a wet and matted frat boy rammed headlong into the chairs at our booth, knocking them over. The other women sought high ground as well.

Mona covered her face when Jimbo took his first hit, then peeked through her fingers, horror movie-style, unable to look away. The kid Pete was fighting looked like a linebacker, but he dropped him in three neat punches. Unfortunately, another leapt in right afterward to avenge his teammate.

“Not the face, not the face!” I shouted, wincing as he got hit. Though Pete was a very attractive man, and it seemed a pity to ruin a perfectly straight nose, I found myself confused that I cared, but whatever. It was a great fight from the safety of the sidelines.

Crystal Ann was sitting on top of said sideline pounding the counter with her fists, whooping at the top of her lungs. I watched raptly as this pack of wild-eyed Southern boys went at it. Joe Pat and his foe rammed into the bar with enough force to shake the whole thing. Mona and I jumped back even though the counter was between us, but Crystal Ann didn’t budge. She simply picked up a pitcher of beer and dumped it right on top of their entangled bodies, which, curiously, made them go at it even harder.

“Look y’all,” she said, turning to us and pointing, “Vic Jr.’s madder’n a wet hornet over there!” She laughed with abandon as he, possibly confused about which side he was on, picked up a chair and slammed it down over another man’s back. When his opponent made no real effort to get back up, Crystal started whooping again.

The real problem for the KAs was that Havelock was situated near several military bases. That meant the Frog’s local clientele was composed of predominately ex-military. Those poor college kids had no idea who they were up against. Fifty point answer on their final exam: Never underestimate the well-trained elderly!

When all the visitors had been tossed out on their still-wet-behind-the-ears, the place looked like an F-5 tornado had rolled through; chairs lay on their sides, tables flipped, debris scattered everywhere. Jimbo’s left eye was beginning to swell and his fists were bleeding furiously. The others looked equally bruised and bloodied, but certainly not beaten. Mona and Crystal went to work loading bar towels with ice and distributing them. In fact, the general mood in the room had radically changed from charged aggression to joviality, with men laughing and exchanging war stories as the women tended to the wounded.

Mona fluttered around Jimbo and he happily accepted her offerings of towels, ice, and feminine sympathy. Pete limped over to the counter covered in blood. And while I felt no urge to flutter, I was surprisingly relieved when he scrubbed his face with the towel Crystal Ann offered and it all smeared off; someone else’s then.

Joe Pat was a mess. Blood from his busted nose trickled onto his Friday night polo shirt. From the looks of his profile it was not the first time it had been broken, and based on the satisfied expression his face wore, it probably wouldn’t be the last. The rest of the men slowly gathered at the bar to nurse their battle injuries. The scene was probably no different than any other civil scrimmage in Southern history, so it was no wonder every brawl ever fought on North Carolina soil was memorialized. Fighting was in the blood, passed down paternally from generation to generation.

Perhaps a marker would be erected in front of the Rusty Frog as well. It might read something like: The Battle of Havelock, where Colonel James (insert middle initial) Skarren, otherwise known as Jimbo the Silent, single-handedly defended the honor of the townswomen by staving off invading forces and leading his meager troops to victory. Yep, that would look pretty good on one of those metal signs.

“Don’t get much better’n this,” Pete joked, slapping Jimbo’s back while adding his soiled towel to the growing pile on the counter.

Once cleaned up, various warriors began righting tables and setting the chairs on top. It appeared this was some type of tribal ritual; everyone had their job. Crystal Ann handed a broom to Billy Gray with a pointed look. He winced as he grabbed it, but without uttering a word, began sweeping broken glass and debris into small heaps. Vic Jr. was in charge of plastic cups and random debris, throwing the cracked pitchers in the large trash can he wheeled behind him.

Pete returned from the back with a mop, bucket, and several more towels draped over his shoulder. He glanced at me and smiled as he rolled the bucket by. Feeling fairly useless and not a big fan of blood, I followed along, not sure exactly what my intended job was.

“Well, did ya enjoy the show, Susie-Q?”

“Why, yes I did. Who needs the theater when you have ringside seats to The Rusty Frog Slap-Down?” He chuckled, but then stopped short, wincing as if it hurt. “So how often does this sort of thing happen?”

“Well, we like to do it about once a month. It’s the only way Jimbo can keep the bar clean.” His ribs might hurt, but his smart mouth was working just fine.

He rolled the sloshing bucket near the far wall and parked it there while the broom patrol hurried over with a dustpan. Once the pile was removed, he slapped the mop down on the floor, splattering soapy water everywhere. Snatching a towel from his shoulder, I knelt beside him and started wiping.

“I got this, Susie-Q.”

“I know. But the way I see it, I can either stand behind you watching your butt wiggle, or I can help. Which would you prefer?” He snorted and continued pushing the mop back and forth. “Besides, I feel partly responsible.”

“For what?”

“The first fight.”

“Oh yeah, that one. You do seem pretty talented at stirring up trouble.”

“It is starting to look that way, isn’t it? It must be a gift.”

“More a curse, I’d say.”

“Oddly enough, I don’t have this problem in Philly.”

“I’m surprised you’re not dead already, considering the crime rate and abundance of concealed weapons up there,” he said flatly, ringing the freshly dipped mop head through the rollers.

“I‘ve noticed you boys don’t bother hiding your toys down here.”

“Clears up any confusion, I guess,” he said, with another slap of the mop. We were making progress.

“Besides,” I grunted, lunging for a patch I’d missed, “the bars I patronize are a lot less colorful than this place and the guys aren’t a bunch of homicidal rednecks.” He barked out a laugh and winced again. “Actually, I was hoping that first guy would get served tonight. I just didn’t plan on Jimbo busting his hand to do it.”

“Ya knew him, then?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, continuing to wipe as we slowly moved across the floor. “We had a nasty run-in at a bank this morning and I was hoping he’d get what was coming to him—in a physical sense. I’ve already taken care of him professionally,” I said smugly, looking up at him from the floor.

“Ya have, huh? I was wonderin’ what you two were chatting about before Jimbo rudely interrupted. I just assumed your mouth had gotten the better of you again.” I frowned realizing he was right. I’d been shooting it off a lot since I moved here.

“So, why do I keep findin’ ya in the middle of trouble?” he asked.

“Venturing a guess, I’d say men here don’t like my type very much. I tend to say exactly what’s on my mind.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” He pushed the bucket near the bathroom area and I hoped we wouldn’t end up there; I had my limits. “Seriously, though, perpetually pissed off works up there?”

“I’m not perpetually pissed off,” I said defensively. He raised an eyebrow and looked at me reproachfully. I shrugged. “Attitude is sort of expected in Philly. People are a bit more…intense, and the insults more colorful.” I smiled, still amused at Brandon’s worthy attempt. “Philly’s a rough playground and I grew a thick skin there during recess. There are occasional growls at sports bars now and then, but where I drink, few have the energy to fight after a solid twelve-hour workday. Most people just want to come off their day and enjoy some evening companionship. Plus, guys up there have sense enough to give my kind a wide berth.”

“The stuck-up kind?” He made another attempt at laughter as I shot him a look.

“No, the ‘not-interested’ kind.”

“So, I take it you don’t date much.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Really?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well…yeah, actually it is,” he answered, swishing the mop from side to side, falling silent as we moved to the next spill. He wrung out the mop again, before speaking.

“So…mammal or reptile?” He grinned down at me.

“Well, I do like to keep within the same species,” I responded, snorting.

“So, how long have y’all been together?”

“About two years.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so shocked. I’m actually a nice person when you get to know me.”

“Uh huh,” he said, raising a brow.

“Don’t worry, Pete. I won’t be here long enough to prove it.”

“I am gonna miss our little sparring matches when ya go.” He looked at me playfully.

“I think I will, too…maybe.” I didn’t want him to know that in a weird kind of way I enjoyed his company, if that was the right word for it.

“So next time your boyfriend comes down, you’ll have to bring him over so we can offer our condolences.”

At the thought of Ryan in this place, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. When I finally caught my breath, I said, “This bar isn’t exactly his style.”

He frowned suddenly. “Not good enough for him?”

I wiped a residual tear from my fit of hysterics and looked around at the spectacle. “I’m going with a definite ‘not even close’.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, clearly annoyed. He swished the mop back and forth a few more times. “It seems like you don’t mind it, though.”

“Well, I don’t really have a lot of options, but yes, I’ll admit this place has grown on me—maybe like a fungus.”

We finished this section and he put a chair in the middle of the slick area. I took the opportunity to stand. He stuck out his hand for my soiled towel and I snatched a fresh one from his shoulder.

“So what about you? I don’t see a ring on your finger. Aren’t you dating someone?”

“Me? Nooo.” It was my turn to look surprised.

“Well, you are relatively attractive in an annoying, conceited sort of way.”

“Why, thank you.” He leaned on the mop handle and wiped his brow with his forearm.

“Seriously, why aren’t you with someone?” His expression darkened for a split-second but brightened again just as fast and he shrugged nonchalantly.

“I just haven’t found the right girl, I guess.”

“While we’re on the subject of dating, though, what’s the deal with Jimbo and Mona? I mean, every time I’m in here they do nothing but pine for each other. It’s ridiculous. Mona’s too damn Southern to ask him out, and I have no idea what Jimbo’s problem is.”

“Unh unh unh,” he said, waving his index finger. “Meddling in the affairs of others’ll get ya in a whole heap of trouble. Believe me. Plus, it’s really none of my business—or yours.” We’d reached the counter now and I handed Pete the last of the towels.

“You’re probably right. I was just curious.”

“Can’t rush love, Susie-Q. It takes its own sweet time.” He smiled wistfully and then rolled the bucket to the back.

By now the men had finished their jobs and the bar looked relatively clean. It smelled better at least. Mona and I took our leave as they filed out into the parking lot. And with that, the Rusty Frog was officially closed for the evening.

10

Meeting Queen Elizabeth

“Goodness gracious sakes alive!” Dorothy Vernon, proprietor of Dottie’s Hair Salon, exclaimed, while I cleared the cargo ship load of file fragments choking her system.

“Pulling the plug from the socket isn’t really the best way to turn off your computer, Dottie. Give me a minute and I’ll show you a safer way.” Having contracted a staggering number of viruses opening all that Fwd: Fwd: Fwd: email garbage, it’s a wonder her system hadn’t crashed sooner. I mean, who actually believes they’ve won five million Pounds Sterling in some British sweepstakes they never entered? Honestly, Ron!

After deleting a million temp files and performing a data compression of cosmic proportion, she gasped and threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know how y’all do it! Once it breaks, that thing’s just beyond me.”

Dressed in what appeared to be a pink satin evening gown, a brown Toto-like creature, crowned with a diamond-studded tiara and matching collar, popped up as her screen’s wallpaper. If I ever owned a dog, it would be a DAWG, not a fluffy, watery-eyed rat.

“That’s Lady Godiva. Isn’t she just the most precious thing ya ever laid eyes on?” Dottie cooed at the screen as if she were Skyping it. “I named her after the chocolate, yew know. I call her Lady for short.” Reminding myself that laughing at a client’s pet is not good business practice, I nodded and smiled. “That was her costume for Stella Meekin’s lawn party back in March. She’s Queen Elizabeth! Doesn’t she look fancy?”

“Very fancy,” I replied.

An independent sales representative for National Cosmetics, Dottie not only offered hair and nail services at her salon but the most extensive product line in all of Eastern North Carolina.

“Makeup’s my real bread and butter. No one can hold a candle to me in sales,” she boasted. “In fact, I’m in the runnin’ for a pink Cadillac, yew know. I’m gonna win it, too! Then, everyone’ll know it’s me when they see it comin’.” Seemingly locked in a vision, she glided towards her glass window and pointed to the placard which read, “Hurry in for the latest colors!”

“You’ve really gotta try our lotion, Susan. It’ll make your hands feel like silk and smell like Lilies of the Valley. And it’s organic, yew know.” Whirling to a crowded shelf, she grabbed a pale pink tube, unscrewed the gold cap, and thrust it under my nose. “Smell it.”

Sniffing, I staggered back. Holy cow!

“Here, try some.” She squirted a quart into my palm. “Now, yew want to rub it in like this.” She demonstrated in slow motion. “That way it’ll get absorbed into the top layers of the skin; the epiderm. Very important.” I nodded gravely, rubbing as instructed. “That’s right, just like that. And any extra, well yew just take it right on up your arms. Yew can even rub some on your décolletage, yew know, before gettin’ dressed and puttin’ on your perfume.” Taking shallow breaths, I nodded enthusiastically.

My turn for the sales pitch…

Beginning to show its age, Dottie’s computer system needed reliable support. When her original contract expired, she hadn’t bothered renewing because her nephew, Teddy, who knew “everything ’bout computers”, took care of it for her. Plus, she’d never trusted that man who’d installed it. Surprise, surprise!

“Teddy’s smart as a whip,” she bragged, waving a dismissive hand at the unit. “We were all tickled pink when he went off to Craven Technical College last fall. Our family’s very proud of him, yew know. I just didn’t know what to do when it stopped workin’.”

“Did Teddy explain the importance of surge protectors?”

“I don’t recall that.” She narrowed her eyes. “They’re expensive, aren’t they?”

“Not really. Besides, it’s far more expensive to pay for out-of-contract service calls now that Teddy’s gone, don’t you think? And all of your cosmetic orders… Listen, I happen to have an extra one in my car. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll set it up for you (aka, plug it in and flip the switch) at no extra charge. Consider it a gift from INTech for your loyalty.” She eyed me suspiciously but acquiesced. After re-booting her system, I said, “Dottie, I feel so much better knowing you’re protected. Mona tells me you get a lot of storms down here. Power outages can be murder on hard drives.”

At the mere mention of good ol’ Mona, her wariness evaporated and she introduced me to her other business—gossip trafficking. Of course, she already knew all about me, to just short of my mother’s maiden name and my Social Security number.

“We all thought yew were a Yankee to begin with, comin’ from New York and all.”

“Pennsylvania, actually.”

“Oh, well same difference. But Mona set us straight right away, of course. I’ve only met a few of ’em, but I don’t trust ’em. Don’t like the way they talk. And they’ve got no manners at all.” I made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know how yew stand livin’ up there.”

I sighed, going for dour. “I manage.”

“Yew must’ve been up there a while. Ya hardly have an accent at all. I mean, yew practically sound like one of ’em! But thank the Good Lord you’re not. I’d a had a heart attack if some Yankee-man’d got hold of my computer files. Lord!” She dramatically placed her hand over her heart.

With no prelude, she grabbed my head and bent it down toward her ample bosom. “Those are highlights, aren’t they? They looked so real I wasn’t sure. Subtle. Real good, but real subtle.” She unclipped my hair and it tumbled down enmasse. Then she grabbed a good chunk and ran her fingers through it.” Ooo, and it’s so thick and wavy. I bet your man—yew do have one, don’t yew?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course, ya do. You’re pretty as a peach. I bet he likes runnin’ his hands through this,” she remarked coyly. I smiled and nodded. Myman liked it up so it wasn’t in his way, but whatever.

Her turn again, dammit!

She dropped the strands and began walking around me, touching here, tugging there; generally regarding me as an inanimate object. “The length is perfect. Below the shoulders is a soft look that suits your face. No, I wouldn’t need to change that. But with your chestnut color bein’ so dark, yew need to add some blond so people can tell you’ve had somethin’ done. And for what I expect you pay up there—you’ll have to tell me!—yew definitely want people knowin’ it. If yew have time, I can add some streaks.”

“Thanks, Dottie, but I already have a hair appointment scheduled in Philadelphia next week,” I semi-lied. I didn’t exactly have one right this minute, but I would as soon as I walked out the door. This was now an epic emergency; surely my salon would understand.

She grabbed my hand, her tease of unnatural red obscuring it. “Now these are a problem that can’t wait.” She dragged me to a manicure stand and pushed me into the chair. “All that computer mess is ruinin’ your hands!” She nodded at the battalion of National Cosmetic polishes. “Now, pick you out a color.”

My choices were pink, pink, or pink, every bottle containing a slight variation of the same pallet. Did these people not know about earth tones?” When I didn’t choose right away, she chose for me.

“Here, Coral Kiss’ll go nicely with your skin tone. It’s from National’s spring collection!” I hated coral, and though it was much more subdued than the blinding shade Mr. Dupree’s secretary wore, it was coming off as soon as I got home tonight. Dottie unraveled a series of tools, laying them out like a surgeon. After divulging that her two o’clock was having a sordid affair with some realtor, she began scrubbing my nails.

“Now I know all about that nasty bank business down in James City. Sarah told us when I did her hair for church.” I hoped that by “us” she meant half the women in Havelock. I needed advertising and would take it any way I could get it. “And then at the bar, too!” She laughed deeply and shook her head. “It takes a spirited woman to stand up to a man like that. You did a real good thing, honey. Real good.” Dropping the brush, she toweled my hands, and then tackled my cuticles. “Listen, if there’s anything yew need, all yew have to do is ask. You’re owed a debt of gratitude.”

“Thank you, Dottie. It was my pleasure, I assure you.”

Suddenly, she leaned in until there were six inches between us. “Alright, let’s talk about your face.”

“My face?”

“Your makeup!” She tsked me as if I were cosmetically-challenged. “More shadow—blue to bring out your eyes, I think. And lipstick! A frosted shade to match your nails. And gloss! Lordy, Susan, yew’ve got nothin’ on but neutrals. Yew need color!” She cocked her head in scrutiny. “Now I don’t need to explain the importance of moisturizers, do I?”

I knew better than to tell her I was a makeup counter whore with a lifetime supply of high-end everything, so I replied, “I’m sure I could use a few things.”

Raising her brows pointedly, she peered above her reading glasses. “Why don’t I just order for yew?”

“I think that would be best,” I replied, wondering how to turn it in as a business expense.

“So? What do yew think?” she asked eagerly when my nails were dry. I made a show of admiring them. “They look fantastic, Dottie. Thank you.”

“Silky soft hands and pretty nails. Now you’re ready for that funeral. People like shakin’ soft hands, yew know.”

“Funeral?”

“I noticed you’re wearin’ black. I am so sorry for your loss.” She smiled sympathetically and patted my hand. I opened my mouth but was at a complete loss for words.

“Oh, come here right now and let me give yew a hug.” I stiffened but accepted the gesture. At such close proximity, her perfume, applied quite liberally, overpowered the reek of her hand lotion. After paying for the manicure, lotion, and bottle of touch-up polish, I promised myself two aspirin to ward off the headache blooming…like a lily of the valley.

“Now Susan,” Dottie asked as I turned to leave, “how much does that service agreement cost…exactly?”

11

Sabotage

In less than a week, I was flying to Philadelphia to present a progress report to Bob. I couldn’t wait to visit civilization again, even if it was just for one night. It was lonely here and way too quiet; no rush hour traffic, no bustling sidewalks—no sidewalks, actually—no police cars screaming by. I even missed the stupid turnpike. And though the people were certainly entertaining, the ones I cared for felt really far away. Maybe the division between North and South was wider than I’d imagined. I crossed another day off my giant desk calendar and leaned back in my chair, a big smile on my face. And then…Mona appeared at my door, nibbling her lip.

Though we’d shared a few laughs and a bit of camaraderie after the bar fight, our détente had clearly been a one-night stand; Pete had taken to summoning me to his office for ridiculous reasons. It was impossible his new Auto-CAD was giving him this much trouble. And even though I’d warned him repeatedly of the limited number of free service calls provided with purchase, he’d chosen to frivolously waste them for the sole purpose of torturing me. And, as an added bonus, he held me hostage at the end of each session, drawing me into ridiculous repartee before signing off on the paperwork. The good news: He was about to run out of visits, and when he did, I would be free!

Last time his excuse had been the software wasn’t performing correctly—it was. Today, all he’d told Mona was, “It won’t work.” My eyes rolled to the sky when she delivered that load of crap. But knowing what little I did about the man, if he set his mind to it, he could probably destroy anything.

“Don’t be silly, Mona, tell him tomorrow’s perfectly fine. Tell him I have nothing else to do in the whole damn world than drop by his office again!!” She fled.

Entering Coastal Architectural Design bright and late the following afternoon, I smiled at the amazingly indifferent Laney, whose only response was to roll her eyes. I was totally going to marry that woman one day.

Looming over a large blueprint, Pete’s brows were knitted. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils and made a swift mark on the paper. In typical Pete fashion, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a mechanical pencil resting in his left hand. Papers and drawings were scattered haphazardly on the floor around him; highly unusual. Deep in thought with sunlight streaming down from the skylight onto his crown of golden waves, he looked almost angelic. However, when I cleared my throat and he looked up, his eyes belonged solely to the Devil.

“Well, hey there, Susie-Q. How’re ya doin’ today?”

“Hello, Mr. Walsh,” I said, in forced pleasantry. “What seems to be your problem today?”

“It won’t come up at all. I think it’s defective.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Defective,” I repeated dryly, walking across the carpet to his desk.

“Uh huh,” he murmured. His eyes returned to the scroll and he said nothing more. Good. Maybe he would leave me alone today. Maybe I could get out of here in a timely fashion. Maybe he had an actual problem for a change.

The first rule in troubleshooting is the same for all professions: Look for the most obvious cause before moving to the more obscure. After all, why amputate the finger when all you really have is a paper cut? Following your gut is also very important; mine said power supply. I sat down in his chair, placing my briefcase on the floor beside me. Pete was right. Something was clearly wrong with his system. In fact, it wouldn’t even boot up.

The screen light was blinking with persistence, which meant it was getting power, the printer was itching to do its job, but the hard drive wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. I couldn’t even get the cooling fan to run. Okay, maybe my gut was wrong. I began checking the BNC connections, tugging on every wire bundle. After a very thorough inspection, I ruled out loose cables; externally everything was exactly to factory specifications. I was a queen in the software department, but if I couldn’t get to the brains of the operation I had no hope of further diagnosis there. Besides, I’d run complete diagnostics last visit. The problem had to be mechanical.

“Huh. Interesting,” I mumbled to myself. I felt his eyes on me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please—please!—go back to what you’re doing.”

“I find you distracting.”

“Sorry.”

“Besides, I like watchin’ you in action. See how your mind works.”

Oh, if you only knew….

Before retrieving my autoclaved surgical instruments from the car, I explored alternate possibilities for the mechanical failure. If a board had blown or a capacitor had croaked there wasn’t much that could be done quickly; this model was so new I didn’t even have replacement parts. Anything I ordered would require overseas shipping, which could take days; I wasn’t about to allow a client of mine, even if it was Pete, to have his system down for some unspecified length of time. Service was my primary job function and I wanted my customers happy.

I glanced at Pete. He was clearly in the throes of a major project, and considering the state of his normally pristine office, it was most likely time sensitive. Leaving him technologically handicapped was simply unacceptable. I leaned back in his chair to think. It smelled like him; a masculine, spicy aroma which I, despite my general distaste for him, found obscenely enticing.

Several times in my life, a man, for seemingly unknown reasons, has utterly assailed my senses. Once in a Chicago mall, I’d been stunned to such a degree that I’d stopped mid-stride and blatantly stared at the guy. He wasn’t particularly handsome or well-dressed, nor was he outwardly intimidating, for that matter. Still, I hadn’t approached him. Besides what was I going to say? “Hello, you smell heavenly. Would you mind terribly if I sniffed you like a dog for an hour or two?”

I’d never been able to tie this olfactory response to any specific cologne—because believe me, if that were the case I’d already own a twenty-gallon drum of it. The only explanation I’d ever come up with was that regardless of product combination, the attraction was somehow linked to the essence of the man himself. And, why, oh why did Pete have to be one of those men?

Before taking the next step towards fixing whatever ailed his system, I did a little investigative work.

“Pete.”

“Yeah, Susie-Q?”

“When did you first notice the problem?”

“Yesterday.” Suddenly he was leaning over my shoulder, and I sure didn’t need to look up to know it.

“Have you experienced any power outages in the last day?”

“No.”

“Any breakers blown?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.”

I drummed my fingers on the top of his desk. I kept my nails fairly short since I used my hands a lot in repair work, and because Dottie hadn’t gotten hold of me recently, they weren’t painted some atrocious color.

“So, what did ya do this weekend?” he asked.

“Worked. You?” In fact, my only human contact had been with the starry-eyed pizza delivery boy Saturday night.

“Fished—Sunday, anyway.” Other than the few times my father had tried to explain the finer points of throwing a worm-coated hook into the water, I had little knowledge on the subject.

My eyes rested on the newest addition to his office—one I was certain hadn’t been there the last visit.

“Nice plant.” It was one of those tropical numbers with the long curvy trunk and spiky fronds. I wasn’t home enough to keep a house plant alive, I mused.

“Thanks,” he said. “Picked it up this weekend. I think it adds a homey touch.”

I surveyed his room while I pondered the technical problem. With the exception of one small space beside his desk, the walls were completely bare. My clients’ offices typically housed books, family photos, inspirational posters, sometimes pieces of art. Though the remainder of his building was very nicely appointed, I had always thought it odd how little of his bigger-than-life personality existed within the confines of this room.

Having never done so before, I casually perused the short series of simple black frames neatly—no, perfectly—hanging in a row. These contained a couple of awards, a professional society membership certificate, and his college diploma. The latter caught my attention like a blinking neon sign!

“Vanderbilt?” I asked, turning to look at up him with unconcealed surprise.

“Yeah.” A small smile formed on his lips.

“You mean you didn’t go to Carolina like the rest of the population?”

“Nope. Did you?” I snorted and shook my head. Then realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I swiveled his chair around and stared at him in disbelief.

“The Vanderbilt University. The one in Nashville?”

“Well, I don’t know of any other one,” he said dryly. Unblinking, I simply gaped. Suddenly, he became very indignant. “What’s wrong with Vandy? It’s a good school. It may not be Ivy League, but it’s definitely Kudzu League, and that’s the Southern equivalent!” He crossed his arms, waiting, no doubt, for me to insult his Alma Mater.

“Yes, it’s a very good school. Excellent actually,” I replied softly.

“Then why are ya lookin’ at me like that?”

“It’s just…you escaped from North Carolina…and you came back?” And I really wasn’t kidding. He rolled his eyes.

“You’re a strange little girl, Susie-Q. Why wouldn’t I come back?” I shook my head bewildered.

“Why would you is more the question. Especially out here to nomad’s land.”

“Some of us are proud of our heritage.” He scowled pointedly. “And I think what I do down here is important,” he added, settling his hands on his hips.

“Well what I do is important, too, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it here.” At least I’d believed that before I was forced into exile. Now, oddly, at times I felt the double agent.

“North Carolina does have its merits, ya know.”

“Really? I’d sure like to know what they are.”

“You’re tappin’ your toe again,” he said suddenly, breaking my focus. My legs were crossed and I was…tapping it. Kirsten called it my “pissy tap”.

“So?”

“You always do that when ya get mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m…annoyed. And how would you know?!” He shook his head like I was hopeless.

“So if ya didn’t go to Carolina, where did ya go?”

“Northwestern.” It was his turn to stare blankly. “It’s in Chicago, Pete.”

“I know where it is,” he snapped sharply, his response startlingly hostile. Taken aback, I stood, thinking this might be a good time to go get those tools. He relaxed his shoulders and said, “Sorry. I just know where it is, that’s all.” I nodded and then walked across his sanctum to the hallway.

“Where’re ya goin’, Susie-Q?” His tone was once again normal, taunting, jovial; the Pete I could blast and count on to hold his temper, which was really the fun of it all. “You’re not tryin’ to escape already?” I stopped, confused and slightly irritated.

“I escaped a long time ago and didn’t come back.”

“Until now,” he corrected.

“I’m not back, I’m just…” Really, there was no point in reminding him yet again that my stay was very temporary, so I said, “I’m never coming back.”

“Ya don’t know that. Ya might decide ya like it here,” he responded.

I laughed cynically. “Don’t count on it.”

There was a moment of silence when our eyes met, and then Pete exploded. “Ya know what you are, Susie-Q?”

“No, what am I, Pete?”

“You’re a snob.” I stormed across the room until I was within six inches of him.

“What did you just call me?”

“A snob,” he repeated belligerently.

“I may be a lot of things, buddy, but a snob, I am not!”

“Oh, yeah ya are!”

“That is so not true! Believe me, I don’t judge people by their wealth!”

I’d experienced way too much Southern snobbery growing up. Not only from the girls; the haves—the ones with all the “matchy-matchy” expensive paraphernalia and shiny new cars, but also from my boyfriends’ mothers—the haves on steroids; petty country club socialites who, having never worked a day in their sweet Southern lives, couldn’t possibly allow their precious sons to date the wrong sort of girl—the “not rich” kind; me. And these weren’t Kennedys or Trumps or the local “old money” families—those moms were fairly cool. No, the ones who treated me so badly were your run of the mill doctors’ wives. Please!

At that time, still innocent and un-jaded, I associated my experiences with home, family, personal inadequacies, and North Carolina, itself. So naturally, I ran off to join the circus. Large cities—proper terminology used here—offered blessed anonymity. Sure there was money—big, gigantic money and an upper echelon of snobbery, the likes of which I would never know, but there, if I accidentally bumped into some multi-billionaire blue-blood in an elevator, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue, nor care for that matter. In my adult world, the only reason I looked up to anybody with more money was because I wanted their job!

Other than flat-out insulting, Pete’s accusation piqued my curiosity about his own background. Vanderbilt was every bit as expensive as Northwestern, if not more so. And while it offered a similar caliber of academic excellence, it had the stigma of money—old Southern money. Regardless of playing bartender with his cousin, I was willing to bet Mr. Handsome, Perfect-toothed, Owns-His-Own-Company Walsh had grown up privileged.

“And I don’t know about you, but I had to work growing up, thank you very much.” I’d had a job since I was legally old enough. I bought my own clothes, paid for my gas, and helped out wherever I could—a teacher’s salary only went so far. And though I’d qualified for a bit of financial aid, I’d come up with the rest of my tuition myself. In fact, almost a decade later, I was still paying off the last of my student loans. How dare he call me a snob!

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “You’re not that kind of snob.” His tone suggested I was some sort of idiot. And there was the pot calling the kettle black!

“Well then, educate me, Mr. Walsh. What kind of ‘snob’ am I, exactly?”

“It’s Pete, and we are off the clock right now.”

“As long as I’m in your office, it’s Mr. Walsh.”

He shot me a jaundiced look but continued. “You look down your nose at North Carolinians like we’re not good enough for ya. Have you forgotten that you’re one of us?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I retorted. He paced for a minute before turning back to me.

“I don’t even think ya know who ya are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I laughed derisively. “I know exactly who I am.”

“Do ya? I think you purposely lost your accent so you could pretend to be somebody you’re not. I think you act all high and mighty because you’re afraid someone will find out the truth. And I’d like to know why!”

I couldn’t help myself, it just popped right out of my mouth. “Maybe I didn’t want to sound like some uneducated hick. Maybe I didn’t want people to assume I was stupid because I had an accent. Maybe I didn’t want to be part of the laughing stock. Did you ever think about that?” He raised his eyebrows and then shook his head in mock pity.

“I was wrong about you, Susie-Q. So wrong…” He began walking in a circle around me so that I had to keep turning to look at him. “You’re not just embarrassed about bein’ from North Carolina,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “You’re embarrassed about bein’ Southern!”

“Do you have any idea what they think about us, Pete?”

“What do ‘they’ think about us?” I clamped my mouth shut, before saying any more. “Or better, tell me what they think about you!”

“Why you arrogant—”

“That’s why they sent you down here, isn’t it?”

“What? No!”

“Your company sent you because they thought ya’d have an easier time peddlin’ their wares than a Northerner.” I stared at him incredulously. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you switch that cute little Southern act on when it suits ya.”

“How dare you! INTech needed to turn a profit here, so they sent a competent, seasoned service rep. So what? Barely anyone in my company even knows I’m Southern.”

“And why is that, Susie-Q?” he pressed. Suddenly, I found a piece of lint on my skirt that demanded my full attention. “Say it! Tell me I’m right.”

“My reasons aren’t any of your business!”

“Uh huh.”

“You’ve sure got a lot of preconceived notions about me, don’t you? In fact, you’re a classic North Carolinian! You’re scared of anything that’s foreign to you.”

“Yeah, I’m just terrified of foreigners,” he mocked sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes flashed.

“Comin’ down here has reminded you of your roots, Susie-Q, and you hate it, don’t ya?”

I looked him up and down, crossed my arms over my chest and unleashed the full force of my glare. “Go preach your self-righteous bullshit somewhere else, Pete,” I said, with surprising composure. “I’ve got work to do.” I plopped down in his chair again, twirled my back to him and counted to ten…slowly.

His driving my very personal insecurities to the surface was infuriating, but I’d allowed him to do it. That he could was what disturbed me most. While I’d never taken Pete’s attacks seriously, today his words cut me because there was truth in them—more than I wanted to admit. Was I now one of those outsiders who snubbed Southerners because I believed they weren’t as sophisticated as me? Had I somehow sought refuge in the very thing I despised? Had I become my own worst nightmare?

I carelessly flopped the 2180 manual onto his desk and began flipping through the pages, paying little attention to the words. All I wanted right now was to disappear and find a quiet place to fume. The only real obstacle between me and that quiet place was sitting lifelessly in front of me…and I really had no clue what was wrong with it.

Clearing my throat, I used my most professionally detached tone. “Mr. Walsh, I believe your system has incurred some type of mechanical failure. You have a couple of options. I can take your system apart on the floor here. This may require a good bit of time, and may still result in my having to send the unit, or a part of it to our technical center. As you have already stated, my presence distracts you from your work, so I would prefer not to do that. A second option is I can order in the most common replacement parts in hopes of addressing glitches currently inherent to this model. These may take days to arrive since the product is so new to the market. So, I propose a third option. A sales representative will deliver an entirely new system to replace this one at no charge to you.”

“Can’t fix it, huh?”

“I can fix anything!” I hissed. Then, willing calm, I added, “I just don’t like to inconvenience my customers in the process. Unfortunately, you will be down for a few hours, but I will return for the install either this evening or tomorrow morning if you are available.”

“Don’t worry, Susie-Q, I’ll be available.”

I pulled out my phone and scrolled down to Gene Daniel’s number. He was an annoying “good ol’ boy” kind of salesman who liked to let the phone ring a good long time before picking up—at least when my number flashed on the screen. He’d also made it perfectly clear on day one that he’d never had a woman boss before and didn’t want one now. Unfortunately, he was physically located closest to our local equipment repository.

While waiting for Gene to pick up, I leaned over to retrieve the serial number from the back of the unit. When I grasped the power cord to shove it out of the way, the plug slithered out from behind his new plant’s woven basket. Sabotage!!!

I pressed END and closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to launch the monitor across the room—or better, at him. Straightening slowly, I kept my back to him so he couldn’t see the undiluted contempt swimming in my eyes, meanwhile suppressing all the expletives racing through my brain. “It seems…Mr. Walsh…that your system has somehow become disconnected from its power source.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Then I guess ya’d better plug it back in.” Bubbling just below the surface, the laughter in his voice pushed me to the teetering edge of implosion. Devil wasn’t a strong enough word for what he was.

Very tempted to kick his stupid plant over on principle, I marched around the back of his desk and jammed the plug into the outlet—the empty one, as the other was fully attached to the large surge unit in which all ten other plugs were connected and fully in view. The system sprang to life. I stuffed the manual back into my briefcase, pretending this was all some kind of freakish dream.

“Well, what do ya know, Susie-Q, ya fixed it. And it only took, hmm…thirty minutes this time.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “I must say, I’m impressed. Maybe your company really did send down its very brightest,” he said, coughing out a laugh.

“Is this some form of recreation for you?” I said through clenched teeth. Because I’m seriously thinking about stabbing you with one of those pointy protractor thingies on your table. The mental image was delightful. He tracked my eyes and casually moved several sharp objects from my reach. I holstered my phone.

“I think your Auto-CAD will work just fine now, Mr. Walsh.” Taking evasive action before he gave me a stroke, I shouldered my briefcase. Even if I’d lost this round, I was taking a bite out of his flesh before I left.

“Mr. Walsh, just so we’re clear, I couldn’t care less about your personal opinion of me. I do care very much about our products, however, and even more about the service my company provides its customers. You have given me the strong impression I am failing you in this aspect.”

A smile played on his lips.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to work with a different service representative. I can arrange for a replacement if that’s your desire.” Maybe Tom could loan me his western SR for just this one client; it would be worth the bribe, no matter the price.

Full-fledged anxiety erased all arrogance, and before he could harness it, he yelped, “No! I don’t want anybody else!” He then cleared his throat and took a moment to collect himself before gracefully acknowledging defeat. “No, Miss Wade, you’re just fine, thanks.”

“Very well then, sir, in the future, I would appreciate your finding some way to restrain yourself so I can do my job quickly and efficiently. Feel free to call our office if you have any further problems, but please remember this; with your current plan you only have one visit left.” I narrowed my eyes and looked him square in the face. “I suggest you use it wisely.”

Exiting his building as fast as I could, I didn’t give him the chance to walk me to the door. I didn’t even glance at Laney. I slid into my car, turned the AC on full blast, and screamed at the top of my lungs. I then drove back to Havelock fuming and muttering evil things. The faster he used up that last visit, the happier I was going to be.

♥

Skidding to a halt in front of my building, I brutally slammed my car door and cleared the steps in one lunge, the witch’s theme from The Wizard of Oz streaming through my head.

“I swear to you Mona,” I shouted as I flung open the door, “that man makes me violent!” I stormed back to my office and hurled my briefcase at the wall. After spewing a flood of foul curses, I swept everything but my computer off my desk and proceeded to throw myself a proper Southern hissy fit.

Mona raced back to my office, but when she saw the mess and cyclone of anger whirling about me, she dropped her jaw and simply stared.

“He’s infuriating. That’s what he is! What with his “Susie-Q” and his snarky comments and his pompous arrogance. I swear to you Mona he’s gonna be the death of me. No! I’m going to beat him to death, and then you can just visit me in jail. I am absolutely homicidal right now!” I screeched.

“What happened? Why are you so mad at him?” she asked, shrinking back to the doorframe for protection.

“He unplugged his stupid computer, and then he just stood there waiting for me to figure it out! That’s what. Why are you so oblivious to what he’s doing? Why do you think he’s all sweetness and light? He’s vile! Can’t you see that?”

“Susan, I can’t believe Pete would do such a thing on purpose. He’s the nicest person I know!”

“Then you don’t know many nice people,” I snapped.

“Really, Susan, he’d do about anything for you. Anyone around here’ll tell ya that.”

“Well he’s definitely doing something for me, right now. He’s giving me hives! I know Pete seems perfect, but he’s got y’all—” I gasped and covered my mouth. “He’s trying to turn me Southern,” I whispered. “I see his game now. He’s trying to break me. Oh, he’s good!” I walked over and kicked the trash can, and then glared at Mona and pointed my finger. “And you’re in on it, too, aren’t you? You’re helping him! Well, it’s not going to work. I’m not falling for it! You can both go to Hell!”

All the blood drained from her face and she shook her head wildly. “Oh no, Susan, I would never do that to you! You’re my friend. I could never—I don’t understand why he’s actin’ this way, but I’ve got nothin’ to do with it.” Her eyes glossed with tears. “I swear it, Susan! I swear it on a stack of Bibles!”

I stared at the floor for a moment, feeling some remorse. “Alright, I believe you. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled and replied, “I forgive you, of course.” Then, head bent, she quietly disappeared. I spent a few more minutes kicking things and screaming, and then as my immediate fury waned, I began pacing my office like a caged animal. Finally, I marched up front to rant some more.

Sometime during my private fit, I’d yanked the clip from my hair and it was now fully mythological. And though I would never admit to the hot tears I’d shed, my mascara might be telling a different tale. I saw it on her face; I was terrifying her.

“What I wouldn’t give for an iced latte right about now,” I said, tapping my toe while stewing in my juices.

“The 7-Eleven’s got good coffee,” she volunteered, hopping up. “Why don’t I run over there real quick and get us some.” She bolted for the door like her pants were on fire, leaving me strumming my fingers on the edge of her desk. I needed to go on the offensive, but what to do…?

Under her glass desktop, a newspaper clipping of Jimbo and Pete standing beside some giant fish caught my attention. A plan formed, petty though it was. I carefully removed it and flew to the scanner. After returning her neatly organized office supplies to their former places, I skipped to my computer and uploaded the picture into my art program, preparing for surgery. I cropped out Jimbo and the fish—they didn’t need to be victims of collateral damage, and then I shaded, enhanced, reoriented and chose a more appropriate background—flames! Clearly, Pete’s face needed more color, too! Taking Miss Dottie’s advice—and hair color to heart, I reached deeply for my inner child, snatched her up by her roots, and by God, I gave him devil horns.

Delighted with my juvenile project, I glanced at my walls, shocked to realize that they were as bare as his. Art! My walls needed art…and flavor. After enlarging his face to 400%, straining the pixels to their very limits, I printed my new creation, using our copier’s poster-sized tray, and affixed it dead center across from my desk. I gouged four thumbtacks right through the unmarred drywall. No, I decided five would be better, so I stabbed the last right through his perfect nose.

His face would give me inspiration for the formulation of my retaliatory plan. The tacks in my hand sprouted an unexpected epiphany. What was any proper office without a dartboard? I reopened the box and withdrew several. I missed the target the first few times, but eventually, I landed a solid hit from my desk. I righted the trash can and positioned it under the picture to catch future failed attempts.

Mona returned to find a much calmer me. She’d created makeshift lattes by pouring late afternoon coffee dregs over ice after adding a mound of artificial creamer and five pounds of sugar. I took a polite sip and held off gagging until she left the room. Blowing a big wet kiss to my new infantile stress release, I packed my bag and walked up front to apologize for frightening her. I left the building for home—or the condo as it were, to seek refuge and a cool shower. Now Mona could drink her “latte” in peace.

♥

Completely freaking, days later, I realized the countdown to Bob might end in an explosion. I wasn’t nearly ready to present; my slides, woefully lacking in actual data, weren’t finished and my conclusions were complete bullshit. I needed a drink!

Crossing the Rusty Frog’s lot, I dodged mosquitos like artillery fire.

“Oh, it’s you,” I said in disgust when I arrived at the counter. Pete was standing in the corner, one foot pressed against the wall behind him. He held a beer in his hand—a bottle; he was privileged, of course, and didn’t take from the weekend keg like the rest of us riffraff. Images of his face peppered with tacks ran rampant through my mind and made me feel all warm and cozy inside. His unmarred face lit up when he saw me, and he sidled up close beside me.

“Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Why would I need anyone else if you’re here?” I rolled my eyes. “Besides,” he announced softly, “I have a present for you.” He was wearing nice jeans and a white cotton dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, and curse his bloody soul, he smelled absolutely wonderful.

I stepped back, unnerved by his unexpected proximity. “You shouldn’t have,” I stuttered.

He walked behind the counter and set a beer bottle before me. Then he returned and handed me a small, handsomely wrapped box, tied up in pretty blue ribbon. It made a hissing sound when I shook it.

“If this is a snake, I will kill you,” I threatened, wondering momentarily if it actually was.

“Not a snake,” he said, grinning. “But it can bite. You’d be immune to snake venom anyway, I guess, bein’ a reptile yourself.” It was a tossup; hurl the gift at him with mighty force and great inaccuracy, or ignore the comment and open it. The Pandora inside me couldn’t resist. After untying the bow, I waited for the booby trap to spring.

“You’re not Greek by any chance are you?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, you know the old saying about Greeks bearing gifts.”

“Just open the damn present,” he snapped. Removing the paper, I was surprised to find a clear plastic box filled with thumbtacks—the pretty colored type.

“I dropped by your office the other day to sign the invoice for a long-term service agreement,” he explained, his eyes dancing. “It was really expensive. Ya know…the one with unlimited calls.” He grinned, roguishly, raising his eyebrows. “When I stuck my head in your office, hopin’ to catch ya, I noticed ya had some very interesting art hangin’ on your wall. It kinda looked like a work in progress, though. I had no idea you were so obsessed with me, Susie-Q. I am flattered, I must say. Speechless, really.”

“That would be a first,” I muttered.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I thought ya might need these.” He nodded at the box in my hand. “I wouldn’t want ya to run out.” Then he bent down like a lover, pressed his lips gently to my ear, and whispered, “’Cause I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

Turning on my heels, I marched right back out the door.

12

Sweet Liberty

Energy infused me as I landed in Philadelphia. The idyllic traffic jam on the way downtown, the throngs of people jostling me on the sidewalks, and especially the buzzing corporate office reminded me not only of what civilization felt like, but who I really was…and who I wanted very badly, now that he’d been fondling my inner thigh for the last five minutes.

“So, Kirsten bumped into me this morning,” Ryan said, reaching across my plate for the salt.

“She did?”

“Yes. She’s as impressed with your progress as I am.”

“Really?” I said, basking in the compliment as he took a quick sip of his Diet Coke.

“I don’t get why you’re still complaining. You got an amazing break. Use it!” I looked at him doubtfully. “Your performance really could land you a district promotion, and I know you want that—we want that.” He smiled hungrily, inching further up my skirt.

“Yes, but six months is not nearly enough time, and the location is—”

“Baby, INTech’s spread all over the globe,” he said suddenly. “I’d be gone in half a heartbeat if I got the right opportunity.” He lifted my chin with his fingertip and gave me a meaningful look. “Let Kirsten work her magic. She’s a smart lady who wants to help you. You’re lucky, you know. I wish I’d had someone watching my back as I climbed. Take advantage of her.” He flashed a wicked smile, and then nipped my earlobe sharply. “I would.”

After settling the bill, Ryan wrapped himself in his handsome cashmere masterpiece and slipped on his calf-skin gloves. I collected my coat from the rack. As I shrugged into it, he scrutinized me.

“You’re not wearing that to the meeting are you?”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” I asked, checking for spills.

“The top’s frumpy.” I smoothed down my tags-just-removed, very non-frumpy silk turtleneck, feeling a sudden twinge of inadequacy.

“Do you really think it looks bad?” He raised an elegant eyebrow and nodded.

“Baby, you’re just not maximizing your assets.”

“My meeting’s not until tomorrow,” I reminded him testily. “Besides, I don’t think Bob cares what I wear.” Ryan chuckled humorlessly.

“He cares. Besides, you want to dress up to the next level—always. Then, management will visualize you in that role. Trust me. In the end, it’ll make Bob’s decision a lot easier.” His lecture made me feel every bit the new hire under his tutelage. I frowned slightly at the thought.

Pushing through the door, he plunged us into icy air and city noise. “That’s how I assess people for promotions,” he continued, turning back to me with a slight shrug.

I caught up with him at the corner. As we waited for the blinking orange numbers to count down to WALK, I said, “Ryan, you aren’t honestly telling me you base promotions on wardrobe rather than qualifications.” He gave me a sharp look.

“I base mine on smart players.” His eyes then softened. “I’m just saying plan ahead. Why don’t you use my personal shopper?” he suggested, taking a moment to wipe a splatter of crusty sidewalk salt from his ridiculously expensive shoes. “I’m sure she could work wonders with your image.” I raked my eyes over his personal image and sighed. Because I can’t afford your personal shopper… “Shit! I’m late for a meeting. I’ll see you tonight.” Ryan kissed my cheek quickly before disappearing through the rotating glass doors into the crowded lobby.

With a general sense of satisfaction, I leaned against the granite retaining wall beneath the perfectly aligned row of ornamental trees and watched the swarm of busy ants flow through the atrium; each, like me, charged with the eminently important task of bringing monetary food to INTech’s colony. One very regal looking ant glided unhindered through the thinning horde.

“Kirsten, hold the door!”

We were the only ones in the elevator as it dinged up to the sixth floor. “You know, when you get your promotion we’ll finally be equals—professionally speaking, that is. Of course, I’ll have seniority,” she continued. “Still, it’ll be nice to see another woman in a powerful position, especially now that Beth’s gone. I mean, I don’t want to be the only female manager in the building.” I smiled guiltily, reminded of Ryan’s advice.

“I heard she had her baby. Do you know when she’s coming back?” Kirsten stabbed the close door button with force, preventing a vaguely familiar woman in Logistics from joining us.

“Never, I hope.”

Beth had been promoted a scant three months before Kirsten and shared with her the distinction of being amongst the elite handful of females holding managerial positions within this heavily male-dominated company. It made no sense why they hadn’t bonded immediately.

A capable and very likable supervisor, Beth had always treated me with a proud sort of respect. But when she announced her pregnancy, you could have knocked me over with a feather. After scaling the cliff without so much as a tether, I couldn’t comprehend how she, or any woman in her right mind, could choose children over her career. Babies got in the way of futures. I had.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but my promotion’s far from set in stone. We both know North Carolina’s only a lateral move, and frankly, I’m not completely sure I’ll even survive it. You have no idea how—”

“You took a bold step in the right direction, and believe me, management is paying attention,” she said with uncharacteristic passion. “You’ve got to trust me on this. I know what I’m doing. Besides, have I ever steered you wrong?”

This woman had shown me ways to cut in line I’d never thought possible. Her skills were unmatched. I shook my head helplessly. “Exactly,” she said with an arrogant smirk. “This project will work perfectly. Have a little faith, hun.”

“Well, no matter what happens in September, thanks for looking out for me. My I-owe-yous are really stacking up.”

“You know I’m not counting,” she said, laughing lightly. “Besides, us gals have got to stick together.” She tossed her arm over my shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

As the doors opened, spilling us into the hustle of our floor, Kirsten put her lips to my ear and whispered, “Don’t blow this one, Susan.” She patted my head in big-sisterly fashion before gliding toward the restroom to purge her lunch.

♥

The restaurant Ryan had chosen was new, expensive and very trendy. Having ordered an impressive vintage, he skillfully swirled the dark liquid around the arc of the glass before deeply inhaling. Regularly attending tastings, we both knew wine. While his goal was to impress clients, I simply enjoyed the ceremony. Plus it was all so sophisticated. Satisfied with bouquet and flavor, he nodded to the steward.

When dinner arrived, I gleamed with pleasure. My salmon was exquisitely prepared and artfully presented, the center brightly translucent. Ryan, as he did more often than not, sent his tenderloin back, claiming it was overcooked. Clearly amused, he watched the waiter scurry off in a fit of distress.

“You know perfectly well there was nothing wrong with your steak,” I remarked, shaking my head.

“What are you implying?” he asked with mock innocence.

“You know exactly what I’m implying.” He laughed out loud, and then looked towards the kitchen, his eyes dancing with the flame that fueled him.

“It’s good for him. Customer care is essential. Call it on the job training. Besides, weeding out the weak is part of the natural selection process.” I sighed in frustration. Though typically taking care of his own, he hadn’t reached his high level by playing nice. Still, I felt for the waiter, knowing he was working his butt off for next to no salary and, most likely, a dismal tip. I planned, as I usually did when Ryan was in one of his domineering moods, to slip the poor guy an apologetic offering as we left. Surreptitiously, I felt for my wallet.

A look of playful superiority crossed my lover’s face when a new medallion, cut off mid-moo, was presented to him by slightly trembling hands. He sliced into it, and then with a regal lift of his chin, dismissed the server and raised his glass to me in toast.

“To your success and the future.”

“To my victorious return,” I followed, gently tapping his glass.

Ryan’s unexpected display of enthusiasm over my career thrilled me, and I hid my beaming face behind a large sip of Beaujolais. Though I tried to repress it outwardly, I lived in a dreamy state of awe, knowing that of all the women who’d thrown themselves at him, I was the one he’d chosen. And it mattered that he saw me as successful; it mattered a great deal.

After our meal, a different and obviously more experienced waiter, or more probably the manager judging by his dress, appeared at the table. “I hope you’ve enjoyed dining with us this evening. Please accept dessert by way of apology for your improperly prepared entrée. May I describe this evening’s selections?”

To Ryan, appearances were a close second to power, so to keep my figure the way he liked it, I exercised as often as humanly possible and rarely indulged in dessert—or bread, or fried anything, or… fill in the blank. (We shan’t mention my recent pizza binge.) Still, I loved listening to the tantalizing descriptions, imagining how they might taste. Key lime pie, my absolute favorite dessert in the world, was the pastry chef’s featured creation tonight. I became almost delirious as he described it.

“Ooh,” I said, looking at Ryan expectantly.

“She won’t have anything,” he said, interrupting the man’s recitation. I shot him a cool look.

“Very well, sir. Shall I bring coffee or perhaps a digestif? We have a very nice selection of cognacs and—”

“Just the check,” Ryan said. Then he leaned over the table in clear disapproval. “Baby, you weren’t actually thinking of ordering something?”

“As a matter of fact, I was…considering it,” I replied a bit sheepishly. “Tonight’s about celebrating, isn’t it?” He regarded me with the seriousness of a stockbroker.

“Don’t ruin that nice ass with weak impulses.”

Both humiliated and annoyed, I dropped my eyes and took a casual sip from my water glass.

As he returned from the restroom a few minutes later, he nodded to the coveting hostess whose eyes lingered on him as he passed. Impeccably dressed as always, he carried himself with the confidence of a prince, his perfectly trimmed jet hair a gleaming crown under the dancing chandeliers. He might be a lot of things, but the man had style. After killing the bottle and signing the bill, his sharp eyes focused on mine and his lips curved into a private smile.

“Here, Baby,” he said, retrieving my coat from the coat check. While waiting for the valet, Ryan straightened the heavy silk scarf he’d brought me from London last year. It was his favorite…for several reasons. Biting my lip, I wondered if he had any interesting ideas for it tonight; he loved games. I popped up on my tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips.

With practiced accuracy, the car came to a halt in front of us, wisps of steam and exhaust spiraling behind it. Every breath the valet took was visible as he hustled around to open my door. Ryan slipped a few dollars into the boy’s gloved hand and we slid into the sleek interior. I snuggled against the heated leather radiating into my back and unbuttoned my coat, welcoming the warm air blasting from the vents. Winter was loath to relinquish its hold on this city.

“It’s practically summer in my region and the place is already swarming with bloodsucking mosquitos. I hate it,” I said, as Ryan thrust us into orbit.

“Most people would love an assignment at the beach.”

“Have you ever been there?” I asked, turning toward him.

“No, Baby, but you lived in South Carolina. I mean that’s where you grew up, right?” Affronted, I stiffened.

“North Carolina, Ryan.”

“North Carolina, South Carolina…what’s the difference? It’s the South.” He shrugged as if that said everything.

North Carolina was the South; that much was true. But North Carolina was North Carolina, and not its wicked stepsister. And we—they, I mean—got officially torqued whenever that egregious mistake was made, as it so often was. In fact, the two entities had been in a state of cold war since inception. With only this one night together, now was definitely not the time to educate him on the matter.

Ryan eased into the space beside my rental. After nipping my neck, he reached behind the seat and retrieved a rectangular box, placing it in my lap. I recognized the wrapping immediately.

“What’s this?”

“Aid to the needy,” he responded with a subtle nod.

Nestled in copious tissue, a gorgeous silk blouse lounged lasciviously. “It’s lovely.”

“Red is power, Baby,” he said, his eyes glinting in the errant headlights of a fellow slave’s car as it wound through the labyrinthal garage. “Wear this to your meeting with Bob. He’ll pay attention.” I held up the garment, fascinated that even the dismal subterranean light flattered the material. “Remember, maximize your assets.”

Ryan’s gifts typically took the form of clothing—very expensive, often provocative, always appreciated. Though the present itself was thoughtful, its underlying motive disturbed me. Bad blood ran like an angry river between Ryan and Bob; magma that had formed long before I joined the company. Usually on the offensive, Ryan had begun pursuing defensive maneuvers a few months ago, and only now did I understand why. Bob had acquired a new way to strike out at Ryan, putting me in a precarious position—a potentially career-damaging one.

Suddenly troubled, I refolded the blouse and closed the lid. Before I could speak, Ryan’s mouth covered mine and his hand snaked up my leg, taking the hem of my skirt with it. As his fingers stroked the outside of my panties, I inhaled sharply and the box slid from my lap. Oh, how I missed this…

He released my lips and pulled back, his expression disapproving. “You’re not wearing a thong tonight.” Oh crap!

“I forgot,” I said, panting slightly.

“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we, Baby?” Holding my eyes, he resumed fondling the outside of the lacy material, rubbing small circles at the tip of my cleft with his thumb.

“Uh huh,” I moaned.

“And you know I like them, right?” he purred, slipping a finger beneath the material and into the slick warmth inside me.

“Uh huh,” I gasped, moving my hips as he worked me. He slid in a second and began circling them. When he grazed that special spot, I made a garbled noise. Too long without being touched, I was very near climaxing.

Suddenly, he stilled his fingers. “We’re not going to make that mistake again, are we?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“No, what?” His voice held an ominous thread.

“No, Ryan, I won’t forget,” I whispered, urgently tilting my pelvis to encourage him. Instead, he completely withdrew his hand, leaving me thwarted and wanting.

After meticulously wiping his wet fingers on his fine wool trousers, he met my eyes. “Prove it.” He grasped my hand and pressed it firmly against his crotch, running it up and down the hard length beneath. His eyelids lowered as he directed in a measured tone, “Undo my zipper and give my best asset a long wet kiss.”

I had no issues with oral sex, but it was an act of complete intimacy to be slowly savored, a gift given, and at my sole discretion. And not to tally, but he didn’t go down on me all that often. When I didn’t dive in immediately, he let go of my hand, unbuckled his belt, and pulled out his shirttails. Then he reclined his seat and leisurely clasped his arms behind the headrest as if lounging in bed.

“Ryan, we’re in the company parking lot! What if somebody sees us?”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he replied, his eyes dark and challenging.

Horror-like images of me caught with my head in his lap flashed before my eyes; headline gossip, INTech-style. He would come away with approving smiles from his male colleagues, while snickers and leers would follow me wherever I went. And wouldn’t it be just fantastic if there was footage to be emailed? Removing my hand, I looked nervously out the windshield, searching for surveillance cameras.

“Well, I do!”

“Come on, Baby, do it slow and deep the way I like it. Let me feel your tonsils.” In demonstration, he gripped my face and thrust his tongue into my mouth, swirling it wildly. When he began sucking strongly on mine, I pulled away and broke our kiss. Hissing in frustration, he slithered a hand behind my head and nudged it towards his lap.

“Not here, Ryan!” He cursed under his breath and released me. “Let’s just go to your apartment. We’ve got all night to do whatever you want.”

“No, I have a conference call with China in about thirty minutes,” he replied irritably, glancing at the phone that had magically appeared in his hand, “and several more hours of work after that.”

“But I thought…I packed a bag.”

He looked at me impatiently and shook his head. “My flight’s at six and I need a couple hours sleep beforehand.” He glanced at his erection and then met my eyes again. “Unless you want to climb on and take a ride now, tonight’s out for me.”

“Oh.”

I glanced around the lot again. I suppose there weren’t that many cars left on this level…

♥

We put ourselves back together and I buttoned my coat, feeling rather sluttish.

“Hmm,” he murmured, staring at his phone as if I suddenly weren’t there. After an awkward moment—awkward for me, anyway, I gathered my purse and gift and got out of the car. He started the engine, and in the half-second it took for the window to drop, he’d completely switched into business mode.

“Baby, stop worrying about this assignment. Sacrifices are just part of getting ahead. I know that better than anybody.” I forced myself not to gape at him.

“Okay? Well…thanks for dinner, and this,” I said, lifting the box and forcing a smile. “Listen, Ryan, I doubt Bob will need another face-to-face before Quarterlies, so I’m not sure when I’ll see you next. The fact is, I really miss you.”

“Yeah, me too, Baby.” He scrolled down his calendar, the screen bathing his face in its eerie light. “I’ll be bouncing around a lot the next month. Looks like I have a long layover at O’Hare a week from Monday. Fly up and we’ll kill a few hours at the airport Sheraton. I do love you naked,” he added, his professionally whitened teeth glimmering.

“Let me check.” I fished out my phone. “Can’t. I have an important meeting in my region. How’s your following weekend look?” He shook his head.

“In St. Louis with clients. I have to lose at golf,” he replied, smiling wolfishly.

“Okay, what about—”

“Baby, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.”

His taillights cast a red glow on the dank cement walls as he accelerated out of sight. I tossed the box in the passenger seat with a sigh and left for my small, but fairly swank apartment…alone.

♥

My anxiety completely wasted, the meeting with Bob was, for the most part, a non-event. Regional figures were still in the red, of course, but thanks to the promising prospects of those banking contracts, coupled with the influx of several new clients, things were at least moving in a positive direction. Bob was especially pleased with the cessation of hate mail from Mr. Dupree and, as evidenced by his recent purchases, somewhat reassured INTech’s relationship with that pesky mite of a law firm was on the mend. He dangled the promotion carrot over my head once more—he couldn’t have chosen a better motivational tool for me—and I left his office feeling fairly optimistic that my job was still intact.

This would, by the way, be the meeting to which I’d worn Ryan’s gift—the blouse I knew Bob wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about. He hadn’t. In fact, he’d barely spared me a glance. Frankly, I could have worn a purple polka-dotted body cast and I doubt he would have noticed. And while I thoroughly respected him for it, thanks to all Ryan’s warnings, I maintained a wary eye. The politics at work here were beyond my current understanding.

“Ready?” Kirsten asked, her face poking over my cubical soon thereafter.

“More than,” I replied.

“Let me grab my coat and we’re gone.”

“Hard night?” I asked when I glimpsed the bite mark peeking from Kirsten’s neckline.

She glanced at her reflection and smiled, slightly raising one eyebrow. “I’ve had worse.” And then to the cosmetics specialist working on her face, “Get that, too! My God, it’s staring right at you!” She rolled her eyes at me and mouthed, “Impossible.”

Looking runway ready, we then toted our tiny bags to the shoe department. “Oh, it’s like a dream,” I remarked, viewing Saks’ glorious selection. Kirsten stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “What? Come visit me. I dare you!”

Three pairs of shoes later, I took a well-earned sip of latte at Mia’s café and said, “So what time’s your flight to Rhode Island?”

“Five o’clock, but it’s been delayed. It’s just as well,” she said with a sigh. “The less time I spend there, the better.”

Though Kirsten’s district was tucked deep in New England, she kept a small office at Headquarters for the same reason I did: Visibility. In the thick of the hornet’s nest, being seen gave you a strict advantage over others, and we both exploited it. But unlike Kirsten’s goals which were divergent and ever-changing, mine were direct and coalescent; I would make vice president by the time I hit forty. Ryan had done it; so would I.

“So my meeting with Bob—”

“Mm,” she interrupted, swallowing. “How’d it go?”

“Who the hell knows. I can’t read that man.” She nodded knowingly. “But since there’s time, I could use some strategic advice.”

“Sorry, hun, I have my own problems right now.” Screwing up her face as much as Botox allowed, she strummed her nails on the table. “I have this new child of an in-house rep—God, Susan, you would not believe the people they send me!” She looked skyward, then dramatically draped the back of her hand against her forehead; the ultimate image of suffering. I nodded empathetically, pretending I wasn’t one of “those” people.

“Well, you wouldn’t believe the customers I’m dealing with. Kirsten, they’re absolutely certifiable! And the king of crazy is this guy—”

“We’re talking about me right now,” she interrupted again and then proceeded to rant until our check came. Her phone blinged. She snatched it off the table and scowled at the screen. “Oh! She got me on another flight. Evidently, my secretary is good for something.” She hopped up and grabbed her purchases. “I’ll see you…when do you come up next?”

“Quarterlies,” I grumbled.

“That’s…wow!”

“I know.”

She shrugged helplessly and smiled. “Call me, okay? Oh, and nice blouse by the way.”

“I know,” I said smugly.

After cramming my carry-on in the overhead compartment two flight delays later, I sat back and closed my eyes. Leaving Philadelphia behind again so soon was painful. No longer the fantastical city it had seemed when I’d arrived nearly a decade before, it was now my standard, my expectation, my meter stick of urbanity. Eastern North Carolina was its polar opposite: A whole lot of nothin’ peopled with the insane. I dreamt of driving at night without headlights—a recurring nightmare of mine.

13

Deal with the Devil

The next week flew by with blurring speed as I hammered away with renewed purpose. When I returned to the office late the following Thursday, I barely recognized the place. The cleaning crew must have come; I cleverly surmised this because the place was clean—I’m astute that way. Realizing I’d just typed the same sentence three times in a row, I decided I must leave this place.

Tired but restless, my mind was still running like a hamster in a wheel, even if the rest of me was not. I knew sleep wouldn’t come for hours; I’d just toss and turn. I’d been doing that a lot lately—worrying. And while watching mindless TV until midnight was one way to end another day, there was another. Before coming to a complete stop in front of my condo, I turned around and drove to Williams Road.

To my great satisfaction that antique pick-up truck wasn’t half-blocking the entrance; something about it bugged me. Perhaps it was the angle in which it was always parked, as if the driver was concerned about door dings in that piece of crap. Maybe it was simply that it was very ugly—I don’t know. As it had been here practically every time I had, it probably belonged to Joe Pat, who held the same record. Of greater concern was why I cared at all—why I hoped “The Regulars” were here. Desperation. Was that the medical term?

Unfortunately, tonight a white Jeep Cherokee with a Coastal Architectural Design decal was parked in its place. Ugh! I hadn’t laid eyes on that creature since Philadelphia, and it had been such a blessing. Truly, I’d never met anyone more capable of goading me; it was like his life’s mission.

Mona waved me over immediately. Unlike moi, she’d probably left the office at a reasonable time—she always did, gone home, changed, had dinner, touched up her hair and makeup; normal things. I couldn’t remember my last meal—that yogurt for breakfast? Or was that yesterday?

But was she really any better off than me? Most women came here with dates or in groups. Mona enjoyed her reserved seating alone; no men bothered her, no one asked her to dance. That was Jimbo’s doing, no doubt. And though the gesture might be construed as romantic by some, I found it selfish and basically unkind. She deserved so much more.

“Hey, girl, ya look beat,” she chirped.

“Yep.”

“You haven’t changed your clothes, have ya?”

“Nope.”

“Did ya come straight from work?”

“Yep.” I realized I was doing a very good imitation of Jimbo.

“Susan!” she cried, aghast.

“What?”

She shook her head and tsked me. “You’re gonna kill yourself. You’re gonna drop right over if you don’t stop workin’ so hard. That’s what happened to my Uncle Hank. He ran a bank and was there day and night. Then one morning they found him at his desk slumped over. Dead.”

“Maybe if I pull an Uncle Hank, my head will stop hurting.” I rummaged through my purse and popped a couple of Motrin. Joe Pat plopped down in the booth beside Mona. Evidently, visitors were welcome as long as she was chaperoned.

My truck theory blown, I asked, “What kind of car do you drive, Joe Pat?”

“A Buick,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I took a sip of the house specialty.

“I’ve seen your fancy car parked at the base. I don’t buy foreign. I buy American,” he announced proudly.

“If Detroit could come up with something that cornered like my BMW, I might buy American, too. But for now, it’s German engineering for me.”

“Don’t you people have any respect for our country?”

“What people are you referring to, Joe Pat?” I asked, amused.

“People like you, Susan. Yankees,” he said in a low hiss. I barked out a laugh. That was the funniest thing I’d heard all day!

“Boy, do I have a news flash for you! Yankees are the ones making your precious automobiles, so cut them a little slack. Oh, and by the way, the Civil War ended like 150 years ago. We’re all part of The Union, now. You lost, remember? And here’s another shocker, and I’m glad you’re sitting down for this one. I was born and raised in this very state.”

He pursed his lips sourly. “Ya don’t act like it.”

“I’ve evolved,” I said, snorting in response.

“Have ya, now?” a sultry male voice chimed in from behind me. Five minutes…could I not have five minutes?

“Yes, I have,” I replied without turning.

“Ya know what I think?”

“Does it really matter?” I muttered. It was odd, the leave me the hell alone vibe so effective in Philly had no effect on him, whatever. Maybe he was too busy “thinking” to pay attention. When he didn’t respond, I said, “Pete, run along and bother some other woman.”

“Susie-Q, you’re the only woman I wanna bother.”

“And you’re doing a bang-up job of it, by the way.” He began massaging my shoulders and I closed my eyes in ecstasy. “Oh, that feels good! Don’t stop. But seriously, go away.” He ceased kneading but didn’t remove his hands. “And who said you could touch me in the first place?” I asked, tilting my head back to look up at him.

Sensing the upcoming storm, Joe Pat made a run for the bar. Growing used to our squabbles, Mona’s face didn’t even change color anymore; it was kind of a shame, really.

“I’d like to talk to ya for a minute. Why don’t we step into my office?”

“I’m perfectly content where I am.” I wriggled my shoulders, encouraging him to continue not touching me and he pressed his thumbs into a pair of large knots. Ahh! “Besides I didn’t know you had an office at the Frog. It’s not like you actually work when you’re here.” I glanced over at Mona. She was trying really hard not to smile.

“I’ll supply the beer,” he offered.

I raised my bottle above my head. “As you can see, I’ve already got one.” He resumed his kneading. Though I wanted to ignore it, his hands were warm and strong and surprisingly soothing. A moan escaped my lips. Suddenly, his body was way too near, and his delicious masculine aroma filled my nostrils. His hair brushed against my cheek, and he put his lips next to my ear as he’d done once before.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice silky and seductive and promising things I was missing desperately. I inhaled sharply as goosebumps skidded across my flesh, and I became warm in dark places. What is wrong with me? My body really shouldn’t respond to him this way. I hated him—sort of.

Too drained to resist, I rose as if answering the call of the Pied Piper. “Alright,” I said wearily, though curiously alert. “If it’ll make you happy.” I turned to meet a smile not unlike Kirsten’s when she’d cornered male prey.

“Excuse us, Mona,” he said politely. She nodded, and then glanced towards the bar. I followed him to the side door that led to the patio. Before he could perform his fake gentleman door routine, I grabbed the handle and pulled it open myself.

Strands of Christmas tree lights crisscrossed overhead like barbed-wire, and though the tables needed washing and the chairs turned upright from their winter naps, it had potential. With the exception of being served as the main course to the ever-present mosquito population, I imagined this would be a nice place to hang out on sultry summer nights—if one had the time for such things.

“What do you want, Pete?” I demanded, turning on him.

“Have you even eaten today?” he asked suddenly.

“I think so. What’s it to you?”

“I’m just waitin’ for ya to keel over, that’s all.”

“Look, I’m way too tired to spar tonight, if that’s what you want, so you’d better find a different opponent.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on fightin’ with ya.” He gave me a lopsided grin designed to be adorable; it was. But rather than acknowledge it, I simply turned and climbed up on the nearest picnic table. He sat down beside me—so close in fact, that the blond hairs on his forearm tickled my skin, raising a fresh crop of goosebumps. Worse, the nearer he got, the nicer he smelled—too nice, actually. Had I not been thoroughly exhausted, I would have made a show of acting repulsed and scooting away, but as it was, I fought the simple urge to lean against his shoulder and just…be.

“I tried callin’ ya several times.”

“I know,” I replied nonchalantly. I’d rifled through thousands of song titles to find the perfect ringtone for him: “I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace. Though at the opposite end of the spectrum from my genre, it made me smile every time I heard it. Eventually, he’d given up calling my number to pursue a more effective avenue. “Mona said you didn’t actually need anything for once, and since I’m not speaking to you, I didn’t see any reason to respond.”

He chuckled quietly. “I figured it was somethin’ like that.”

“Well, now that you’ve dragged me out here, what exactly did you want?” He looked at the weathered bench between his shoes for a moment and then turned his head sideways so he could see my face. Judging from his outfit, he’d come straight from work as well.

“I wanted to apologize for some of the things I said last time you were at my office. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”

“You meant every word and you know it.”

“Well, ya push my buttons. But yeah, I guess you’re right. I did mean most of it.”

“Well, I’m not forgiving you then,” I snapped, staring at him stubbornly. He smiled, and even in the darkness, his eyes twinkled. “You think you know me so well, Pete Walsh, but you don’t. You really don’t know much about me at all.”

“Well, I have a plan for fixin’ that,” he said, musing.

“Another time, Pete. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m raising the white flag. You’ve won tonight’s round.”

“Well, if you’re not even gonna try, I’m not countin’ it as a victory.” He nudged my knee with his.

“You haven’t had one of those yet. You might try it on for size just to see what it feels like.” He snorted. “You know I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.” His smile widened. “And I don’t like you, either.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re manipulative, haughty, and freakishly sadistic.”

“I am not,” he said indignantly, humor lurking right under the surface.

“And you play dirty, too! You’ve got Mona convinced you’re some kind of demigod, and I’m beginning to suspect you’re just using her as a tool to get to me!” His raised his eyebrows and looked at me incredulously.

“That is absolutely not true and completely unfair. I adore that little girl! And I don’t use people,” he snapped.

“I just call ’em like I see ’em,” I replied, rolling my eyes. I judged the distance to the door, wondering how to make my escape. The outdoor speakers weren’t on, but I could hear the muffled music inside; Jimbo was playing blues tonight. Fitting.

“Have dinner with me,” he said suddenly.

“What?!” I jerked my head around and gaped. He held up his hands.

“Not a date…just dinner.”

“But, but, why?”

“I find you fascinating.”

“Well, I think you’re full of yourself and I want nothing to do with you.” He smirked but pressed his case.

“I want to get to know ya better.”

“Well, that makes exactly one of us.” His lips twitched.

“You just said I didn’t know anything about ya.”

“So?” I responded hotly.

“So…?”

“Why? So you can have more ammunition? I think not.”

“Think of it as an olive branch. A way to say I’m sorry.”

“No,” I said, crossing my arms defensively. He was quiet for a moment.

“Alright, I’ll make ya a deal. You have dinner with me, and I’ll stop orderin’ service calls. How’s that?”

“No service calls?” I asked suspiciously.

“Not even if the thing dies altogether.”

“It’s not going to do that.”

“I know.”

“So you won’t bother me anymore?”

“What d’ya say?” I thought about it for a moment. I could always renege later.

“Deal.” He spat in his hand and held it out, grinning. “You’re absolutely vile.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

I dropped my head in my hands and groaned. “You may not be aware of this, but I’m under a great deal of pressure here. I have a ridiculous number of clients to acquire in the next few months and inhuman deadlines. My future literally depends on it.” I looked at him seriously. “I’m more than happy to pay you service calls when you need them, but don’t toy with me professionally, again. Okay? My job means everything to me. Of course,” I said, narrowing my eyes, “I don’t expect you to understand that.” He pursed his lips, but said nothing. “And while we’re on the subject of service calls, you may have apologized for the things you said, but you haven’t apologized for the prank.”

“Well, I’m not the least bit sorry for that.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I’m not,” he said wholeheartedly. “That was the most fun I’ve had in about a year!”

“Deal’s off! And I’m officially not speaking to you again!” I slapped him hard on the leg and stood up. He hopped down in front of me and held the door.

“So it’s a date,” he said as I marched by.

“Whatever, Pete.”

14

Unexpectedly Detained

So I drive a little fast—okay, a lot fast, and I have Pennsylvania plates, which is not a criminal offense in most states. Apparently, that’s not true in North Carolina. This was the third time in so many weeks I’d been pulled over.

The first was my favorite. I was traveling a lonely stretch of Highway 158 between Murfreesboro and Elizabeth City. (An aside: Someone down here should seriously rethink the definition of the word “city”). This was, by the way, the road that skirted the Great Dismal friggin’ Swamp for crying out loud. I’d only passed one car in the last thirty miles and that was just a few minutes prior. With great kindness, surely lost Mr. New Hampshire flashed his lights, giving me the heads up on the surprise lurking around the next bend. I eased my foot off the accelerator until the needle, happy at eighty, grudgingly drifted to fifty-five. I crept around the curve. Well, hello there, Officer!

Exhaling with relief, I drove through the speed trap, a law-abiding citizen. The next thing I knew, flashing blue lights were barreling toward me. Damn! I pulled to the shoulder hoping it wasn’t pure sand. If I’d had any sense, I might have been nervous—a single woman in the swamp on a deserted highway—but as it was, I was way too mad to ponder my predicament.

“May I help you?” I said with forced politeness as he peered down at me.

“License and registration, ma’am.”

“Was I speeding?”

“License and registration,” he repeated. I handed them over without a smile. “Pennsylvania,” he muttered. Middle-aged, the hair under his trooper hat was light brown, his sideburns beginning to gray.

“Is that a problem?” I didn’t say “sir”; from my expert experience, I can tell you they hate that.

“Where’re ya goin’?” His voice was deep and full of foreboding, and he glanced back and forth from my license to me several times. Yes, my hair is brown, yes, my eyes are blue. Okay, my height was taken in heels, and my weight—well, who really carries around a set of scales?

“Elizabeth City,” I replied curtly.

“Vacation?” For real? I tried to hide my shocked expression.

“No, I’m going to Mid-Atlantic Christian University.” There, that should guilt him!

“Are you a student?” he asked with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“No, I have business there,” I answered, growing more annoyed by the moment. What was with this guy?

“What type of business are ya in?” He glanced suspiciously at the backseat.

Actually, I’m the leader of an international drug cartel invited to chair a panel discussion on the evils of sin. I’m carting, like, a hundred kilos of crack cocaine in my trunk for show and tell. You can check if ya wanna!

“Computers.” I exhaled in frustration. “Look, I have an appointment and I really need to get there, like today. So if I haven’t broken any laws…”

“Nice car ya have,” he said, ignoring me. He wore mirrored sunglasses, but I noticed the corner of his lips twitch.

“Look, either give me a ticket or let me go…please.”

“I’m gonna need to run these, ma’am.” He walked slowly back to his car. Ugh!

Ten minutes later, nine-and-a-half spent chatting with his wife, no doubt, he returned; license in hand, a smug look on his face.

“Are we finished now?” I snipped.

“So, where in Pennsylvania are you from?” he asked, gripping the car frame. Un-friggin-believable! Sinner that I was, I had the unholy temptation to “accidentally” hit the button and smash his fingers. It was time to end this charade the best way I knew how—and to hell with Pete!

“I am not from Pennsylvania!” He cocked his brow.

“That’s what your license says.”

“I’m from North Carolina. I only work in Pennsylvania.” I tried for ever-so-sweetly with a dash of Southern exasperation. If I had to say y’all I was going to do it, so help me!

He cleared his throat. “Oh…I didn’t realize.” Suspicion bled from his face, replaced by a friendly, casual expression. Even his stance changed. “Well you do have a bit of an accent there, don’t ya?”

“I still do? Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that.” I sighed with relief, doing my best imitation of…well, all the girls I hated in high school. “I was afraid it was all gone, what with working up there and all.”

“Nope, you’ve still got it.” He smiled genuinely.

“Just between you and me, I wasn’t really speeding was I?” I laughed lightly and batted my eyelashes in the name of INTech.

“No, ’course not. I didn’t realize…well, no, you’re fine.” Looking mildly chagrined, he handed my license and registration back.

“Now, Officer…Partin, you didn’t by any chance pull me over just because I had Pennsylvania plates, did you? If so, that would be very disappointing.” His expression darkened and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You can go now, Miss Wade. But you be careful.” The warning was implicit.

“Thank you, Officer. Have a nice day.” Bastard. Another fifteen minutes of my life gone. I waved and crept back onto the road.

When I was pulled over last week near Wilson, I’d only been going a few miles over the limit, mostly because I was stuck behind a truck. And even though a pack of drivers mocked me as they sped by, mine was the only out-of-state plate in the bunch. I hadn’t gotten a ticket, but I’d been questioned considerably as before; my earlier suspicions confirmed.

Then there was today…

Flying up the stairs of Dupree and Dupree, I almost tripped over the threshold. This wasn’t the first speeding ticket I’d ever gotten, and I was quite positive it wouldn’t be the last. Still, I was miffed that my car was chosen out of the lineup—again. I know he saw that maniac from Georgia who’d blown my doors off, but “Southern” trumped Pennsylvania, I suppose. Whatever. At least this one I’d earned.

“Ah, Miss Wade?” Mr. Dupree said as I completed another mind-numbing session with Donna. “Please step into my office.” I looked to her for a clue, but she seemed as surprised as I. Very not good. I followed him and sat when he motioned to the chair. “You were late for our appointment this afternoon.”

“I am truly sorry, sir.”

“Hmm.” He plucked one of his Montblanc pens from its holder and began writing. As I sat in silence, my only thought was Please don’t let this be a letter to Bob! Finally, he stopped scribbling and leaned back in his creaking chair.

“Let me make sure I understood what you told me earlier. You were pulled over for speeding.”

“Yes, sir.” I sat straighter in my chair.

“And you were issued a ticket. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were driving your personal vehicle when you were detained?”

“Yes, Mr. Dupree.”

“Do you happen to remember the name of the officer who cited you?” I’d had plenty of time to read his nametag as we “chatted”.

“Officer R. Dempsey, sir.” I nodded. He’d explained he’d hated to do it, but had no choice.“Thelaw’s the law, ma’am.” Playing the role of helpless Southerner had not worked its magic this time, but in truth, police departments did need revenue.

“So, Officer Dempsey detained you for speeding while on your way to my office this afternoon, thus causing a delay in your arrival. Is that correct?” As with any good trial lawyer, his face had suddenly become very difficult to read. I knew the man was sharp as a tack and hadn’t demonstrated any hearing loss that I’d noticed, so I was baffled by his repetitiveness. This is why I hate legal stuff; it’s so damn dramatic. Unable to get out of jury duty, I’d once wasted two whole weeks in court. Let me tell you that was enough law for a lifetime.

“Yes, Mr. Dupree.” I sounded like Donna.

“Miss Wade, by failing to arrive on time for our scheduled appointment, you not only impeded the important legal business carried out by this, my office, but you cost me at the very minimum an hour’s worth of labor at a rate of….” He stopped and chuckled to himself, his belly undulating under his vest. “Let’s just say a very sizable sum.”

I hoped his sudden humor meant he wasn’t really mad at me, but then there was the whole “Miss Wade” thing. I kept my face neutral, awaiting sentencing.

“Miss Wade, would you excuse me for a moment while I make an important telephone call. You may wait in the lobby.” Oh shit.

“Certainly, Mr. Dupree.”

I was one step out of his office when he said, “Oh, and would you be so kind as to close the door behind you.” Double shit.

I paced the waiting room sipping freshly brewed coffee. Donna was at her desk typing away. She glanced over with a perplexed expression, and I shrugged. After ten minutes, I began gnawing on a thumbnail.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Donna asked.

“I’m not exactly sure.”

Just then the buzzer startled us both.

“Yes, sir. Well, no, sir. Oh. Okay, Mr. Dupree.” Donna smiled oddly at me. “Miss Susan, Mr. Dupree would like yew to go on back now.” I took a deep breath and walked The Green Mile.

Surrounded by his knickknacks and imposing photo gallery, I found Mr. Dupree lounging regally behind his mahogany desk, looking very pleased with himself. After seating myself, I scanned his pictures thinking of the powerful people with whom he might easily gain an audience. Of course, some would require a medium.

“Now, Miss Susan,” he said, lacing his fingers together. Back to “Miss Susan” again—good sign. “It was terribly unfortunate that you were intercepted by Officer Dempsey while driving a little too…. enthusiastically to reach our very important meeting; a meeting which could have potentially averted a legal disaster.” What on earth is that old bastard talking about?

“As you of all people understand, when my systems…?” He hesitated, looking to me for confirmation. I nodded yes. “When my systems are not functioning properly, my office’s ability to perform business is hampered. As a professional, it is understandable that you felt a great sense of urgency to fulfill your contractual obligations with me,” he said, pausing for a paternalistic smile, “but Officer Dempsey was right to reprimand you for your…youthful misjudgment.” He nodded gravely toward the window as if speaking to a jury. His voice lifted and fell at interesting intervals and I fought the urge to yawn. “Unfortunately, however, his actions caused your tardiness.” Or it could have been that post-traumatic stress ICEE I’d stopped for afterward. I smiled tightly.

“Now you will have to appear in front of a judge at the Carteret County courthouse to appeal this citation and the hefty fine accompanying it.” What?!

The “hefty” fine was a hundred and twenty-five dollars, which was not exorbitant, and INTech tended to look the other way when reps itemized those as incurred business expenses—which I was absolutely planning to do.

Mr. Dupree paused again, and I realized I was supposed to respond.

“I understand, sir.” That seemed appropriate.

“I placed a telephone call to the Clerk of Courts, and was informed that your court date has been set for next Thursday at ten o’clock in the a.m.” He bent forward, looking over his bifocals, and said with measured candor, “The judge for your case is well-known to me.” Duh. I smiled appreciatively.

“Not being a member of the legal community,” he continued, “you are most likely unaware that to appeal a traffic citation in the Great State of North Carolina, the violator must appear in court on the appointed day at the appointed time. The citing officer must also be present to refute said claims.” Having been on my end of a ticket several times before, I was actually aware of this loophole. But rather than waste time showing up, I just paid the damn thing and got on with my life.

“On your behalf, I have also spoken with the Sheriff’s office.” Damn it! Now I definitely had to show. Plus, they’d be gunning for me next time I came to see Mr. Dupree, which had already become a weekly thing.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Unfortunately—well, fortunately for us—Officer Dempsey is scheduled to be on a fishing trip that day,” he explained, chuckling to himself. “Therefore, he will most assuredly not be present in court.” His smile was conspiratorial, as was mine. But then his expression became serious again. “Regardless, Miss Susan, you will need to appear as instructed. This particular judge does not like his time wasted.”

“I understand, Mr. Dupree.”

“You will not need to obtain legal counsel on this matter. However, I will, in fact, be at the courthouse that morning, so I’ll attend your hearing.”

“I appreciate that, sir.” I strived to keep a straight face, wondering whether Officer Dempsey was even aware he was going fishing, or that he, and most likely the sheriff, would be using Mr. Dupree’s boat!

“After judgment is rendered, assuming you have not been incarcerated,” he said, smiling mischievously, “I should like it very much like if you would allow me the pleasure of taking you to lunch.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, sir.”

“Excellent! I look forward to seeing you next Thursday, Miss Susan.” As I stood to leave, he added, “Now do try and abide by the law on your trip back to Havelock this afternoon.”

“I certainly will. And…thank you, John. This was awfully kind of you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, nodding in courtly fashion. “And don’t forget to bring a stack of your business cards along. I have a few associates I’d like you to meet.” He winked and a Texas-sized grin spread across my face.

♥

The little bells jingled up front. Every time I heard them I thought of Christmas.

“Mona,” I called loudly, “could you grab that Midget Realty file before you sit down? I need to check something.” She’d run to the drug store for more janitorial supplies. I swear, that woman could go through paper towels faster than anybody I’d ever seen. She wasn’t a klutz—no, if anyone, that was me; she was a neat freak. She liked the building just so, as if we were perpetually expecting guests. I found this exceedingly amusing, considering the only two people who visited regularly were Steve, the water guy, and Bobby, the mailman. That girl was crazy Southern.

I heard her footsteps and a soft knock on the door frame. “These figures just aren’t adding up.” I dropped my head in my hands and rubbed my temples. “Maybe reviewing the purchase orders again will help. You didn’t happen to buy any aspirin while you were out, did you? My head is throbbing.”

“Maybe you’re just not used to doin’ higher math.” I jerked with a start, scattering papers in all directions. He was standing in my doorway. Now, where did I put those tacks—or my bottle of holy water for that matter? Quickly collecting myself, I cleared my throat and coaxed my heart to a normal rhythm.

“Jumpy, are we?” he asked, clearly amused.

“I’m just not used to strangers sneaking up on me in my own office,” I snapped, glaring at him.

“I’m not a stranger.” He shot me a dazzling smile.

“You’re stranger than most.” I shot one right back.

“Clever.”

“Another problem? Dire emergency? Unplug your system again? Hmm?”

He simply grinned and shook his head.

“So, to what do I owe this auspicious honor, then?”

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure. Hey, would you like some coffee? I’d offer you something stronger, but I haven’t milked my fangs today.”

“Thanks, but I have an ICEE up front. I brought you one, too.”

“Very thoughtful, but I’m not thirsty just now.”

“It’s a shame to waste a perfectly good ICEE.”

I made a noncommittal noise and opened the closest folder, hoping he’d take the hint. When that failed, I began typing random gibberish on my keyboard. Finally, I huffed in exasperation. “If you want to wait in the lobby, Mona will be back soon.” When he still didn’t move, I said, “The latest issue of Satan’s Digest is lying on the table. You made the cover again.”

“I looked good, too!” He picked up a stray sheet and placed it on my desk. Then he surveyed the piles of papers, receipts, technical manuals, and suicide notes. “So, this is your lair, huh?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Yes. But you already know that, don’t you?”

“How do you work in all this clutter?”

“Well, Pete, I certainly would have straightened up if I’d known I was having company. But you’re not company.”

“I’m not?”

“No. You’re a nuisance.” Unfazed as usual, his smile only broadened.

“What’s that sayin’…a cluttered office means a cluttered mind?” He raised a brow pointedly.

“Well your office has nothing in it at all, so I guess we know what that means,” I said, returning his expression. He negotiated through my paper mountains to the dartboard. His eyeballs were completely gouged out; it was my third installment. He slowly tilted his head from one side to the other and then chuckled.

“I’m glad to see you’re puttin’ my gift to good use.”

“I’ve always appreciated the practical.” I shook the nearly empty box at him. “Forgive me, I’m delinquent in sending a thank you note.”

Tearing himself away, he meandered to the window, inspecting everything in his path.

“Seriously, Mona should be back any minute, and I’m kind of backed up.” “Actually, I came to see you,” he said, spreading the blinds to look at the parking lot.

“Why?”

“To collect payment on the deal we made.”

“As a general rule, I don’t make deals with the Devil.” Chuckling, he turned toward me.

“You have issues comin’ to my office, so I told ya I’m lettin’ ya off the hook.” I stared at him stupidly. “And quite frankly, I’m beginnin’ to worry about ya.”

“Why?”

“Ya seem a little unstable right now,” he said, humor saturating his voice. “I don’t want to push ya over the edge. I hear nervous breakdowns are hard to recover from.” Before I realized what I was doing, I stuck my tongue out at him. He snorted.

“You’re simply charming, Mr. Walsh. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, and for the record, I have no problem coming to your office if something needs repairing. I just don’t have time for games. I told you that.” I knew he had some master plan for this visit. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. “Don’t you have something better to do than harass me?”

“Not at the moment,” he replied, a smile playing on his lips. “Besides it’s fun. I’m thinkin’ of takin’ it up as a hobby.”

“I believe you already have. And I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule and fun didn’t make the shortlist,” I said coolly.

“No, you’re too rigid to have fun.” I shot out of my chair.

“I am not rigid!”

“Oh, like a board! You’ve got a stick shoved so far up your butt I don’t know how you even walk.”

“Do you not see this lifetime’s worth of work spread all over this office?” I said, sweeping my arms.

“Yeah, it’s a death trap in here.”

“Then does it look like I have time to goof off? My job’s on the line here, buddy.” I stomped around my desk and glared at him. “Was your real purpose for this visit simply to insult me, or did you have something more sinister in mind?”

“Insultin’ ya is just a perk. I dropped by to remind you of our plans Friday night.”

“What plans?”

“Dinner.”

“What? I’m not having dinner with you!”

“Oh yeah, ya are. We made a deal, remember? And you’re not backin’ out.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down, what with the stick up my ass and all.”

“Meet me at the Frog at six o’clock sharp.”

“Like hell, I will!”

He glanced at my art, and then back to me, his eyes fizzing with mirth. “Susie-Q, I know ya find me attractive.”

“No, I find you annoying. But if dinner will end this little affair of ours, then so be it.” He smiled triumphantly.

“Six o’clock, then.”

“Go,” I ordered, pointing to the doorway. Then I followed him up the hall. He turned back with raised brows. “Just being a good hostess and showing you the door,” I said sweetly. He picked up one of the cups sweating all over Mona’s desk and sucked on the straw. Then he handed the other to me like that was somehow going to make me hate him less. I looked at the ICEE with disdain. “I prefer cherry.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”

“Don’t bother.”

“You like me. Say it,” he demanded, gazing at me with his hypnotic green basilisk eyes, willing it to be so.

“Pete, the only one who likes you, is you!”

He laughed loudly, almost choking on his drink, and then said, “See ya Friday, Susie-Q.”

“And stop calling me that! My name is Susan. Actually, you know what? Maybe you should just go back to Ms. Wade.”

“Miss, ya mean.”

“Whatever.”

He stopped halfway out the door and said, “Oh, and wear somethin’ nice.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Walsh. I will!” I hissed.

His laughter followed him to the parking lot like a happy puppy. I wheeled around, ready to hurl that magical mixture of ice and air into the trash, but then…well, on that account at least, he was right: It is a shame to waste a perfectly good ICEE.

15

What to Wear When You Just Don't Care

“Okay, I’m here,” I announced, stalking into the bar thirty minutes late on the dot. “So let’s get this over with.”

“Hey, Susan,” Mona said, leaning against the counter. Only a single lacquered board separated her from Jimbo—so close, yet football fields apart.

“Is that the best ya could do?” Pete drawled from behind me.

Startled, I whipped around. He was standing in the corner—his usual spot—arms crossed over his chest. I suspected he’d spent a lot of time in that portion of his elementary school classroom. After scanning me head to toe, he smirked.

“What? This tank’s practically new, and these are my best workout shorts. Flip flops seem more appropriate than heels, though, don’t you think?”

Dressed in a pale blue shirt and nice navy slacks, even his hair was more kempt than usual. He looked…good.

“Heels would’ve been my first choice, but no, it’s perfect. Those shorts really show off your legs. Excuse me one moment.” He bowed slightly before disappearing through the Employees Only door. Jimbo offered me a beer.

“Thanks. Do you have an extra-large to go cup? I’ll need it to get through this evening.”

Before I could take a second sip, Pete returned decked in full-on beach apparel; surfer motif T-shirt, shorts, flip-flops…and a Cheshire Cat smile. “I knew ya’d do this!” Jimbo barked out a laugh but went back to stacking cups when he caught my look of pure scorn. Enjoying himself immensely, Pete resumed his station.

“Shall I assume we’re staying here, then?”

“Noo, I’ve got big plans for you.”

“Wonderful! Did I mention I loathe you?”

“Not today.” He motioned to the door.

“Mona, if I’m not back by midnight, call the police!” I shouted.

Pete rolled his eyes. “C’mon woman.”

“Where might you be taking me this evening?” I asked as we stepped into the parking lot.

“Dinner. Where else?”

“Dinner,” I said skeptically.

“Ya know, as in breaking bread together. Ya do feed on a regular basis, don’t ya? I’ve heard dragons only hunt every so often, so I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m in for a fantastic evening, I see. Dinner and insults, what a riot.”

“Actually, I think we’ll both find this educational. It’s important to know your foe if ya wanna find chinks in her armor…or scales in your case. Which term do you prefer?”

“I prefer a frozen entree from my microwave at home.”

“I guess we could do that.”

“Alone,” I amended. “You know I’m only having dinner with you to free myself from this inane slavery.”

“You have no idea how much I like havin’ you at my mercy, but a promise is a promise. Besides, I probably know more about that instrument than you do, anyway.”

“You’re completely delusional, too! But I already knew that.”

We stopped beside that ugly friggin’ beat-up Dodge truck. Quite possibly fifty years old, it appeared to have been cream with a big green stripe in its infancy, but the colors had faded so much it was hard to be sure.

“So, you’re the owner of this charming antique,” I sneered with disgust.

“Yep, this is my truck.” We stood there a moment before I raised my eyebrows.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologized. He led me to the passenger’s side and yanked open the door. It groaned loudly in protest. “I guess not too many people get in on this side.”

“How do they get in?”

“They just slide across.”

“I don’t slide.” He shut my door with a slam and I jumped. “I thought you drove a white Jeep.”

“I do. But this is my date car.” Grinning, he wriggled his eyebrows and I burst out laughing.

“I guess you don’t see a lot of action then.” He turned north on 101. “Strip club?” I asked cheerily.

He cut me a jaundiced look. “No, we’re goin’ to the beach.”

“Are you planning on drowning me?”

“I’m mullin’ it over,” he replied, regarding me with an amused expression.

Though he’d parked in the shade at the Frog—actually, underneath the gloomy forest canopy, the whole lot was shaded, describing his truck as hot was an understatement. Sweat beaded on my nose and a drop slithered down my neck. “I assume this thing doesn’t have air-conditioning.”

“Just melt the glass with your laser vision.”

I could barely budge the crank handle. “I think it’s stuck.”

“Here, allow me.” He bent over my lap at the stoplight and rolled down the window. The muscles in his forearm flexed impressively….and why did he have to smell so good? I inhaled discreetly.

The light changed, and after a moment a horn blew. He ignored it. “Eyes on the road, please.”

“You look like ya work out.”

“Cranking windows isn’t part of my exercise routine.” A second horn sounded. “You’re blocking traffic,” I snipped. We still didn’t move.

“Maybe you should add it.”

“My windows are automatic. Could we please just go?”

♥

Once on Highway 70, the whipping wind cooled the cabin substantially.

“My truck is not an it, by the way,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You called my truck an it earlier. She’s a she.”

“A she? Help! I’m being kidnapped by a crazy man!” I shouted out the window.

“Her name is Myrtle,” he announced with affection.

“As in Myrtle Beach?”

“Yeah, that’s where I bought her.”

“So how much did you have to pony up? Was it fifty or seventy-five dollars? Surely you weren’t foolish enough to pay a hundred.”

“No insults, please,” he said, rubbing the dashboard lovingly. “Ya might offend her. This lady’s logged a lot of miles over the years. Plus, she gets me a senior citizen’s discount on towin’. And I can work on her myself, which is more than you can say for that snotty little car you drive.” I raised my eyebrows.

“She’s—I mean it’s not snotty. It’s sophisticated.” He snorted.

“So you work on Myrtle?” I asked skeptically.

“I’ve been known to,” he replied.

“Ha! I’ve seen you with a wrench.”

“Alright, Jimbo can work on her.”

“I don’t need to work on my Beemer. That’s what highly-trained service technicians are for.”

“I’m not sure we have any of those down here.”

“Probably not,” I mused.

“I bet ya can’t even change a tire.”

“Can too! My daddy made sure of it before he let me get my license. I can also drive a stick, for your information,” I retorted.

“I’d like to see that sometime.”

“Shifting gears or changing a tire? Or both at once?” I mocked.

He made a face. “The tire.”

“I’m sure you would, if for no other reason than to heckle me like a construction worker.”

“Hmm, that would be fun, I’ll admit.” He glanced over with a playful expression. “But, no, I probably wouldn’t let ya do it at all.”

“Really?” I said doubtfully.

“No, I’d change it for ya.” He sounded completely sincere and answered my gape with a shrug.

“Listen, you can drop the Southern gentleman bullshit, anytime. I don’t buy it.”

“First of all, it’s not bullshit. It’s just how I was brought up.”

“So you were raised to be domineering?”

“No, I was raised right.”

“That’s a laugh!”

“Susie-Q, why exactly don’t you like me?”

“I’ve had a hundred too many bad experiences with Southern males. And you, my friend, are the epitome of your species.”

“Don’t pass judgment on me quite yet.”

“Too late,” I said, staring at the console. “Does this thing even have a radio?”

“Of course she does.” He reached over and turned the dial. Suddenly, scratchy talk radio filled the cab.

“I mean FM,” I said dryly.

He turned the knob again and classic rock crackled from the decrepit speakers. “Gimme Three Steps” was playing, and I broke into a big smile. “This song always made me laugh.”

“You know Skynyrd?” he asked, looking extremely shocked.

“That’s all I ever got to listen to growing up. My daddy couldn’t get enough of this crap. Of course, I don’t waste time with it now.”

“What do ya listen to?”

“Classical.” He looked at me oddly. “Handel, Vivaldi….Puccini?” I encouraged.

“Puccini, huh?”

“You know Puccini?” I jeered.

“Yeah,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “But that doesn’t seem to fit you.”

“How would you know what fits me?”

The announcer came on as the song ended. “Yur listenin’ to one-o-six-point-five, WSFL. Eastern Karlina’s home for classic rock!”

“Oh, I remember this station!”

“Ya do?”

“Yes. My daddy locked it in whenever we came to the beach for vacation. I can’t believe it still exists.” Memories of childhood flooded freely into my mind—happy ones, then the not so happy ones. “I guess nothing changes around here.”

“Thank the Lord,” he said.

Once in Morehead City, Pete turned onto the big bridge. The initial jolt was epic.

“No shocks, huh?”

“She’s about due,” he said defensively, hitting the mushy brakes. Busy now, traffic would only get worse as summer peaked; a single bridge at either end of this barrier island, thousands of tourists.

The setting sun turned the water under us a brilliant orange. “It’s so beautiful,” I murmured.

“What’d ya say?”

“I said it’s beautiful down here—over the water, I mean. I could shoot pictures for the rest of my life and not get tired of it.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“Quite amateur, I assure you…or I used to be, anyway. And don’t sound so surprised, you know nothing about me.”

“Thus, dinner,” he said, winking. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Is that Poseidon?” I asked, pointing to a giant fiberglass statue of a crowned and bearded merman holding a trident. Its faded color had fared no better than Pete’s truck in this moist and sun-bleached environment.

“Neptune,” he corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“Greek versus Roman.”

“How would you know?”

“I just do.” The corner of his mouth lifted perceptibly. As I studied his profile, gilded by the waning sun, I realized that aside from his completely flawed character, he really was a very handsome man.

He pulled into a lot composed of pressed sand and gravel. The restaurant, called Breakers, was built in classic coastal style, with a gray boarded exterior and balconies facing the beach. Pete held the door for me and I repaid him by rolling my eyes. The dining room’s décor was classic as well with wide-eyed, gape-mouthed fish mounted on every wall—the poor bastards that didn’t get away. Credit where due: Taxidermy was a true art form here.

When the hostess saw Pete, her whole body lit up. He lightly touched the small of my back and steered me towards her podium. I stopped, raised my eyebrows, and gave him a don’t you dare touch me like that look. He fought a smile.

“Hey, Pete,” the hostess purred, leaning over the top to display her ample cleavage. “Haven’t seen yew in a while. How’re yew doin’?”

“I’m just fine, thanks. How’re you?” She continued looking at him dreamily, forgetting, I suspect, to respond. Then he formally introduced us. “Lisa, this is my buddy, Susan.”

“Hello, Lisa,” I said politely.

“We’re on a date!” he announced, squeezing my waist and beaming at me affectionately. I gave him the stink-eye. “Well, sort of.”

“Oh,” the hostess said, curbing her disappointment. “Y’all wanna go upstairs then?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said sweetly. If someone had ma’amed me at her age I would have slugged them, but considering the source, she clearly didn’t mind. We followed her shapely legs and swinging hips to the second floor. After seating us at a table overlooking the ocean, she left with our drink orders.

The gentle breeze off the water felt glorious, and streamers of pink and purple decorated the sky. “This is my favorite time of the day,” I said, sighing.

“Why is that?”

“Everything seems to slow down for a little while. The ocean changes color to that dizzying cerulean,” I said, gesturing to the water, “and the foam takes on a pink hue. For just a little while, the sea seems calmer. I remember sitting on the dunes after supper watching the sky and the waves. It was…peaceful.”

Turning from the sea and the memories it held safe, I looked at him. He wore the most unusual expression. “You’re looking at me funny. Stop it.”

“What? I’m just amazed you let your guard down. I didn’t expect it.”

“Well contrary to popular belief, I am human underneath all of these scales.” He laughed at that. “But savor the moment. I doubt I’ll do it again.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have such feelings about nature.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I was born in North Carolina, after all,” I said wryly.

“But ya act like this is all beneath you.”

“Just because I prefer large cities, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the natural beauty of the sea.”

“So, what is it that draws ya to the city?” His chin rested on his knuckles as he listened.

I thought about it for a moment. “I like the constant activity—it energizes me, makes me feel like I’m part of something important. Plus, I get to enjoy the amenities; swank bars, outstanding restaurants—not of this caliber, of course,” I said, looking around. “There’s theater and art, and don’t even get me started on the shopping.”

“Okay, there are those things. But why does Susan Wade of North Carolina need all that?”

“Wow! Would you look at the time,” I said, tapping my invisible watch. “Susan’s psychotherapy session is over already. Time went by so quickly this week.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry—well, actually I did, but I didn’t mean to make ya feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. It’s just none of your business.”

“Noted. But can I ask one more question?”

“Nope, hour’s up.”

“Just one,” he pressed.

I heaved a heavy sigh of resignation. “What?”

“Susie-Q,” he said, suddenly looking very serious. I realized with a shock that I could quite possibly drown in those beautiful green eyes.

“Huh?”

“What would ya like for dinner?”

“What?” The spell broken, I burst out laughing. “You are the damnedest creature, you know that?”

“To quote you, I’ve been called worse.”

As if on cue, the waitress hovering nearby materialized at our table. Between Pete’s relentless flirting and his very good looks he probably had women hovering all over the place. I ordered shrimp scampi over pasta, which was the only menu item not breaded and deep-fried. Pete took the more traditional approach: Fried flounder, coleslaw, and fries. Hushpuppies in a plastic basket arrived at the table moments later.

He picked up the basket and offered it to me, but I threw up my hand and cringed. “No thanks.”

“Ya don’t like ’em?”

“Not particularly. Besides, that single piece of deep-fried nonsense would cost me five miles on a treadmill.”

“Susie-Q, you have a beautiful figure,” he said, laughing. “Although, ya could use some more meat on your bones. Ya don’t look like ya eat all that often.”

“Give me vanity or give me death,” I said with a rueful smile. He returned the basket to the table without taking one for himself. “Aren’t you having any?”

“I can wait,” he said politely. I sat back in my chair, wondering just how long he was planning to play this game.

“They’re gross now. When they get cold, they’ll be even worse. Don’t bother being polite on my account. I don’t care. Please eat.”

“If it’ll make ya happy.”

“It will,” I said, watching him devour several in rapid succession.

“Ya do know why they call them hushpuppies, don’t ya?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” I said, waving my hand. I already knew the answer—you can’t grow up in this state without knowing that one.

“In North Carolina, these delicacies,” he said, holding up an oddly shaped piece of fried dough, “are served with seafood, barbeque, and many other items.” Duh. “In olden days, dogs used to gather around restaurants to beg for food—that was before leash laws and such,” he explained, as if teaching a class. “The cooks would deep fry cornbread batter and toss it out back to keep ’em quiet. Thus, hush-puppies.” He smiled proudly, and I thought he might make an excellent tour guide if his architect gig didn’t pan out.

“Pete Walsh, you’re a veritable fountain of useless information.”

“I guess I am, come to think of it,” he said, popping another in his mouth.

Our food arrived with a Miss America smile. My scampi was overcooked but adequate. Pete seemed to really enjoy his fish. Honestly, it smelled wonderful.

“I don’t know how you guys can eat this stuff.”

“What’s wrong with it? It’s good,” he said, stuffing a generous forkful of fish in his mouth.

“Yes, but it’s such a waste of perfectly good seafood. I believe you could batter and deep fry shoe leather and it would taste just as good.”

“Especially with tartar sauce,” he added, squirting a blob onto his plate. He dragged a French fry through it and I wrinkled my nose. “But if you’re gonna eat down here, it might as well be fried fish, or shrimp, or scallops. Oh, and the oysters in the fall…man that’s good eatin’,” he said dreamily. “When in Rome, ya know?” He popped the dripping fry in his mouth.

“So, what’s your favorite way to eat fish?”

“Raw, if possible, or at least very rare.”

“Ya don’t eat flounder rare, Susie-Q.”

“I know that. But give me pan-seared Ahi or plank grilled salmon and I’m in heaven. Besides, I doubt the local varieties here make for the best sushi.”

“No, not really,” he admitted. I raised an eyebrow.

“Have you eaten much sushi, Pete?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Uh huh,” I scoffed.

“It may surprise ya to learn that I lived in California for several years, so I’ve probably eaten my weight in it. I can also make pizza with practically anything on it, for your information.”

“Really?” I asked, trying to hide my pure shock. “So, what brought you back?”

“It was time, I guess.” A large cloud shadowed his face, and he looked toward the horizon.

“So, is this where you bring all your dates or do you just come to watch the waitresses swoon over you?” I asked, merely to break the silence.

“First of all, they don’t swoon. They’re just friendly,” he said in mock defense, a smile returning to his face.

“Yes, very friendly,” I chided.

“And second, I don’t date much.” I snorted.

“Sorry, I find that very hard to believe.”

“It’s true!”

“What, can’t find anyone who’ll put up with your crap long enough to have a relationship? Or have you simply run out of women?”

“You think I’m that bad, do ya?”

“Um…yep.”

“I’m not,” he said, shaking his head.

“Come on Pete, there’s no need to pretend with me. I know your type.”

“Do ya, now?”

“Yes. I grew up with a whole pile of egocentric boys. You’re just one more voracious flirt who treats women like toys, then tosses them aside when the next pretty face strolls by.” And where might this be coming from, Susan?

“I’ve got news for you, little girl, you’re dead wrong on that account,” he said, clearly offended.

“I doubt it. All Southern boys are the same.” I popped a shrimp in my mouth.

“Why, Susie-Q, are you prejudiced?”

“Nope, a realist. Personally, I prefer non-Southern men.”

“Enlighten me,” he said with amusement.

“The non-Southern man doesn’t try to manipulate you for a date.” I raised an accusatory eyebrow. “He doesn’t put on some chivalrous act to convince you he’s something he’s not. The type I’m talking about is very direct and upfront about what he wants, which is basically to get inside your panties.”

“Well, thank you for that tidbit. I would never’ve known about the panty thing,” he said sarcastically.

“Shut up, Pete.”

“Ya do know your true sexual organ is in your head, not your pants, right?” Reaching over, he harpooned a shrimp.

“I’m well aware of where my sexual organ is, thank you,” I snapped. “And don’t steal my food!” He grinned smugly as he chewed. “But, you’re right, on that account. Southern boys are masters at head games,” I said, aligning him with the rest of the fiends—actually, scooting him to the front because he wasn’t a boy; he was a man—all the more time to perfect the art, all the more dangerous.

“Why are you willin’ to trust a man just because he’s not from the South?”

“Because you all excel at breaking hearts,” I said, pointing at his chest.

“That’s a universal theme, Susie-Q. But, it’s you women who’re the pros.”

“Oh please. I bet you’ve never had your heart broken in your whole life.”

“Don’t be so sure.” His eyes sparked before focusing at the pier a couple of blocks away. The lights had come on, making it look like a small runway. Miniature people crowded the sides for night fishing. The ocean was practically invisible now except for reflected lights and the barest gleam of foam outlining the waves.

“I don’t know about the whole chivalrous thing,” he said, returning to our conversation, “but I really do think women enjoy bein’ romanced.” He took a sip of his beer and leaned back in his chair, his eyes finding mine.

“Oh, who has time for romantic crap? Life’s too short.” He made a scoffing noise.

“I would say life’s short so you should make time for it. And, of course,” he added, looking at me slyly, “what’d be the fun without the chase?”

“Yes, let’s not forget that.” I laughed derisively. “Ah, the courting rituals of the Southern male… I think there’s a National Geographic special on next Sunday. You ought to watch it, Pete, you might learn some new tricks.”

“I consulted on the project,” he said, completely straight-faced, and then burst into laughter. I smiled back. One quality I’ve always found rather endearing in Southern men is their ready willingness to make fun of themselves. He was clearly no exception.

“If you’re such an expert, and I’m certain you are, then why aren’t you out chasing short skirts and tight tops, instead of having dinner with someone who clearly can’t stand you?”

“I just haven’t met that many women that piqued my interest,” he said, smiling at me. “But don’t worry, Susan, this dinner isn’t any kind of romantic interlude.” The corners of his generous lips turned up slightly.

“So, what exactly are your intentions?”

“As I said, I wanted a chance to know ya better, that’s all. Of course, bringing ya out here also gave me the opportunity to bother you where it’s harder for ya to run away.”

“You don’t bother me, really,” I said, trying to sound aloof. “I barely give you a thought when I’m not at the bar or being summoned to your office.”

“Well, that’s a cryin’ shame,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, it’s just criminal, ain’t it?”

Abruptly, a glorious smile spread across his face. “You said ‘ain’t’, Susie-Q. I’m so proud of you!” He put his hand over his chest and inhaled deeply.

“Well you called me Susan,” I said, chuckling. “I was just surprised you got my name right!”

“Would y’all like some dessert?” the waitress asked Pete, completely ignoring me. I couldn’t suppress my smile. Her body language made it painfully obvious that the type of dessert she had in mind wasn’t printed on the back of the disintegrating dinner menu. I flipped it over just to be sure.

“What would ya like, Susie-Q?”

“Nothing, thanks. But please, be my guest.”

“Have it your way.” He ordered lemon meringue pie.

“I haven’t had that in about a million years.”

“Ya want some?”

“No. That’s just another five miles,” I said, frowning to myself.

“Two forks, please.” He winked at her, and she flashed him a dazzling smile. Rolling of the eyes had already become my standard reflex around him—that, and the ever-popular retch.

The pie arrived and he handed me a fork.

“I’m not a meringue fan, but I do like the lemon part. If I recall, the Key lime pie has meringue on it here, too.”

“Yeah whipped cream wilts too fast in this heat.”

“It’s an abomination,” I said flatly. At his insistence, I had one small bite of filling. “Oooh, this is good!”

“Uh huh. All the pies and cakes Breakers serves are from a local bakery in Havelock.”

“I did not know that. Someone sure knows what they’re doing.” He nodded in affirmation as he chewed.

“Belva Sue makes the best pecan pie I’ve ever tasted. But that’s only available in the fall when the pecans come in. Her sweet potato pie is practically soufflé. People have to put in their orders a month in advance for Thanksgiving. Lemon meringue is her best in the summer.”

“I’ll have to remember that. Too bad I won’t be around to sample the sweet potato pie. I haven’t had that since my grandmamma died.” And I missed it almost as much as I missed her.

“So you’re really leavin’ by fall?”

“Sooner if I had my way. But that was the deal I made with my boss. The six months I have to live here while fixing our sales disaster is the necessary evil for a long-awaited promotion.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Evil, huh?”

“Oh most definitely,” I taunted.

“Are ya ready to go?” he asked, after paying the bill.

I looked back at the ocean and felt a longing I didn’t quite understand. “I suppose so.”

“We could stay longer if ya like.” Suddenly, I had his undivided attention. He started to sit again, but I shook my head no. He held the door for me as we left the restaurant.

“You know why men hold doors for women, don’t you?” I said, turning back to him.

“They’re bein’ polite?”

“Nope. It’s so they can check out our butts.”

“Men hold doors because they should. But hold on a minute and let me try somethin’.” He stepped back and appraised my backside. “Well, how about that! Hmm, that is a nice reward. You’re teachin’ me all kinds of things tonight, Susie-Q.” I started laughing.

“You’re so full of crap.”

“No seriously,” he said, catching up with me as we crossed the lot. “It’s not that women can’t open their own doors, it’s that they shouldn’t have to. It doesn’t hurt anyone to step back and let a lady pass by first.” He was so good with the lines. His delivery was near flawless.

“I take that back. Overflowing with crap!”

When we reached the truck, I turned and said, “Up North most men don’t bother holding doors for women—or elevators, for that matter.” I thought of the many times I’d found myself running with my arms full, only to watch the doors shut in my face. “Actually, I think if you held the door for a woman in Philly, you’d freak her out. And I can promise you she wouldn’t say ‘thanks’.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. Yes, it really was.

The passenger door groaned again. “You’re going to have to oil that thing if you expect anyone to ride in this heap.”

“Yeah, I just might have to,” he said, running his hand through his hair. As we turned onto the highway, he glanced over. “While we’re on the subject, tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”

“We weren’t on the subject, and why do you care?”

“I’m just wonderin’ what kind of man ya’d date. He is a mammal right?”

“You know that dragon thing’s getting old.”

“Not for me it isn’t,” he replied, grinning. “Okay, let’s assume for argument’s sake he’s human…go on.”

“Ryan is totally urban. This place would be…unacceptable to him.”

“I’m not even goin’ there,” Pete said, grimacing. “Wait a minute. You said would be.” I nodded affirmatively, not sure where he was leading me. “Are you tellin’ me he hasn’t come down to see you, yet?” I shook my head and he gaped. “Didn’t he help ya move in?” What a bizarre question.

“Of course not. Why would he?”

“I just thought…well, that’s what any self-respectin’ boyfriend ought to do.” Images of Ryan lifting couches and hauling boxes in his cashmere crew and silk pants were so amusing they almost sent me into “Mona giggles”.

When I stopped laughing, I said, “I’m a big girl, Pete. I don’t need any help.”

“You go on believin’ that if ya want, but I promise it’s not true. I don’t buy into your superwoman routine, either,” he said, cocking a brow before giving the road his attention. “But if I had a girlfriend, I’d help her move in. And I’d certainly make sure she was in a safe place before I left.”

“In other words, you’d bug her to death.”

“So, when is he comin’ down?” Pete all but demanded.

“I don’t think he’ll come at all.”

“So, wait,” he stuttered, “are you tellin’ me y’all are not gonna see each other for six months, and that’s okay with him?”

“It’s not like that. We don’t need to spend every waking moment together. That’s not the kind of relationship we have. We’ll see each other when I’m up for meetings. I just doubt seriously if he’ll come here. North Carolina isn’t part of his territory. And why am I explaining my personal life to you?”

“Ya mean he’ll see ya when it’s convenient for him,” Pete interjected. I was starting to get annoyed.

“Ryan is very busy and very important. He’s a vice president at INTech. He’s responsible for a significant portion of the company’s revenue. He doesn’t have time to pop down to see me anytime he feels like it.”

“So, he’ll see you when ya can ‘pop’ up there, is it?”

“You know, I don’t think my love life is any of your concern. But since we’re sharing, what’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal.”

“Sorry, but I don’t believe you’re only interested in women who don’t like you. It’s not like there aren’t hundreds in this area you could annoy.” He laughed but didn’t answer.

“Really, Pete, why don’t you have someone?”

“That’s my business,” he said quietly.

“Oh, so my love life is open for dissection, but yours isn’t? It’s only fair. Chink for chink, remember?” I said snidely.

“You’re right,” he said, exhaling heavily. “It’s just that, well…I’ve had some bad experiences, that’s all.”

“Welcome to adulthood, Pete. Everyone’s had bad experiences. My list is almost as long as Santa’s.” He chuckled and shook his head, but when he didn’t elaborate further, I said, “So, larger-than-life Pete Walsh gets hurt once or twice and throws up a big ol’ wall. Is that it?” He didn’t respond. He just stared at the road ahead. “Whatever, Pete.”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the trip back. I clicked the knob and flooded the cab with music, humming along to tired songs and ignoring him completely. When we pulled into the Frog’s lot, he threw Myrtle into park. “Look…I’m sorry. Your relationship’s none of my business. I was out of line.”

“Yes, you were. Again,” I said, chuckling. There was nothing gained from wheedling out his questionably painful past, and I certainly wasn’t letting my drawbridge down again. “But, thanks for dinner. With the exception of your being there, it was really nice. So, I forgive you, jackass.”

“The ‘jackass’ part of the evenin’ was merely for entertainment purposes.” He then smiled very genuinely. “And it really was my pleasure.”

He opened his door and I tried to do the same. Myrtle had other plans. “Susie-Q, ya need to give me time to get around to your side,” he hollered.

“I can do it myself!” I yelled, using my shoulder as a battering ram. “Ow!”

“You aren’t used to bein’ treated properly, are ya?” he asked, poking his head in my window.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you should allow a man to open the door for ya once in a while.”

“Oh, not this again,” I said, my eye-rolling reflex kicking in. “Well, I’ll have to let you open it. Myrtle’s obviously on your side.” He threw his head back laughing as he freed me.

“Of course she is.”

“I don’t think she likes me, anyway,” I said, rubbing my shoulder.

“Maybe she thinks you’re bein’ mean to me. She’s rather protective, ya know.”

“She ought to be. You’re the only thing standing between her and the junkyard.” The hinges emitted yet another groan when he slammed the door shut.

“She heard that ya know!”

“Freak.”

He escorted me to my car, and I made a great show of allowing him to open the door. “Maybe sometime I’ll show you what a real car feels like.”

“So you’re promisin’ me another date?” A giant grin lit his face.

“I didn’t say date. I did not say that!”

“You implied it.”

“One dinner with you was quite enough, thanks.”

“So, I’ll see ya at the office,” he said, smiling suspiciously.

“Wait a minute, you promised no more service calls!”

“I did, didn’t I?” He winked and closed my door firmly.

“Pete!” I yelled, dropping my window. He leaned in, resting his forehead against the door frame.

“Yes?”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“I did promise not to harass you at my business address,” he conceded. “But my other office,” he said, pointing to the bar, “is fair game.” I effortlessly slid my window back up and gave him my best evil eye.

“Goodnight, Susie-Q.” He patted the roof and stepped away.

As I left the lot, I glanced in my rearview mirror. He waved and disappeared into the bar. Jimbo would be pleased to see I hadn’t murdered him.

16

Purple Boa

After our “date”, I felt cheated. He’d taken more than he’d given, and there were things I wanted to know—like, who this guy really was. I’d like to say I didn’t care and never thought about him, or even that I truly disliked him, but in truth, he intrigued me, and it wasn’t impossible I might feel the slightest attraction towards him. Of course, it might be that I was so fucking lonely that this man’s little torments were all I had to look forward to. Warring with myself, I plucked up a tack and closed my eyes. Face, I stalk; wall, I walk. Let fate decide. Direct hit to the forehead. Rats!

“Susan!” Dottie squealed, ushering me into the land of estrogen. Abruptly she stopped, studied my outfit and gasped. “Good Lord, another funeral?” I was then promptly assaulted by a billowy hug.

“How’s that system of yours running?” I asked her voluminous, now blond, hair.

“Lordy, it’s runnin’ so quick now, I can’t hardly keep up with it! I swear honey, you’re a miracle worker!”

“I’d like to take a quick peek. No charge, of course.” I set down my case by her little desk. Lady Godiva had apparently attended another social function. Seated behind a child-sized antique teacup, the dog was wearing an ostentatious felt hat complete with beaded netting; a fluffy purple boa draped her tiny shoulders. As I stared at her screen, I smiled at that ugly little dog. Regardless of her horrific wardrobe, Lady probably lived a hell of a lot better than I did.

“The Red Hat Society’s spring fundraiser,” Dottie murmured over my shoulder. “It was a very successful event. I co-chaired, naturally. And of course, everyone ordered cosmetics.” The savvy businesswoman smiled broadly, giving me a knowing look. “Lord, it took me a week gettin’ all those orders typed in, but I’m surely not complainin’.”

“I know all about the paperwork,” I said ruefully. A quick diagnostic proved our inoculation software was doing a fine job debugging her virus-riddled emails.

“Which reminds me,” she segued eloquently. “A new shipment of polishes arrived yesterday—National’s early summer line…”

“Oh really?” I replied, deliberately gnawing on a nail.

“Susan, honey, don’t ever do that!” She practically snatched my hand from my mouth, and after a critical examination, towed me over to her table. “Sit down, child. For goodness sakes, yew need a manicure!”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d have time to squeeze me in before…you know,” I said, glancing down at my dark suit and sighing mournfully. I’m so going to Hell…

“Oh honey, that’s just silliness. I’ve always got time for yew. I just don’t understand why you didn’t come in sooner. Yew know yew ought to have your nails done at least once a week. Hands are your callin’ card, yew know.

“Look at all these new colors.” She swept her arm over the display lineup on the table. “You’re gonna love ’em. I personally guarantee it! And I’m not lettin’ yew leave ’til yew take a bottle home for touchups,” she said. She could make a fortune working for INTech if she knew anything about computers. “Hmm,” she continued, suddenly deep in thought. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a big cosmetics order goin’ out next week. There’s still time if yew need anything else. What are yew wearin’ on your eyes?!” She suddenly exclaimed, giving me a reproachful glare. “Didn’t Mona give yew the order I sent over?”

“Yes, she did.” She’d taken the lipstick and the polish. The rest of the merchandise was already rotting in some landfill.

“Well, I suppose wearin’ somethin’ subdued is appropriate enough for a service, but soon as yew get home, put on that violet-blue I picked out. Yew liked it, right?”

I smiled and made a noncommittal sound.

“Hey, y’all know Susan Wade, right?” Dottie yelled out without warning. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The beauty parlor was filled with women in various stages of service. Mingled expressions of awe and dismay painted the faces of two ladies seated under cone-shaped driers. They looked up from their gossip magazines and waved. A young, commercially-tanned girl sat in the back corner with space station-like foil packets standing up in all directions—that look I was rather familiar with. Beside her, a heavyset gal, scalp encased in a clear plastic bag, cured in her own juices while sipping a bottled Sprite. An elderly woman with brilliantly white hair currently occupied the throne of beauty.

Over the din of driers, introductions were made.

“I’ve heard about yew. You’re that computer girl from up North,” a woman whose hair was held prisoner by tight rows of pink curlers said—or rather accused. She sat in the black swivel chair next to the old woman.

“Yes,” I said, smiling at her.

The door opened and Steve, the drinking water distributor, entered carrying a large plastic refill container over his burly shoulder. Dottie dropped my hand like a hot potato, puffed her hair and thrust out her chest.

“Hey, Steve,” she said, flashing a full set of relatively straight teeth. During my last visit, I’d wondered if she was married. She hadn’t been wearing any rings, but that could have been due to the chemicals she worked with. Questioned answered.

“Afternoon, Miss Dottie,” he replied genially. Her eyes followed him to the cooler. She began absentmindedly rubbing lotion over my hand. When he bent over, she licked her upper lip and made an appreciative noise. To his credit, he did have a fairly nice ass. Steve tucked the empty container under his arm and headed for the exit. “Bye, Miss Dottie.”

“Uh, Steve? We’re gonna need water more frequently now that summer’s comin’ on. It’s gettin’ hot out.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied with a professional smile. Dottie sighed longingly as the door shut behind him. Snapping from her trance, she abruptly turned to the lady in curlers.

“She’s not from up there, Hilda. She’s from here!” Dottie corrected.

“Yew are?” Hilda asked. Then she narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Well, she is. She just lives in Phil—up there ’cause her company makes her,” Dottie said, jumping to my defense before I had time to respond.

“You work with Mona Taylor, don’t ya?” Dottie’s assistant, Ginger, a tall pixie-haired brunette, asked, without looking up.

“Yes, I do. She’s great!”

“Well, we all love Mona, don’t we, girls?” Dottie declared. A collective “She’s so sweet” followed. Yep, that was Mona, sweetness incarnate. Of course, Dottie might feel differently if she knew whose affections Steve was vying for.

“How do you live up there?” Hilda asked, gawking at me like I was some kind of freak.

“What? Live where?” the elderly lady shouted, looking around, startled.

“She lives up North, Miss Vera,” Dottie yelled back. “She’s a little hard of hearing,” she then explained, under her breath. Drying my hands with a white cotton towel, she immersed them in a bowl of goopy white conditioner where they soaked joyfully.

“Quite well, actually,” I said, answering Hilda.

“Yew don’t like it down here?” Hilda demanded, clearly ruffled.

“I like it fine,” I flat out fibbed. “It’s just—”

“Susan, you got a man up there?” Ginger interrupted, pinning another curl in Miss Vera’s hair.

“Yes, I do. He’s from New York, originally, but we both live in Philadelphia where my company is headquartered.”

“Y’all don’t live together, do yew?” Hilda asked suspiciously. Oh, the shame of it all! I smiled to myself. She must be of the Baptist flock.

“No, we just work in the same building.” She seemed placated by the news.

“Does he treat you right?” Ginger asked, looking directly into my face.

“Sure. He’s a very nice man.” Ginger appraised the rest of me, and I realized she was searching for evidence of abuse. Satisfied, she nodded. I bet she did some genuinely good work in Havelock.

“Hmph,” Hilda uttered skeptically. “Nice and New York do not go together.”

“I can’t imagine livin’ way up there. People talk so fast you can’t understand a word they’re sayin’. And then there’s the snow! Law, I could never drive in that mess,” Dottie cut in. There was a chorus of agreement. Even the tanned girl in the back nodded.

I smiled, remembering my virgin experience with “the white death”; the first of a thousand Chicago snows. Right before midterms, first semester freshman year, and the whole floor was out of coffee. A store run had to be made or we would all die. And in a moment of pure hazing, someone shouted, “Send the Southern girl!” It was go or be stoned by an angry, caffeine-deprived mob. Wide-eyed and terrified, I gripped the wheel, my closest ally and worst enemy, Pride, sitting shot-gun. I chanted my roommate’s instructions over and over, “Don’t hit your brakes, don’t hit your brakes, don’t hit your brakes…” I hit my breaks. I spun like a top. I did not die. I burst back into the dorm, coffee in hand, a victorious smile on my face.

“Oh! See, that’s why,” Miss Vera yelled out.

“What are you talkin’ about, old woman?” Hilda said tersely. Perhaps her curlers were too tight.

“Hilda’s Vera’s daughter-in-law, and Hilda’s husband’s dead, so it’s a rather unusual relationship,” Dottie said discreetly, as she filed each of my well-soaked fingernails.

“She’s got a boyfriend!” Miss Vera barked.

“I guess you couldn’t stay here if your man’s up there,” Ginger remarked, two pins in her mouth, a curling iron in one hand. “If I left Bobby home alone for a weekend, I swear he’d burn the house down.”

“I guess your…what’s his name?” Dottie asked.

“Ryan,” I replied.

“I guess your Ryan is just lost up there without yew.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. But I do miss him.”

“When’re yew gonna see him next?” Hilda asked. She scratched at her curlers and grimaced.

“I’m traveling to Philadelphia at the end of May and I’ll get to see him then.”

“That’s a long time from now,” Ginger remarked.

“Why doesn’t he just come down here?” Dottie inquired innocently. Ah, the $5000 question. Yeah, and innocent my ass. Dottie was desperate for dirt on me, to the point of making some up if she had to. The demand for black market gossip must be high in Havelock.

“He’s very busy and very important,” I replied, as she trimmed my cuticles and buffed my tips.

“Are yew tellin’ us he’s too busy to come see ya?” Ginger asked, lifting one savagely plucked eyebrow.

“What’d she say?” the old woman yelled out.

“She said her boyfriend’s too high and mighty to come down here,” Hilda yelled back even louder. These women were starting to sound a lot like Pete, which reminded me I needed to broach that subject.

“She didn’t say that. She said he’s too busy,” Dottie said patiently. As they debated what I had and had not said and analyzed the implications, I squirmed. My personal life was so not up for debate. “I don’t know why they have to send y’all girls all over the place. Can’t they just send the men?

“Women deserve to be successful, too, don’t ya think?” Finally, a voice of reason—Ginger’s.

“We are, honey,” Dottie replied. “We just have different jobs. Men go out and slay the dragons, then bring ’em home for us to cook. That’s just how it is.”

“Like lions. Yew have the hunters and the gatherers,” Miss Vera unexpectedly piped in.

“That’s not lions, you ninny, it’s Indians!” Hilda huffed at her mother-in-law and rolled her eyes.

“Well, I know I saw it on the television,” Vera insisted.

“Those were tribes of people. Good Lord, Vera, yew probably fell asleep halfway through the program.”

“What’d yew say?” the old woman bellowed. Hilda shook her head and looked to the heavens. Dottie let out a muffled giggle as she applied a base coat.

“Women have a very important place in the community,” Dottie lectured. “Workin’ outside the home isn’t the only type of work, yew know.”

“Did y’all know fulltime homemakers would be paid a hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year if they did their jobs for a company?” Ginger stated, putting the final touches on Miss Vera’s hair. It was a masterpiece akin to a snowdrift.

“Is that so?” Hilda asked.

“It is!” Dottie chimed in. “It was forwarded to me by a very reliable source.” I swallowed my laughter.

“Oh,” Hilda said, nodding in awe. I’d read something along similar lines in The New York Times, and I was relatively sure my source was even more reliable.

“It’s office work for me. I’m afraid I’m not very domestic. I really can’t cook or anything,” I said, as Dottie applied the first coat of polish to my nails. Coral…again. This time I’d reluctantly settled on a pearlescent hue.

“Well, there are plenty of men around here who can cook just fine,” Dottie said, looking directly at me from under her olive-shaded eyelids. What was she trying to sell now—or more interestingly, whom?

“Jimbo Skarren can cook,” Ginger said, after removing Miss Vera’s plastic smock. She guided her to a chair nearer the conversation. “He came in second at the chowder cook-off last fall, remember?”

“Well, he’d have to. He’s got no one to do it for him, that’s for sure,” Hilda added, with distinct displeasure. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally!

“Why is that?” I asked, stoking the fire.

“Well, unless you’re blind as a bat, ya’d know he’s in love with Mona Taylor,” Ginger said flatly. I thought I’d seen her face somewhere before; the bar. “And since he ain’t never got up the nerve to ask her out, he can’t just expect her to come runnin’ over and cook him Sunday dinner.” She would in a heartbeat if he asked, I thought.

“How long has this been going on?” I said in exaggerated shock.

She looked at me like I was an idiot, but then replied, “Since the day he laid eyes on her.”

“Susan, honey, yew need to pay more attention!” Dottie scolded. I bit my cheeks.

“And I know for a fact that Mona loves him, too.” Practically writhing in her chair, this time it was Hilda who spoke. Ginger was halfway through the daunting task of pulling out her rollers.

“How do you know?” I asked. This ought to be interesting!

“I’ve been down to that Rusty Frog before. I’ve seen how she looks at him,” she replied. Hilda at the Rusty Frog would be an unusual sight. I would have to look for her.

“Yew have not been down at that bar!” Miss Vera shouted out.

“I have!” Hilda protested. “Once.” I made a concerted effort not to laugh.

“If Jimbo feels that way, why aren’t they together?” I asked, on the edge of my seat.

“Well, that’s a long story,” Dottie began.

“No, it’s not!” Hilda spat out as if personally offended. “He married a piece of trash that cheated on him, first chance she got!” Maybe she was part of the greater Walsh-Skarren clan. “And he’s too gun shy to try again. That’s why.” She said this part kindly. “Don’t blame him one bit.”

“He was right out of school and didn’t know any better,” Dottie continued quietly. “His boat got back early from maneuvers and he found her in bed with some seaman apprentice from the base. And her already showin’! It unhinged him, I tell yew.”

“I bet you all the tea in China that boy’s still bleedin’,” Hilda cackled. “Hope so, anyway.”

“Jimbo has a child?” I asked, shocked.

“No, honey. The baby died a few months after he was born. Cutest thing yew ever saw. Had the biggest blue eyes…just like Jimbo’s. It was a pity,” Dottie said quietly.

“And soon as the funeral was over, she divorced him quick as a wink,” Hilda interjected, snapping her fingers in illustration. “And we ain’t seen hide nor hair of that, that…woman since! Lord help me, if she ever sets one foot in Havelock again, I’m gonna scratch her eyeballs out!”

“Who’s bleedin’?” Miss Vera croaked. The group ignored her.

“Does Mona know about this?” I asked, gawking myself.

“I guess. Everybody else does,” Ginger answered matter-of-factly.

“Plus, of course, Mona has a college degree and makes lots of money. Isn’t that right, Susan?” Dottie looked over her purple reading glasses at me with interest. I didn’t know exactly how much Mona made, but INTech paid well. Regardless, it was none of Dottie’s business, or mine.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Men have their pride,” she explained.

I glanced at my hands; my nails would soon be dry. I was running out of time. “What about his cousin? The one I’ve seen working with him at the bar?” I prompted.

“Who, Pete Walsh?” Ginger asked. I was already in love with that girl!

“Yes. I’ve never seen him there with a girl, either. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”

“No he does not,” Hilda said, punctuating every word. “And that’s a waste of a perfectly good man if you ask me. Why, any girl in town’d give her eye teeth to go out with him,” Hilda boasted. She had to be a relative.

“He is fine to look at. Very fine,” Dottie said, appraising me speculatively. That woman hadn’t fallen off the truck yesterday.

“He’s not only handsome, he makes a good livin’,” Hilda tacked on.

“Have yew seen any of his work, Susan?” Dottie asked shrewdly. She was in sales mode, alright. She was pimping Pete.

Having completed the task of removing Hilda’s curlers, Ginger said, “He designed that big ol’ house over at Emerald Isle. Did y’all hear how much it cost?”

“Heavenly days. I heard it was over two million dollars,” Dottie said, still eying me.

“Three million!” Hilda rolled million over her tongue like it was chocolate. I had to get these ladies back on track.

“Was Pete married before, as well?”

“Lord, no! He got serious with some girl he met over in Italy or France or somewhere, and followed her out to California of all places,” Hilda explained. “Can you see Pete Walsh in California?”

“Gracious, no,” Dottie replied.

“California girls are awful—runnin’ around with movie stars, gettin’ divorced all the time.”

“Aw, you’ve been readin’ too many magazines,” Ginger said, teasing Hilda’s hair into that short style some middle-aged women wear.

“All I mean is they’re so different from us. And not right for him at all.”

“They’re plain weird,” Miss Vera said, clearly having no opinion on the subject.

“Well, not three years after he moved all the way out there, she took off for some big architect job in Chicago or Seattle or somewhere. I don’t remember,” Hilda continued.

“Chicago,” Ginger corrected.

“But if she got a great offer, why shouldn’t she take it?” They turned in unison and gaped at me. “Chicago’s a great place for a young architect—a Mecca, actually,” I said defensively. “Surely Pete could have gone with her.”

“He tried! Got himself a good offer with the same company!”

“Then why—”

“She didn’t want him!” Dottie hissed. “If she had, she wouldn’t’ve left him in the first place.”

“What kind of woman leaves a man like that for a job?” Hilda said, shaking her head.

“A crazy one,” Dottie replied, and they all laughed. “Anyway, Susan, his mother got very ill and passed a couple of years later.”

There was a full beat of silence.

“Pete’s mamma was the nicest lady I ever met,” Ginger said respectfully.

“’Course she was! And she raised him up right too,” Hilda snapped.

Dottie continued in a voice drenched with pity. “He came home alone and all tore up, the poor thing.”

“And do yew know that girl didn’t have the decency to show her face for his own mamma’s funeral? She didn’t even send flowers or a plant or anything. I checked every single one! Can you imagine someone treatin’ that precious boy like that?” Hilda looked like she’d just eaten an unripe persimmon.

“No, I can’t,” I said softly.

“Unrequited love, that’s what it was,” Miss Vera piped in.

“After the funeral, Uncle Pat took him out for a long walk, and the next mornin’ he quit his job and moved in with Jimbo,” Hilda finished.

“A North Carolina boy needs to be in North Carolina,” Miss Vera declared, then promptly closed her eyes.

“So does a North Carolina girl,” Dottie quietly added, carefully looking over my nails, and then at me. I narrowed my eyes. “It’s true!”

I turned to Hilda and asked, “How long ago was that?”

“’Bout four years, if I remember right,” Ginger replied for her, spraying Hilda’s hair to such a degree it wouldn’t flinch in a wind storm. I wondered how many cans of National hairspray Dottie’s salon went through a week. “I know it wasn’t long before Jimbo bought the bar. And then that hurricane ’bout blew it over. Remember, y’all?”

“Irene,” Vera hissed out like a curse. Her eyes may have been closed, but her ears were wide open.

“Pete and Jimbo had to practically rebuild it from the studs,” Ginger added.

“September twenty-second…” Hilda’s tone drifted abstractly. “An early one. They had to dredge Diamond Shoals ’cause of all the sand the storm drove in. My Harold was on that job…” Her face screwed up.

“Oh, Hilda!” Dottie grabbed the nearest tissue box and rushed over to console her.

“It was a real mess out there. Boats stuck. Nobody could get through,” she sobbed.

When the situation was back under control, Dottie returned to the manicure table. She gripped my wrist and looked me shrewdly in the eye. “Susan, Pete’s not found a girl here, yet. Not one that can keep his interest, I mean.”

“That’s unfortunate for him.” I was not letting Dottie go all eHarmony on me.

“Very unfortunate. He’s taken some hard blows and he’s needed a lot of healin’ time. But he’s a very good man. And what he needs is a strong woman with her head on right.”

“I hope he finds one,” I said flatly.

By now my nails were dry and I’d had enough North Carolina craziness for the day. I’d also learned more about Pete and Jimbo than I’d ever wanted. The problem with acquiring knowledge is deciding what to do with it. Dottie had more than likely embellished facts to weave a good tale, but even so, I now felt guilty for some of the things I’d said to Pete at dinner. And Jimbo…I wanted to be sick. The thought of strangling them both had been so appealing, but now…

“I’d better be off.” I turned back to the public library. “Ladies, it’s been lovely meeting you.”

“Nice meetin’ yew, too, Susan. I hope that man of yours comes to his senses and does right by yew,” Hilda said.

“If he doesn’t, yew’d better find one who will!” yelled Miss Vera.

“Pipe down, that’s none of your business,” Hilda snapped.

“Vera’s right, yew know,” Dottie murmured, as we settled at the register. I left her a big tip; ransom paid for information.

17

Murder

En route to Piney Grove, I was in a hurry—a big hurry. I’d already lost ten minutes to a passing funeral procession, and then I was held up by a damned antiquated bridge. I now officially hated them. In fact, I was beginning to snub sailboats on principle. In all honesty, I didn’t mind pulling over out of respect for the grieving, however. It was the right thing to do; honorable. In that aspect, Southerners did things properly. But if someone held up traffic in the North like that, they would have been run over, police escort or not. Hell, even ambulances were considered a nuisance.

Barco Building Supply was fifty miles away and I absolutely couldn’t be late; they were new INTech customers. With barren two-lane back roads the whole way, surely I could cover the distance in thirty minutes.

The wall of trees to my left was practically a blur when my phone rang—his ringtone. I frantically rummaged through my purse; emails, voicemails, texts—yes, but no actual voice-to-voice contact with Ryan all week. Frustration. As I fumbled to hit accept, the phone’s slimy silicone case slipped from my fingers and it bounced across the passenger’s seat, landing on its far side. Crap, crap, crap! I reached as far as I could without taking my eyes off the road. Just a little farther…. I lunged as the last strain of Puccini ended. Jackpot!

“Hi, Ryan,” I answered in a breathy tone, glancing back at the straight, uninteresting road. Except, rushing towards me at the speed of sound was the back of Farmer Brown’s tractor; I’d forgotten this was his turf. I swerved and…OH SHIT!

♥

Even before I opened my eyes, the sound of mechanical equipment and muffled background conversations told me I was somewhere I didn’t want to be. My heart leapt from the starting blocks, persistent beeps racing beside it. A singular, searing whiteness filled my vision; pain, flashing lights. Blackness.

My next vision was of an angelic face—golden aura and all—hovering right above me, and I knew I was dead.

“Ya gave us a little scare there,” the angel said softly.

“What?” Those weren’t actually the words I was expecting. And why did the angel have a Southern accent? Had I been born in France, would it have been French?

“Ya gave ol’ Mr. Lotridge an even bigger one! I think his tractor blew a gasket right on the spot. Billy’s lucky his heart didn’t blow one, too. You should’ve seen him—white as a ghost! The tow truck had to make two trips. One for your car and one for his tractor ’cause he was too upset to drive it home.” He laughed at normal human volume.

“Who?” I croaked. My voice sounded funny. I tried to sit up; blazing streaks, stars, but the darkness was more a smoky puff.

“Stay put, now,” he said, lightly touching my shoulder. He was corporeal. I fixed my eyes on his, fear threading my veins, the strange beeping sound increasing. Something familiar about him… But that made sense. I didn’t know much about angels—not something Southern Baptists talk about except at Christmastime—but surely such creatures could take on many forms.

“Calm down, darlin’. Everything’s alright.” His voice was soft but authoritative; one I’d heard before. He ran his thumb very gently over my shoulder, green eyes intense, willing calm.

“I know you.” A sudden look of confusion crossed his face, but then he chuckled.

“Ya don’t remember, do ya?” A mélange of scenes tore across my conscious landscape like a tornado.

“I wasn’t paying attention. It was too late when I… I tried to pass him, but there was a—” Violent horror accosted me. “Oh God! I didn’t kill him, did I?”

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay. He’s just fine,” the angel said tenderly.

“You said that already, didn’t you?” He smiled and nodded.

“Oh crap!” I stopped myself. Was I allowed to curse in Heaven? Had I offended this creature? “I have a four o’clock meeting. Before we go, I need to call and reschedule—I mean cancel it. Please?” He chuckled again. I’d assumed angels were serious creatures. Did they all laugh this much?

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said. Another laugh. “I think that appointment got canceled yesterday when ya wrecked.”

“Yesterday!” I cried out, lifting myself. Rapturous pain. I squeezed my eyes tight until it passed.

I heard the squeak of rubber against linoleum. Another angel—this one in the guise of a nurse, materialized at my side. Her white hair was fixed in a tight bun, and she wore honest-to-goodness old-fashioned white stockings underneath her pressed uniform—or so it seemed. She gave the laughing angel a contemptuous glare and then turned to me with an attitude of quiet consternation. Now that was more like it; she must be of higher rank.

“Are ya in pain, honey? Bless your heart; you’re about due your medicine.” She spoke Southern as well. Were all angels Southern? Was Heaven in the South?—no, that couldn’t be right. She pressed buttons on a gray machine, and then straightened the soft white cloth draping me. My eyes traveled down my arm. Clear liquid slowly dripped into a small tubular reservoir just above my taped hand. As I watched in incoherent fascination, a balmy blanket of calm spread over me and nothing seemed dire anymore. “You’ll feel better now. Try to rest, sugar.”

The nurse-angel then chastened the other. “Boy, don’t yew go upsettin’ her again or I’m gonna make yew wait outside. D’ya hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied.

Just before vanishing, she pointed an arthritic finger at him and said, “I mean it, now.”

He nodded solemnly and then snickered into the ether.

“Please, may I have my phone? It’ll just take a minute. Then I can rest.” In…peace?

“Yeah, ya might wanna get a new one of those.”

“Huh?”

“Ya don’t look nearly as bad as it did before I threw it out, but ya cracked a couple of ribs. The Doc says they should heal quickly as long as ya take it easy, but you’ll probably be sore for a couple of weeks. The bruises’ll heal sooner.”

“Bruises?” I looked around frantically.

“I don’t care what they say, purple looks good on you.” He grinned widely.

“Oh…OH!” I gasped at the sharp pain. “I know you! Oh, I’ve gone to Hell, haven’t I? And, and you’re my tormentor!” Laughing loudly, he vaporized. I heard a door close. I knew I’d sinned and come short of the glory and all that, but I’d been baptized—three dunks in the big white tub right under the painting of the Mighty River Jordan. My sins were supposed to be forgiven—washed clean, dammit! I wasn’t supposed to be here!

The grinning demon materialized where the angel-nurse had been. “Bein’ your tormentor is my afterlife dream job,” he said. “Oh, the possibilities…” He looked at the ceiling dreamily, then back at me. “Well, considerin’ your reaction to the bruise information, I probably shouldn’t mention the stitches.”

“Stitches?” I inhaled sharply, but it didn’t hurt as much this time—only a few pinpricks of light. My arms felt heavy.

“Now, what did we just learn about sittin’ up?” the demon chided. “Just a couple of small ones. Nothin’ to worry about. Promise.” Then his face turned grave, all traces of humor gone. “Thanks to your airbag, your seat belt, and The Lord God Almighty you’re still with us.” His hand found mine and gave it a soft squeeze. He called Him “Lord.” Alive then…unless this was a trick!

As I processed this, a single word bubbled to the surface: Wreck. “My car…is it okay?”

“The burial service is set for next Friday,” he said playfully.

“No!” I wailed. “My beautiful car.”

“Hush now or you’ll get me in trouble. And don’t worry about your stuff. It’s safe. Your car had to be cleaned out before they towed it to the funeral parlor. Mona’s got everything worth savin’.” I breathed an honest sigh of relief. If Mona was nearby, I knew for sure I wasn’t in Hell.

“What am I going to do?” Tears welled as the shock and terror ebbed.

“Hey, no cryin’. It’s okay, Susie-Q. You’re not gonna be drivin’ for a while, anyway, so don’t worry about that right now. And when the time comes, I’ll help ya find another one, if ya want. I know some people in the car business.”

I now knew who this creature was, and I exhaled as deeply as my ribcage would allow. He traced my cheek with his thumb, his eyes solemn. They also looked tired. In fact, I’d never seen stubble on his face before.

“What’s with the IV?” I asked, turning to cheerier topics. “I have a catheter, too, don’t I?” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Ugh. That’s gonna hurt when they yank it out.” He chuckled quietly.

“Probably, but I guess it’s better than peein’ all over the bed.” I frowned, knowing somewhere hooked to this bed frame was a plastic bag filled with my urine.

“Could this get any more embarrassing?” I muttered.

I stared at the ceiling, listening to the hospital noises. An intercom squawked unintelligibly outside the door, and I heard the shuffling of feet. A tear trickled down my temple, and he wiped it away with his thumb. Our eyes met and we stared at each other in silence for a long time. His expression was a mixture of relief and gratitude—a look I didn’t understand. Finally, my attention drifted toward the window. It would be getting dark soon.

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Feeling too exposed all of a sudden, I snapped at him. “Why are you here, anyway? Is this some kind of a damsel in distress call or something? Because I don’t remember ordering one.”

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Well, it’s good to see your attitude’s still intact. I didn’t break out the shining armor if that’s what ya mean, but you do seem like ya need savin’…maybe from yourself.”

“How did you even know I was here, anyway?”

“Mona called me.”

“Why would she call you? You hate me.” He barked out a laugh.

“I only hate ya on Monday mornin’s and Wednesday afternoons. The rest of the week is wide open.”

“How did you find my car?”

“My cousin’s State Patrol.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, well what he’s got for you isn’t so great.” He smirked ruefully.

My eyelids began to droop and I stifled a yawn. He leaned in close. “Listen, I’ll take off now so ya can get some rest. Mona’ll be here shortly. She’ll be really relieved to know you’re back with the livin’.”

“How long have I been here again?”

“Right at twenty-four hours.”

“Whoa.”

“You had a concussion and there was some talk about internal injuries, so they wanted to monitor you a while.”

“Oh.”

“I think that’s all passed now. I’ll come back in the mornin’, and if they say you’re ready, I’ll take ya home.”

Maybe he was telling the truth about the concussion, because none of this made any sense—except for the ticket part, of course.

“Get some sleep, now. I’m…I’m truly glad you’re okay.” He gave my hand another gentle squeeze before walking away. My fingers felt noticeably cooler, and I realized that the whole time we’d been talking, he’d never let go of it.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?” he said, quickly returning to my bedside.

“Why are you being so nice to me? It’s not that I don’t appreciate it…I just don’t understand.”

“Well, we may have gotten off to a rocky start, but you’re awfully fun to tease. And ya need some help right now.” Then a ridiculous grin split his face. “If it’ll make ya feel any better, when ya get back on your feet, I’ll be mean to ya again.” I tried to smile, but I felt those damn tears coming again.

“Counting on it,” I croaked. He left me my dignity by quickly exiting.

I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes Mona was there. “Hi,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Hey, honey.” She dropped her needlepoint and rushed to my side. “You look…real good.”

“Lies do not become you, Mona, but I would appreciate your not showing me a mirror anytime soon.”

Her expression was a carbon copy of Pete’s, and she said, “Perhaps that would be best.”

“Thank you for coming. I guess I’m a mess.”

She huffed, taking on her motherly tone. “You’re gonna have to slow down, Susan. This job’ll work out fine without you killin’ yourself in the process.”

“You’re right, I know.” She began fidgeting and looking at the monitor. “What’s wrong?”

“I just hate seein’ ya like this.”

“I’m fine,” I said, only to comfort her. “Word on the street is I’m getting out of here tomorrow.” I yawned, and she dragged her chair across the floor to my bedside.

“I don’t like hospitals very much,” she abruptly confessed. “All the beepin’ and the smell and the needles. I don’t know, it just gives me the heebie-geebies.” She shivered involuntarily.

“Believe me, I’m not loving this either, especially since I’m the one beeping.”

Memories of Baptist Hospital’s ICU flooded my mind; my daddy hooked up to a monster of wires and blinking lights; alarms sounding every time his oxygen level dropped below some magic number; me wanting to rip it all out of the fucking wall. God, that was awful.

“Listen, Mona, you really don’t have to stay. I have a host of nurses to watch over me.” I tried to sound reassuring, but I doubt it came out that way.

She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. “Oh, I’m stayin’. You can’t get rid of me that easy.” A rush of unexpected relief flowed over me. I didn’t want to be alone, and with her stubbornly guarding me, I wouldn’t. The idea of getting out tomorrow was now a glorious thing.

“You’re a doll, Mona.”

“I know.”

I closed my eyes for a few minutes. When I opened them again, she was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and flipping through a magazine in the dim light. I watched her for a little while. I doubt—no, I know—none of my coworkers in Philadelphia would have considered dropping by a hospital to visit me, much less staying for an extended period of time. And, if they did, well, that would just be weird. Here, Mona was in a place she clearly didn’t want to be, sitting by my side like I was her own flesh and blood…and it didn’t feel strange at all. And I realized I would do the same for her. I absolutely would.

When she noticed I was awake, she set down the magazine and stood. “How’re ya feelin’?”

“I guess okay. Was I out long?”

“’Bout two hours.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not. Ya need to heal.” She began brushing my hair back with her fingers, then stopped and grimaced, her eyes darting back to me.

“Is it that awful?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. I’m just afraid I might hurt ya or somethin’.”

At the mention of pain, my whole body began aching. Where was that “bless your heart” angel-nurse? I noticed my hand felt cold again. Unable to wrap my mind around what had passed between us earlier, I put those thoughts aside. Now I had questions.

“Mona, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, honey, anything.”

“Why was Pete here?”

“Oh.” She dropped her eyes, and pink colored her cheeks. “I called him.”

“He said that. But why would you call him?”

“Well…news travels fast around here, anyway, and I knew he’d be mad if I didn’t.” She twisted her fingers around one another as she talked.

“Why would he care?”

She finally met my eyes. “He likes you. We all do,” she amended quickly.

I chuckled carefully. “He doesn’t like me. He likes pestering me. I know he just dropped by to mock and laugh, but I suppose I looked so bad he chickened out.” She mustered half a smile and shook her head.

“Actually, Susan, he came just as soon as he heard. Then, when I got here, he went over and cleaned out your car. Ya have to do that before it goes to the junkyard. Otherwise, things tend to disappear.”

“He told me he went there. It was very above and beyond. But he didn’t need to come back and see me again today.”

She visibly warred with herself for a moment, and then said, “Susan, he spent all last night here and most of today. I could barely budge him to go and get somethin’ to eat.”

“I don’t…What?” I tried to sit up. Pain and more pain. My head fell back into the pillow and I groaned.

“Honey, don’t do that!”

“Thanks for the tip.” She smiled. “I just don’t get it,” I muttered after a moment.

Mona gave me time to absorb the first impact before she dropped another grenade. “I got hold of your mamma. She’s on her way.” Noooo! “It took some doin’, too. She doesn’t believe in cell phones, apparently. She was in Louisville for a show, but she’ll be here by lunch tomorrow, if not before. She’s gonna take care of you ’til ya get back on your feet.”

“Mona, you really didn’t need to do that.”

“’Course I did. But I’m a little worried. The poor gal got absolutely frantic when I told her. I’m sorry, but I out-and-out lied and said it was just kinda a fender-bender just so she didn’t wreck herself gettin’ here.” She grimaced. “I’m probly goin’ to Hell, now.”

“Mona, I think He’ll overlook that one.”

“I sure hope you’re right,” she said in all seriousness. “Oh, and I also called Ryan.” Her expression darkened, but her tone remained matter-of-fact. “I talked to his secretary, Denise. She seems real nice. She told me he was out of town, but promised she’d get a message to him immediately. He probly called your cell. I emailed him soon as they transferred ya to this room to give him the number. He replied back this afternoon askin’ me to tell ya he was sorry he couldn’t come down, but that he’d call ya later. He hasn’t though, far as I know. He also told me to give ya his love,” she said with a slight frown.

“That’s sweet.”

“Uh huh,” she said flatly. “He did send flowers.” She pointed to a small bouquet I hadn’t noticed before.

“They’re pretty.”

“I didn’t open the card or anything in case the message was of a personal nature.”

“Will you read it to me? I don’t think I can focus right now.”

“Yeah, sure honey. ’Course.” Then she smiled mischievously. “That’d probly be the morphine.” She opened the envelope and pulled out the card. “It says, ‘Wishing you a speedy recovery. Love Ryan and all your friends in the sales group.’ Oh…sorry,” she said absently. “I guess it’s not really from him. I just assumed…”

“Ryan probably asked Denise to send them. She must have dictated the note.” Mona pursed her lips and gave me a look. “I’m sure he’s worried. He’s just super busy, that’s all.”

“Pete’s super busy, too, ya know,” Mona retorted hotly, crossing her arms over her chest. “It may not be my place to say it, but I’m sayin’ it anyway. Your sorry excuse for a boyfriend doesn’t jump on the first plane because he’s ‘too busy’, and then doesn’t even have the decency to send flowers himself?” She rolled her eyes and puffed. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Ryan’s just not…well, he’s—” I lacked the energy and coherency to have this conversation. “Don’t judge him. You don’t know him,” I snapped.

“You’re right, I don’t. I’m sorry. But I just don’t understand why he—”

“He’ll make it up to me, okay!” I said, jumping to his defense. Sure as the world Mona had downplayed the accident to Ryan’s secretary just like she’d done to my mother—Oh heaven help me on that one!—and Denise had played it down even further so he wouldn’t worry. And of course he expected her to take care of things like flowers; that was her job.

Sighing, I closed my eyes. I heard Mona flipping a magazine page…and then it was morning.

♥

After the doctor poked and prodded until tears blurred my vision, he gave me a stern warning about sutures and rambled through a list of instructions. I nodded like I understood, but all I really focused on was my dizziness. Next, a lovely young nurse’s assistant floated in with a clipboard. And after chirping about the weather, the flowers, how great the doctor was and I don’t remember what else, she asked me to sign some forms and then floated out again. Finally, an older nurse with graying wisps walked in and told me I was free to leave as soon as my caretaker arrived.

Caretaker? I carefully swung my legs over the side of the bed. Who was my caretaker, anyway? I’d never had a caretaker in my life. I hadn’t really even needed help from my parents after I was twelve or so. And now to find myself forced to depend on people I hardly knew…well, wasn’t this a sad state of affairs?

A high pitched feminine giggle echoed down the hallway, and then Pete, clean shaven, dressed nicely and wearing one of his ridiculous grins, appeared in the doorway. “Alright, I’m springin’ ya outta here.” With a devilish glint in his eye, he rolled in a wheelchair. Tied to one of the handles with black curly-queue ribbon was an oversized Mylar balloon reading “Happy 40th”.

“I do not need that thing!”

“Oh, yeah ya do. Doc’s orders. Besides, there’s that whole hospital liability issue,” he added smugly. “And look at you sittin’ up all by yourself. Ya look much better this mornin’.”

“So do you,” I said, raising an eyebrow, which really hurt, by the way. Ah, that’s what the doctor was prattling on about…

“A shower and a change of clothes’ll do that,” Pete said, grinning. “Anyway, let me get your stuff together.” He opened a cabinet and retrieved a clear plastic bag filled with my clothes. Blood stains covered them. I grimaced.

“Ugh. Did I bleed that much?”

“Head wounds do that. You should be grateful that’s the only cut ya got.” He held up the bag and looked hard at it, angrily almost. “Miraculous, really—the whole thing,” he murmured.

“Well, I can’t very well go home wearing those.” The thought made my stomach turn.

“Duh,” he said with a humored smirk. “I dropped by your place this mornin’. Mona packed you some of your things.”

“What would I do without her?” I posed the question to myself, and it wasn’t rhetorical.

“I don’t know, though,” he said, appraising me as I gingerly slid off the bed. “I think that hospital gown looks pretty good on you. Ya might wanna keep it.”

“I’ll pass,” I snipped.

Pete strode over to the flower arrangement. “Are these from your boyfriend?” I nodded.

“Aren’t they pretty?” He plucked the card from the plastic holder.

“Do you mind?” Ignoring me, he read it.

“Aw, that ain’t right!” he said, forcefully tossing it on the table. Then he glared at me under crunched golden eyebrows. “These aren’t even from him.”

“He had his secretary send them, alright? As if it’s any of your business. I assume she took liberties. I’m sure he’ll send me some of his own. In fact, they’re probably waiting at the condo right now.”

He shook his head and exhaled. “Nope.” Then he pointed an accusing finger at me. “Mona said he hasn’t left yet.” His voice edged on a growl. I opened my mouth to speak but he rolled on. “How could he not drop everything and rush here as fast as he could? The Devil himself couldn’t’ve stopped me!” He looked to me for some kind of explanation. A shrug was too painful.

“I talked to him on the phone earlier. He’s involved in negotiations in Colorado. It’s important.” Ryan was battling another VP for rights to a client with substantial assets; I was merely fighting the forces of culture and, as I stared helplessly into Pete’s red face, rhetoric.

“Is he aware ya could have died?”

“That’s very melodramatic.”

“You haven’t seen your car,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Look, Pete, I told him it was no big deal. I’m fine.”

“So you lied?”

“There’s no need to blow things out of proportion. One lousy night’s stay in a hospital—”

“Two!” he snapped, raising his eyebrows. “I wanna meet this guy. What time does his flight land?” Pete’s hands were on his hips and he seemed personally offended—or ready for a brawl, or both. Suddenly, he smiled beatifically. “I’d be happy to go and pick him up.”

“Ryan doesn’t think he can get away,” I said on an exhale.

“What?! Are you serious? Dammit, Susie-Q, nothin’ should be more important to him right now. Nothin’!” His voice had raised an octave. A nurse poked her head in the door.

My throat suddenly felt tight. I did wish my knight in shining Armani would come thundering into town in his shiny black Mercedes, because the guy filling in seemed pretty pissed off about getting stuck with the job.

“So, are you going to give me my clothes or not?” I barked.

“Oh, sorry. Here,” he said gruffly, handing me my overnight bag. I shuffled my ugly brown hospital socks into the bathroom to change. Mona had packed a toothbrush, baggy shorts, and a loose fitting tee I sometimes slept in. She’d also packed flip flops and a hairbrush. Then I smirked. My makeup bag was tucked into the outside pocket. I refused to look in the mirror for fear I’d cry.

“He doesn’t treat ya well, does he?”

“He’s just busy. Career-focused,” I yelled through the door. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because we are,” he replied curtly.

“Why are you even here, anyway?”

“I told ya yesterday, I’d drive ya home. That concussion’s kickin’ in again. Maybe I should find the doctor.”

“Shut up! I mean, where’s Mona?”

“She wanted to come, but was afraid she couldn’t help ya into the car if ya fell. She’s back at your place gettin’ it ready. Plus, it doesn’t look like anybody else is here to take care of your sorry butt.” His voice dripped with animosity I knew wasn’t aimed at me. The healthy dose of sarcasm…now, that was all mine.

“Ryan doesn’t have time to run around taking care of me. Ow!” I yelped as I pulled up the shorts. “Damn that hurts.”

His tone changed immediately. “Do ya need help?”

“Not from you!”

“You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, bar none.”

Pain shot across my chest as I stuck my arm through my sleeve. “Dammit!”

He snorted. “Ya sure? I could come in and—”

“I’d sooner die than let you see me half-naked! And wipe that smile off your face, I can hear it.”

He broke into laughter. “Ya know, I do have some experience in the area of half-naked women.”

“I’m sure you do. Now, leave me alone!” He was quiet for a moment—thankfully—and I finished dressing in peace.

“So, he knew you were layin’ here in a hospital bed and he just called today? I know he didn’t yesterday.” Actually, I’d called him, but this was definitely not the time to mention that. I made a silent vow to kill Mona.

“Not this again! Let it go, Pete, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, and you’re doing a helluva job.”

I walked out of the bathroom holding both sides. Pete rushed over to wrap his arms around me, but then stopped, seemingly unsure of what to do. Bemused, I handed him my bag. Now that I was in shorts, the black bruises on my legs were very prominent. Pete saw them too, because he pursed his lips, his expression a little reproachful and a lot like Mona’s from last night. That, I didn’t need.

Once seated, it was off to the elevators. Pete had great fun wheeling me out of Craven Community Hospital. Of course, he knew half the people there and took it upon himself to introduce me to each and every one, affording him the opportunity to crack all kinds of jokes at my expense. In the end, it took close to thirty minutes to travel from the third floor of the small hospital to the patient loading zone, where he’d left his company car parked sideways with the blinkers on.

“Myrtle didn’t want to pay her respects?” I asked, looking up at him.

“She believes the murder was premeditated, but she’ll be attendin’ the service,” he replied snidely. He reached out to help me up. “I thought ya might appreciate a smoother ride. The less bumps, the better.” After closing the passenger door, he smiled maliciously. “But if ya’d like, I’ll look for some potholes.”

The Jeep’s interior was nice. And after imprisonment in the frozen depths of the hospital, the hot seats felt nice for a moment. Then I broke out in a sweat. “I’ll hit the air in just a second,” he said, tossing my soiled bag in the back.

“Wow! Automatic windows and everything.” I pushed the button a couple of times, just to annoy him.

“Only the best, Susie-Q,” he said, unaffected.

As he pulled from the curb, I said, “Listen, I really appreciate your coming to my rescue. It was…is very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said warmly.

“I’m just not used to needing help. It pisses me off.”

“Acceptin’ help now and then doesn’t mean you’re weak, ya know.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

He pulled into my complex, parking at an angle across the spot that was missing my something shiny and red. “Are you physically incapable of parking in a straight line?” I taunted as he opened the passenger door.

Getting from his car to the front door, where Mona stood fluttering her hands, was an adventure that left me exhausted. Pete continued shouldering most of my weight as we slowly climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Mona followed behind. “I got all your prescriptions filled—they know me at the drug store so it was no problem usin’ your insurance card. You’re due a couple of pills now. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“You rock,” I said weakly as she disappeared, and then promptly withered.

“This is…nice,” Pete said in a mocking tone as his eyes swept over my floral nightmare.

“It came pre-furnished, so can it.”

“I just mean, I expected black walls and voodoo dolls.”

“I only have one doll and that’s of you.” I grimaced as he helped me under the covers.

“Where’s your laundry?”

“Why?”

“I want to drop this bag in the wash before your clothes are ruined forever.”

“You’re going to do my laundry?”

“Hey, I’m full service.”

“It’s in the closet nearest the front door. Just leave it there. I can do it later—or toss them in the trash, depending.”

After tucking me in, he leaned over and asked, “Do ya need anything else before I go?” It was the “angel effect” all over again.

“No, I’ve got Mother Teresa here,” I said, nodding as Mona reappeared. He covered his smile with his hand.

“Okay, ya have to take this one now,” she said, absorbed in the fifty-page drug precaution handout. “And this one—gosh it’s big,” she said, gawking. “It says every six hours, so I guess we can start it now, too. Oh! Ya can’t take it on an empty stomach. Sorry, I’ll be right back with some crackers.”

“Good luck finding those,” I muttered.

“I went to the store while Pete was gettin’ you. Did you know you were completely out of food?” I tried to look surprised at that revelation. I chased the first horse pill with a big gulp of sticky sweet iced tea. Pete watched me intently.

“When ya start hallucinatin’, think about me,” he said, winking.

I raised the eyebrow not connected to the stitches. “Conjuring up images of evil probably isn’t a smart idea.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a crinkled envelope. “Here’s a card from the Frog.”

It was shaped like a beer mug. I read it out loud, “To our most obnoxious customer. Next beer’s on us! Love, Jimbo and the gang.” A barrage of signatures covered the inside; many names I didn’t recognize, a few completely illegible. My vision got wavy.

“Oh don’t cry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Half the people that signed that thing were drunk.” I wiped my eyes with the tissue he handed me.

“I still don’t get why you all are being so nice to me.”

“It’s pronounced y’all, if you want to be ungrammatically, yet phonetically correct.”

“No, seriously.”

“Because it annoys you.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Pete!”

“Didn’t ya know you’re Havelock’s chief source of entertainment? We need ya up and back to your feisty self. Besides, that’s just how we do things down here. It’s the way you’re supposed to treat your friends.”

Friends. I tested that word. With the exception of Mona, I hadn’t considered any of these people friends. My eyes misted again. Oh, this is ridiculous!

“Thank you. Really…thanks.” He held my eyes for a moment, smiled very sweetly, then pivoted toward the door. “Oh, before you leave…what kind of an ‘I’m sorry’ gift would you send a farmer you almost killed?”

Laughing loudly, he said, “I don’t know, a country ham maybe? Oh, and a new pacemaker.” My returning smile transitioned into a big yawn. “Close your eyes, sweetheart, and get some rest. Don’t worry, we’re gonna take good care of ya.” He gave me a meaningful look before disappearing down my stairs.

18

My Mother's Orgasm

“Oh. My. God, Susan!” Kirsten’s voice neared panic. “I just found out! Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” I groaned, squeezing the life out of Mona’s phone as I climbed back into bed, dizzy from another painful trip to the bathroom.

“You’d think one of these damn secretaries would have notified me. It’s not like they hate you or anything.”

“I don’t think anyone hates me,” I said, flipping through the faces I knew, who I’d screwed, how badly.

“Tell me everything!”

I relayed the traumatic tale, and she responded with the appropriate gasps and profanities. Then she said, “Do you want me to come down? I’ll have to move some meetings and cancel a trip out west, but I will totally do that if you really need me.”

“No. It’s fine. The doctor says I can go back to work in a few more days. Besides, my mother’s here.” I forced a sunny smile as she entered, carrying yet another glass of tea. She mouthed “drink”.

“Okay, if you’re sure. But just say the word and I’ll try to get a flight. My district’s budget is tight this month, but maybe I can convince the department to cover the cost. I’m so here for you, Susan!”

We talked a bit longer before my next round of painkillers kicked in. I’m fairly sure I said goodbye.

Mom was livid with Mona when she’d first seen my bruised and broken body, but within the hour, all was forgiven and now they were best friends. As I could do nothing but lay in bed, I eavesdropped on their conversations. They spoke the same language, watched the same television shows, laughed at the same things; my sense of humor was some four-point-seven acres away from hers. Maybe Mona was the daughter she should have had. I’d been a daddy’s girl, and by default, the buffer; the angry and confused one who’d kept the dog at bay. And while I should have let her get closer to me, I never did; too much turmoil. Daddy’s death had left just the three of us: Me, Mom, and the expansive valley of good intentions, backhanded compliments and gross negligence that separated us.

The doorbell rang out exuberantly. Until this week, its only human contact had been with the pizza boy. Now, with all the foot traffic, I feared the damn thing might break. My refrigerator was also getting the workout of its life, what with all the four-thousand calorie per bite casseroles Mona’s church ladies delivered daily. Yes, I’d even been put on the First Baptist Church of Havelock’s prayer list. Sheer guilt might force me to attend services, just to pay them back for the food twenty people could never possibly eat.

The door opened and unmistakable laughter rolled right in. What is he doing here again? Pete was completely ruining his image of evil incarnate, and for what…sympathy? I was expecting—no, looking forward to his insults, snotty retorts and the lunging at each other’s throats; some indication of normalcy. Maybe this was part of his game: Lull me into complacency, then spring at me when I least expected it. Well, I was planning my own strategies, my little games; I had nothing else to do in this ugly bedroom except count the flowers on the comforter. And it wasn’t like I could focus on a computer screen, or engage in coherent business conversations through this haze of painkillers and muscle relaxers.

“Oh! Oh my! Oh my goodness!” my mother moaned…sensually? Ew! What was he doing to her? I heard banging in the kitchen, heavy footsteps, and finally a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” I said testily.

“So…little Susie, huh?” Pete said, raising a brow.

“No! She did not do that!”

“Yeah, she did,” he said, grinning hugely. “Man, I love dumb luck.”

“Oh leave me alone, will you?”

“Now is that any way to treat a bearer of gifts?”

“I don’t see any gifts. I see a piece of pie.”

“This isn’t just any piece of pie, little girl. This is a Belva Sue’s pecan pie!” He presented it to me as if it were a nugget of gold.

“I told you I don’t eat desserts.” He shrugged.

“Okay. I’ll eat it, then.” And without invitation, he proceeded to sit on the edge of my bed.

“Open up,” he demanded, jamming a forkful in my mouth.

“Oh my!” I exclaimed. This must have been the cause of my mother’s orgasm.

“See?” he said, beaming with satisfaction. “She made ya one, special.”

“She doesn’t even know me.” He shoveled another bite in my mouth.

“Alright then, I talked her into makin’ one for me to give to ya,” he boasted as if he’d accomplished some great acrobatic feat. “She wasn’t too happy about usin’ last year’s frozen pecans, but she seemed satisfied enough with the outcome. I think she outdid herself, personally.” Hello! If this was “satisfied” to the woman, I couldn’t imagine what “pleased” tasted like.

Pete forced the brown syrup my mother calls “tea” on me and I choked down a sip. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“Actually, ya kinda are,” he replied, helping himself to my pie. His eyes practically rolled up into his skull. When he finished chewing, he wiped his mouth on—again—my napkin.

“Pete, stop playing head games with me.”

“I’m not,” he replied innocently.

“I think you are, and you’d better be careful. You’re about to get removed from my most unwanted list, and that will upset you…and me.”

“I can live with that for now. When ya get better, I’ll focus my full attention on reclaiming my throne. How’s that?” He smiled like the rogue he was and took a large drink of my iced tea. “Mm, your mamma sure makes good tea.”

“Do you have no boundaries?” I said, giving him the stink eye. “And why are you here, anyway?”

“Visitin’ the infirmed. It’s my biblical duty. I’ll go if ya want.”

“Okay,” I said, calling his bluff. He didn’t budge, of course. Instead, he took another bite and mock-shivered in ecstasy.

“Susie-Q, you could try lettin’ someone in, ya know.”

“Go home, Pete.”

“As you wish.” He shoveled a huge bite in my mouth and quickly kissed my forehead. “Bye!” he said, grinning devilishly before vanishing like a wraith. I heard my mother speak, a door shut, and the roar of an ailing engine.

“Oh, what the hell,” I said, pulling the plate on my lap. I ate every last crumb.

♥

Mom left a few days later at my insistence. With the “Susie, ya look like an Auschwitz survivor, eat this” and the “Susie, drink more of your tea or your skin’ll look more sallow than it already does,” she was mothering me to death. Only able to accomplish small bits of work between her intrusions, my civility was waning. I desperately missed being Susan, the adult.

Mona’s sendoff came with a big hug, a tearful goodbye, and the assurance she’d take “real good care of me”. And as my mother gently hugged me, she told me for the fiftieth time how glad she was that I was back home again—meaning in North Carolina, and that I had such nice friends—most of whom I didn’t know, and such a loving church family—that I’d never met. She had an arts and crafts show in Charleston next week, and I told her I was glad she would make it, now. I knew it was a big deal for her. She liked to crochet….a lot. Mom cried. I didn’t. I sucked.

As soon as she was out of sight, I dressed and demanded Mona drive me to work. Getting into the car was tricky, and when she stopped suddenly for the light, I saw spots. But oh, blessed freedom! Well, sort of. I had no car and was at the mercy of Mona, or worse, Pete. You never miss things like taxis until you need one. I wondered idly what the fare from Raleigh might run, and if I could expense it.

When the light changed, Mona spoke beautiful words to me. “Oh, by the way, I got you a fleet car for the time bein’, ya know, until you and your insurance company get things sorted out.”

“Mona, you’re an angel,” I said, relieved beyond measure.

“I know.” Her smile was too big—all teeth. I looked to the little building I’d actually missed, and then I saw it. Parked in the space that had become my own was a tiny, chartreuse car of unknown breed.

“Mona, what the hell is that?” She began shaking as she pulled in beside the small hunk of plastic. Finally, she gave up altogether and burst into uncontrollable giggles.

“It’s your fleet car!” she shrieked. She opened her door and literally fell out in hysterics.

“Could that thing be any smaller?!”

“It’s a subcompact,” she cackled. “Maybe sub-subcompact.” She wiped tears from her eyes, still hiccupping mirth.

“You got me a urine colored car? And why do they even make paint that color? I am not driving that thing. No way!”

“Susan,” she choked out, “I knew when it showed up yesterday that ya’d die. I had to see your expression before I sent it back. And gosh, it was so worth it!” I glowered at her, then at the car. “You shouldn’t have to drive it long. I’ve put in an order for a bigger one. Midsized sedans are harder to get, but I know some people,” she said, smiling. “Ya ought to have a decent one by the end of the week. But for now…enjoy!” She skipped to the office door and unlocked it. I followed, muttering mean things under my breath.

“Considering your history with the law, though,” she continued, helping me up the steps, “it might be better if ya had North Carolina plates on your car, anyway.”

“You’re probably right. When I get my new car, I’ll order vanity plates that say NATIVE. Then maybe they’ll leave me alone.”

“The way you drive, I doubt it’ll help much.” She broke into giggles again.

A glorious aroma filled my senses as soon as I entered the foyer. Nose-first, I tracked it to my office and discovered a magnificent bouquet of the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen, sitting in the middle of my desk. There were pink roses, those purple stick flowers I don’t know the name of, delphinium orchids, freesias, a host of other gorgeous blooms, and the topper: Giant oriental lilies, my absolute favorite flower in the entire world. I was tempted to call Pete over just to watch him choke on his nasty words. I smiled hugely. Ryan, you stinker.

Deeply inhaling the perfume of a lily, oozing nectar, I opened the tiny envelope. I didn’t expect anything mushy, but I knew I would replay whatever thing he’d written all day. I bit my lip and pulled out the card. My Dear Miss Susan, May God bless and heal you. Sincerely, The Law Offices of Dupree and Dupree. Huh? I flipped the card over to find a handwritten message in that dramatic scrawl I’d become so accustomed to seeing. You’d better get well quickly my dear, so you can come back over and see us! –John.

I eased into my chair. Whoa, how incredibly nice of Mr. Dupree. Just…whoa. And then, what the hell? A client I hardly know sends me an extravagant bouquet, and my boyfriend has his secretary order a cheap carnation-filled arrangement.

Even though Ryan had apologized for not being able to get away, I expected some kind of…something. I understood his work priorities—I really did, and his continued optimism for my success kept me going, but what I wanted right now—no, needed—was comfort; comfort and promises and maybe a romantic sentiment or two. And every time I’d called him using Mona’s cell, all I’d gotten was voicemail; voicemail and voicemail and voicemail.

Mona stuck her head in the door. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Gorgeous!”

“That Mr. Dupree must really like you to send such an arrangement.”

“How did he know about the accident?”

“Donna, Mr. Dupree’s secretary, ya know? Well, she called the office yesterday to ask you a question.”

“She always has a question.” I chuckled, shaking my head. I was just glad she felt comfortable enough now to reach out for help.

“As soon as I told her what happened,” Mona continued, “she must have flown right into Mr. Dupree’s office, ’cause he called personally within minutes. He was beside himself, I tell ya. He almost sounded as shaken up as your mamma. He told me he’d heard about the wreck down at the courthouse days before. It was big news, evidently—said the police chief hadn’t seen a wreck that bad in years. Of course, Mr. Dupree’d had no idea it was you.” Mona sniffed a freesia.

That information did not bode well for my car.

“I assured him you were healin’ up fine, but I don’t think he believed me.” She sighed, touching a spider mum. “The flowers arrived a few hours later.” She walked around my desk, admiring them from all sides. “Isn’t that just somethin’? He must’ve paid an arm and a leg just to have ’em delivered that fast.”

“Knowing him, you’re probably right.”

“Probly raised cane in the process, too,” she said, giggling. I couldn’t hide my smile as I imagined him red-faced, jowls shaking as he called every florist. “Hope no one dies this week. I bet there’s not a flower left in all of Swans Quarter.” She adjusted a rose before losing her nose in it. “Ya might wanna give him a call. He’s worried sick,” she added. I picked up the office line and dialed the number from memory.

Mr. Dupree made me swear on a stack of Bibles that I was alright. I promised to meet him for lunch very soon. After disconnecting, I fished out a sheet of INTech stationary and jotted a heartfelt thank you note. I smugly handed it to Mona before she had time to suggest that as well.

As soon as I powered up the brand new laptop Mona had waiting for me, I plowed through my umpteen emails, deleting all but the most important. Along with a few goofy messages from my old sales team and a very nice note from Grace Newman, my Western Pennsylvania SR replacement, who was very much enjoying my old region, Kirsten had sent a hilarious e-card; an animated car zooming across the screen to the Speed Racer theme song. Her message read, Get well soon. Can’t wait to see you at Quarterlies! Same here, Kirsten…same here.

Hearing the swish of Mona’s skirt, I quickly wiped my tears, cleared my throat and put on my happy face.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t stop lookin’ at these flowers. They’re the prettiest things I ever saw.”

“That’s okay, Mona, I need to speak with you about a new phone, anyway. I must have a mountain of messages.”

“In your top drawer, all charged up and ready to go. It’s an upgrade, too,” she said, beaming. “The chip from your previous phone…it didn’t make it through the ordeal. I guess ya lost all your contacts.”

“I have backups…” I mumbled, entranced by my new toy.

“Okay…well, I’ll let ya get back to it, then.”

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you for this. It’s perfect.” Nodding, she turned to leave, but I stopped her. “Mona, you amaze me. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You should really be at corporate where you can be noticed and rewarded. Somehow I’ll find a way to repay you for all you’ve done for me this week. I’ll talk to Bob—”

“I don’t need repayin’!” she exclaimed, whipping around. “And I don’t want anything. And, and I never want to work at corporate! Gosh, Susan, what kinda person do ya think I am?” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at me incredulously. “I didn’t help ya ’cause I wanted anything in return! And it’s sure not my job to do it!” She stamped her foot on the floor. “I helped because…well, ya needed it…and that’s what people ought to do.” She glared at me like I was the imbecile I suppose I was.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just…I wanted to show my appreciation in some tangible way.”

“Well, ya already said ‘thank you’ a hundred times. That’s more than enough.” She huffed again and stormed out of the room. A moment later she marched back in. “Besides, you’re my friend….and, and I don’t even like Philadelphia!” Then she stomped out again, all angry kitten, and I laughed until my ribcage screamed.

When my phone settings were exactly the way I liked them, I snared a pen and prepared to address my voicemails. The first message was from Ryan. “Susan, what the fuck?” Then two later, “Susan, call me back, goddammit!” I leaned back and smiled. He does care. And finally, “Hi, Baby. Denise contacted me. I hope you’re okay. She said something about a hospital. I don’t know what the hell she was babbling about. I may fire her. Negotiations went great, by the way. I wish you could have seen me. Baby, I was on fire. I beat that Randall son of a bitch again! God, I’m so awesome. They’re calling for my plane. I’ll be back in Philly tonight. Call me.”

Bypassing the rest, I listened to it again and then looked at the time and date out of curiosity. Wait a minute! He’d flown home while I was still in the hospital. He was at corporate when I‘d called him that next morning. He could have come down! I listened to the rest of my messages, a geyser steadily building. Finally, I dialed his number.

“Hi, Baby,” he said. “It’s about time you called. I haven’t heard from you in a week, how are you feeling?” What? I took a deep breath, assuring myself that he hadn’t recognized Mona’s number, so he’d just deleted the messages. Were painkillers supposed to make you paranoid?

“A little sore, actually. And I’m still a bit bruised, thanks. I get my stitches out Friday. They’ll check my ribs then, as well.”

“You’re not going to have any scars, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“On your face…from the stitches?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “If you do, I’ll get you in with a plastic surgeon I know. He can fix them. Maybe before Quarterlies,” he added. I pulled the phone back and gawked at it.

“Ryan, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sorry, Baby, I’m trying to pull up a file and my system’s gone to shit. I have to call fucking IT and have those fucking idiots bring me something that DOESN’T FUCKING SUCK!” he shouted in frustration. Okay, deaf now.

I didn’t want to play the needy girlfriend—Ryan didn’t do needy. Neither did I, for that matter, but he owed me some boyfriend-like behavior. “You know you’ve barely emailed since the accident, and you didn’t leave any messages with Mona either. My phone was destroyed in the crash. I told you that, remember? It would have been nice if—”

“Baby, I’ve been busy playing catch-up from last week. There was big money on the line out there. You do understand that, right?”

“Of course I do, but—” I heard papers rustling. “Ryan, am I on speaker phone?”

“Yeah, Baby, why?”

“Ugh! Never mind.”

“So you were saying you’re all better now?” He still sounded distracted.

“Sure. I’m perfect,” I replied sarcastically. “Running a marathon this weekend.”

“Okay, good. I’m glad. Don’t let this incident affect your deadline.” Now he sounded like Bob, except Bob had sent a card; a nice one he’d signed himself.

“Don’t worry about my career, Ryan. It will be fine,” I responded coolly.

“Listen, Baby, I gotta run to a meeting. I’ll call you back later, okay?” I heard more shuffling and the squeak of his chair as he stood. “Oh, I almost forgot. I sent you a little something that will definitely make you feel better. You should get it…today, I think.”

“Thanks, Ryan. That was thoughtful.”

“I miss you. It’s lonely up here.” Finally!

“It’s lonely here, too,” I said, misting up.

“And I definitely miss having you under me,” he purred. “I can’t wait to see you at Quarterlies. Take care of yourself, Baby.”

♥

I only made it half the day, but that was progress. The ugly little car drove like a child’s toy. Sweating excessively from heat and the effort to stay vertical, I gave up on the wheezing air conditioner and dropped the windows. Though the outside air was scalding, it was air, at least. At the stoplight, I heard the noxious sound of a grumpy old lady engine. I was so not in the mood.

“Hey, Susie-Q,” Pete shouted, hanging out his window. “That’s a…mighty fine ride you’ve got there.” I ignored him. He tried again. “Ya know, I think that car suits ya.”

“In what alternate universe would this car suit me, Pete? Huh?” I yelled back, twisting painfully to better see him.

“Well, it’s small, powerless, and lacks style.”

“Well, Myrtle suits you just fine, too! She’s loud, obnoxious, and archaic…and, and she’s rusty!”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, practically falling out of the truck. “She doesn’t have a speck of rust on her.”

“Oh, I don’t have time to discuss her less than fine attributes right now. I’ve got to go…somewhere.”

He threw his head back and laughed as the light changed. “Bye, Susie-Q.” I narrowed my eyes, gunned my one-hundred horses, and limped off. Just wait until my sedan arrives, my friend!

As promised, Ryan’s package was leaning against the front door when I arrived. It had been expressed from one of the high-end stores he patronized. I threw the keys to TheUrinator on the table and slowly scaled the stairs. Collapsing on the edge of my bed, I ripped open the packaging, expecting something wonderful. When I lifted the lid of the elegant box, my jaw dropped; it was wonderful, alright! Concealed in crisp white tissue paper held together by a sleek gold foil sticker was Ryan’s idea of a pick me up; a silky black nothing with a minuscule lace thong. And to think I wasted time pining for flowers…

I tossed the box on the floor. A note card tumbled onto the carpet. I leaned over to retrieve it and landed on all fours, stars firing before my eyes. When I thought I might not faint, I opened the envelope and stared in disbelief. Mr. Vittorio, please contact me immediately if this piece is not to your liking and I will find something that better suits your needs. Best regards, Pamela Stuart. He had his personal shopper pick out lingerie for me? Screw that!

After some serious stewing and a healthy dose of pain medication, I fired him an email.

My darling Ryan,

I received the package. So thoughtful of you to have your personal shopper pick something out for me. I may have to return it, though. I’m not sure it’s revealing enough!

Always,

Susan

“Maybe you can read between the lines, jerk-off,” I hissed as I hit send.

19

The Funeral

A sense of foreboding and dread attacked me as I merged onto the lonely ribbon of highway. The appropriate mourning period passed, it was time to perform the sacred burial rites over the body of my former, and now, as I understood it, deceased lover. But before signing the death certificate, I needed to see it with my own eyes.

A logging truck transporting pines with claimed destinies appeared on the horizon. Sheer terror exploded within me and I clamped my jaws shut to keep from screaming as it thundered past, shaking my little car. That’s all; it simply passed me, as trucks do. Panting, I pulled to the shoulder and coaxed my fingers to relax their iron grip on the steering wheel. You’re fine Susan…nothing happened.Fine.

The site of the accident itself was unremarkable; shards of glass glinting on the highway, asphalt scorched with black lines, ruts across the berm, tire impressions troubling the turf of the shallow runoff ditch, bits of scattered debris. One might never notice these small details unless they troubled to really look. Nothing here remotely compared to the horrors of twisted and mutilated interstate guardrails, and the nearby clusters of small white crosses invariably accompanying them; names and messages that tugged fiercely at the heart. No, any evidence of this accident would be washed clean by the next rain.

Blessedly, I had no memory of the crash itself—only the glimpse of a tractor and a giant hellish grill ready to devour me littering my nightmares. I was glad to leave this place. And after a brief stop at Mr. Lotridge’s farm, where my tendered supplication to the kind old man and his sweet wife took the form of a smelly hunk of salted pig buttocks, I pressed onward to the junkyard.

WeinbargerGarage and Salvage was ten miles past the farm. I parked in the shade of an old pecan tree and entered the waiting room. Left of a counter cluttered with papers and an old-fashioned cash register, were two vintage plastic chairs. After decades of nicotine exposure, the color, once white, had acquired a yellow-brown tint. Beside them, an aged gum machine filled with brightly colored squares begged for money. Proceeds theoretically went to the Lion’s Club, but the gold cross label had mostly peeled away. I smiled, remembering if you slid the lever slowly enough, you could coax a few extra pieces to fall into the chute. Filled with a sense of nostalgia, I wondered if I had a nickel in my purse.

Even with the pitiful fan in the corner, the room was very hot and virtually airless, the sun’s fiery rays broken only by the red logo painted across the front plate window. Hovering above the ranks of fallen relatives, several flies were unsuccessfully convincing the glass to dissolve and set them free.

Leaving the sauna, I stepped into the mouth of the garage proper and found the owner, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, standing under the lifted carriage of an older black sedan. Probably in his mid-fifties, he was a rough looking man bearing heavy bags under his eyes. His smudged Weinbarger ball cap matched his disheveled gray uniform, on which the name Cecil was embroidered.

I’d spoken with Mr. Weinbarger this morning so he was expecting me. He wiped his oil-soaked hands with a dirty rag. “I’m really glad to meet ya, and see with my own eyes that you’re in one piece,” he said sincerely, shaking my hand. “I just couldn’t imagine it.”

“I am,” I responded, smiling politely. “Tell me truthfully, can it be fixed?” He gave me an odd look. “The insurance adjuster told me that with foreign cars, it’s often cheaper to write them off as totaled than pay for repairs, but maybe someone can work some magic.” I laughed lightly. He didn’t even smile.

“Alright then,” I continued awkwardly, “may I see my car?” The purpose for my visit was to sign release papers so my insurance company could move forward with the process, but I wanted to judge the condition of my scarlet beauty myself. The car may have been an inanimate collection of metal, plastic, and leather, but it represented so much more to me.

“Are ya sure yew wanna do that, Miss?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, after a crash like this one, seeing the vehicle can be upsetting. Sometimes it’s better to let well enough alone.” He looked at me meaningfully, and I promptly rolled my eyes. I swear people down here were completely mental. True, I loved my BMW, but the sight of a few dents and a broken window or two was not going to rock my world.

“I just want to say goodbye—you know, pay my respects?” I laughed again.

The humorless man fished another cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “Okay, Miss, if that’s what ya want.” He shook his head and led me around the white cinderblock building. Suddenly, we were standing on the shore of a great sea of metal carnage, a mechanical graveyard that stretched out endlessly.

“It’s over here.” He motioned for me to follow him.

We wove through an obstacle course of hubcaps and old tires before stopping in front of a tattered skeleton. I started to say this wasn’t my car, but then I saw the little blue and black insignia on an unidentifiable piece of crushed red metal. All blood drained to my feet, and I think I gasped and put a hand over my mouth.

My once beautiful German precision automobile looked like a wrecking ball had been dropped on top of it—like, ten times. What was left of the roof hovered precariously above the smashed metal frame, with only the suggestion of what had once been a windshield. The three remaining doors were bent at savage angles, and with the exception of a ragged sliver, the driver’s panel was missing altogether. I stepped closer. The punctured airbag hanging deflated from the broken steering wheel was covered with brown crusty splashes and drips. The steering column itself had been pushed to the center of the console, the front dashboard cracked in half. What was left of the torn backseat was filled with tiny glass cubes resembling ice after a hailstorm.

The earth tilted and vice-like hands gripped my upper arms.

“Okay, Miss, let’s getcha back inside,” said the low gravelly voice. “I think you’ve seen enough.” Mr. Winebarger steered me to one of the plastic seats. My head was spinning and I felt weak and nauseous. “Just put your head between your knees, Miss. I’ll set the fan to blow on ya.” I was suddenly covered in sweat and chilled at the same time.

Returning quickly, he sat down beside me and placed a wet paper towel on the back of my neck and something cold in my trembling hands. “Here, drink some of this, Miss.” I glanced at the old-style bottle—the type that required an opener to remove the metal cap. The rounded glass lip felt smooth as I drew in a sip. Icy elixir permeated my body, settling my stomach. What is that taste? I was once again reminded of childhood. Cheerwine! That’s what it was. Certain I’d never tasted anything better in my life, I drank it down in gulps, then stifled a burp.

“Thank you,” I muttered, utterly ashamed.

“It’s okay, Miss,” he said kindly. “Happens all the time. Is there someone I can call for ya?”

“Huh?”

“Ya know, to come and get ya.”

“No. I’ll be fine in a minute, thanks.”

“Are ya sure you’re up to drivin’?” He eyed me dubiously.

Pride getting the best of me, I replied, “Yes. Just give me a moment.” Besides, who could I call anyway? Even though she’d offered to come, Mona had her own work to do. And…I suppose she was it, actually.

“Suit yourself then. Just keep drinkin’ and let the fan blow on ya a while ’til you’ve pulled yourself together. Take as much time as ya need.” He offered me a cigarette and I waved him off. After disappearing through the interior door, he stuck his head back around the jamb and said, “I’ll be in here when you’re ready.”

When my legs no longer felt like tubes of jelly, I rose slowly and placed the empty bottle on the counter. Then I stepped into the garage. Mr. Weinbarger was once again standing underneath the hydraulic lift, smoking a freshly lit cigarette. Country music played softly from an old radio to the eternal theme of no good women and lost dogs. Tools and oil-blackened parts littered the cement floor, and a large ashtray, brimming with butts, teetered on the metal ledge under a rack of wrenches. In a way, his organizational style was similar to mine; everything just where I needed it to be.

“Thank you for the drink,” I said loudly. He turned around and surveyed me.

“Feelin’ better now?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding affirmatively—maybe to convince myself. I wasn’t sure how this whole car business worked, so I asked, “Do I owe you for the towing and…storage?”

He chuckled. “Don’t yew worry about that for a minute. That’s between me and your insurance company. Yew just need to sign these release forms so I can move it on out to the yard.” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a black ballpoint, handing it to me along with a clipboard. “Sign here, Miss.” He pointed a dirty finger to the X at the bottom of the page. I scribbled my name with still shaky hands, not bothering to read the words. I wanted nothing more to do with this place.

“Do you have my number in case you need to contact me?” I realized I’d left my planner and business cards in the fleet car.

“Don’t worry, I got all that. I won’t be callin’ ya unless I find a personal belonging of some sort. I’m pretty sure that boy got everything, though,” he said, taking off his cap and scratching his head. “He was very thorough.”

“Mr. Winebarger, thank you for your time,” I said.

He took my hand in both of his large roughened paws, and while shaking said, “Please be careful on your way home, Miss. I don’t want to see ya here again, okay?”

“Me neither.” I shuddered in the heat.

He followed me outside and said, “Ya don’t see many people walk away from a crash like that. I…uh….you’re one lucky lady.” Shaking his head, he took a hard drag on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“I guess I am,” I said, smiling tightly.

I took my time fastening my seatbelt and turned all the vents so they blew directly on my face. Dust rose behind me as I left the garage, and I drove with care and deliberation back to Havelock. Maybe going to church this Sunday wasn’t a bad idea.

♥

Though my time was predominately spent behind my desk doing paperwork and making phone calls, within a few days I was back in relatively full swing. Today I’d gone out on my first service call. It was a good start. Before I left, Mona asked if I wanted to go to the Frog after work. Tonight was as good as any to get the teasing over with, so I said yes. And I really hoped Pete would be there to do it. Though still embarrassed, not only because I’d helplessly needed him, but that he’d seen me at my weakest, it was time to put this incident behind us and get back to being enemies. Life was simpler that way.

Mona beat me again. When it came to seeing Jimbo, speed limits didn’t count for her. I smiled when I saw Myrtle by the door, and when I stepped inside, I was greeted with a warm round of applause. I waved only because I couldn’t take a bow without seriously injuring myself. Jimbo stepped out from behind the counter and handed me a beer. I must have looked stunned because he actually laughed. I suppose a near-death experience counted for something around here.

This early, only the usual gang I was beginning to feel a part of was present, and everyone seemed in especially high spirits. Several people immediately migrated over to talk, and I thanked each for the card. It was still open on my dresser…I just couldn’t toss it out.

As he emerged from the back, Pete’s booming voice silenced the room. “May I have your attention, please? In light of recent events surrounding one Susan Wade, voted number one in customer obstinacy…” Claps and yells erupted as he dramatically paused. “It is our great pleasure to unveil the latest addition to the Rusty Frog’s Official Rules, Regulations, and Friendly Suggestions.”

I turned to Mona and mouthed, “The what?”

Pete gingerly took my hand as if it might break, and led me to the center of the dance floor. Then he stepped a few feet back, leaving me standing alone. I became uncomfortably aware that every eye in the establishment was focused on me, and that something very humiliating was about to occur. I squared my shoulders, preparing for martyrdom.

“Okay, Jimbo, do the honors,” he yelled. Jimbo crossed the room with a sly smile I definitely didn’t trust. In fact, until this moment I hadn’t believed him capable of such an expression.

Many objetsd’art adorned the walls of this weird place, ranging from rusty North Carolina license plates dating back to the nineteen-sixties, to the life-sized cardboard cut-out of a Sports-Illustrated model fondling a six-foot bottle of beer that the men affectionately referred to as “Candie”. Between the “Men’s” and “Little Girl’s” restrooms, a weathered pylon I was certain once belonged to a fishing pier helped hold up the roof. Nailed to it was a series of wooden plaques of random shapes and sizes inscribed with dumb sayings. Other than a fleeting glance, I’d never really read them. Jimbo now stood beside that pylon.

A dingy bar towel covered the bottom shape. When Pete gave the signal, Jimbo dramatically snatched it off, doing a quick game show hostess impression before retreating to his safe haven behind the counter. I examined the crudely hewn plaque, and then read it out loud. “If Susan takes ya home, for God’s sakes don’t let her drive!”

I narrowed my eyes at Pete, and the bar erupted with laughter and applause. And though my ribs ached, I couldn’t stop laughing, either. Mona was having the same trouble. I’d long held suspicions that she and Pete were secretly in league against me. This maneuver confirmed it all. I blew a few kisses to the audience, did the queen-waving thing again, and took my seat.

“How’d ya like that, Susie-Q?” Pete asked, scooting in beside me a little while later.

“Other than being a laughingstock, I’ll live,” I said, attempting a smirk. “Thanks for the sign. It’ll be my legacy.”

“Vic Jr. made it. He’s our resident artist.”

“I can see why.” I smiled at Vic, and he nodded.

Now was my chance. “Well, I’m glad Vic Jr. made it instead of you. We all know you couldn’t use a tool to save your life!”

“At least I can drive!” he retorted.

I glowered at him, he snorted out a laugh, and all was right in the world again. Confused, Mona looked from me to him and back again, and then shrugged and took a sip of beer.

An hour or so later, I grabbed my purse and announced, “I’m heading out.” I was still getting tired easily and I’d already pushed myself enough today. I saluted Jimbo as I passed.

“Drive careful, Susan,” he said.

“I’d better. You’re running out of space on that pole.”

“Oh, we’d find a place,” Pete chimed in from the nearby corner.

“No doubt.”

He was instantly behind me. “You’re not goin’ home already are ya, Susie-Q? I wasn’t nearly through teasing ya tonight.”

“Sorry, but I’m really wiped.”

He opened the door and we walked onto the porch. “I’ve been workin’ through some new material. Ya know, to improve my ratings.”

“I’m looking forward to hearing it,” I said genuinely.

Stars were barely visible through the canopy of branches, the air was still and hot, and a mosquito buzzed my ear, but I was alive, and that’s all that mattered at the moment.

“I heard ya went to see your car,” he said solemnly.

“Yeah, that was a barrel of monkeys.”

“I wish ya hadn’t done that,” he said, staring out into the parking lot.

“Me, too. I had no idea it was…” I couldn’t think of a way to describe it.

“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. “I was hopin’ to keep it that way.”

“The roof was all smashed in.”

“Yeah, ya rolled it.”

“That explains a lot, I suppose,” I said, brushing aside that pretty picture. “How did they get me out?”

“Very carefully.” He chuckled humorlessly and took a drink from his bottle.

We stood there several minutes, me leaning against the post to stay vertical, he propped on the railing, weight resting on his forearms. Tree frogs and crickets made their nighttime noises. It was beautiful if you closed your eyes and pretended you weren’t in a gravel parking lot in front of a mangy old bar.

“Listen, Pete, thanks for getting my stuff out of the car and, well…just thanks.”

He turned his head and looked at me. “I love you bein’ beholdin’ to me and all,” he said, grinning, “but if ya say ‘thanks’ one more time, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I hate saying it more than you know, but don’t worry, I’m almost tapped out.”

“Took longer than I thought.” He chuckled and turned his attention back to the sleeping cars.

“I liked the sign by the way.”

“I thought ya might.”

“Leave it to you to find something funny in all this.” He took another sip, and as he swallowed, the side of his mouth slowly curved up. “Well, goodbye, Pete,” I said.

“I’ll see ya soon,” he responded, standing. “And next time ya’d better come out swingin’.”

“Count on it.” I turned for the steps, but he stopped me, touching my elbow.

“Are you okay, Susan?” he asked sincerely, his eyes intent and searching mine. “I mean, no bullshit, really…are ya?”

“I think so.”

“Ya scared the piss out of me, ya know,” he said, finding a nail in the railing to pick at.

I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to do it, but I whispered, “I’m sorry.” He offered the ghost of a smile and resumed his position of prayer and meditation as my shoe crunched the gravel.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Even though I hate you, you’re a good man. I just thought you should know that.” He looked down at me with smiling eyes.

I waved to him as I left the lot. When I pulled onto Route 101, I glanced in my rearview mirror. He was right where I’d left him; on the porch, staring at the cars, being eaten by bugs.

20

Chicken Necks

Even though the speed limit and I were now dating seriously, and phoning in the car was an absolute no-no, I’d made up for most of my lost work time. My relationship with Pete had been restored, for the most part; he was still nicer than I would have liked, but I hit him twice as hard to make up for it. The soreness in my ribs was now tolerable, and the bruises, though still noticeable, had faded substantially. The nightmares had eased as well, however, anytime I thought of the sandwich I once called my BMW, I shuddered. And, I thought of it often; every time a truck passed me, every time I saw a tractor caution sign, every time I drove past a planted field.

As promised, Mona had managed to procure a sedan with acceptable amenities. Its only real drawback was the color. Knowing my feelings on the subject, she swore she’d tried “everything” to get a different shade, but in the end, she threw up her hands and said there was nothing she could do. Bullshit! I saw the mischief brewing behind that innocent façade; this was another of her little pranks. While the Urinator’s puce color gave me hives, Carolina Blue absolutely turned my stomach.

Raised a proper Tarheel, Mona thought it was beautiful. My clients thought it was beautiful. The idiots at the bar thought it was beautiful. My mother would have kissed the damned thing, her blood running that very shade. Brainwashed—the lot!

Having attended college there briefly, Mom was such a Carolina fan that she would cry whenever they lost a basketball game. Just because my parents worshiped Dean Smith, UNC’s coach at the time, as God—outside of church—didn’t mean I had to fall prostrate, too. As a teenager, indignant and self-righteous in all ways, I responded to this egregious prejudice by becoming an “anybody but Carolina” fan, and still remained so. I slammed the car door, not bothering to lock it, and crossed the dusty lot.

Mona was already primped, primed, and poised when I entered the bar—the same sad scene as always. Over time, I had gone from agitated, to annoyed, to downright appalled. Jimbo may have been dealt a very bad hand to start with, but within easy reach was his ace, his straight, his full flush. All he had to do was walk over and take her in his arms, and the pot of gold was his. If he didn’t wake up and smell the Estee Lauder soon, I was going to take matters into my own hands.

I tossed my purse on the chair. “I need a drink. Do you want anything?”

“Honey, I’ll go and get you one,” she said, standing.

“Sit. You’ve treated me like a cripple too long. I think I can walk ten feet without keeling over.”

“Well…okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

At the counter, I tried to catch Jimbo’s eye, Pete’s eye—anybody’s eye. Pete was regaling some epic fishing struggle, his arms moving in exaggerated gesticulations in front of a cluster of men hanging on his every word. I idly wondered if he could even communicate with his hands tied behind his back. Jimbo stood right beside him, nodding away. Apparently, Pete had a nice boat that he and Mr. Monosyllabic used regularly. While strumming my fingers on the counter, a plan formed.

Pete caught me out of the corner of his eye and winked, but continued his story without missing a beat. Rude much? My impatience rose to foot-tapping. I wasn’t technically a paying customer, but still. In the end, the story ended poignantly. Oh darn.

As the forlorn crowd dispersed, Jimbo disappeared to the back and Pete appeared in front of me.

“Well, hey there, Susie-Q? Whatcha doin’?”

“Waiting for Godot, evidently,” I snarked, the metaphor learned during my incarceration in English Lit certain to stump him. “Or a beer, whichever comes first.” Pete cocked his eyebrow and smirked at me, then placed a cup under the tap, tilted it with surprising skill, and set a completely foamless pilsner in front of me. I gasped.

“Pete Walsh! I didn’t know you were a bartender!”

A smug expression crossed his face. “I wanted it to be special. See, I’m hopin’ you’ll choose beer over death. Although with the way you’re livin’, that remains to be seen.” I narrowed my eyes. Damn his Vanderbilt education. Damn that thick Southern accent that had tripped me up again. And damn Samuel Beckett, too, for writing such drivel!

“You might be right,” I conceded after a moment.

As I turned to leave, he stopped me and said, “I would’ve brought one over to you, ya know.”

“Yes, if you could ever stop talking long enough. Besides, I don’t want any more help. And stop being nice to me, or else!”

A little while later, before our cups were even empty, Pete wordlessly delivered two more. I glared at him, but Miss Manners said, “Thank you, Pete.” While receiving her traditional peck on the cheek, I braced myself for the accompanying giggle and then unveiled my plan.

“So, Pete, I overheard you talking earlier. It sounds like you have a fancy boat.”

“She’s not fancy, but I do love her.”

“You certainly surround yourself with women, don’t you?”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

“And it sounds like you’re a very good fisherman.” He stood a little straighter.

“Well, I’m not half bad.” Nibbling.

“Do you fish in the ocean?”

“Not with my boat. I mostly stay in the intercoastal waterway and the sound, but there’s plenty of good fishin’ there.”

“Oh…I see.” I pretended to be fascinated, which clearly confused him. “I sure would like to see your boat, sometime. I love the water.” I batted my eyelashes and smiled prettily.

It was impossible to know what was pinging around his half-empty, blond head, but suddenly he got all cocky. “Ya would, would ya?”

Now I was ready to jerk the line just like my daddy had tried to teach me. “Uh huh,” I replied, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip and nodding slowly. “I’d like that a lot.”

Completely taken aback, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, and his mouth opened slightly. “Susie-Q, I didn’t know ya liked to fish.” His stance became the very image of male flirtation. Hooked!

“I like many things that might surprise you,” I said in a breathy tone, my eyes running freely over him. The sensual look that followed was all Kirsten.

“Oh, oh really?” he stammered. Then, an answering smile spread across his face like melting butter. He was almost reeled to shore and he didn’t even know the bait was plastic.

“Oh yes.”

“Well…Jimbo and I are goin’ out Sunday. Ya wanna come? I can bait your hook for ya,” he offered, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, I already know how to bait a hook.” In fact, I just caught me a big’un! “If there’s room on that big boat of yours, Mona would love to join us. Wouldn’t you, Mona?” I slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her firmly against me. Then I yanked the hook from his mouth with an are you just stupid? look. His little five watt light bulb clicked on, and after flopping on shore for a moment, gasping for air, he conceded defeat with a slight nod and a tight smile.

“Yeah, Jimbo’s really pathetic, and I’ll surely be spendin’ all my time helpin’ Little Miss I have no idea what I’m doin’, over here.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and I nodded approvingly.

“Weyulla…I don’t know…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gnawed her lip; the classic worried expression reserved for my maniacal work style and her fear of going to Hell. I wasn’t sure what elicited this one.

“Uh, Mona, you’re coming. I don’t want to be stuck out there all day listening to these clowns whine about all the fish they’re incapable of catching. I might have to drown myself.”

“Or I might do it for ya,” Pete offered under his breath.

“It’s settled then,” I said, smiling defiantly at him.

“Alright. Y’all bring the beer, and we’ll bring the bait.”

“Excellent!” Pete pegged me with a quick, sharp look, before tramping to the counter to inform Jimbo they’d have guests for their Sunday worship service. Jimbo glanced at Mona then blushed furiously.

“I need another beer,” I said, scooting across the sticky Naugahyde.

“But you haven’t drunk the one you’ve got.”

“Oh yeah…I haven’t.”

I sidled up beside Pete, who stiffened immediately. “Thick as a cement block, are we?”

“In some cases, it’s best to let nature take its own course. This bein’ one of those,” he replied in a tense whisper.

“How long were you planning to let them suffer before you intervened? I’ve been watching The Jimbo and Mona Show since I moved here. My interests are short-termed, but you live with these people!” I hissed. “And I think what you’re doing—or rather not doing, is cruel.” He gave me a withering scowl. “What? Afraid you’ll lose your fishing buddy?”

“You’re not even in the right zip code.”

“Well, you only have one! Maybe I’m just better at reading people than you.”

At that, he exploded with laughter, spilling his beer. “Susie-Q, you are, without question, the most obtuse person I have ever met.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile faded and a strange expression crossed his face. He looked at me intently—straight into my eyes like he was searching for something, though who knows what.

Feeling a little unsettled, I said, “What are you looking at? Is my mascara smudged?”

He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly, and responded, “My point, exactly.”

“Well, you’re, you’re obnoxious and…obnoxious!” I pivoted on my heel and made a dramatic exit to the bathroom.

When I returned, Pete was giving Mona directions to the marina. “I’ve still got emails to send tonight, so I’ll see you Sunday.”

“It’s a date,” Pete said, grinning at me.

“Oh no, Mr. Walsh, one date with you was one too many,” I replied, and waltzed out the door.

♥

Dressed in her Sunday best, Mona practically plowed over me, mounting my stairs at a full sprint. She returned moments later in shorts and a tank. Then, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket, dragged me to her car. Giddy about spending an afternoon with Jimbo, she chattered nonstop until we arrived at Sea Gate Marina. My optimism was cautious at best; success depended solely on Pete’s matchmaking skills. And if Jimbo punted this opportunity, I was afraid there might not be another.

Drinks and snacks were packed in the cheap cooler I’d purchased, fulfilling my obligation. Mona’s contribution was a nutritious lunch from Bojangles. While nothing spelled seasickness like spicy fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits, and beer, the prospect of hurling all over Pete’s boat was strangely appealing. Plus, I just really loved fried chicken. There, I said it!

It was a beautiful day—hot, but crystal clear. Birds chirped in the nearby rushes, a whispering breeze blew off the “creek”, and water musically slapped against the neighboring boat hulls in a pleasing rhythm. Why did I hear these sounds, you might ask? Because Mona had gone completely silent at the sight of Jimbo’s absolutely normal self.

Pete stowed the cooler and our bags under one of the white cushioned benches and then helped us aboard. I brought my purse for some ridiculous reason, and I noticed she had as well. Perhaps if we became stranded, we could pay the tugboat operator, I mused. Pete’s driving skills on dry land were questionable at best, so who knew what kind of driver—sailor—whatever—he was on the water.

The boat was really very nice; shiny, new looking, very clean. Before casting off, Pete made formal introductions. “Ladies, this is Bessie, my boat. Bessie, this is my friend Mona and…Susie-Q.” Jimbo seemed oblivious to Pete’s idiosyncrasy and my snide retort, but Mona’s giggle, well that was a different story. His lips curled into a gentle smile under the shadow of his ball cap.

A sudden frenzy of activity had us diving for seats as the boys let loose the ropes and readied the launch. Jimbo pushed the boat from the dock with a long leg, and Pete backed out like he was born to it, negotiating the vessel around the other spaces until we faced the open water.

“I’ll take it slow,” he yelled back over the bellowing motor. “I imagine you’re probably still sore.” I waited for him to tack on some sardonic remark, but he didn’t. Veering to the right, we left the marina entrance behind. “This is technically intercoastal waterway, but everyone calls it Core Creek ’til it widens.” We nodded. “Now it’ll get a little choppy once we enter the channel. I’ll tell ya when to hold on. The sound’ll be a lot calmer.” I looked at Mona and shrugged. I wouldn’t know a channel if I fell into one. Water was water as far as I was concerned, and this sure was pretty water.

The cooling breeze felt lovely as he accelerated to cruising speed. According to my mother, I’d been on a boat on Lake Norman several times when I was little—evidently, my father had had a boat, a restored convertible, and several other bachelor toys he’d sold shortly after I was born. I had no memory of these, so other than the mind-numbing ferry ride from Ocracoke to Cedar Point, this was my first real experience. And it was fun!

We had complete freedom out here, I realized; no yellow lines or traffic lights, no speed limits, and we could go wherever we wanted. Countless times I’d looked on enviously at happy boating people tooling under bridges that I could only cross over. I smiled to myself. My turn.

The engine hypnotically droned as Pete took us sightseeing. In full tour guide mode, he seemed to know everything about the area—or he was impressively making it all up. We skirted the edge of the sound, and I was stunned by its beauty. Dark green bushes and live oaks stood in stark contrast to the brilliant liquid peridot lapping the shore. Sun danced off every ripple as if bucketsful of gold glitter had been scattered over them. We talked and jousted, growing quiet only when we spotted interesting waterfowl, or the occasional deer on shore.

While Pete had chosen college, Jimbo had taken the military route—this I knew, courtesy of Dottie. He had purchased the Frog shortly after completing his second tour. Pete had fronted some of the money and was, in fact, a silent partner—as silent as that man could be. He had worked with Jimbo in an actual capacity until his own business had taken off. Jimbo explained all this himself in a shock of brief and choppy sentences. I was both pleased and astonished to learn that he could actually talk, having spoken more in the past hour than cumulatively since I’d met him. He even had a sense of humor that Pete cleverly drew out of him. And as much as I wanted to strangle him for Mona’s sake, it was hard not to like the guy.

Unfortunately, I blew it. Servicing systems at the various installations in the area, I’d become interested in military goings on. And through small talk with base personnel, I’d learned that along with policing the local waters and assisting stranded nautical vacationers, The Guard was also heavily involved in open sea narcotics and weapons busts. I’d also heard rumors about thwarting terrorist activities. Giving him the opportunity to brag, or at least impress Mona, I began questioning him about his experiences. He was about as forthcoming as a brick wall, and the more I pushed, the more he withdrew into his shell. Eventually, he turned his back to me and stared vacantly across the water, leaving me wondering what his duties had been; what he’d seen.

“Man, I’m thirsty. How ’bout you Jimbo? Mona?” Pete yelled back suddenly, paying absolutely no attention to where he was steering. “Susie-Q, what’d ya bring to drink?”

“We’re fully stocked!” I said, grateful for the save.

“Toss me a water, then.”

“Just lean over the side and keep talking,” I replied, snorting. He rolled his eyes, and I hopped to my feet, immediately losing my balance. “Yikes!” I said, stumbling toward the cooler.

Pete barked out a laugh. “Y’alright, there?” I waved him off airily.

“Just getting my sea legs.” Trying desperately not to fall, I pulled out lunch.

After our very satisfying meal, Pete asked, “Do y’all wanna go swimmin’?” Looking directly at me, he raised his eyebrows. “Or are ya afraid ya might melt?”

“I didn’t bring a suit,” I said curtly, embarrassed by the blotchy yellow marks still stretching across my torso. With a jolt, I realized I hadn’t been in a bikini since Ryan and I had taken that quick vacation to Mexico. We’d divided our time equally between business calls and bed. That was…a year and a half ago? Whoa! Had I not taken a vacation since then? I was drawing a blank.

“You can, can’t ya?”

“Can what?”

“Swim,” he said, obviously hoping for a big no.

“I’m from North Carolina, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes, I’m not sure,” he responded.

“I was force marched through swimming lessons like all good children. The pool we went to held them first thing in the morning. I have fond memories of shivering my ass off, waiting for my turn to get back in the pool.”

“Me, too!” Mona added, laughing. “It was freezin’ ’til the sun got up good.”

“I wish I could have seen that,” Pete said, snickering.

“What, blue lips?” I asked.

“No. Your little butt shakin’.”

“I was eight, perv,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And, like you’ve never seen girls shaking their stuff down here.”

“No, never,” he said with mock innocence.

“Look! There’s a whole bunch of them right over there,” I said, pointing to a party boat as it passed, music blaring, drunken girls dancing on deck. He didn’t even turn his head.

“Mona, why don’t you and Jimbo jump in,” Pete said abruptly. “I’ll babysit this one.” Mona blushed and twisted her fingers, and I instantly regretted telling her I wasn’t bringing my suit. It was obvious she had a cute figure, and I’d have given anything to watch Jimbo’s eyes bulge when she unveiled it. Major tactical error on my part.

“I didn’t bring one, either,” she answered, waving a hand dismissively.

“Ladies…what were ya thinkin’? You’ve gotta be hot. We can turn our heads if ya wanna jump in naked.” His grin was utterly devious, and Mona gasped.

“The sun’s baked your brain, Pete. There’s no way we’re disrobing in front of you. Besides, I notice neither of you is wearing a suit.”

“Don’t need ’em.”

“If you weren’t going in, why bug us? Wait a minute…what do you mean ‘you don’t need them’?”

“We’re men,” he said, slapping an arm around Jimbo and puffing out his chest. We swim in our shorts or in nothin’ at all.” He grinned fiercely at me and I snorted.

“You’re boys and I bet you pee in the water, too.”

“Well, yeah. And that’s where you’ll be goin’ if ya can’t hold it, Miss Fancy Pants.”

I grimaced, wishing I hadn’t just finished that third bottle of water. Mona did not look pleased either. Jimbo coughed out a laugh, and I could tell the rest of the afternoon would be loaded with bladder jokes.

As we neared the shallows, Pete and Jimbo began bickering about location. Jimbo’s main responses were “nope”, “yep,” and “don’t think so”. Finally, they reached some sort of agreement and Pete cut the engine and dropped anchor. “We’re here,” he announced. “It’s been all fun and games ’til now, ladies, but it’s time to catch supper!”

I waited for him to hoist out some fishing poles or something, but instead, he produced a thick ball of twine and a small Styrofoam cooler, setting them beside me.

“So, Captain,” I said sarcastically, “what are we fishing for?”

“We’re not. We’re crabbin’.” Pete opened the squeaky lid and retrieved something truly terrifying. Pinching it with his fingers, he held up a long fleshy object dripping pinkish fluid. After knotting twine around one stump, he dangled it in front of me with a wicked grin.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, backing away.

“It’s a chicken neck,” he replied, with a big ol’ duh at the end. “What else are ya gonna use to crab?”

“I don’t know, a pole, maybe?” He made a face like I was an idiot.

“They don’t bite hooks, Susie-Q. Crabs are scavengers. They latch hold of these necks, then we pull ’em up and drop ’em in nets. Ya can’t keep the females this time of year, but in a couple of months when they’re moltin’, you can eat ’em whole.” His eyes lit up like that was a good thing.

“Lovely.”

Here, make yourself useful.” He thrust the string in my hand. I held it at arm’s length watching it swing back and forth.

“What’re ya waitin’ for? The crabs aren’t gonna climb in the boat by themselves. Go ahead and toss it.”

“This is absolutely disgusting,” I said, looking at the body part well past the rigormortis stage.

“The crabs don’t think so. Here, watch and learn.” He swung a second neck in front of my face with a thoroughly amused expression and then dropped it in the gray-green water with a plunk. It sank quickly and he dragged it slowly along the sound floor before securing it to the silver railing. I followed suit. A small gust of wind tousled the tips of his hair, and his faded t-shirt hugged his torso briefly before letting go. I watched the muscles under his skin flex and relax as he knotted more string. He offered me another neck, but I shook my head and wiped my hands on his t-shirt for spite.

“Ya sure?”

“Quite,” I said, shooing him away. He crossed the deck and deposited the cooler between Jimbo and Mona, who were standing awkwardly. Jimbo pulled out an evil looking black-bladed knife and began cutting string.

When Pete returned, he carefully retrieved one of our lines. Clinging to it for dear life were two large blue crabs. “Hold the net out,” he ordered. I grasped the long wooden handle and did as he said. He gave the string a hard jerk and the crabs let go, tumbling into the net and clamping hold. Pete looked them over, held them up for Jimbo to judge, and then shook them into a big cooler. He returned to check the other strings.

“Well, go ahead.” He nodded to the neck he’d set in the little gutter. “Toss it back in. It’s recyclable.”

I looked him square in the face and then wrinkled my nose. “That’s quite an aroma you’ve acquired, there.” He sniffed his armpits and then looked at me funny.

“The chicken necks, you goof.”

“Oh, that,” he said, shrugging. “Ya get used to it. No worse than ripe squid.” The strings created eddies as he swished them. “When I was little, we used to pinch wads of bubblegum onto strings. Then we’d drop ’em over the flood wall near my house. We’d pull crabs up by the dozens. Of course, they were way too small to keep, but it was fun.”

“It sounds like it,” I admitted. There was a lot of that happy kid still within him. The angry child standing beside him had spent her free time alone, hurling black walnuts at tree trunks.

I glanced across the boat to check on our other type of fishing. Jimbo was trying to instruct Mona on the finer points from a measured distance, which pleased me to some degree—her, too, it seemed, but their proximity left much to be desired. I sighed in frustration, and Pete turned and followed my eyes.

“How’re ya’ll doin’ there, Mona?” He walked over and peered into the water beside her.

“Um, fine…I think.”

“Jimbo, come over here and help her out, will ya?” Pete then stretched his arms across their backs, nudging them closer until they were almost touching. He returned wearing a smug expression.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

The boat rocked with the gentle ebb and flow of the sound, and light reflected by its surface danced along the bow in strange triangular shapes. It was all just glorious, and I inhaled the salt air feeling, for once, absolutely carefree. Spying on the hopefully happy couple a few minutes later, I was pleased they hadn’t moved apart. “Mona, how many do you have?”

“We’ve got three so far,” she replied with a big smile.

“Amateurs,” Pete muttered, grabbing his water.

I leaned over the rail to check one of the strings. Sans gross chicken flesh, the whole enterprise was really quite enjoyable. The string felt heavy so I started to bring it up. Suddenly, I heard a small plop. For a split second I thought it was a crab, but then that didn’t make any sense because they were still under the water. Casting a sharp glint, I watched in horror as one of my gold hoop earrings gracefully pirouetted towards the murky bottom.

“No!” I screamed in horror, yanking off my sunglasses. Pete was by my side instantly.

“Did ya get pinched?” he said with a laugh.

“My earring!” I cried, pointing toward where it had plunged. “It fell in the water!”

“Maybe one of the crabs’ll bring it back up for ya,” he joked. But then he noticed my tears welling and his face lost all humor. “Susan, what’s wrong? Was it expensive?”

“It’s not that,” I said as drops spilled down my cheeks. “It’s just…they were my daddy’s last gift before he died.” Mona and Jimbo came rushing over to see what was wrong. I couldn’t see it at all now. “Why did I wear them out here?” I mumbled to myself.

I started when I heard the splash. Pete had dived in, shoes and all, his only remnants, a pair of sunglasses and a Vanderbilt ball cap. He maneuvered like a fish around the bottom, stirring up sand and muck as he felt around for the hoop. After a minute or so of holding my breath, he emerged through the silt cloud with a triumphant smile.

Relief washed over me, and I slumped onto the soft bench before my knees gave way. Jimbo extended an arm and Pete agilely climbed back into the boat. As water cascaded down his sopped clothing, he stood on the narrow platform, studying the earring. Then he brought it to me.

“Thank you. Thank you so much!” I gushed, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him tightly, but I stopped myself.

“No problem, Susie-Q. I mean, I had to wrestle a crab for it, but I won in the end.” Smiling, he handed back my treasure.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Why not?”

“It was just an earring…I guess.” I dropped my eyes, knowing it was so much more than that to me.

With a wet finger, he gently lifted my chin until our eyes met, his face gravely serious. “That wasn’t just an earring; that was a memory. And memories are about the most important things a person can have.” Sniffling, I smiled weakly at him, and he caught an escaping tear. When he turned away, I slid on my sunglasses and pondered what he’d said, and the truth in it. I threaded the earring through my ear once more, but then thought better of it and secured both in my purse.

Mona sat down next to me and gave me a quick hug. “I’m really glad ya got it back. I’d a just died,” she whispered.

Most likely in an effort to lighten the mood, Pete returned and shook himself like a dog, pelting us with water. Mona and I both squealed, futilely wiping at our clothes.

“If I didn’t owe you my eternal gratitude right now, I would curse you.”

“Give it time,” he said, laughing.

Pete stepped to the captain’s chair and performed his second amazing feat of the day—a rather extraordinary one I never saw coming. He yanked off his dripping t-shirt, balled it up, and tossed it towards the front of the boat. And that’s exactly when I had a pecan pie moment right in the middle of Bogue Sound.

The man was built—I mean, beautifully built like a magazine model, his rounded muscled shoulders giving way to a chest of flat angular planes and a gorgeous washboard stomach. When he bent over to take off his soaked tennis shoes, his wet shorts molded around one extremely fine ass. His skin, tanned from all the fishing he and Jimbo did—clearly shirtless, made him all the more appealing. Ryan looked fine enough, I suppose, in his workaholic body, but damn if Pete wasn’t a feast for the eyes.

Making a concerted effort not to gawk, I silently thanked Kirsten for the gift and pulled down my designer cap’s bill so I could covertly steal glances. Mona, clearly affected as well, averted her eyes and studied a place on the boat’s floor.

Thanks to playing hero again, and then with this little maneuver, Pete had just ruined a perfectly wonderful antagonistic relationship. It had been all fine and good when I despised him; I’d been happy then. And while he’d slipped up twice, allowing me glimpses of the human lurking behind his arrogant façade, now every time I saw him properly clothed in his grungy bar attire, or in one of his business-casual ensembles, all I was going to envision was his mostly naked, gloriously Adonis-like body all wet and glowing in the sun. Damn him!

Before I melted into a puddle of drool, Pete and Jimbo agreed that we’d harvested enough crabs. Cans of beer were distributed, and we settled back in our seats as Pete steered the boat in the general direction of the marina. Jimbo, who’d traveled much of the first leg of the journey beside him, sat down near Mona, who proceeded to glow like a supernova.

So far, so good…

21

Sayin’ Grace

When we returned to the marina, the men hopped out and unloaded the cargo, which consisted mainly of trash, coolers, and us. We stood by Mona’s car and watched with interest as they went through the many procedures necessary for lifting Bessie onto her chariot. In less than twenty minutes, with Pete shouting commands, Jimbo gunned the truck’s engine and pulled the dripping boat from the water.

“Guys, today was really fun. Thanks for taking us out,” I said as they pulled along beside us.

“Yeah, we had fun, too,” Pete replied. Jimbo nodded and smiled.

“So I guess we’ll see you around, then.” I opened the passenger door of Mona’s car.

“Where’re y’all goin’?” Pete asked suddenly.

“Home for a shower and clean clothes,” I replied.

“Well, put on somethin’ pretty, ladies, ’cause we’re cooking y’all dinner.”

“Dinner?” I repeated, raising my eyebrows.

“What did ya think we were gonna do with all these crabs?”

Hazel eyes looked expectantly at mine, and I shrugged. “Okay, sure. That sounds good.”

Mona hadn’t been to Pete’s before, but in lieu of giving her directions, he announced, “I’ll drop ya off at your place, Susie-Q. Mona, why don’t you give Jimbo a ride back to my house? I don’t want ya gettin’ lost, and we all know Susie-Q can’t be trusted behind the wheel.” Pete theatrically rolled his eyes as Jimbo vaulted from the truck.

“Impressive,” I said.

“On occasion.” The truck rumbled as Pete slowly pulled the boat up the incline to the highway. “Call Mona and have her pick ya up about six, okay?”

“You’re a sneaky devil,” I said, utterly pleased with the plan.

“Just figurin’ that one out, now?”

Once in my lot, Pete carried the empty cooler to the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“My pleasure. Oh, and come hungry,” he said, halfway down the sidewalk. “It’ll be a feast.”

“I knew you’d planned to murder those poor creatures, but making something edible? This, I’ve got to see.”

“Well, my personal chef’s off tonight, but we’ll manage,” he said sarcastically. “Besides, I told ya I could cook.”

“I know what you said,” I retorted, grinning. “I just don’t believe it!”

♥

Like a lover, a rush of cool air took me in its arms as I opened the door. Stripping in the hallway, I dropped my grimy chicken juice-splattered clothes right in the machine and bolted for the bathroom. After fully enjoying my bladder’s ahh moment, I stepped under the shower spray and equally enjoyed another. The stall tilted and I threw my arms out to brace myself. Then it rocked the other way, the sensation similar to being really drunk or using an airplane lavatory. I pressed myself against the wall and laughed until I got my land legs back.

I didn’t care at all about impressing anybody tonight so I let my hair dry naturally, setting the Gorgon free to run amuck. I selected a light-weight cotton dress and sandals—part of my newly acquired summer attire, and then plopped on the ugly overstuffed chair and surfed channels while drinking about a gallon of water. When Mona rang the doorbell, I was jolted from a very nice dream about male underwear models.

Mona looked adorable in her modest miniskirt and sleeveless eyelet blouse. She smelled sweetly of the perfume she always wore, but her car held the irresistible scent of peach cobbler. After glancing in the backseat, I cocked an eyebrow. “When exactly did you make that?”

She shrugged. “I had all the stuff layin’ right there. It only took me a couple of minutes to put it together.” I looked to the heavens. It was Southern hospitality that drove these women to distraction. I’d seen my mother in its throes a thousand times. Martyrs. I nestled the chilled bottle of wine on my lap. That was as close to hospitality as I ever planned to get.

As she turned onto Route 101, Mona said, “I don’t know why Pete didn’t just give me directions to his house. It’s easy as pie to get to.” I made a noncommittal sound and looked out the passenger window to hide my huge smile.

She turned into a surprisingly nice subdivision called Pine Knoll—the one with the faux gate. Pines lined the road, and with the exception of an actual knoll, the street came by its name honestly. His was the seventh house on the left; a pretty ranch of pale brown brick. Mona parked in the generous cement driveway beside Pete’s truck. The trailer and boat were nowhere to be seen. Azaleas and nice landscaping plants decorated the front of the house, and tufts of monkey grass flanked the sides of the curved walk leading to the front stoop. Mona peeked through the charming half-moon window before ringing the bell.

“C’mon in,” Pete shouted. We followed banging sounds to a very modern kitchen, where two handsome men, the chef and the sous chef, were darting around like a pair of banshees putting together what smelled like a wonderful meal. “It’s about time y’all got here, everything’s almost ready.” Clearly an all-hands-on-deck situation, we were immediately put to work.

“Susie-Q, d’ya mind settin’ the table on the porch?” Pete asked, competing with the thunderous ventilation fan. “There’s a tablecloth in the hutch and silverware’s in the drawer over here. Napkins and plates are on the counter. We’re eatin’ on paper, princess, so don’t expect fancy bone china.”

I mouthed, “Smartypants.”

“Also could ya light the candles out there? We’ll need ’em later.”

“On it,” I said, scrambling.

Pete’s kitchen had lovely granite countertops and a large built-in refrigerator. All six burners on the stainless steel cooktop were lit. Steam billowed from under the lid of a giant copper pot, and a cast iron frying pan spat oil beside it. Pete dropped what looked like a pound of butter into a small stainless pot. Beside him, Jimbo was working on coleslaw. Shreds of cabbage and chopped onion were mounded on a large wooden chopping block with a big-ass knife sticking out of it. A jar of Duke’s Mayonnaise—the official brand of the South—and a cruet of vinegar were within easy reach near the giant bowl. An open bottle of chardonnay in a coldstone was busy breathing beside four sparkling long-stemmed goblets on the partition. I set my bottle down beside it and kept moving.

“Mona, honey, could ya fill some glasses with ice? Everyone’ll need water.”

“Okay,” she chirped, grabbing the empty pitcher and rushing to the sink.

“I’m gonna need ya to take those white bowls out for the butter, too. And could ya get the bucket out for the shells? It’s beneath the oven.”

“Uh huh,” Mona said, turning off the tap.

Within minutes we were working like a well-oiled machine any restaurant would be proud to own. Pete glanced over at me. “Grab the nutcrackers—no snide remarks,” he yelled over the hiss of frying batter.

“Rats!” I said, snapping my fingers in defeat.

“They’re in the utility drawer. Jimbo, show her, will ya?” He wiped his hands on his canvas apron and pulled out an assortment of dangerous looking objects, handing them carefully to me. “We’re about to eat, so stay on out there when you’re done.”

The kitchen fed into a seriously large screened porch via lovely French doors. The wall running behind the shellacked table I’d just set with blue linens was brick. Dark wicker furniture arranged around a glass coffee table several yards away made for a lovely sitting area. Rattan blades whirled lazily from the ceiling. A pretty wall sconce was mounted beside the back screened door leading to a small cement patio, its sole occupant a gas grill.

Pete appeared and ushered us to our seats, strategically placing his wine glass at the setting next to mine. He disappeared into the house without a backward glance. I wouldn’t have guessed him capable of such subtly. Balancing the bowl of coleslaw in the crux of one elbow, Jimbo carried a basket of golden brown hushpuppies to the table. Melted butter was then divided into dipping bowls placed beside the nutcracker and metal pick thingies that looked like dental tools. Jimbo handed a wine bottle to Mona like it was on fire, and she filled the three remaining glasses, placing the dead soldier beside the second one Pete had just set out.

With great pomp and circumstance, the piece de resistance, a giant white platter heaped with steaming crabs, was placed in the center of the table beside the aluminum bucket. The entirety of the feast spread before us, the men seated themselves, and then Pete folded his hands and bowed his head. Mona and Jimbo did the same. I closed my eyes, bracing for something profoundly uncomfortable, but instead, Pete said a simple, yet very eloquent Grace. I hadn’t considered him religious. Honestly, the thought had never crossed my mind. When Amen was pronounced, we dug in like a pack of hungry wolves.

I loved Maryland crab cakes and crab-stuffed ravioli, but I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with these, so I placed servings of everything else on my plate and waited for a hint. Pete looked over and grinned. “Susie-Q, prepare yourself for a lesson on crab eatin’. It’s free of charge, only ’cause I’m takin’ pity on ya. I’m afraid you’ll starve, otherwise.”

“I’m not worried. If it was rocket science, you couldn’t do it,” I retorted smartly.

A devious look crossed his face as he chose a large crab and placed it on my plate, positioning it so its beady little eyes stared up at me. I recoiled, slightly. He then disjointed one of its legs, broke it in half, and fished out the meat with a long-handled cocktail fork. After dipping it in my cup of butter, he announced, “I do believe that the blue crab is the best tastin’ creature on this earth. It’s way sweeter than lobster and much richer.” He offered the fork to me, and after tasting ecstasy, I couldn’t refute his claim.

“Now watch, Susie-Q.” He removed the large claw from the shattered appendage and held up a nutcracker. “We all know you’re an expert with this,” he continued, grinning. Jimbo chuckled, and I glared at him. “What ya want to do is crack it like this…and then pull the meat out using your pick,” he said, demonstrating the technique. “Steeping the meat in butter is the most essential part of the process.” He offered the fork to me again. If I played dumb long enough, he might feed my entire dinner to me like a baby bird. When my crab was completely amputated, Pete popped off the top shell and launched into a gross anatomy lecture, illustrating which parts to eat.

While our host tried to impress me, Jimbo and Mona began chatting—well Mona did, anyway. Jimbo mostly just nodded, but they were all smiles. Stealing glances, it occurred to me that I’d never seen him out of “uniform” before. His straight, sandy brown hair, normally hidden under a ball cap was cut very short and combed to one side as if he’d spiffed for the occasion. He wore nice shorts that looked as though they’d been ironed, and a pressed short sleeve shirt with a collar and real buttons.

Now that I could see the entirety of his clean-shaven face, I was struck by the similarity of the two men; high cheekbones, straight noses, angular jaws. Other than his exaggerated crystal blue eyes, the two men could have been brothers—cousins without a doubt. No wonder Mona was so attracted to him. His only drawback was, of course, that he rarely spoke more than three words at any given time. Though, considering the man beside me had barely stopped talking long enough to chew, that might actually be considered an attribute.

“Jimbo, you clean up well,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a hat before. You should go this way more often.” Cheeks rosing, he looked to Mona’s shining face, and then, I think, for somewhere to hide. I had visions of him sticking his head under the tablecloth.

“Um, thanks, Susan,” he said uncomfortably. I smiled politely, trying to repress the laughter that was screaming to escape. Pete was on the brink of losing control, too, his eyes gleaming. I stomped on his foot under the table, and he pinched my knee hard in retaliation. His laugh finally emerged in what sounded deceptively like a cough, and I took a very deep breath through my nose.

What was once a cluster of creatures was now only rubble, and after all the butter was licked from our fingers and the shells deposited in the bucket, we went about the task of clearing the table. “Dump the plates in the trash and leave the rest in the sink. I’ll get it later,” Pete ordered, opening another bottle of wine. Then, as if our minds were terrifyingly as one, we lunged for the armchairs on the porch, forcing Mona and Jimbo onto the loveseat. We grinned slyly at each other, and then eased back, content as cats.

After a little prompting, Jimbo and Mona struck up a conversation about her recent car repair. Jimbo wanted every detail, including who did the work and the cost. Pete met my eyes and said, “Susie-Q, why don’t ya help me get dessert ready?”

“Great idea. I’m starving!”

“Oh, I can do that!” Mona said, hopping up.

“No!” Pete and I cried in unison. Then we hurried to the kitchen. Pete set four crystal bowls and accompanying silver spoons on the island, and I raised an eyebrow.

“Paper to crystal?”

“They were my mother’s,” he said softly.

As I began scooping vanilla ice cream onto the cobbler, I asked, “So, do you go to church?”

“Probably not as much as I ought to,” he said, putting spoons in each dish.

“Baptist?”

“Actually, I’m Methodist.” He bent down under a cabinet and pulled out a tray. “How about you?” I placed cocktail napkins under each bowl.

“Have you met my mother?” I said sardonically. “I was raised Southern Baptist, of course, but I really don’t go to church anymore.”

“Why not?” Oh, where to begin?

“My church split three times while I was growing up. It sort of turned me off on the whole religious thing.”

“I can understand that,” he said with feeling. “It seems to happen a lot here.”

“Too many politics, not enough ‘love thy neighbor’,” I said with a cynical laugh. Pete picked up the tray and we returned to the porch.

“Mona, where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked, astonished after taking my first mouthwatering bite. Without moving up an entire dress size, I had no room for dessert, but even above sparing her feelings, the cobbler was just truly awesome, and I ate every bit. When the sugar rush kicked in, our conversations became more animated.

Miraculously, Jimbo and Mona found all sorts of trivial things to talk about, and then much to my delight, Pete and I got into a heated debate over politics. We were fire and gasoline as usual, but in a good way, now. It was disturbing to admit, but he was as intelligent as he was quick-witted, and completely up to the minute on current events. I hadn’t given him nearly the credit due as a productive member of society…and I wouldn’t.

As evening bled into night, Mona yawned. After an enjoyable day in the sun and a very full tummy, sleep tonight would come easily. I sat up in my chair after she stifled a second, and we shared an affirmative nod. “This has been really great. Thanks for a seriously amazing dinner.” Mona said basically the same thing. I started to rise, but Pete cautioned me with his eyes.

“Mona, would ya mind runnin’ Jimbo over to the Frog on your way? His truck’s there,” Pete said innocently. “I’ll take Susie-Q home in a little while. I haven’t given her the grand tour, yet.”

“Um, okay,” she said, confused, glancing at me. I smiled and nodded that it was okay. Then she looked at Jimbo and smiled gloriously. “Well, I’d be happy to.” We stood up in unison and Mona blushed as Jimbo rather clumsily escorted her to the door. “See ya tomorrow, Susan,” she said, waving goodbye.

You will see and you will spill!

After the happy potential couple disappeared, Pete offered me another glass of wine and we resumed our positions on the porch. He kicked off his leather thong sandals and propped his feet on the coffee table’s edge. I followed suit.

“Has anyone ever told you ya have cute feet?” he asked, regarding them as I flexed and pointed. I snorted a laugh.

“I get that a lot from sociopathic shoe salesmen.”

When he finished laughing, he said, “Ya don’t take compliments well, do ya?”

“Not from scoundrels.”

“What makes ya think I’m a scoundrel?”

“Because you are.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I think ya have me confused with someone I’m not.”

The sounds of the evening were very pleasant and we became quiet, steeped in our thoughts. Finally, I said, “You are quite the matchmaker. You orchestrated the entire day beautifully.”

“Thank you,” he said ingratiatingly.

“So what changed your mind?”

“Well, ya made some sense for once,” he said, smirking playfully. “And I decided it probably didn’t go against my creed to create an environment in which they could connect with each other more easily.”

“You sound like a friggin’ therapist. Another hobby?”

He laughed. “No. I listen to a lot of talk radio.”

“What is it with men and talk radio, anyway? It sounds like noise pollution to me.”

“I guess it takes our minds off things.”

“Considering the size of your brains, you can’t have much on them to start with.” He rolled his eyes. I took another sip of wine and swirled it around in my mouth. “This is really good, by the way.”

“It’s imported.”

I reached over and picked up the bottle. “It’s from California.”

“I know,” he said with a mischievous little snicker. “So, would ya like to see the house?”

“I’d love to.”

During my recuperation, he’d enjoyed full access to my condo, and I was very curious to see how he lived. He offered me his hand as I rose from my chair. Touching him was electric. Clearly, he felt it, too. We looked at each other in surprise, and dropped our hands, immediately. Oh, that is not good…

I followed him through his oddly decorated living room, past a small powder room, and down the hall to the other end of the house. He led me into the first of three bedrooms. His was a generous master, housing an impressive king-sized bed. Rather than the hodgepodge of bachelor paraphernalia I was hoping for, munitions-wise, the room was furnished handsomely with a burled walnut armoire and large nightstands of similar vintage. An impressive bookshelf was lined with titles ranging from formidable pieces of literature, to historical novels—predominately of the military ilk, to books on Italian art. The bottom shelf was dedicated exclusively to some architectural journal series. Not one single solitary Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition in the lot.

“Very disappointing,” I said, turning up my nose.

“Ya don’t like my bedroom?” he asked, almost offended.

“It’s just too…I don’t know…grownup.” He threw his head back and laughed.

“What exactly were ya expectin’?”

“Early American frat boy, of course.”

“Very sorry to disappoint you. Here, let me show ya the bathroom. After the kitchen, it’s my favorite room in the house.”

“Oh, now this is beautiful!” I said, taking in the rich marble.

“Designed and built it myself,” he boasted. I looked at him in complete disbelief.

“The design part I get, but the building?”

“Okay…well, most of it,” he conceded with a grin. I smiled back feeling a grudging smidgen of awe.

“Did you ‘not’ do the kitchen as well?”

“I had a little more help with that project.”

After tearing my attention from the oversized shower, I followed him into each of the other bedrooms. One had been converted into an office; a smaller Morehead City version. But unlike his professional workspace, this one had real personality. Beyond the trove of blueprints, there were miniature model buildings scattered about the room. Lining a section of bookshelf was a series of six models. They all seemed to be of the same structure, but with minor variations, like he couldn’t quite get the design the way he wanted. A few very intricate pieces were displayed on a wall-mounted shelf. Clearly, his vocation was his passion as well.

And then I saw his former INTech office system in the corner on a small desk.

“So that’s where it went.”

“Well, I figured it need not be buried alive, so I brought it home to replace the one that was here. She was on her last leg anyway.

I bent down to analyze the advanced networking device under the desk. Clearly, he did know something about computers—enough to competently mess with me. “All linked to your office system, I see.” I looked up at him with a smirk. “During my indentured servitude, I’m surprised you didn’t force me to come out here and set this one up for you, too.”

“Honestly, I was afraid ya might burn my house down.” I smiled, thinking that might have been fun. “This way,” he motioned.

The third space was a simply decorated guest room. The comforter set was designed in similar shades of browns and blacks like his own. Masculine. Nice. I glanced back at his bedroom on the way up the hall, wondering if he slept on black satin sheets like Ryan. No, what little I knew of him screamed crisp cotton. And why doestthou care, Susan? I shook those thoughts from my head.

He concluded the tour with the living room, which, other than a wall-mounted TV and recliner, was uncharacteristically feminine with pretty lace doilies here and there, and a dark cherry Queen Anne coffee table. Patterned plates and other knickknacks were showcased in a corner cabinet of similar style.

“In so many ways, you, my friend, are a cornucopia of contradictions. But even so, this isn’t your style.”

“No, these things were my mother’s.” At the sound of his voice, I turned to look at him. His eyes held such sadness I fought the strong urge to pull his head to my breast and cradle him like a little boy. Instead, I walked over to the cabinet and took my time looking over each piece to give him the moment he unquestionably needed. Generally such a happy, carefree person, I hated this pain he suffered.

“The pattern is lovely,” I remarked, not looking back.

“Yeah, she loved it,” he said quietly. “We always ate Thanksgiving on them.”

“How did she die?”

“Cancer.”

“It’s epidemic here,” I said darkly.

“Yeah.” He mimicked my tone.

We were quiet for a moment, each wrapped in the constricting shrouds of our own memories. Thinking of my daddy, I wondered about his.

“What about your father? If it’s not too personal.”

His voice was merely a whisper. “Maybe I’ll introduce ya sometime.”

All air had escaped the room. I turned to face him when my own emotions were in check, and said, “Thanks for the tour. You really have a lovely place here.”

“I like it.” He smiled, and I was pleased to see that light had returned to his eyes.

“I suppose I should get home. I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“Ya always have to work,” he teased.

“Yes, some of us have real jobs.”

“Yeah, some of us do,” he said, smirking.

“Besides, how am I going to get out of this hellhole if I don’t work my butt off?”

“It’s almost gone already.”

“If it bothers you so much, stop looking at it.” I wandered into the kitchen to retrieve my purse. “Sorry to leave you with such a mess.”

“It’s worth it. I haven’t entertained in a while.”

“Well, you do nice work.”

He led me through his laundry room to another door and pressed a doorbell mounted beside its frame. I heard the garage door rise.

“Whoa!” I gasped, awestruck.

A 1979 10th Anniversary Pontiac Trans Am Firebird, the eagle fiercely spreading its outstretched wings across the gleaming black hood, dominated one half of the garage. Random parts and tools were strewn on the floor around it. Forced to share her sanctuary with this mess, Bessie looked down her perfect fiberglass bow disdainfully.

“Is this yours?”

“Oh no.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Myrtle and I have a long-term, mutually exclusive relationship. That’s Jimbo’s.”

“My daddy would have loved this.” I tiptoed over the metal obstacles, surveying it in all its glory. “For some reason, this car reminds me of the Van Halen my daddy used to listen to.”

“Yeah, if classic rock could look like somethin’, I guess this would be it,” he said, stroking his chin in amusement.

“And just as vintage,” I replied. “How long has he been at it?”

“About three years. He doesn’t have a garage, so he keeps it here.”

“Three years?” I surveyed the plethora of parts with more interest. Each was cleaned well, some even shiny. And, surprisingly, there were barely any oil spots on the cement.

“He’s makin’ real progress. Ya ought to’ve seen it when he first bought it.” He smiled, shaking his head. “But as with most things, Jimbo takes his time.”

“I think that’s the reason we’re here tonight.”

He ran his hand through his hair and looked at me, thoughtfully. “Yep.”

I began swatting mosquitoes as we entered the open air of the driveway. He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t these things bother you?”

“What?”

“This bloodsucking plague.”

“Ya get used to ‘em, I guess.”

“They aren’t bad like this in my part of the state. I mean we have them, of course, but these are vicious. I keep spray in my purse at all times.”

“You’re just thin-skinned, that’s all.”

“No. I’m definitely not that. I couldn’t survive in a place like Philly if I were. Besides,” I said in mock smugness, “my mother always said they bit me because my blood was so sweet.”

“Sweet as rat poison,” he said, seizing the moment. “If ya stay here long enough ya might eradicate them totally.” He yanked Myrtle’s door open and she complained again. “Hush, now,” he cooed to her like a horse. “She’s not that bad, really.” He winked at me.

“You’re a freak,” I said, climbing in. He slammed the door loudly behind me. I didn’t even jump this time.

“Okay, well maybe she is,” he said, patting the dashboard.

“Other than your boat and the tinker toys in your office, do you have other hobbies?” I asked, glancing back at the closing garage as he roared the ugly truck past his house.

He seemed to mull it over for a moment, and then said, “Fishin’ and chasin’ women.” I almost choked with laughter.

“Just as I thought!”

“Well…mostly fishing, I guess,” he amended, giving me his lopsided grin. “You?”

“No time.”

“You should make some time for yourself. It keeps ya well rounded. Ya mentioned photography once.”

“Once, and in past tense. And I am well rounded!” He shook his head but didn’t comment.

We passed the Frog. Neither Jimbo’s Blazer nor the Honda was in the lot. I crossed my fingers. When in front of my condo, Pete made a move to get out.

“Don’t,” I said. “I want another crack at this door.”

“Give it your best shot.”

Using all my strength, I kicked it open and extracted myself. “Victory!” I shouted, hopping up and down. I slammed the door behind me and stuck my head back into the window that now appeared to be permanently open.

“Thanks for the boat ride. Even though I had to work for my dinner, I almost had a great time today.”

He grinned. “I almost did, too.”

“See ya in the funny papers,” I said, saluting.

He didn’t drive away until I opened the condo door. I still wasn’t buying his gentleman garbage, but so far, he hadn’t slipped once. And in truth, it really hadn’t sucked. I flipped on the light and waved goodbye.

22

Flying Faux Butter

The headquarters of Hatteras Construction was located in New Bern proper. A man by the name of Michael Heron owned the large company, comprised of both commercial and residential divisions. The large-scale commercial office was located some seventy miles inland, a place I would visit later this week. Today’s visit was to its residential office on Glen Bernie Avenue. My most favorite thing about this company thus far was it kept nothing in its closet but INTech.

Hatteras owned data storage units, personal PCs, AutoCAD systems, copiers, and an arsenal of highly durable laptops specifically designed to accommodate fairly severe conditions, such as hot and dusty construction sites. Of course, these units required software upgrades, hardware upgrades, and plain old replacements often, and only a fool wouldn’t carry service warranties on absolutely everything he owned; Mr. Heron was no fool. Hatteras’ latest purchase was a matched set of our latest personal business systems. I passed behind a flock of sand-encrusted fleet pickups and entered the building.

A very attractive young woman in a sharp business suit met me at reception. “Miss Wade, right?” I put on my happy birthday face and nodded. “Mr. Heron is out at a site right now, but yew won’t need to talk to him. I’ll be the one makin’ all decisions regarding our warranty plan,” she informed me with great authority. The receptionist seated behind her worked to subdue a smile.

The young woman false-started on the handshake; as a salesperson, I should initiate first contact. Though her skin was as soft and supple as every other female’s I’d touched—Dottie was making a killing on lotion alone—her grip was strong and she held on for the full three seconds, making perfect eye contact. She was totally going for it, and I smiled. I was her, once upon a time.

“I’m delighted to be working with you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

She looked befuddled, but then rallied her confidence, jutted her chin and stated, rather haughtily, “I’m Miss Heron, Executive Director of the Residential Division.” Executive Daughter of the Daddy Division! I couldn’t fault her in the slightest, though; had I been handed this opportunity at her age, I would have snatched it up in a heartbeat, and been rather haughty about it myself.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Heron. I appreciate your making time to see me today.”

“Thank you…and same to you.” Then she launched into a clearly rehearsed spiel. “Our market base has increased substantially over the last few years, and we require cutting-edge technology to meet our growing needs. Hatteras Construction will be expanding soon and we—I mean, I—will be calling a meeting to renegotiate accordingly.” Yummy.

“Excellent. I look forward to it. I’ll explain INTech’s current contract options once I’ve completed today’s installations, and leave those materials with you for consideration. I’m available to answer all questions, and we can set up a time to sit down at the table as soon as you’re ready.”

“Just you and me?” She looked at me skeptically, and I nodded in affirmation.

“Just you and me.”

“No Daddy, I mean, Mr. Heron?”

“Not on our end, no.”

She mulled this over for a moment, and then her face broke like dawn into a glorious smile, the stiff façade melting away like Southern snow. “Well, okay then. Oh, and yew can call me Karly.”

“Karly it is. Please call me Susan.”

The first of the two systems was to be installed in her office. The boxes waited on her shiny new desk, beside her shiny new phone equipped with lots of buttons and an intercom. I placed my briefcase on top of her shiny file cabinet, beside her enthusiastically framed UNC College of Business diploma boasting this year’s date. The absence of miscellaneous papers and extraneous office paraphernalia suggested she’d moved into this room very recently. We’d passed another office on the way to hers—a complete disaster that was very much inhabited; papers everywhere, muddy work boots in the corner, walls papered with county and state certifications, several bookshelves crammed with giant binders and ledgers, spilling ashtray, and an adding machine as old as Methuselah himself. Though the antithesis of a neat freak, I felt a bit smug.

I’d just finished her quick tutorial when the phone rang. She answered it professionally, then said, “Hey, Daddy!” followed up by a few “Uh huhs”. “Daddy, hold on a minute.” She precisely punched a couple of buttons and spoke into the receiver. “Hey, it’s me. Could one of y’all escort Sus—Miss Wade to the plannin’ area? Thank yew.”

A pleasantly smirking woman left me in a very large workroom. The auto-CAD system against one wall was one model removed from Pete’s, having an equally large screen. Design books were piled on a table, and rolls upon rolls of labeled blueprints filled every available corner.

A large drafting table draped in blue stood across from several comfortable chairs, and I stopped beside it. Nonsensical white lines leapt from the midnight paper along with an array of sharp markings, small print, tiny arrows pointing in various directions, and numbers galore. The symbol at the bottom right corner was the letter C, half encircling an A-shaped protractor, the words Coastal Architectural Design printed below. Peter Walsh, architect, was handwritten in crisp slanted letters. Poring over it, but understanding nothing, I wondered if this was what he’d been brooding over the last time he’d behaved so repugnantly.

Karly Heron bounced through the door, humming to herself. She’d lost her jacket and the authoritative air that went with it.

“D’ya wanna cup of coffee or somethin’?” she asked cheerfully.

“Coffee would be great, thanks.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Just cream, please.”

She leaned into the hall and yelled, “Could y’all put on a fresh pot of coffee?” A muffled reply followed, and then she rushed over to the blueprint.

“Isn’t it fabulous?”

“It certainly looks impressive,” I said. “Lots of lines and angles.”

“I know, right? It’s Pete Walsh’s latest,” she gushed. “See this?” she said, pointing to a series of slanted dashes. “This type of roofline’s never been tried down here before. At all. It’ll make the house completely unique.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded her head enthusiastically. “Yeah, Daddy can’t wait to start on it.”

“I’d like to see what Pete’s capable of, myself,” I murmured.

“Oh, do ya know him?” she asked, a dreamy look in her eyes. He’d already demonstrated his awe-inspiring effect on the young women in the area. I smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I’ve met him—and dined with him and dreamed of murdering him. Does your company work with Mr. Walsh, frequently?”

“He works almost exclusively with Daddy. I mean, with Hatteras Construction. We’re lucky to have him. He’s super well known in the business,” she said, shaking her head excitedly. “He’s won a whole pile of awards.”

“Really?” I thought of his bare office walls. The words “Pete” and “modest” did not fit in the same sentence.

“Uh huh.” Bouncing out of the room, she returned moments later with a steaming mug and continued our conversation without missing a beat. “Whenever we have a real big money client, Daddy always calls Pete first. He’s forever turnin’ down jobs, though. He’ll only take on the most challengin’ projects. He’s a true artist.” She ran her fingers down the edge of the paper as if it were an impressionist’s masterpiece. I made a concerted effort not to laugh at the poor, smitten child.

She giggled suddenly, “Oh, here’s your coffee. I get so caught up sometimes.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. “I’ll only need thirty minutes or so to upload software, and then I’ll be happy to go over our brochures with you.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my office. Ya know, the place where yew installed that other system? We can do it there…if that’s okay with yew.”

“Wherever you like.” She turned and left the room, her long blond ponytail swishing behind her.

♥

While discussing service plans, Karly launched into a history of her father’s company. A builder of ships, her great-grandfather had started the business that eventually evolved into residential development, embracing the extensive hotel and beachfront boom in the 1950s. Without prompting, Karly explained that it was her grandfather who had ignited Pete’s passion for architecture, taking him to construction sites at an early age, and eventually hiring him in high school. Pete had spent his college summers working for the company as well, construction clearly responsible for his rock hard body. Karly told me her daddy had been thrilled when Pete moved back home, and they’d been working together ever since.

After packing the trunk, I glanced at my phone. Realizing I had time to kill before traveling to my afternoon appointment, I shamelessly treated myself to an early lunch of barbeque, and then decided to leisurely tour New Bern’s Riverfront. Other than stuck on its bridges and servicing clients on the outskirts, I’d spent little time in this pretty town. And admittedly, after Karly’s download, I was more than curious about where Pete had grown up.

Following an interior street “…after yew pass the funeral home, but before yew get to the PigglyWiggly…” I found myself in its historic downtown. I knew way too much about this area, compliments of Mr. Dupree, who’d decided “The North” had sucked all knowledge of my home state from my brain. He’d taken on the arduous task of cramming the entirety of North Carolina’s illustrious history back into it via a multi-part lecture series; my re-education having the added value of longer stays in his office. One particularly zealous dissertation was devoted entirely to this small city.

New Bern, having recently celebrated its three-hundredth birthday, was the pre-revolutionary capital and a major seaport at that time. Bordered by the Neuse and Trent Rivers, the land came to a point where the tributaries merged at that dreaded drawbridge. The waterfront edging the Neuse showcased some of the more beautiful antebellum houses—mansions, really—that I’d ever seen. Ferns, dangling like spider monkeys from ceilings, swayed gently in the breeze coming off the water, and I gawked at the splendor of majestic railed porches and entryways. I was left with two thoughts as I drove by: What might it be like to live in one of these homes, enjoying breathtaking water vistas from every window, and in which had Pete grown up?

Parking near Tryon Palace, named after the British governor it had once housed, I paid the fee and entered through the massive wrought iron gates. Pea gravel crunched under my soles as I strolled the sprawling grounds. Cannons lined in a threatening row stood ready for battle. A large red and yellow flag, emblazoned with a coat of arms and a black bear, fluttered above.

Leaving the eighteenth century, I meandered along the small boardwalk to the twenty-first. Holding my breath as I hurried past an open-air fish market, I came to a relatively tall, modern, and awkwardly out of place hotel pressed snugly against a neatly manicured park. I was very tempted to sit on one of the shaded benches and watch the boats pass, but instead, I found my car and prepared for my long drive.

♥

At Hatteras Construction’s industrial facility in Mount Olive, I’d had an interesting and very different experience. The town that lent its name to the national pickle brand was wholly other to the beauty and charm of New Bern—butt ugly other. And rather than a cute little Karly, I met with a lumbering man named Rick, who couldn’t understand why exactly I was female and working for a computer company. He also liked my legs very much.

Tobacco Road Vodka Distillery in Clinton was another good ol’ boy experience. An all-American frat boy, the owner felt it unnecessary to stray far from his alcoholic roots. His entire product line was NC State mascot-based, down to the red-eyed wolf staring ominously from the brand’s label.

“We make it from sweet potatoes,” he explained during my tour. My first-ever visit to a distillery, I found the manufacturing process fascinating. There was enough stainless steel under the roof to make Pittsburgh proud.

“Sweet potatoes?”

“Yep. That’s how they do it in China, too. See, ya need starch to make vodka. Sweet potatoes have an ample supply of it, and boy do we have a shitload of ’em ’round here. Makes the Chamber of Commerce real happy, too!” He waggled his eyebrows.

I tasted the surprisingly smooth product and nodded appreciatively. It had the quality makings of a top-shelf brand. He then offered me a shot glass filled with a glowing red liquid and watched me carefully as I took a second delicious sip. During my third and final swallow—as I did have to drive back to Havelock, he interjected, “’Course we make this apple cinnamon flavor for you girls. Women love the girlie drinks. That’s the first thing us Sig Eps teach our pledges. Faster ya get ’em drunk, faster ya get ’em in bed.” He gave me a salacious grin and then guffawed until he was wheezing and Wolf Pack red in the face.

He carried the case of “girlie” vodka to my car, expounding upon his glory days in college, and invited me to come back as soon as I ran out of liquor, or next month, whichever came first. I figured Jimbo could add this to his arsenal; it would be payback in a way for some of the beer I’d freely consumed.

Two separate visits to Wilmington and one to the Outer Banks ended this very long week, but Memorial Day was rapidly approaching and the promise of it kept me going. I couldn’t wait to drink good wine, eat fine food, curl up beside Ryan for the weekend, and just relax.

I’d already called him twice today and gotten his voicemail. The third try was the charm.

Ryan seemed testy from the start. Then after several minutes of small talk, which was surprisingly one-sided, he began teasing me about the Southern accent he claimed I’d acquired—at least I thought he was teasing.

“It can’t be that bad. I’ve only been here a couple of months.”

“You sound like goddamn Daisy Duke. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it’s only temporary,” I snapped. “It’ll disappear as soon as I get back to Philly.”

“Lose it before Quarterlies or you won’t sound like executive material. Bob will be paying close attention. Remember that. Miss you, Baby.”

“You, too. I can’t wait to—”

“Another call. Damn. I gotta go.” After he hung up, I sat fuming. It’s a very hard thing to digest when your boyfriend doesn’t like the way you talk. Shaking off the frustration, I plunged back into work if for no other reason than a distraction. Several hours later, however, I’d lost all will to live.

♥

“Merry Christmas, Jimbo,” I groaned, heaving the case onto the counter. He pulled out a fiery bottle and frowned.

“Don’t know if I can sell this,” he said.

“Just make some girlie drinks out of it or something,” I replied, waving airily. “And give me a shot to wash down these Motrin. I think my head’s going to explode.” He chuckled and handed me a cup of club soda. It was my turn to frown.

“Gee thanks.”

It took less than an hour for the seed of a migraine to grow life-size. The bar becoming unbearably loud, my single-minded focus became fresh air and silence. Staggering to the porch, I spent a few sweet moments quietly enjoying the dank and ill-lit parking lot. I swallowed two more painkillers, vaguely wondering how many it would take to kill myself. When several patrons joined me, immediately lighting their cigarettes, I fled back inside and crossed the dance floor in hopes the patio was uninhabited.

Jimbo had started prepping it for summer, so the place was a little cleaner than before. I wandered to the railing, appreciating the solemn ink of night. A low flying object zinged past me moments later. I jerked and then laughed: bug. Another hit my shoulder. I swatted wildly at my hair when a third pegged me in the head.

“Ya aren’t afraid of a little popcorn, are ya?”

“Shit!” I squealed, spilling soda on my skirt and shoes. “Whatever happened to ‘Hi Susan, how are you this evening? May I join you?’”

“I was here first, but you’re welcome to join me if ya’d like.” Shrouded in darkness, Pete’s voice came from a table in the corner.

“Are you hiding from someone?” I asked, pulling out a white plastic chair and sitting down across from him.

“Yeah, but ya found me anyway.”

“I wasn’t aware I was looking.” He shoved the basket of popcorn towards me. I grabbed a handful and showered him with it.

“Feel better now?”

“Much.” I dusted the salt off my hands and leaned back in my chair. “I’ve never seen you out of the spotlight before. What are you doing out here all alone?”

“Thinkin’.”

“Well, don’t strain yourself.” I selected a piece of faux-buttered corn and popped it in my mouth. We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes as I munched. “I was over at Hatteras Construction earlier this week.”

“Were ya, now? Did ya meet Mike? He’s a great guy.”

“No, but I met his daughter, Karly.”

“She’s a cutie.”

“She thinks you’re one, too,” I said, unable to hide my amusement.

He snorted. “I’ve only known her since she was in diapers.”

“She said you do a lot of work for them.”

“Yeah, I’ve had some real fun designin’ for his clients.”

“Are any of your houses at Atlantic Beach?”

“A couple, actually.” There was real pride in his voice. He abruptly sat up straight and asked, “Would ya like to see ’em?”

“I’d love to, sometime.”

“Then I’ll take ya.” He began talking about his structures. I wasn’t paying all that much attention, but I found the sound of his voice strangely soothing; the cadence, the Southern lilt, the rich tone. It was lovely if you ignored the words. After about twenty minutes, I realized my head had stopped throbbing.

“Well imagine that,” I jumped in as he took a breath. “I’ve finally found a good use for you.”

“Oh really? What’s that?”

“Painkiller.”

“Now that’s a surprise. I’d’ve thought you’d go the other way with that one.”

“Normally I would, but the thing is, you talked so much I forgot my head was hurting.”

“Guess it’s nice to know I’m good for somethin’.”

“Don’t worry, Pete, you may be good for my head, but you’re still a pain in my ass.”

“That’s just the way I like it,” he said, chuckling.

My chair scraped the floor loudly when I stood. “Well, thanks for the popcorn.”

I had my hand on the door handle when he said, “Susie-Q?”

“Yes?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Are you really plannin’ on leavin’ in a few months?”

“Unless they let me out early on good behavior.” The thought made me so giddy I smiled. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

23

Uh Oh!

My desk’s rolling landscape of balance sheets and account contracts reminded me of the foothills where I grew up. It was Thursday—my last before stepping in front of a one-man firing squad, and I was maniacally tallying orders, documenting everything. That I had a lot to document was the good news. That I was six inches from harried was the bad. Simply put, I was running out of time. Finding yet another mistake, I frowned at the expense report in front of me, crumpled it, and tossed it at the wall, missing my target altogether. My head wasn’t here tonight. I wasn’t sure where it was. No, not true. It was exactly where it shouldn’t be. That picture had to come down.

A knock on the front door pulled me out of my masochistic reverie. I glanced out the window, only to see Myrtle parked in the otherwise empty lot. What is he doing here? I shook my head and smiled at the ICEE in his hand.

“This is unexpected,” I said.

“You plannin’ on workin’ all night?”

“Yep. I keep a cot and comfy PJs in the back. Free rent and all.” I smirked sourly at myself, my life.

“Ya know what I think?”

“Never.”

“I think ya need a break.”

“You do?”

“I do. So, I’m takin’ ya away from all of this.”

“Away?” I looked at him skeptically.

“Well, ya said you wanted to see some of my designs, so I thought I’d take ya down to the beach and show ’em to ya.”

I looked down at my outfit and frowned. “The beach, now?” He followed me back to my office.

“Why not? This stuff’ll be here when ya get back,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he surveyed my desk.

Any excuse was good enough for me at this point. “Take me,” I demanded, snatching up my purse. I whipped around and bumped right into his chest. His lips twitched as he stepped out of the way. After locking up, we walked to the truck and he yanked open the door.

“Thank you. There’s no way Myrtle would have let me in without a fight.”

“Actually, I think she’s warmin’ up to ya.” I snorted.

“That’ll be the day.”

Crossing the big bridge in Morehead City, Pete cut left at the light. We passed a massive boat storage facility, where watercraft were stacked several stories high, and then the Cape Lookout Coast Guard Station. Soon, we were in the high-rent district, the houses growing more impressive the further we drove.

He pulled into a public access lot and parked beside the stairs. The narrow wooden walkway rose sharply as it mounted the dune. Framed by swaying golden sea oats, the cobalt ocean appeared before us as we reached its crest. The breeze was luxurious, the day’s heat dissipating.

“Give me your shoes.”

“Why?”

“Well, ya can’t very well walk on the beach in those.” After handing them over, he examined the sharp points and the spiked heels. They were one of my more favorite pair.

“These make your legs look amazing, but they’ve got to hurt like hell.”

“You get used to it,” I said with a chuckle. “I’m just glad I didn’t wear hose, today.”

A smile played on his lips. “That would have been…interestin’.”

In his dress clothes as well, he kicked off his loafers, stuffing the socks inside, and nestled both pairs in the sand beside the weathered planks.

“After you,” he said.

Near the dunes, the sand was soft and silky and very warm, and I wriggled my toes in it. “Oh, that feels good.”

“Hey, I found your purse,” he said from behind me.

I jerked my head around. “Wait, I left it in the truck.”

“Are ya sure?” He placed a small black rectangular packet in my hand, his eyes dancing with mischief. I traced the smooth brittle surface with my index finger, noting the four sharp points; a lovely specimen of a skate’s egg case.

“Ya know what that is, don’t ya?”

“Yes, and I have two at home. I do all my shopping in Hades,” I replied, tossing the devil’s pocketbook at him and sauntering to the surf’s edge.

“You ruined a perfectly good joke,” he grumbled, catching up with me.

“Try harder next time.” With him, I knew there would be a next time—like, five minutes from now at most.

“This way,” he said, pointing. Facing the flame of a low sun on its way to other places, we walked the beach towards a long row of lovely houses.

“So why the beach instead of the street?”

“The best view’s from the ocean,” he said.

“Don’t tell me we’ll have to swim,” I joked. Simply smiling in reply, his tanned face glowed as the beams found it, the light gilding his hair. I deeply inhaled the scented air, both salty and fresh at the same time. Sandpipers raced in and out of the foam nabbing coquinas before they squirmed back into the wet sand. The birds scattered as we approached. Pete rolled up his pant legs and waded into the water. The surf swirled around his ankles, making a hissing sound as it fanned out onto the sand. I gave him a funny look and he shrugged.

“Ya can’t get this close to the ocean without at least puttin’ your feet in.” Enviously, I shook my head; he really enjoyed life—even the very simple things.

“C’mon, Susie-Q, get your toes wet.” He splattered my legs with foam droplets, and I gave him a murderous glare. My dry-cleaning tab was already astronomical.

“Oh sorry,” he said. “You’re not gonna melt or anything are ya?”

“No, but I might turn you into a toad and feed you to the gulls!” I waded in and my feet were immediately enveloped in tepid water. We sloshed along until reaching our first destination.

“I designed three houses in this set. This pair and a third a little further down.” My eyes appreciatively roamed the mammoth structures. “The styles reflect the desires of the clients, but each has a little bit of me in it.” Great pride shown in his face; pride without the least trace of vanity.

The first we discussed was a massive structure with an Italian flavor, having stucco walls and a grand, white-columned portico. Extensive balconies on each level overlooked the sea. I was amazed he was able to encapsulate the romance of the old world in a beach house.

“The pictures in your office. Those buildings are Italian, too, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. I spent most of my senior year abroad studyin’ architectural design in Milan and Venice. That’s where I—” He stopped and flipped over a shell with his toe. “I learned a lot of things in Italy that year.” He shook his head ruefully, and then glanced at me with an unusual expression. After a moment, he continued his design lecture to an absolutely clueless pupil.

“Of course, when creating a coastal structure it’s imperative to factor in the ferocious winds and storm surges that come with fall. To withstand the noreasters and hurricanes, I load my designs with a whole series of reinforcements. A lot of clients either can’t afford, or more often, choose not to spend the extra money integrating the preventative measures. Those properties that do’ll last quite a bit longer.”

We traveled the few yards to the next house. The style radically different, it had a modernistic theme with large reflective glass windows across the front two stories, the sum perched on a maze of stilts. The building was topped with a series of flat roofs of different heights akin to the Frank Lloyd Wright structures peppering Chicago.

“This one’s similar to the type my old firm in Orange County specialized in. We designed permanent residences built into the cliffs of Laguna and Newport Beach. That’s where I learned about base platforms. Erosion is a big issue out there, as is the occasional mudslide and forest fire. The Santa Ana winds are also a factor. They don’t get anything near the storms we get here, but many of the same structural concepts apply.”

“I was in that area once for a conference. It was really beautiful,” I offered.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful alright, but way overpopulated, and life’s incredibly fast. The commutes are murder and the cost of livin’s obscene. Other than that, I loved it,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Philly’s pretty fast, too.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “But what drove me crazy was on weekends when people were off and supposed to be relaxin’, the area was so swarmed it took an hour round trip just to get a gallon of milk. Then, during the work week, the place was ghost town deserted. I found it all a little sad, really. People workin’ their lives away to afford houses they barely live in.”

My forty-minute commute to downtown Philly suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

“C’mon. My favorite’s up ahead.” He grabbed my hand, tugging me into a jog.

“Pete, I’m in a skirt! Slow down,” I squealed, laughing and kicking sand up behind me.

Suddenly, we were kids, completely lost in the moment. His grip was warm and strong around mine and I think he forgot to let go when we arrived. We just stood hand-in-hand, gazing up at a gargantuan three-story structure crowned with a beautiful widow’s walk. Sweeping spiral staircases reminiscent of what might have been here in the 1800s curled up either side. The roof’s split-wooden shingles had paled to gray. The plank siding was painted a strong steel-blue with stark white accents. To one side rose a brick chimney capped with an arch.

“It’s magnificent,” I whispered in awe. “You really captured the essence of the past.” I suddenly felt a little humbled. The ability to create something so impressive took immense talent. Karly was right; Pete really was a gifted artist.

“Thanks. I spent so much time on it—poured my very heart into it. It was the first house I designed after movin’ back.”

“The first? It looks brand new.”

“Yeah, it does.” He smiled like a proud papa. “It’s withstood some serious storms, too. The owners went all out and Mike’s crew did a fantastic job. Plus, they actually live nearby and take excruciating care of it. I wish I could show ya the inside,” he said wistfully. “It’s amazing.”

“No doubt. If I had a house like that I would never want to leave it.”

“I feel the same way, but most of the houses I’m commissioned to design are for out-of-state clients who rent them out most of the year and rarely come down themselves.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah, it really is,” he said, but then shrugged. “I guess somebody’s got to pay the mortgage.”

Our shadows conjured giants, as the sun reached out its long fingers. He looked back towards the direction we’d come. Suddenly realizing he still held my hand, he smiled in apology and let go. “I get excited sometimes and forget what I’m doin’.” He almost sounded as if he was berating himself.

“I’ve noticed that happens a lot when you’re driving,” I snipped, missing the feel of his skin instantly. “And keep your hands to yourself, will you?” I crossed my arms and tried to act mortally offended, but couldn’t keep a straight face.

“C’mon, Susie-Q, we’re burnin’ daylight,” he said once our laughing fit subsided. Translucent ghost crabs scampered in all directions, diving for their holes as our feet squeaked in the pale sand. “Okay, I’ve got one more to show ya,” he announced, when we reached the boardwalk. At the edge of National Seashore, there were no other houses in view. I looked back at him in question.

“It’s mine,” he said with a private smile.

“I didn’t realize you owned a house here. Is it on the beach?”

“No, somewhere better,” he replied.

“Better than the beach? Is that possible?”

“I think so.” As he handed my shoes to me, a sudden vision of my paper Mt. Everest caused me to hesitate, but then I decided the hiding crabs had the right idea. Now that I was here, I really didn’t want to go back. I smiled up at him.

“Show me!”

“We have to make a pit stop first,” he announced as we passed the bridge turnoff. Catching glimpses of the ocean on one side and the sound on the other was somehow exciting, the colors different, but equally beautiful. He pulled into a convenience store, its large glass windows showcasing t-shirts, blow-up rafts, and kites—the kind designed for tourists. Every item had Atlantic Beach, North Carolina plastered across it. Pete ducked inside, returning quickly with a grocery bag.

“I figured ya hadn’t eaten, yet. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll have to do.”

Peering into the bag, I discovered a six-pack of beer and a bag of potato chips. “A meal fit for a queen.”

“I sprung for the premium beverage—thought ya might appreciate it,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“Bud Lite. Ooh, fancy. Sadly, I’m developing quite a taste for this crap. I guess Jimbo’s to blame for that.”

“Yeah, that boy’ll getcha in all kinds of trouble if you’re not careful.”

“Who, Mr. Mild-mannered?”

Pete shook his head and snorted. “Ya have no idea!”

When he flipped on his turn signal in front of nothing, a few minutes later, I raised my eyebrows and looked at him. Myrtle jostled us down an unmarked dirt path. As Pete navigated through a grove of live oaks, I craned my neck looking for the rooftop. Abruptly, the brush opened to a beautiful piece of land, maybe an acre in size, bordering Bogue Sound.

“Is your house invisible?” I said, teasing.

“No, you can see it. Ya just have to use your imagination,” he replied, smiling. “If ya have one, that is.” I narrowed my eyes and he laughed. He parked near the water’s edge and offered me his hand after opening my door. I resumed my offended crossed-arm position and he shook his head. “Don’t trust me, huh?”

The tour paused in the approximate center of the clearing. “I bought this property a few years ago. I plan to build my dream house about where we’re standin’ now. When I get around to it,” he added. His hands disappeared into his pockets and we continued walking. The sound met land with little complaint. Green reeds grew in the shallows and brown clumps of seaweed resembling Easter basket fill, pumped back and forth in the lapping water. I heard a plop. “Turtle,” he explained when I jumped.

“My first order of business will be the dock, so I can get Bessie out of my garage. Then I hope to move Jimbo’s Firebird elsewhere, but I doubt either will happen soon.”

“So why here instead of the beach?”

“I love watchin’ the sun set over the water. I chose this piece of land because it offers an outstanding view.”

“Well, that’s one thing we do have in common,” I remarked, glancing westward.

“How’s that?”

“Gazing at sunsets is not a luxury I have,” I said, mustering half a smile, “but, when the sun breaks through a cloud bank or touches the Pennsylvania hills while I’m driving…it’s magic. I’ve promised myself that when I retire, I’ll buy a house somewhere on the water so I can watch it set every night. That will be as near Heaven as I’ll ever get.”

“When do ya think you’ll retire, Susie-Q?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, maybe when I’m a hundred.” Suddenly, light bounced off several shiny gray humps moving rapidly through the water. “Pete!” I inhaled sharply, grabbing his arm. “Are those dolphins?”

“Yeah, they blow through here about this time every evenin’.”

“I thought they only lived in the ocean.”

“The sound’s brackish water is salty enough to suit them and the fishin’s good.”

The small pod traveled in loose formation, their fins gracefully slicing the water as they came up for air. We watched until they were out of sight.

“About a year ago, a young whale accidentally got trapped in here. That was somethin’. People went wild tryin’ to help it.”

“I’ll bet. I’ve got to admit, Pete,” I said, surveying the view, “this is pretty damn awesome.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I come out here a lot just to look at the water. It clears my head.” Then he glanced at the horizon. “We’d better take our seats. The show’s about to start.”

I followed him across the lawn of sand and Bermuda grass. As we neared the truck, I stopped suddenly. “Ow! Son of a bitch. I think something just bit me!” I hopped the last few feet to the truck and braced myself against its door. A small spiky ball dangled from my heel.

“Sandspur,” he announced, plucking it out and flicking it at the scrub. He brushed the dirt from the bottom of my foot and examined it. Then he gently squeezed my heel.

“None of the prickers broke off. See, Susie-Q? There’s not even a drop of blood. I think you’ll live.” Chuckling, he let go of my leg. I glanced over where he’d tossed the spur.

“You know someone’s going to step on that thing.”

“Then they’d be trespassin’ and they’d deserve it. But in truth, nobody ever comes out here but me.” I followed him, hobbling to the front of the truck. “I remember when I was a kid,” he said, facing me and shaking head. “A bunch of my cousins went over to the Wright Brothers Memorial in Kitty Hawk. Some of us decided it would be a brilliant idea to race to the top. We were way too cool to use the sidewalk, of course. Instead, we tore off straight up the dune. I was doin’ fairly well, but Jimbo passed me. He’s pretty fast, ya know.” I smirked, thinking of Mona.

“Uh, that would be a not,” I said. He shook his head, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Well, he started yelpin’ about ten seconds before I did. We surely looked like fools, holdin’ our feet and jumpin’ around. ’Course everybody else laughed their heads off. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid those damn things ever since.”

“Yeah, I notice you have your shoes on.”

“I can get yours if ya want,” he said, eyes twinkling. Impaling my spikes in the sand with Pete poised and ready to mock, did not sound appealing.

“I believe I’ll tough it out.”

He tossed an old faded quilt over the hood, and then said, “Come’re.” I limped to the grill and faced him. Grasping my waist, he hoisted me onto the hood before I could protest. A smile played on his lips, my alarmed expression clearly his reward. Thanks to the shade of the bushes and the breeze, the metal had cooled considerably, leaving the quilt only slightly warm. He reached through his window and produced our feast. After passing two semi-cold beers and the bag of chips to me, he hopped up on the hood with a plunk.

“Dinnertime,” he announced, opening the bag and offering it to me.

I moaned as I crunched one. “Food of the gods!”

He took a handful for himself and set the bag between us. After devouring them, he leaned back on the windshield, placed his arms behind his head, and crossed his ankles. “I chose this night to bring ya out here,” he said after swallowing. “There’s a front comin’ in. The streaks of clouds should provide a very nice show.”

“I wish I had my camera!”

“Yeah?”

“I took hundreds of photos when I was in college. I have a couple of really good sunsets, but none over the water. Northwestern butts up against Lake Michigan—one of its draws for me, but it faces east, and I was too busy scrambling to class in the morning to take advantage of sunrises,” I said, snorting. “I took photography as an elective. We learned to develop actual film in a darkroom. Other than the stench of the chemicals, it was really cool. Occasionally, we took the train into Chicago. My professor knew someone at the John Hancock Building who’d sneak us rooftop to shoot cityscapes. The buildings downtown are like stalagmites—or –tites, whichever grow up from the ground; crystals. At the end of a clear day, the light explodes across the mirrored high-rises, pinging off every flat surface. Downtown is almost blinding. It’s really something to see.”

“I know,” he said softly.

His distant expression didn’t go unnoticed, but I continued. “Then, after the light fades, the city glows like constellations below you. Cold as hell though.” He chuckled, nodding.

“Don’t you shoot, anymore?”

“I haven’t in years. Too busy.” I gave him a tight, maybe regretful smile. “A couple of Christmases ago, I was walking by a camera shop—I pass it all the time on my way to lunch. On a whim, I walked in and bought myself a really nice digital SLR and a couple of great lenses. They were ridiculously expensive, but I guess…well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I took the camera out of the box, put it all together, set up the software and took some demo shots. The quality was amazing.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. And it’s been in the back of my closet ever since.” He was watching me intently. “Pathetic, huh?”

“Unfortunate,” he corrected.

“I’m going to Philadelphia next week. Maybe I’ll bring it back.”

“If ya do, I’ll bring ya out here again and you can shoot your little heart out.”

“That sounds nice. But next time, I’ll bring the dinner,” I said, rubbing the greasy salt from my hands. For a few minutes, we quietly enjoyed the evening. A lone seagull flew by, followed shortly by a pair. “So, tell me more about your life in California.” He gazed at the remnants of the sun, now just touching the tip of the low cloud bank.

“It was beautiful in its own way. Not like here, though,” he said wistfully. “The cliffs rising from the ocean were gorgeous. You could take pictures there that would be heart-stoppers, I imagine.” He turned his head and smiled at me. “Perpetual blue skies, calm sea—pretty much the same thing every day. Except in June when the gloom rolls in.”

“The gloom?”

“That’s what we called it. It’s a dense fog that creeps in off the water for a couple of weeks. It completely blankets the beach, but if ya drive east a mile or so, it’s back to bright and sunny. Weird.”

“That does sound odd.”

“They really do maximize their beaches, though. I’ll give them that,” he said thoughtfully. “In some areas they’ve erected permanent volleyball courts and built parallel sidewalks, one for walkin’ and another for bikes and skaters. They go on for miles. But when all is said and done, I really do believe this is better.” His eyes traveled the perimeter of his parcel. “It’s not overrun with people, and you can mostly do what ya want. And there’s wildlife, here.”

“Like these fabulous insects,” I interjected, slapping my arm.

“Yeah. No bugs in California. Against the law.” He nodded mock-soberly. “But really, most of what’s out there is manmade. With the exception of the ocean, the cliffs, and the canyons, the rest wouldn’t exist without water pumped in from the North. It all seems kinda fake, honestly.”

“But you’re close to shopping and nightlife,” I said dreamily.

“Not many people have time for that sort of thing when they’re workin’ fourteen-hour days. Those are probably about the hours you keep, too, though,” he said, his tone almost scolding.

“Yeah, pretty much. But I love what I do.”

“It wouldn’t be worth it if ya didn’t.”

The sun never broke back through the bank, but it flamed the clouds a ferocious pink, which slashed the water in great sparkling streaks; breathtaking. A palpable calm then stretched over the sound as if the very air itself was saluting the end of the day. A great sense of peace came over me then, and I think I sighed.

“Oh Pete, this was just great.”

“It’s not over. That was just the prelude,” he said, a smile in his voice.

The clouds, their edges molten just moments before, darkened, and intense hues of purple and orange captured the wisps overhead. The scene was absolutely glorious.

“When I lived in California, people would gather at the edges of the cliffs every evenin’ to watch the sun set over the Pacific.” He spoke softly now as if we were in a church. It did suddenly feel like a sacred place. “It was an evenin’ ritual, almost a religious experience for some, I guess. But as soon as the sun disappeared, everyone filed away towards their houses or cars. I used to walk down to the end of the street my office was on, and watch with the others. It was at those times I missed bein’ here the most.”

“I don’t understand. Wasn’t it amazing?”

“Wasn’t this?”

I looked directly above me, watching the colors change and pale. The first stars were becoming visible. “Without a doubt,” I said.

“That ya had to fight your way through crowded neighborhoods and peek between houses stacked on top of each other just to get a glimpse of it made me feel empty inside. Everything always seemed a bit…desperate there. Desperate to work. Desperate to play. Big money on the line constantly. It really wasn’t my environment.”

“Is that why you moved back?”

“After mom died, I did some soul searchin’ and realized I really didn’t have anything left out there but my job, so I wasn’t sayin’ goodbye to much.” His eyes tracked a lightning bug. “Jimbo talked me into helpin’ him set up the bar, and Mike was lookin’ for an architect for some houses he was buildin’. When business mushroomed, I started my own company and I’ve never looked back.” He turned his face towards mine and smiled.

“Thank you for this.” I noticed my shoulders had relaxed, dropping from their eternally tensed position. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed a break—or maybe a life? No, I had a life. It was just a different one—one I’d chosen on my terms; one that wasn’t here.

“My pleasure.”

The nighttime creatures began making themselves known, and I sighed. “Unfortunately, that pile of documents is still waiting for me.”

“Ya know, any self-respectin’ witch would have minions to do that stuff for her,” he joked, hopping deftly off Myrtle.

“I’m afraid I am the minion.”

Reaching for me, he lightly grasped my waist. I braced my arms on his shoulders as he lowered me to the ground in front of him. Suddenly, and for an infinite moment, we stood pressed against one another, staring, frozen.

Uh oh…

His smile faded and he leaned in slowly, brushing my lips with the softest of kisses. He lingered there, waiting to be rebuffed. When he wasn’t, he gently touched his lips to mine again, parting them slightly. It wasn’t until he pulled back that I realized I’d been holding my breath. A flush spread up my cheeks when our eyes met again, and I was glad for the darkness.

“I…um…I guess I’d better get ya back,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes…I guess you’d better,” I whispered.

He balled up the quilt and stuffed it behind the seat, and then with tingling lips, I scooted into the truck feeling very warm inside. An awkward silence filled the cab as we bounced through the brush to the highway, the headlights puncturing the veil of humidity and dancing insects. “I think when you’re finished, your house will be spectacular,” I said, to break this odd spell. “What kind of style are you planning?”

“Ya know, I think one thing one day, and another the next. Some of those models in my study are stabs at it. When I’m truly inspired, I’ll finish drawin’ it up. I do know the front’ll definitely face west and be entirely glass. A huge deck, of course.” He became completely animated again. “I’m still lookin’ for the perfect window coating so I’m not fried like an ant under a magnifying glass, but I’ll find it. There are new products coming out all the time.” He had the unbridled spirit of a boy, I mused—a boy in a handsome man’s body. “The first floor’ll be very open,” he continued, “and have a magnificent kitchen—everything state of the art.”

“For renters?” I asked, surprised.

He laughed. “Oh no, I’ll never rent my house. I’m livin’ there.”

As I stepped into my parking lot, I told him again that I’d had a great time. “Your designs are truly magnificent. Thank you for sharing them with me.”

“I’m glad ya liked ‘em,” he said quietly.

“So…goodnight, Pete.”

“Goodnight, Susie-Q.” His smile was so warm it could melt chocolate.

I hopped up the short steps, unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. He waited until I’d re-locked it before climbing back into his truck and driving away. Once in my sanctuary, I sat back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and ran my fingers across my lips…and smiled.

24

Big Fat Liar

Setting my wine glass on the nightstand later that evening, I leaned against the headboard and closed my eyes. Touch…lips…a shiver of excitement in my stomach. My mind drifted into a fantasy, but then the phone rang. I froze. I didn’t want it to be Pete…did I?

“Susan Wade,” I answered out of habit.

“Hi, Baby.” Oh shit!

“Oh h-hi, Ryan,” I squeaked.

I hadn’t earned the headache that woke me the next morning, but a guilty conscience will do that to a person. Rummaging through my closet, I jerked past one outfit after another, cursing myself. How could you have been so stupid? Kissing him! What were you thinking? “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I hissed, scowling at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I scrutinized the shoes he’d carefully dusted for me last night, and then hurled them at the wall.

Wait! I hadn’t kissed him, had I? No, not intentionally, anyway. He’d kissed me—definitely! That’s what really happened. In fact, he’d orchestrated the whole thing. How dare he! He knew I was involved. I tossed light gray slacks on the bed. I should have slapped him, that’s what I should have done! My mirror agreed. I jerked a tailored blouse from its hanger. Mercifully, it still had the tags on it, giving me an excellent excuse to rip something. Regardless of whose fault it was, I was such an idiot!

After hanging up with Ryan last night, an old familiar feeling crept over me; a feeling vaguely tied to my youth…and church. Shame; shame and guilt for my sins. All this time, Ryan had been in Philly rooting for me, encouraging me…missing me, and I’d just kissed another man. A man I hated! Well, hate was too strong a word. Maybe disliked much of the time was a better descriptor. Regardless, I’d just cheated on Ryan! I looked at my reflection again. I was a cheater.

To me, unfaithfulness was despicable, even in the slightly more than casuallydating category. I just didn’t do it. I’d been cheated on by every male I’d ever cared for, and it hurt like hell—and way more than a good clean break. An honest person might say, “I don’t think this relationship’s working out.” That, I could totally respect. A sleazy person said—or rather didn’t say, “Hey, I’m gonna string you along until I’m sure this thing with this other chick I’m banging is gonna work out, but in the meantime, here’s a little STD I picked up just for you.” I gasped. Oh no! I’m a sleaze! My sleaziness wasn’t premeditated, though. It was accidental sleaziness—second degree or something.

Continuing my personal diatribe, I busied myself with the weekly chore of heaping my scattered garments in the corner to be ignored. My solace was simply this: I was lonely and Pete was a manipulator—an absolutely textbook Southern male. And he had, by design, done just that. Worse, the bitter and undeniable truth was that I was a complete sucker when it came to his kind. They had a knack for getting into my head, confusing me, and eventually messing up my life. Every time I’d ever become involved with one, the result was the same: me curled up in the fetal position on my bedroom floor. That, above all else, was the sum total reason for my deep-seated distrust of Southern men. They spelled danger for me in capital letters.

Ryan was everything I wanted, and we would be together in a few short days. And the last thing I needed was Pete Walsh in my head—or in our bed. So why did my mind keep finding its way back to those lips? Pete was a riptide forming around me, and every instinct I had was screaming, “Get out of the water!” I was not going to get sucked under. I was not going to let that man destroy my semi-perfect life! In less than four months I’d be back where I belonged—permanently; where I ought to be…with Ryan.

As luck would have it, there was a clear and simple solution to this whole mess. It was perfect—elegant, really, in its simplicity. I would just stay away from him.

♥

“Pete needs help!” Mona squeaked in my ear the following Monday. It wasn’t her normal perky voice, it was the apprehensive one; the one that, when coupled with that man’s name, set off all kinds of warning bells. Though we’d been getting along better—too much better!—she knew Pete and I were still a minefield, and she never knew when we would blow up; only that we would. And boy, were we about to!

“Is he in the hospital?” I asked sarcastically. Short of serious physical injury, I had no intention of laying eyes on him until I returned from Philly with my head screwed back on straight.

She hesitated before responding. “Um…no. He’s fine, far as I know. It’s just…well…he’s put in a service order.” I gasped.

“For real? He promised! I should have known he’d go back on his word,” I growled in outrage. “Did he tell you what his problem was?” Other than being a big fat liar!

“He just said to tell ya it’s not his system, it’s Laney’s.”

“Yeah, right.” I didn’t care if it was her system; it was in his office and therefore did not negate our agreement. Further, I’d bet real money he was using this as an excuse to talk. And what was I supposed to say, anyway? “There’s nothing about you I don’t find attractive…” Yeah, that would play well in my life plan.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as if somehow this was her fault.

Of course, I hadn’t told her what had happened. And considering the hostile mood I’d been in since Friday morning, she’d kept her distance. I’d refused to meet her at that stinking bar over the weekend, blaming my last minute Quarterlies’ frenzy—which was real, but I’d gotten looks this morning.

After a beat of silence, she said, “Um, Susan, what do ya want me to tell him?”

In dealing with, or rather not dealing with this kissing situation, I’d chosen the avoidance route; a tried and true method for me. Pete was evidently taking a more creative approach: Extortion. He knew I had a contractual obligation to fulfill, and he’d played that card. I banged my forehead on the steering wheel. Dammit, this was going to be awkward.

“Tell him…tell him I’ll try to get there before five o’clock. I’ll be with my client—my real one—for a while.”

“Okay,” Mona chirped.

♥

I split the drive to his office evenly between rehearsing what I’d say and cursing myself. Fairly skilled at compartmentalization, once finished with this discussion, I’d just cram it in the drawer with the rest of the shit I effectively ignored and forget about it. And what was with that dream last night, hmm?

By the time I reached Morehead City, I’d concluded the best defense was a good, solid offense. “We had a deal!” I hissed.

“It’s not mine this time, it’s hers,” he said, his hands held up in defense.

“How very convenient.” I narrowed my eyes at him and then spoke to his associate. “Laney, what’s going on with your system?”

She rolled her eyes and stood. “I’m going out for a smoke. He’s all yours.”

Exactly as I thought! Now I knew what I was feeling. It wasn’t guilt or shame. It was disgust! I threw my bag on the floor and wheeled on him. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m not doing anything to you!”

“The hell you’re not. I have an enormous, and frankly, pivotal meeting in, like, eighteen hours. You know that. When all is said and done, I may not even have a job to come back to, so I really don’t have time to play games!”

“Susan, I honestly do have a problem.”

“Well, that’s an understatement!”

“Laney’s system isn’t talking to mine.”

“I wouldn’t talk to yours either if I were it.” I flopped in her chair and went to work. I was all too aware of him hovering over me, his warmth permeating the air, his scent all but heady. I isolated Laney’s problem in about five seconds. I was afraid I’d also isolated mine.

“Traipsing to your office to fix a problem you barely have is a monumental waste of my time. Plus, you promised you wouldn’t do this anymore—it’s unprofessional.” He didn’t respond. “I need to check your server. Excuse me,” I said, deliberately bumping him with the chair. He followed me as I marched down the hall. “You’d better not have unplugged anything or I am seriously going nuclear on you, Pete!” I skidded to a halt as soon as I entered his door. “What the hell is that?” I demanded, whipping around.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Puccini.”

“I know who it is! I mean why is it playing?” One of my favorite pieces from La Boehme was softly floating through his office speakers—ones I didn’t recall him having before.

“You don’t have exclusive rights to classical music.” I pursed my lips and glared at him, and he crossed his arms. “I listen to it sometimes when I need inspiration,” he added defensively. “Especially, if the structure I’m workin’ on has an Italian aspect, which my current one happens to. Tuscany is big this year.”

“I’ve never heard you play music in here before,” I said accusingly.

“You’re not here all that often.”

“And there’s one reason for that small miracle, isn’t there?”

“What are you hidin’ behind all that anger, Susie-Q?” I felt the blood drain from my face, only to surge right back.

“What are you hiding behind all that arrogance, Pete?” He didn’t respond, and for the briefest second his eyes flashed pain—personal pain, not the stuff I was going for. But then a snottily smiling mask formed quick and sure, and he replied, “The only thing I’m hidin’ is sweet ol’ me.”

Disgusted, I stomped to his server. Thirty seconds; fixed. I stepped to his monitor. As always, his evil, yet luxurious black leather chair beckoned me to submit to its comfort while enveloping me in its owner’s essence. Well, not today! I shoved it aside in disdain.

“Also, I can’t get on the Internet,” he muttered quickly. Sure enough, the wireless prompt was blinking. I tapped it.

“IP address not valid? That’s odd… Why is the IP address not valid?” I mumbled to myself. While reviewing the digits, it hit me. “Did you screw with this?” He shook his head no. “You changed the frigging IP address, didn’t you?! I cannot believe this!” I screeched, throwing my arms in the air. There were no words for the emotion I was feeling.

“I didn’t, I swear! Not intentionally, anyway.” He shook his head again emphatically.

I sucked in a deep breath and measured him. I was fairly certain he was lying but had no way to be sure. “Alright, I’ll take you at your word.” I engaged the Diagnosis and Fix program. “Do you see this giant flashing red rectangle in the middle of your screen? The one that reads FIX?” He nodded. “Next time, press it!”

As the software mended itself, I asked in exasperation, “Why did you order me down here? These problems were trivial and I know you could have fixed them yourself.”

“I wanted to talk to ya,” he said in a small voice.

“What?! You…you are unbelievable! Do you understand I broke the sound barrier to get here before you closed shop, and you say you wanted to talk? If I’d wanted to talk to you, I would have returned your calls. Did you ever think of that?”

He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I wish ya wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what, ignore you?”

“No. Drive like a bat out of hell. I would’ve waited for ya…no matter how long it took.” His expression was more sincere than any I’d ever seen him wear, and I simply gaped. “Why are you so mad at me, anyway?” he asked softly. I didn’t have an answer for him. I wasn’t angry at him, not really. I could pretend all I wanted, but in truth, I was angry at myself. It was just way easier to go off on him than deal with my own jumbled emotions. I slowly let the air out of my lungs and called up my rehearsed lines.

“Okay, fine. You kissed me the other night.” The I make it a practice to never get involved with clients part didn’t actually make it out of my mouth. I stared at his drafting table and focused on the music I loved so much.

“Yeah, I did. And you kissed me back,” he said, his eyes lighting as one corner of his annoyingly kissable mouth turned up. Heat flooded through me again, and I fought the sudden urge to slap him. This wasn’t funny—not to me, anyway.

“Well, I didn’t mean to!”

“Well, I did,” he said, watching me intently.

“Well, I was under the influence,” I puffed. Okay, that was stupid. “Look, I’ve got to go.” I rushed to Laney’s desk and snatched up my briefcase. I didn’t ask him to sign off on the paperwork. I didn’t care.

“Susie-Q, ya only had one beer,” he said, trailing right behind me. “I know you’re a lightweight, but that’s preposterous.” When I didn’t retort, he pressed, “So what exactly were ya under the influence of?” I was nearing frustrated tears.

“I was under the influence of, of Southerness!” I burst out.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Southerness?”

“The sunset and you’re being…” I looked him up and down, and then to the heavens for some type of assistance. Was that laughter I heard? “Look, I was tired and I forgot myself for a moment. And with you, that’s a dangerous thing!” I said, jabbing a finger at him. “It was an accident, that’s all. Plain and simple. So, it didn’t count.” This was not going well for me.

“First of all, are ya speakin’ Yankee or somethin’? ’Cause I didn’t understand a damn thing you just said. And second, I’m not keepin’ score here, but you kissed me back, so it does count. Besides,” he said, another smile playing on his lips, “I think ya liked it.”

“You are so full of yourself!”

“Denial is a powerful thing, Susie-Q.”

“I have a boyfriend, you know.”

“That didn’t stop ya. Maybe he’s not the right guy for ya.”

“And you are?” I sputtered.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good, because you’re definitely the wrong one.”

“You’re probably right about that, but I don’t regret what happened,” he said softly.

“Well, I do!” Liar, liar pants on fire!

“I think ya had fun the other night and you’re afraid to admit it. In fact, I think you’re startin’ to like it down here.”

“Keep dreaming, buddy.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I had fun, okay? I won’t deny it. It was a nice evening at the beach, but that’s all it was. It doesn’t mean anything.” A small crease formed between his eyebrows, and he started to say something, but then stopped. Nip it!

“Pete, if you’ve dreamed up some absurd notion of pursuing me, you’re wasting your time. I’m happily involved and, frankly, not interested.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t.”

“Good. I’m glad we got that straight.”

“Me, too,” he retorted hotly.

“Now, if we’re finished here, I would like to leave. I have about five thousand other things to do before the clock strikes midnight.” Then I softened my voice. “Look, I know you bought the high-end service contract, which, again, I greatly appreciate, but as I’ve asked you before, please let me troubleshoot over the phone.”

“I would’ve if you’d answered it.”

“Is that why you called me?”

“Not exactly.” I made the mistake of staring into those distractingly beautiful eyes of his. He was like a cobra trying to hypnotize his prey. I quickly glanced at the floor.

“Look, it’s water under the bridge. I forgive you. Now let’s just let it drop.”

“Well, I wasn’t callin’ to ask for forgiveness,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Then what did you want?” He looked at his feet then back at me.

“I was mostly callin’ to ask ya to dinner.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shook my head and tried not to laugh. Even though part of me—a large part—wanted to strangle him, my fury was gone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Pete. I honestly don’t.”

“Susie-Q, I’m sorry I made ya come all the way over here when ya didn’t need to. I really am. Is there some way I can pay ya back?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Yes, Pete, there is. You can just…leave me alone, okay? Please?”

The door opened and Laney entered, reeking of smoke.

“You’re all fixed,” I said to her.

“Groovy,” she responded sardonically, returning to her desk.

On that note, I left Coastal Architectural Design with my head, like a compass, pointing in the right direction: Due North.

25

My Damned Earring

Philadelphia International Airport’s Concourse B was a United Nations rally. I waded into the human sea, comforted by the faces, costumes, and miscellany of languages surrounding me. This spoke of true progress—of a greater world. Splashing in behind me was the foreign tongue of the Durham gentleman with whom I’d shared a row. At the mere mention of my Southern nationality, I’d fallen prey to his ninety-minute soliloquy, and now knew everything about him, his three kids and his hunting dog, Sammy, who recently had three quarter-sized cysts removed from his back left leg. And he was still talking…

As with most frequent travelers, I tended to ward off trite airline conversation by plugging into headphones and burying my nose in paperwork or my laptop. A quiet plane was a happy one. But thanks to the gaggle of North Carolinians aboard this particular flight, the entire fuselage sounded like one big family reunion.

My first presentation went well, I think. Though traditionally cool under pressure, my palms had been slick before I’d reached downtown, and I’d already reapplied my lipstick twice. My graphs demonstrated growth and I’d spun their interpretation to suggest room for real optimism; I believed there was—I had to believe it. The most relieving news by day’s end was nobody had mentioned firing me. Of course, there was still Friday…

Like me, Ryan was eyeball-deep in meetings. It wasn’t until late afternoon during an almost chance encounter that we’d gotten a few brief minutes for a welcome back fondle. All too quickly, he tore himself away and left the empty conference room for his next presentation. And sadly, between kisses, he told me he was attending a business dinner with his division’s president tonight and couldn’t see me. I had a mandatory evening event tomorrow, so we vowed Thursday as exclusively ours. I pacified myself with the knowledge that we had the long weekend ahead.

I’d barely seen Kirsten, either. A big smile, a hurried complement, and whoosh off to the next meeting; completely normal for Quarterlies. I missed this—the hectic frenzy, the rippling energy surges, people working for the sole purpose of generating great sums of revenue for the company, and ourselves; my world.

My sensory deprived, nightmarish world had been a great void; void of my completely self-possessed best friend, void of my lover, void of my soul. Phone calls and emails hadn’t made up for lunches, shopping, and gossip. But bless her tiny black heart; Kirsten was taking me out tonight. And like a fine perfume, I inhaled cheap air freshener as I stepped into a dirty taxi to meet her.

Located in the Navy Yard district, The Blue Papaya was my favorite bar. Its riverfront location, just blocks from several large office complexes, put it ground zero for the up and coming business crowd; the place I belonged. Lacking in popcorn, sticky floors and the aroma of stale beer, Papaya’s ultra-modern atmosphere fashioned by glossy black tables and phosphorescent blue under-lighting was beyond alluring. The large glowing centerpiece was manned by three black-clad professional bartenders, creating a continuum of complex and beautiful drinks that floated in glistening chalices above the heads of invisible servers. Over the pulsing throb of darkly hypnotic music—which was absolutely not Southern rock—a mélange of intriguing conversations and undisguised lustful glances flowed between well-groomed men and smart women.

Tonight, this living bar surged with bodies predominantly belonging to INTech professionals. As meetings ended, we’d flooded its space, redefining the term “Happy Hour”—no, “Happy Night”, as it would be called for the rest of the week. I absorbed it through my very pores.

The battalion of waitresses was no match for us, so I made my way to the bar, rubbing, bumping—so much physical contact; so nice. I ordered at my first opportunity. The bartender was blond and he gave me a start, but a focused blond, uniformed in black. Looking up only long enough to take my order, he served my drink without speaking. It had been over three months since I’d tasted the elixir known as cosmopolitan, and this one was so perfectly made. Now to search for Kirsten.

Plugged into an impressive set of heels that catapulted her over the six-foot mark, it took little time to find her. Regularly trolling this bar like a hungry shark, she’d already ensnared a sure-to-please snack. It wasn’t that she was beautiful—she wasn’t, but she was attractive in an interesting sort of way. Stylishly emaciated, her slick black hair and stunning wardrobe invariably caught the attention of men and women alike. But it wasn’t just her appearance that affected all creatures in her general vicinity; it was the sexual prowess she oozed like a pheromone.

“Susan!” She threw her arm in the air. I negotiated through the crowd, wanting nothing more than to hug the living daylights out of her. I didn’t of course; we didn’t hug. “I want you to meet Jeremy Briggs, Vermont’s District Manager,” she said after air kisses were exchanged.

“Nice meeting you, Jeremy.” I reached to shake his hand. He didn’t let go right away but leaned in instead. Of course, as far as conversation went, it was either get close or shout. He wore nice cologne, I noted.

“Kirsten’s told me about you,” he said.

“She has?” Kirsten smiled nebulously and prompted me with a look.

“She tells me you’re a climber. I’ve always been impressed by women with serious career goals.” I smiled politely in response.

“We’re all impressed with Susan,” Kirsten interjected, laughing lightly. “Jeremy, why don’t you get her a refill, hmm? We need a minute.” Glancing at my full drink, he smiled wryly, and then gave me a surprisingly lustful look before turning away.

“What do you think?” Kirsten asked.

“About what?”

“About him?” she said, nodding to his retreating back. “He’s good material.”

“Yes, very yummy,” I replied, knowing he was just another brick in her towering skyscraper. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up, but if you need to go, of course, I’ll understand.” When would we get another chance to hang out? She planned to stay in town this weekend, but I’d be with Ryan and didn’t want to waste any of that time. Maybe the three of us could have Sunday Brunch? I’d broach it with him.

“Not for me, Susan. For you.” I couldn’t hide my astonishment.

“Hello? Seriously involved?” An odd expression fleeted across her features and she gently gripped my arms.

“Hun, Ryan isn’t what you need. Trust me. Plus, he’s not in a position to help your career, not directly anyway. Jeremy is.” He’d stopped to speak to someone but was making good headway back through the crowd.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“He’s moving up our management line quickly,” she said. “He could take you with him. And clearly, he’s interested. Try him out. I won’t tell, and I’m sure he won’t either.” I gaped at her.

“Exactly how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough,” she replied, laughing salaciously. “He’s coming back. Go play.” Hailing another manager, she disappeared into the push, leaving me standing before “clearly interested” Jeremy.

Having brought drinks for both Kirsten and me, he chuckled, placing one in my empty hand and taking a sip from the other. After a few minutes of small talk, he said, “It’s crowded. You want to grab something to eat? Mario’s is a short walk.”

Mario’s was one of those intimate little eateries; two-seater tables, dim lights, candles—a date place. And though he was quite attractive and had a very good reputation at INTech—this, I already knew, my interest in him was strictly professional. I already had a guilty conscience, compliments of Mr. Walsh, and I was so not whoring myself out to move up the company ladder. What was that woman thinking?

“Jeremy, I’d love to meet sometime to discuss work, but right now I need to find Kirsten. It was nice talking to you, and thanks for the drink.”

“I look forward to that meeting,” he said, holding my eyes. “And if you change your mind about dinner, call me.” Taking his time, he slipped his business card into my jacket pocket, and then, with a backward glance, blended into the mesh.

Kirsten had disappeared completely, but as I made the circuit, I saw a woman I vaguely knew and set the extra martini in front of her. “I’ve got one too many,” I said.

♥

Impeccably dressed as always, Ryan met me in the lobby at seven o’clock sharp. We could barely keep our hands off one another during the drive to the restaurant. Euphoric simply touching him, the anticipation of “later” was almost more than I could bear. With a secret smile, I patted my purse and the tiny black negligée tucked inside. Whenever I shifted in my seat, its matching thong was a reminder; it had been a very interesting day.

At the edge of the historical district, Alexander’s had only recently opened, so I hadn’t eaten here before. Our table wasn’t ready yet, so we sat at the bar.

“Dirty martini, light on the Vermouth. Oh, and toss in a couple of blue cheese olives, please,” I said, smiling at the bartender.

“Since when did you start saying ‘please’?” Ryan asked, chuckling.

“Bad habit I picked up down South,” I responded with a playful smirk.

“Your accent’s another, Baby. Flip off the switch.” I frowned, imagining how I must have sounded during my presentation. Had anyone even taken me seriously?

“Sorry.” What else could I say?

Making a concerted effort to pronounce my words differently, I said, “Mmm, that is so good,” after taking my first sip. I popped an olive into my mouth. “All I’ve had in Havelock is cheap beer.”

Seated by the time the narrow, decorative plate of sushi arrived, I devoured several pieces, barely chewing. “Real food!” I snatched up another slice of tuna roll.

Ryan shook his head and furrowed his brow. “You act like you haven’t eaten in months, but clearly you have,” he said, appraising me with a critical eye. Placing the piece I’d just dipped in soy onto my appetizer plate, I set down my chopsticks. He was right, of course. I’d gained two pounds since he’d last seen me. An awful thought popped into my head and I bit my lower lip. How would I even look in that lacy surprise? Would I repulse him?

“I haven’t had much time to hit the gym,” I mumbled.

So looking forward to this lovely dinner, I’d passed on lunch altogether. And though there was literally a gross ton of snacks available at every meeting, I’d chosen not to even nibble this afternoon. In a word, I was starved. When our food arrived, I regarded the pan-seared salmon and gorgeous blood orange salad, guaranteed to throw me over the epicurean edge, with a trace of sadness and picked at it sparingly.

“Living at the beach, I’m surprised you ordered fish,” Ryan commented. “Besides, you’re a steak girl.” I looked up suddenly.

“No, I’m not. I always order fish.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.”

“I haven’t been away that long.” With an uncomfortable laugh, I took a large swallow of my probably thirty dollar glass of wine. “And I don’t live at the beach, either. I live in Hell.”

We talked most of the way through dinner—well I did, anyway, recounting my misadventures and culture shock. I was experiencing reverse shock now; gazing at taxis with wonder, craning my neck at skyscrapers with the awe of a tourist. It was rather humorous, really. Ryan nodded here and there but generally seemed…elsewhere.

Thus far, I’d attributed his behavior to this stressful and high pressured week. He had a lot on his mind—we both did. But when he checked his phone for the fifth time, I snapped.

“Am I disturbing you?”

He looked up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

I didn’t want to jeopardize our evening by being bitchy, so I sucked back the searing slurs I would have gleefully hurled at…someone else, and adopted a more reserved tone. Plus, the man seated across from me was an adult—one, who did not tolerate insults—ever.

“I mean you just seem slightly distracted. I realize I’m probably repeating myself a little, but I’m just so glad to see you and I really miss talking to you.” And really anyone without a Southern accent.

“You are, but that’s fine. I’m just glad you’re happy in North Carolina.” I gawked at him.

“Ryan, I just spent the last twenty minutes telling you how much I hate this heinous assignment. Were you even listening?” He raised his eyebrows sharply, and then signaled our waiter for the check.

“Let’s go.”

The Mercedes hurled to a stop in front of us, its polished ebony surface mirroring the sky. Highly preoccupied on the trip over, I was only now reminded of how erotically wonderful it was; his life was. The valet, thrilled for the chance to drive it, rushed to my side and smiled adorably as he opened my door. He was young and bright-eyed and…blond. When had so many yellow-haired men moved into town? It was damn eerie. Perhaps I’d selectively ignored them in the past, but now each was a reminder of an evil, cocky, obscenely attractive Southern menace with very soft full lips—who I truly did not like!

He drove directly to his apartment without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. He was in as much of a hurry as I. Once parked in his reserved spot, he killed the engine and mine revved. His tongue entered my mouth and a hand slipped inside my blouse. “God, Baby, I need your body now.” He climbed out and shut his door. I waited, fidgeting impatiently. Hurry up, man! I jumped when he rapped his knuckles on the windshield.

“What the hell are you waiting for? Get out!”

“Sorry,” I said, hurtling out. Considering the moment, it seemed ridiculous to entertain the thought that Ryan had never once opened a car door for me. In fact, other than paid valets and doormen, no one in Philadelphia had. Pete’s idiotic lectures about gentlemanly manners had plagued me since my return. “Shut up, Pete,” I muttered to myself, forcefully slamming the door to exorcize that green-eyed demon.

Ryan glared caustically. “Careful with the car.”

“Sorry.” How many times are you going to apologize tonight?

“You’re acting weird,” he said. Though “sorry” was on my lips again, I didn’t say it. Instead, I grabbed his elbow and rushed to the elevator. Our lips locked before the doors closed.

Ryan’s apartment was exactly as I remembered; elegant leather furniture, white plush carpet, that twenty-odd thousand dollar dining room table serving solely as a mail catch. On the coffee table, his maid had fanned out the latest issues of Sports Illustrated, Food And Wine, this week’s Forbes, The New Yorker, and Architectural Digest—a periodical for those with impeccable taste. I shook my head with a disenchanted smirk. That same friggin’ edition had been open on Pete’s desk Monday. In fact, I’d considered rolling it up and chasing him down the hall with it.

Ryan didn’t pour himself his usual finger of scotch, nor did he offer me anything, as was his custom; there was no reason for cordiality at the moment. Besides, I could sip wine while peering out his bank of floor-length windows all weekend if I wished.

During another heated kiss, I loosened the knot in his tie and slipped it from his collar. Then I began unbuttoning his shirt. Smiling wickedly, he grabbed my wrists. “Bed. Now!” he commanded, turning me towards the floating stairs. His bedroom was a sight for sore eyes, and my underwear—if one could call it that—was practically drenched. Whipping off the gigantic spread, he exposed the delicious silk sheets that frequented my fantasies; rolling in them and doing all kinds of nasty little things.

The precious days I’d spent here brought to the forefront the lifestyle to which I’d very much grown accustomed—the one I wanted, the one with Ryan at its center. I ached to feel his body against mine, for him to wipe away with a magician’s wand my job’s massive learning curve, the accident, the anxiety and trauma of complete alienation, and my nun-like celibacy. I needed to be kissed and touched and cradled. I needed sex!

He stepped out of his slacks as they hit the floor, and then raising his eyebrows, nodded for me to strip as well. “Oh wait, let me get something from my purse.” In a moment of sexual inspiration, I decided to change downstairs and re-emerge wearing my little black nothing. “Be right back.” I started for the door, but he caught my arm and dragged me back.

“The only thing you’re getting right now is naked.”

I took a few seductive steps back and crooked my finger. “Make me.”

His returning smile seemed almost cruel. He closed the short distance and forcefully shoved me onto the bed. My head bounced off his pillow like a basketball. “Do your job before I come all over myself,” he hissed urgently. He yanked off his silk boxers and he freed his stiff and ready penis. Oh yeah… I was more than ready to help him with that problem. I began unbuttoning my blouse.

Suddenly, he was straddling my chest. He fisted a chunk of my hair and kissed me very roughly, painfully even, our teeth banging. “You need some professional guidance, Baby. Open your mouth so I can fuck that accent out of it.”

“Ryan, slow down. Let go of my—”

“I said open your goddamn mouth!” He jerked my hair savagely, driving my head back at an angle that split my lips apart. A fierce and unexpected fear licked through me at the thought of being forced like this—incapacitated and forced. I tried to free my arms, but his thighs pinioned them and I couldn’t move. Some base instinct urged me to fight him and run, but that was ridiculous. This was my boyfriend, my lover, the man I trusted. He was just victim to a primal moment, pushing a game too far.

“Cut it out Ryan,” I growled. “Get off me!”

“Get off? That was the plan.” He slid down my body so his knees rested against my thighs, freeing my hands. I sat up immediately and placed them on the sides of his face.

“Ryan, shh. I’ve missed you too, but let’s slow down a little and really enjoy this. Okay?” I touched my lips gently to his. Instead of returning the kiss, he grasped my shoulders and locked me inches from his face.

“Do you know what I did today?” I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued. “I spent three fucking hours with your buddy, Bob. And you know what he was doing to amuse himself? Do you?!” he yelled, shaking me violently. “Butt-fucking my career, that’s what! Nobody fucks with my career! Do you understand what I’m saying? Nobody!” Wide-eyed, I could only stare at this man I suddenly did not know. “So now I’m gonna butt-fuck him back.” His whisper was darkly foreboding.

In one fluid motion, he flipped me facedown and hoisted up my hips, shoving my skirt hem to my waist. Terrified of being sodomized, I fought him fiercely as he pressed his hips against my ass. “No!” I screamed into the smothering pillow. “No!”

“Don’t like that, huh?” he said, panting. “Yeah, I didn’t enjoy mine either. Don’t worry, there are other ways.” He flipped me over again and jammed his knee sharply between my legs, forcing them open. I slapped and scratched at him, but he caught my wrists and mashed them together in a vice-like grip.

“Stop it, Ryan!” I yelled. “Let go!” I tried twisting, but he was cement.

The thong bit into my fragile skin as he savagely entered me. With arms busy pressing mine down, he crushed me, his body absorbing none of its own weight. “Bob’s. Really. Gonna. Hate. Losing. You,” he grunted, accentuating every syllable with a painful thrust. Barely able to breathe, I could only hope that at this furious pace he wouldn’t last long.

“You’re hurting me!” I gasped, aware of the tears streaming down my temples.

As if I’d begged for more, he plunged forcefully inside me and dropped his forehead onto the pillow beside my ear. “Move your hips, goddammit!” he snarled.

Moments—or maybe years later, he exhaled sharply in a rush of hot air and finished. His body became leaden weight and I groped for air. When he released my wrists, I pushed him off with all the strength I could muster. He rolled onto his back, arms spread wide, shirt drenched with sweat.

“God, I’ve missed you, Baby,” he said after a moment. “You are always such a great fuck.”

My rage was so clean and pure it left me shaking with no words to speak. He climbed off the bed without glancing at me, and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Every inch of skin between my legs throbbed dully. I sat up to inspect myself. Milky semen oozed down my red and blotchy inner thighs, soaking the sheet beneath me, painting it blacker.

Noises from the bathroom roused me and I groped for covers. Though fully clothed, I tugged the thin satin over me and drew my knees to my chest. My hands visibly trembled as I wiped the wetness from my face with the sheet. It smelled like sex and the cologne he wore, both scents suddenly noxious.

The toilet flushed and Ryan emerged, shirtless. I noticed immediately that his hair was once again meticulously combed. He stood in the doorway pensively toweling off his now limp and lifeless dick. When finished, he tossed the sticky, soiled washcloth to me. Glaring, I balled it up and threw it back.

“What’s wrong, Baby? Didn’t you have fun?” he asked sardonically. He walked to his dresser and secured a fresh pair of underwear from the top drawer. As he climbed into them, I noticed he was still wearing his socks.

I stared at him stonily, but didn’t speak; nothing coherent would have come out.

“No? I really did, actually. Very purging,” he said, chuckling to himself. He returned and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me and checked his phone. Then he rose and crossed the room to retrieve his trousers. “I hate to do this, but duty calls.” He disappeared into his closet and returned with a freshly laundered shirt.

Frozen and shocked, I watched in disbelief as he dressed, buckled his belt, and precisely knotted a new tie. He took a moment to admire his reflection in the freestanding mirror before turning back to me. “I’ve got to meet someone.” I continued staring mutely. “Come on, Baby, get up. I need to go.”

“Don’t ever call me that again!” I exploded in a guttural whisper.

He exhaled in obvious frustration and began busying himself; checking his wallet, playing with his phone, jingling loose change. Finally, he looked up, impatiently. “Susan, what do you want from me?” I bit down hard on my quivering lower lip. “Your makeup’s smeared. For chrissakes, go wash your face. I’ll be downstairs.”

Only after he left did I slide off the bed, at once feeling both exposed and for some reason ashamed. I jerked my skirt down. It was a labor to cross the room. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I saw a terrified, defiled creature with swollen lips, knotted hair, and a black-streaked face. As I snatched the folded hand towel from the counter, I noticed my wrists were decorated with angry pink marks. I wet it and wiped the mascara from my eyes.

I sat gingerly on the toilet seat and tried to go to the bathroom. Swelled, it took a moment for the stream to flow. I tensed my stomach to expel what was left of his semen and wiped thoroughly with toilet paper. I started to get a fresh washcloth from under the sink where he kept them, but then saw his white shirt and retrieved it instead. Wetting it under the spigot, I cleaned meticulously between my legs and then dropped it in a wad on his bathroom floor.

“Susan!” he barked from the living room below.

I only vaguely remember getting into his car, and then abstractly wondering where we were going. When he asked where I’d parked, I must have answered because we came to a halt behind my rental. Blindly staring through the windshield, unsure I was actually alive, I was ripped into full consciousness when he leaned over and tried to kiss my cheek. I shrank away, hugging my purse to my chest.

“I’ll see you at the reception tomorrow,” he said very calmly.

I remember slamming the door with all my might, and that his squealing tires hurt my ears, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the cavernous garage mocking my shame with its indifference. Fumbling for my keys with shaking hands, I dropped them on the cold cement, picked them up, dropped them again. Successfully pressing the correct fob button, I sought shelter in the sterile and foreign interior. Well, didn’t this just suck?

A shower. I ghosted to my bathroom and turned on the spray. Numb, I barely felt the soap, though I was coated in it. I didn’t cry; I was too lost for that. Only when roused by uncontrollable shivering did I become aware that the water had run cold.

I entered my bedroom in a strange state of acceptance and resolve. Resolve to do what though? Call the police? I’d gladly gone to his apartment, and had absolutely wanted to have sex with him. Was there such a thing as consensual rape? I didn’t know. Still shivering, I climbed into bed, wondering if this was how a prostitute felt after her first night; empty, destroyed. I took solace in the fact that at least I didn’t have to go back out tomorrow night and live it again.

My hair was wet. Why was it wet? Leaving the damp bed, I dug through my suitcase for my hairdryer. I set it on the kitchen table when I saw my purse. I would call Kirsten. Kirsten would know what to do. She knew how to keep her head. No answer—voicemail. All I could manage was a whispered call me. I texted the same message. No reply.

Under the covers once more, I realized I was still trembling. Oh, I was naked. Pajamas…and a cup of hot tea. Tea was so civilized. Tea fixed everything. Lumbering to the kitchen again, I became acutely aware of just how tired I really was; so very tired. Even before tonight I’d been drained to the core. Sheer will and adrenaline had propelled me through this week—these last few weeks—these months. I set the cup on my nightstand, pulled the covers over my head, and curled into a ball. Why is my hair still wet?

♥

My first conscious thought was time. Early evening; dusk. Moist air licked my skin and something solid and warm pressed against my back. Metal. Yes, that’s what it was. I felt rather than saw a man standing in front of me. I knew I should be afraid of a stranger veiled in shadow, but I wasn’t. He slowly stepped into me, his hard, smooth chest pressing lightly against mine. Bracketing my shoulders with taut, muscular arms, the man’s body caged me, protecting me from harm. His lips very gently stroked mine, asking permission. I flung my arms around his neck in answer, my fingers carelessly twisting his soft wavy hair as we deeply kissed.

Holy crap!

I sat straight up in bed, panting. Whoa…that so did not just happen! I stumbled to the kitchen, filled a tall glass with water, and gulped it down. The light outside was dim, but morning was near. I had to go to work. I had to do things. I had to perform like a circus monkey!

The mirror was not unkind, my reflection not the drawn and frail wraith I felt. In fact, I looked determined—determined to put last night behind me. I told myself things. That it didn’t really happen like I thought; that it was just rough sex; that I liked that sometimes. I knew I was lying, but these lies would see me through today. I had a presentation this morning—one less than two hours from now, and in front of a holy host of district managers, regional reps…and Bob.

What if I saw Ryan in the hall, or at lunch…or at the reception tonight? I forced those fears aside—no time to entertain them now. And dammit, I hadn’t worked so hard for so very long to let one disastrous evening ruin my career. Today, I would smile and laugh and pretend…and eventually, my lies would become the truth.

After a quick shower, my skin welcoming the foamy layers of soap, I dressed very well, avoiding the one blouse I would never wear again. I carefully made up my face, fastened my lucky earrings, applied a touch of colored gloss to my swollen lips; a dab of perfume. Perfect. “You’re going to be great,” I promised my reflection.

The room was hot and packed. The managers would present after the reps. My hands shook as I held the remote, but my voice was strong—I willed it to be so. The presentation was short and sweet, and I found my seat to indifferent applause. It was the same for us all—bored and trudging through another dog and pony show.

Though physically uncomfortable and shrink-wrapped in my own skin, I focused all my thoughts, all my energy on the words being spoken, appraising each presentation, separating the strong district managers from the weak. Kirsten’s had been very strong. Back straight and chin up, she looked almost regal behind the podium; a corporate queen. I would be one of them soon—I refused to believe otherwise. And I would be strong; a warrior. I would be a Kirsten, allowing nothing to stand in my way, boldly staring down my opponents. She nodded slightly as she passed and returned to her seat beside Jeremy in the managerial cluster. She whispered something to him, and he offered me an unnerving smile. I returned my attention to the next speaker. I wouldn’t get involved with anything male—maybe ever again. I wondered idly how that lesbian thing worked.

Kirsten caught up with me when we broke for lunch.

“What’s wrong, hun? You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine.” I forced a smile at a passing colleague.

“Listen, sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I was…busy.” She smiled privately. “What did you need?”

“I can’t talk about it right now. I mean, I need to talk to you—it’s very important, but not here,” I responded in a hushed voice, watching the stream of people pour from the giant conference room.

“Kirsten!” Bob barked loudly. I jumped, despite myself. No matter how hard I tried to ignore my instincts, I’d been anxious and skittish all morning. My subconscious absolutely loathed me.

“We’re doing swap-outs. Five minutes. Oh, and Susan, uh…nice work,” he added with something vaguely resembling a smile.

“Thank you,” I replied, surprised to my marrow. That little pat on the head—at least I was taking it as such—meant the world to me at this moment.

“Be right there, Bob,” Kirsten said brightly, and then grimaced in undisguised disgust as he lumbered down the hall. “Obviously lunch is out now, but we can meet up at the mixer. We’ll find a quiet place and talk then.”

“Thanks, Kirsten. Just…um…”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I really don’t know, actually,” I said, doing my best to smile. My façade was cracking. “I need to go.”

“Me, too. Don’t want to keep the Grizzly waiting.” Then she raised an obscenely arrogant eyebrow. “Besides, I have a few waste products to dump in someone else’s lap.” She laughed deceitfully, before following the pack of district managers to the “war room.”

A lunch buffet was set up on the third floor, so I crammed into the elevator with the press. Raw from coffee and gnawing acid, my stomach needed food. But as I stood in line, paper plate in hand, I knew I had no appetite whatever. In fact, my subconscious had created nausea as a way of getting my attention. Well, it wasn’t going to work. I grabbed a small roll and a Diet Coke and went in search of my lost and lonely desk.

I spent the afternoon hiding in my cubicle, poring over the literature on several soon to be introduced systems. When next I looked at my phone, it was six-fifteen. Crap! The mixer had started two hours ago. Having forgotten to turn the ringer back on after this morning’s meeting, I’d missed several calls. There was a single text: Last night was a mistake. We should talk. Meet me in my office at 6:00. When Hell freezes over! The mere thought of being cornered in his office gave me chills. Glancing around my partition, I realized my floor was silent and empty. His would be, too. No!

Packing my briefcase as fast as I could, I sprinted to the elevators as if someone was chasing me. I found my car in the garage’s depths and dumped everything in the trunk. Then I slipped the keys in my pocket and hurried back to the elevators. Right now it was paramount to find Kirsten.

The Regency on 5th Street was two blocks from our corporate plaza. Bursting into the Mezzanine foyer, I entered the warm and very crowded ballroom with determination. I added my suit jacket to the overflowing collection; black, gray, and navy—company uniforms, and then craned my neck over the crowd as best I could. Kirsten was easy to spot in her tight-fitting blouse.

As she spoke to the head of human resources, who was several inches shorter than her, she bent close to his face, her lace bra peeking out like thick black eyelashes. Leave it to Kirsten to showcase those babies when she wanted something. When our eyes met, she acknowledged me with a slight smile, and then touched his shoulder, laughing engagingly.

Post-Quarterlies’ receptions offered boundless opportunities for internal networking; I’d met Ryan in this very room. With that dark and cheery thought, I wandered to the bar for a glass of red wine. Served elegantly in a clear plastic cup, I downed it like the cough syrup it was and ordered another. I then glanced around nervously, hoping Ryan wasn’t in the mix; that he was still in his office waiting for me; that he rotted into a skeleton there. I gave Kirsten the eye, and after another lofty and flirtatious laugh, she began her journey toward me, deliberately bumping into two highly-placed executives in the process. She touched each as she offered whispered apologies—her standard bar pick-up maneuver.

“Susan! How’s my little superstar?” she yelled. She was drunk. Wonderful. “Your numbers look promising, yes they do!” She patted my head and straightened my already straight hair. “It won’t be enough, of course, but still, I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished in such a short time. I knew that dump was just the place for you.” She laughed too loudly again.

“Oh you’re gonna land on your feet, hun,” she continued, waving dismissively. “Plenty of companies will take somebody like you. Don’t you worry, I know people,” she whispered theatrically. I rolled my eyes. “Remember, we gals have got to stick together!” My shoulders slumped. There was no point in trying to talk to her right now. But with my schedule permanently freed, we’d hash out my nightmare this weekend.

“Right,” I said quietly, but altogether annoyed. “It’s time to get you out of here before you embarrass yourself.” I nodded at a district manager who chuckled as he passed us. Then I noticed Jeremy casually leaning against the nearby wall, watching the scene with amusement. I smile vaguely. Could this get any worse? Why of course, it could—here’s Bob, now! Frowning, he looked at me, shook his head, and kept walking.

On the positive, this was a pleasant diversion from much greater concerns, like an Italian vice president, fitted in a tailored Italian suit, wanting to speak with me in private. Helping Kirsten back to her hotel would give me an understandable excuse to escape with some facsimile of grace. “Come on, Kirsten, let’s find your purse and grab a cab.”

“I already have a ride. And it’s with someone you know,” she said in a singsong fashion, pressing my nose like a button. She glanced over my shoulder. “Hi, Jeremy.” With smoldering eyes, she finger-waved at him. Chuckling, he saluted her in return. Suddenly she grabbed both my shoulders and put her face near mine. “I almost forgot! What did you need to talk to me about? Whatever it is…I’m totally here for you.”

“It’s about Ryan. It’s imperative, but we’ll do it tomorrow—assuming you’re not still drunk,” I muttered.

“Oh, Ryan. Sure thing. Let’s go find Ryan!” Just as she hooked her arm around mine, her phone went off. She glanced at the number. “Oops, I must take this.” She looked down at me with a sly expression. Really?

“Kirsten, that’s not a good idea. Let me take you to your hotel, instead.”

“No!” she protested vehemently. “I’ll be back. You stay right here.” She pointed to the floor by my feet. She started to walk away, but then turned and said, “And the lip work you had done…very professional. I like it!” I helplessly watched her stagger through the ballroom.

“One too many, huh?” Jeremy said, nodding towards her.

“Ten too many, it looks like,” I replied, smirking. He replaced my empty cup with more wine. “Saw you were out.”

“Thanks.” I took a sip and grimaced. “This stuff’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, and the food’s no better.” I suddenly felt lightheaded. My current state would not help me fend off this man’s advances.

“That’s a good idea, Jeremy. I probably need something to eat. See you later.” I smiled brightly, turned on my heels, and left for the hors d’oeuvres table. It was just as disgusting as Jeremy promised, but I was hungry now. I loaded a plate with meatballs in some kind of sauce, a couple of cubes of cheddar cheese, and something resembling an egg roll.

“Well, hey there, Susan.” I whipped around.

“Hey, Tom,” I said with my mouth full. “Hey” was the proper greeting for Tom Ridgeway, North Carolina’s District Manager. It was almost like I didn’t have to pretend with him.

“How’s it going for you down east?” he asked, with a jovial smirk.

“You mean in the land that time forgot?” I said, glowering in reply.

“You’re handling it just fine from what I hear. Nice presentation, by the way. Numbers up in two months. Not too shabby!”

“With no help from you, I might add.”

“Susan, I know it’s a difficult place to work,” he said in all seriousness. “And we haven’t had a lot of success there with service reps.”

“So I’ve heard,” I accused.

“You may have a shot, though. Besides, your region does have its advantages.”

“I’d sure like to know what they are.” His face broke into a broad smile.

“Well, you’ve got the ocean,” he replied almost dreamily.

“Yes, but you have all the money,” I retorted. “You could share the love, you know. Give me Raleigh or at least Research Triangle. I’ve got nothing to work with.”

He unleashed a good-natured laugh, and then took on a fatherly tone that, albeit delivered pleasantly, was one I didn’t appreciate in the slightest. “Everything isn’t about the money, Susan.”

“Of course it is!” He shook his head slowly and smiled.

“Keep up the good work, Miss Wade. And remember…life’s a beach.” He winked and then walked away. I narrowed my eyes. Tom Ridgeway was going right under Pete Walsh on my hit list; both names, a solid two miles below Ryan Vittorio’s. I tossed what was left of my nasty food in the garbage and focused on my next priority: The bathroom.

I arrived at the restroom area without further incident, but as I stepped around the alcove, I literally bumped into Ryan’s secretary. At first, I cringed at her troubled expression, but then forced a breezy smile. It wasn’t her fault she worked for a complete asshole. In fact, I should feel empathetic…and not be an asshole myself.

“Denise!” I said, whipping around. “Listen, I want to thank you for the flowers you sent when I had my accident. It was really kind of you.”

“Honey, don’t mention it. You had us all worried. Oh, your earring!” she said, pointing to my little hoop that had apparently developed a mind of its own.

“Rats!” I chased it across the marble floor. I hadn’t worn them since the fishing debacle, and only now remembered why. Gold flashed as it rolled under the bright foyer lights, finally hitting the carpeted hallway where it wobbled to a halt. I bent down to pick it up and landed on all fours; too many drinks and not nearly enough food. “Dumb shit,” I cursed under my breath.

Righting myself with absolutely no finesse, I glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Two people shared the connecting conference space, but they were far too engaged to pay me any attention. In fact, they really needed to go downstairs and check into the hotel for the evening. Pressed into the corner against burgundy velvet curtains, the woman had her leg wrapped around the man’s hip as he gnawed on her neck. Really the only reason I’d even noticed them was that her shimmering red blouse caught my—wait, what the…Hell?

Dumbstruck, my world shattered into fractals as I watched Kirsten perform a full tonsillectomy on Ryan. My Ryan.

He stiffened when he noticed me gawking. “Fuck!” he said, extracting himself from Kirsten’s claws. She looked seriously annoyed until she realized what was happening. In an unhurried fashion that suggested this wasn’t an “oops” situation, she smoothed back her hair, planted a hand on her hip, and raised a confident brow.

“Hello, Susan.” She glanced at Ryan who had the gall to feign innocence. “She was going to find out eventually,” she said, sounding bored. “Better sooner than later…for her.”

I walked slowly towards them, shock my primary emotion. To ward off fainting, I sipped a little air and gazed at Kirsten. A number of puzzle pieces locked into place; little comments here and there, queer feelings I’d chalked up to distance and unfounded paranoia.

“How long?” I demanded. No guilt showed on Kirsten’s face, and she gave no response. “How long, you bitch?” Her eyes flashed, but she didn’t flinch otherwise.

I turned to Ryan. “And what’s your story, you sorry bastard?”

“Susan, don’t act this way.”

“What way Ryan? Upset, stunned, betrayed? No problem. Anything for you, Baby,” I sneered.

A cruel smile slowly unfurled across Kirsten’s face—one I’d seen her use just before ruining someone’s career. In my wildest dreams, I never thought she’d look that way at me.

“Kirsten, tell me you didn’t arrange my transfer so you could screw around with my boyfriend. Believe me, he’s not worth it. But you know that by now, don’t you?” Giving Ryan the briefest of glances, her expression became incredibly smug and she shook her head slowly and mouthed the word no.

“I trusted you!” My voice sounded hollow and weak.

“You didn’t think I actually liked you, did you—that we were friends? Have you learned nothing from me? There were too many women on the chessboard before your precious Beth tapped you as management material. Don’t you get it? I don’t share well! And I’ll be damned if you get promoted to my level. You, with your precious work ethic and loathsome moral compass…you’re a joke!” she spat. “I sent you to North Carolina to fail—handpicked the location just for you. And you will fail. And if by some miracle they don’t fire you…God, I’m going to beg to have you assigned to me!”

A tremor ran through me, and I looked past her to Ryan—for what? Help? Support? Instead of strength, he seemed comically helpless, as if he somehow still cared for me—or at least about me; as if there was room inside him for anyone but himself.

“What was your stake in all this?” I demanded. Even though I despised his very shadow, I deserved to know the truth, and from his own lips. He owed me that much.

After staring at me for a moment, he exhaled audibly. “Bob doesn’t like many people, but for some reason, he likes you.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Having to fire you would really piss him off. And, you of all people understand how much I’d enjoy that. Kirsten’s personal agenda had no real downside for me,” he said, looking affectionately at the witch.

“Two years, Ryan,” I gasped. “Did that mean nothing to you?”

“It was fun for a while,” he said. “You’re a good kid. And for the record, your work in Carolina has been stellar. I really didn’t think you had it in you.”

I started to laugh. It was cold, dark laughter nearing hysteria—laughter at my foolishness, my naiveté, the whole sad situation. “My work?! That’s hilarious. Make sure to put that on my performance evaluation. ‘Great work. Great fuck’. Isn’t that what you said last night after molesting me?”

“Excuse me?!” Kirsten exclaimed, her head jerking towards him in fury.

“It was just a goodbye, Baby. It meant nothing.” I uttered a hiccupping giggle.

“What, Kirsten? Didn’t know your latest acquisition was cheating on you, too? It looks like we’ve both been played, huh? I’m just glad I could clue you in, hun, ’cause you know…us gals have got to stick together!”

I’d shot my wad and the pressure of angry, awful tears—enough to burst a giant dam—was at critical. Pivoting, I headed for the bank of elevators at the other end of the corridor, but before reaching them, I realized my jacket was still in the ballroom. Though expensive, I would have gladly left it, had my car keys not been in the pocket. I blundered through the ballroom with little regard for whom I trampled. My eyes were quickly filling with liquid, everyone was a blur.

I groped through the hanging rack—fuck, they all looked alike! When I finally found mine, I searched anxiously for another way out of the room—the building. I couldn’t make it back through the crowd without humiliating myself. Never had I been so happy to see an exit sign in my entire life. I lunged for the fire escape stairs.

“Susan, you alright?” The last voice I wanted to hear—Bob’s.

“Fine,” I croaked, not sparing him a glance.

I made it down the two flights of stairs, past the concierge and through the rotating brass doors before spilling a tear. I wove through the evening foot traffic, wiping the gushing stream from my face. Though in heels, I jogged the last block and burst into INTech’s atrium. Security didn’t try to stop me as I dove for the closest elevator.

Through my haze, I found the unfamiliar car only by pressing the alarm button. Once inside, I locked the doors and had a brief cry; brief because I needed to get to my apartment where I could safely fall apart. Dashing my tears, I rocketed from the garage, almost hitting a crossing pedestrian.

Navigating roads I knew well, I searched for sanity in madness; an understanding, a comprehension. Just moments before, Kirsten was my very best friend, and though confirmed rapist, Ryan was still intimately tied to me. And now they had disappeared into the depths, taking some important limb with them—a shark attack. I snorted at my foolishness; that’s what happens when you swim with sharks. Two hours later, I noticed I was still driving the city. I wasn’t lost; I just couldn’t find my way through this melee of emotions.

When I reached Media, the suburb where I lived, I pulled to the curb and expelled the appetizer remnants that had curdled in my stomach. Then I drove calmly to my apartment. I wasn’t scheduled to fly back to North Carolina until Monday night, having booked the latest available departure to maximize my time with Ryan. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Suddenly, I burst out laughing, my vision clearing, the strike of inspiration nearly blinding me.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I scrubbed my face, retrieved my plane ticket and frequent flyer card, and picked up the phone.

I was going back to North Carolina and I was gonna get drunk!

26

That’s Gross

There was an available seat on the six a.m. flight to Raleigh. Thanks to our National Security’s DEFCON-4 status, or whatever color we were in danger of turning at any moment, I had to arrive at the airport by four o’clock. So, in lieu of sleep, I began the laborious task of packing. Dumping my winter wardrobe on the bed, I refilled the suitcases with all things summer; shorts, tanks, sandals, sleeveless dresses, purposefully arranging them with measured consideration. Taking my time was not my normal modus operandi, but tonight I was very deliberate in my actions because in many ways, I was saying goodbye. Taking one long last look around my apartment, I closed the door. I didn’t know where I was moving next, only that it wouldn’t be back to Philadelphia—of that I was sure.

Idly, I watched the other passengers fidget with phones, type on laptops with exaggerated concentration, restlessly flip magazine pages, unseeing—anything to stay awake. Approximately every twenty seconds, my mind drifted back to the Regency and all that had transpired there. And every twenty-one seconds I reeled my thoughts back to the shore of my gate’s waiting area. Losing your best friend and boyfriend in a matter of hours would send anyone over the edge; knowing they conspired to destroy your career was poison. Taking that generous gulp they’d offered had shriveled me inside.

Most likely, everything Kirsten had ever told me was a lie. The amount of bad advice I’d unquestionably accepted and followed, and moreover, the chest of secrets I’d freely opened to her left me gasping for air. Bile rose up my throat in gurgling spasms as my mind churned the rancid truth: She knew everything about me. And what she didn’t know, Ryan did!

Other than the roar of the engines, the plane was pin-drop silent. For once I wished there was someone seated beside me on a chatting binge, but I had no such luck. Perhaps it was for the best; I would have been a wretched companion.

With only swirling demons for company, I watched the dim sky lighten; pale rose petals charred with the sun’s fiery brilliance as it crested the horizon. The sight pained my bloodshot eyes, but I welcomed the new day, nonetheless. It meant I’d survived the night.

Murderous thoughts eased into the more melancholy as I merged from the beltway onto 70 East, fleeing Raleigh. For once, I was grateful to see those ugly pines. North Carolina was for the moment my very sanctuary. And within its vacant eastern boundaries, I would be spared the stares and whispers birthed by this fabulous scandal. The temptation to gossip was more than any corporate employee could bear, and regretfully, I knew I would have been its slave as well, were I not the victim.

Ryan had stolen two years of my life—time I would never get back. He’d also thieved the remaining fragment of trust I had in men. Though still in my possession, he’d sliced a large, though admittedly non-mortal gash in my pitifully scarred heart; it already looked like the moon, what was one more mar? At least I hadn’t sold my soul for love; no, not that.

It was Kirsten who’d inflicted the deeper wounds—to depths unfathomed. She had mutilated my faith in humanity, an unconscionable travesty. Now, with the possible exception of my mother, there was no creature on this earth I trusted. The only reprieve from this icy reality was the temporary companionship of Mona, someone to whom I would no longer confide anything of true value. Last night I’d made a blood vow to never trust again, and I would honor it no matter what.

Before engaging the autopilot, I allowed myself to grieve for all I’d lost. I pulled to the shoulder just past Princeton and wept openly. Ten minutes was all I’d allow myself for now; short lettings or I’d bleed out. And while another car wreck would very deliberately eliminate this pain, if not my life, there were better ways to cope. Once back on the road, I devised the formidable strategy for my immediate future, distilling it into four rudimentary steps: Sleep, shower, dress, drink myself into beautiful oblivion.

♥

It didn’t surprise me that Mona was waiting when I entered the bar. Nor was it remarkable that her posture was tense, her bottom lip bitten bloody, her eyebrows knit with worry. Through her omniscient INTech contacts, she already knew what had happened—most likely within moments of my hurried escape from the Regency. I lifted my hand in a lazy wave, then dropped my keys in front of Jimbo and placed my order. Without visible emotion, he slid the entire bottle and a single glass across the smooth wooden surface. Having had firsthand experience with just this kind of pain, for once I appreciated his stoic silence.

As I reached for my salvation, Pete emerged from the back carrying a huge box. Wearing a formidable grimace, his eyebrows were drawn, and I noticed the knuckles on his left hand were ripped and raw. When he saw me he froze mid-step, his entire person transforming into the picture of pure compassion. He offered me half a smile. Unable to return even that small gesture, I put my back between us and drifted to the safe harbor of my booth, immediately introducing Mona in great Southern fashion to my dearest new one-hundred-ten proof friend.

“You were right, this assignment was all a setup…the whole thing,” I blabbered, before swallowing another shot of blistering liquid. Mona had raided the condiment tray earlier, so I squeezed more lime juice on my finger and sprinkled it liberally with popcorn salt; squeeze, salt, lick, swallow, cringe, repeat.

“I know it, honey,” she said, patting my shoulder again. She’d had her arm around me for the better part of two hours, consoling me or keeping me vertical, I wasn’t sure which. “What they did was a sin and a shame,” she continued, shaking her head. I only had one song to sing tonight, and it was set on continuous play mode. She was patient with me, uttering her heartfelt responses in all the right places. And bless her sweet heart, she kept pushing popcorn at me, urging me to eat. But the lack of food was helping me get numb more quickly. Food was overrated anyway; I’d passed the twenty-four-hour mark without it and I was doing just fine.

My business was all about money and power. Kirsten had taught me that lesson well. Should I really have expected less? After all, she was the queen and I had emulated her—idolized was a better word. And in my stupor, I also recognized that once we’d met, I hadn’t bothered fostering other relationships—getting to know colleagues well. Instead, I’d pleasantly sidestepped them on my way up. And considering the company I’d kept for the last few years, there were probably more than a few who’d say I’d gotten exactly what I deserved. I chased that thought away with another drink.

“I’d hit her with my car, Mona—I swear it!” I said with too much enthusiasm as I ranted on. “She was afraid I’d catch up with her. Did you know that, Mona? I bet you did, didn’t you?” She glanced helplessly at the very much unconcerned Jimbo.

“And Ryan didn’t love me,” I sobbed. “I knew that! And I didn’t love him either, dammit. Not one bit.” I smashed my fist on the table, spilling popcorn everywhere. “That hurt,” I said, shaking my hand.

Another round of laughter erupted around me. Oh yes, I’d drawn quite a respectable audience, and they were egging me on. And as the proprietor had failed to schedule a bar fight this evening, it appeared I was the only entertainment. Entrepreneur that he was, it surprised me he wasn’t charging admission. Here for one night only, see Susan Wade’s hopes and dreams flushed down the toilet as she performs unsurpassed acts of stupidity while getting sloshed. I should surely merit a two dollar cover charge.

“Did I just say that out loud?” Laughter. Evidently.

As it was a Saturday night, Pete was helping his cousin. And though he’d spent the majority of his time talking to customers, he was keeping a watchful eye on me—understandably so, given my talent for starting trouble. I was good at that; wore it like a damn coat. Mona, my faithful companion continued with the patting. She was like a golden retriever or a beagle or some kind creature with a heart of pure gold. She deserved better than me—a better friend. But I wasn’t going to be her friend, was I? I wasn’t going to be anyone’s friend ever again.

A man I hadn’t seen before stopped me as I staggered to the bathroom. Actually, I didn’t know if I’d seen him before or not. I didn’t see a lot of people. If they weren’t customers or those I was inadvertently forced to deal with, I suppose I looked right through them—like air.

“Whatcha drinking, darlin’?” He was a North Carolina boy, no doubt about that.

“Tequila,” I said proudly.

“How ’bout I get you a fresh one?” he offered. He was cute…I think.

“I’ve got all I need over there,” I said, pointing to the table he couldn’t see for the crowd. “I’d offer you some, but I’m not sharing tonight. You’re welcome to come join the party, though. I hear it’s a good one.” Looking a bit confused, he glanced in that general direction then back to me.

“Maybe ya’d like a change of scenery.”

“I would. I mean, I am.” I wasn’t really sure what I was saying at this point. “I need to pee,” I finally announced with some degree of certainty. He began laughing.

“I like yew.”

“Good to know somebody does. Now, if you don’t mind,” I said, casting off from his firmly muscled chest, “I’m going in there.” I nodded toward the bathroom door.

“I mind,” said a low gravelly voice from nearby.

Stopping dead, I propped against the edge of his table and stared at him for a moment, summoning his name. Then I barked, “Shut up, Vic Jr.!” He laughed loudly and then smiled warmly at the woman with whom he was sitting; a large-breasted redhead. I was glad to see him with someone. Everyone needs a little happiness, even if it’s just for a night. I introduced myself, shook her hand enthusiastically, and then continued my pilgrimage.

“You’re a firecracker, aren’t ya?” Who said that? I turned around. It was that guy again. I hadn’t gotten far, but I’d managed to forget him already. Scowling, I dragged a chair from Vic Jr.’s table, apologizing to his date several times, and placed it in the center of the dance floor. Then I climbed up so everyone could see me and yelled at the top of my lungs, “I’m not a firecracker, I am a popsicle, dammit! Can’t anyone understand that? Pete, why doesn’t anybody ever get that right?” A smile played on his lips and he shook his head.

“Aw, c’mon down, girl, and we’ll dance. Here, let me help ya.” The theoretically attractive guy offered his hand. I had to give him credit, he was trying awfully hard.

“Whoa,” I squealed as my knees buckled. I landed squarely in his arms. He was big—maybe a marine who’d lost his way.

“That’s better,” he said, laughing. “But dancin’s probably out for yew. How ’bout ya come home with me instead. I’ll take real good care of ya. Promise.” He smiled innocently, and I patted his cheek. Then I turned his face in the directing of The Pole.

“Do you see that sign over there? The one at the bottom. Do you see that one?”

“Yeah,” he responded.

“That’s me! And I’m not allowed to go home with people. See?” He read the sign.

“It don’t say ya can’t go home with people, darlin’, it just says ya can’t drive.” He had a nice, good-natured laugh.

“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, and thanks for the offer and all that, but—hey, I said thanks!” I gasped. Smiling, he nodded. “I know, right? Ryan said I shouldn’t say that word, but he can rot in Hell!” I looked up in rapturous delight. “Thanks!” I said it once more. “But all I want to do tonight is drink. Come closer, I want to tell you something.” I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, “You’re cute. I know you are. And I know for a fact there are some really sweet girls here who’d love to dance with you or sleep with you, or whatever. I’m just not one of them.” Then, I threw my head back and laughed loudly.

Suddenly, Pete was there. “Hey, man, tonight’s not the night for this one. In fact, she might actually be dangerous,” he said, chuckling. “Here, let me take her off your hands.” The next thing I knew I was in Pete’s arms. I lay my head against his familiar shoulder and breathed him in. Oh, this felt nice.

“Sorry. Are you her boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Noo. I don’t believe she’s in the market for one of those right now,” he answered jovially.

“Damn straight!” I yelled out.

“Susie-Q,” Pete said, looking down at me, “we need to hang a warnin’ sign around your neck before somebody gets hurt.”

“I know,” I replied, giggling. He shook his head and grinned down at me. His eyes were so beautiful. “It’s about time to take ya home, anyway.”

“I’m just fine. Whatever they dish out, I can take! Don’t worry about ol’ Susan. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

“I know ya don’t. You’re tough as nails.”

“That’s right,” I replied, saluting him. He carried me back to the table and retrieved my purse.

“Did you know you’re very strong?” I asked, squeezing his shoulder. Pete snorted.

“Ya hardly weigh a thing.”

“I can’t trust anybody, do you know that?”

“I know, sweetheart,” he replied.

The room started spinning. I closed my eyes and buried my face into Pete’s chest. It was warm and solid, and I liked the throbbing sound his heart made. And he had one, too—a real one that wasn’t black as night and sloshing with oil. I was only half listening as he and Mona spoke.

“What are we gonna do?” she asked him anxiously. She was always anxious when it came to me. I was going to give her an ulcer.

“She’s gonna have to work through this one herself. Nobody can do it for her,” Pete replied. “As bad as it looks, tonight was a good start. Give her time, she’ll be alright.”

“But you don’t know those people. They’re horrid. And what they did to her…” Mona’s voice trailed off.

“She’s not gonna get knocked down that easy. It’s just not her style.” Pete jostled me with his darling chuckle.

“Hell no,” I mumbled, opening my eyes. Mona’s face was suddenly right above me, the tips of her hair tickling my cheek.

“Goodnight, honey,” she said.

“I love you, Mona.” She smiled and shook her head.

We were on the move. Without setting me down, Pete grabbed the tequila bottle and “’scused us” through the crowd. It was like being on an amusement park ride.

“Where are we going now?”

“To your car.”

“No way! I’m staying here all night. Give me back that bottle—it’s mine! I’m not finished drinking yet!”

“Yeah ya are, sweetheart. Management’s cuttin’ ya off.” He set it on the counter, and Jimbo tossed him my keys.

“Hey!” I yelled, watching the shiny metal mass arc through the air. “Traitor!” I cast an evil glare at Jimbo. “You can’t make me leave,” I said, trying to wriggle out of Pete’s arms. Finally, he set me down. “Thank you,” I hissed, dramatically straightening my shirt and adjusting my shorts. I didn’t remember the floor being quite so uneven, but I was absolutely certain I could make it back to the booth if I concentrated. I started my journey.

“I hate to do this to ya, but ya leave me no choice.” Pete bit down on my key ring and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of sweet potatoes.

“You brute! Put me down this instant!” Loud laughter and whooping followed us to the exit. “Y’all shut up!” I yelled. “Hey! I said y’all. Pete, did you hear me? Y’all. What a strange word. Don’t you think it’s strange? Very convenient, though.” He didn’t respond but I felt vibrations against my stomach. He set me down beside my ugly-assed Carolina Blue car, opened his lips and caught the keys in his hand. My car beeped flirtatiously.

“You’re getting regular gas next time,” I said, threatening the harlot.

Pete opened the passenger door and raised his eyebrows. Well, he could wait all night! I folded my arms and prepared for a stare down. Smirking at my mutinous glare, he patiently waited me out. After what seemed like ten million valiant minutes, or more probably a few seconds, I conceded with a huff and climbed in.

“This is a precision instrument, you know,” I warned, as he slid back the seat and settled himself.

“No sweetheart, you totaled your Beemer, remember? This is a Toyota. I think I can handle it.”

“My Beemer,” I moaned. “I loved that car.”

“I know ya did, Susie-Q. It’s in car heaven now,” he replied, placating me as he clicked my seatbelt buckle.

“Are you ever going to stop calling me ‘Susie-Q’?”

“I doubt it very seriously.”

“It bugs the shit out of me, you know,” I grumped as he backed out.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, grinning.

Once in my condo, Pete steered me upstairs. “Okay, time for bed.”

I cocked an eyebrow and looked at him. “Is this how you get women in bed? Wait for them to get drunk then drag them home?”

“Not usually, but it’s workin’ for me tonight,” he replied, shooting me a million-dollar smile. “Now to bed with ya.” He pointed me in the direction of my floral comforter and whacked me lightly on the bottom. Instead of obeying, I turned around and pressed my body against his.

“Thanks for taking care of me…again. Do you notice you’re always doing that?”

“Yeah, it’s my new hobby,” he replied, smiling down at me.

“You have a lot of those, I’ve noticed.” I slid my hands up the firm planes of his chest.

“A lot more since you came to town,” he added, chuckling.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him. “I really like you, Pete. Did you know that?”

He wrapped his arms lightly around my waist. “Not that you’ll remember, but I really like you, too.”

“Do you know you smell wonderful?” I nuzzled into the base of his neck, breathing in his scent. He snorted.

“No.”

“Mmm…always.”

“Okay, it’s really time for bed now.” Ignoring him, I kissed his neck then brushed my lips up to the hollow under his ear.

“Oh no,” he said, trying to extract himself. I locked my wrists and trailed slow deliberate kisses down the edge of his jaw. His exhale was almost a moan. “Susan, please don’t do this to me.”

Disregarding his plea, I dragged my mouth to his, kissing those full and wonderful lips; so soft, so firm. After a halfhearted attempt to resist, he yielded and wrapped his arms tightly around me, pulling my body solidly against his. Suddenly he kissed me back with a fire I wasn’t expecting, and I ignited like a blowtorch. I wove my fingers into that soft hair I’d dreamt of, and as our kisses became more urgent, followed the contours of his back, appreciating the broadness of his shoulders and the way his ridged muscles tapered towards his waist. I grasped the hem of his t-shirt and tugged it up. He groaned and pulled away, breaking our blazing kiss.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

He exhaled sharply. “This is a bad idea.”

“Don’t reject me. I can’t handle any more of that this week.”

He gently cupped my face in his hands. “I understand,” he said, searching my eyes. “Believe me, I do. But you’re drunk. And as much as I’d like to throw ya on that bed and bury myself deep inside ya, I’m not gonna take advantage of you like that.”

“Oh come on, Pete,” I bit out, pushing him back with both hands. “Everyone else has.”

He looked through eyes filled with pity. “Yeah sweetheart, I know…I know.” He gathered me back into his chest and embraced me protectively. Then he smoothed my hair with one hand and kissed the top of my head. “But this would be angry, vengeful sex, and ya’d hate me for it in the mornin’.” As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he was probably right. “Don’t be confused,” he continued, looking into my eyes, “I want ya in the worst kinda way. But I need ya sober and with me when we’re together. So let’s just get ya into bed now. The fewer regrets, the better.”

Pouting, I looked at him in frustration. Damn him for being the gentleman! I needed someone in my bed to hold me and let me cry. And yes, I wanted someone inside me to make me forget about everything. And I really didn’t want him to stop kissing me like that.

“You’re hateful!” I slurred. “And I—” In the middle of forming my next insult, my stomach lurched. Yelping, I covered my mouth and ran flat out to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time; all that tequila and nothing to eat. Shit….just shit! Pete held back my hair until I had nothing left but dry heaves.

“That’s gross!” I choked out.

“Yeah, but you’ll feel better now, and you can sleep.” I rinsed my mouth, and he forced me to drink some water.

♥

The next morning was painfully bright. My mouth felt stuffed with a wad of really nasty tasting cotton candy. The covers were crumpled and half knocked off, but I was fully clothed. I didn’t remember getting into bed. In fact, everything was a bit fuzzy. As I lay mustering the strength to move, last night came back like wind-swept rain. I remembered drinking a lot, saying all kinds of stupid things, and embarrassing Mona. Then somehow I got back here…and Pete was in my bedroom kissing me…and it was good! Panicked, I rechecked my state of dress and convinced myself we probably hadn’t slept together.

“Okay…Good,” I said out loud.

Though time was a random thing at the moment, the numbers might anchor me. I rolled on my side, too tired to lift my aching head, and stared at the blurry alarm clock. After a moment, I realized there was a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water beside it. I smiled and shook my head—a monumentally bad idea—and reached for the bottle.

Sloth-like, I moved to the bathroom, spurred on by the need to brush my teeth. Once there, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. My reflection screeched, “Duck!” as the whole week crashed down upon me like a meteor. How had all of this happened? What was I going to do? What is that stench?

In a sudden rush of panic, the question foremost in my mind was: Could I ever set foot in the Frog again? Oh, that would be a humbling experience! And even after all that had happened, I still wasn’t comfortable with the whole “humble” thing. What started as light laughter, quickly transformed into a full-throated cackle as I felt myself gently slipping into mental illness. I went downstairs.

After a fruitful search, I finally found my car keys. They were in an unthinkable location: My purse. Though the only reason I’d actually leave this condo today was to find an urgent care clinic, I needed some tangible sense of control. After showering off the foul smell clinging to my body like a vat of leeches, I pulled on my most comfy pajamas and curled up on the overstuffed couch, nibbling crackers I’d found in the back of a cabinet.

With the volume one notch above mute, I flipped through fifteen million stations, eventually finding something utterly riveting; The Nature Channel was running an insect marathon. Currently, a fascinating documentary about Black Widows was in progress. When the spider viciously fanged her mate, I smiled—the first since Thursday. During a commercial break, I called Mona to apologize. When she didn’t answer, I assumed she’d washed her hands of me, but then I realized it was Sunday morning. She was at church praying for me, or more likely for some way to get rid of me; no sin there.

A few program segments later, while voyeuristically engrossed in rare footage of a Praying Mantis caught in the act of eating her lover, morsel by tasty morsel, I was jolted by a skull-piercing sound. I groaned pitifully and clambered off the couch.

“Hey! It’s me,” Mona said unnecessarily, holding up a giant cup of coffee.

“I was afraid you’d never speak to me again after last night. Come in, please.”

“I probly should’ve called first before showin’ up, but soon as I stepped out of church, I had a vision ya needed company. And some coffee,” she added with a rueful smile. “Come to think of it, I guess maybe I shouldn’t’ve rung the doorbell, either, huh?”

“I’m really glad to see you. Thanks for the coffee,” I said, taking a sip. “I haven’t gotten around to making any, yet.” Mona had added a dollop of milk just the way I liked it. The texture felt silky on my pickled tongue, but my stomach muttered that dairy products seemed like maybe not such a good idea right now.

“Oh here, I imagine ya probly need to get some food in your belly.” She glanced distastefully at the piece of half-eaten toast I’d graduated to, before proudly holding up a white waxed-paper bag speckled with tiny green polka dots. Large red cursive letters spelled out two of the more beautiful words in the modern English language: Krispy and Kreme. Unless this was some terribly demented joke, there could be only one thing inside. Mona smiled when my eyes lit. “I brought ya a little taste of home.”

I ripped open the flap and bit into the glazed doughnut with reckless abandon. It was almost fresh, but at the moment, one three days old and rock hard would have been just fine with me.

“Oh Mona,” I said with my mouth full. “Where did you find Krispy Kremes?”

“I’ll never tell,” she said coyly. She scrutinized me as I chewed. “Ya don’t look so good. Why don’t ya sit down.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “Did somethin’ die in here?”

“I don’t know, but it’s coming from the laundry room.”

The doughnut tasted great going down, but nausea was rearing its ugly head. I resumed my embryonic position, and she nestled into the chair caddy corner to my deathbed. “My life sucks,” I said, staring at the TV, imagining that what was left of the dead Mantis’ carcass was actually Ryan. I snatched up a tissue and wiped an errant tear. Then I blew my nose loudly before tossing it on the carpet with the others.

“I guess it looks that way right now,” she said softly, “but I don’t know what ya could’ve done different.”

“You mean other than not date a worm or choose a scorpion for a best friend.” I was insect inspired.

“Well, sometimes people don’t show their true colors right away.”

“I knew their colors, Mona! For years, I knew them. I just ignored the parts I didn’t want to see. I assumed I was immune to their venom, or something.” I laughed bitterly and stared back at the screen. We sat in silence until there was nothing left of Ryan’s body except one jagged green leg. Pleased with the final outcome, I hit the off button.

“I don’t want to go back to the bar,” I said, rising onto my elbow. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Susan, do ya really think you’re the first person who’s left there drunk off their butt? Gosh, that happens at least once a week.” She reached over and patted my arm. “You were pretty spectacular, though,” she added, giggling. “Everyone got a real kick out of watchin’ Pete haul ya out of there. You sure can kick and scream with the best of ’em,” she mused.

“Please tell me that didn’t happen.”

“Oh yeah, it did. And it was awesome!” She grinned hugely.

“Great,” I muttered.

“Hey, at least ya didn’t toss your cookies in the parking lot, or worse, in your car—ya didn’t, did ya?” she asked scandalously, her eyes suddenly round.

“I don’t think so. I guess I should be grateful for miracles, no matter how small,” I said with a weak smile. I didn’t tell her I lost them as soon as I got home, and possibly on Pete. I also didn’t tell her I tried to seduce him, nor would I. And when I saw Pete again, I suppose I could pretend I didn’t remember. I pushed those gruesome thoughts from my mind. “It was really nice of Pete to drive me home.”

“Yep, he’s a keeper,” she chirped.

“And thanks for picking him up. It was very sweet. I think I sort of passed out.”

“I didn’t pick him up,” she said, shaking her head.

“Oh. Well, thank Jimbo for me, then.” I didn’t want to look that man in the eyes for a long while.

“Jimbo didn’t come get him, either,” she said gently, as though I were a simpleton.

“Well, how did he get back to the bar, then?”

“He walked.”

“Walked? He should have called someone.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. But then Jimbo said sometimes ya just need a good long walk to clear your head. That’s true, ya know.”

“He probably hates me,” I sighed.

“I doubt that.” We were quiet for a few moments, and then she stood. “Listen, I know you’re puttin’ on a good face and all, but ya probly need to sleep this hangover off. I’m gonna be on my way.” She walked to the door. I roused myself and followed.

“I really do appreciate your coming by, Mona—more than you’ll ever know—and thanks for the doughnut. I may survive the day now,” I said, grimacing as my tummy rumbled angrily.

“It was nothin’.” Then her expression changed and she whispered fervently, “Susan, I really hate those people for what they did to ya.” Her fists balled by her sides; anger did not fit that cherub face at all. “I know it’s not right to hate anybody, but I really do. I tried prayin’ about it, but…well, maybe I need to try some more.”

I smiled at her. “They’re not worth it.”

She took a deep breath and her face relaxed into an expression more befitting her lovely features. She lightly placed her hand on my shoulder and looked at me very seriously. “I know you’re hurtin’ bad right now, but I want ya to know that ya really do have friends here. And when you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here for ya.” Then, without warning, she flung her arms around me and hugged me fiercely. “Susan, you’re my best friend and I love ya, girl.” When she finally released me, she laughed awkwardly and wiped a tear from her eye. Then she turned and left without a backward glance.

That’s when the real waterworks started for me. But they weren’t born from hate or even self-pity—at least these weren’t. They were evoked by a formerly unknown feeling. In the midst of all my despair, I suddenly felt…blessed.

27

Memorial Day Cookout

The ill effects of playing self-anesthetist had subsided by Monday. My gas tank was empty, and because I’d run over the sunglasses Kirsten had given me until they were nothing but shiny black splinters, there was that whole emergency replacement thing. I tossed the receipt to my favorite gas station attendant, ol’ Chippy, and left, looking fairly stupid in my new shades.

The marine base across the street was formally dressed in red, white, and blue, and traffic on 70 was unexpectedly heavy, most cars having out-of-state tags; tourists. I rolled my eyes. So caught up in my personal drama, I’d forgotten today was Memorial Day. And because of it, there was tangible enthusiasm in the air, the exhilaration that comes with summer, the anticipation of sun, sand, and waves. I sensed it, but I didn’t share it. I’d felt that way once—the giddiness of going on a beach vacation. I’d felt a lot of things once. I felt little now.

Returning from my few errands, I took to the task of exorcizing my suitcase and closet, removing every scrap of clothing Ryan had ever given me. Unfortunately, the ceremony wouldn’t be complete until my next visit to Philadelphia, where a few winter items—including that stupid scarf, awaited the electric chair; no one would ever tie me up again—ever! With the help of some very sharp scissors, I’d shredded that ridiculous black negligee while there. And though it had taken several toilet flushes, it now brewed in the rancid bowels of “The City of Brotherly Love”.Ha!

As it was a national holiday, my determination to uphold the traditions set forth by our founding forefathers was simply patriotic. I performed my civic duty by having a Memorial Day cookout! After neatly stacking the charcoal briquettes into an Egyptian pyramid, I doused it with half a can of lighter fluid. With the carefree toss of a match, an inferno exploded, almost singeing my brows.

In line with the finest of Parisian meals, I began the menu with an amuse-bouche—something rich and flavorfully power-packed to rouse my appetite; the red silk blouse. Over coals glowing the very color of the garment itself, I seared what silkworms had so laboriously woven. In a savagely beautiful swirl, the material writhed and twisted as an orgy of orange and yellow flames licked at it. As intended, after savoring its essence to the last cinder, I was left ravenous. I marched with purpose to my bedroom and gathered up the other items awaiting cremation—among them, a shrieking handful of lacy thongs.

When every item of clothing had been reduced to ash, and the briquettes resembled the soil around the edges of my patio, I tossed a large foil-wrapped potato on the embers and called it a day.

♥

Bob phoned Tuesday morning. Of course, he’d learned of the news within five minutes of firing up his computer, if not before. That he called rather than emailed was shocking in and of itself, but what he said left me dumbstruck: Was I alright? Did I need to take a personal day? As National Chair of “Citizens Against Ryan Vittorio”, he also personally welcomed me as its latest inductee. Battle lines had been drawn years ago; I was just no longer confused about on which side I stood. I thanked him profusely. No, I didn’t need personal time. Yes, I was just fine. I stared at the phone in disbelief after he ended the call.

Though Bob had been shockingly sympathetic, Mona had set off on a very different path: The road to perdition. I’d found her pacing like a caged bobcat when I arrived this morning. And she was still at it! Every so often she let out a horrified gasp or muttered something seething at her screen. I smiled ruefully, certain the gossip mill had embellished all details with joyful abandon, the email frenzy like sharks attacking chum. Simply put: Mona needed to pray some more.

“I’m gonna kill him!” she ranted at lunch. “I’m gonna beat the livin’ tar out of him if I ever see him again!” Mona’s closet temper was out in all its glory and her accent was keeping pace. “I knew this’d eventually happen! I knew it! They can’t stand him in Atlanta, ya know,” she growled, popping up from her folding chair to pace the break room. “The girls said he used ta…oh, it doesn’t matter.” She jerked her hand dismissively, oblivious to the cherry tomato she’d just launched across the room. “I just hope he gets everythin’ that’s comin’ to him! I didn’t realize…I just thought…ya didn’t tell me what he—they—I mean…not all of it anyway.” Fork still in hand, she crossed her arms over her chest and studied me with a mixture of righteous indignation and immense sympathy.

Turning ice sculpture at her words, I feared Ryan had boasted about our nocturnal activities, but then I thawed. He was an asshole, but not a stupid one. The last thing he wanted was a human resources inquiry—I didn’t want that either. I simply wanted to forget, though I doubted I ever would. No, someone had caught Friday’s full performance and unleashed the account. Either Denise had hovered, or she genuinely knew her boss. I laughed, despite myself.

“If there’s any kind of cosmic justice, he’ll get it in the end—Kirsten too if she stays with him long enough. But knowing her, she won’t,” I said, dumping my half-eaten salad in the trash. Mona trailed behind me, spewing acid.

Until now I’d ignored the mounting list of well-wishing emails, deleting most without opening them. I had no idea I had so many friends, but that’s what fame will do. When my text tone sounded, I glanced at the message, and a large knot formed in my stomach; Ryan was fumbling for damage control. After snorting, I showed Mona. She emitted a full-blown gasp. I went with a very mature Fuck you and the whore you ride on. After hitting send, I threw my phone across the room, where its pieces gracefully landed, thanks to my many hours of practice, directly in the trash can. Ahh…closure!

“I’ll go order ya another one,” she said, promptly leaving.

Wednesday, Pete called. In light of what had happened in my bedroom, I was surprised to hear from him. I touched my lips reflexively, but then quickly jerked my fingers away. “I just wanted to make sure ya were over your hangover,” he said in his signature jovial voice. I imagined him leaning back in his leather chair, smiling as he teased me.

“Aspirin is my new best friend,” I replied dryly.

“You could do worse.”

Pete then asked me to dinner. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Part of me wanted to see him again. The other part was very afraid. I wasn’t ready to subject myself to this new barrage of feelings—ones brewing right under the top layer of my bruised skin. Right now, being near him would only confuse me. I declined.

After muddling through my excuses, he said, “Okay. But if ya need to talk…I’m a pretty good listener.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I replied.

“Why is that?” I could hear his anticipatory grin right through the phone, and I gave him what he wanted.

“Because you never stop talking!”

When his uproarious laughter subsided, he said in all seriousness, “If ya find you’ve changed your mind about the talkin’ part, call me, okay?”

“I will. Thanks.”

I hung up, lost in thought and somewhat bemused, though I never called him back. And after a few days, I stopped talking to Mona about anything other than work. As kind as they’d both been to me, I was quietly shutting them out, switching into protection mode. I would never let myself be hurt again.

The following weeks blurred as I fought to lose myself in work. Unfortunately, all those miles of flat, empty highway afforded me few distractions and excess processing time. Him I could do little about. At my professional level, he was untouchable. I was not. Bob’s promise to meet Ryan’s future sabotage attempts like a charging bull elephant was only somewhat comforting. My former lover was a ruthless and powerful man; I was merely a pawn.

Her…Oh yes! I could get to her. I would become her professional equal and fight her with an ink-filled sword over budgets and personnel; my zealot’s mission; my sweetest form of revenge. To earn that right, my numbers would soar even if it killed me.

Mona had been very polite and patient, not prying or prodding me to talk, and after the initial dust settled and a new corporate scandal made mine old news, she fell back into her work, helping me push our sales team to its limits. And because the far-reaching cutbacks announced during Quarterlies threatened even our remote outpost, the men had become thoroughly committed to my crusade. Then one fine day, Mona snapped…

“I know it’s none of my business—well, yes it is, too!”

“I’m fine,” I barked before she could ask.

“No, you’re not.”

“I said, I’m fine.” Busy ignoring my life, I refused to open the floodgates. She continued berating me as I stormed to my office.

“You’ve been workin’ nonstop, you’ve barely spoken to me—except when ya want somethin’, and you’ve had a scowl fixed on your face since…well, for three weeks. And ya haven’t been back to the bar even once. Susan, ya can’t just pretend nothin’ happened, and ya can’t just stop livin’!”

I hurled my briefcase against the wall, and yelled, “What do you want from me?!” Her mouth fell open as echoes of those very words stabbed me like a blade. “I’m sorry, Mona. I’m really sorry!” I dropped my head in my hands. “I shouldn’t have growled. It’s just…it’s just if I talk about it, it’ll be real, and I can’t handle real right now. I’m sorry, I just need to work.”

“Ya need to blow off steam. The guys do, too. You’re runnin’ ’em into the ground with not one word of thanks, and that’s not right.” I fell back in my chair and looked up at her.

“I guess it’s not.”

“You should do somethin’ for ‘em,” she scolded, channeling my mother. At least she didn’t mention anything about thank you notes.

Surrendering, I let Mona set up a happy hour for my sales team at the Frog—quellesurprise! This would kill two birds with one stone—three, if you counted a turkey as a bird. And as wrong as I knew it was, I really wanted to see that turkey. And not just to apologize, though that was on the agenda, but for really self-destructive reasons. Planning the event also afforded Mona a great opportunity to discuss the details with Jimbo adnauseum. I imagined his side of the conversation. “Yep…uh huh, yeah…okay.”

I smiled as I pulled into the lot. Pete’s truck was parked in front of the sign I’d commissioned before leaving for Philly, blistering mad. Still in his office clothes, he was waiting expectantly at the counter. And man did those pants hang well on him. I walked over to say hello. He placed a beer in one hand and a box tied up with a yellow ribbon in the other.

Raising my eyebrows, I accepted the gift along with the mischievous smile that trailed like a crepe paper streamer behind it.

“My birthday’s not for several months.”

“It’s not a birthday present. It’s just…somethin’.” Remembering the last gift he’d given me, I looked at him suspiciously. “I had it designed for ya. It’s an original,” he said, grinning. “And it’s practical just like ya like.” I shook my head, imagining what was in store. “Well, go ahead, open it!” I tore off the wrapping, lifted the lid, and then barked out a laugh. It was the first time I’d actually laughed—the real kind—since my return, and it felt good.

Just settling into their first pitcher, my sales guys jerked their heads in unison to see what was so funny. The black t-shirt had a large neon-pink Popsicle on the front sandwiched between the words Cool and Atlantic Beach, North Carolina—one of those tacky souvenir shirts you could get anywhere down here. It was the back that was customized. Lined unevenly across the mid-region, big white letters spelled out: I AM A POPSCICLE DAMMIT. As his signature fell underneath, the handiwork literally had Vic Jr.’s name written all over it. I held it up for the team to see. They laughed, having no idea why it was funny.

“It is unique,” I said, grinning back at Pete before darting for the bathroom. I stopped midway, ran back, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and then disappeared to change. Some thirty-eight seconds later, I emerged wearing my new apparel. I did a quick runway model pose and mouthed “thanks” to Pete, before joining my associates.

It was pretty lively for a Thursday, mainly because we were there. Pete got hold of Jimbo’s sound system and cranked up some very fine rhythm and blues. Before long, our crew was joking and laughing and having a great time, and I smiled at Mona, who nodded back in an I told you so kind of way. She had gone all out too, even having the event catered. Very clearly a minor, I was deviously pleased Jimbo had allowed the pizza boy to fully enter the building. From his expression, this was his first glimpse at a real den of iniquity, and his wide eyes scoured every inch of it before being ushered out.

With the rare presence of semi-real foodstuff, most everyone in the bar joined our party, and before long we were all talking over one another. When Joe Pat started singing—if with an honest conscience you could call it that, I ordered several more pitchers to drown his sorrows and save our ears. It turned out this was the first “sales meeting” ever held outside the confines of an office building, and I realized if I continued driving these boys into a lather selling systems, we’d need many more.

While Pete cheerfully kept the beer flowing and the popcorn popping, one Jimbo Skarren spent the evening engaged in serious target practice, shooting disgruntled missiles at the group. And I knew why. A certain member of my roster was seriously hitting on one Mona Taylor, and for once she seemed totally oblivious to Jimbo’s presence. Ha!

Reeves Crump had begun mercilessly teasing Mona the moment he’d arrived, and she was lapping up the attention. I discovered the two went way back—like, all the way to college, back. And I was so very glad Jimbo was jealous. Mona had already thrown too much of her life away waiting for his lazy ass. Maybe a little dancing would force him into action.

As if reading my mind, Pete cut over to “beach music”.

“Time for a little shaggin’!” Reeves yelled, grabbing Mona’s hand and dragging her, giggling, to the dance floor. Feigning objection, she swung into his arms with minimal persuasion and a solid shove from me. Feeling generally pleased with myself, I’d just leaned over a chair to give Gene Daniel grief when an arm snaked around my waist. I turned to find Pete’s face six inches from mine.

“Well, hello,” I said.

“How about a dance, little girl?”

“I normally don’t dance,” I said, doing my best Mae West, “but for you, I’ll make an exception.” He pulled me into his arms and I was spinning before I knew it. General Johnson and his band were crooning for us, and I couldn’t stop laughing as Pete twirled me around.

“I haven’t done The Shag in years,” I said. I really couldn’t remember the last time I’d danced at all, come to think of it.

“It’s the official dance of the South, ya know,” Pete said between spins.

“Is it now?”

“Yep. Looks like ya still remember.”

“Like riding a bicycle,” I replied.

“Do ya remember The Pretzel?”

“Vaguely.”

He suddenly whipped me in and out, and I yelped. Then he pulled me around his back and in front of him again, making my body do what it was supposed to without any effort on my part. The next thing I knew I was wrapped in arms and dropped upside down in a full dip. I looked up in surprise, and he laughed with satisfaction, righting me quickly, and twirling me out again.

When that song finished, a slower one came on. Mona pulled away from Reeves and they walked back to the booth. Before I had time to do the same—or even catch my breath, Pete drew me against him and said, “Dance with me.” Actually, he whispered the command in my ear the way he’d done before, and it had the very same effect. I sucked in hard as electricity shot down my spine.

“Well, only because you gave me this shirt,” I replied softly, loosely wrapping my arms around his neck.

“I like my sign,” he remarked. “I’ve never had a personal parking space before. But don’t ya think the “mentally deranged” part is stretching things a little?”

“I was mad at you at the time. Plus, it’s payback for that one,” I said, nodding to the pylon. We swayed around in circles. To escape his enticing gaze, I glanced down at my shirt and the firm chest pressing against it. Stop with the goosebumps! “I really do like the shirt.”

“I hoped ya would. It’s a little big, though.”

“That’s no problem, I’ll just shrink it. I’m great at ruining laundry.”

“Are ya, now?”

“Mm hm. How about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m good at laundry—floors too.”

“I remember,” I said, smiling up at him.

“And bathrooms,” he added with a taunting smirk.

“Oh no! You didn’t!” I groaned, shaking my head. “I wondered how those towels got into my machine. I’m so sorry, Pete.”

“It happens to the best of us at some point or another.”

I smiled ruefully. “I’m lucky I didn’t get alcohol poisoning that night.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t’ve let that happen.”

“Well, I drank nearly half a bottle of tequila.” He laughed heartily.

“What’s so funny?”

“The first time ya went to the bathroom, we watered it down.”

“What?”

“A lot,” he added, snickering. “You’re a complete lightweight, and we knew ya wouldn’t notice, anyway.”

“Bastards!” The first song bled into another, and we continued to sway. “I never thanked you for helping me home that night,” I said.

“Well, somebody had to get ya out of here before we lost another star.”

“Oh, it was for the bar’s sake, huh?”

“Completely,” he said, winking.

“Well, thank you, anyway. It was very kind.”

“You’re very welcome.”

My eyes accidentally traveled to his full lips. “I believe I tried to kiss you that night,” I whispered.

“Actually, ya succeeded,” he whispered back. “But that one definitely didn’t count.”

“Good.” I dramatically wiped my brow before returning my hand to his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything…else…did I?” I asked, wincing. He smiled with a glint. “Oh crap. What else did I do?” He raised his eyebrow at me. I remember wanting him—badly, but after the kiss… I started chewing on my lower lip. “What else,” I finally demanded.

“Don’t ya remember?”

“No,” I said in a small voice. His expression made me squirm, but he held me tight in the soft cage of his arms.

“Well, after ya hurled all over your bathroom, ya passed out on me—stone cold. I had to carry ya to bed.”

Though relieved on some level, I buried my head in his chest. “I’m so pathetic.”

“Susie-Q, I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that response from a kiss before.”

“Well, I like breaking new ground.”

“I’d be disappointed if ya didn’t.” He turned us a little to the music, and then said, “It was a blessing, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“After the way ya kissed me…” He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “A man can only take so much temptation.” His lips quirked in an impish smile, and I rolled my eyes. Then his expression became serious, and he appeared to be carefully choosing his words. “The next time ya kiss me, I don’t want it to be an accident, and I don’t want it to be a drunken mistake.” He pulled me closer and very deliberately brushed my cheek with his lips. Then he whispered softly in my ear, “I want it to count.” Oh my…

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “We’ll just see if there is a next time.”

He twirled me around once more as the song faded, and then escorted me back to the gaggle. Before releasing my waist completely, he leaned in and said in a low and very arrogant voice, “Oh, there will be.” Then he threw up a hand and shouted, “Night y’all,” to the crowd. I stood gaping as I watched him go. Just before he stepped through the door, he turned back and winked.

The “meeting” broke up an hour or so later, everyone leaving before their wives started calling. Mona and I saw them out, and then Reeves escorted her, all smiles, to her car. Sporting a self-satisfied grin, I returned to the counter to settle the tab. Jimbo was busy drying glasses that were already dry.

“What’s the damage, barkeep?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbled.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, leaning over the counter. “Since this little mixer’s on my company’s dime, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t paid for a single drink since I moved to Havelock, why don’t you write me up a nice big bill, so I can turn in the receipt. And if it’ll make you feel any better, you can leave Mona’s tab out and INTech will spot you a fat tip in its place. How’s that?”

I could tell he wanted to protest, but I crossed my arms and stared him down until he acquiesced. I don’t know who he thought he was dealing with; I was every bit as stubborn as the next North Carolinian.

After glancing at the bill, which was still too low, I said, “We had a great time tonight, by the way. We’ll do this again.” Nodding, one business person to another, I slid the ridiculously generous receipt towards him. He glanced at it and snorted. Then the Devil took hold of me. “I think Mona had an especially nice time, don’t you?”

“Sure looked that way,” he said irritably.

“It sure did. See ya later Jimbo.” He simply grunted.

With Pete’s arrogant words still ringing in my ear, I lay in bed all hot and bothered. Damn that man!

♥

“What would ya say to a picnic on the beach with a notorious womanizer?” Pete asked, as soon as I answered the phone a few days later. I laughed wholeheartedly but told him the truth.

“I can’t handle your pity right now.”

“I offer no pity,” he replied. “And my motives are completely self-servin’. I promise ya that.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “Susan, I just want to talk to ya a bit, nothin’ else. And if ya don’t feel like it when we get there, then we’ll just eat.”

“I don’t know about the talking thing,” I said, wondering if Mona had put him up to it.

“I promise the food’ll be better than last time.” When I still didn’t respond, he said, “I’ll throw in a bottle of wine to sweeten the deal. Good wine.”

I sighed.

“Alright, ya drive a hard bargain. Dessert, too. Now that’s my final offer.”

I thought it over. Spending an evening at the beach with an obnoxious, but otherwise, very handsome man wouldn’t be the worst thing I’d ever done, even if I didn’t feel persuaded to open up.

“You’re relentless.”

“It’s my finest quality,” he replied with a chuckle.

We parked in the access lot at the edge of the National Seashore, and after crossing the dunes, turned opposite the houses and walked up the hard sand. It was high tourist season, but after a few minutes, we were by ourselves. Pete unveiled what turned out to be a small gourmet feast. We consumed it with a decent amount of pleasantly meaningless conversation. We then packed up the basket and contentedly watched the waves locked in their eternal battle with the shore. Eventually, Pete broached the topic I was hoping to avoid.

“So, I didn’t buy your act the other night.”

“Saw right through me, did you?”

“It’s not that you’re not a good actress,” he said wryly, “it’s just that from what little I know about life, I can’t imagine anyone gettin’ over a blow like that so easily.” He cut his eyes in my direction. “Unless none of it mattered to ya in the first place. Knowing you, though, I doubt very much that’s the case.”

I wanted to tell him I was tougher than I looked and I could take anything life dished out, and a whole load of other ridiculous garbage, but I was sick of lying to myself. I wasn’t the Amazon I thought I was—or wanted to be at any rate. Maybe I wasn’t tough at all. One thing I did know was I’d never been more alone in my entire life. My world looked as desolate right now as the surface of the ocean in front of me. So I did the most grown-up thing I could think of: I deflected.

“I may not be up for any Academy Awards, but I know you didn’t mean any of that crap you said the other night either.” There, all seriousness diffused.

“On that particular subject,” he said, turning to look me full in the face, “yes, I did.” His expression seemed quite sincere…and unnerving…and several other things.

“Oh.”

“Of course, it’s all a matter of your pathetic self-control,” he added, giving me a ridiculous look that made it impossible for me to take him seriously.

“In that case, I advise you not to hold your breath,” I retorted with my own version of an arrogant smile. Fronting or not, there were butterflies flitting around my stomach. His affable expression became solemn again. Damn!

“Now, tell me how you’re really doin’.” His intelligent eyes were clear and focused. I exhaled in surrender. I was raw anyway and getting damn sick of feeling this way.

“I really don’t know, Pete. I have a lot of feelings swirling around inside.” He nodded and continued looking intently. “I don’t have a handle on all of them. I suppose what I feel most is a mixture of anger and betrayal.” He gave me a sad smile then dropped his eyes to the sand between his knees. He picked up a shell and turned it back and forth in his fingers as I spoke.

“I called my mom a few days after I got back. I’m not sure what I expected from her, exactly. I guess you’re supposed to call your parents when life goes to shit.” I chuckled darkly. “She told me I’d had no business being with a Yankee in the first place.” Pete snorted. “That’s Polly Jean Wade for you.” He laughed quietly, and I joined him; there was nothing else to do.

As I poured out the murky liquid in my soul, Pete didn’t interrupt once to give advice or offer up some personal philosophy. He just listened. Only when I’d finished all I was willing to say did he speak.

“I know when I was goin’ through…” He turned his face to the sea. “Well, it takes time. A lot of time. And you’re awfully close to it right now.”

Whether it was the power of the ocean, the invitation to say things out loud, or simply the comfort of sitting beside someone who seemed to give a damn, when I got back to my condo I felt a little more at peace. And that was the nicest gift Pete had ever given me.

28

The Green Flash

“So, what about you and Pete?” Mona asked—no, demanded—right out of the blue.

Oh, there’s a question… This was getting into serious “vow” territory, but no worries, I didn’t have anything to share on the subject, anyway. In fact, there was no subject. I shrugged nonchalantly.

“You two sure were havin’ fun on the dance floor,” she said in an annoying singsong fashion.

“So?”

“So there, that’s what,” she said, cramming a bite of salad in her mouth with a satisfied nod. She crunched loudly as if to accentuate her point, whatever it was.

“Have you lost your mind?” I said incredulously. “My romantic world just blew up like a cruise missile. The very last thing I need is to get involved with another man. In fact,” I said, viciously stabbing an olive in retort, “I think I’m finished with men, altogether.” She raised her eyebrows in motherly disbelief. “Mona, there is no me and Pete, okay? There’s just me.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know you’re still hurtin’, and life probly looks pretty awful to ya right now, but there’s a man standin’ right in front of ya—a really good one that’d do anything in the world for ya. I don’t know if I’d be in such a hurry to throw him away. Besides, I know ya like him.” I snorted derisively.

“I tolerate him. Besides, even if he can kiss like a paid professional,” I said, unable to hide my smile, “chasing me is just a game to him. His interests don’t lie far beyond the kill.” Her eyes flared as she gawked at me, and I realized I’d failed to mention the kissing part until now. Oops. “And as for an actual relationship with Pete—pah!” I laughed cynically. “If that’s what you’re hinting at, you’re well past Carolina-crazy—you need professional help! I’ll go call someone for you right now!” I hopped up, and she rolled her eyes.

“And even if you’re right on some of your points,” I continued. “I don’t know what kind of future you think we could have—not that it would ever come to that anyway. I’ll be gone in a few months, and it’s not like he’d follow me. So, there’s your ‘so there’.”

She made a face at me, but then said soberly, “You could try takin’ life one day at a time—live in the now for a little while and see how ya like it. September’s a ways off, yet. Ya never know…”

“I do know! And if you haven’t noticed, I don’t do the ‘now’ thing very well. I set a goal, meet it, then move to the next. That’s how I’ve succeeded. That’s the only way I know how to survive. Besides, I’m not sure how anybody can live that way—you certainly don’t or you would’ve dragged Jimbo home by his ear a long time ago!” She huffed angrily and glared at me. I knew I was being a schmuck, but I didn’t care. My failures were mine.

Since my return, I’d spent untold hours visiting my past, analyzing those failures; summoning them. From this self-mutilating exercise, I realized I’d failed in creating a satisfying personal life—I’d been lying to myself about that for a long time. I suppose I still was. I’d also recognized my longest sustained romantic relationship had been with Ryan, and I‘d freely allowed him to manage its entirety around his schedule.

In a sincere attempt to understand why I was amorously-defective, for lack of a better word, I sorted through my dating history—the disasters, the long-running series of jokes. After reliving every awkward, embarrassing, and/or painful encounter, the only explanation I could formulate was that the sum total of me had been so thoroughly damaged by boys and my morbid upbringing, that once the thick scars of adulthood formed, I’d never dared let anyone in again—not deeply, not even Ryan. Add to it the—cough, cough—friend debacle and I could only shudder. I was a failure on so many fronts. In fact, the only area where I didn’t completely suck was my job. And so help me, I wasn’t letting anything screw that up.

Between these fits of despair, a beautiful Southern nuisance had begun haunting me, popping into my mind every chance he got. And one thing was for sure, that man was alive—very much so. At first, I’d dismissed the little pest, but he was persistent as a bad cold, or termites, or the plague or something, and I couldn’t ignore his gnawing for more than a few hours at a time. Worse by ten were the vivid fantasies I’d chalked up to simple escapism. But were they?

Pete was the absolute antithesis of Ryan, and I was physically attracted to him—I’d known that for ages. And if I stopped fighting myself and looked at the situation critically, it would be exceedingly easy to fall into caring for him. Scratch that—I did care for that obnoxious man, and I knew it. But what surprised me most was that what I’d assumed to be guarded feelings—ones that had been slowly building for some time—ones I hadn’t admitted to myself until now—were blatantly obvious to Mona’s eerily clairvoyant self—or the mask I wore was as transparent as the Emperor’s Clothing. Or both.

Okay, so I liked Pete. Fine. Was he attracted to me? Definitely. He’d been quite clear on that subject. But did he have feelings for me past the physical? He seemed to—not in the flowers and candy sort of way, but in the looks and the deeds and the subtle ways I’d chosen to ignore. He’d whole-heartedly and without reserve come to my rescue after the accident, he’d recognized my need for space and time after my Philadelphia disaster—rendering him more perceptive than most of the men on the planet—and he seemed sincere when he told me he was willing to be my friend, if that’s all I wanted.

Was that all I wanted? The prospect of looking past myself and my miserable existence for a little while was alluring, and frankly, a fling with Pete would be fun. But’s that’s all it would ever be—a simple distraction; the unabridged definition of diversion. I didn’t have time for anything more, even if I wanted it—which I absolutely did not!

Mona set down her plastic weapon and put on that sympathy face I was damn sick of seeing. I didn’t want to talk about me anymore. I didn’t want to think about me. I was sick of me.

“Look, I’m sorry about the Jimbo crack,” I said finally. “But while we’re on the subject of men and living and ‘the now’, how’s it really going with you two?”

“Well, we’ve been talkin’ a little more. That’s good, I guess,” she said, shrugging. “But talkin’s talkin’. And that’s all it is. And I’m gettin’ tired of it. But every time I think I’m ready to give up on him, he’ll smile or look at me in a certain way or somethin’, and then I’ll just remind myself he’s shy and needs more time. I’ve been tellin’ myself that for a good long while now, and I’m not sure I believe it anymore.” She sighed dejectedly. “Maybe I’m just foolin’ myself. If he really wanted me, I guess he’d’ve asked me out a long time ago.” She looked absolutely forlorn, and I felt a sympathy face of my own forming.

“Mona, have you ever thought of just asking him out? I mean really, we are in the twenty-first century. Women actually do that, you know.”

She mulled it over for a moment, but then twitched her nose. “No, that wouldn’t be proper.” I chuckled sourly to myself. The Southern cage she lived in made me want to vomit. She gasped suddenly. “But Susan, even if I did do such a thing, what if he said no?” I gave her a pained smirk.

“Then, at least you’d know, and you could get on with your life.”

♥

Pete set three beers on our table and sat down. Mona and I were in the midst of a brainstorming session regarding my junk and what to do with it if I moved out of my Philly apartment, an act I was seriously considering for both mental health and financial reasons.

“I guess ya could move it down here,” she suggested.

“No, there isn’t enough room in my condo, and I’d just have to pack it up again in a few months. Storage! Maybe I’ll just keep it up there in storage.”

“Yeah, but sometimes your stuff gets water damaged, or worse in those places,” Pete interjected.

“I hadn’t thought of that. Other options?” I asked.

“I think movin’ down here permanently is your best bet,” Pete said, pounding his fist on the table like an auctioneer, the matter settled.

“You know that deranged sign out front?” I said, cocking my eyebrow. Then I sighed. “Maybe I’ll just suck it up and keep the damned place until fall.”

“That’s probly not a bad idea,” Mona agreed.

“I brought all my summer clothes down, anyway, so I shouldn’t need to go back until Quarterlies. And now that this region is more stable, I doubt Bob will need to see me until then.” I was praying that was the case. Having to face Kirsten right now might undo me. I wasn’t even sure how I’d handle sitting in the same room with her in September. I closed my eyes and let my mind’s desert winds blow those thoughts away. Besides, there was something rather beguiling to contemplate at the moment—something imminently more consequential than Kirsten, or even the fate of my apartment furnishings…and he was sitting right next to me, his knees casually touching mine.

Smiling smugly at Mona, I announced, “In the spirit of living, I brought my camera back.” Mona looked confused, but Pete’s eyes lit candescently. “So, maybe you could make good on your offer,” I said, fully facing him. “I’d love to catch one of those sunsets you’re always blathering on about.” Mona dropped her eyes and smiled hugely at the table.

“I don’t know…I’m pretty busy. I’ll have to check my calendar,” he replied, an equally large grin spreading across his face.

“I’ll wear my t-shirt,” I offered. “I shrank it and everything.”

“Now, how can I refuse that?”

♥

Mona looked anxious when I passed her desk the next day. I’d spent all morning down at Le Jeune—a new trainee every month; business was good in the military, if you wanted to think of it that way. She pounced on me before I could set down my ICEE.

“Susan!”

“What’s wrong?” I yelped, nearly dumping it on the floor. All that red-stained carpet would look like a murder scene.

“Weyulla…” she said nervously, dragging out syllables that didn’t even exist. She tucked a few strands of hair behind one ear, took a deep breath, and then spilled in a great rush like Niagara Falls.

“Reeves called me this mornin’ and asked me out, and I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said yes, but now I feel guilty and I don’t know what to do, and you gotta help me!” She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled in a burst, slumping her shoulders and looking at me with pleading eyes.

I thought about it for a moment, fighting a demonic smile. “Hmm,” I murmured thoughtfully. “Why did you say yes?”

“I…I don’t know, exactly.” She performed an intricate knitting exercise while gnawing her lip.

“I think you do.”

“Well…he’s cute,” she said, squirming a bit.

“Yes?” I coaxed.

“And he’s loads of fun…”

“Mm hmm,” I encouraged.

“And he is a good dancer,” she said quickly.

“Mona, why did you say yes?”

She furrowed her brow and squared her shoulders. “I don’t think Jimbo’s ever gonna ask me out. I thought maybe after the fishin’ trip he might. We had a really nice time and all, but… nothin’.” She threw her hands in the air. Then, exchanging knitting for simple handwringing, she walked in circles around my office, scanning sightlessly. She stopped in front of the sixth installment of my I Hate Pete commemorative art series and studied it for a long time. It lacked the deep passion of the first few. In fact, after returning from Philly, I’d stopped throwing tacks altogether. I’d even considered replacing it with a collage of my new sworn enemies, but then realized I couldn’t stand the sight of them right now. And frankly, Pete was a hell of a lot better looking than those two combined.

She finally spoke. “Pete asked ya out within weeks of meetin’ ya.”

“That was just out of spite, and you know it,” I said in his defense. Thinking back on that encounter, though, I couldn’t suppress my smile.

“Uh huh,” she said, not turning around. “Jimbo’s never asked me out in spite or any other way.” There was real hurt in her voice and I felt for her.

“Pete and Jimbo are very different creatures.”

“I know that very well,” she snapped. “Susan, I am tired of waitin’ on that man, and I’m frustrated,” she said, turning to me. “Do you know I haven’t been kissed since I moved here?” She sank into her usual spot by my door with a huff. I think my jaw actually hit the carpet.

“You haven’t been kissed in three years?”

“My boyfriend in Atlanta got transferred out west, and then I got moved up here. We weren’t very serious, anyway, so it kinda all fell apart. It’s really hard keepin’ long distance relationships goin’, ya know,” she said thoughtfully. “But no…I haven’t.”

“Mona!” I gasped. This was possibly the single most depressing thing I’d ever heard. And here I thought I’d had it bad during my short gig as a nun. “I don’t understand how you could go this long without…something.”

Exhaling, she looked despondent. “It’s not that I haven’t had invitations—to go on dates, I mean. I have.” She bit her lip again. “I guess I’ve just had my heart set on Jimbo since the first time I laid eyes on him.”

“Oh, Mona.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked miserably.

“Considering how spectacularly my last relationship ended, I’m not one to give advice. But if it were me, I would go out with Reeves. He’s attractive, single, and there’s nothing stopping you. And as far as Jimbo goes, maybe he needs a fire lit under him.” Or in his case a nuclear bomb. “If there are sparks between you and Reeves, then great. Life is short, Mona—way too short to waste yours sitting around a dingy old bar hoping the guy behind the counter will grunt at you. You live a little,” I said, pointing an accusatory finger. “I take that back, live a lot!”

She was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then she said, “Reeves lives over in Rocky Mount, so I wouldn’t see him all that often, which is okay, I guess. And he is nice.”

“Why are you still arguing with yourself? You’re not doing anything wrong, Mona. It’s just a date!”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She looked resigned, though unsettled. It probably wasn’t fair pushing her like this. I knew who she wanted, but I’d exhausted as much creative energy on the matter as I could muster, and in my book, Jimbo was a damned idiot and didn’t deserve her, anyway. I considered confronting him, but that might actually make things worse. Mona drifted back to the front when she heard the phone ring.

The next morning, as I was packing up to meet with a client in Chinquapin, I received an interesting call.

“INTech Systems Services, Susan Wade speaking,” I said, before glancing at the number.

“You. Me. Tomorrow. Your office. Five o’clock,” a deep voice curtly ordered.

“What’s the mission, sir?” I asked, unable to keep the delight from my voice.

“Sunset.”

“Right.”

He hung up. Then the phone rang again. I looked at the number this time before answering it.

“Yes?”

“Oh, and bring your camera.” The phone clicked again. I flopped back in my chair and laughed out loud. Never a dull moment…

♥

The truck rolled in right on time.

“Well c’mon, we’re wastin’ daylight,” he said as I locked up, more than ready to escape.

“You look very James Bond in those sunglasses,” I said with a smirk.

“I can’t find my good pair. Ya like ’em?”

“Oh yes,” I lied. They were big mirrored aviator shades that looked absolutely ridiculous on him.

“I got ’em at the tackle shop.”

“I can tell,” I said, bursting into laughter.

Pete took a right out of the parking lot in the direction of the marina. I assumed we’d go to his property, but an evening boat ride sounded awfully nice. I’d only been on Bessie the one time, and that had been eventful, to say the least. I chuckled darkly to myself; history would not be repeating itself tonight. After my unfortunate Quarterlies’ incident, I’d stopped wearing my unlucky earrings altogether, having buried them deep in my jewelry box.

We crept up Core Creek until it mated with the sound. It was a gorgeous evening. The sun bounced vibrantly off the calm water, and the sky—that fantastical blue of late day—was cloudless except for the few translucent wisps serving simply as a reminder that it was real.

Pete pointed out an Osprey nest atop a pylon affixed with a red light—a channel marker. He slowed the boat as we approached. Before embarking, he’d mentioned we might see a few birds, so I’d set my camera accordingly. Mamma Osprey was just returning to her little ones, a fish dangling from her beak. I clicked insanely.

“Oh, oh, check this one out!” I said, rushing to his side. The bird’s wings were fully spread as she lighted on a large stick protruding from the mass of kindling that was her nest. You could see a chick’s open beak poking above the rim. He shared in my excitement, but then steered the boat away giving her a healthy berth.

“What are you doing? Get closer!” I demanded impatiently.

“No, ma’am.” His expression was wary.

“It’s just a bird.”

“Uh huh,” he responded before speeding off.

Pete piloted towards the opposite shore. I closed my eyes, enjoying the wind on my face—being alive.

“Do ya like egrets?” he asked.

“Love them!” Majestic, with long graceful necks that curved uniquely during flight, they were one of my favorite waterfowl. Stalking prey on brown stilts, I often passed them when traveling the lonely roads cutting through the wetlands.

“I know a place where we might see some,” he said.

“I’m beginning to think you know a place to do everything,” I teased.

“Not everything.” A whispered smile formed on his lips.

A few minutes later, Pete slowed the boat to a crawl and squinted in concentration as we followed the shoreline. Nearing a small jetty I heard the faint squawks and deep throated calls of what sounded like a distant hoard of birds—or several people being seriously tortured. Pete navigated into a small tributary that quickly narrowed to a width only slightly larger than the boat. Seduced by the canal, we were swallowed by the shadowy throat of scrub and tightly woven trees and delivered into what felt like an eerie cave, the ceiling dripping nets of Spanish moss.

Pete killed the engine and we drifted through the serene water, pulled as if by a magnet toward the ever-increasing discord. As if dancing on polished onyx, delicate water bugs skated across the reflective surface, the mirage betrayed only by meek ripples from our bow and the occasional bubble from some underwater creature. The canopy opened into a small lagoon, and we found ourselves in the presence of a holy host of shrieking angels. I covered my mouth with both hands and gasped.

Rising like a monster from a startling green film of algae, the skeleton of a prehistoric cypress tree, arms bleached pale as driftwood, raised a breathtaking rookery heavenward. Hundreds of egrets—whites, grays, and giant blues, gurgled, preened, and fiercely debated one another in an interminable cacophony. I gazed upon the vision with spiritual wonder.

“Oh…” I whispered, clutching blindly for his arm. “Just look!” He chuckled softly behind me.

Croaking frogs crooned unheard lullabies to the nests adorning practically every branch. Turtles, unaffected by the sound, basked in shards of sunlight on the tree’s magnificently protruding roots. The entire scene was simply otherworldly.

The spell was broken by a gentle nudge. I turned to find my camera in Pete’s outstretched hand, his eyes smiling with delight. Quickly changing the setting, I positioned it with the measured fluidity of a snake charmer. One tap of my auto-focus button informed me this alien world offered a plentiful light supply, allaying my fear of alarming the birds with its flash. I took my time cataloging each nest, confident the clicking sound would be rendered silent by the boisterous and virtually deafening chorus.

So overjoyed by the buckets of gold I was capturing, I could barely contain myself. After taking about ten thousand pictures, I became concerned about the capacity of my storage chip, so I concluded the photo shoot and stealthily clambered to the captain’s chair, where Pete stood motionless.

My shoulder pressed against his chest as we peered into the view screen. In such close proximity I became acutely aware of him; his body’s radiating heat, his glorious aroma.

“I’m really glad ya like it here,” he said in a low voice next to my ear. Shivers.

“Like it? It’s magical. How did you know about this place?”

“I stumbled onto it one time when I was explorin’. I wasn’t sure I’d be able find it again, actually,” he said, raking his hand through his hair.

“I’m so glad you did,” I said, turning to face him. “Thank you for sharing this…this miracle with me. I’ll never forget it.” Impulsively, I popped up on my toes and kissed his cheek. It was meant as an innocent gesture of appreciation, but immediately the casual air between us changed. His carefree expression vanished, and the lagoon, though crowded with spectators, suddenly became very private.

Spellbound, I stared into the depths of his priceless gems, scarcely aware he’d removed the camera from my hand. He searched my eyes for a brief moment, and then gently cradled my face, caressing my cheeks with his thumbs. Very slowly, he bent his head and captured my lips. My heart pounded wildly as our tongues met for the first time—the real first time. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he drew our bodies together. He kissed me long and slow, and time no longer existed. My lips were on fire when we finally broke contact, and I inhaled deeply, having long ago given up breathing. His eyes positively smoldered.

“Is this one gonna count?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the aviatorial symphony.

My voice caught. “I think it is.”

His expression altered from hunger to unrelenting humor and he murmured, “It’s about damn time.” Then his lips were on mine again.

♥

The fading light signaled evening was approaching in earnest. A swarm of gnats twirled nearby, and though the thought of leaving our sanctuary was almost painful, after slapping one too many insects, we decided it was time to go. Pete carefully turned the boat around, keeping the engine as quiet as possible, and negotiated the narrowing path leading back to the sound. As the boat crept under the canopy of gray moss, the intricate fingers of entwined lovers lightly touched the tops of our heads as if in blessing.

Pete kept one arm around my waist as he steered the vessel. I glanced back at the rookery and then up at the profile of this lovely man. He regarded our peaceful asylum as well and answered with a small, blissful smile and a gentle squeeze to my waist. I silently bade the enchanted lagoon goodbye, absolutely certain it was the most romantic place on the entire earth.

Once back in the main of the sound, Pete glanced at the sky. “I gotta get us over to the place I wanna take ya before we miss it. Hold on!” He gunned the engine.

Our destination appeared to be the very center of the sound. He tossed the anchor overboard. The outbound tide tugged futilely on the bow, forcing the stern to face due west. Pete rummaged under the stow and removed a cooler. He quickly unpacked our feast, which admittedly was much better than the bag of chips we’d shared during our first sunset together. I really wasn’t hungry, though—not for food, anyway.

Pete didn’t seem to have an appetite either. He replaced our half-eaten supper in the cooler and rested his arm on the top of the cushion behind me. We waited for the show to begin. Though trying to nonchalantly keep my eyes to the west, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at him. I suppose I was seeing him with new eyes. When I caught him peering back in similar fashion, I smiled sheepishly, and he leaned over and kissed my cheek. Maybe I looked different to him, too—less dragon-like.

Pete had engineered an unobstructed view of the horizon. Gulls dotted the sky, and a group of pelicans in V-formation skimmed the water’s surface, searching for their evening meal. I heard a duck in the distance. “I think it’s time to get your camera back out,” he advised, looking speculatively at the sky. “We ought to have a pretty nice show this evening.”

I’d forgotten about my camera, and even why we were here. I could really only think about his amazing kisses. My lips still burned from them. “You know, you can be annoyingly helpful sometimes,” I replied, too smitten at the moment to pull off a decent smirk.

“I know, but you’ll thank me later.”

The sun had already transformed from a happy yellow to a deep glowing red, growing giant as it neared the earth’s edge. Gliding birds were charred to black silhouettes as fiery light scorched the tiny wavelets, the sound churning molten as its source breached the surface. The apparition was so intense, I fully expected to hear the hiss of forged steam. It was perhaps the most stunning sunset I’d ever witnessed. I glanced at Pete and realized that we, ourselves, were glowing as well, engulfed in the same flaming color.

Setting my pixels to RAW to capture every photon, I snapped pictures at all angles and zooms. I told him that at this setting he could practically enlarge a shot to billboard size. He found my fanaticism highly entertaining, but seemed fairly unaffected by what was happening in the sky. Perhaps he’d witnessed too much beauty, if that was possible.

His hands on my hips, Pete rested his chin on my shoulder. With lips at my ear, he said in that low voice—the timbre, without fail, flushing goosebumps down my arms, “There’s somethin’ called a ‘green flash’ that happens right at the edge of sunset and sunrise. Mind you, it’s rare. The conditions have to be just right to see it, but I think we might have a shot tonight. You’ll have to watch very carefully because it happens really quickly. The tip looks green—just for an instant, sometimes purple, too, and then it’s gone.”

Honestly, I’d never heard of such a thing and was pretty sure Pete was pulling my leg. “And you’ve seen this?” I asked skeptically. I leaned back into the warmth of his chest, liking the feel very much.

“I have.”

“Uh huh.”

“Susan, trust me for once,” he whispered. “Ya have to open your mind and stop thinkin’ of the sun as yellow or red, or whatever color you believe it should be, and just observe it as abstract color—as art. I doubt you’ll be able to catch it with your camera if it happens at all,” he said, prying it from my clenched fingers. “Let’s just watch and see.” He encircled my waist and pulled me tightly against him, kissing the top of my head as we stared at the orb’s glorious remnants.

As the very last drop melted into the horizon, I tried to clear my control freak of a mind and do as he’d instructed. Suddenly—and it happened so quickly I could barely trust my vision—there was, in fact, a green flash. It was there just for a split-second and then it, along with the sun was gone.

“Whoa,” I gasped. My eyes stung slightly from its intensity; beauty worth going blind for.

“Whew hew,” he hollered, releasing me. He threw up his arms like he’d just thrown a “Hail Mary” pass that’d won the championship. “Did ya see it? Oh man, that was awesome!”

“Unbelievable!” I said, laughing and giving him a huge high-five. His unbridled joy was almost as gratifying as the flash itself.

The end zone dancing portion of our celebration ended when he picked me up, hugged me in his arms, and kissed the daylights out of me. Then, after gently lowering me back to deck, he offered me the sweetest smile. And with the unwavering knowledge that I’d completely lost my mind, I swear—just for a spilt-second—I loved him; there in that green flash.

♥

The air pressure changed and the breeze picked up. It became noticeably cooler. The sun graciously produced an array of pinks and purples that tickled the feathery cloud wisps in encore. Pete pulled anchor and piloted us back to the marina. We docked at last light and he hopped out, tying Bessie to the dock with some intricate rope knotting. We worked quickly to secure the edges of the faded green canvas, one large snap after another and then walked to his truck swinging our clasped hands back and forth like lovers. He yanked open the door for me and helped me into the cab. Gently stroking the base of my thumb, he didn’t release my hand until we were in my office parking lot. I wasn’t at all used to anyone holding my hand and I found it intimate—in some ways even more so than a kiss.

“This has been an amazing evening,” I said, leaning against my car door. “The birds, the sunset…” Your lips. “Thank you, Pete.”

“Don’t thank me, the sun did all the work,” he said with a small chuckle.

“I’ll leave an offering on my patio for the sun god, Ra,” I joked. “I can’t wait to see these pictures. I’m rusty, but I might have a winner or two. You never know.”

“I bet ya will,” he whispered. He cupped my face and gave me a last, lingering kiss.

It may simply have been the roll of the gentle swells or the exquisite feel of his lips against mine, but whatever the cause, my knees felt wobbly and I knew I needed to get away from this man before something bad happened—like I melted into a puddle on the pavement, or worse, dragged him into my office to have my wicked way with him.

When I got home, my first order of business was to slap the camera’s memory chip into my computer. My second was to shower off the lagoon sweat and crusty salt spray clinging to my body. As the images uploaded, I skipped to my bathroom. The water’s warmth matched the glow inside me and I sighed, hating to wash off Pete’s faint scent—the one that always unnerved me, the one that had, from the beginning, attracted me like a bee, the one I’d always fought so hard to ignore. I would ignore it no more.

I stared at my reflection as I combed out my wet hair. It was the same old me, except I looked different somehow—more alive. I felt that way, too. There was a color in my cheeks that hadn’t been there for a very long time, and at the end of this day, I wasn’t clothed in that haggard look I normally wore.

Pete might turn out to be a healing force from, or perhaps a talisman against the evil that had assaulted me in Philly—the safe harbor I so desperately needed. This lovely notion was quickly dispelled by the nagging prediction—the realism, most likely—that Pete was simply another disaster wrapped in a pretty package. And though I wanted to be very near him—very a lot—I knew it was wise to temper any feelings I might develop—oh hell, the ones I’d already developed, and keep my heart sealed up nice and tight. I couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

I also couldn’t suppress my smile, remembering the way his lips felt on mine, the way I’d felt wrapped securely in his arms. Regardless of the warnings, my brain was sending up like flares, those kisses had undoubtedly been the best—the most romantic—the most passionate of my life. And I couldn’t help myself; I wanted more! “Embrace life,” Mona had said, giving me the unconscious permission I sought. Maybe I could try out that “living in the now” thing for a little while—just to see how it felt.

I bounced downstairs to the little study. No less than five shots came out, in my unprofessional opinion, perfectly. I chose the very best of the sunsets, one in which the silhouettes of several seabirds accentuated the scale of the magnanimous orb, and sent it to Pete. He and I had clowned around at the marina taking several shots of one another. I emailed him an artistic rendition of our faces, side-by-side; his adorned with pointy horns and a goatee, mine under a golden halo.

I received a reply a few minutes later that read, I think I look pretty dashing, but the halo is a bit of a stretch for you, don’t you think?

Oh, the dreams I had that night!

29

Mona's Big Date

“Okay, how do I look?” Mona cautiously asked, modeling her outfit for me. The pretty blue sundress, patterned with smallish white daisies, was terribly conservative but cut nicely for her figure. Short-heeled white sandals showcased her freshly painted toenails, the coral shade a telltale sign of Dottie’s intervention. Her hair was its normal immaculate self, which all-in-all made her absolutely adorable. Why was it she never let Jimbo see her in something like this? Oh yeah, because he never left the bar unless forced at gunpoint or fishing pole.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear again, and for the hundredth time, glanced anxiously at the cheap metallic clock hanging above the door. As the big hand ticked closer to the twelve, her aura of apprehension became palpable.

“You look great,” I told her when she started chewing on her lip again. “And stop that! You’ll eat off all your lipstick.”

Accepting Reeves’ invitation was a heroic first step toward Mona’s romantic salvation. And considering her dry spell—or more aptly, her epic state of sexual neglect, she deserved a heavy dose of masculine attention. In addition to being cute—boyish smattering of freckles and deep-set dimples not-withstanding, Reeves was single and definitely into Mona. Plus, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy; high marks for the latter. And since they shared a common past, the two had plenty to talk about. He was also a seasoned company veteran and his sales numbers were always above average, suggesting good financial stability. Of course, Ryan’s monetary success was without question, and look what a sweet boy he turned out to be.

When I asked about their evening plans, she told me Reeves had mentioned dinner and a movie—standard first date stuff assuredly lacking in the barrage of colorful insults Pete and I had enjoyed during our first outing. Thinking of our most recent encounter, I was also keeping my fingers crossed that Mona would get a few nice kisses, herself, if for no other reason than she was cosmically owed. And though planning to keep a safe emotional distance from Pete, I was looking forward to getting more of those delectables myself at his earliest convenience.

My phone sounded as I waved goodbye to Mona and Reeves.

“Hey, Susie-Q.”

“Hello, Mr. Walsh.” A ridiculous burning sensation crept up my face as I walked back to my office.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Working. You?”

“I was wonderin’ if ya had plans for Saturday night.”

“Why, yes I do as a matter of fact,” I said, swiveling my chair back and forth like a teenager.

“Ya do, huh?”

“Uh huh. I’m going to this backwoods bar to drink cheap beer with some unsavory characters I know. It’s my Saturday ritual.”

“Sounds interesting. Where is this place?”

“In the seediest part of town. You might not even be familiar with it, what with your being so highbrowed and all.” I stifled a laugh.

“Ya know, I think I have heard of that place. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve met the owner before.”

“What a coincidence.”

“Maybe I’ll go down there, myself—just to check it out.” I could hear him smiling right through the phone.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Some of the men there are dangerous. In fact, a few have even been trained to kill—with firearms and everything. Fights break out all the time, too. A pretty boy like you wouldn’t last five minutes there…unless, of course, you went with me.” Choking on my own spit, I covered the phone.

“With you? I’ve heard rumors you’re a troublemaker who can’t hold her liquor. I don’t believe them, of course, but I sure don’t wanna get beat up. Listen, since you’re worried about my safety, and understand me when I say I appreciate that greatly, I’ve got a better idea.”

“Is that right?”

“How ’bout we blow off our mutual acquaintances and have dinner instead?” What say we skip dinner and I eat you up instead? “I know this place…”

“I’m sure you do.”

♥

“How was it?” I asked, pouncing on a surprisingly bedraggled-looking Mona as she walked through the door midmorning.

Saturday seemed the perfect time to finish our monthly reports, and more importantly, for me to get the scoop on her date. When she told me she was going home for the weekend, I realized it would literally be impossible for me to wait until Monday for full details; plus, I needed to see her face when she spilled. And with the foresight of discretion in mind, if by some miracle she wasn’t alone, banging on her front door frothing at the mouth would be rude. So, I crafted a tale of deception and woe involving Bob, my tightrope career, and a fictitious deadline to lure poor Mona to the office before she left for Charlotte.

The faint shadows under her eyes and her less than kempt appearance left me rejoicing!

“It was nice,” she said.

“Nice?” I smiled hugely. When she didn’t continue past that, I gave her a pointed look; my ears were parched vessels aching to be filled.

“Susan! It was nice.”

“So, where did you go?”

“We went over to Morehead City.”

“Okay, yes?”

“And Reeves took me to Captain Bill’s for dinner.”

“Good.”

“And the hostess sat us by the water—that was nice.” Why are you being so difficult? Was she tormenting me for fun and pleasure? I raised my eyebrows.

“And?” I demanded, finally.

“Then we had dinner.” Duh. I made an annoyed sound.

Before she gave me a rundown of the entrees, sides, the evening specials, and how the damned hushpuppies tasted, I cut her off. I didn’t care where they ate, or what he said, or if I was crossing the line; inquiring minds had to know!

“You look like you didn’t get a lot of sleep,” I said shrewdly. “Did he stay the night?”

Clearly horrified, she gasped. “No! Gosh, Susan, it was only our first date! What kind of girl do you think I am?” she said indignantly. Oh, oh, I know this one! Pick me! Pick me! A lonely one. I tried to look remorseful. Hell, I was remorseful and defeated, and thoroughly…bummed.

“So did you at least get your kiss?”

“Well…yeah,” she said, her cheeks rosing. She looked away.

“Sparks?” I asked hopefully.

“It was nice. But no, I guess not. Oh, I don’t know,” she said, slumping in her chair. “Reeves is sweet and he’s funny and a real gentleman—he’s always been that way, but he’s just, well…not Jimbo, I guess.”

I squatted to eye level and touched her shoulder. “Mona, he wasn’t supposed to be.”

“I know.” She dropped her eyes and fiddled with her hands. Then, after a minute, she looked up with a fearful expression. “Pete saw me—us. I, I mean we saw Pete,” she stuttered, her voice on the edge of panic. “He was pickin’ up somethin’ to go and we sort of bumped into each other on our way out. I guess he was workin’ late. He was real nice to Reeves and all, but he gave me a funny look. I stayed up half the night worryin’. I feel awful now. Jimbo’s gonna find out, I just know it!”

She might be feeling dread over that prospect, but for her sake, I hoped he did. His dump-truck load of stolen glances meant nothing to me—or to her either in the long run. She needed flesh and blood.

“Mona, why should you feel guilty? You’re being neglected and you deserve something better. You have every right to go out with whoever you wish, and at any time. Jimbo’s certainly not made you any promises. He hasn’t ever even asked you out. I’m sorry the truth is painful to hear, but you need to take a good look at your future. If Reeves isn’t the one for you, maybe someone else is—Mona, look at me!” She raised her eyes and I saw tears forming. Dammit! “If you hang your ‘Open for Business’ sign in the window, I know a line will form quickly.”

“Susan, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you,” she said, returning her gaze to the floor.

“Mona, in a nutshell, I think that’s your whole problem.”

♥

Now, it was my turn to nibble my lipstick and stare anxiously at the clock, but he arrived right on time. The intimate little eatery he’d chosen was tucked into the edge of New Bern’s small downtown area. His effect on both the hostess and our waitress was much the same as it had been on our first “date”, and I had to stifle several snorts. Tonight, however, I found myself oddly pleased that he seemed oblivious to their attention. I smiled politely at our server, gloating absurdly that Pete was mine this evening…and, evidently, tomorrow as well.

He wanted to take me up the Neuse River to a place called Dawson’s Creek. He had a cousin—no surprise there—who owned a small cabin on the shore. It was a great place to take wildlife photos, he explained with his trademark animation. I squirmed a little at the thought; two dates in two days seemed a bit much, but Mona’s voice chanted in my head like a Tibetan monk: The now…the now...

We nibbled warm crusty bread and made pleasant small talk. So used to scorching him with scathing sarcasm, I wasn’t sure what to say in the way of peaceful discourse. And it occurred to me that we’d never engaged in actual conversation—not really. Jousted, insulted, teased—yes, and usually in the name of pure ruthlessness, but that animosity had faded. Pete had transformed before my very eyes from The Prince of Darkness to friend to something…different. The magic of our sunset voyage had cast an enchantment over us—the kisses, the new intimacy. We had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed, and I found myself spellbound, and in no hurry to wake.

Thanks to his overwhelming personality and subtle way of disarming me, the faint awkwardness of these first few minutes faded quickly. After a few self-deprecating jokes, we began laughing and flirting and generally have a wonderful time. What halted our exchange and stopped his hands from accentuating every other word was Mona; I’d made the mistake of mentioning her name.

“So,” he said, steepling his hands on the white tablecloth, “is it fair to assume you’re responsible for this Mona situation?”

“What ‘Mona situation’?” I asked innocently, pressing my twitching lips firmly together.

“Don’t play games with me, young lady,” he advised in a tone that assaulted my nerves. I narrowed my eyes and gave him a withering glare.

“Mona is a grown woman and quite capable of making her own decisions.”

“I imagine you’ve been encouraging her, though.”

“So what if I have? It shouldn’t come as a big surprise that I don’t share your laisez-faire attitude towards romance.” He raised one eyebrow and continued his accusatory gaze. “Look, if Mona chooses to ask my advice, I’ll give it to her.”

“Did she?” the prosecuting attorney demanded.

“That’s none of your business, Pete.”

“I suppose it isn’t,” he conceded. “It’ll hurt Jimbo, though, if he finds out. Ya know that, right?”

“Mona and Reeves have known each other for a very long time, and she had every right to accept his dinner invitation. And I’m sorry, but I really don’t care if Jimbo’s precious feelings get hurt. Even after our failed attempt at nudging them together, which, if you recall, you were very much an accomplice, he’s never taken the next step. I’d like to know how you can defend his behavior.”

He exhaled in defeat. “See, the thing with Jimbo is…well…” he ran his hand through his hair then raised his palms in resignation.

“Look, a woman has needs. And Mona has endured an awfully long dry spell waiting for your lame-assed cousin to ask her out.” Pete made a face but said nothing. Instead, he took a sip of his wine and evaluated it, or my point, or both, before swallowing.

Suddenly, his eyes brightened and his lips curled into a lazy smile. “So, do you have needs, Susie-Q?”

“Nice change of subject.”

“Well, do ya?” he pressed.

I leaned over the table and whispered, “You have no idea.”

He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. I also noticed he very subtly rearranged himself under the table and I bit my lower lip. Taunting this man—having the advantage for once, was like a dream come true. What’s more, in that moment I realized I was absolutely willing to put my money where my mouth was—Carpe diem and all that.

We stared at each other over this interesting looking chessboard, and then I said, “What about you, Pete? Do you have needs?”

Moving the salt shaker in a circle, he thought about it for a long moment, and then answered quite soberly, “I have wants, needs, desires, and…realities.” He glanced back at the table, and then a full and taunting grin bloomed. “But that’s all privileged information.”

About to inquire about the “realities” part, our tête-à-tête was interrupted by a breathy, triple sugar-dipped voice.

“Well, hey there, Petey.”

The woman had perfect features and shockingly blue eyes. She was not only attractive but displayed an impressive shelf of goods that I seriously doubted was real. Wrapped in a mantle of Southern splendor that only comes from complete self-absorption and/or winning a local beauty pageant, she swept her bouncy blond hair away from her face and looked down, practically purring.

An interesting expression floated across Pete’s face. Without looking up at her, he said, “Hey, Babs, how are ya?” Did he just call her Babs?

“I’m just fine, sugar. Yew look good, as always.” Her fingers briefly toyed with his hair and then lighted possessively on his shoulder. He rolled his eyes discreetly in my direction, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

“Why thank you.” He winked at me, and I breathed in deeply to keep from laughing.

Finally, he turned to meet her eyes. “Barbara Fisher, I’d like ya to meet my date, Susan Wade. Susan, this is Babs.” Yep, that’s what he called her.

She looked down her perfect nose—also possibly not the original model—and appraised me. Then, inclining her head to one side, she affected one of the most insincere smiles I had ever beheld. “Why, it’s a pleasure…Susan, was it?” A decade or so ago, I would have been helplessly intimidated by such a creature, but not now. Not this Susan. And especially not after running with the Queen of the Damned for the last few years.

“The pleasure’s all mine, I can assure you,” I said with an equally fake expression. “It’s wonderful to meet one of Pete’s older friends.” Like, way too old for that hairstyle. I smiled dishonestly and without remorse.

She drummed her French-manicured fingernails on his shoulder.

“So, Suzanne, is this your first date with my Petey?” Meow.

I realized my fingernails were drumming as well, so I reached for my glass, cataloging my armory of insults while taking a small sip.

Pete answered for me. “No, Babs, Susan and I have been seein’ each other for a while, actually.” He winked at me again. Pete had never seemed a liar—hateful, manipulative, and a whole host of other descriptors, but honest. And what he said was technically true, albeit stretched a bit. Raising an eyebrow, I met her bold stare and then smiled very sweetly.

“Oh,” she said with obvious irritation. Her hand was still planted on his shoulder, and I wondered why that suddenly bothered me. “Well, Petey and I go way back. Don’t we, sugar?” Her eyes raked over him—more like slithered, really—then met mine with a challenging smile.

It was time to say goodbye before I became visibly annoyed. Plus, my tongue was now sore from biting it. “It was lovely meeting you, Babs.” I tried for a straight face. I really did. “Perhaps we’ll run into you again, sometime.” I reached to shake her hand, forcing her to remove it from my newly acquired property. Territorial much, Susan?

She patted his shoulder once more as if unwilling to relinquish him, but then reached out. My grip was firm, hers was soft and limp—less of a shake, more of a you may touch me. “Bye, Petey. Call me sometime.” She waved with her fingers and sauntered off.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his face slightly red.

“Old girlfriend?”

“Ancient.”

“Let me guess, cheerleader?” He nodded affirmatively, rolling his eyes.

“Captain of the football team?” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Her? No! She can’t throw worth a damn.” I laughed, despite myself.

“I assume your letter jacket—they were still quite popular in the South—is enshrined in a glass case somewhere?” He opened his mouth in protest, but then clamped it shut and shook his head ruefully. No doubt, wherever it was, a not so delicate mixture of perfumes clung fiercely to it, including, but probably not limited to Babs’.

“Could you be any more of a cliché, Pete?”

“I really hope not,” he said with a smirk. We reached for our glasses simultaneously.

“I don’t think we would have connected in high school,” I commented.

“What makes ya say that? I was a nice guy,” he said indignantly.

I thought of my braces, my study habits, my insecurities. The hard truth was I would have been completely smitten with him, and he would have tripped over me getting to some Barbie doll-like creature, crushing me in the process. He claimed he was different from the boys I’d known, but I seriously doubted it. I hoped he’d gotten all that out of his system, though, I suppose it didn’t really matter in the long run; I wasn’t going to be with him long enough to find out. Besides, if I could survive what had just happened to me—and I was surviving it, by the way—my mettle was surely uncrushable.

I smirked. “Judging from the likes of Babs over there, I don’t think I would have been your type.”

“I don’t know what type ya were, but I can promise I’d’ve chased ya like a dog.” He shook his head again and smiled. “Regardless, that was a very long time ago, and this is very much now. So, if ya don’t mind, I’d like to get back to the discussion we were havin’ before we were so inexcusably interrupted.”

Glad to be back in the present as well, I said, “I believe we were discussing your wants, needs, desires, and realities.” I rested my chin lightly on my knuckles, giving him my complete attention.

“No, I was explainin’ that was privileged information,” he retorted.

“I think the cat’s out of the bag on that one,” I said, nodding in Bab’s direction. She was flirting with her next victim, and that man was clearly captivated.

“Oh, it is absolutely not!” he said, shaking his head vehemently. “Besides, she’s married.”

“What? Ew!”

“I take that back,” he said, doing the math. “She’s between husbands right now, I think. It’s hard to keep track. Besides, she’s the complete opposite of what I want.” He gazed intently into my eyes and smiled warmly.

“And what do you want?” I wasn’t fishing—okay, maybe a little, but mainly I was curious what a man like Pete looked for in a woman. And more to the point, with all these females competing for his attention, why on earth was he still single? He didn’t answer at all but continued gazing at me, his head resting on one hand, his elbow propped on the table. I cleared my throat, amused.

“Hmm? What was the question?” he finally asked.

“So you’re not going to tell me what you want?” He snapped out of his reverie and sat up straight.

“I might and I might not,” he replied with a sly look. “What I want might scare ya.”

And with that, our entrees were served.

♥

After leaving the restaurant, we walked the neat sidewalks of the historic waterfront with its myriad touristy antique shops and businesses. This place had a serious obsession with bears, as there was an interestingly dressed statue about every twenty feet. Bypassing the fudge shop, we stepped into an establishment called The Moo Cafe. In the large picture window, a spotted cow lewdly displayed her udder while rotating her head back and forth like an animated Christmas decoration. Thankfully, it did not actually moo.

Two decadent ice cream sodas later, we strolled beside a small park. Pretty black fencing lined its borders, and a statue of some local historical figure took shelter under a cluster of large pin oaks. I waited for Pete to launch into a dissertation on the fellow, but instead, he quietly took my hand. Under the pretense of reading the bronze plaque, I turned my head, hiding a smile. Why was this so pleasurable?

“It wasn’t quite this touristy when I was a kid,” he informed me as we walked on. “Some of the shops are the same, but a lot has changed.”

“I didn’t think anything changed here,” I said, teasing him.

“Okay, well it’s a little different.”

Ducking through an alley between two beautiful old homes, whose grand vistas were now eclipsed by shops and hotels, we emerged onto a green space. I wanted to ask him in which mansion he’d grown up, but I was certain he’d walk me by it before the tour ended. We found an empty bench on the wharf near the visitor’s center and watched the silvery evening water gracefully slide by.

“Can I say somethin’?” Pete asked.

“Nothing’s ever stopped you before,” I said dryly.

“I’ve been watchin’ you.”

“A stalker, huh?”

“Maybe.” He wrestled a smile. “No, what I mean is, I know you caught that idiot cheatin’ on ya—”

“Ryan,” I corrected.

“Fine. Ryan,” he said shortly.

“You know, actually, I think I prefer ‘idiot’.”

He chuckled softly and continued. “I’ve seen what somethin’ like that can do to a person. And maybe you’re better at hidin’ your feelings than I think, but the truth is, ya don’t seem all that heartbroken.”

“I have plenty of feelings on the subject,” I said with a cynical laugh, “but I’ve done a lot of soul-searching, and I suppose I’m really not heartbroken—or I’m dead inside. I’m not sure which.” Fighting the bitterness that now poisoned me, I exhaled in a burst. “It really pissed me off though.”

He barked out a laugh. “I should hope so.” His arm slid around my shoulders and I leaned into him; an act that felt surprisingly natural. We sat quietly for a few minutes and I weighed the truth of my response.

“The cheating was only one of the horrors of that week,” I remarked grimly. Feeling him stiffen, I sat up.

“I’m not sure I wanna know.” His voice held a lethal undertone.

“You don’t. Trust me.”

The thought of Pete hunting down Ryan and beating him bloody sent ripples of pleasure through me. He braced his elbows on his knees and pondered the cement. We were silent for a time. Finally, he glanced at me and asked in a soft voice, “Did ya love him?”

With herculean effort, I pushed past those final images and tried to evaluate the question honestly. “For me, being with him just sort of made sense. I thought we had a lot in common—that we were alike, cut from the same cloth. And the relationship tucked nicely into our schedules. I know that probably sounds weird, but in retrospect, that’s really the way it was.”

Pete gave me a strange look, and I nodded. “He didn’t ask that much of me, emotionally anyway, and I guess I didn’t ask that much of him, either. Sure, we said the words, though they were cursory and usually between ‘Oh baby!’ and ‘Yeah, like that!’” I laughed, enjoying my fairly decent impression of Ryan in the throes. Pete didn’t seem nearly so amused, but then I remembered they’d never met. Those two would have been an interesting pair to watch. Hands down, Pete would have thrown a punch within the first five minutes. His eyes returned to his feet.

“My relationship with Ryan…that was perhaps the most serious I’ve ever had. I think I liked the concept of being in love with him, just not the practice.” Pete chuckled quietly and shook his head. “So, to answer your question, no, I wasn’t in love with Ryan. The truth is I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love with anyone.” Turning to me, his eyebrows rose slightly. “Okay, there was a guy once—a boy, really. I was too young then to understand. I thought at the time…” Smirking ruefully, I shook my head. “In the end, it was just a case of mistaken identity.”

I left out the part about him being blond and Southern as hell and shaking the very foundation of my being. I still felt pangs for that girl, who, after innocently placing her pure and fragile heart in the hands of a stupid seventeen year boy, gaped in astonishment as he inspected it with the casual curiosity of a beachcomber, and then, after deciding it was of no intrinsic value to him, tossed it back in the sand with all the others. It still amazed me that a single, unthinking act could so profoundly affect my adult perception of love. My eyes drifted to a motorboat slowing in the “no wake zone” before disappearing under the bridge.

“In a way, it was good for me, I suppose.”

“How so?” he asked, clearly rapt.

“It taught me not to expose myself.”

“Exposing oneself is illegal in this state,” he taunted, breaking my now somber mood. I rolled my eyes.

“I guess that’s why, when my relationship with Ryan ended, it didn’t hurt that much—much less than I thought, anyway. It was just one more lesson.” Pete leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Honestly, at this point in my life, when it comes to men, very little surprises me. I guess I’ve just gotten used to being hurt. I expect it, really.”

“Susan, what are ya sayin’?” Pete looked utterly astonished.

“It’s true,” I said, shrugging. “I’ve pretty much lost faith in the whole love thing. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I hope someday I’ll find a person I can say those words to and have them really mean something, but the cost of that…” I whistled softly.

“Too much?”

“Exorbitant! I don’t have enough in my savings and IRA combined. Besides, the less I spend, the less I lose. So it’s safer to keep those three little words to myself.”

“Yeah…safer,” he said quietly.

“Anyway, after my fiasco with Ryan, I’m busy reinforcing my fortress.” He gave me a crooked smile.

“If ya need help with that, I know a pretty good architect.” He stood and took my hand. “Let’s walk.”

A lovely, new-looking walkway bordered the river. Inscribed bricks honoring financial contributors dotted the path. “Does your family have any bricks here?”

“A few. A couple of my aunts got together and dedicated one to my mother after she died. It’s up the way a bit,” he said with a quick chin-jerk. “I wasn’t in a very useful place at the time,” he said softly.

We strode until we reached the point. Jutting from the stone wall was a short pier. An elderly and much-wrinkled woman with windswept white hair sat on a rusty folding chair at its end. Pete steered us onto the platform.

“Any luck?” he asked her.

“Nay, not a one worth the trouble,” she replied in disgust, opening her small cooler. Beside a bag containing a wad of yuck I knew to be chicken necks, two smallish blue crabs balefully looked up at us. Pete closed the lid respectfully and wished her good hunting.

“So, have you ever been in love?” I asked after a few minutes of amiable silence.

“Once. It was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.” He chuckled lightly, but I could feel the frost.

“What happened?”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “It wasn’t meant to be. She and I wanted different things. She moved to Chicago and I eventually ended up back here.”

We’d arrived full circle at the Jeep—Myrtle was at home pouting; served her right for not having air conditioning. Gallant as always, he reached out to open the door for me. I turned to face him.

“I had a really nice time this evening,” I said, truly meaning it. Dinner, a stroll—standard first date stuff. And then it struck me that this was our first formal date.

“I did, too.” He kissed my lips lightly, his eyes sparkling. I kissed him back more solidly, and then he wrapped his arms around me and pressed me gently against the door, kissing me very deeply. I liked the feel of his weight against me. I liked that his kisses were honest and heated, yet undemanding at the same time. I liked that even though he seemed on the very verge of exploding, he held his reins very tightly. I also noted that when he kissed me like this, my knees turned to pudding, and I liked that very much as well. But maybe what I liked most of all was that Pete was not afraid of passion—something sorely lacking in my last relationship.

“And that’s your answer,” he murmured, pulling back to look at me.

“Sorry, what was that again?” I asked, a little dazed.

“Ya asked me what I wanted,” he said softly. “You’re it.”

30

Thunder

Doodling little hearts on the corner of my desk calendar was the stupidest thing I could possibly imagine, and blatantly unproductive. And it was very certainly not helping me put the finishing touches on the report Bob was impatiently waiting for. And they weren’t even standard hearts. Nooo, they were the obnoxious curly-queue-type pierced with feather-quilled arrows—the kind I used to draw on my desk while bored senseless in social studies. Suddenly annoyed, I scribbled through them and returned to the figures in front of me.

Over the last few weeks I found myself spending progressively less time stoking the red coals that fueled my hatred towards Kirsten and Ryan, and more time and energy—the solar, environmentally friendly, and readily available kind—warming my feelings towards Pete. The boat outing on the heels of our date had been illuminating. We spent the day exploring the forest and shore around his cousin’s cabin. And we’d talked; getting to know one another in earnest—the details.

“I wasn’t always the sophisticated gentleman ya see before ya,” he said, as we walked barefoot along the lapping shore. I cleared my throat audibly and he smiled. He picked up a small pebble and tossed it with a flick of his wrist. It took three skips across the watery surface before drowning. I quickly found a nice flat stone—the kind my daddy had taught me to use, and did the same; mine skipped four times. He raised his eyebrows and nodded in appreciation as I smugly dusted the sand from my palms.

“I’m from the South, too, dearie,” I said. “You were saying something about your lack of sophistication?”

“Oh yeah.” We sat down on a nearby trunk of driftwood and he continued. “Well, when I was on the edge of thirteen—virtually a man, ya understand—” I interrupted with a snort. “Jimbo and I were pretendin’ to be frontiersmen carving a swath through Indian infested forest—but with machine guns, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed, laughing.

“When all of a sudden, we came across a black bear.”

“A bear,” I responded skeptically.

“Ya don’t see ’em often, but they’re around.” He looked nervously over his shoulder, hoping to scare me, no doubt. “Well, we squatted down behind this big log waitin’ for him to go on by, scared and fascinated at the same time. When it was safe to stand up again, we heard a rustlin’ in the brush beside us. Seein’ what it was, we turned to run, but I tripped over Jimbo and we landed face down in a pile of rotted leaves.”

“And then what happened?” I asked, captivated.

“We got it right on our backsides.”

“Got what?”

“Sprayed by a big ol’ skunk.”

“Oh no!” I gasped and covered my mouth.

“Yep, we stunk to high heaven,” he said, nodding proudly. “We limped back to Jimbo’s fast as we could, barely able to see for the tears rollin’ down our faces—from the stench, ya know. Jimbo grabbed his mamma’s garden hose, and big-hearted as he was, turned it on me first.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” I remarked.

“It was, except the hose was long and thick and black, ya see. And it’d been coiled outside in the sun all mornin’. So when the water hit me, it was just about scaldin’. I started screamin’ and tryin’ to dodge it, but Jimbo kept on sprayin’, thinkin’ he was helpin’.

“Now, Jimbo’s mamma, Aunt Charlotte, well, she came runnin’ out of the house afraid one of us was hurt. But when she smelled us, she stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Lord have mercy’ was all she said before turning on her heels and goin’ back inside. By then, I had hold of the hose and was dousing refreshingly cool water on the Good Samaritan.

“A few minutes later—’cause the water was doin’ no good, and I guess she knew it, Aunt Charlotte came around the side of the house carryin’ a grocery bag and draggin’ an old swimmin’ pool—ya know the little blue plastic kind for toddlers?”

“Yes,” I said, fully amused.

“Well, she flopped it down about ten feet away from us and opened several cans of tomato juice, dumping ’em in the pool. When she’d used all she had, which barely covered the bottom, she looked over at us and said, ‘Now y’all strip off those nasty clothes and get in this tub.’ We yanked off our shirts right away, but then we looked at each other, then back at her, all stricken-like. She crossed her arms over her chest and stood there waitin’. I did mention we were practically thirteen, right?”

“Uh huh,” I answered, grinning.

“Well, we stood our ground, refusin’ to take off our pants in front of her. Aunt Charlotte generally has the patience of a saint, but she was at her wit’s end with us, since this was the second time that day we’d gotten into trouble. I won’t even tell ya about what we did that mornin’.” Smirking, he looked heavenward. “But that’s the reason she sent us out in the woods in the first place.

“Finally, she threw up her arms and said, ‘Oh, for Heaven sakes’, and went back in the house. Now, Aunt Charlotte and Jimbo were livin’ out in the middle of nowhere by then.” He frowned suddenly, anger flashing across his face. After a moment, he unballed his fist, smiled, and gently squeezed my hand before continuing. “See, we thought we were in the clear with our modesty intact, so we stripped buck naked and did as we were told, squishing together like Siamese twins. The tomato juice barely covered our toes, but we put our powerful brain trust into action, ya see, and decided if we worked at it, we could scoop up enough juice in the empty cans she’d left layin’ in the yard to rinse ourselves adequately.

“We were doing a fairly pathetic job of it, when all of a sudden, we heard a car pull up out front, and then another, and then a whole lot of laughter—feminine laughter. And there we were trapped naked in this little pool, lookin’ like a couple of fools, prayin’ nobody’d notice us.”

“No luck?” My sides were trembling.

“None.” Pete looked up at the sky again, musing. “It was Charlotte’s turn to host bridge, ya see, and my dear auntie had called all the ladies, explainin’ our predicament, askin’ them to raid their pantries before comin’ over. Fine upstandin’ church ladies that they were, they brought trunkfuls of the stuff over. Aunt Charlotte led ’em around back, and armed with can openers, they started dumpin’ juice right over our heads, all businesslike. Meanwhile, Jimbo and I were curled up in tight balls, tryin’ to hide our man parts, dyin’ of embarrassment in the process.”

I fell off the log, laughing. Pete regarded me with a big smile and went on. “So, when the baptizin’ was over, the ladies filed back inside—all except for Aunt Charlotte, who stood over us glarin’. Then she said, ‘Now, yew boys’ll stay in that tub ’til I tell ya yew can get out. Y’all understand me?’ Then she marched back in the house.”

Pete became silent, ruminating.

“So?” I asked impatiently. “How long did you have to sit there?”

“Oh. Well, Aunt Charlotte’s bridge club generally plays three hours or so.”

“No!”

After wiping the last tears from my eyes, I climbed back onto the log and patted his arm. “That was a terrible story, but I wish I could have been there to watch.”

“Well, if you or any girl’d shown up, we’d’ve died on the spot and be restin’ peacefully in our graves right now.” He pecked my cheek and pulled me to my feet. “Do ya know,” he said, “that I cannot to this day stand the smell of tomato juice?”

“Really? No Bloody Marys?”

“Not one. Not ever!” He snatched up my hand, kissed it absently, and said, “Let’s walk some more.”

♥

Lolling in a wicker chair, sipping wine on Pete’s back porch, was an awfully nice way to spend a hot summer’s evening. A sumptuous dinner had been his lure, but I didn’t need one; his company and the promise of either scintillating conversation or a really good argument was, for me, bait enough. He’d shirked his duties at the bar for the third weekend in a row, and I’d already lost two Sundays in the office. And it had been totally worth it.

Dinner was outstanding in its simplicity; grilled local shrimp with lime-cilantro butter and a marinated red and yellow tomato salad. The thin strips of fresh basil had come from his small herb garden, but I had no idea where he’d procured fresh mozzarella; Havelock’s woefully understocked Food Lion certainly didn’t carry such things.

Still in shock, I chewed on my second still-warm-in-the-middle piece of crusty artisan bread. Had I not seen him remove it from the oven and heard the crust pop and crackle as it cooled on the rack, I would never have believed he’d baked it himself. I added TV cooking show host to my ever-growing list of “if the housing market collapses” jobs for Pete.

Against all protests, he shooed me to the porch while putting away leftovers. I wandered the room staring out at the night. It was hot and muggy, and even though the ceiling fan slightly stirred the hem of my dress, its thin cotton shell still felt like too much clothing. This was the epitome of the sultry, luxuriously romantic nights North Carolina is famous for.

Barefoot, Pete returned to my side, another chilled bottle in hand. A faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance—the promise of a storm. A whisper of breeze mingled the fresh scent of rain with the heady aroma of his climbing rosebush, further infusing the already ethereal air. At the mere suggestion of coolness, the cicadas’ throbbing protests overpowered the sweet sounds of crickets and tree frogs.

“More?” he asked softly, pouring the pale elixir into my glass. I took a sip, quietly absorbing the atmosphere.

“How could I have forgotten this?” I murmured.

An odd expression crossed his face. “I don’t know how anyone could.” Perhaps I was too young to appreciate such things when I’d fled home. I certainly wasn’t now.

Pete skimmed my jaw with his smoothly shaven skin and gently kissed my cheek. I pressed my face against his, lightly nuzzling, breathing him in. Then, I set my glass on the ledge and slid my hands up his chest to his shoulders, finally encircling his neck. I pulled his lips to mine, and we swayed slowly, our tongues dancing to the nighttime melody.

After a few moments—or it could have been an hour—he cupped my face and tracing my cheekbones with his thumbs, intently searched my eyes. I understood the question, and I answered with a Mona Lisa smile. He took my hand, tenderly kissed it, and led me down the hall.

Once in his bedroom, he brushed my lips with his. Then he planted a row of light, almost delicate kisses down the side of my face, inhaling deeply when he reached the hollow under my ear. Unclipping my hair, he combed his fingers through it from the nape and then cradled my head. Firmly and very sensually, he dragged his lips down my neck. My mouth fell open as I lifted my chin to give him full access to whatever he wanted. When his fingers slid across my shoulders and freed my thin straps, the filmy cloth puddled around my feet and I tried to remember how to breathe.

With an elegant expression of pleasure, his eyes followed his fingers as they traced the contours of my bra. He ran his hands across my ribs to my spine and arched my torso to meet his bent head. Very slowly, he skimmed the tip of his tongue across my now electrified skin, pausing at the valley to sample the tiny beads of moisture accumulated there. With a skillful pinch, he unclasped the stays and the pale satin obediently joined my dress. My breath caught when his warm hands cupped my swells, my nipples hardening instantly at his touch. When he rolled them between his fingers, electricity shot like a bolt to my core.

Eventually, he chastely kissed each breast and his lips made their slow journey, nibbling and sucking at various points, back to my waiting mouth. Lace panties floated to the carpet next, and then my feet left the floor.

He carried me in his arms like a bride, depositing me gently on top of the covers. My head sank into his pillow. I lay before him fearlessly exposed, the dim light from the hallway spilling over my form. Pete wasn’t Ryan, and I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. Rather, as his eyes raked my body, his expression was almost reverent. His fingers drifted down my arm and he inhaled so deeply it was almost a gasp. “Susan, you are so beautiful,” he whispered. Those were the five most sensual words I’d ever heard.

Quickly and carelessly, he shed his clothing, and then sat on the edge of the bed and kissed me in a deep, slow, thorough fashion that made me glad I wasn’t standing. He slowly climbed on top of me and straddled my hips, his weight resting on his knees. Tongues caressed, probed, explored; heat building to a muted inferno. My fingers twined blond silk as his lips drifted to my neck, my shoulders, the contours of my collarbones. He gathered my breasts in his hands and met my eyes. “I’ve wanted to touch ya like this for so long.” Then he dropped his head and suckled my nipples forever, his complete and focused attention causing my head to swim.

Eventually, he left my desperate breasts and languidly surveyed my ribs and stomach with open-mouthed kisses that made me flinch and squirm. I felt his smile against my skin. Finding my bellybutton untended, he made a kind of love to it with his smooth moist tongue.

Gently parting my legs, he proceeded to mercilessly kiss and nip my inner thighs. I twisted in protest until he shouldered my legs and raised me to his mouth. He moaned into my skin as he lapped and sucked. My hips moved involuntarily and unfamiliar sounds escaped my lips.

A maestro, he knew a woman’s body well, and like the most skilled of musicians, played my delicate instrument with great precision, masterfully controlling the pace and pitch, completely disregarding my pleas and gasps. Alternating between tongue and fingers, he composed a writhing mass of sensation—one deaf to all things, until at last a mighty orgasm of resounding timpani barreled down on me.

“There ya go darlin’, that’s right,” he whispered into my throbbing flesh, coaxing out the last pulses.

I released my death grip on the linens and blindly groped for him, reveling in the fine sheen of sweat pearling on his shoulders. I then kneaded his scalp to soothe myself, I think, before falling utterly limp.

“Do you have any idea how delicious you taste?” he whispered in a tone barely audible. I expended the last of my strength shaking my head. In demonstration, he removed his fingers from inside me and placed them in his mouth, sucking on them as he watched me, his dreamy expression promising truth. Wildly erotic, my body simply trembled in response. When he’d finished fracturing my mind, his soft tongue traveled up my body, and then he kissed me very deeply.

Lightning flashed through the slatted shades, followed in quick succession by a booming clap of thunder. Rain pelted the windowpanes and pounded on the roof. I’d forgotten about the approaching storm. I’d forgotten my name.

His breath grew ragged as our tongues battled. I wrapped my legs around his hips in welcome and he lowered himself, his strong arms bearing his weight. He entered me slowly, exquisitely filling me, and as my flesh enveloped him, a perfect picture of rapture bloomed on his face. Our bodies began moving in that sacred, primordial dance.

At first, his strokes were slow and controlled, and I felt everything, but when base need overpowered me, I dug my heels into the firm buttocks, and tilted my pelvis, urging him deeper inside me, spurring him to gallop. He sprinted countless miles through fields and across mountain ranges before finally uttering an almost silent groan on the tail of a sharp gasp. I felt his inexorable throb and joined him, crying out. He collapsed in a stupor, cradling my head in his arms as he breathed heavily into the pillow.

As our hearts slowed, we lay near death, listening to the rampage outside. But then, miraculously, as his wits returned, he began kissing and then pleasuring me once more. And though I was incapable of actually smiling at the moment, I was ecstatic that he was not only aware women required very little time to recharge, but was determined to act on it. Ahh…

I had sexually indulged many times, gotten laid in my unforgotten youth, and most recently, compliments of Ryan, fucked outright. But Pete had just made very passionate love to me; a virginal experience. And now past the unbridled throes, I realized he had been neither formulaic nor selfish. If anything, the opposite; focused on my pleasure, not his own. And during this short reprieve, for one strange and eerie moment, I wondered if maybe this was about more than just sex for him, than a pleasurable coupling—a silly notion I dispelled as such.

No, this man threw himself headlong into life, holding nothing back, so it shouldn’t surprise me he approached the sexual experience with the same vigor. Regardless of intent, he was giving me a precious gift I would never forget. And for that alone, I was very grateful.

As nature raged on, the hall light flickered once before we were plunged into total darkness. “Lost power,” he murmured into my thigh.

“Who cares,” I responded, arching my back and yelling out his name.

As the last of the squall rumbled towards the sea, Pete and I lay entangled, his fingers slowly tracing my body’s contours. It had been one hell of a storm and I’d lost count—three times? Four? Unbroken continuity? I wasn’t sure. Resting on his shoulder, I kissed his neck.

I was half asleep when he stirred. Groggily, I looked to his shadowed face in question. He kissed my forehead and said in a low and graveled voice, “I’ll be right back.”

He traveled cat-like in the darkness. I heard a door open, banging, a scratching sound, and then saw a strange flickering luminescence moving towards me. He reappeared with a camping lantern. “I keep it for when I lose power durin’ hurricane season,” he explained in a muted tone.

Following the glow, he started the shower, and then returned, wordlessly taking my hand and leading me to the din of rushing water. Beams leapt erratically across the room, bouncing off the veined marble walls. Steam billowed out, swallowing us whole when he opened the glass door. Pete drew me into the gentle spray.

“Temperature alright?” he murmured.

“Perfect,” I whispered back, the warmth swaddling my chilling skin like a living blanket.

Only now was I able to survey his body in its entirety. Of course, I’d marveled at his bare chest and legs during boat and beach outings, and tonight, in braille, read him with hands, lips, and tongue, but viewing the complete package even in this dim light… He was beautiful—da Vinci’s David beautiful.

A waterfall cascaded down our melded bodies as Pete’s lips clamped onto mine. Eventually, he broke our embrace and retrieved a bottle from the small shelf near the faucet. He squeezed a dollop of thick, clear gel in his hand.

“Sorry,” he whispered with lowered lids, “I only have guy stuff.”

I laughed softly. It smelled vaguely like him, and I wanted the scent all over me. He rubbed the shampoo into a lather and ran his fingers through my hair, carefully washing it, my scalp tingling at his touch. As he leaned me back to rinse, he kissed my throat several times, and I was fairly certain I was going to die of pleasure.

Over the months, I’d harped on his inability to shut his mouth. For the hours we’d spent making love, and even now, he’d barely spoken except for an occasional word of praise and a great number of indiscernible utterances; though in honesty, what had passed between us tonight required few words.

After foaming me with male-fragranced body wash, he bathed me; regarding, caressing, delicately washing between my spent legs, handling me like some priceless object he had no intention of breaking. Something unholy inside me laughed at the mere thought.

Wanting very much to run my slippery hands over every muscle and sinew, I took the bottle from him. He watched me in fascination, erect well before I’d soaped his maple syrup nether hair. When I slid my slickened hands around his penis and cupped him below, he exhaled in a rush and began moving his hips. Suddenly he stilled and gathered me against his chest. “Not yet,” he whispered. He quelled my protest with a slow head shake and a darling little smirk. Then he rubbed his finger between my brows, smudging out the furrow, kissing me there, on the tip of my nose, and finally on the lips.

Quickly rinsing himself, he unnecessarily aided me in stepping from the handsome shower, and then dried me thoroughly with a large thirsty towel. After scrubbing himself hastily, he dropped it on the floor, and then snatched up the brush on the counter and ran it skillfully through my hair. This depth of care completely foreign to me, I had no idea what to do with it. No man had ever treated me like this—ever. In fact, I wasn’t aware men were capable of behaving this way. Either Pete was a complete anomaly, or I’d been hanging around the wrong guys, like, my entire life.

The shower did nothing to quench our fire, and by the time my tangles were out and he’d run his fingers through my wet strands, kissing my neck and shoulders liberally in the process, we were both breathing heavily. His stamina defied imagination, and after making love once more, we lay motionless, basking in the balmy afterglow.

Suddenly, he sat straight up.

“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

The beeping racket of the Duke Energy truck as it backed down the street was unmistakable, and in this neighborhood, I doubted there was much crime, especially after such a big storm, but perhaps he’d heard something I hadn’t; it wasn’t like I’d been paying any attention. My heart sped as I strained to listen.

“Dessert!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

Suspecting he was making some slightly lecherous insinuation regarding his anatomy, I snorted. But then he said, “Damn, the freezer’s been off for hours. I hope it hasn’t melted.” He scrambled out of bed and I moved to do the same, but he cautioned me. “Oh, no ya don’t! You’re right where I want ya. Stay.” I glimpsed his finger pointing sternly.

“Are you insane?” I hissed after him, the darkness for some reason demanding the same volume as a library. He stopped dead and turned back to me. I caught the flash of white teeth.

“Well, yeah, probably.”

I chuckled as he disappeared, and then stretched luxuriously, feeling thoroughly replete. Kitchen noises echoed down the hall; a door opening, a big fat curse, silverware clinking against glass, a lid shutting. And then in a blinding flash, the electricity came back on. The ceiling fan above began whirling and the air conditioner sprang to life.

“It’s about time,” Pete grumbled at the sluggishly omnipotent power company.

After a few more unidentifiable noises, he returned carrying something. He set it on the nightstand, shoving his flashing alarm clock out of the way, and flipped on the lamp. I blinked. A long-stemmed crystal dish containing a large scoop of ice cream harpooned with two little cookies rested on a small silver tray, a single spoon beside it.

Pete offered me a large glass of ice water. Parched, I chugged half the glass, earning myself a mighty fine, albeit thirst-quenching, brain freeze. Only when it subsided did I realize I’d become ravenously hungry. I reached for the spoon, but he snatched it away with athletic speed.

“Unh uh! I do the feedin’,” he said, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, sexy as hell. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

This was also about the time I realized I had, in fact, died in the car crash, and the events in Philadelphia were just some flavor of retribution for the careless life I’d led. Further, the one I assumed my tormentor for all these months was actually the disguised angel I’d taken him for in the hospital, choosing now to appear in his true form. That we had suddenly become lovers also made some semblance of sense. I wasn’t certain this was Heaven, only that I’d never been anywhere like here before. Moving on into the light could wait, I decided. I exhaled peacefully, finally understanding.

Seating himself beside me, Pete lifted the small spoon to my lips. But instead of feeding me, he traced them with the cold concoction, watching me, eyes bright with anticipation, the hint of a smile. I tried to take the bite, but he jerked the spoon away and shook his head back and forth slowly. Then he returned to tracing. It turned out I was a slow learner, so we repeated this nonverbal exchange several times, enjoying the playful seduction. And though nearly exhausted, it turned out I could, in fact, become aroused again, as could he. Finally, I closed my eyes and embraced the sensation. And hello!

My eyes popped open as I rolled the substance over my tongue, analyzing the texture, trying to discern its flavor. He must have misinterpreted my expression because his eyebrows scrunched. It wasn’t ice cream in the strictest sense; more like a sorbet—really amazing sorbet that tasted light and sweet and altogether lovely, but without a name. I swallowed and sighed.

“So…do ya like it?”

“Oh yes,” I said, stretching out the syllable, an intoxicated grin spreading. His slightly anxious expression transformed into a satisfied one and he chuckled quietly. I closed my eyes again. “I can’t place the flavor, though. Apple?”

“Nope.”

“Grape?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmm…”

“Give up?” he asked, poised to gloat.

“Okay.”

“Champagne.”

“It’s what?”

“Champagne gelato,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Never heard of it. You’re lying.” He shook his head innocently. “Assuming I believe you, where did you get it?”

“I made it,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You made it?” I said, sitting up abruptly.

“Yeah. I told ya I could cook.”

“Dinner was great—outstanding actually, but this is unbelievable!”

“Glad ya like it,” he said with a small shrug and a healthy dose of modesty. This was the first time he’d ever sounded truly humble. Well, who would’ve imagined a scoop of ice cream could dethrone him?

“Pete Walsh, I’ve finally figured out what you are. You’re a real live Renaissance Man!” He mock-bowed at the compliment. “Be warned: If you keep feeding me like this, I may never leave,” I joked.

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” he said quietly.

When cookies were eaten and the dish all but licked clean, he returned the tray to the kitchen and flipped off the hallway light on his way back. He extinguished the bathroom lantern, and finally the bedside lamp. After climbing into bed, he gathered me up in his arms and curled his body around mine.

We slept.

31

Shell Island

I sat up with a start, not knowing where I was; nothing looked right—an unfamiliar room flooded with light. An abandoned comforter crouched beside me like a lumpy black boulder, pillows were strewn everywhere. Twisted and wrapped around my otherwise naked body was a dark cotton sheet. And then I remembered. Ah…the scene of the crime.

My dress was a dollop of Cool Whip atop Pete’s pie crust carpet; his own clothes splayed and jumbled. Lunging for my garments, I hurtled into the bathroom and gasped audibly when I saw the spectacle that was my hair. Frantic brushing had little effect. A flat barge of conditioner was my only hope. Flushed with memories that enveloped me like the steam from his resplendent shower, I wondered if I should take the liberty, but then the poisonous gust of Ryan’s homily, entitled, “Leave, I Have Things to Do,” blew that whim away. Could that be Pete’s song, too? After all, I had woken alone. Foregoing the spray, I did take full advantage of his toothbrush.

Once clothed, I scrounged around the floor for my clip. After retrieving it from under the bed, I scampered back to the mirror to rectify my appearance. I splashed a little water on my face, drinking from the faucet in greedy gulps, and then stared at my reflection, becoming mournfully lost in angst.

Insecurity my close, but unwelcome companion, I was leery, not knowing what would happen when I saw him. Would it be uncomfortable? Awkward? He’d finally gotten me into bed—his intent from the start; in the end, I think that’s basically all men want from women, anyway. And I imagine, now that he’d achieved his goal, the gentlemanly shroud might fall away along with the chase. Well, I suppose I’d finally see the real man behind all the smiles and teasing.

Resolved that, as fun as it had been, Pete had just used me, it dawned on me that I was no better. I knew this was coming and I’d welcomed it—and him. Actually, I was gratified in some way that maybe I’d used him, too—used him very well, I might add. And though my bouts with casual sex had always left me a bit cold, I was self-destructively willing to casually use him again. But then the weirdest thought interrupted my little gloating soliloquy. The thing was: I really liked this guy. And as strange and self-mutilating as it might sound, I found myself hoping last night was something more than a fun romp, something better, something—alright, I’ll say it!—real. But this is just supposed to be about fun. Remember?

Regardless of intent and purpose, Pete had just spoiled my sexual life forever. I doubted anyone would ever be able to live up to the kind of standards he’d set last night. In fact, I wondered if even he could perform at that level again. He’d raised the bar too high, and in many ways, as unbelievable as it all had been, I was actually mad at him for it. I imagined sleeping with another man in the future—a boyfriend, or maybe even a husband, someday, and thinking, after having even above average sex: Points for trying, honey. I shook my head and laughed at the mirror, and then, for the umpteenth time since I’d moved to Havelock, cursed Pete for ruining everything. My reflection smirked and cleared her throat. Susan,you need a psychiatrist.

I heard him coming down the hall—whistling, of all things. I raced to the edge of the bed and, struggling to gain composure, sat down. Then I stood again, straightening my back and crossing my arms—no, too defensive. I quickly sat again, affecting a casual air. Yes, more confident, that! He halted outside and knocked lightly. This was it, the moment of truth. I braced myself then quickly stood again. Damn!

“I know you’re indecent, but I’m comin’ in anyway,” he announced. Then, wearing swim trunks, a baggy t-shirt, and a huge grin, he flung the door open and pounced on me like a lion, tumbling us both onto the bed. He brushed the side of my face gently, and with eyes that positively glowed, said, “Good mornin’, sunshine.” Then he kissed me full on the mouth without any hesitation.

A flood of delightfully jumbled thoughts forced every ounce of trepidation from me in a giant gush. “Back at you,” I said, grinning stupidly.

“I was afraid you were gonna sleep the day away. Are ya hungry?” My stomach spoke right up. He rolled off the bed and looked down at me. “Good. I made ya some breakfast and put on a fresh pot of coffee when I heard ya stirrin’. I had to drink the whole first one myself after last night!”

He smiled at me sweetly and traced my cheekbone with his knuckles. “You are beautiful in the mornin’,” he said, tucking a few errant seaweed strands behind my ear. “I especially like the hairdo.” I clambered off the bed to swat him, but he jumped back and grinned. Then he grabbed me up against him, caging me, and laughed as I slapped at his arms. He kissed me firmly once more and let go.

His apparent anticipation heightened as I swallowed the last bite of omelet. “Ya have any place ya need to be today?”

“Um…no, I don’t believe so,” I said warily. Was this where the “Oh, well I do” trap sprung? At least he’d fed me first. And why the mixed signals earlier?

“Good, then pack up.” I hesitated. His ever-broadening smile conflicted with the message, its harsh implication. Drawing up my shield, I rose slowly. He hopped up as well and quickly cleared the dishes. “Ya have to get your car out of here anyway. I mean, what will my neighbors think?” He feigned absolute horror and then broke in laughter. What was his game? Why did this not seem uncomfortable to him? Were his colors black as Ryan’s? Blacker? He looked at me expectantly. Was this my cue? No, I would stand belligerent and force his hand. I crossed my arms protectively.

“Well c’mon girl, what are ya waitin’ for?”

“Excuse me?” I said, raising a brow.

“We’re goin’ to the beach.”

I stood uncomprehending for a moment, and then said, rather lamely, “I don’t have a suit.” Of course, you don’t have a suit, fool. You weren’t planning to spend the night! He shook his head, his smile unaltered.

“We’ll drop by your place so you can grab your things.” Suddenly, he cocked his head to one side and put his hands on his hips. “Susie-Q, ya really didn’t think I was gonna let ya go so soon, did ya?” As I mulled this over, a look of pure mischief overcame him. “Alright, I hate to do this, but I’m givin’ ya an ultimatum: Go home and get your suit or I’m haulin’ your skinny butt back to bed, and it won’t be pretty.” He crossed the distance between us and kissed me deeply. His eyes shone like the sun when he released me. “Now what’s it gonna be?”

My reticence demolished, I shook my head and laughed at myself, at him. I guess the whole how will this all look in the morning light? question had been cheerfully and concretely answered. “Beach,” I said.

“Damn, I was afraid ya’d say that. I’ll give ya a fifteen-minute head start.”

♥

With the exception of some shallow chocolate milk puddles, the heat had already vaporized last night’s deluge. I raced into the condo. After the fastest shower in the history of man, I grabbed my tote and stuffed it with essentials. He’d mentioned dinner, so I threw in a simple sundress and nicer sandals. He hadn’t been joking about the time. The doorbell rang, and before he was fully inside, he snatched up my bag and said, “Let’s go.”

I don’t know what time he’d gotten up, but when I boarded the boat, it was fully gassed, packed, and ready to sail—or whatever. He’d either been optimistic about this morning’s climate or hadn’t considered the possibility of rejection at all. He snaked his arm around my waist and we took off. Pete was in a riotously good mood as we flew through the Intercoastal. His unbridled joy was contagious and I found myself dangerously close to feeling the same way.

It was approaching noon when we crossed under the giant arched bridge connecting Morehead City to Beaufort. We passed the shipyard that, though smaller than Philly’s, currently entertained two massive cargo liners splashed with foreign writing and loaded to the gills with freight containers. Past Radio Island, we cut right towards Morehead City.

Pete negotiated the busy waterfront and docked in a slip marked, “Take Out Only.” He hopped agilely onto a tiny pier and tied Bessie to the small metal anchor thingy. Then he reached for Susan, the agilely-challenged, and I lumbered onto the aged planks. Docked on the other side were a couple of fishing charters, rocking like inviting cradles. Pete waved to the men idly hovering around their vessels, calling one of the shaggier by name. A rusting sign advertising full and half-day excursions was nailed to a pylon at the landing. Makeups—whatever they were, were evidently welcomed as well.

I’d given up questioning Pete when on a mission, which he clearly was at present. Without fail in our brief time together, they invariably resulted in really great times. When he opened the Sanitary Fish Market door, I gave him a funny look then realized the odiferous scent was wafting from the actual fish market next door. Sanitary was, in fact, a restaurant—a busy one at that. The establishment was bigger than it looked at first glance, with an easy seating capacity of two hundred. The whole back was walled with windows overlooking the water. The interior fostered the classicism of every other seafood restaurant on the North Carolina seaboard; walls crowded with mounted fish, tables overflowing with squeeze bottles of tartar, cocktail, and pepper-spiced vinegar sauces, the smell of fried seafood permeating the air.

A cliff of saltwater taffy boxes, lids embossed with souvenir pictures of the less than attractive storefront, ran against the wall between the cash register and the nautical looking counter. The petite hostess’ young face flashed neon at the sight of my…date? Was that still his title? I wasn’t sure.

“Pete!” she squealed, launching herself into his arms.

“Miss Priss!” he exclaimed, lifting her from the floor in a big bear hug. He kissed her cheek firmly and set her down again. Her clear blue eyes then slid to mine in question.

“Oh, Priss, this is Susan,” he said, pulling me against him. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and then looked back at Pete with an interesting expression. “Susie-Q, meet my snotty little cousin, Priscilla.”

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, and then, after giving me the once-over, painted a fresh smile on her face and waved. “Hey, Susan. Nice to meet yew.”

“Nice meeting you as well, Priscilla.”

Pete smiled down at me like warm butter, and then said to her, “We need somethin’ to go.”

She took in his swim trunks and said, “Well, duh.”

Rather than take his order, however, she began teasing him, which as a third party, I found quite entertaining. As we leaned against the podium, he rubbed his knee against mine without making eye-contact. Then his hand inched down my waist to my hip where, just short of impropriety, his fingers began drawing slow, suggestive circles, eliciting a torrent of fresh memories and raising my internal temperature. Priss’ eyes kept drifting to my face, my hair, my anything she could see, and she extended one overzealous smile after another until I felt like an exotic zoo animal. I couldn’t help wondering what her expression might be if she knew what I’d done with and to her obnoxious cousin only hours before.

Unable to hide my culpable smile, I tore away from Pete’s grasp and excused myself under the pretense of admiring the décor. I wandered aimlessly down the corridor between the pine-knotted paneled partition and large plate glass windows, the only buffer between the air-conditioned interior and the sweltering midsummer heat. I examined the memorabilia and autographed photographs covering the walls. A large nautical map veined with tiny lines and numbers hung next to an impressive shark jaw, yellow with age. On top of a long display case filled with boat and fishing paraphernalia, restaurant postcards spanning several decades were available for the taking. I chuckled at the cars marking the various eras. A galore of newspaper clippings featuring fishermen standing proudly beside towering marlins, sawfish and a variety of other types of sea creatures lined a second display cabinet; a mini-museum.

Pete found me flipping through a guest ledger that predated World War II. He immediately clasped my hand, linking us. “Let’s go out back. I wanna show ya somethin’.” We walked unhurriedly around the corner and stepped onto the weathered walkway surrounding the building. Heavy roping fortified the rails, its only function a deterrent to hinder children from falling into the water below.

A light breeze fondled us with cool silken fingers as we stood quietly under the shade of the roof overhang, admiring the glittering azure water and the small island not five hundred yards beyond. I suddenly gasped, ripping my hand from Pete’s. “Look, there’s something moving over there!” He nodded, following my finger.

“Mustangs,” he said with a pleased expression. “A gift from Spain. They’re descendants of some very fine swimmers that survived a shipwreck off the coast some four hundred years ago. They are the most pureblooded breed in the world, or so I’m told. You can find ’em all over these little islands. I think they’re part seahorse, myself, ’cause when they want a change of scenery, they just hop in the water and swim to a different one.” Pete then shook his head and chuckled, a deprecating smile on his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re right. I guess I really am a fount of useless knowledge.”

“Yes, you are. But it’s like having my own personal tour guide.” He landed a sweet peck on my cheek. “One that kisses!” I added, laughing.

Lacing fingers, we strolled to the far corner of the boardwalk where Bessie was tied. I leaned over the railing and peered at the seaweed and green gunk clinging to the pylons. Little fish darted in and out of the shadows along the crusty shoreline of large oyster clusters resembling ill-formed cement. Oily patches swirled rainbows of green and violet on the water’s surface; the residue of so many watercraft.

Back at the counter, Pete retrieved our lunch, secured in a neatly folded white paper bag with a large smiley face drawn on the front. After a brief, but very serious discussion with the boat crew about what was biting today, Pete threw up his arm in a “guy” sort of wave and backed Bessie out of her parking space. He put the boat in gear and we left the waterfront behind.

“We’re goin’ to Shell Island,” he yelled back to me. I’d stretched out, lounging on the warm white cushions. I didn’t know exactly where or what that was, but it sounded good to me. Frankly, I didn’t care where we went. I was cruising through beautiful water with a ridiculously handsome man, slurping obscenely sweet tea from a large Styrofoam cup. And to top things off, from the smell of it, I had something dietarily disastrous to eat for lunch. What more could a girl want?

Pete slowed as we neared a landmass, and I joined him at the helm. He pointed out a dock of sorts where an open, metal-roofed vessel rocked. He explained that tourists were shuttled here from the Beaufort Marina. On the shore, a large pile of totes and beach towels served as evidence. Passengers were disembarking via a skeletal ladder, and I burst out laughing when a small wave jostled the middle-aged woman clinging halfway down it. She hollered as if her life was over.

We continued around the island to an area where the water was very calm—one peaceful and lovely and very vacant. Skillfully, Pete navigated Bessie close to shore and tossed the anchor over the bow. I stayed out of the way as he deftly roamed the boat, pulling rope from a compartment, digging through another, her master under no uncertain terms. Then, like an Olympic javelin thrower, he hurled a long harpoon-like object towards the beach, where it landed with a plunk.

Hopping into the water, he quickly found the tethered rope and tugged the boat close to shore before jamming the stake in the sand. After testing line, he waded back and climbed effortlessly into the boat. Water had wicked up his weathered yellow t-shirt, so he stripped it off and tossed it in a bundle on the deck. With dripping trunks, he plopped on the bench opposite me and promptly caught me openly admiring his bare chest. He looked down modestly, the boastful, arrogant Pete nowhere to be found.

An albatross squawked as it flew overhead, announcing our arrival and the possibility of lunch. As Bessie rocked tranquilly, Pete opened the bag and began pulling out our food. The crab cake sandwiches were unmistakably North Carolina-style, an even mixture of spiced bread stuffing and crab meat, deep fried until golden brown. I embraced my heritage and plowed right in. Priss had loaded the bag with packets of tartar sauce, which Pete squirted liberally on his bun. He tossed a few to me and I tossed them right back. And while I did nibble on a few crinkle-cut fries, I passed on the hushpuppies, which he didn’t seem terribly brokenhearted about.

Waist deep in the water again, Pete yelled, “Okay, now hand me the stuff.” I hoisted the canvas tote and cooler to him one at a time. “Now strip down naked and hop in the water,” he ordered. “Feel free to leave all your clothes on the boat.” After rolling my eyes at his salacious grin, I performed a little striptease, taking off my tank and shorts very slowly, unveiling the fabulous push-up bikini I’d ordered from my favorite bathing suit catalogue. I’d chosen a little leopard print number from the Very Sexy Collection. His jaw dropped open when I did my ta-da.

“Good Lord, Susie-Q, that is some kinda suit!”

“You like it?” I asked, turning in a circle, modeling for him.

“Well, if ya have to wear somethin’, that’d be my very first choice!” he replied, grinning wildly. My wallet and I made peace on the spot.

With only the mildest of breezes, it had gotten very hot in the still boat, and I was ready to cool off. I couldn’t decide how to disembark in a dignified manner so I just jumped in unceremoniously and dunked under the surface to drench myself. As I got within a few yards of shore, something splashed violently beside me, so I did what any highly sophisticated woman would do…I screamed!

Pete burst out laughing. “It’s just a shark, Susie-Q.” I was no more afraid of sharks than the average person, and no less either. I splashed to shore as fast as I could, practically knocking Pete over in the process.

“It’s only a baby one,” he said, picking me up in his arms. “With all that screamin’ ya probably scared him half to death. Ya do it to me all the time.” He kissed me before I could respond, then lifted our things and began walking toward the interior of the island. After casting a wary glance at the now menacing water, I followed. When we crested a series of vegetation-covered dunes, I got my first real view of the island. It was long and fairly narrow, stretching a good half-mile in length east to the west. There were no houses, no shops—no litter, in fact. In the distance, the Cape Lookout Lighthouse stood sentinel. Braced against a seemingly endless blue sky, its black and white diamond pattern spelled anything but danger.

“This is part of the National Seashore,” he explained. “You can camp here, but that’s about it.”

“A slice of undisturbed paradise,” I sighed. He turned back and nodded.

As there was no defined path, I simply followed Pete wherever he went, sloshing through the soft sand and staring at his perfect ass. We trekked up and down dunes and around brilliantly green scrub bushes, most the general size of small cars. Clumps of sea oat dotted the landscape like golden teepees, and small dragonflies hovered low over the sand, darting this way and that as we neared. Bees hummed.

“Keep your eyes peeled for horses. We might get lucky,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Plucked from my impure thoughts, I said, “They’re on this island, too?”

“Yeah, twenty or so, I think. They’re protected, of course.”

As we rounded the next dune, Pete stopped abruptly and sank to his haunches. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down with him. A small herd of chestnut-colored mustangs, their tails and manes black as night, nibbled on the sparse ground covering only yards from us. They weren’t the giant farm animals I’d fed apples at my grandparents’ farm, or the brushed and pampered show breeds I’d admired when the Dixie Classic Fair rolled into town each fall. These horses were small and stocky with dull, shaggy coats.

I squeezed Pete’s arm and pointed as we peered through the oats at a foal nursing from its mother as she foraged. The elderly alpha of the group, sensing our presence, urged the herd away with a prodding whiny. We remained hidden until the last of the group meandered in no particular hurry around a copse of bushes and disappeared from sight. Pete and I stared at each other, awestruck, before rising to continue.

Mounting the last of the dunes we emerged from the wilderness onto a pristine beach of white sand and froth brimmed waves. Shiny green blades of grass poked from the sand in a random fashion, directing us towards the ocean as they bent to the will of the breeze. Gracefully losing my balance, I stumbled down the pale slope and landed on all fours at its base.

“Take your shoes off. You’ll have a better time of it,” Pete said, humor blooming in his voice. I yanked off my flip-flops and hurled them at him. He plucked them from midair as if they were simply floating there and stuffed them in the tote.

We walked the beach side by side, Pete stopping intermittently to flip over a shell with his big toe, checking for perfection. And though completely engaged in our conversation, he periodically stole glances at the dunes. Midstride and without warning, he dropped our things and ran towards the embankment, unearthing something approximately the size and shape of a football. White sand poured down his arm as he held up an enormous conch shell; the largest I’d ever seen. After a discerning examination, he returned with his prize.

“This, my darlin’, is why they call it Shell Island.” He brushed off the remaining sand and placed it in my hands. Bleached and smoothed by time and the sea, the exterior of the deceptively heavy shell was the color of the sand itself. Descending from the blunt turret at one end, the gracefully spiraling ridges resembled an elegant staircase that ended abruptly at the vaguely eye-shaped opening. The interior surface, where the occupant once lived, shone like a pink liquid tongue.

Pete placed his ear to the opening. “Yep, it’s in there,” he said with a nod. I did the same and my ear was filled with an infant roar. “They’re magic ya know. Each one’s like a genie’s bottle. Once you’ve taken it, you’ve captured a bit of the ocean’s spirit, and at some point, she’ll expect ya to return it.” Face filled with innocence, his large, suddenly childlike eyes implored me to believe this was the single greatest truth in the universe. I smiled with the knowledge that this man, rather than the ocean’s soul, was quite possibly the genie. He stole a sweet kiss and gathered our things.

The conch joined our bags in the arduous task of anchoring the edges of our blanket against the ocean’s warm breath. Then leaving these behind, we walked east towards the lighthouse. The beach here was broad and flat. We carefully stepped around a series of spent remnants: white, yellow and gray conchs; sea bonnets; the occasional smooth gray clamshell, its exposed purple interior cupped in modesty. The scene looked very like bones belched from a hearty tidal meal.

“I would have gone crazy in a place like this as a kid,” I murmured. Pete’s expression confirmed that he in fact had. I imagined him as a little boy, head of blond tornadoes, small tanned arms so filled with shells he could barely walk.

The coarse sand underfoot was soft and firm at the same time, and our feet made squeaking sounds as we continued, their deep impressions marking our trail. He led me closer to the water. Nearer the surf, the color changed to that of damp cement, becoming just as hard. Faint curving lines left by the receding tide marbled the gently sloping surface. We returned to the square we’d claimed and sprawled out. Aside from the occasional leering seagull, we were alone.

As glorious as midsummer is, especially when enjoyed at the water’s edge, I recognized with some remorse that I’d spent the season sequestered in air-conditioned offices or in my car. And only when sprinting across melting asphalt parking lots was I even exposed to the elements. My thoughts immediately raced from there to my office and the tasks awaiting me. It took an exhaustive effort, but I managed to sweep away the sudden wave of guilt threatening to ruin this beautiful afternoon by concocting the illusion that I had nothing better to do in the world, wrapping myself in the luxury of simply being.

The sheer number of hours Pete had logged in his boat left his skin the beautiful sun-kissed color of caramel. Mine was more an anemic cream of wheat. “Okay, lady,” he said, rummaging through my bag, “factor a million for you.”

“I think I can go a little lower than that,” I replied. “I could use some sun.”

He pulled out a brown bottle, opened it, and squirted a glob in his hand. The scent pierced my brain like an arrow, dredging up so many happy memories of beach and pool and summer itself. In the dead of winter, when there seemed little hope of ever seeing the color green again, and I happened to find myself in the lotion aisle of a drug store, and if no one was looking, I’d pop the lid of a sunscreen bottle and discreetly inhale. The chemical, almost astringent smell of Coppertone was better to me than French perfume.

“Good things take time,” he said quietly, kissing my forehead. “Now, roll over.”

As with so many things, Pete was meticulous. He was fastidious in the detail of his design work, he was almost fussy about the way he maintained his ugly-ass truck, he scrupulously cooked, and the word “thorough”, as evidenced by last night’s performance, did not begin to describe him in bed. It was to his credit and my pleasure that he bestowed the same attention to the simple act of applying lotion to my back.

He placed his strong hands on my shoulders and began smoothing lotion over my skin in circular motions, covering each arm with great care, massaging as he went along. Coating each finger of my hand, he touched me intimately. More than a few mms and ahhs escaped my lips as he slowly, completely, and relentlessly seduced me. He untied the strings of my top so nothing hampered the progress of his slippery fingers as they felt their way down my ribcage, retreating only when they grazed the edges of my breasts. I was completely aroused before he reached the small of my back, visions of last night dominating my thoughts. By the time he’d finished rubbing the backs of my legs, calves, and ankles I was on fire—the sun having absolutely nothing to do with it. He retied my suit loosely.

“Darlin’, turn over,” he murmured, softly nipping my lobe with his teeth.

Both immensely stimulated and steeped in blissful fantasies, I complied wholeheartedly. He planted his arms on either side of my shoulders and kissed me with heat. I wrapped my arms around his neck ready to pull him on top me, when he said, “Lay still. I’m not finished, yet.” He kissed my neck and I let out a frustrated moan.

I cracked my eyelids and peeked at him. One knee had disappeared in the sand as he sat back on his heels, an expression of hungry anticipation at the banquet laid before him. I had to close my eyes again before I died. I heard the squirt of lotion and the soft rasping of his palms, and then he was touching me again, this time lightly on my face. He was very careful around my eyes, but took a long time tracing my features.

After caressing my neck and shoulders he said, “Now, ya may experience some unusual tinglin’ sensations in the next few minutes. Nothing to be alarmed about, I’m a professional.” Another squirt, and then his fingers ran slowly down the seams of my suit before slipping underneath the fabric, making good on his warning. Every inch of skin in, around, and under, my bikini top was fully protected from the sun’s harmful rays; my nipples rock hard and wanting. I parted my lips and sucked in as warm pressure slid over my stomach. Soon I was completely lost to sensation.

By the time he reached places I knew the sun would never see, my tingling sensations had grown to the point of pain. In fact, I was experiencing shortness of breath, an elevated heart rate, and most likely, dilated pupils. Satisfied he hadn’t missed a spot—and I could testify in a court of law that he hadn’t—he crawled back up to my face and kissed me long and slow, his warm tongue caressing mine.

“So, how much do I owe you for the massage?” I asked dreamily, opening my eyes. He was already stretched out on his stomach beside me, chin resting on his shoulder.

“It’s on the house. In fact, I should probably pay you. I bet I got more out of it than you did,” he replied with a poorly hidden smile.

“Don’t be so sure,” I countered, biting my lip. “But I’d like to test your theory.” Lethargically, I sat up and retrieved the bottle from the edge of the blanket. “Now, roll over. I want to start with your chest.” I would inflict the same sexual torture he had. I had big plans.

He didn’t budge. “I put some on before I left the house.” His secret smile and shining eyes then disappeared completely behind his shoulder.

“Pete, are you hiding something from me?”

“Maybe,” he said in a muffled voice, and suddenly I knew what it was. I rolled him on his side to discover a circus tent had been erected in his rust-colored trunks.

“Oh my, Pete, a large conch has slipped into your suit. Would you like me to fish it out for you?” He rolled back on his stomach and grinned, then hid his face again. Once over my laughing fit, I mounted his hips using his bottom as a cushion. “I’m not squishing that hard shell into you, am I?” I asked mockingly. He made a grunting sound. “I’ll try not to bounce too much. I readjusted my position a few times, grinding his hips into the blanket. “Just trying to get comfortable. You have a very firm butt, you know.” He grunted again and his shoulders shook with laughter. Then he muttered something about spanking, so I squeezed his hips between my knees forcefully and rearranged once more.

Lotion sputtered from the pinprick orifice, spraying white globs like fake Christmas tree snow all over his back. He squirmed under me, his well-developed muscles—a true testament to nature—flexing and contracting. I rubbed every single line and ripple of his broad shoulders and well-defined torso at least twice. It was a significant understatement to say I enjoyed touching him last night in the darkness, but having the opportunity to explore his body in broad daylight was delicious.

“Why, Pete Walsh,” I exclaimed, “how on earth did you get all these little scratches? And is that a bite mark on your shoulder? Goodness! What have you gotten into?” I wasn’t sure I’d ever done that to anyone before, but my pang of guilt floated away when he turned his face sideways and cocked a leering brow.

“Got in a tangle with a wildcat last night,” he said, very clearly pleased.

“It certainly looks that way. You know those will sting if you get into that salty ocean.”

“Believe me, it’ll be worth it.” He turned his face away from me but his body shook as he laughed into the blanket.

I leaned down to his exposed ear and whispered, “If you’d like, I can give you some more tonight.”

He rolled over like lightning, and I found myself flat on my back, laughing between kisses. With one arm around my hips, he playfully ground his length against me in the name of readjustment, and I slipped my hands inside his trunks and squeezed his butt cheeks.

We were fully evaluating the merits of ripping off one another’s suits when the jubilant laughter of children stopped us dead. Pete rolled off me and back onto his stomach, and I quickly straightened my top as two straw-haired little girls wearing bright pink suits came into view. Oblivious, they quickly ran past, leaving their parents trailing behind. I smiled and waved nonchalantly.

Pete cleared his throat and said, “Well, that could’ve been embarrassin’.”

“Really embarrassing,” I concurred.

“Maybe I should’ve found a more secluded beach,” he said, smiling. “Hmm, how ’bout a swim?” He led me into the frothy green surf. We fought our way past the growling crests into the gentle swells of the deeper water beyond. Barely able to touch, my body swayed in the gentle caress of the undercurrent. Pete pulled me into his arms. “Now this is more like it,” he murmured against my lips. His arousal pressed against my stomach, and I physically ached from the perpetual state of arousal I’d endured for the last hour.

No longer prey to the threat of innocent eyes, he kissed me deeply, his tongue, tasting of salted waves and sweetened iced tea, a warmly welcomed guest. He ran his hand down my back and pulled my left leg to his waist. My toes left the ocean floor as I wrapped my other around him. His fingers freely roamed the outside of my suit and traced the edge of my bikini bottom until his hand was between my legs.

“Are ya in pain?” he asked in a low teasing voice, rubbing the heel of his palm against my apex.

I gasped, and in a reedy voice replied, “Pretty much.” I slipped my hand from his neck, following the contours of his stomach, and in similar fashion firmly stroked his shaft. He inhaled sharply. “You?” I asked, raising a brow. A much larger version of the playful shark I’d met earlier appeared as though he might eat me whole.

“You have no idea,” he mouthed. He slipped his hand inside my suit and I made an unintelligible noise. Hypnotically holding my eyes, a finger glided lazily through my slickness, eventually attending to my cleft. A smile floated on his lips as he then traced tight circles there with his thumb. His middle finger slid to the throbbing entrance of my core, but instead of relieving my ache, he hesitated, probing but not quite breaching. The sexual miscreant’s expression became mocking, his fingers retreating whenever I tilted my pelvis towards them in frustration.

“You’re hateful,” I gasped.

He chuckled wickedly. “Want me to stop?”

“Yes,” I choked out defiantly. He bit the tip of his tongue and continued his sadistic torture.

“You’ll pay for this!” I threatened, panting.

A serious intensity replaced his taunt when at last he plunged one finger inside me and began stroking places that made the soles of my feet tingle and my hips uncontrollably writhe. Sucking at the shimmering air I soon found myself somewhere between remembering to exhale and losing my mind.

“How ’bout now?” he asked in a low husky voice. Unable to speak coherently, I nodded yes and sank my teeth hard into my lower lip. He slipped a second digit inside and worked me with circling thumb and thrusting fingers as my knees clamped onto his hips. I broke eye contact and buried my face in his neck, clinging on for dear life. He slid the arm preventing me from drowning to my hips and braced me firmly as we rode through my undulations together. My head lolled lifelessly on his shoulder as the last of the pulses subsided.

“Better?”

“Uh huh,” I moaned, kissing the red whelp I’d added to his collection of war wounds. Then I slid my hand inside his trunks to offer him relief. He chuckled ruefully, then hugged me tightly and kissed my ear.

“Lost cause.”

We returned to the shore after checking ourselves and collapsed. He lay facing me. The sun and eternal ocean breeze played on my skin like the flutter of tiny feathers, casting an idyllic enchantment as he twisted my hair around his fingers and touched my face, tracing its contours, my nose, my ears. He ran his fingers lightly down my neck and arms; kissed my forehead. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop,” I mumbled. He chuckled but otherwise said nothing.

Pete had a seemingly unlimited attention span when it came to my body. He touched and kissed and examined just about every inch of me. I think he catalogued every mole and freckle during the afternoon. He’d paid similar attention last night, and I wasn’t sure why, but for once in my life, I didn’t feel the least bit insecure. I just hoped he was as pleased with what he saw in the daylight as I was with him. He was certainly smiling a lot.

“You have a beautiful body,” he murmured, kissing my shoulder. I rolled on my side so we lay in mirrored positions.

“So do you.”

Sunlight illuminated the golden hairs on his forearm, and I traced the raised veins on the back of his hands. He had strong, lovely hands—very masculine. I flipped it over and followed the small creases running down his palm. The calluses at the base of each finger were visible, but not rough; hands that knew physical labor, but also drew and created. He raised his arm from my play and traced my lips. Turning my face into his palm, I kissed it and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

Before last night, I hadn’t felt at liberty to roam over him as I wanted. In the darkness, we’d crossed a great river and now no physical barriers lay between us. And unexpectedly, I felt it my right to touch him without reserve. So, sitting up, I pushed him onto his back and began exploring. He was just spectacular; construction had been very good to him. His chest possessed very little hair except for the patches of golden honey under his arms.

“So, did you play sports in college?” I asked, as I followed his breastbone to the indent of his bellybutton. An enticing trail of blond fur began just below his navel leading to the netherworld. I inched down this devil’s road.

“A little intramural soccer,” he coughed out as his stomach muscles seized and twitched. He threw his arm over his eyes and smiled. “If ya don’t stop that I’m gonna drag ya back in the water.”

I skimmed the outside of his damp suit. “I might take you up on that later, but I haven’t completed my inventory. Now, where was I? Let’s see…two arms, two legs. Check.” He relaxed as I left the danger zone and traced the lateral muscles up his sides. He flinched, jerking away slightly. “Ticklish, are we?” I noted his grin. “You were telling me about sports,” I reminded him. “You played soccer…?”

“And a lot of basketball.”

“Did you, now?”

He crossed his arms behind his head and smirked. “Yeah, ’cause, ya know, at six foot I had a real shot at the NBA.”

“No football?”

“Just the goofin’ off kind with my frat brothers.” So privileged… I tried to muffle my judgmental snort. He raised his brows but seemed unoffended.

His eyes were so beautiful; the irises, the color of polished jade, were pale and vibrant with flecks of gold and brown. It struck me that their coloring wasn’t far from that of the water behind me. Perhaps Pete was conceived of the sea—a son of Neptune. Becoming lost in his gaze, I pulled back and traced his eyebrows with the tip of my finger, and then ran it down the bridge of his nose. He smiled up at me as I bent down and touched my lips to his. I kissed them lightly once more before sitting up. My prize. My lips curled as thoughts drifted to his bedroom.

Pete resumed his earlier position. “What’re ya thinkin’ about?” he asked softly. I fixed my eyes on a passing gull.

“I’m thinking about last night.” His expression became dreamy. “About the way you kissed me.”

“Well, I kissed ya a lot of different ways, and in a lot of different places,” he said, his face filled with male satisfaction.

“I guess I was thinking that you kissed me like you meant it.”

“I don’t understand. Of course, I meant it,” he said softly.

I’d spent a good deal of time recently, flipping through my various sexual experiences, analyzing each. During these dissections, I’d come to realize that Ryan’s kisses had, more often than not, felt insincere, rote even. “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes people kiss each other because that’s just what you do while you’re making…when you’re together. Last night it seemed like yours were very deliberate, that’s all.”

Pete’s eyebrows puckered, his expression perplexed if not indignant. “Susan, I can assure ya I meant each and every one of ‘em.” We were quiet for a minute, and then he said, “It sounds like your love life has been less than ya deserve, but you’re mine now—if ya want me, and I promise my kisses and my lovemakin’ will always be deliberate, if not a little premeditated,” he tacked on. He leaned over me and looked intently into my eyes, his face serious. “Always,” he whispered. Then he proved it.

Perhaps what he said was meant simply as a statement of personal integrity, but it had the ring of a pledge—a vow, actually; one that had just been sealed with a kiss. That, I didn’t see coming—not in my wildest dreams, and certainly not after one night. The concept was alluring, if for no other reason than he hadn’t demanded something of me in return. He simply offered himself. Fascinating…

Further, his delivery seemed so completely sincere that I could almost believe he had no underlying motive. After all, we’d already slept together and I’d been rather clear about my future intentions in that regard. Nevertheless, my warning alarms sounded—all of them, and in rapid succession. I’d heard similar words before; Southern boys and promises. And while surprisingly tempted at the moment to dive headlong into a relationship with him, I was no longer naïve. Moreover, I was fairly certain how this would all play out; some Babs-like creature would surely be involved.

The angel on my other shoulder reasoned that Pete wasn’t a boy, but a man—very much so, and to splay himself open like this was courageous, if not borderline reckless. Still, I had to wonder if being a grown man really mattered down here.

The third voice in my head—the only rational one of the bunch—the one not set about the business of goggling and fawning and eagerly kissing this man, reminded the rest that this was a fling at best; a lighthearted, short-term fling that would end when I moved, if not before. After much negotiation, we, the three, agreed that until September, I was absolutely allowed to enjoy myself.

Now resolved, permission granted, I pressed my lips lightly against his and said, “Thank you.” And then for the sake of levity, I tacked on, “But, I’ll have to get back to you on whether or not I want to keep you.”

I laughed at his thwarted expression as he rolled on top of me.

♥

As the sun leaned heavily to the west, I grudgingly embraced the fact that my poor skin had had as much sun as it could tolerate. Still, the promise of dinner and phenomenal sex was the only argument I could make for leaving. We packed our things and climbed the dunes, laughing and talking.

The tide was trying to take Bessie with it as it fled. We quickly stowed our things, ready to leave. Suddenly, Pete hopped back into the water and tore off toward the dunes, leaving me stranded in his boat wondering what in hell just happened. As her hull scraped the sand, I curled my legs underneath me, searching the water for my little gray friend. Pete reemerged with a triumphant smile, and after splashing through the very shallow water climbed back in the boat. Dripping puddles around his feet, he handed the large conch to me and took his seat in the captain’s chair. Shell Island was a happy place; it had exuded a simple, quiet joy, and I waved goodbye to the frolicking waves as the strip of land disappeared.

“Now, there’s Sand Dollar Island,” he said, pointing at nothing. “Do ya see it?” I squinted at what appeared to be a small hump breaching the water’s surface. It looked more like a sandbar than an island. “You can only get to it during low tide. Otherwise, it’s completely submerged.”

“Really?” I grabbed the bill of the cap Pete insisted I wear, as a gust tried to dislodge it.

“Yeah, and it’s covered with sand dollars. Perfect ones. Of course, ya only want to take the dead ones,” he said, turning to me. His hair had dried now and the wind was twisting it in all directions.

“How can you tell if they’re dead?” I leaned closer to hear him over the roar of the engine.

“In a few days you’ll know, ’cause they’ll start stinkin’ to high heaven. I learned that the hard way.” He took advantage of my proximity and pecked my cheek. “I’d really like to take ya there sometime…if ya’d like.”

“I’d like,” I said.

On our way into Beaufort, we passed yet another island—a real one. I scanned it for horses. “What’s that one called?”

“Turnip Island.”

“How’d it get that name?” He turned to me with a sneaky smile. “Don’t even try and tell me they grow turnips there.”

“Actually, Susie-Q,” he said, looking suddenly perplexed, “I really don’t know.”

“Pete Walsh, are you going to stand here and admit there’s something you actually don’t know?” He wrapped his arm around my waist and squeezed me tightly.

“Ya know, I may drown ya yet.”

32

Revenge

“Beaufort’s the third oldest settlement in North Carolina,” Pete remarked as the town unveiled itself. The marina was not enormous, but surprisingly formidable for such a small hamlet.

“It’s lovely.” He piloted Bessie slowly through the channel to one of a host of docks. The early evening light bounced gold off everything it touched, including his face.

“Don’t be fooled, though,” he said, dropping his voice. “It’s a dangerous place.”

“Really?” The quaint waterfront looked both charming and harmless. I hadn’t read anything about crime in the area other than the pettiest of offenses. Regardless, compared to downtown Philly or The Hill in Pittsburgh, it couldn’t possibly compare.

“Pirates!” Pete hissed scandalously. I rolled my eyes. “No really!” His face became the very picture of boyish innocence—the one that signaled bullshit.

“Uh huh…”

“I can prove it!” he pressed. “They dredged up the Queen Anne’s Revenge, Blackbeard’s ship, a few years ago. He was the most notorious pirate that ever lived!” I rolled my eyes again. “I can take ya to the Maritime Museum and show ya, if ya don’t believe me. Though, it’s probably closed by now.” This he muttered, presumably to himself. “See, Blackbeard had a house here. He also had one in New Bern, not far from my mamma’s. They tore that one down when I was little,” he added, most disgruntled.

I wasn’t getting sucked into a dispute about pirates. Besides, I vaguely remembered reading a snippet in the Sun Journal some weeks prior about a piratical-type celebration of some sort. This, before flipping to the staggering three paragraphs devoted to the nation’s economic market.

“Why would they tear down an historical dwelling?” I had trouble believing anything as sacred to North Carolinians as an old house would not be monumentalized. Surely, they’d seen the metal sign!

He frowned. “Well, the new hotel needed more parkin’ spaces.”

“Are you serious?” I sputtered.

“Yep, the price paid for progress.” While I was all for progress, the deliberate erasure of something so flavorful shocked even me.

Pulling into a slot, Pete shot into the marina office. I was willing to bet he knew everyone working there—at any marina in the area, and sure enough, he returned smiling. Judging by the size of some of the moored toys, I imagined slip rental here cost a fortune, but in Pete’s case, the evening’s fee would most likely be paid in the denomination of fish.

Using the hose attached to the dock’s faucet, we rinsed off the sand and salt residue from our legs, and I followed him to the marina’s facilities to change. Happy to shed my damp suit, I climbed into something more befitting the upscale shop-lined boardwalk. A glance in the filmy mirror took me by surprise. Thanks to Pete’s ball cap, my mop was not terribly horrifying, and while wrinkled from a day stuffed in the bottom of my beach bag, my dress was acceptable. My face had gotten a little too much sun, but most surprising was the aura of contentment swathing me.

Pete was waiting when I emerged, nicely clad in linen pants, a pale blue shirt of the same material, and the wind-tousled hair he wore so well. He took my hand and we wandered through the shops and art galleries on the main strip. He bought me the obligatory OBX sticker, knowing I’d rather die than own anything linking me to Havelock. I vowed to display it on my new car as soon as I bought one.

Beaufort was really capitalizing on the whole pirate thing and we snickered at some of the trinkets for sale: Pirate refrigerator magnets, pirate t-shirts, pirate key chains, and the all-important pirate shot glasses. As we passed a manned booth advertising pirate ship sunset cruises and walking tours by Blackbeard’s house, Pete gave me a smug I told you so look and was rewarded with a punch in the arm.

Following the long sidewalk skirting the wharf, we continued our stroll, leaving the commercialism behind. Though the dock area was quite modern, almost every house on the waterfront was of historic significance. I absolutely chortled when we passed the large brick post office building. Staked in the front lawn were three historical signs lined in a row. It was a wonder people didn’t literally trip over history here. Interestingly, the building itself was for sale, and I couldn’t help thinking it would be the perfect place for yet another museum.

Continuing onward, we passed a series of homes stamped with light blue placards indicating their date of construction. Most were built in the early eighteenth century, a few modern nineteenth-century structures scattered in the mix. And though somewhat protected by the series of barrier islands, I couldn’t fathom how these homes had survived unscathed for hundreds of years, withstanding harsh sun, fierce storms, and time itself. Perhaps the thousand coats of paint, salt, and the moisture-drenched environment had somehow prettified the wooden planks.

“It’s beautiful here,” I remarked.

“It really is. Wanna get out of the sun for a little while?”

“Sure.”

Once back in the touristy area, he motioned to a stately two-story building. Crossing the threshold, we were pleasantly assaulted by a rush of air-conditioning. Pete placed his hand lightly on my back and we navigated around a cluster of Bermuda short-wearing tourists to a carpeted stairwell in the rear.

The second floor of the restaurant was a large open space packed tightly with dressed tables awaiting dinner denizens. The hostess ushered us through a glass door to a wooden deck overlooking the scrabble board of jutting docks. Though outside, the table was heavily shaded by a dark burgundy awning and we collapsed in our chairs, enjoying the breeze.

“Today has been amazing, Pete, and a hell of a lot better than my usual Sundays.” My ritual was to hunker down in my office, pore over sales numbers, prepare for the upcoming week, and then harshly chastise myself for not doing better. But that seemed too sad to say out loud. I knew I would pay stiffly for this weekend’s indulgence, but as my eyes raked over his handsome profile, I was glad for the day I’d spent in his company.

“Yeah, it hasn’t sucked for me either,” he said, meeting my eyes.

From our vantage, I realized that many of the boats slipped in the harbor weren’t boats at all; they were yachts—big ones with origins ranging from the Caribbean to Nova Scotia. “What it must be like to own one of those,” I murmured, nodding towards a slow-moving behemoth, its dinghy alone larger than Bessie.

“Those things cost…well, I don’t even know how much,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table.

“Yes, but to be that rich…” I sighed longingly.

“Does money impress you?” he asked with surprising interest, sitting up abruptly.

“A little. I imagine it does everyone to some degree. But for me, it’s not so much the money itself, it’s the markers of success it buys—you know, the toys you own, the car you drive, where you live; badges, hard-earned rewards.”

“Ya seem pretty successful now,” he said.

“Oh, no way!” I laughed loudly, taking a sip of the drink that had arrived moments ago. They’d gone light on the gin, I noticed

“Is that really what ya want?” he asked, flicking a finger towards the passing cruiser.

“No, not really. But don’t you think it would be fun to cruise around in something like that…be the envy of everyone you passed?”

“Yeah, I suppose. But Susan,” he said, turning to me, “when would you ever make time to sail one of those?”

“You have a point there,” I admitted grudgingly.

Breathing in the salted air with great pleasure, he stretched back out and kicked off his shoes. “So, if a yacht’s not in your future, what defines success for ya?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Moving up a few more pegs in the company would be nice. I’d love to make vice president before I retire.”

He snorted. “If ya retire. I imagine you’ll keel over well before then.”

The plastic cup was beginning to sweat and I drew little squiggles with my finger as I pondered my future. “So what’s your mark?” I asked, after a moment. He was tracking the disappearing yacht with vague interest.

“Actually, I think I may have hit it.” I raised my eyebrows and looked at him in disbelief. “Really,” he said. “I make more money than I need, have a business that’s grown much larger than I ever expected, and I’m now at a place where I can choose the projects I take on. I would like to get my beach house finished sometime this century,” he said, chuckling. “But that’ll come. There’s very little else I need…materially, anyway.” He shrugged and smiled at me. “I guess I’ll never be rich or famous or particularly powerful, but I am fairly satisfied.”

“No one’s satisfied, Pete,” I said, shaking my head. “Everyone wants more. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t.”

“Well, wantin’ and needin’ are two different things.”

“If I didn’t want anything more, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. My whole life’s about getting more. That’s how I survive, the drive of it.”

He cut his eyes my way and chuckled. “You’ve been sprinting flat out since college, haven’t ya?” I didn’t reply. “Thought so,” he said arrogantly.

“Well, it’s gotten me damn far.”

“Yeah, but look what it’s cost ya.” His voice had taken on a note of seriousness.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that ya don’t seem to have much of a life outside of work.” I frowned at that.

“Well, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou, I don’t suppose you know how many female senior VPs there are in my company,” I snapped.

“Tell me.”

“Exactly none. There are no women at that level.” He raised his eyebrows. “But forget INTech for a minute. Out of the top fifty Fortune 500 companies in the United States, how many female CEOs do you think there are?” I asked, too heatedly.

“I don’t know,” he replied very calmly.

“Well, you can count them on one hand and you don’t even need your thumb.”

“Is that so?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Why do ya think that is?”

“Well, for one thing, most companies are still very male-dominated, so it’s extremely difficult for women to break into the club. But also I think most women end up putting their personal lives ahead of their careers.”

“Not you, though.”

“No, definitely not me. I expect more from myself.” I scowled at the gull perched on the railing looking at us with curiosity.

“But what’s wrong with livin’, too?”

“I am living!” He snorted. “I’m here today, aren’t I?”

“Only ’cause I didn’t really give ya a vote,” he said, looking at me pointedly. Then his voice softened again. “What I mean is makin’ time to enjoy what ya already have—those badges ya mentioned. Ya have some now.”

“Not really. When I get real ones, then I’ll take time.” He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. I removed the thin lime wedge pinching the rim of my cup and dropped it in the tonic bath, swirling the green smile with my straw.

“Those female CEOs…” he said finally. “Do ya think they have lives outside work—the men, too, for that matter?”

“Work is their life. It has to be.” Pete looked clearly disturbed.

“We aren’t cats, ya know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We don’t have nine lives. We only get the one—that’s the party line, anyway.” I hmphed him and he smiled. After a moment of silence filled with the punctuated laughter of a group walking towards a large boat, he said, “I wonder if those executives are happy.” I looked at him, bewildered.

“They run multi-gazillion-dollar corporations and make monstrous salaries; they love what they do. Of course, they’re happy, Pete.”

“I love what I do, too,” he said. “I just think there’s more to life than my job.”

“Bullshit! You spend your days managing your firm and your evenings working at the bar you half own. And that blueprint-filled study of yours, where I’m guessing you spend most of your free time, is simply an extension of your office, just like mine.” He snorted derisively and took a sip of his drink. I did the same. As time quietly stretched, I took a quick inventory of the sailboats dotting the water, chuckling as gulls, like a swarm of angry bees, dive-bombed a fishing boat skimming the Shackleford Island shoreline.

“I spend some of my free time in my garage, too,” he said quietly. Then he nudged my leg under the table. “And a little in my bedroom.” I rolled my eyes, but then flushed as images of last night wriggled to the front of my mind.

“Lech.” I accused, draining the last of my drink. Pete glanced up at the weathered clock mounted on the wall behind us.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starved.”

I assumed we’d retire inside, but he led me down the stairs and into the evening.

“I got us reservations for seven, but I imagine they’ll gladly seat us early.” A smile floated on his lips. Reservations? I raised an eyebrow.

Holding hands, we meandered down the boardwalk and then crossed the street, melting into the herd of visitors. The sidewalk eventually wrapped around a corner, and we emerged on a private side street across from a large inn. Pete put his arm around my waist, and I his, and we wandered past a series of little iron fences “protecting” the historic homes behind them. I heard muffled laughter and light music from a secret garden and slowed, hoping to catch a more sweeping glimpse.

“Beautiful,” I remarked yet again.

Tucked between grander houses was a café lodged in a quaint cottage.

Pete opened the door and I stepped into a high-ceilinged room planked with beautiful wooden floors and furnished eclectically with funky art—not one stuffed fish in sight! The evening features, scribbled in fluorescent orange on a seemingly invisible glass board, appeared to float in midair; the kind of restaurant where once a dish is exhausted, the words are simply wiped away. I turned back to Pete, smiling broadly.

“Thought ya’d like it,” he said.

The first customers of the evening, we were seated by the window. The restaurant was actually very small, but full-length mirrors mounted on opposing walls gave the illusion of a much larger space. And though the building was obviously old, the owners had melded the charm of the antique woodwork with the nouveau. The little vase on our table contained the slender stem of a delphinium orchid. Romantic, yet understated.

An attentive, but uncharacteristically nonintrusive waitress smiled at us equally as she presented a surprisingly extensive wine list, leaving at once to get water. Soothing jazz played quietly in the background as we perused the collection, discussing our options.

After a rousing recitation of the specials in their intricacy, Pete ordered lamb with roasted fingerling potatoes. When his dish arrived, I stabbed a spear of grilled asparagus before he could protest. Breaking with tradition, I chose duck in a blackberry vanilla reduction rather than grouper, the fresh catch. I was nearly moved to tears after the first bite. Clearly amused, Pete chuckled at my open display of gushing affection and my offered hand in marriage to the chef, who dropped by the table mid-meal to check on us. Pete watched me throughout dinner with an undisguised fascination that was borderline unnerving.

“See, I told ya people down here could cook,” he said, once the chef disappeared.

“He can, anyway,” I said, dabbing my lips with the crisp black napkin. “But he’s from Toronto.”

When I returned from the restroom, Pete had taken care of the bill. And as we turned to leave, the waitress hustled out and handed him a small white bag. I looked at it quizzically.

“Dessert,” he said, with a suggestive smile that made me laugh. We took our time returning to the boat. The sun had long set and heavy dusk was upon us. “Too bad we missed it,” Pete remarked, nodding at the horizon as he backed out of the slip. As the last of the color faded from the sky, the first pinpricks of stars appeared. I sent a silly little wish to the largest as Pete negotiated Core Creek.

It was late twilight when the bright lights of Seagate Marina came into view. The short trip back to my condo was filled with palpable anticipation. Pete kept my hand in his, and even that little bit of contact was electrifying in the darkness. We exchanged hooded glances more than once. He escorted me to my front door and stood close as I unlocked it.

“I feel like I’ve been on a whirlwind vacation,” I said, as we crossed the threshold.

“It kinda feels that way to me, too.” He walked into the kitchen and placed the bag in my empty refrigerator. “Do ya even eat when I’m not around?”

“Not really,” I said, tossing my tote into the laundry room. I quickly shut the door before the whole mass of ignored clothing spilled into the foyer. We met again at the door. A preemptive silence loitered.

“So…I had a really lovely time over the last…well, twenty-four hours, I suppose.”

“Me too,” he responded softly. His eyes had become shimmering pools of liquid, and at that my black soul laughed diabolically.

“Well,” I said, hesitating, “I have another crazy week ahead. Gotta get up at the crack of dawn. And you…you probably want an early start tomorrow as well. So…” With inward delight, I watched as his face lost its glow and redressed in a mixture of wariness and thinly veiled disappointment. “Okay, well, thanks again.” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a light pat on the shoulder. “I guess I’ll…see you around.” I only glimpsed his forming expression of confusion before crossing to the stairs. “Boy, do I need a shower. You’ll call me, right?” I asked, without looking back.

Stomping loudly on each step as I ascended, I clamped my lips together, barely able to contain myself. Arriving at the landing, I crossed my fingers and waited.

“Um…Susie-Q?” The delightful uncertainty his voice held was the sweet music I’d hoped for. I slapped my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter and waited another beat before calling down to him.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Somebody’s got to wash all this nasty sunscreen off my back!” I squealed and raced into my bedroom.

Mounting the stairs faster than I thought possible, he overtook me before I reached the bathroom door, catching me up in his arms. “You wicked, wicked woman!” he said, laughing through kisses. He pulled me closer and his lips became demanding, and then clothes began flying in all directions. He nipped my neck intermittently as we yanked and unbuttoned.

I fumbled with the spigot, finally turning on the water, and Pete followed me into the stall. Grabbing his head, I dragged his mouth to mine, shooting my tongue between his lips. Hands fondled wildly as water ran down our bodies. Before long, he picked me up and pressed my back against the cool tile.

Curling my legs around his hips, I cried out as he entered me in one strong thrust. Once solidly anchored, he stopped moving altogether, reigning in our frantic pace, and we became a panting amalgamated statue in a fountain of spray. After a moment, he kissed me tenderly and then fixed his eyes on mine.

He began rotating his hips in a deliberate and controlled fashion. My insides cinched around him and I felt everything. When I closed my eyes, yielding to this sensation, he pulled his hips back to the brink of disconnect and stilled until I reopened them. Only when he had my full attention, did he gradually slide deeply inside me again, burying himself. He maintained this deliberate rhythm of torment to pleasure, mercilessly freezing whenever I looked away, bending me to his will until I was cranked to my limits. My epic orgasm exploded around him, gripping him hard, milking him, and he lost his precious self-control, his movements intensifying until I felt the answering echoes of his own release. He finished with a blissful groan.

Sometime later, when I could stand without assistance, we stepped from the shower, dripping puddles on the linoleum. Humor resettled over us as we took turns drying one another, teasing and laughing. There could never be a night equaling the beauty and majesty of our first; the discovery of one another. Tonight was about fun.

“Take me to bed, Mr. Walsh,” I said, dramatically throwing an arm over my forehead.

“Yes, Miss Scarlet,” he replied, sweeping me up in his arms and imperiously dumping me onto the rumpled sheets of my unmade bed. He flopped down beside me, resting peacefully. All of a sudden he laughed, unprovoked. “Just out of curiosity, you’re not gonna throw up on me this time, are ya?”

“What?”

“Ya know, like the last time we were alone in here.”

“I wouldn’t waste perfectly good duck on the likes of you!” I replied indignantly.

“Well, in that case…wait here.” Either oblivious to fact that he was stark naked and I possibly had neighbors, or simply comfortable enough with himself not to care, he disappeared down the stairs. He returned carrying the restaurant container and a big glass of water. Evidently, Pete suffered from some sort of post-coital dessert fixation that I found both psychologically disturbing and utterly endearing.

Fork in hand, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Okay, close your eyes and open your mouth,” he directed in a low sultry voice. I was already very much enjoying this game.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I said in mock seriousness.

“Believe me, Susan, there are many things I’d like to put in your mouth, not the least of which is my tongue, but this is somethin’ very special…that’s about to fall off the fork, so open up!” he yelped.

A giant splat hit my left boob. I looked first at the cold white blob, and then at him. He grinned riotously. “Here, let me get that for ya.” His warm tongue bathed my breast before I could protest, and man did his wet hair smell great, my fruity shampoo notwithstanding. Once he’d finished his impression of a Saint Bernard, he sat up, a very pleasant expression on his face.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” He was half erect now and I no longer gave a crap about dessert, but he’d already forced my obedience in the shower, so I did as he asked. It took exactly two seconds to respond, one of which spent in sheer disbelief. My eyes popped open and I stared at the piece of real live Key lime pie, the creamy, perfectly tart custard lounging on its chaise of homemade shortbread crust, the chef’s brilliant twist. “It even has real whipped cream,” he added proudly. “Of course, it wept all over itself…and you.” He glanced fondly at my breast.

“This may be the best I’ve ever had,” I remarked truthfully. After a second mouthful, I moaned in ecstasy. “So, is this going to become a habit with you?” He raised an eyebrow, giving me a solicitous smile. “Dessert,” I amended with a smirk.

His eyes twinkled and then became serious. “I sincerely hope so.”

Disquieted by his sudden intensity, I busied myself scooping out another forkful. When I looked up again, I met a relaxed smile and I returned it. A dabble of whipped cream stuck on his lower lip and I leaned in to attend to it, sucking its entirety into my mouth, scraping my teeth against his skin before releasing. I skimmed his nose with mine and then touched his lips. I thought about his earlier comment, suggesting all of the things he might want to put in my mouth; several he already had, one he had not. I rose to my knees and gently pushed him back against the sheets.

As I straddled him, he reached for me, but I wagged my finger, informing him I was now in charge. Acquiescing, he rested his hands on my knees and exhaled softly. Other than the involuntary jerk of the blunt object poking me in the back, he lay still. I retrieved the white container from my nightstand.

“I really love this pie, Pete.”

“Ya do, huh?”

“Uh huh.” I dragged my finger through the creamy custard and smeared his nipples, and then sucked on each, lapping at the cream like a cat. I nipped one tip hard enough that he gasped. “I think it tastes wonderful.” Plopping a large dollop between his pecs, I traced his sternum with my pale, sweet paint, riding the tight ridges of his upper abdomen with my frothy forefinger. He seized up as my tongue went about its work.

“I had no…” he said, hissing through his teeth as I bit him, “…idea ya had such feelin’s about it.”

“Mmm. It’s always been my favorite.” I globbed a big splat on his navel and swished my tongue very thoroughly around and inside it. He began panting.

“I’ll bribe the guy for the recipe,” he responded in a strained voice as I colored his blond happy trail a green that rivaled his eyes.

“You do that,” I said, smacking my lips.

White-knuckled, he clenched fistfuls of my blue linens as I smeared the creamy mess all over my final destination. When I took him in my mouth, he inhaled sharply and whispered, “Oh Holy Lord!”

♥

We lay motionless for a long time, my body sprawled on his, my head lying on his sticky chest listening as his heart regained its normal rhythm; a lush sound, his heart; strong, alive, lulling. He combed his fingers through my wet hair, untangling it, bending periodically to kiss the top of my head. Finally, he reached out and traced my face, temple to chin.

“I’m gettin’ awfully fond of you, Miss Wade.” I didn’t reply but felt the oddest thawing sensation in my chest. I turned a deaf ear to my harpy’s insistent naggings and kissed his chest. I wanted this. Regardless of the pain, it would cause later, I wanted it—him.

I yawned and he rolled me off his chest, turned off my light, and molded his body to mine, shrouding me in warmth…safety. It felt so damn good. I was to the far reaches of consciousness when he whispered, “I should probably head home.”

Rejection’s icicle pierced my midsection, awakening the founded anguish and insecurity Ryan had farmed so efficiently. I fumbled for what material I could reach and pulled it over me.

“Are ya okay?” he asked, sitting up abruptly.

“Just cold,” I lied, drawing into myself like a boiled shrimp. He snaked his warm arm around my waist and enclosed my body in his tight shell. After a minute, I asked, “Do you have to go?” I hated myself for this sudden weakness—the needy sound in my voice, and wished fervently I could pluck the words from the air and swallow them again. But there they floated above us like stringless balloons, just out of reach and ready to pop. I winced, waiting for the lame excuse sure to come—meeting in the morning, dental appointment, bored with you.

“No, ’course not.” He ran his hand down my arm several times and then chuckled softly. “I was just afraid ya might be gettin’ tired of me and need some space, that’s all.” He gently kissed my shoulder, the back of my head, my shoulder again.

When my heart rescinded from my throat and I’d regained some of my bravado, frail as it was, I said, “You do bug the hell out of me sometimes, but I’d really love it if you’d stay.”

He nuzzled my hair, and then whispered, “Whenever ya want me.”

♥

I woke to warm hands caressing my breasts. My body responded immediately, nipples hardening, wetness elsewhere. Reactionary fool that I was, it had taken quite a while to suitably convince myself he wouldn’t sneak away as soon my eyes closed, but when I finally did drift off, after a day at the beach and two glorious nights of rampant passion with this insatiable lover, I’d slept like a rock.

“Good mornin’,” said the warm luscious creature whose body was still wrapped tightly around mine, his large silky hardness pressing firmly into my back. A big stupid grin spread across my face. So this is what it feels like to wake up in the arms of a man…

“Hi.” I wiggled against him. “Last night not enough for you?”

Sheets rustled.

“Honestly, Susie-Q,” he said, nipping my ear, “I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ my hands off ya.”

“You are a hungry boy, aren’t you?” I teased as his broad hand traveled down my stomach.

“Well, it’s been a while since my last meal.”

“Uh huh.” Of one thing I was certain; Pete was a player—had to be. The man was painfully handsome, shockingly passionate, and for reasons that eluded me, unmarried at thirty-one. And the only true character flaw I’d unearthed thus far was his unbridled determination to have fun, but perhaps that was more a reflection of my own deficiency. Without reading the fine print, I laid my credit card on the counter ready to purchase the fantasy he was selling, even if the warranty expired in sixty days.

“Delicious,” he murmured, kissing down my arm. His hand smoothed around my bottom and slithered between my legs. They spread without encouragement, happily receiving him. His fingers slid to my clitoris, fondling it tenaciously, then he plunged his thumb inside me and my eyes flared at this amazing sensation. I inhaled sharply as he began stroking a spot I wasn’t aware existed. And then my eyes flared even wider.

“Oh shit!” I yelled out suddenly.

“What’s wrong, Susie-Q?” he asked, alarmed, extracting his hand immediately. “Did I hurt ya?”

I sat up abruptly and then melted at his concerned expression. “Oh no. Never that,” I assured him, stroking his face. “It’s just, I forgot I have an appointment in Greenville at nine o’clock and I’m not going to make it. Especially if we…” I bit my lower lip. “I guess I kind of lost track of reality. I’m very sorry.”

I vaulted from bed then stopped midstride to check the clock again, hoping I’d read it wrong. After sweeping my eyes over the vision of tousled hair and hungry eyes whose body was wrapped in my sheets, I wanted nothing more than to dive back into bed. “Oh, just crap!” He chuckled at my frustration.

“Can I call ya later?”

“You can call me whenever you like,” I said, grinning stupidly.

“Alright, then,” he said, sitting up. “You hop in the shower, and I’ll get outta here and leave ya be. I’ve got to head to the office, anyway.” He climbed out of bed. “Soon as I find my clothes, that is.”

“I’m not sure where I threw them,” I said, surveying the chaos of clothing littering the floor even before we’d made our own mess. “As you can see, I’m not the best of housekeepers.”

Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything…” Picking up a colored pillow from my arsenal, I threw it at him then left him to his own devices. A moment later I tossed him his pants.

“Thanks,” he said, plucking them midair. “Are ya comin’ over to the Frog tonight? I have to work.”

Hell Yes! “Maybe,” I said flippantly, reentering the bathroom. I dug out a fresh towel from under the sink and began brushing my teeth.

“Susie-Q?”

“Hmm?” I stuck my head around the doorjamb, frothing at the mouth.

He laughed at the sight of me, and then said, “I’m not leavin’ ’til ya kiss me.” Though I was in a major hurry, I really didn’t want him to go either. I held up my finger and disappeared to rinse.

My breath now minty fresh, I said, “I knew I was forgetting something.” I launched my naked body into his fully dressed arms and gave him a good long kiss.

“I’ll call ya later,” he promised, and then smacked my bare butt.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I hated to rinse him off me, but I grabbed the bottle of body wash and went to work. When I realized ten minutes later my mind had wandered back to bed, I scrambled out and twisted my wet hair up in a clip. Racing to the closet, I threw on the first blouse my fingers touched. It was oddly quiet with Pete gone.

After slipping on my heels, I lunged for the necklace I’d left on the dresser yesterday morning in my panicked rush. Had it only been just yesterday? Beside it was the source of the fragrant aroma filling the room; a steaming cup of coffee in a travel mug and a foil-wrapped pop tart surely purchased by a previous tenant—all he could find in the way of sustenance. “You’re one in a million, aren’t you?” I murmured, shaking my head.

I was late getting to Greenville, but not beyond forgiveness. With the exception of a smattering of sullen summer school students plodding to class, the campus was empty. I entered the ECU Admin. Building without feeling the floor. The job took an hour—less, had I been running on all cylinders; I wasn’t, though, and quite happy about it. In fact, I hadn’t felt this dreamy in forever. For me, the weekend had been near perfect; I’d had more full-blown orgasms in the last two days than I’d had collectively in my whole life. And when I bent to retrieve the errant invoice that had fallen on the floor, I realized I was actually a little sore. I skipped to my car and sank into the seat with the same smile I’d brought with me from Havelock.

I had two more appointments today, and a potential customer I planned to cold call while nearby. My phone rang about ten miles outside the Greenville city limits. I smiled hugely at the number and drifted to the asphalt shoulder.

“Couldn’t wait any longer,” he said.

33

An Introduction

“Grab your stuff and hop in the truck. I gotta run down to New Bern and pick somethin’ up, then we’ll go out on the boat…if ya’d like,” Pete tacked on, running back to kiss me. He’d seemed apprehensive, if not edgy since I’d woken to find him staring at the ceiling. And then after a brief, impassioned call that he took outside, frustration joined the curious mix. The smile made just for me faded when he said, “And…there’s someone I want ya to meet.”

Too many consecutive weekends and stolen evenings had left me completely enthralled with this man—and spent. He ran hard, rousing me from bed much too early under the guise of tending to a vague, yet important errand invariably landing us at an interesting destination. Or, he would take me to a secluded beach for an afternoon of lolling in the sun. Once he whisked me off to a mysterious locale that played host to a stranger-than-fiction lore—Devil’s Stomping Ground my ass! Picnics. Sunsets. It was as if he wanted to show me everything—a lawyer making his case for North Carolina. And, without fail, his position involved water. It made me wonder how he’d survived four years of college, landlocked in Tennessee.

Bordering Hwy 70 in front of a long strip mall, Pete pulled up to the drive-thru window of a Bojangles Chicken and Biscuits, a Southerner’s idea of fast food. He ordered two sweet teas, then looked at me expectantly.

“What’d ya like to drink, Susie-Q?”

Confused, I responded, “Um…a diet.”

“Diet tea?” One eyebrow arched in insult over his sunglasses. I rolled my eyes.

“No, Diet Coke, you moron.”

“We’re in New Bern now, Miss Smarty Pants,” he said with pursed lips. “You’re not gonna find a Coke in this town. New Bern’s the birthplace of Pepsi, ya know.”

He parked in front of a shop that served as one bookend; a large Food Lion Grocery, the other. “Come in with me, I’ll need your support. Plus, I’m certain this’ll take a good half hour.” I opened the door since his hands were full. He committed his soul to Heaven and stepped inside.

“Oh thank yew, sugar pie. I’m dyin’ in here!” The woman behind the counter dropped her manila folder fan and snatched up the sweating cup, sucking hard on the straw like a baby’s bottle. If the shop was air-conditioned, its machine was terminally ill. Beads of perspiration erupted on my neck and I was thankful my hair was ponytailed.

The shop’s proprietor, I assumed, launched into rapid discourse with Pete, the two barely ceasing long enough to breathe; each running over the other’s sentences. The woman’s milk chocolate eyes glowed with the same mischief Pete’s so often did, and that, accompanied by their heated chatter, left no doubt they were related.

Five minutes slipped by without an introduction, and when the first topic dovetailed into a play-by-play recount of a softball game—she had gotten three base hits, scored twice, and incurred two errors—I gave up my vigil and wandered the small customer consultation area. The computer was not one of INTech’s. I momentarily considered making a sales pitch, but quickly realized I might never get the opportunity.

Pestilent sunlight from the eastern facing window baked the small loveseat and armchair imprisoning a low circular table laden with giant books of stationary samples. From the top cover, a stunning model in an exquisite wedding gown beckoned young women and their soon-to-be mothers-in-law to gaze at her wares. I flipped through the pages, amazed by the innumerable invitation choices certain to befuddle the most aggressive of wedding planners.

Confident I’d never have to fret over such matters, I resumed my station beside Pete and watched with amusement as the woman pinged about the office spewing effervescence like shaken club soda. She had yet to break into a verbal sweat. Victorious, she returned holding a small white box only to stop dead in her tracks.

“Oh! I am sooo sorry!” she exclaimed, clearly mortified. “I did not see yew standin’ there! I’ll be right with yew.” She then turned on Pete, glaring for all she was worth. “Lord, boy, have yew not got one shred of manners at all? It’s ladies first—always!” she snapped, jabbing a long brightly painted nail at him. Then she threw her arms in the air. “Why didn’t yew tell me I had a customer waitin’?! Good Lord!”

I shook with silent laughter at Pete’s expression, his jaw hanging unhinged as she berated him, his frustration escalating by the second. She clucked him once more then reached an outstretched hand over the counter. “Hey there, I’m Anita. How can I help yew today?”

Exasperated, Pete retorted, “Well, if ya’d stop talkin’ for half a second, I’d introduce ya to her.” She gave him a withering look. “Anita, this is Susan Wade. Susan, this is Anita, my first cousin—on my mother’s side,” he tacked on unnecessarily. Pete ensnared my waist and kissed my cheek, and her expression melted into a warm smile, her dimples deepened, becoming gnome wishing wells. She bounded around the counter, butted him out of the way with a curvy hip and hugged me hard.

“Susan, it is so nice to meet yew.”

“Thanks. And you as well,” I said, overwhelmed.

“I’m gonna need to know all about yew,” she continued, clamping my arms in her excessively tanned manacles. I bit my cheeks trying not to laugh.

“Susan’s a regional computer service representative,” Pete announced with an interesting note of pride. “She’s fairly new to the area.”

“Really? That’s awesome. C’mon back and have a look at our equipment.” I glanced at Pete, whose eyes brimmed with humor, and followed her shuffling pink wedged flip-flops. Rarely taller than anyone, in flat sandals, I towered over her—a giantess in comparison. I smiled haughtily.

“Yew don’t do any work on the side do yew?” she asked, regarding me speculatively.

“Only for my INTech customers,” I said, instantly regretting both the words and the tone. I smiled apologetically.

“Oh. Well, yeah, ’course. Have a look around anyway. See if maybe we’re missin’ somethin’.” She motioned for me to wander freely and resumed her earlier conversation as if it had never been interrupted. I felt her eyes following me as I looked for deficits INTech might fill. Unfortunately, the shop was well-equipped with very recent models of everything, and I wondered how long she’d been in business.

On the floor behind the counter, an upturned circular fan provided some relief to the oppressive temperature. A blue and white beach ball orbited in lazy circles above the gridded blades, defying gravity. I stared at it with wonder.

“Oh that,” Anita said, noting my expression. “Yeah, my husband evidently had nothin’ better to do the other day and discovered he could make a ball do that. He got three goin’ at once for a little while which was really somethin’ to behold. But I was like, ‘don’t yew have anything better to do, like post some bills or somethin’?’ Ya know what I mean?” Her laugh was delightful. “But it is kinda cool. A real conversation piece.”

I pushed through the swinging gate and returned to Pete’s side.

“So what are y’all up to today?”

“Well, I thought I’d take Susan downtown for lunch and show her around a little. Then we’re headin’ back.”

“No y’all’re not. Y’all’re comin’ over to the house and we’re taken yew out on the river, Susan,” she said in a quick gush. “Bet yew haven’t been out on the Trent before, have yew?” She didn’t give me time to reply before plowing on. “I’m closin’ up in about an hour then hittin’ the liquor store—bein’ located next door, it’s great for business,” she added, winking at me. “Then I’ve gotta drop off an order, but then I’ll be home. Y’all’ll come over about two o’clock, how’s that? Oh, and don’t plan anything else. Y’all’re stayin’ for supper. Oh, here!” she said, thrusting the box in Pete’s hands. “I forgot that quick.” She let out another infectious laugh.

He cracked the lid just long enough for me see the stack of business cards, and then closed it again.

“Well, check ’em,” she demanded.

“I’m sure they’re just fine, Anita. They always are.”

“Check ’em anyway!” Though youth personified, she spoke in a domineering manner suggesting she was several years his elder.

Pete obediently removed a card, gave it a cursory review, and handed it to me. Engraved in dark blue, it was simple; matte finish, logo, name, and business information centered and neatly layered. The sharp script reflected his own handwriting.

“They are so boring,” Anita said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve tried to convince him to let me design somethin’ more exciting, but he’ll have none of it.” She waved a dismissive hand and retrieved one of her business cards from its pink plastic holder. “Now this is eye-catchin’.”

That was the understatement of the year. Bold to the extreme, a large, hot pink Hibiscus covered a third of its glossy black face, the text a startling lime green. No doubt about it, The Graphics Shack’s calling card was unforgettable.

“Yew need to lighten up!” she admonished, glancing at Pete. “Men’re all the same. They’re afraid of color. Ya know what I mean?” By Anita’s standards, my business cards lay well on the testosterone side of interesting. “Stick it in your purse. Ya never know when yew might need somethin’ done right. Here, take two.” She shoved several into my hand. “Oh! That reminds me. Y’all check these out while you’re here. I just finished ’em this mornin’.” Anita removed a thick bundle from an envelope and freed a sample. “Cool, huh?”

“Very nice,” Pete said, appraising. A ticket to an upcoming car and boat show, it looked every bit as professional as any NFL stub I’d ever seen. In spite of this morning’s chaotic performance, Anita clearly knew what she was doing. In fact, based on the quality of this sample, I doubted she had an equal in the region—maybe the state.

After tucking away her cards, I tried giving Pete’s back, but he stopped me. “Keep it, Susie-Q, ya know, in case ya ever forget where to find me.” Then he smiled so sweetly I almost melted into the carpet.

♥

After a lovely lunch, Pete helped me into the truck, and to prove his point, drove me by the official birthplace of Pepsi, slowing to a crawl. The concoction, he explained in typical tour guide fashion, was derived by one Caleb Bradham, a neighborhood pharmacist, circa 12,000 B.C. The corner store, turned tourist attraction, was filled with enough memorabilia to make Atlanta’s Coke museum jealous.

As we traveled through the historical district, most of which I’d seen—we’d seen together, his mood changed. The lightness of lunch dissipated and he became apprehensive and distracted again. Confused, I left him to his thoughts and enjoyed the sights I seemed unable to tire of; water peeking between businesses, stately mansions, pretty tree-lined streets.

The scale of homes diminished as we receded from the river, but regardless of size, most were painted stark white with shiny black shutters. Blue placards, like those in Beaufort, were tacked beside doors; all similar in age. Secondary notations indicating names of special significance, such as The Prescott House or Gaskins Cottage, were dotted in the mix. A few dwellings had been transformed into tiny museums or Bed and Breakfasts. The neighborhood, if you could really call it that, was so historically rich it made me want to gag.

His route took us through a series of turns. We passed the Mayola milk plant, where Billy Gray worked, and several rough-looking warehouses at the terminus of a large train yard where freight cars, laden with rust and graffiti, grazed like scattered cattle. As we crossed the tracks, literally and figuratively, the homes digressed to neglected shacks. Though similar in ilk, these probably served as indentured servant—or possibly slave quarters, turning low rent residential over the centuries.

New Bern High School, across from an overcrowded graveyard, seemed the bridge between the social classes, if by no other means than physical location. I knew Pete had immensely enjoyed his tenure there and waited expectantly for some nostalgic anecdote. Nothing. In fact, he’d become so eerily quiet and preoccupied he seemed not to notice his surroundings at all. And like morning glory vines, my curiosity was choking out all other thoughts, binding them with questions of where? and why? as we continued our journey.

National Avenue began the workingman’s part of town. Buildings bordering this street were converted multi-family dwellings—old, but not historical. Ancient oak branches, dripping snakelike clumps of Spanish moss, distracted the eye from the otherwise mundane. The noxious scent of a paper processing plant hung heavy in the thick air.

At a well-worn 7-Eleven, Pete turned onto a neighborhood side street. The homes were very small and crammed together—military tract housing from the look. Pete pulled to the curb in front of a white clapboard cottage with green shutters, the gunmetal gray stoop sheltered by a corrugated metal awning scalloped sweetly around the edges. A weathered aluminum storm door with curly bric-a-brac vaguely protected the green one behind it. Though the shrubbery was well trimmed, the paint was peeling in places. The driveway—really no more than two graveled ruts pressed into service by a thousand tires, edged a tiny sunroom with louvered glass windows. A nondescript blue sedan was parked in the detached garage/tool shed.

Running up the front corner of the house, a camellia bush intervened, protecting the windows from the gnashing sun. I tracked several emerald green June bugs skimming the postage stamp lawn as I waited for Pete to speak. A loud train whistle broke his trance, and he glanced at me with the ghost of a smile.

“This was my mamma’s house,” Pete said simply. There was neither shame nor wistfulness in his voice, but a certain sadness permeated the cab’s interior. Where? had just been answered. Why? was still up for grabs.

“It was a great place to grow up,” he continued with more life. “Two of my aunts lived down the way, and I had a bunch of cousins nearby. We terrorized the neighborhood.” He chuckled tenuously. “I used to walk up to the store and buy ICEEs and baseball cards with my lawn mowin’ money. Thought I was big stuff.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he stared through the windshield at things I would never see.

“Not much has changed there,” I challenged, failing to dispel the disquieting aura clinging like stagnant air.

He sucked in his upper lip and clenched it between his teeth. “A little has.”

“You miss her terribly.” He offered me a quick glance.

“She meant the world to me,” he replied in a low voice rough with undisguised emotion. He traced the smoothly worn steering wheel for a brief eternity. Eventually, he dropped his shoulders, and with a sharp, resigned exhale said, “Okay, one more stop.”

After a tight U-turn, he retraced the path that surely wore his bicycle wheels bare. Turning left at the light, we passed a church with a small playground, and then crossed a tiny bridge arching over a black capillary leaking into the great gray Neuse just visible in the distance. Pete flipped on his signal, a sound typically drowned out by the radio, and entered National Cemetery. Whether I was the catalyst or simply an inadvertent guest—though I suspected the former, the last thing I was prepared for today was an emotional pilgrimage. A sliver of fear nicked me, the why? becoming all too apparent.

The graveyard was absolutely immaculate, a precisely uniformed platoon of headstones standing in perfect rows, ready for battle. American flags, rippling in the light breeze, saluted from tall poles lining either side of the single asphalt lane dissecting the property. A soldier’s design: One way in, one way out. There was a small turn around at the end of the drive butting into the tall brick wall fortifying the perimeter. We parked behind a silver Toyota and paced like colonels inspecting their regiment to a small shingled box mounted on a post across from the maintenance building.

At his nod, I removed the laminated directory. I knew what I was looking for; it would appear near the end of the alphabetical listing. My skin prickled with goosebumps as I leafed through the pages. So many names… In silence, Pete patiently waited. When I closed the cabinet door, he touched my back lightly and we made our way to Section F. Dates on the identical rounded headstones varied dramatically. The more weathered denoted lives lost in the nineteenth century, others very recent. A few were engraved on both sides. As we neared, he took my hand.

A solemn, honorable place, it was uncluttered with faded plastic bouquets leaning wind-drunk in little urns. My mother made quarterly trips to Mocksville to change the seasonal bouquet on my father’s grave. What compelled her to do this was a mystery. After all, Daddy was dead. What did he care? I suppose a sense of duty drove her—living to the dead, wife to husband.

Pete stopped at the end of the third row past a small granite marker. He released my hand and stepped onto the fescue. Though green, it crackled underneath our feet like spent eggshells. Other than the occasional whiz of a car passing in the distance, this sound was singular.

I wasn’t unnecessarily superstitious, but I’d always felt uncomfortable stepping directly on the dead, opting instead to lightly hop over the rises. Interestingly, there were no such humps or soft patches here. Pete seemed unconcerned with such notions, plowing forward as was his right. Shrugging, I followed, tiptoeing daintily over the lawn, holding my breath in a vain attempt to become lighter than I actually was.

Pete’s posture was stiff and out of character. His proud, casual gait had been replaced; back very straight, shoulders pulled taut as a wire. This new stance was similar to Jimbo’s, and I realized he’d transformed into a soldier very like, I imagined, the one to whom I was about to be introduced.

He halted abruptly at a headstone near the middle and faced it. I kept a small distance between us. Pete was stone-faced. Involuntarily I put my hand over my mouth, tears pricking my eyes as I read the tablet: James Everett Walsh. He’d been twenty-five. The horror of his passing at such an early age chilled me only slightly less than the fact that I’d already outlived him by four years. Pete shifted, his upper lip disappearing again. When he spoke, it was with unexpected detachment.

“Marine. Killed during a peacekeepin’ mission.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shrugged. “I was very young when it happened.”

I followed him around the headstone to the other side. Margaret Marie Walsh, beloved wife. Pete’s face melted and his eyes grew shiny. He clenched and unclenched his fists several times, seemingly unconscious of the act, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a seashell. He turned the tiny whelk over in his palm, looked at it for a long moment, and then placed it at the headstone’s base.

I sat down beside him. The sun made golden threads of the hair on his forearms as they rested loosely over his bent knees. I broke off a blade of the fibrous fescue which appeared, oddly enough, to grow sideways rather than straight up like any sensible plant. I twisted it, not daring to speak. I’d felt the loss of one parent, but Pete was orphaned. And though I didn’t see my mother all that often—and when I did, she drove me nuts—I knew she was somewhere, walking, talking, breathing. How alone and abandoned he must feel. Only now did I understand why family meant so very much to him.

“They hate it when I do that,” he murmured, nodding to his offering. “The groundskeepers. They’ll remove it soon as they see it, but I keep leavin’ ’em anyway. They must have a whole sackful by now.” He chuckled softly and peeked at me, a defiant glint in his eye.

“Mamma loved the ocean. She couldn’t get enough of it. During the last weeks…whenever she had the strength…I would take her down to Atlantic Beach. Sometimes we’d just sit in the car a while with the windows down so she could look at it. Then, when she was ready, I’d race to the aquarium fast as I was able so the salt air could blow through her—” His eyes squeezed tight. I focused on the shell to give him time to regain his composure.

“I would’ve sprinkled her ashes in the sea,” he said finally. “But that’s not what she wanted.” He was quiet again. A lone gull let out a rebuking squawk as it flew overhead. “They bury the wife’s casket in the same hole as the husband’s here. Right on top. Did ya know that?” he asked, turning to me. “It’s romantic in a morbid sort of way.”

“Your mother never remarried?” I asked gently. She’d been so young when she was widowed. His head made a decisive shake, his rueful smile tainted with humor.

“She was madly in love with him. I think if she’d lived to a hundred, she never would’ve remarried. Of course, she had many admirers.” He winked at me as he said this. “She was a lovely woman.”

Pete’s strong, handsome features, perfect proportions, and those stunningly beautiful eyes that shone blindingly both with vitality and the mischief of a leprechaun held testament she could not have been otherwise.

“I have no doubt,” I said quietly.

“She was never lonely, though, I don’t think. She had tons of friends who dropped by all the time, and we have enough relatives down here to fill a football stadium.” His body shook as he chuckled silently. “No, she was never want for company.” He paused, glancing at the sky then back at the stone.

“I was raised with a lot of love. When it came time for me to graduate from high school, she was adamant I go to college rather than into the military like he had. I think she was very pleased I found a profession that kept me safely out of harm’s way. Except for the earthquakes, of course,” he amended with the hint of a smile.

“Except for those,” I mused. “Moving to California must have been very difficult for you both.”

“It was.” A fast-moving cloud interrupted the sunshine above, but the shadow crossing his face came from some other place. His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as his throat worked to swallow. “She understood,” he said. “She was a hopeless romantic.” He shook his head deprecatingly with an empty chuckle, and then looked away completely.

The path on which he trod was rough and demanded slow and careful steps. He took his time before continuing. “She didn’t let me know she was sick until it was too late—said I had enough on my mind.” I watched wisps of sorrow twist like spirits above him, heaven-bound. His voice sounded hollow. He had stumbled over a stone and I wasn’t sure how to help him up. I reached over tentatively and rubbed my palm across his shoulder. Come back to me.

After a moment, his eyes regained their light and an easy peaceful expression fixed itself on his face. The air lightened perceptively around us. He covered my hand, gently rubbing his thumb over my knuckles and cleared his throat. “She would’ve liked you.” I smiled, not knowing what to say. “She would’ve said ya had ‘spunk’. She was so old-fashioned in some ways.”

“Is that so?” My voice sounded thick and odd to my ears. Suddenly, I wanted her to like me.

“Well, hell-on-wheels is more like it,” he said, and the first genuine smile I’d seen since lunch spread across his face. “And that’s puttin’ it mildly.”

He stood up and pulled me with him. For some reason, I felt compelled to say goodbye to her, so I reached out and lightly stroked the marble surface. It was smooth like a woman’s face, and even in the afternoon heat, its coolness left my fingers tingling. Perhaps the feeling was only a product of my imagination—after all, it was just a piece of rock, but it had been, and still was a conduit, a channel of great love. Pete linked his warm fingers through mine and the eerie sensation dissipated. We walked quietly back to the truck.

A glimpse of movement forced my eyes across the field of headstones to the statue of a woman. I couldn’t see her face clearly, but the motion was a small child wrestling to wrench his hand from her frozen grasp. Stunned, I watched her turn flesh as she dabbed her eye with a tissue, seeming only then to register the child’s presence. Chills ran through me, and I quickly looked away.

34

When Ya Gotta Go…

We were fairly quiet as we retraced our path through New Bern. I said little, trying to process these revelations, my misconceptions, the newfound respect I had for him; who this man really was. After mentioning Anita, he flipped on the radio and began singing awfully. I was grateful the cloud had lifted. Crossing the river, he followed a two-lane road running behind Anita’s store. Water played peek-a-boo through woods and backyards on either side of the curling ribbon of dry land.

Shortly after passing a small, windowless Pentecostal church, Pete turned onto Possum Trot Road—no lie! Privately rolling my eyes, I could only imagine what lay ahead. The neighborhood was not what I expected. Though the development was merely a slice of half-acre lots sandwiched between two thick slices of forest, the homes were not only newly constructed but of substantial size. I relaxed measurably.

Ahead, the curbed street petered into a foreboding dirt path. I glanced warily at Pete as we plunged into the jungle. Clouds of finely powdered silt billowed, leaving a jet trail of dust in our wake. We wound through kudzu-strangled overgrowth past a shy, unkempt dwelling no larger than a shed; a setting perfect for a serial killer movie. Around a sharp curve, the road abruptly ended, catapulting us into “The Anita Compound”. Rather than parking on the expansive cement driveway in front of her wildly attractive home, Pete pulled into the grass beside several other cars—because that’s what you do in the South; you park in the yard. Heaven forbid you dirty the driveway!

Clad in a pink terrycloth coverlet, Anita stood in the middle of the landing strip. Dwarfing her pint-sized self was a giant, cherry-red, silver-chromed, super-shiny extended cab pick-up truck with a personalized license plate reading, TA-BEAR.

To her left, a pack of shirtless teenagers decked in plaid shorts and sockless high-tops was engaged in a fierce basketball scrimmage. At her bellowing command, they dropped the ball mid-dribble and crowded the back of her truck, hoisting a plethora of tan plastic grocery bags from the bed.

“Don’t y’all dare set foot in my house with those nasty shoes on,” she yelled after them.

“Yes, Miss Anita,” they chorused.

“Y’all are right on time,” she said, spotting us.

Pete grabbed the remaining Food Lion sacks and we entered the oversized, three car garage, which, for all intents and purposes, was empty save a large chest freezer and an impressive mound of shoes. We dutifully added ours to the pile and followed her inside. Deliciously cool air suffused the short hall feeding into an impressive great room, its vaulted ceiling soaring above us. We entered an immaculate kitchen haphazardly strewn with the bags of chips, meat, milk, beer, and various sundry items the boys had sloppily unpacked.

“Whew! I am dyin’,” Anita said dramatically. “It’s hot enough to bake bread out there. Y’all want somethin’ to drink?” She pulled a pitcher from her built-in refrigerator and poured tea into three large, plastic glasses decorated with colorful fish. Sugary as it was, the tea tasted spectacular. Between the heat of the open truck and unexpected stress of our sojourn at the cemetery, my shirt was damp with sweat and I was parched. I leaned against the granite counter and rode out the welcomed brain freeze.

A fiery-haired girl in a tiny blue bikini swung into the room. “Mamma, can Cecie spend the night, too?”

“Well, of course,” she said with a dismissive wave, and then shouted after the fleeing girl, “Come back in here. I want yew to meet someone.” Her head popped around the decorative column.

“Susan, this is my daughter, Taylor.”

“Hey, Miss Susan,” she said shyly. Then her eyes traveled above my head and a slight blush rose in her cheeks. “Hey, Pete.”

“You’re gettin’ prettier every time I see ya,” he said, winking. She vaporized and a squeal of feminine giggles erupted.

Moments later, a tall, lean, and somewhat lanky man tromped into the kitchen. His skin was so darkly tanned it seemed black in places. “Hey, honey,” he said, kissing Anita’s forehead. He glanced over at us and stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait! Is that Pete Walsh?” He squinted as if seeing a vision, and then theatrically waved his hand around in front of him. “The Pete Walsh?” Pete snorted. “Where’ve yew been, boy?” He slapped Pete’s back, shaking his hand at the same time.

“Workin’,” Pete answered, grinning at me.

“Well duh. We’ve all been workin’. It’s good to see ya. Ya haven’t been by all summer.” Pete shrugged apologetically. “Boy, you missed some mighty fine fireworks on the fourth. We drove down to South Carolina and brought back a shitload of ’em.” We exchanged secret smiles. Anchored in the middle of Bogue Sound, we’d enjoyed Atlantic Beach’s display while intermittently making out on the floor of Pete’s boat.

“Now, who’s this pretty little thing?” he asked.

“Susan, this is Kirk, my husband,” Anita broke in, elbowing his ribs. “Kirk this is Susan, Pete’s girlfriend.” What!? She raised her eyebrows emphatically, nodding to me as if I were blind. His surprised expression matched mine, but then he broke into a broad grin and gave Pete a look that translated loosely as you sly dog. “Welcome, Susan, really nice to meet yew.” He then dove in with a big ol’ North Carolina hug. Though appreciating the merits of a sincere embrace more and more, I stiffened.

My problem wasn’t Kirk’s enthusiastic show of chaste affection; it was the simple fact that I was not Pete’s girlfriend! The term girlfriend implied some sort of long-term commitment, eventually ending in either a nasty break-up like the one I’d just enjoyed, or in something even more sinister: an engagement. Neither of those scenarios appealed to me in the slightest.

Never mind that Pete and I were spending more and more time together; we were just dating casually. That’s all! In fact, we’d never even discussed exclusivity—not that I had any interest in seeing anyone else—or the time; I already felt guilty enough cheating on my life mate of a job. But what exactly was I supposed to say to Anita’s pronouncement? No, I’m not Pete’s girlfriend, we’re just going at it like bunnies ’cause, ya know, I’m a big ol’ ho. I smiled politely when Kirk released me.

Pete made no effort whatever to contradict Anita. Rather, he looked down at me with a sweet smile on his lips and gently rubbed his thumb down my spine. I seriously considered stomping on his foot.

“Kirk, I just bought some lunch meat. Get you a sandwich. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I just might,” he said, ripping open the loaf of Sunbeam bread beside him. “I trimmed all mornin’, then I had to go to the hardware store. The backdoor’s broke…again.” Clearly irked, he popped the top off a beer with unnecessary force.

“Y’all wanna drink?” Anita asked only me, Pete no longer relevant in decision making. My super-sized glass wasn’t empty yet, and neither was Pete’s.

“Um, I think we’re fine.”

“No, honey. A real drink.” She dumped my tea into the porcelain sink then held out her hand for Pete’s. Kirk quickly replaced his with a beer. The next thing I knew a blender was churning a brightly colored concoction in its belly. I took a big icy gulp and…hello! I sputtered as the fifth of alcohol seared my throat, followed immediately by a frigid rush of liquid ice; an interesting sensation.

She glanced at her watch. “Y’all better go on and get changed. The boat’ll be here soon.” Pete disappeared to retrieve my bag, leaving the two of us alone for the first time. I followed her to a screened porch. Her yard cascaded in a rush towards the bank far below, and I marveled at the sweeping view of the Trent River.

“You have a very beautiful home.”

“Thank yew, I love it here. So how long have you and Pete—well, I guess it hadn’t been too long or I’d’ve heard about it already.” I was fairly sure her comment was meant as speculation rather than censor.

“Not too long, no.” I sipped my drink, willing myself not to grimace.

“The thing about Pete is—”

Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as he returned in trunks and t-shirt. “C’mon Susie-Q, I’ll show ya where to change.” He clutched my hand and tugged me away quickly, ushering me into a small powder room across from the laundry closet. He locked the door.

“I can probably manage on my own,” I said, as he began unbuttoning my blouse.

“Your bra can be tricky,” he murmured into my neck. He unlatched the front clasp and pushed the cups aside. After playing with my nipples until I was dizzy, he ran his hands slowly down my bare back and settled them on my waist. Without preamble, he dropped to his knees and began nursing.

“We’re going to be missed,” I garbled.

“Don’t care,” he murmured against my skin.

“Pete, y’all bring that red cooler down when yew come. There’s ice in the garage. Don’t forget to fill it up,” Anita ordered from somewhere way too close to the bathroom door. We froze like teenagers caught in the act. Pete groaned mournfully and slowly rose to his feet.

“Anita hates bein’ late,” he explained, nuzzling my neck. With a longing gaze at the objects of his affection, he dutifully left, shutting the door quickly behind him. I splashed water on my face and took a moment to collect myself. Screw the boat ride!

♥

Along with her house, Anita’s lovely dock appeared quite new, the boards barely weathered. Royal blue canvas tightly covered a large, dry-docked motorboat.

“Where’d yew get them flip-flops?!” Tina, Anita’s extremely endowed friend, shrieked in awe. She’d been standing on the dock when we arrived. Introductions were made. In a strapless white bikini top, wedged flip-flops, and, thankfully, a beach towel wrapped around her midsection, she looked to be at least forty-five, ridden hard, and put away wet. At Anita’s mention of the word “girlfriend”, she’d performed a perfect imitation of an airport customs agent scanning me as if I were a terrorist.

Modeling her shoes, Anita said, “I picked ’em up at Target, yesterday. Cool, huh?” The same color as her toenails, phone case, and business cards, Anita’s world was thematic.

“I’m gonna have to get me some of them,” Tina announced, the cigarette between her fingertips drawing spectral circles in the air.

“Mike’s got his boat out,” Anita announced. She tapped her phone’s screen, and then yelled, “Mike where are yew? Uh huh. Well, ’course we’re ready! Okay, bye.” She marched to the end of the dock and peered past the trees protecting her private cove. “He says he’s gonna pick us up in four and a half minutes. I don’t know how he came up with that number,” she said, rolling her eyes, “but whatever.” She then scowled up at the house in dismay. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yelled, “Y’all better get down here if y’all are goin’!”

A group of half-naked girls swarmed down the slope. Kirk let out a loud curse as the screen door slammed behind them. The whining of a disgruntled drill suggested Kirk suddenly had more pressing matters than a ride down the river.

A large boat pulled into view. Anita shook her head so violently that I stepped back expecting to be pelted with the orange lava spewing over her visor. She made a loud tsking sound when the motor stilled.

“Late much?” Tina hissed. The man in the captain’s chair smiled up at the rest of our party, ignoring them both.

“Well, hey there, Mr. Walsh. What brings yew out this fine afternoon?”

“Mike Heron, I’d like yew to meet Susan Wade, Pete’s girlfriend,” Anita interjected after hopping into the boat behind Tina. “Susan, Mike.” Then to Mike: “What the hell took yew so long?”

After giving Pete an interesting look and greeting me warmly, he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and turned to Anita. “Ya got beer in that cooler or is that a new purse?”

Mike was the antithesis of the privileged, cable-cardigan-sweater-draped-over-his-shoulders, third generation local business tycoon I was expecting. Instead, he was a bulky, middle-aged man whose midsection had already lost its battle with gravity. Threads of gray wove through his bristled dark hair, staking full claim to his temples. And though thinning on the crown, his mustache was thick and vital. His couture consisted of wrinkled khaki shorts, a dull white t-shirt screen-printed with an open-mouthed fish, and no shoes.

“Susan’s your INTech service representative,” Pete said to Mike, finishing my introduction properly while helping me into the boat.

“Oh yeah? Karly was tellin’ me about yew. I appreciated yew talkin’ her though that software problem we had.”

“She’s a pleasure to work with. Please tell her to call me anytime,” I said, shaking his hand.

“She’s just got her business degree from UNC, ya know.” He literally beamed with pride. He paused to help one of the girls aboard, and then explained, “I don’t have any boys, so she’ll be takin’ over the company one day. I just hope she marries someone who can handle the man’s part of the business.”

Conjuring a vision of sweet little Karly raising her high feminine voice to a bunch of scruffy construction workers way more interested in leering than listening, I realized Mike was not insulting womankind or belittling his daughter’s abilities; he was being realistic. I smiled to myself knowing he was certain to have a heavy hand in arranging Karly’s marriage.

The girls clambered to the bow, inching towards the very tip. They almost made it before getting busted. “Taylor, y’all know yew can’t be up that far. First good bounce and y’all’ll come through the motor lookin’ like shark chum!”

Red-cheeked, Taylor said nothing more than, “Yes, Mamma.”

Mike drove blithely toward the bridge just visible in the distance. The river here was very wide, her banks littered with majestic homes tucked into myriad coves. Large willows ran lacy fingers across the silvery surface and fat sheep with white fleeces trotted across the innocent blue sky. Numerous watercrafts marked the river with liquid jet streams.

Frenzied splashing erupted near the stern and I scrambled to get a look.

“Mullet,” Mike said matter-of-factly. “Let’s just hope the birds don’t see ’em or we’ll get covered in shit.” He increased our speed and the exuberant fish disappeared in our frothy wake.

“That’s new,” Pete remarked, pointing to a giant oak tree. A life-sized skeleton enthroned in a plastic lawn chair had been hoisted to the top. The pirate king, arm frozen in a permanent wave, hailed his boat-laden courtiers as they passed below.

“Yeah, it’s been up there about a week,” Mike said.

“I like him, myself,” Anita commented. “He adds character.”

Mike barked out a walrus laugh. “And class!”

We veered toward the center and increased speed. I found a comfortable spot in the open front and leaned against the cushioned partition. The hum of the motor lulled me into a carefree daydream turned erotic as my horse-drawn carriage became Anita’s bathroom. Just then Pete scooted in beside me, wrapped his arm around me, and gave me a lingering kiss. I wondered if he was thinking along similar lines. I burrowed into his side, becoming very aware of the smooth roll of muscle wrapping his ribcage underneath that baggy t-shirt.

“Where’re yew from?” Tina asked suddenly, pointing her cigarette at me. She’d seated herself across from us and was lounging on the long bench like she owned the boat.

“She’s from here, Tina,” Pete answered, sounding mildly bored.

“Well, she don’t sound like it,” she retorted scathingly. I raised an I told you so eyebrow.

“Well, she is,” Pete said, taking a sip of beer. Like mine, his bottle was zipped up in black scuba-skin, The Graphics Shack logo printed down its length.

“Well, how long have yew lived ‘here’?” she continued.

“About four months,” I replied with a politeness she didn’t deserve. Eighteen years, four months and a handful of weeks to be exact, but who’s counting? She looked smugly at Pete then back at me.

“Where’d you move from?”

“Philadelphia,” I said arrogantly, certain she’d never been there or to any major city.

“Oh,” she mumbled. After a moment, she stood, presented me with a generous look of disdain, and said, “Well, it’s cold there.” Then she sauntered to the cooler at Mike’s feet and fished out a berry-flavored wine cooler. Laughing, I choked on my beer.

“Guess she told you!” Pete said, once his own fit subsided. “I’m surprised she didn’t call ya a ‘Damn Yankee’ to your face.” I snorted and rolled my eyes. “I was wonderin’, though, why didn’t ya tell her you grew up in Winston?”

“It’s none of her business,” I snapped. The truth was, while Tina’s demeanor was a little surprising, her sentiment was not. I was an outsider here. I had made myself so.

He looked at me for a long moment and then shook his head, bewildered. “Well, don’t be too put off by her. She’s irritable as a hornet most of the time. It’s nothing personal…I don’t think,” he said, winking. “But, I don’t care what anybody says, ya do have an accent.” After I stuck my tongue out at him, he whispered something very naughty in my ear and my steamy fantasies started all over again.

After conferring privately with Anita, Tina returned, lit another cigarette and proceeded to actively ignore me. A ski boat filled with hooting males sped past us. “Scoot back y’all,” Anita yelled to the basking mermaids. After a last wave to the boys, the girls reluctantly complied. Just then, their powerful wake splashed over the side, soaking the girls, Tina, and, unfortunately, me. After a beat of shocked silence, Mike, Anita, and Pete, who remained dry courtesy of me, erupted in howling laughter.

Tina was a pitiful sight. Loose chignon sagging, her thick comb of black-rooted bang was pasted flat against her forehead. Her extinguished cigarette hung limply from the corner of her mouth and globs of mascara trailed down her cheeks like a sad clown. Though I probably looked the half-drowned puppy myself, I felt mildly avenged. Dripping puddles, Tina stood and glared at Mike.

Looking profoundly innocent, he shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

“Well yew could’ve told somebody!” she spat, scowling furiously. Mike launched a beach towel at her and she snatched it up vengefully.

Still chuckling, Pete returned with a thick towel and began drying me off. “I wish I’d had my camera handy to catch your expression.”

“Be careful, boy,” I said, holding up a finger. Then I rose and dropped squarely onto his lap, completely saturating his trunks. He grunted, and then kissed me square on the mouth.

Mike drove into the Trent-kissed Neuse, the body of water several times wider than the Mississippi. I extricated myself from Pete’s embrace and took up root at Mike’s side, hoping to avoid further swamping. Pete slapped my fanny, but remained engrossed in a completely meaningless argument with Tina.

“I built that,” Mike said, pointing to a handsome Georgian-style hotel. Its multi-layered patio wound to the water’s edge via a very attractive brick walkway landscaped with semi-tropical plants. Iron railing ran from the hotel all the way to “The Point”.

“It’s lovely,” I commented, thinking that unlike the monstrosity we’d just passed, it looked like it belonged there.

Mike glanced over his shoulder and cursed. “Now that’s a problem.” He swung the boat back towards the drawbridge and gunned the engine. Now facing the Trent, it became instantly clear what he meant; there was a problem…a big problem. Those fluffy little sheep-clouds had been in a hurry earlier because they were being pursued by a fire-breathing dragon!

The first crack of thunder sobered us all. Mike pulled alongside a set of bridge abutments and cut the engine. Yelping, the girls scrambled to the floor and huddled together like a pack of emaciated seals. Carried sideways by a sudden and vicious wind, a spray of mist slashed at us. Then a deluge of water dropped from the sky. Soon, the road run-off above began gushing like great waterfalls. Resonating under the bridge, the thunder made a hellacious sound like a giant’s bowling alley, the teens squealing with every strike and spare. Taylor, virtually silent during the first leg of our voyage, climbed onto the slippery bow and clung tightly to the massive cement pylon nearest us.

“Taylor, let go of that thing right now. It’s got metal in it!” Anita hollered.

“But Mamma we’re gonna die!” she wailed.

“We are not gonna die. Good Lord! Now get down!” She slunk sheepishly back to the sopped floor and quaked with the others.

The vessel’s rubber bumper nudged the support, rocking with the turbulence. Pete pushed off several times to prevent us from suffering a serious jolt. Outside our bivouac, the water’s surface resembled frying bacon, sputtering and popping with overheated grease.

During the pandemonium of teenage drama, Tina had been on her phone. “Hey, y’all, I just talked to Donnie down in Morehead. He says it ain’t rained one drop there,” she announced loudly, her shrill voice carrying over the wind, Taylor’s continued moaning, and the thumping beat of today’s country hits.

“Susan, I gotta show yew somethin’,” Anita said suddenly. “Let me get my phone out of the glove compartment.” Another round of thunder rumbled and the volume of the girls’ whimpers increased an order of magnitude. “Ya know,” she said thoughtfully, putting a finger to her chin, “I’ve never in my entire life opened a glove compartment and actually found a pair of gloves in one. Have yew?” I shook my head about to crack up; Pete’s entire family was comprised of lunatics.

“Okay, so I’ve got this friend who flies helicopters for tourists and such,” she said, with an airy wave. “Anyway, he took us over to Ocracoke one night. And this is me!” She flashed the screen in my face. Sure enough there she was, hair squashed under a large yellow headset, dimples deep enough to swim in, eyes shining red in the camera’s flash. “Do yew know, it only took twenty minutes to get there? Twenty minutes! Can yew believe that?”

“That’s incredible,” I responded. From Havelock, it had taken me four hours to get to Ocracoke Island, three of which were spent on a mind-numbing ferry.

Anita scrolled through several more pictures. They were difficult to see with the glare of the brightening sky, but she looked damned happy in every one and I was a little envious. Pete usually seemed damned happy, too, especially when he was torturing me, and even Mike seemed to have a similar disposition. Something was definitely not right here!

The squall passed as quickly as it came. The cool rain finished what that earlier splash had started and I was soaked to the bone. When Mike accelerated, taking the wind with us, I began shivering. I glanced at the lump of girls huddled under their sopping towel tent, tempted to join them.

As we passed through an opened coal-black train bridge, Anita said, “Susan, I have to tell ya a funny story. The night Kirk and I got married, some fool had the brilliant idea we should leave the reception by boat.” She said the fool part loudly, inclining her head towards Mike. He killed the engine and we slowed to a drift.

“Well, it was about midnight and we had to get all the way from our house—we had the weddin’ in the backyard—down to the hotel.” She pointed vaguely towards the high-rise. “We got as far as this bridge when we realized it was shut. Kirk almost ran into it!” Quivering with silent laughter, Mike’s face had turned beet red. Pete, who’d been near the engine doing something nautical, joined us by the wheel grinning conspiratorially.

“So, Kirk pulls up alongside it and climbs out onto the tracks. Then he goes trottin’ up the rails to this big ol’ engine. Keep in mind, now, the man is still wearing his tuxedo, which was a rental, by the way. Luckily, the conductor was still there. I don’t know what Kirk did to get him to open up the bridge again—he never would tell me,” she said, shaking her head, “but we finally got to our hotel about two in the mornin’. Our flight to Cancun left out of Raleigh at ten. Lordy, it was near awful!” She placed her hand on her bosom and sagged. Then she smiled hugely. “I’d do it again in a minute!”

“Are ya cold?” Pete asked, touching my skin a few moments later.

“A little.”

“I can help with that,” he whispered. His breath was warm on my neck, and his lips, lingering at my ear, sent a fresh layer of goosebumps skidding down my arms. I expected him to wrap his warm, now shirtless body around mine, but instead he picked me up in his arms. Unsure how I felt about this affectionate display in front of our curious hosts, one of whom a client, I realized too late that his expression wasn’t lustful; it was maniacal. He took two steps towards the side and tossed me in the river.

I resurfaced gasping and sputtering to the sounds of side-splitting laughter. Before I could collect myself, a torpedo splashed beside me and Pete emerged, water cascading in rivulets down his face.

“What was that for?” I yelled, splashing at him.

“Ya said you were cold.”

“How’s throwing me in the river supposed to fix that?”

“Are ya cold now?” he asked, with a mocking grin. I tried to dunk him, but somehow ended up in his arms instead.

“I don’t like you,” I said petulantly.

“Yeah, ya do.” He tried to kiss me, but I turned away.

“No, I really don’t.”

“Well, I like you.” I smiled and he took the advantage, kissing me deeply.

“Susan,” Anita bubbled, wrapping her arm around my wet shoulder after I’d returned to the boat. “We’ve got to give yew the tour.”

The “tour”, I quickly discovered, was not of the scenery, but of the neighborhood—the river one. Mike piloted into a cove and adroitly parked beside a dock where an elderly woman, looking as though she’d just stepped off a golf course, watered the showy petunia blossoms flowing over the railing. I tried not to stare at the net of purple varicose veins ensnaring her legs under the thin veil of tanned skin.

“Hey, Miss Nancy,” Anita hailed.

“Well, hey there, Anita. How are y’all today?” When she spied Pete, her eyes lit. “Why Peter Walsh, I haven’t seen yew all summer. How are yew?”

Before he could respond, Anita cut him off. “He’s fine. Miss Nancy, I’d like yew to meet Susan Wade, Pete’s girlfriend.”

“Oh! Isn’t that nice. I’m happy to know yew, Susan,” she said, smiling warmly.

I cringed, ready to push Anita overboard, but in truth, something had happened in that cemetery. That our relationship could have changed so abruptly astonished me—or maybe I was just catching up.

After they got all “good and caught up,” Anita gave me the lowdown—dead husband, owns a pile of furniture stores, filthy rich.

Mike’s next stop was a few houses down. He pulled into one of several slips and waved to a man watering his lawn. The plain-faced, middle-aged gentleman walked swiftly down the dock to meet us. He, too, was neatly dressed in fashionable afternoon attire.

“John Stevens,” Anita whispered in my ear. “He owns fourteen car dealerships.” I raised my eyebrows at that intriguing revelation.

“Hey, Mike,” John said amiably, but clearly mission-minded. “Hey, Anita. Oh, hey, Pete, how’re all y’all doin’?”

Pete tried to cut Anita off at “Just—” so he could speak for himself, but to no avail. He looked at the sky and then shrugged almost comically. Even more humorous was the fact that I was making my societal debut in a bikini top and a pair of damp shorts. But evidently, my cotillion ensemble was perfectly acceptable. Anita was cleverly providing me business opportunities by mentioning my professional credentials along with the bits of my personal history she’d been gathering like breadcrumbs.

“Nice to meet ya, Susan. Ya ought to drop by my New Bern showroom sometime.”

“I’ll do that.” I smiled at John and then nodded thanks to Anita.

“Hey, Pete, heard ya did another one of Mike’s big’uns down at Emerald Isle,” John continued pleasantly.

“Yeah, but he keeps me on a short leash, ya know?” Mike snorted.

“Look, Mike, when yew gonna get my house done? I was plannin’ on movin’ in here this weekend,” John said, an edge of impatience in his voice. The very handsome home looked completed from the outside. The landscaping was already in place around the pale brick façade, and the sculptured planters on either side of the ostentatious entryway brimmed with flowers. The lawn—front lawn, I suppose, was lushly green.

Mike laughed heartily, gripping the windshield for support. I missed the hilarity. “What’s left to do?” I whispered to Anita, who was also laughing.

“Susan, he’s not gonna move into that house this weekend or any other. He probably never will.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s got a fine house in town,” she said. “He just wanted one on the water to fuss over.” She explained this as if it were perfectly normal. I turned to Pete with an astonished look and he winked.

“When yew gonna get a boat, John-boy?” Mike asked evasively.

He glanced at the expansive dry dock. “Oh yeah, I gotta get me one of them, too, I guess.”

“He’s rich as sin and single,” Anita said to Tina in a manner both cajoling and admonishing as we moved on.

“He may be both, but he ain’t for me. Too borin’,” Tina said, taking a long drag off yet another cigarette. I vaguely wondered what constituted “not boring” to her.

After visiting several more neighbors, Mike picked up the pace. “That one’s mine,” he said as we passed an impressive colonial. A large fishing boat and a giant cabin cruiser rocked in his large dock.

“Are you having company?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“You own three boats?!”

Mike grinned hugely, his mustache stretching wide. “Yeah.”

“Now see that house?” Anita broke in, pressing against me. She pointed to a large home across the river. “Mike, go over there so she can see it better.” The house grew enormous as we neared. The three-story sprawling estate, wings spread wide in hospitality, was born to grace the cover of Southern Living Magazine.

“Whoa!”

“Do you read romance novels, Susan?”

“Not usually.” Reading for leisure didn’t make my shortlist.

“Well, he writes ’em,” she continued. “Another one of his books just got made into a movie. Thinks he’s big stuff, know what I mean?”

“See the one next door?” Mike interjected. “I want yew to know he spent a million dollars on that piece of property. And do yew know what he’s gonna do with it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “He’s gonna tear it down to build a tennis court. A tennis court. Can yew believe that?” I didn’t understand why Mike seemed so upset. It was a nice house and all, and the court would probably be the most expensive ever built, but so what?

“You don’t like tennis, I take it.”

“I built that house and there’s not a damn thing wrong with it,” he said with a huff. Ah!

“Now we spent last New Year’s Eve at that one.” Anita pointed to an attractive yellow mansion. “They got a picture of me passed out cold. I don’t have it on my phone or I’d show yew. It was an awesome party! Pete was there. Yew tell her.”

“It’s true,” he said, grinning widely. “She was layin’ right in the middle of the floor. Kirk and I had to drag her over to a couch before somebody stepped on her by accident!” Saturday night at the Frog must seem very mellow to him. No wonder he enjoyed the occasional brawl.

Mike continued upriver at a healthy clip. I’d removed my ponytail while swimming. Now dry, my hair began whipping around my face. I reached for my hairband, but Pete caught my wrist gently. “Don’t put it up, Susie-Q. I think it’s beautiful.” He tucked a few wayward strands behind my ear and held my eyes. Heat bubbled under my skin and I was about to kiss him—an on the movie screen kind of kiss, but Anita destroyed the moment.

“Stop the boat!” she shouted.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asked, complying.

“I gotta pee.”

“Why didn’t ya do that before, when everybody was swimmin’?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, I didn’t need to go before.”

“But we’re right in front of Governor Green’s house,” Mike said, anxiously glancing at the grand home butting against the county club golf course.

“I. Don’t. Care. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go!” And with that, she cannonballed into the water. Everyone focused in various, non-specific directions, giving her as much privacy as the middle of the river afforded. Taylor looked completely mortified, but with a mother like Anita, that expression was probably kneejerk.

As she mounted the ladder, Mike said, “Yew better, now?”

“I’m good.” She wrapped a large pink towel around her waist, scooped out another beer, and flopped onto a cushion, a satisfied look on her face. Pete and I did the same. He looked supremely relaxed…untroubled—a complete one-eighty from earlier today. I didn’t want to take him back there, but I was curious.

“Did you have a boat growing up?”

He smiled. “No, we couldn’t afford such luxuries. Mr. Heron took us out a lot, though. Then when Mike got older, he’d sneak it for rides. We’d go all over the place. He’s the one who taught me and Jimbo how to drive.”

“How old do you have to be to drive a boat?”

“Legally?” He grinned fiendishly. “I was twelve.”

“So how old is Mike, anyway?”

“He turned forty back in April, but don’t mention it or Anita’ll spend the next hour tellin’ ya every detail about the party she threw.” He glanced at his cousin, whose arms were flailing in pantomime as she talked to Tina. I peeked behind the helm. Mike looked much closer to fifty, I thought. “Before his daddy reeled him in, he got into a fair amount of trouble, and we followed him like the Pied Piper. Mamma about beat me a couple of times,” he said wistfully.

Karly was around twenty-three. Doing the math, I asked, “What about his daughter?”

“Well, back then, Karly spent most of her time with her mamma and grandma.”

“They’re divorced, I take it.”

“Well, at that age…” He shrugged. “It all worked out, though. Rachel married a nice guy and moved to Kinston. She and Mike are on good terms now, with Mike payin’ for Karly’s school and everything. He really is a good guy.”

I’d noticed Anita’s casual affection towards him all afternoon; a slap on the back, a punch on the arm.

“Now how do Anita and Mike know each other?”

“Mike’s Kirk’s second cousin, but we’ve all known each other since we were in diapers. Hell, Anita changed mine enough times. She used to walk over and babysit when Mamma had to work late. Thank the Lord Facebook didn’t exist back then or my bare butt would’ve been posted all over the Internet.”

“Did he ever remarry?”

“Oh yeah. Mary Susan’s up for sainthood, of course,” he said with a chuckle.

“Why didn’t she come out with us today?”

“She’s not too crazy about boats, to begin with. Plus, she can’t swim.”

“What?” Pete laughed at my shocked expression.

After a healthy snack of chips and beer, Pete stretched out with his head in my lap, our clasped hands resting on his chest. I toyed with his windblown hair, idly twisting it. In our own happy little world, I caught Mike watching us, his eyes unreadable behind mirrored shades.

“Pete, yew need to move out of Havelock and get yourself a place here on the river,” he said finally.

“You mean Have-not,” Anita interjected with a laugh. She’d joined Mike at the helm, scrutinizing us.

“The river’s nice and all, but I love the coast,” Pete said dreamily. “When I move on the water, that’s where I’m goin’.”

Anita shook her head, a distasteful expression on her face. “Too many tourists.”

We entered an area where several pylons shot from the water like giant gray toothpicks. Mike steered towards a fairly squat one and I gasped, wishing for my camera. A raptor, looking very much like an eagle, was perched on a massive conglomeration of large sticks and other assorted materials. She turned her regal head in our direction, only slightly interested in our approach. “Pete, you have to see this bird,” I whispered. His eyes flipped open and he sat up abruptly. Mike drifted closer and the bird began looking edgy.

“Mike, don’t you do it! The girls are aboard,” Anita hissed. He grinned mischievously, but when she pulled off her sunglasses and gave him a mean look, he piloted away looking supremely disappointed. I was, too. Then Anita theatrically yelled, “Hey, Mike, remember the time Pete wanted to see inside a nest?” Anita bent down and stared into Pete’s face. “Remember that, Pete?” Her voice was taunting.

He rolled on his side and hid his face in my stomach. “Go away, Anita.”

“Susan, Mike got in real close, see, and this little chick poked its head out and made some kind of sound. I’d never heard anything like it before.” She turned to Mike. “Remember that sound?”

“Yeah. It was weird.”

Anita’s lips curled into the same wicked smile I’d seen on Pete’s face many times before. The kill was coming, and for once the knife wasn’t pointed at me. Mike leaned against the windshield, ready and waiting. Pete curled up tighter.

“So, Pete climbs on the bow real slow, all Spiderman or somethin’. And just as he’s reachin’ for it, Mike yells ‘boo!’ at the top of his lungs then guns the engine. Pete fell right on his ass,” she choked out through broken laughter. I wiped away tears, jostling Pete’s head as I chortled. “I want yew to know that mamma bird came chasin’ after us, hell-bent on killin’ Pete,” she wheezed. “I think she was plannin’ on feedin’ ya to her babies.”

“Or she was just mean,” Pete mumbled.

“Susan, that bird got close enough to rip a hole in the back of Pete’s shirt. Yew should’ve heard him screamin’. Pete, you sounded just like a little girl,” Anita said in gloating delight.

He sat up suddenly. “Of course I screamed, Anita, I was only six!”

“Boy, you were thirteen and not a day less,” Anita huffed, poking a finger at him.

“Eight, tops,” Pete retorted with a gleam in his eye.

“I was there!” she shrieked. “Twelve. Your voice had already started changin’!”

They turned to Mike at the same time. He wore a poker face, but one eyebrow arched slightly when he looked at Pete.

Pete winked at me. “Okay, I was eleven, maybe—just turned. No more.”

“Alright, eleven then—almost twelve,” she said, the deal struck. “But yew still screamed like a girl.” Anita smiled broadly, victory hovering above her like a crown.

“Mike, thanks so much for the ride,” I said, shaking his big calloused hand as we disembarked a little while later. “It was really great. And listen, if Karly needs anything, please have her call me. I can be over in no time.”

“Thanks, Susan, I’ll do that,” he said.

Tina remained aboard as Mike made a floating three-point-turn. He threw his hand in the air and retreated out of sight.

35

Spilt Seed

“It’s ready y’all,” Kirk yelled. The land bordering either side of Anita’s property was overgrown forest, brambles, and lush weeds. Her lovely grounds were won through hard-fought battles with Mother Nature. The fifteen or so boys raced up the slope through the hiss of sprinklers, squashing the damp sod. The water sprites took their sweet time, shying away from the spray as if they might melt.

Pete had helped Kirk grill, which basically entailed standing beside him drinking a beer. Opening bags and filling bowls, I’d worked fast and furious helping Anita inside. Much to my kindred delight, other than the well-worn iced tea maker and the indispensable blender, Anita’s kitchen looked as underused as my own.

“Alright,” she announced, scanning her husband and first cousin—on her mother’s side—from head to toe, “all I see out here’s a bunch of weenies!”

We grabbed plates and buns just ahead of the trampling horde. While Philly’s street vendors had a certain appeal, grilled hotdogs were rare delicacies. I ate one, Pete had three. Anita also offered grocery store-prepared potato salad, three different types of chips, a platter of pickled watermelon rinds, and a large bowl of microwaved baked beans straight from the can.

After the kids finished eating—which took all of five minutes, they darted back to the dock. And since everything was completely disposable, the exhaustive clean up took exactly as long. Kirk left to replenish supplies, and Pete found a football and began throwing passes to the buoying boys. Vying loudly for a turn, their sole purpose was to impress the girls, who blatantly ignored them while striking poses and trying unnecessarily to look pretty. Were we ever that age? Pete caught my eye, and then nailed a kid hard in the chest. I considered aloofly posing as well. Yep.

Pete’s arm was true; every throw perfectly aimed. Anita brought out more pink poison, and we sat on bar stools sipping it through straws. Dusk’s paling light whispered night’s arrival. Lightning bugs blinked like random Christmas lights, lending their magic. It had been a very good day.

“He’s got an arm on him, doesn’t he?” I remarked.

“He didn’t set any records or anything, but he was a fine player…smart.” She nodded in affirmation. “We all used to go over to his games to cheer him on. We were quite the spectacle,” she said with a chuckle.

A sharp pang seized me. It would have been so amazing to have a large group of relatives, or even just my parents, root for me at track meets. I would have so reveled in sprinting across the finish line, my heart nearly exploding just to impress them. I was glad Pete had had that.

“He’s lucky to have such a close family.”

“Yeah. We depend on each other a lot. I was so happy when he came back home—we all were. Those were some long years for his mamma, but Lord, that woman was proud of him. Yew do know she passed a few years ago, right?”

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“Good. I wasn’t sure. He doesn’t talk about it much—well, not really at all. I know he misses her somethin’ fierce, though. We all do.”

“What’re ya’ll ladies doin’ up here unsupervised?” Pete asked, kissing the top of my head.

“Gettin’ into trouble,” Anita answered. “Did yew give up at the dock?”

“Couldn’t see anymore. Y’all need some lights down there.”

“They attract too many bugs.” We slapped our arms simultaneously. “Here, let me light a citronella candle. They work pretty good,” she said, hopping up. “Pete, get yourself some of my Anita surprise. It’s in the blender.”

“Oh no. I learned my lesson the hard way. I’ll stick with beer, thanks,” he said, chuckling.

“Oh yeah. That was the time you came home for spring break and we threw that Mardi Gras party. Taylor was still in diapers, then. Time flies, doesn’t it? Yew know, I had to hire a professional cleanin’ crew to get all that vomit up? That was in my old house,” she said, turning to me. “The pink never did come completely out. Had to put a couch over it.”

“I can hold my liquor better now, thank ya very much. But speakin’ of weak stomachs, you’d better lay off that stuff, Susie-Q.” I shot him a contemptuous look, but feeling light-headed already, I set down my glass. Pete climbed into the chair beside me and found my hand.

“Did somebody say liquor?” Kirk asked, emerging from the kitchen with a pitcher of mojitos.

“Oh Lord,” Anita said.

“Here, try one of these.” Kirk slid a tall cylinder towards me. “The mint’s from the garden and the Sprite’s from the Food Lion,” he said with a raucous laugh. I took a sip. If Anita was heavy-handed, Kirk’s bartending skills were unmatched. He must have poured half a bottle of rum into the narrow pitcher. “What d’ya think?” he asked expectantly.

“Really…good…stuff,” I choked out.

“Here, Pete,” he said. Pete took his like a man, knocking his knee softly against mine as he did. The bristly hairs on his lower leg tickled me, and the more I drank, the more I wanted to drag him back to the bathroom.

A girl’s scream pierced night’s heavy curtain. A large splash and male laughter followed. Pete chuckled.

“Is it always like this?” I asked.

“When ya live on the water,” Anita said with a slight shrug, “everybody drops by on the weekends.”

“And stays,” Kirk added.

We exchanged small talk about their business and mine. Anita’s degree was in graphic design. She’d been a superstar at a regional media firm. After she and Kirk married, the two left the company to start their own business. Now, Anita did what she loved best: Custom graphics. “Best thing we ever did,” Anita explained.

The opportunity to pitch INTech’s superior product line was worth another mojito. Plus, I loved trashing ComSync, our largest competitor. I knew their shop really didn’t need anything, but Anita agreed to see one of my sales staff; every sale counted, and when you cast a line into a pond—especially one as large as Anita’s, you never knew what you might catch. And as an act of good faith, I promised INTech would commission them some orders. We had no allegiances as far as I knew, and I would gladly battle Mona, if necessary.

“Yew really sucked that one down, boy,” Kirk said, refilling Pete’s glass.

“I was thirsty,” he replied, grinning ridiculously.

Anita suddenly slapped her palms on the table like a jolt of electricity. “We need some tunes out here! What kind of music do yew like, Susan?”

“She’s into the classics,” Pete said, taunting me. Candlelight flickered in his liquid eyes; a demonic imp.

“What, like The Beatles?” she said. I nodded noncommittally. Kirk stepped inside and WSFL began blaring from the speakers.

“Okay, so I have this friend who’s a wedding photographer—he and this other dude run a limo service on the side. So, a whole bunch of us piled into this big ol’ stretch limousine last summer and went over to Raleigh for the MötleyCrüe Fest. It was awesome! Molly Hatchet was there, and Nantucket—you remember them, don’t ya, Susan?” Having no idea who she was talking about, I just smiled. “We didn’t get home ’til about five in the mornin’. I went to work still half drunk.” Rolling his eyes, Kirk nodded.

“Did you go?” I asked Pete.

“Yeah right. Like, I’m in her league.” He slid his glass towards Curt, almost toppling it. Then the cousins launched into a series of anecdotes, growing bolder and louder as they spoke over one another. Though Pete was professionally ranked in the bullshit category, Anita was a black belt. The more they drank the wilder and less believable the stories became. My sides ached with laughter and my face was damp with tears. I raised an eyebrow at Kirk during an epic tale involving Pete and an angry rooster. He simply shrugged.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the sound of crickets, tree frogs and…silence. Who won?

“Pete, yew and Kirk go get that bag of chips on the microwave—the blue one, not the red one. And we need more ice, too, okay?” Pete, intently focusing on each step, stumbled twice over great hurdles of nothing. I snorted as he clutched the door for balance before disappearing inside.

Leaning in with quick assurance, Anita put her face a little too close to mine and said, “He likes yew a lot, that’s clear enough. Seems you’re makin’ him happy, and that’s a very good thing.”

I retreated a few inches. “I like him, too.”

“But here’s the thing. Pete hasn’t had anyone special for a real long time. And I need yew to understand he has an awful big heart, and it is a precious thing that needs takin’ care of. D’ya know what I mean?” Her eyes were clear and sober and communicated everything she wasn’t verbalizing. Holy shit!

Silently dumbstruck by her fierce protection of a man who clearly didn’t need it, I rearranged my shocked expression as the men returned. Pete kissed me on the temple—sort of, and Anita returned to her apparent state of boisterous inebriation.

♥

Having long given up swatting mosquitos, I’d turned to alcohol for an analgesic. Neither Pete nor I were in any shape to drive, and from her expression, I believe Anita felt satisfied her job here was done. I stifled another yawn.

“Kirk’ll show y’all to your room. Yew don’t need your own bed do yew, Susan?” She raised an eyebrow pointedly at me. I smiled and shook my head. Yes, of course I’ll service your cousin properly. “Alright, night, y’all.”

Following our host, Pete walked unsteadily. At the stairwell, he stopped and motioned for me to go ahead; drunk and still a gentleman. He firmly clasped my hips as we ascended the carpeted steps.

“Good God!” Kirk exclaimed, opening the door. The tail end of a pyroclastic explosion singed us; it had to be over ninety degrees in the bedroom! Kirk flipped a series of switches and three ceiling fans whirled into action. Then he hustled around the room opening windows as fast as he could, all the while apologizing for the temperature.

“I wired it up and got it fixed with ducts, but never got around to puttin’ in the air.” He shook his head ruefully. “I’m so sorry, but I just don’t know where else to put y’all.”

Kirk looked helplessly at Pete for some brilliant solution, but with eyelids drooping, he was clearly incapable of intelligent thought. Instead, he wrapped his arms around mine and broke into the kind of absurd grin only the truly intoxicated can form. “S’okay, Susie-Q, I’ll keep ya warm.”

Kirk yanked the worn denim comforter off a double-sized mattress lying on the floor. The sheets underneath were rumpled, the tell-tale signs of a bed hastily made. Feeling a small wave of revulsion, I wondered how many pints of teenage seed had been spilled on it over its lifetime.

“I’m just gonna leave the door cracked to cool things off. Sorry again, Susan.” Kirk nodded apologetically once more and fled.

The room was large and very clean, the walls painted that buttercream of new construction. A large, older model television sat in one corner, a jumbled mess of video game wires on the pale carpet beneath it. During Kirk’s flurry, I hadn’t noticed the two doors by the landing, but one stood between me and the bathroom I badly needed. I opened door number one and heat boiled out over reams of lights and party paraphernalia from the low-ceilinged attic. I slammed it quickly, barricading the inferno.

Creeping up the stairs, tiny tentacles of cool air brushed my ankles as I shuffled to the bed. Already encrusted with sweat and lake residue, I really didn’t care how hot it was as long as I could lay down, close my eyes, and make the world stop spinning. I removed the pillow, stripped naked, and collapsed.

I was almost asleep when Pete emerged from the bathroom. He fiddled with the switches, turning the overhead lights on and off several times before he found a combination that left the fans running and us in darkness. Tripping over the wadded comforter, he fell face-first onto the mattress, fully clothed.

“Susie-Q, I want ya somethin’ awful,” he slurred, throwing a heavy arm over me. He kissed my neck and mumbled something in my ear. The next sound I heard was a peaceful snore.

It occurred to me this was the first time I’d ever seen Pete drunk. Perhaps for once, he didn’t have to remain clear-headed while working at the bar, or responsibly sober with his truck and boat. Maybe he just really needed to let go after visiting his ghostly parents. I kissed his forehead, rolled on my side taking his limp arm with me, and faded into oblivion.

♥

Nature’s dance on my bladder woke me. Dappled sunlight filled the bedroom, glowing painfully bright. I wrenched myself from bed, immediately grabbing my head to keep it from rolling off. After splashing my face and drinking a gallon of water through cupped hands, I felt only slightly better. Pete was sitting on the mattress edge with his head in his hands when I returned. He scrubbed his face and then smiled weakly. Where the light touched it, his stubble glinted.

He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his forehead into my stomach. “I am way too old to be this stupid.” I ran soothing fingers through his unruly mop, fondling his blunted waves. I imagined them in their childhood form; large careless sun-kissed curls. During his march to manhood, those silky white strands had muted, replaced by an amalgam of gold and pale honey.

“You were in rare form last night,” I said quietly.

“Don’t doubt it,” he murmured, the movement of his muffled laughter jiggling my tummy. There wasn’t a clock in the room, but it felt late. We hauled our well-earned hangovers downstairs to the cool kitchen where Anita was noisily preparing a meal.

“Y’all are stayin’ for lunch, right?” Judging from the groceries on the counter, she’d been up for some time, suffering no ill-effects from last night. She opened a large bag of barbeque-flavored chips and dumped it in a bowl. “We’ve got leftover wieners, and I can open another can of beans if yew want ’em.” I grimaced.

Snores floated in from the living room. We peeked around the corner; the adolescent tribe had set up camp there. The unconscious compilation of bodies randomly dispersed on the floor had passed out either from exhaustion or pilfered alcohol. One of the older boys lay in a recliner, a phone cradled between his pecs. Pete chuckled quietly beside me. “Good times.”

Anita nodded at them as she passed. “They didn’t quiet down ’til almost four. I’m gonna get ’em up soon to clean up their mess.” She wrenched a black remote from an unconscious limb and pointed it at the bank of electronic equipment above the fireplace, pressing buttons with increasing annoyance. “What’s wrong with the TV? It’s not workin’!” she yelled out shrilly. I thought my head would detonate. Pete winced as well. “Kirk, I think the cable’s out.”

From somewhere outside, Kirk responded in a loud, but patient tone. “We don’t have cable, dear, we have satellite.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not workin’! Make the TV come on, or turn on some music, or somethin’. It’s too quiet in here!”

Throughout this exchange the boys didn’t flinch, however a bedroom door opened and a disheveled young man padded across the tile into the kitchen, his brown hair practically standing on end. He nodded at us before yanking open the refrigerator door.

“Hey, Jimmy, how ya doin’?” Pete asked, summoning his usual morning cheer.

After taking a huge gulp of orange juice straight from the container, he replied, “Tired. How’re yew?”

“We missed ya last night. Did ya have to work?”

“Double shift.” He yawned audibly, took another large swig, and then moved, sloth-like, to the bathroom separating his and Taylor’s bedrooms.

“Kirk’s son,” Pete murmured, smiling down at me.

Jimmy closed the door quietly, but then uttered a resounding stream of curses ending with “Dammit Taylor! Pick up your shit!”

Surveying our would-be breakfast of shriveled third-degree blackened dogs, beans, and chips, I turned to Pete, pleadingly. His mouth curled up on one side and he whispered, “I think we can do a little better than this.” Then he turned to Anita and said, “Thanks much for the lunch offer, but I gotta run Susan back to Havelock.”

“Oh, ’course. Y’all probably want a shower and fresh clothes.” She reached out and hugged me tightly. “It was really nice gettin’ to know yew, Susan. Y’all’ll come back Labor Day for sure. We’re throwin’ a big party.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought.

♥

Pete’s idea of “a little better” was Bojangles. He ordered bacon, egg and cheese biscuits and two large teas. “Hangover-helper. Trust me,” he said gravely, thrusting them in my hand.

After a lingering kiss at my door, he said, “Since I skipped out on Jimbo last night, I gotta go over and beg forgiveness. If I keep this up, he might fire me. I’ll come by later.” He hesitated, and then said quite soberly, “If you’re sick of me, I’ll understand.”

Being with him was practically all I could think of lately—not a good thing. Regardless, we spent the better part of the afternoon snuggled on my couch, curtains drawn, watching muted TV; Pete Walsh and his new girlfriend, Susan Wade.

36

I Don’t

Showering had taken longer than either of us planned, and by the time we reached the marina, its rush hour had long passed. Amongst other things, Pete wanted to drop by his “palatial estate” to take some measurements, and then he had other plans. As he hoisted a large cooler onto the boat, several ice cubes skittered across the floor.

Along with an ever-ready supply of ice, his large garage freezer was dedicated to several gross tons of fish, which he liberally shared with his many relatives in New Bern and the surrounding area. And he didn’t just drop off a few packets and go on his merry way like a wayward fish-toting Santa Claus; he went “visiting”. It was important to him and he made the time for it—something I could never imagine doing. However, since our budding romance had stolen his evenings and weekends, he was kind of in trouble with his family, especially the ancient ones.

Pete’s solution to this ever mounting dilemma was to take me with him. So, on screened porches in rocking chairs and metal gliders we chatted about nothing in particular with little old ladies, who fanned themselves with big woven paddles, and wrinkled men, who simply sweated.

Occasionally, while running similar circuits, we crossed paths with cousins—all very funny and with excellent stories. And since I was there, most involved Pete in his mischievous days, which as far as I could tell had yet to end. And though under occasional scrutiny, I’d been warmly welcomed. Of course, compliments of Anita and general small-town gossip, his entire family assumed we were getting married.

Dropping anchor, Pete began rummaging in the cooler. “If you’d told me we were catching dinner, I would have slaughtered something for bait,” I taunted. After a sardonic glance, he returned to his rooting.

“I thought we’d try something different tonight.”

“You mean like going out?” I asked, slightly disappointed. His creations were far better than any restaurant’s in the region.

“Maybe. I want tonight to be special.” In my mind, every night had been special—and not just a little. A private smile floated on his lips as he handed me a bottled water. “I’m really glad you’ve met some of my family. Great Aunt Irma likes you very much.”

“She’s very nice.” How could I not like someone who told me I was “pretty as a picture” every time we visited? “And, of course, I like Anita and Kirk.”

“They approve of you, ya know,” he said, almost beaming.

“I’m surprised they approve of your dating a ‘Yankee’.”

“Yankee? Sorry, you tested negative.”

“Huh?”

“I snuck a DNA sample before we slept together. Clean as a whistle.” I bumped him hard with my shoulder. “But it wouldn’t’ve mattered anyway,” he said, laughing.

“And why is that?”

“If I wasn’t immune, I’d’ve died from exposure years ago.” I rolled my eyes and snorted. Abruptly, his laughter died, and he looked genuinely appalled. “Susan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“Trust me, I’m not offended. Pasts are a reality we both have. You know my recent history—everybody in Havelock does,” I said, shuddering. “Besides, you’re with me now, and that’s all that matters.” I shrugged, thinking that sounded very sophisticated and…urbane. Of course it was a big fat lie—I am a woman, and the last thing I wanted to ponder next time our bodies tangled were the ranks of females he’d slept with; clearly, he’d been well-schooled. And frankly, I didn’t want him thinking about mine—a moment-spoiler for sure. Nope, in my mind, he would forever remain an incredibly intuitive, genius-level virgin.

“No, it was rude of me,” he said, fervidly shaking his head. After chuckling, I motioned for him to continue. “Anyway, before I made a complete ass of myself, I was tryin’ to tell ya my family likes you. And I…well, ya know how I feel.” His eyes held mine for a long moment, his expression growing serious. “Susan, you may think it’s too early in our courtship, but when somethin’s right, it just is. Ya know?” Courtship?

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s somethin’ I need to ask ya.” His struggle with some strong emotion was both confusing and disquieting.

“Okay, shoot,” I said hesitantly.

He opened the glove compartment and returned with a small velvet box. Then he dropped to one knee. Oh… fuck! Every drop of blood drained from my head and I saw several bright flashes. In contrast, his eyes were eager and bright. “Pete,” I croaked, “what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he said with complete composure, effectively forcing me into full-blown vapor lock. Yes, I had feelings for him—some too intense for my liking, but this was utter insanity! He couldn’t expect me to commit to a life together after so little time. We weren’t impulsive children, and I sure wasn’t living in some Southern-fried fairytale where you meet, fall in love, then run off to Gatlinburg. This was, like, years too soon—decades. And he’d given me no out; I was stuck in the middle of Bogue Sound. If I jumped overboard, could I swim to shore from here? Was drowning an acceptable form of rejection? What was the proper etiquette? Because there was no way—

“Susie-Q, are ya alright?” he calmly asked. I tried swallowing, but my mouth had gone bone dry. I shook my head frantically, but he continued. “We haven’t known each other very long, and this may seem a little sudden, but there’s somethin’ I need to ask ya.” His gaze was steady, as were his hands. “I know it’s not fair to force ya like this, but I’m expectin’ an answer right away.” He reached for my left hand, which had assumed a death-grip on the cushion.

“Give me your hand, sweetheart.” My grip tightened. If he couldn’t give it to me, then I wouldn’t have to refuse—this was my ingenious thinking, anyway. I didn’t count on his strength or skewed mental state.

He set the tiny bomb beside me and plied my stiffened arm from the bench. Then he sandwiched my clammy fist between his warm hands. “Susie-Q, open your fist, please.” I shook him off. He gave me a stern look. I volleyed it back. He was not getting that damned thing on my finger. “We can sit here all day like this or you can open your hand.” Time passed. The sun seared my shoulders as the boat rocked. I spent the moments searching for ways to gently say no; there were none. Resolved, I finally complied.

“Thank you.” He traced my palm and then bent his head and softly kissed the base of my fourth finger. This would crush the lovely thing sprouting between us and make my remaining time here a living nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut to avoid his penetrating stare. Maybe I could faint, I thought suddenly. I wasn’t exactly sure how one did that, but it might work.

“Susan,” he whispered, letting my name hang in the air like a puff of smoke. I sent up a frantic prayer to the patron saint of not married people and cringed. “Will ya,” he paused again, “stop losin’ these damn things?” The words didn’t quite make sense. “Susie-Q, open your eyes,” he said, amusement seasoning his voice.

“No,” I croaked.

“No, ya won’t open your eyes, or no, ya won’t accept what I’m offerin’?”

“Both,” I squeaked.

He closed my fingers firmly around the box, and after a moment of painful silence, cleared his throat loudly. Concluding I probably couldn’t keep this up forever, I cracked one eyelid and peeked. After another minute, he rolled his eyes and lifted the lid. On the pillow where a gem-encrusted shackle should have been, lay my innocent earrings—the ones my daddy had given me—the ones that used to bring me good luck but were now cursed—the ones I couldn’t find! “Why did you…what…I…Pete?”

“They were broken, and I knew they meant a lot to ya. Plus, I was afraid if ya wore ’em out again, ya’d just lose one and I’d have to hurl myself in another body of water—or worse. So, when I finally found them—and that took a while, let me tell ya—I ran ’em down to the jewelers and had the clasps repaired.”

“That was so…kind,” I mumbled, filled with a canyon of relief. Then fury lit. “Thief!” I squawked. “And, and liar!”—he’d told me not to worry, he was certain they’d show up eventually. Then he’d had the audacity to make an off-handed crack about an excavation crew.

“What did ya think was in that box?” he asked, his teasing smile a bull’s eye for my rage.

“You know exactly what I thought! Damn you, Pete Walsh! Damn you to Hell!” I screamed, tackling him. He landed flat on his back and shielded his face as I slapped at him like a crazed lunatic.

“Ow!” he yelped. Then he curled into a ball and shook with laughter.

“That was mean-spirited and cruel, and I don’t like you anymore!” I punched him in the ribs several more times to drive my point home, then marched to the front of the boat, which was a giant six steps away.

He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and then asked with mock-seriousness, “Is that any way to treat your fiancé?”

“Fiancé my ass!” I yanked off my flip-flop and hurled it at him. “You’ll be lucky if I ever speak to you again!” He hopped up in one lithe motion and gathered me in his arms, grinning and kissing me all at once. I shoved at him, but he held me tightly until I stopped thrashing.

“I thought ya could handle anything,” he said, his eyes still glowing. The breeze played at his hair, causing errant strands to dance about like a fiery halo…of theDevil.

“I can,” I growled, punching his arm again.

“No, ya turned white as a ghost. Stop it! Damn girl, you hit hard.”

“You took me by surprise, that’s all. And besides, it was a bad joke. Poor form,” I huffed.

“Actually, I was afraid ya were gonna faint there at the last. Ya know,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “ya still don’t have all your color back. Here, let me help ya with that.” Before I could protest, he ensnared me again. And after a brief struggle, I lost myself to his insistent lips. “That’s better,” he said finally. “Your face is that special color I like again.” I narrowed my eyes, but my smile won at the last.

After a thorough search, we found the box. I threaded my lobes and tugged. The earrings held tight. I smacked his arm once more for good measure.

“Marriage scares the hell out of ya, doesn’t it?” he asked, pulling me onto the seat beside him.

“What? Of course not.” Yes. “It’s just not something I’m interested in. And even if I were, I’d never marry the likes of you! I was just frightened I’d damage your gigantic ego. Then I’d be stuck watching you pout all afternoon.”

He smiled ferociously, but then said, “Seriously, you’re not plannin’ on ever gettin’ married?”

“No, I’m really not.”

Astonishment painted his face. “Why?”

“I don’t want to have to…depend on anyone to take care of me.”

“That’s what scares ya?” he asked, clearly dumbfounded. “Why would that be a bad thing? I’d think ya’d want someone to take care of ya. That’s the way it should be.”

“How old are you?” I asked, looking at him pointedly.

“Thirty-one. Why?”

“In human years, I mean.” He raised an eyebrow. “See, I’m just wondering if you teleported from the eighteenth century, or if you’re maybe just a really, really, really well-preserved senior citizen.”

“Off topic.”

“Okay. It’s not that it wouldn’t be nice to have someone want to take care of me—as long as that desire was sincere, but I refuse to be beholden to anyone. Independence means everything to me.

“Now you’re confusin’ me.” He opened the water I’d ignored and offered it to me again. “Are ya sayin’ ya’d like it if someone wanted to take care of ya as long as ya could bolt whenever ya felt like it?”

“I’ll admit it sounds better in my head than when you say it out loud.”

“It does?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say ya had commitment issues.”

“Wearing our therapist cap, again? And this from a crazy person.”

“Please help me understand,” he said softly.

A line of pelicans skimmed the surface. I tracked it while trying to put my feelings into words. I’d never spoken to anyone about my parents and I gaged the distance across that strange and dismal realm. I’d held his hand tightly as we waded through his past’s murky moor. Now he offered his to me, creating a foundation of trust—the very footings of a house, a structure. And I wanted so much to believe in him; for him not to be a lie. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I know you didn’t know your father well, but I knew mine. He was a…good father. I know he loved me dearly, in his own way, and I loved him.” Pete smiled encouragingly, and I wondered if I should just end it there. It would be so much easier than crossing the threshold. I looked at him—really looked at this man, and then squared my shoulders. No, I would take him there; it was only fair. I smiled weakly and then focused on the unwavering horizon to steady myself.

“But he was a lousy husband.” A fucking bastard of a husband. “Honestly, I never understood why my mother stayed with him at all. The only reason I can think of is she was afraid she—we,” I amended, “couldn’t survive on our own, financially—assuming he’d ever allow her to take me from him in the first place, that is.” I chuckled bitterly. “Of course she may have stayed out of some sense of marital duty; I don’t know.”

I found his eyes again. Pete regarded me pensively, his upper lip lodged between his teeth. He was ready though, I could see it; capable, strong-shouldered. Maybe this would be easier if I just closed my eyes. After all, I’d readily shut them growing up; there were just things a child shouldn’t have to see.

“Daddy—I sound like a little girl when I say that, don’t I?” I cleared my throat to dislodge the knot. “My father…he was quite a bit older than my mother. And even so, I don’t think he was ready to settle down—or be tied down, more to the point. I gave him no choice. The Bible’s not super clear about abortion, as far as I know, though I doubt it’s a modern concept. Lucky for me, I suppose, the Southern Baptist Convention is.” I laughed—well it was more of a sneer, really; I wanted to laugh. “And my father was very Baptist—a preacher’s son; the stereotypical rebel, but still. Grandpa died when I was about six, but his lessons, or the poison of them, certainly affected my father’s outlook on life…and marriage.”

I was angry, furious at times. Confused—always that. That he could love me so much, yet treat my mother so horribly at the same time. And while I missed him—the calls, the thoughtful gifts, the occasional long-winded letters—I was glad, for my mother’s sake, it was over.

One vision in particular never leaves me, invariably flaring whenever I enter my mother’s home. It had been a light pop on the butt—one I’d surely deserved. I thought, at his death, I would be freed from it, the chains broken. But I soon realized that was not to be the case. I would be eternally doomed, haunted by the cancerous scene of my father, roused by my overly dramatic wailing—the standard performance any child gives for the sake of effect—storming down the hall, all hell, wrath and damnation, of him grabbing mother by the throat, pinning her to the wall, threatening to kill her if she ever raised a hand to me again.

I’ll never know if my screams and supplications had any true effect or not, but I remember him finally letting go, her coughing and gasping for air…and nothing more. An image, a snapshot from early youth, forever branded; one I’ll never be able to bury deep enough. I never got spanked again. I was a pretentious child, I should have been spanked.

I didn’t tell Pete this—couldn’t. It was an infection; sharing it helped no one. I exhaled heavily and looked at him. “Is it horrible for a child to wish her father would die?” He winced, and I looked away before continuing.

“My mother had a part-time job waiting tables during college. She was in her second year at Carolina when she fell in love, I suppose. She said he used to be different. And when he found out she was pregnant, he married her immediately, like any honorable man. But as soon as the papers were signed, things changed. I’m not sure he didn’t blame her for getting pregnant—like he’d had nothing to do with it.” I snorted at the ridiculous hilarity. “He forced her to quit school immediately, stay home with me, and cook his dinner.”

A sudden fear paralyzed me and I gasped for air. Yes, I did take my birth control pill today.Okay… I allowed my heart to slow before continuing.

“My grandparents—her parents—they never came to her rescue. I think their view was simply that of the South, then—maybe still in places; that after marriage, a woman becomes her husband’s property, to do with as he wishes. But I don’t know for sure. In fact, I don’t know if she ever actually told them what was going on. Either way, kind as they were, they never spoke of it to me. I do remember my grandmother crying every time we pulled out of her driveway—my father was uncomfortable there, so we never stayed long. They’re both gone now, too.

“Honestly, my mother’s never been forthcoming about all of it—what I didn’t see. And, I suppose, I really don’t want to know.” I stole a quick glance at Pete. He was stone-faced, lips pressed tightly together, but he urged me on with his eyes. What was I doing? Would he ever want to touch me again? I asked myself these questions, and yet, like a fool, blathered on, floodgates opened and gushing sewer drainage.

“When I was in middle school, mom wanted to finish her degree. They had a big fight. My father did a lot of shouting and she did a lot of crying. I locked myself in my room—I did that a lot,” I said, chuckling dryly. “He wouldn’t let her—forbade it. Said she must stay home and attend to me—his little princess. That’s what he called me, you know. It sickens me, and yet, as contradictory as it may seem, I was that to him, and she, his servant—mine, too, I guess. I can’t believe she doesn’t hate me.” I waved my hand unable to explain the intricacies and convolutedness of our family dynamic. It was the very definition of tainted love.

“Eventually, he allowed her to get a part-time job at a clothing store. He even let her keep some of her earnings. Saintly of him.” I could taste bile; it was burning my throat and I wanted to spit. I focused on a dribble of water pooled in the narrow trough outlining the textured floor. Disrupting it with my toe, I destroyed its beaded symmetry. I took a shaky breath and shrugged my shoulders. “Anyway, I just…I never want to be bound to anyone like that. Ever.”

He wrapped his arms around me, but I didn’t look at him. He squeezed a little tighter and kissed my hair. Was he trying to comfort me? Hold me up? I could hold up myself; had been doing it for years—forever. I didn’t want this. Suddenly cold inside, I wished to be alone and to possibly throw something big and breakable at a wall—or better, a mirror; one with my image trapped inside.

I extracted myself, wiped a mutinous tear, and found his face. For one so expressive, he kept it carefully blank.

“Would you take me home, please?”

♥

“I can’t do this, Pete,” I said, setting down my fork. My stomach had curdled and the few bites of salad I’d swallowed by sheer will now floated in its vat of churning acid.

“I don’t think I heard ya right,” he said with wary eyes.

“You did.” His hands clenched the table’s edge. I took a large sip of water, and then another as he watched me in clear astonishment, his last joke still hovering in the air. With mouth slightly ajar, he stood as I did, but let me go without a word.

My next days were black. Very black. And even through closed blinds, the sun bothered my eyes. My heart bothered me as well, which surprised me. It sat heavily in my chest.

Pete was standing by my car. I don’t know how long he’d been there; I hadn’t heard the truck. There were flowers on my windshield. I tucked the office keys in my briefcase and met him there. He bowed his head and shook it in his self-deprecating fashion, then raised his eyes. I saw pain.

“I scared ya on the boat…and I’m sorry,” he said with deep feeling. “I meant it only as a joke—to make ya laugh. But I can see now that I crossed the line, and I regret it terribly. I’m, I’m just very sorry.”

I smiled wanly. “A lot of things about this relationship scare me.” Then in silence, we simply looked at one another. A large gap stood between us now—one I’d created. How to cross it? I lifted the wilting roses and breathed in their perfume. “They’re beautiful.”

“I was gonna leave ’em there. And, ya know, if ya wanted to call me ya could. But then I just…stayed.” He ran his hand through his hair and then said with more sincerity than I’d ever heard in my whole life, “Susan, I’ll never hold ya back or, or keep ya from what ya want to do. I promise that.”

“I believe you.”

Tentatively, he reached out and touched my face, and I leaned into the warmth of his palm. “Will ya have me back?” he whispered.

At a juncture, I needed to choose a path. To my left: Safety and its mate, cold loneliness. To my right: Inevitable heartbreak. Turning back was no longer possible; that much I knew. I took a deep breath, and with it came an unexpected peace.

“I will.”

Relief bloomed in his eyes and a single tear traced a path down my cheek. It wasn’t a tear of weakness, though, and I wasn’t afraid for him to see it. He wiped it away and tenderly kissed the smear. Then he kissed my lips softly. I kissed him back more substantially, and then I simply threw my arms around his neck.

Eventually, I pulled back and looked at him—this beautiful man who very much wanted to be with me despite my stains and gaping flaws. I gathered the sagging bouquet and whispered, “I better get these in water.”

Mr. Dupree’s ridiculously large vase was in the break room. Pete hovered in the hallway while I filled it, and quickly stepped aside as I carried it to my desk. It broke my heart to see him so very unsure of himself.

There remained a crevice our kisses had not sealed. Taking his hand, I led him into my office and made love to him amid the paper skyscrapers of the city I’d created.

37

Cheating

Complete privacy was the only term I could apply to the place Pete would one day call his front yard. With the practice of years, he maneuvered around the narrow outcropping and backed into the small cove, dropping anchor where his future dock would stand.

He was very excited about a new sketch he’d roughed out; his visions were taking shape. He said I was inspiring him, which was complete bullshit, but sweet to hear nevertheless. With the help of animated gestures, I could almost see the structure he was describing, but when he began explaining where weight-bearing walls would stand and mentioned something about trusses, he lost me completely. So, I just “mm hmm-ed” and “uh huh-ed” and said, “Ahh” periodically, nodding whenever he did. But mostly I just smiled a lot—not because the blueprints made any sense whatever, but because he was so damn fascinating. Sometimes he looked at the world through a child’s eyes filled with wonder and awe, and at other times, a wizened sage; a compilation of contradictions no other soul could possibly possess…and he was mine.

“Are ya hungry?” he asked suddenly. “There’s a blanket in the boat. We could have a picnic by the bushes if you’d like.”

“Actually, I’m hot,” I said, eyeing our personal swimming pool. I stripped off my damp shorts and tank and waded into the shallow water. If possible the sound was as warm as the air; one gigantic bathtub. A school of fish dispersed around my legs and I thought of my little shark friend, but then reminded myself I was technically not in the ocean.

My first thought as I was dragged under was, Why is this man so hard to dunk? My second: I’m going to drown him if I ever get the chance! I resurfaced, spitting and coughing, and smacked him on the head. Then I was under again. It was after my third submersion that I screamed, “I give!” Smiling fiendishly, he let go of my legs. “One day Pete Walsh…one day,” I garbled.

Now officially waterlogged, the thought of food was more appealing, so I swam towards the boat. Rivulets gushed down his face as he surfaced behind me. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and grabbed hold of the ladder just above my hand. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied, drifting against him. He gripped the other side of the ladder, effectively trapping me, and pressed his wet lips against mine. His kiss was long and lazy—the kind designed specifically for endless summer days. He wanted me, and I bloomed. His lips traveled my neck, sucking at my skin between kisses. When I sighed, he pulled back and looked at me, and I marveled for the millionth time at his glorious eyes—not the color, albeit disarmingly striking, but at the way they regarded me. At my answering smile, he disappeared, leaving a turbid whirlpool behind.

When he nipped my hip, I squealed, and then squirmed as his hair, like feathery seaweed, tickled my legs. He resurfaced with my bikini bottoms clenched between his teeth, and after unfastening my top, alley-ooped our suits into the boat where they landed with a smack.

Floating naked in the water felt so strangely freeing, and when his body pressed against mine there were no physical barriers. Brackish water splashed in our mouths as our tongues rolled over one another, and my breath came in gasps as he went about his business. When I could stand his foreplay no longer, I wrapped my legs around his hips, demanding. Anchoring us to the ladder, his muscles flexed as he shielded my back from the biting rungs. The boat rocked gently to our rhythm as crests of water broke against us, lapping at our bodies like warm tongues. Making love with Pete in water was my new most favorite thing in the world.

After catching our breaths, he said in a low husky voice, “Ya know, I’ll never look at this ladder the same way again.” I smiled in agreement.

He climbed the rungs and retrieved our suits. When the sun hit his perfectly cloud-white butt, I yelled up, “You’re going to blind someone if you’re not careful.”

“Yeah, well, the only thing I’m flashin’ is a bunch of gulls, and I’m fairly sure they’ve seen it all before.” He smacked my head with my suit before diving under to replace it.

“Are you going to give me back my top?” I asked finally.

“I’d rather not,” he replied.

Along with real food, he’d packed chips and beer in honor of our inaugural visit to his land; it had become a ritual. That first brush of lips seemed a very long time ago. Between mouthfuls of ham sandwich, Pete said, “Have ya ever noticed food tastes better after you’ve been swimmin’?”

“Why is that?” I replied, relishing the garden-ripe tomatoes one can only get in the height of summer.

“I really don’t know,” he responded thoughtfully. “But after swimmin’ with you, if I don’t refuel, I’ll likely pass out! Dessert?” After seeing my expression, he quickly amended, “It’s healthy.”

I’d put a moratorium on post-sexual dessert because the results were starting to show; how he never gained an ounce was beyond me. He passed over a wedge of ice-cold watermelon. I flicked a slimy black seed over the side, drawing a small swarm of hopeful minnows. He did the same and it became a game; competing to see who could send theirs the farthest.

After another adventurous swim, I collapsed on a cushion, dripping, spent, and extremely content. Finally, though, I grudgingly asked, “Are you ready to head back?” I had a busy week coming up—who was I kidding? They were all busy.

He exhaled in reply. “If we must.”

Pete whipped the boat down the Intercoastal, slowing once we entered Core Creek proper. The music I’d barely heard over the prominent motor was suddenly loud. A song by the band, Bad Company, was playing on the radio. Pete looked over his shoulder and sang, “Feel like makin’ love to you…” His was a horrible sound in conflict with the smooth voice of the singer.

“Is that really necessary?” I said dryly. He raised his eyebrows suggestively and nodded with a salacious grin before breaking into his epic air-guitar solo. When the song faded, he went back to actually driving the boat.

♥

The empty container landed in a nest of lint and spent dryer sheets. It was the fourth bottle of sunscreen we’d polished off since we’d begun dating. In the hallowed name of skin protection, he claimed I needed exorbitant amounts, but his ulterior motives were see-through at best. After tossing our damp clothes in the drier, I found him standing in my kitchen opening cabinets. I snorted.

“You’re not going to find much in there. Would you like to go out and grab something?”

“No, not really,” he replied, opening the freezer for the second time as if something edible might have magically appeared.

“There’s plenty of food at your house,” I offered.

“I’d rather stay here.” He looked at me with the threat of a smile. “Actually, I was hopin’ you’d cook.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Ya know, for a change. I do appreciate a woman that can cook.”

“Then you’re seeing the wrong one,” I responded with a derisive laugh. Suddenly, a wonderful idea popped into my head. “Okay, Pete, I’ll cook for you.”

“Really?”

“Sure, what would you like? Air or air?” Then I said, “I’ll need a few things, though.”

“I’ll run to the store for ya,” he offered eagerly.

“Great!”

“Other than everything, what do ya need?”

“Just pick out whatever you’re hungry for. Something simple,” I added. “I’ll grill it.” I had a few briquettes and maybe a teaspoon of lighter fluid left over from my Memorial Day barbeque. I frowned, thinking back to the time I’d last used that appliance…and the reason.

“I’ll get things ready while you’re gone. Oh, and do you think you can make it back in thirty minutes…or maybe less? I’m starving.”

He hesitated in the throes of disbelief, and then replied, “Count on it!”

My shower was long and leisurely. I put on fresh clothes and twisted up my hair, then chuckled after surveying the few contents my refrigerator housed: A jar of olives, a bottle of ketchup, three yogurts, and a small, possibly out-of-date container of milk. I grabbed the most essential item—or rather the most useful at the moment, and poured myself a large glass of wine. Then, propping my feet on the ottoman, I waited for the two most important men in my life to arrive.

“Okay,” Pete huffed, flinging open the front door, a grocery bag in each arm, a gallon of milk dangling from two fingers. “I decided we wouldn’t tax your culinary skills. Just steak and potatoes, how’s that?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, smiling from my chair. He dumped the food on the counter and looked at me expectantly. I made no move to get up.

Finally, he shrugged. “Okay, I’ll wrap the potatoes if you’d like.”

“Pete, come sit down,” I said rather gravely. “I need to talk to you about something.” He immediately set down the foil.

“What is it, Susie-Q?”

I was tempted—sorely so, in fact—to tell him we should keep this light. We were far past that now, of course, but I needed to iterate our relationship would change dramatically in the near future, that we should prepare ourselves, that I was going to move away. He understood the condition of our time together, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and in light of recent events, verbalizing it now seemed cruel. Besides, I could hear time’s loud tick and didn’t want to dwell on it myself at the moment.

“There’s something I need to confess before our relationship goes any further.”

He looked intently into my eyes and said, “Susan, you can tell me anything, and I’ll try very hard to understand, I promise.” My stomach twisted in a pang of well-deserved guilt.

“Thank you. I’m glad you feel that way.” I inhaled dramatically then launched into my loosely rehearsed speech.

“I like you very much. You know that,” I said seriously.

“I feel the same, of course.”

“When you proposed to me—admittedly, in jest—you got me thinking. And before I…” I cleared my throat and gulped, “marry you, there’s something I need you to know.”

“Yeah?” He wore a wary expression.

“I…well…wow, this is more difficult than I thought!” I said with a short, hopefully nervous-sounding laugh. I focused on him again. “Pete, I’ve been cheating on you. And I’m sorry.” I dropped my eyes and fumbled with my hands as I’d seen Mona do ten thousand times.

“Hmm,” he replied. It was a dubious sound and I chanced a glance. His chin rested on his knuckles, his elbow propped on his knee. His smile was comfortable—annoyingly comfortable. I shot to my feet.

“It’s true! It happened right after I moved here—love at first sight, really. So I guess in some ways I’ve been cheating on him with you, rather than the opposite. Oh, it’s all so confusing.” I threw up my hands and sighed theatrically. Then I fell back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Anyway,” I continued, “we knew—he and I—that our relationship was destined from the start. The affair is torrid and I just can’t stay away from him. I’ve tried—believe me, Pete, I have. I’m ashamed of my cravings, but sometimes…I just have to see him. In fact, out of need, I’ve asked him over on several occasions when I wasn’t really even…well, hungry, you know? Oh, and he’s young—did I mention that? Not that I’m into younger men…usually.” Pete nodded skeptically.

“While you were gone and I was left here all alone, I began thinking about you and him and… well, I started having all this angst, especially in light of this unexpected domesticism you’ve pushed on me—the cooking, I mean. So I invited him over. I thought maybe we could hash this out together. A ménage-a-trois of sorts.” Pete raised his eyebrows and looked at me, a full smirk forming.

“His name…well, that’s not important right now,” I said, biting my lip with a hopefully piteous look. Actually, I didn’t know the pizza boy’s name, but I’d clearly gained his affections. Over the last couple of weeks, he’d begun slipping an inordinate number of crushed pepper packets into my boxes and at least tripling the number of single-ply napkins. Then there were the pickled pepperoncini… But it was when he offered to mow my 5×5 foot backyard last Monday that I knew I held his heart.

Pete wasn’t buying it, but I took one last stab.

“I know it’s important to you that I’m fed regularly, you’ve made that clear on several occasions. And your cooking is great and all—don’t get me wrong, but he feeds me, too, in his own way. And he comes promptly whenever I call—usually within a half hour. You, though, I mean, you have your own car—well, sort of.” Pete narrowed his eyes. “And his scooter…it’s only a one-seater, which would be difficult for us in the long run, but still. So you can understand my quandary. It’s been really hard deciding, but this balancing act has got to end. I just can’t go on this way.

“I’ve been trying to work it all out in my head, especially after—well, before this whole marriage thing came into play.” Pete was laughing now, a growing laughter that threatened to knock him right off the couch. At that point, I lost it. Gasping for air, I glanced at the clock. “I…I think it’s… time…you, you met your competition!”

Pete dragged me onto his lap and cradled me against his heaving chest. “Now how old is this Romeo of yours?” I looked up at him, trying with all my heart to regain a semblance of innocence.

“Well, you could technically be his father.” I snorted then covered my face.

“If he’s a minor I’m obligated to turn ya in. Ya know that, right?” When he pulled my hands away, his eyes were twinkling. “Susie-Q, you’re an awful liar—really awful. And I’m so glad of it.” Then he kissed me exuberantly, and by the time he was through I was dizzy.

He opened his mouth to say something more, but just then, the doorbell rang. I lunged for it, but he leapt over the sofa arm and beat me there. He flung open the door and blocked the entrance with his body.

There was a brief silence, and then a boy’s voice cracked. “Uh, hey Pete, how’re yew?”

“Just fine, Jeffrey. You?”

“Um… Do I have the right address?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. He tried to look around Pete. “’Cause I was sure Miss—” I peeked out from under Pete’s arm and smiled. “Oh hey, Miss Wade!” He waved enthusiastically, almost dropping the pizza. His wide smile showed his entire set of braces, rubber bands and all. “I knew this was your door!”

His grin faded as a second wave of confusion struck. He looked from Pete to me, then back to Pete, whose hair was rather disheveled. Jeffrey’s eyes bugged out, then narrowed mutinously. “Dude?!”

“Jeffrey,” Pete said sternly. “Ya need to stop chasin’ after older women. Now we went over this.” The poor boy hung his head and nodded. “And what did I say?”

“They’ll get ya in a world of trouble,” he mumbled.

“That’s right. Especially this one,” he added, glaring at me.

Pete then shook his head reproachfully at the both of us and dug into his wallet. He gave Jeffrey a twenty, popped him on the head with his Pizza Palace ball cap, ripped the box from his hands, and slammed the door in his dejected face. Then he pivoted and cocked an eyebrow at me.

“What?” I said innocently.

“Susie-Q, please tell me you’re not goin’ all Mrs. Robinson on my little cousin. He’s barely sixteen. His mamma’ll kill me if she finds out.” I crossed my arms and huffed.

“Is there anyone in this town you’re not related to?” He just grinned and marched past me to the kitchen.

♥

Pete’s hair was surely spun from silk. I’d been kneading it like a kitten since his return from walking the empty pizza box to the dumpster. A dreamy expression rested on his features, and I thought about earlier events; how he’d been ready—overly ready—to accept anything I needed to confide. And he’d been careful—so very careful not to make mistakes since our ill-fated boat ride. I knew he blamed himself for my withdrawal. But what was his crime? Playing a harmless prank? Listening to a confession? Offering trust?!

I shook my head in personal disgust. I’d come mere inches from cutting this wonderful man from my life. He’d apologized several times that night, but then seemed reticent to bring the subject up again. Ashamed and confused, I’d never explained myself, either. Now it was a hovering shadow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate your prank, what with my near-death experience and all. It really was very funny in retrospect. Your delivery was flawless.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “The near-death was definitely my favorite part.”

“Yes, you would think that.” I caressed him until his tensed body relaxed again. “You didn’t believe me about seeing another man at all, did you?”

“No.”

“Why not? Don’t you think other men might find me attractive?” I sat up straighter and pulled my hands from his hair. His eyes flipped open.

“I know for a fact every man in this town finds ya attractive. Don’t ya see the looks they give ya? I can’t take ya near a beach without doling out evil looks all day. And why d’ya think I spend so much time at your table when I’m workin’? If I didn’t, there’d be a line of ’em a mile long askin’ ya to dance…and other things.” He made a disgruntled face. Delighted by this revelation, I touched my lips to his forehead.

“But I don’t believe you’re cheatin’ for two reasons. One, unlike my award-winnin’ performance, your delivery just plain sucked.” I snorted, waving off the insult. “And two, ya work so damn much ya barely have time for one man, let alone two. Plus,” he said, fixing his eyes on mine, “even though ya have a mean streak the size of a river, underneath it all, you’re a very decent person.”

“That’s three.”

“And ya can count, too. I like that about ya,” he added, smiling serenely as I began tracing his features. Eventually, he became so quiet I wasn’t sure he was still awake. Then, all of a sudden, he looked up.

“While we’re on the subject of marriage, can I ask ya a question? And, if it makes ya uncomfortable, ya don’t have to answer.” I nodded for him to go on. “I know ya said ya weren’t interested in marriage…for a variety of reasons. But if things had turned out differently, if he had asked ya to marry him, do ya think you’d’ve said, yes?”

“Who, Jeffrey?” I teased. He raised an eyebrow and shook his head slightly. I hesitated, thinking. It was a hell of a question. “I don’t honestly know. I thought someday…maybe.” Then I chuckled, ruefully. “It wouldn’t surprise me if I had. When it comes to men, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life—you are a prime example. Thankfully, Kirsten saved me the trouble of finding out.” I pondered, trying to summon that relationship with a perspective unmarred by anger and pain, and I found that to a degree I could do it now. I also realized that Pete had become my shield. I could even imagine he’d heroically thrown himself in the way.

“I really think, though, a marriage with Ryan would have been more a business merger—a union of assets, an acquisition. At least on his part…maybe mine, too,” I added reluctantly.

“That’s not a very solid foundation for a marriage.”

“No, only a realistic one.”

His eyes widened with astonishment. “I think it’s one that makes no sense at all. That can’t possibly be acceptable to ya. Please tell me it’s not.”

“You, my friend, are a hopeless romantic,” I said, touching his nose. “And, as noted previously, I’m not married. I know it’s difficult for you to see things as I do, but in the world in which I live, and the lifestyle I lead, that kind of marriage is reasonable; maybe the most practical.”

“But, love. Doesn’t love play into your world?” I laughed out loud.

“If marriage scares me—and it very much does—love is truly terrifying.”

“Why?”

“It’s reckless endangerment—no it’s a car wreck! Worse than one.”

“Love?” His eyebrows furrowed sharply.

“When it’s over, I mean.” He made a derisive noise steeped in understanding. He knew the cost way better than I, and it pained me to think of it.

“But why does it have to end?” he asked.

“It’s not a question of why, Pete, it’s just when. I’m not convinced love can exist for any great length of time.”

“Oh, it can. I assure you of that!” he responded passionately. “I’ve seen it.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

I considered his point of view. His mother had loved his father, essentially forever. But that young marine hadn’t been alive for most of that forever. Had Pete been given the opportunity to watch his parents’ lives change—their relationship change—his perspective might be different.

“It’s like a hurricane, I think. I’ve never experienced one, but I’ve seen the aftermath. Sure, caught up in the midst of that kind of power has to be exhilarating at first—the infatuation, the falling into love. But I don’t believe love’s victims—the ones who make it to the eye—appreciate the brief peace there, unless they’re great fools because they know what’s coming next. And the destruction it leaves in its wake—after the love is gone, I mean, is immense.” I thought of him again, and of Jimbo, and of Mona, too—the girl who wanted so much to hurl herself into that violent tempest. I shook my head.

“Growin’ up down here, I’ve seen my share of storms, but I don’t believe love is like that—real, honest love. There may be pop-ups now and then, even a tornado once in a while,” he said with a small chuckle, “but there’s mostly a lot of beauty. And a little rain now and then never hurt anyone.”

“That’s a lovely load of crap, Pete, but you know it’s not true. You’re living proof of that.” What I said was unnecessary and callous, and I regretted it instantly. He didn’t respond, but his body shifted restlessly.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” I touched my lips to his forehead again and ran my hands through his hair, petting him like Whiskers, my childhood cat. The effect was similar.

“But to find someone that you can love, that ya want to spend the rest of your life with, I mean…well, that’s everything,” he said after a moment. Our eyes locked and I fought the urge to dive into those jade pools and swim to the fantastical soul of this dreamer; I would merely drown there.

I mulled over what he’d said for a few minutes before responding. He watched me. “What you’re saying is very alluring. But seriously, Pete, to successfully juggle an intense career—two of them—with the kind of consuming relationship you describe…and not let anything drop? I don’t think it can be done.”

He shot up like I’d shocked him and stared at me incredulously.

“What?” I asked, stupefied.

“How can you say that? How can your career take precedent over spendin’ your life with someone?” I instantly thought of my mother and how she’d never had the chance to find out. And I became angry.

“You have to make tough choices. That’s life. Everything doesn’t work out the way you want it to. ‘Happily ever after’ is fiction!” He glared at me with a mixture of audacity and frustration and I returned it in full measure. Finally, though, I snorted a laugh.

At that, his whole demeanor changed and his voice took on a much gentler tone. “Look, I heard every word ya said on the boat and I’m tryin’ my damnedest to put it all together. I hope what I said just now…I hope ya didn’t take it the wrong way. Your work is very important.”

I looked at him and then away, filled my cheeks with air and chased away errant thoughts with the bubble. Finally, I deflated and smiled. “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, anyway. Love and marriage don’t concern us. This is all Jeffrey’s fault!”

He shut his eyes for a long moment, and then shook his head once, sharply. Following a pale chuckle, he said, “I’m gonna have to have another talk with that boy.”

38

Road Construction

Bob’s call was searing…

My numbers, while technically in the safety zone, now flirted with the guardrail. In CrayolaWorld, combining black and red usually made more black, or something akin to it, but in my world, it formed the blazing orange of road construction signs—the flashing ones that Morse out, “Single lane ahead, merge right or die!” The danger was real and imminent, and if I didn’t stop screwing around—literally—my coming to Havelock would end in disaster. I couldn’t afford to take my eyes off the road another second; not when I was so close!

Worse, the line between my career needs and my new wants was blurring orange as well. I’d become legally intoxicated by the overpowering sense of Pete—of being wanted so much, of making love so often and with such passion that little else mattered. Our relationship was taking over my world, and I knew it. And yet, I took another hit, and another, and another, the voice of reason hazed out by my Pete contact high. But that’s the thing with drugs; it’s so easy to become dependent, and from all I’d heard, a real bitch to detox.

“Mona!” I snapped ferociously. “Arrange a meeting with my salespeople. I need to see them first thing Monday!”

“Sure…um, okay. Is everything alright?” She titled her head, birdlike, and scrutinized me.

“No!” I growled.

As I hustled across a client’s parking lot, already late for our meeting, my phone sounded. “What?” I snapped irritably.

“Hey, Susie-Q, what kind of trouble are ya causin’?”

“I’m working,” I said shortly.

“Oh, if you’re busy, I can call ya back later,” Pete said jovially. He always sounded happy. He was happy. Of course, his deadlines were virtually of his own choosing; no corporate bulls breathing down his neck. I had no such luxury.

“Fine.” I hit END and dropped it in my briefcase.

Leaving Swansboro—yes, there are evidently a lot of swans in North Carolina—I embarked on my new crusade: Pander to every single solitary person I’d met since March. And I was starting with Anita’s river buddies.

A text blinged. Are you okay? I ignored him.

John Stevens wasn’t at the New Bern dealership as I’d hoped, but at the mention of his invitation, I gained immediate access to the general manager. And, as luck would have it, Mr. Stevens had just loosened his purse strings. John’s automobile dynasty was expanding, much to my delight—and to that of the lucky boat dealership that got to equip his new dock.

The manager and I struck a deal. To seal it, I agreed to test-drive two sedans since I was in the general, nonspecific market. Mr. Stevens dealt exclusively in domestic models as dictated by local demand. And though I had little interest, I oohed and ahhed over each.

“Gene, this is Susan,” I said to my favorite—cough, cough—New Bern area sales rep when he answered on the SIXTH ring.

“Hey, there, Susan, how’re they hangin’?” he crudely replied, chortling. My brash personality was so wildly different from the demure women in the area that my team now considered me one of the guys. And with castration scalpel in hand, I aimed to please!

“I just left Trent Ford,” I began in a dainty voice. “They would just love to purchase two 1400 series data management systems and a touch screen POS. If it’s not too much trouble, would you be a doll and get your fucking ass over there and do your fucking job, so I don’t have to fucking do it for you?!” The GM will be there until five, today.” Scowling through the windshield, I mourned my old region for the thousandth time.

I sent Pete’s next call directly to voicemail. My current situation was partly his fault. Too many times he’d diverted me from my mission for his personal pleasure. And when I returned to the office around six-thirty, Myrtle was in the lot. Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, I longed for the anonymity Philadelphia offered. I needed air, privacy—somewhere to hide. Maybe I needed a damn boat.

He hopped up from Mona’s desk and opened the door before I reached the first step. “Hey. Ya had me worried.”

“Why?” I snapped.

“Well, when I didn’t hear from ya all day, I guess I was afraid ya’d gotten into trouble. Knowin’ you, that wouldn’t’ve surprised me.” That casual smile didn’t hide his relief. Who was he, my mother?

“Well if I had, I’m sure one of your ‘surveillance camera’ relatives would have called you by now,” I sneered, breezing past.

“You’re hungry,” he announced, trailing behind me. “C’mon, I’ll take ya out to dinner. You’ll feel better with some calories in ya.”

“I have a ton of work to do. I’ll eat later,” I huffed, plunking into my chair. I didn’t need food. I needed a heaping platter of freshly baked service agreements. Just then my stomach growled loudly. I’d forgotten to eat lunch…and possibly breakfast.

Pete pursed his lips, then said, “I’m dyin’ for a burger from the pier. I know ya like ’em, too. You’ve got time for that, don’t ya?” Dripping with chili, they were pretty awesome, though the ambiance was, for lack of a better word, nonexistent—not that that mattered at the moment.

“No, I really don’t. Besides, I’m not exactly dressed for the beach.”

“We’ll get ’em to go, then. I’ll have ya back quick as a wink.”

I exhaled sharply as my stomach growled again. Satisfied with the evidence, he pulled me to my feet and began kneading my shoulders as he guided me up the hall. “You’re all knotted up. You’ve had a hard day, haven’t ya?” I sagged in submission. He buckled me in with a gentle kiss, and suddenly I wanted to unburden myself—bury my face in his chest and pour out a two-liter bottle of woe. But then I realized he’d done it again; bent me to his will.

“Tell me about your day,” he said, giving me his full attention once he’d pulled onto the main road. After a few minutes of doing a really decent Jimbo impersonation, he gave up, took my hand in his, and proceeded to describe in excruciating detail, every trial and tribulation of his day; this took up the majority of the trip. Stewing, I barely paid attention to his words, but as always, I found the cadence of his voice hypnotic. When I finally relaxed and closed my eyes, the whole day replayed itself and I sprang back into my foul mood.

“It’ll be ’bout ten minutes,” the elderly waitress said after Pete placed our order. “Dale’s gettin’ a new bag of fries from the freezer. I’ll call y’all when they’re done.”

“We can live without them,” I said shortly.

“Susie-Q, ya can’t eat burgers without fries,” he said, rubbing my back with his warm palm. “And these are worth the wait, anyway. Let’s walk out on the pier to kill time.” His eyes twinkled as he smiled. I found it very difficult to resist when he looked at me that way—like I was something special, some great thing. From my boss’ perspective, Pete was sadly deluded.

Brilliant foam blinked white between the uneven slats, and large moths, like fuzzy fat blimps, circled the staggered lamps. We inspected several open coolers; fish were biting tonight. It was all fine and lovely until one of my heels slipped through a knothole and I almost fell on my ass.

Pete’s arm shot out and kept me balanced while I extricated it. Muttering obscenities under my breath, he led me to the railing and I gripped it solidly. The weathered board was carved and gouged by countless fishing knives. I checked for desiccated fish guts before leaning my silk-clad back against it.

A light breeze blew off the water. It would have been soothing, if not delicious, any other evening, but the longer we waited for our friggin’ fries, the more agitated, annoyed, and plain old pissed off I became. I wiped several loose strands from my face and glowered at him. Though his hair also battled the breeze, it only made him look more alluring. I regarded his well-dressed form for a long moment; relaxed, content, soaking in the salty air. He belonged here; he was the beach, the waves, the fish…the trouble.

“I’ve got to drop by the bar later. Ya wanna come by when you’ve finished up?” I shook my head no. “Okay,” he said, undeterred. “Bet you’re glad this week’s about over. You’re workin’ your fingers to the bone, lady. I feel like I’ve hardly seen ya.”

“No, I’m not working hard enough,” I grumped, glaring out at the living water.

“Listen, I’ve got to be in Wilmington first thing Monday to drop off some blueprints. The meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour. Why don’t ya take the day off. We’ll go down Sunday afternoon. There’s this bed and breakfast on the Cape Fear. It’s supposed to be really nice, and ya need a break.”

“I have meetings Monday, and I don’t need a break. I’ve already taken more time off than I can afford. I’m way behind.”

“I’ve gotten a little behind, myself,” he said with a gentle chuckle. “But it’s been worth it.” He leaned over to kiss me, but I turned away. He hesitated before continuing. “We could take two cars and go down tomorrow instead. I’ll give Jimbo a heads up that I won’t be comin’ in. The shops along the river are interesting to prowl through and there’re some good restaurants. It’ll be fun. Or…we could go next weekend if that’s better for ya,” he amended, after my caustic frown.

“Did you not hear what I just said? I don’t have time to go away with you. I’m not here on vacation. I. Have. To. Work!” He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I just hate seein’ ya run around in circles like a chicken with its head cut off,” he replied a moment later.

“I’m not running around. I’m doing my job,” I growled. Then I narrowed my eyes. “I hope you’re not insinuating my job isn’t important.”

“Nooo, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just tryin’ to help ya use up some of that free time ya have on your hands—ya know, the other twenty hours in your week. I mean, ya really shouldn’t waste ’em sleepin’,” he said sarcastically.

Nose-to-nose, we stared at each for practically a minute, and then he popped like an over-filled balloon, spewing hot air in all directions.

“Susie-Q, how many friends do ya have?”

“What?!” I asked, totally taken back. “A bunch.” A bunch was accurate if I counted every one I’d had in my whole life. “Why?”

“I mean true friends. How many?”

“I don’t know. A few,” I sputtered.

“Name ’em!” he demanded, putting his hands on his hips. Who were my real friends? Only one name popped into my head: Mona. When I hesitated, he raised one eyebrow and continued his attack.

“How often do ya see your mother?”

“When I can,” I snapped defensively.

“When’s the last time ya went on a vacation and didn’t take your computer and phone with ya? No, wait! When’s the last time ya even took a vacation?”

Anger flooded my veins. He was right, but so what? I didn’t need those things. “What’s your point, Pete? Are you trying to tell me my life sucks? Because I don’t happen to think it does, and I’m the one living it!” I screeched.

“Don’t ya understand? You’re like a greyhound racin’ after a plastic rabbit. Ya may be in the lead, but you’re never gonna catch the damn thing.” He shook his head, his hands encircling the basketball-sized concept made of nothing.

“That, my friend, is profound,” I replied with a cold laugh. I glanced down the pier. The fishermen seemed indifferent or impervious to our argument. Or maybe they were sitting there by themselves because they had it all figured out, too. He sighed, his face a mixture of sadness and frustration.

“Susan, what good is a career that leaves ya starin’ at your computer on Thanksgiving, or workin’ straight through Christmas ’cause ya haven’t made time in your life for friends or family?” he said more gently.

“Luxuries,” I chided.

He gawked at me and then said, “One of these days, Miss I got it all under control, you’re gonna wake up and realize you’re all alone.”

“Then I’ll get a dog!” I snarled, brushing past him, carefully stomping towards the restaurant/tackle shop/whatever the hell else they were door. The smell of rotting fish swirled like flies around the entrance.

“You are one confused little girl,” Pete said in a soft, heated voice.

“And you’re a giant dumbass,” I hissed back with no attempt to modulate my own. I stormed past the cheerful waitress, letting the heavy screen door slam behind me without a backward glance.

“Hold up!” Pete yelped seconds later. I halted on the sidewalk leading to the playground and turned, poised to explode. He gripped my shoulders firmly. “Susan, when are ya gonna make time to live your life? It’s slippin’ away before your eyes. Can’t ya see that?” His voice was tempered, but caustically passionate. I shrugged out of his grasp and stepped back.

“What’s slipping away is the precious little time I have to finish this shitty assignment, and there’s no point arguing about it with someone who couldn’t possibly understand.” Then I screamed, “You’re sabotaging my career!”

He gaped in clear astonishment and then his brows scrunched together. “I’ll take full responsibility for tryin’ to spend time with ya, but do not lay your work guilt on me. I’ve always given ya the opportunity to say no!”

“Bullshit! You never take no for an answer. You’re a manipulator!” He snorted derisively. The grease-soaked bag at his feet reminded me of why we were here in the first place and why I wasn’t at my office where I needed to be. I measured him, stared into his flaming eyes, and then shouted, “I don’t have time for dinner! I don’t have time for a weekend getaway! And I don’t have time for this relationship!”

His eyes bugged and his jaw fell open. “Did you just say ya don’t have time for this relationship?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” I leaned back on my heels and nodded. Ha!

“For it or for me?” he asked softly. Already paled by the hue-altering streetlight above, I watched the remaining color drain from his face and realized what he must have heard.

“For you—yes! For this, this thing,” I said, shooing away the invisible entity, “no.” He tilted his head, looking supremely confused. I held out my palms in supplication. “Pete, this was just supposed to be a summer fling—two people having a little fun. It wasn’t supposed to be this overwhelming affair it’s turned into.”

He shook his head once, and then again as if he were trying to dislodge something from his ear. “A fling. A fling?!” he blazed, his brows almost hitting his cowlick. “Is that what this is supposed to be?” He threw his hands up in the air, and then slapped them against his skull, casting his eyes skyward. Finally, he scrubbed his face and began to laugh. He braced his hands on his knees and shook with laughter. I watched him with zero understanding.

“What’s so funny, Pete?” I finally spat.

“Oh Lord, Susie-Q! I’m just so fuckin’ stupid,” he replied, still laughing. Now I felt its edge. “I didn’t realize that’s all ya wanted from me. I wish ya’d’ve said somethin’ sooner. I wouldn’t’ve wasted your time—or mine.” He erected himself fully and his face hardened. “See, this fling looks a bit different from where I’m standin’.”

I exhaled in exasperation. “You don’t understand what I’m saying at all!”

“I’m startin’ to,” he replied in a venomous growl.

“No, you don’t! What I’m saying is, I need…I have a career to attend to. I can’t spend every weekend gallivanting around the countryside like a couple of teenagers in their daddy’s car.”

He slowly shook his head back and forth, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not some seventeen-year-old dumbass who doesn’t know what he wants from one day to the next. I’m all grown up, Susan, and I know exactly what I want. You might wanna take five minutes of your precious time—air-quoted—and figure out what it is you want.”

Finding nothing left in my cabinets to throw at him, I pivoted without saying a word and marched across the parking lot towards the highway.

“Where’re ya goin’, Susie-Q?” Pete called out in a mocking tone.

“Back to work!” I shouted without turning.

“Well ya can’t exactly walk there from here,” he hollered in amusement.

“I’ll catch a taxi,” I grumbled to myself. And that’s when brilliant recognition tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me there was no such creature down here. I eyed the dilapidated nineteen-fifties-style Oceana Hotel with disgust; it was painted the same unknown-to-nature shade of green as the pier’s restaurant. Then I looked at Myrtle, an evil idea forming—really evil, and I welcomed it. I marched back to the stupid truck, jerked open the passenger door, and began rifling through the glove compartment. Out fell his silver tire gauge, several poorly folded road maps, and the object I was looking for.

I caught Pete’s reflection in the side mirror. He was edging towards the truck, hands out like he was trying to calm a skittish horse. “Susie-Q, don’t be this way. I’m sorry, but ya gotta—”

I held up my hand to silence him. “I’m glad everything in your world is so great, and you have all your family and your friends and your perfect life. Well, guess what? I don’t need any of that, and I don’t need your opinions, and Pete Walsh, I don’t need you!” I threw his phone at him—the one he so trustingly left right on the seat. Idiot!

He plucked it out of the air as if his hand was magnetic, and I despised him all the more for it. I would have liked, just once, to see him drop something. I climbed into the cab, slammed the door behind me, and slid across the vinyl bench to the driver’s side, promptly sinking into the perma-butt indention created by years of weak springs.

His face and shoulders appeared in the window frame and he looked at me curiously. I couldn’t reach the pedals and it took several forceful thrusts to get the seat to move forward. I stuck the key into the ignition and cranked the engine. Awakened from her slumber and none too pleased to find me holding her reins, Myrtle roared angrily to life. I looked defiantly at Pete.

“And what a stupid place to hide your keys!” I snarled, throwing the truck into reverse by accident. It lurched and I stomped on the brake. Myrtle was an archaic horrification with the gearshift mounted on the steering column. I managed to find the correct gear and rolled forward so I was beside him again. Even though the window was open, I pressed down the lock deliberately and glared at him. Then I jammed the accelerator to the floor and spun out of the parking lot, leaving him standing there with his hands at his sides.

I hoped not one of his relatives was home. I hoped Jimbo didn’t hear the phone over the noise in the bar. I hoped he stood there until he disintegrated into the asphalt like the rusted old trailers that took up the whole south side of the lot. He could walk back to Havelock for all I cared!

Myrtle handled exactly like the piece of shit she was, and I was forced to drive slowly across the bridge just to keep her from plummeting into the sound. I shook with anger as I traveled through Morehead City. As the miles stretched, I began debating where to dump her. I could sink her up to her doors in the muck of some swampy tributary, or maybe roll her down the ramp of the Minnesott Beach ferry and leave her to drown. Or maybe I could launch her over a ravine—no, there probably weren’t any ravines within a hundred miles of here—hell, there weren’t even any hills. Another pleasing option was to light her on fire in his driveway and dance around her as she exploded into flames, roasting marshmallows while I basked in the heat.

Deciding all my spectacular options were probably felonies, I dejectedly pulled into my office lot. The cleaning crew was there. Wonderful! Though the cars parked on either side of mine were junk, I doubted anyone inside would want to steal Myrtle, even if I did leave the keys in the ignition, which I absolutely intended to do. I briefly considered flushing them down the toilet—the thought had definite appeal, but I knew he had at least two other sets at his house.

After sitting there fruitlessly analyzing the situation, I rolled in front of the bank and parked sideways across the bright blue handicap parking space, blocking the entrance for good measure. It wasn’t terribly original or ingenious or really very malicious, but it was something. I hoped against hope one of the two policemen in Havelock might give Pete a big ol’ ticket for the heinous crime, but sulkily, I remembered both officers were cousins of some flavor to Mr. I am related to everyone in Eastern fucking North Carolina. I crossed the lot, climbed into my freshly door-dinged—thank you very much, assholes!—car and drove home.

When I pulled into the lot the following Monday, the truck was gone and I regretted not making it a little tougher for him to find. That compounded my already foul mood. I flung open the door.

“What?!” I said to Mona, who was doing her best to give me a mean look.

“That was not nice!”

“Please. He deserved it.”

“It still wasn’t nice.”

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes then strode to my desk, slamming the door behind me.

No noise had come from the Pete camp all weekend—not that I expected any, and I sure as hell wasn’t calling him. That man was one arrogant bastard, and that was the long and short of it. I’d worked furiously from home, trying to lose myself in documents, invoices, and spreadsheets; my floor so covered with paper by Sunday, it looked like I’d installed new carpet. Since I’d barely slept, I’d gotten a shitload accomplished and was happy about that. But damn my sorry, pathetic soul, I missed him—missed him like the plague, but missed him, nevertheless. Several days later I caved.

It was early evening when I pulled into the marina. I parked beside a tethered Myrtle, contently chewing her cud, and sat for some time watching the boats rock like bathtub toys. My laptop and briefcase were in the back seat in case I needed to camp; he had to return sometime. I soon discovered that one big problem with stakeouts is you eventually need facilities—crime shows never mention that fine detail.

I’d gotten to know the Seagate Marina owners fairly well. They were nice to me, offered me a Pepsi, invited me to wait in their air-conditioned tackle shop and watch the fishing channel. But after a while, I became too antsy to sit. I paced along the crossword puzzle of planks between boat slips, craning my neck every time I heard a motor.

At last, I saw Bessie’s captain. The wind whipped the edges of his sun-bleached t-shirt, tugging the brown material tightly against the planes of his beautifully shaped torso. Under his windblown mop and behind those stupid mirrored sunglasses, his proud face, copper in the setting sun, looked like some modern version of a Greek god. The statue stared past me as it slid into his slot.

I regarded him for a long moment and then walked the narrow path beside the boat. He gave me a hard look and then proceeded to ignore me while he moored. I’d spent quite a bit of time formulating what I wanted to say to him—all very deep and meaningful drivel. What I needed to say, and more to the point, what he needed to hear was very simple.

“Pete, I’m sorry. I was mad and I didn’t mean what I said.” Without responding, he unloaded the cooler and his tackle and rods. As the silence stretched, I exhaled roughly. “I never intended to hurt you.” My words hung in the air like a swarm of gnats with nowhere in particular to go.

Finally, in the midst of fastening the canvas cover, he spoke. “The thing is, I think ya did mean what you said, regardless of your intent.” When he’d completed the necessary preparations for leaving the boat overnight, he turned to me. “Susan, I’m not tryin’ to stand in your way, or mess with your career—that’s the last thing I want. If ya need space or time, I’ll give it to ya. All ya need to do is ask.”

My thoughts a jumbled mess, I sat down on the edge of the dock. My legs were columns of shadow moving back and forth in the dark reflective water. A little school of minnows scattered, then reformed, only to scatter again as I swung them.

“I really don’t know what I need from you right now. I only know that I want to be with you all the time, and I have to get my work done, and I don’t know how to make it all work.” And then it occurred to me with a jolt that I might actually be the one sabotaging my career because I wanted to be with him so badly, because for once I was on the verge of real happiness. Feeling helpless, I hugged myself.

Pete’s face appeared over my shoulder in the aquatic mirror. His expression was neither angry nor sad, but his eyebrows were pinched in thought. He crouched behind me and covered my arms with his. His voice was low and soft, and his warm breath, sweet with the scent of peppermint gum, licked my ear as he spoke. “I’ve been alone a long time, and I know how to entertain myself. When ya want me, I’ll be here.” He kissed my cheek and left.

Once I’d finished raining, I wiped my eyes and sat for a long time simply staring at my reflection. My face looked placid now—serene even, but its appearance was deceiving. Inside I was utterly terrified. I’d just lost my footing on the crumbling ledge a thousand feet above the devouring maelstrom. I was falling in love.

♥

I had become Mona, watching my personal obsession tend bar. And until last week, the main difference was I took mine home at the end of the night. This evening was different, however. I shored up my courage, put my ego aside—or in all actuality, tucked my tail between my legs, and swung open the door. The place was dead.

He saw me immediately and gave me a half-smile that I returned with a small wave. “Hi,” I said softly when I reached the bar.

“Hey.”

There was an awkward silence. I’d shoved another wedge between us, cutting him off again. And this time I’d really hurt him. How many blows would this man take before walking away?

“Can we talk?” I asked.

Pete glanced around the room. Vic Jr. was playing cards with Joe Pat and Billy Gray. He whistled through his teeth and Vic lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“Hold down the fort a few minutes, will ya?”

“Well, yeah. Sure.” He dropped his hand and lumbered to the counter, wearing an expression of newly acquired purpose and unnecessary authority.

“Ya wanna go outside?” Pete asked.

Following him to the patio, I chose the picnic table where he’d first asked me out. He settled beside me, but we didn’t touch, and that made me really sad. He was singed, charred around the edges. Damn me.

I traced someone’s poorly carved initials, not knowing where to begin. No, that wasn’t true—I knew where I should begin, I was just too afraid to go there. Finally, he reached for my hand. Much of my anxiety fled at his touch, and when our eyes met, his were unexpectedly kind.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I want to see you every day—every single one. And I’m going to find a way to make this all work.” I took an unsteady breath and dropped my shoulders. “It may not be until late at night, and I may have to leave crazy early in the morning…but I don’t want to be without you.”

I waited anxiously for his reply, realizing I hadn’t asked him if he still wanted that—or me, actually. Maybe he was tired of my shit. He smiled, though, and kissed my cheek. Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me gently on the lips.

“I feel the same,” he said simply.

“Could I…could I see you tomorrow night after work, maybe?”

“You can see me right now if ya’d like.”

“I’d like that very much.” He wiped my tears, and then led me back inside.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced loudly. I froze, having, as usual, no idea what he was about to say. “I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause ya, but the bar is now closed for the evenin’. Thank you for your attention. Go home.”

The sound of scraping chairs followed him to the counter. A short line formed. Tabs were settled and the scant patrons filed out without so much as a grumble. He covered the accouterments used for mixed drinks and stored them in the large refrigerator. After dimming the lights and decreasing the sound system’s volume he returned.

“How’s that?” he asked.

I smiled gratefully.

“Dance with me?” He wrapped his arms around my waist and we swayed in a slow circle. “Did ya really mean what ya said about this bein’ just a fling?” he asked finally. I willed the hurt in his eyes to leave without a fight.

“No, I was just mad—and not really even at you. I was angry at the world, and you just happened to be in it.” He kissed the top of my head, and I his neck, only faintly aware of the music—some ancient prom song from my mother’s era. “Is that B&B offer still open? I’d really love to go if you still want to take me.”

“I’d like that very much.” He pressed me closer, the warmth of his body seeping into my pores like melted caramel. I quietly heaved a sigh of relief.

“Oh please don’t start singing,” I said into his chest with a muffled chuckle. Steve Perry’s unintelligible crooning was bad enough without Pete’s help.

“Susie-Q, every woman wants to be serenaded.”

“Yeah, but you can’t sing.”

“Can I take ya home then?” he asked, a broad smile forming on his lips.

“Anything to shut you up.”

He kissed me solidly, then flipped off the lights and locked the door behind us. He left the music on…for the frogs, I suppose.

39

Survival of the Luckiest

“So where are we going?” It was an unremarkable Tuesday, but he wore a look of genuine anticipation.

“Somewhere special,” he said, smiling in a secretive way. With Pete, “special” could mean anything, but always a good anything. I leaned back, enjoying the evening breeze.

As we drove past yet another military surplus store, I turned to him and said, “You know what I’ve always wanted?”

“What?”

“A tank.” He exploded with laughter, the truck veering slightly to the right before he corrected its collision course with the sand.

“What on earth would ya do with a tank?”

“I don’t know…maybe blow something up?” It had been another long and frustrating day.

“You’ve got some real anger management issues, don’t ya?”

“Maybe I’ll start with your house, hmm?”

“I can just see ya with that determined look ya get in your eyes, terrorizin’ the streets of Havelock. Maybe we can talk somebody into lettin’ ya drive one in next year’s Fourth of July parade.”

“Sounds good. I’ll have to come back for that.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said softly. I looked out the window and frowned. Time was just flying. We crossed the bridge to Atlantic Beach. Dusk was yawning, but there was still plenty of boat activity on the water. Pete turned right at the big intersection and followed the two-lane road towards Emerald Isle. The scrub rushed by and I caught glimpses of water as we passed Pete’s bit of Paradise. A voice inside told me I should begin committing these details to memory.

When we entered Salterpath, a humble village past the upscale development of Live Oak Shores, he pulled into a gravel lot on the ocean side. Pete spoke with the park ranger in that magical way that gained us entrance to practically anywhere, and the man instructed him where to park.

A small path at the terminus of the lot was marked only by bodiless roaming lights. Pete pulled two silver flashlights from under his seat and handed them to me. After tucking a blanket under his arm, he took my hand and we joined the ghostly parade.

The sandy path opened into a wide expanse of eerily white beach. Squeaking through it, we melted into the congregation crowded around a roped-off area. State warning signs were posted at each corner.

“Full moon,” Pete murmured, nodding toward the horizon. Having just escaped the border separating sky from sea, it was monstrous.

“Whoa,” I said, awestruck. The moon gleamed like a spotlight, bathing the animated waves in crisp cool light. The foam tips breaking on the beach literally glowed. He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my temple.

Several children whispered excitedly when the ranger stepped from the bushes. Only as he began his lecture, did I understand what was happening. No, we weren’t participating in some ancient Druid ritual in which a white-clad virgin would be sacrificed. Sea turtles!

The ranger explained that the nests of eggs were catalogued by volunteers in cooperation with the Wildlife Commission, and mentioned something about the legal ramifications of disturbing them. Apparently, there were caches up and down the shoreline at the edges of the dunes. He further explained that at the onset of the full moon this month, the eggs were ready to hatch.

We were then informed that once free of their shells, the hundred plus babies in each clutch would claw from the depths, and using the moon as their beacon, cross the lengthy expanse to the water’s edge. If a misfire occurred and the eggs hatched during the day, they were toast—or rather, gull fodder. He also told us to be on the watch for raccoons.

The ranger further explained that these Loggerhead turtles, which were only about an inch long at birth, would grow to nearly four feet. However, once in the water, a host of sea creatures was poised and waiting to gobble them up. If they won the lottery, one or two might actually survive to maturity. And if lucky enough to reach it, they tended to live for an obscenely long time. The whole scheme sounded very much like the principles upon which INTech was founded. I smiled, feeling rather fortunate I had not, as of yet, been devoured.

After speaking on his walkie-talkie, the ranger told us it was time. We were instructed to extinguish our flashlights, and that it was our important job as spectators to count the hatchlings as they emerged so the number could be reported. We sank to our knees in unison and waited with electric anticipation.

When the first turtle poked through the surface, the children erupted in whispered squeals, the adults gasped, and I dug my nails into Pete’s shorts. He chuckled softly. We weren’t allowed to touch or help them in any way, though everyone wanted to, but as they jabbed their little flippers into the sand and trucked down the beach with surprising speed, we cheered them on like racehorses at the Kentucky Derby.

Everyone in our party stayed until the very last turtle was swept away into the milky surf. Our final count was one-hundred-twenty-three. It was an extraordinary experience. When the ranger announced there probably wouldn’t be any more nearby nests hatching tonight, the crowd dispersed.

Rather than follow the others, Pete led me a little ways down the federally protected shoreline and we spread out the blanket. Our flashlights and sandals anchored it against the light breeze.

“That was just…amazing!” Still pumped full of adrenaline from all the excitement, I wanted to turn cartwheels, or sprint across the hard sand, or do something crazy and childlike. Taken as well, Pete swept me up in his arms and swung me around in circles, my feet flying in the air as we laughed. Dizzy when he set me down, I fell backward, my arms spread wide. He dropped to his knees and leaned over me, looking exceedingly pleased. He touched his lips to mine and then flopped out beside me in the cool powder. We stared at the sky; with the moon so bright, the stars didn’t have a prayer.

“Ya know,” he said, sitting up abruptly, “I’m a bit worried about those little guys.”

“Who, the turtles?”

“Well yeah. Poor things out there all by themselves, fightin’ the waves…” He grinned widely, his teeth brilliant in the moonlight. “I think we should go and check on ’em.”

“But we’re not supposed to,” I protested. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet.

“It’s a responsible citizen’s obligation to protect North Carolina’s wildlife,” he argued compellingly.

The tracks were still visible, streaks and shallow scratches in the hard wet sand. With our backs to the moon, our shadows moved ahead of us like lumbering giants. We followed the marks until they disappeared, the warm ocean licking at our toes. I strained my eyes for signs of tiny entities caught in the surf.

“I don’t see any. Do you? They’re probably on their way out to sea by now, don’t you think?” I turned to Pete for his opinion, but he wasn’t even looking at the ocean. He was looking at me.

“Yeah, well, we ought to make sure, anyway.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“We could swim out there and keep watch.” He softly kissed me, and again in a more demanding way.

“I didn’t bring a suit,” I murmured against his lips.

“Neither did I,” he murmured back. He eased my tank over my head and then ran his hands over the satin bra I was wearing. The latch unfastened magically and it landed a few feet away. The rest of our clothing followed. We waded into the creamy surf, the waves splashing frothy bubbles against our bare skin. The ocean was calm, making it easy to follow the firm floor as it dipped and then sloped upward forming a high sandbar. We stood close together, our bodies, bleached by the moon, swaying with the gentle swells.

“I want ya so badly, I can hardly breathe,” he said between wet kisses. “Make love with me.”

“Absolutely not!” I whispered, smiling against his lips.

Our tongues writhed in a delicious dance of swirling snakes. He took me firmly in his arms and I felt his rigid hardness against my stomach. The surge of heat surely burnt him when he entered me, and as our mouths dislodged, we locked eyes. His expression was controlled, focused in deadly concentration. He moved slowly and deeply inside of me.

Too overwhelmed for anything more than base thoughts, my mouth parted, and I inhaled with each penetration. I dug my heels into his backside to take in more of him, colliding against his rhythm. All at once, the ocean, the moon, the fathomless sky—all made of some brittle substance—shattered around me, and I was nothing but sensation. Too quickly, what I now knew to be mere glass, reformed itself into the world again as the pulsing in my body, my blood, my ears slowed. Having lost sight of him altogether in the process, I was only dimly aware of his shudder until he pulled my hips even closer and began moving slowly within me again, refusing to give up even that last quiver of sensation. He kissed me with the warmth of the deep glowing embers that remained.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing my ear. “When I feel your hips move that way, I can’t help it, I just explode.” I laughed softly, marveling at his sexual gifts and the explosion within me he’d just caused. I kissed him tenderly.

He withdrew slowly, winding his fingers through my wet hair as he did so. I felt the loss as if he’d taken part of me with him. My body floated away when he loosened his hold, my feet no longer able to touch bottom. But then I found the solid floor once again and it was very easy to stand. The ocean dropped well below our waists and I marveled at his moonlit beauty; his flat stomach, his firm chest, his strong shoulders.

In the next instant, everything went dark, and I tumbled head over heels in churning foam, a hollow roaring sound in my ears. I flailed my arms, clawing at my dense captor until my face found the surface again. After sucking in a deep breath of air, I spurted salt water, coughing and gasping. Realizing I was quite alone, I turned in a quick circle looking wildly for Pete.

“Over here,” he yelled in a garbled voice, waving an arm. We were perhaps fifty yards apart and he was little more than a floating face. As he swam towards me, he stopped intermittently to cough. When we reached one another, he grasped my arms and my frantic heart slowed. In tandem, we looked at each other in shock, then warily out to sea, and then back at each other. Safe! Then we burst out laughing. He picked me up in his arms and kissed me solidly.

“Maybe we’d better get back on dry land before we drown,” he said.

“Good idea.”

After scrambling to shore, Pete did a jerky dance to get the water out of his ears and I wiped hair from my eyes. We walked back to our refuge and fell onto the blanket, basking in the protection of the bold moon.

“Pete, I think I could stay with you an entire sea turtle’s life and never get bored.” He chuckled silently, his belly tensing and shaking under my arm, his body glimmering silver in the penetrating light. Except for the precious remains of a smile, he wore a placid expression as he cradled his head in his clasped hands. In this quiet, special place, I felt as peaceful as the night itself and was struck once again by the simplicity of it all—at how freely he shared his world with me.

“There’s a meteor shower in two weeks,” he murmured as if reading my mind.

“You don’t say,” I replied with a quiet laugh.

We lay silently for a while, mesmerized by the dance of moonbeams on the sea’s eternally moving stage. “Ya know,” he said finally. “It’s interesting that turtles always return to the place they were born. Even if they have to travel hundreds of miles, they always find their way back.”

“If they live that long.”

“Maybe it’s a metaphor for life,” he continued.

“How so?”

“Wherever ya go, at some point, ya have to come back home.” It was a beautiful sentiment that certainly defined his life. But it was his story, not mine.

“What if you didn’t particularly care for where you started? What if you found a different beach you liked better?”

“What if ya’d just forgotten what your beach looked like?” he countered.

“What if you were tired of fighting off the sharks and gulls and all the menacing creatures waiting to eat you at your native beach?”

“Was growin’ up really that bad for ya?” has asked in plain English, rolling on his side.

I thought about it for a moment. “Pete, you and I had very different experiences. I think if I’d grown up in a large, loving, extended family spanning generations like yours, and I’d known kinder people…and had different parents,” I said with a short laugh, “maybe then I might like my beach better.”

“There had to be some good,” he urged, always the optimist. I let my mind travel where it would.

“Good was…going up to my grandparents’ farm; eating fallen apples and swinging from this open knot in the giant willow tree by their pump house. And, I suppose, riding my bike to Silas Creek near my house—I liked that. There was this sewer pipe about the size of a tree trunk connecting the banks. I used to walk across it like a balance beam, pretending I was an Olympic gymnast. I always won gold.”

“Naturally,” he said with a chuckle. “There had to be more.”

“Well…I remember taking hikes down leaf-carpeted trails with my daddy. We used to hunt for mushrooms—the big colored kind. Did you know, if you lay them gill-side down on a piece of paper, the spores fall out and make the most beautiful patterns?” He shook his head no. “The red ones are the best.”

“More,” he demanded.

“Um…I remember Sunday drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway—it was only about an hour from our house. Sometimes we picnicked—always at the same scenic spot by this ice-cold brook full of rainbow trout. Oh, and we camped a couple of times at Stone Mountain Park. There’s a huge waterfall there, and you can climb up on the rocks and stand behind it. Very cool.”

“Those sound like pretty good things,” he said softly.

“I guess they were.” I hadn’t explored any of those memories in so long. They were deeply buried under…shit—piles of it.

He sat up all of a sudden and looked at me. “I know there’s more. What else?” I thought for a moment.

“Okay, when I was a little girl, my parents used to take me to Old Salem—it’s an historical village near downtown. Have you heard of it?”

“We visited once on a school trip.”

“Oh. You know that big square? They held summer concerts there on that lawn. While my parents sat in folding chairs listening to the orchestra, I would run around playing with the other children and dancing in circles to the music.”

“Those are great memories,” Pete said encouragingly.

“Yes. Now ask me about the bad ones and I’ll keep you here the rest of the night and most of tomorrow,” I said with an empty chuckle. He reached over and stroked my hair. “I guess when the innocence of childhood fades well before it ought to, you’re left with reality. Part of my reality was growing up in a war zone, not knowing from one day to the next when the man who was supposed to protect and keep our family safe, would blow up with threats of physical violence. I spent a lot of time curled up in my shell, shaking with fear and rage. North Carolina may be my beach, Pete, but my beach sucks. That’s why I left. And if I were being honest, to an extent I hold the whole state responsible.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. Ya could’ve grown up somewhere else and had bad experiences…and good.”

“You’re right. But I think North Carolina, and the South in general, makes everything more complex—the attitudes passed down from generation to generation, the social conceptions, the inescapable judgment that follows you wherever you go. I don’t want religion or petty prejudices or acceptable societal behavior crammed down my throat. I refuse to live that way. I like being where no one really cares about those kinds of things. It’s like my tortoise shell was covered with barnacles when I left, and I’ve finally gotten them all scraped off…and now I’m back.”

“I’ve lived where nobody cares,” Pete countered. “And it’s a damn lonely place. I like bein’ able to walk down the street or go to the store and know people, and have them know me. I like buildin’ relationships and knowin’ there are people you can count on, and reciprocating that trust.”

I snorted at the very concept. “Well, I haven’t met too many people I could count on in my life.” He was silent for few minutes, then he exhaled audibly and lay back down.

“Susan, I wish I could bear some of your burden for ya, or at least make it better somehow.” He reached over and stroked my hair. I took his hand and kissed his palm. Then he said, “Ya know that sayin’ about lemons…”

I laughed out loud. “Surely you can come up with a better metaphor for life than that. Your beach one was much better.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m low at the moment.”

“Well, I made my lemonade in Chicago and Philadelphia and it tastes just fine—no artificial colors or sweeteners added. And, I made it all by myself.”

The moon was at its zenith now. The man stared down at us, his smiling face watching. He saw things. He knew things.

“Do you ever think you’ll land?” Pete asked.

“I hope not. I don’t honestly see why I need to,” I replied.

“But seriously, is it worth the price?”

“You don’t understand, Pete. I think it is.”

“Sweetheart, what about balance?”

“If you start that again, I will leave your ass here. And this time you’ll never find that ugly truck.” He tugged on the lock he’d been twisting around his finger. “Ow!” I yelped.

Though we had a good laugh, I felt slightly annoyed at the direction this conversation was taking, and my tone sharpened. “Does balance to you mean living in a tiny town virtually untouched by civilization, where you drink beer all weekend and fish on Sundays? That’s not balance, Pete. That’s retirement.”

“No,” he said defensively. “That’s not what I meant, precisely.” He paused, either contemplating his next move or simply being pissed off, I didn’t know which. He did continue weaving his fingers through my drying tangles.

“I’ll tell ya what I think,” he said finally.

“Well, there’s a surprise.” He jerked on another knot. “Hey!”

“I think that after you’re dead and gone—you, keelin’ over from exhaustion, of course—those accounts, those numbers, that paperwork litterin’ your desk and your floor and your car…that’ll all still be there. And someone just like you will pick it up and take their turn in the relay race.” I sighed. It seemed his life’s work now was to worry about me.

“And all those houses you don’t finish designing by the time you croak—due, of course, to being eaten by a giant fish—someone else will build.”

“Yeah, but I’m okay with that. I don’t need to design every house on the beach. I’d just like to design some—leave a bit of myself behind. Besides,” he said with a rich chuckle, “every time a good hurricane tears through here, I get to start all over.”

He stilled—so much so, that after a few minutes I was afraid he might have fallen asleep. I sat up and looked at him. His eyes were closed, but he reached and pulled me onto his chest. I lay my ear over his heart and he began rubbing circles on my back. “Ya know, I lost most of my twenties tryin’ to take over the world,” he murmured. “Suicide by work taught me tons about the industry, which later enabled me to start my own company. But ya know what I realized when all was said and done?”

“What?” I asked, kissing his skin.

“The world doesn’t need takin’ over, and I’m a hell of a lot happier not tryin’.” His voice became very gentle, if not a little sad. “It took my mother dyin’ and…well, some other things, to make me stop and take stock of my life. It wasn’t ’til I came back that I realized how absolutely miserable I’d been. That’s what I was tryin’ to tell ya at the pier. I don’t want it to take a catastrophe to—I’m sorry,” he said, stopping midsentence. He inhaled sharply and then exhaled with equal force, my head moving up and down with his ribcage. I waited, but he didn’t continue.

“Pete, I heard what you said that night. Thank you for…just thanks.”

“Well, I had to try and talk some sense into ya, though I doubt it did any good.” He looked at the sky for a moment, and then said, “I guess we’d better go…unless you’re up for another swim.” Hope flavored his voice.

“I’ll pass on the drowning thing,” I said, laughing.

Pete pulled me to my feet and proceeded to dust the sand from me, making sure to pat down my most private regions five too many times. Then he helped me dress. We folded up the blanket and Pete wrapped his free arm around my waist as we walked back.

When we reached the path beside the spent turtle nest, he stopped abruptly and faced me. A great deal of thought stirred behind those burning eyes, and his face held a peculiar expression I couldn’t put a name to. He touched my face, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb, and looked at me for what seemed a very long time.

Finally, with significant emotion, he whispered in a voice that barely carried over the rustling sea oats, “Susan, I truly care for you.” My skin exploded in goosebumps as he captured my lips. And that’s when I absolutely, positively knew for sure that I was officially in love.

During the lengthy trip back, we simply held hands. Gusts of warm moist wind blew through the windows giving us quick, intermittent kisses. A few unlucky bugs splattered the windshield. I finally broke the silence.

“I’ll never forget watching those little buggers race across the beach.” His lips turned up slightly at the edges.

“Me neither,” he said softly.

“Who knows, maybe one or two will actually make it.”

“I hope so.”

That night as we lay in bed, my back pressed against his chest the way we so often slept, he touched me with a familiarity lacking both hesitation and motive. His fingers traveled around my hip as if the bone, the muscle, the composition itself fascinated him. His touch, this quiet, loving touch—for that was what it was, still inspired the ever faithful flush between my thighs, but I wanted him differently now, a yearning that rose from that same captivating familiarity. And I realized I wanted this feeling to go on forever; touching this man, making love to him.

Intense desire had always seemed a sparkler to me, burning bright enough to leave ghost streaks behind my lids. Once fizzled out, however, the darkness seemed deeper than before it was lit. This passion between us was different—the sparkler burning brighter and brighter as if trying to illuminate the entire world. I found myself unable to avert my eyes, staring at it in childlike wonder. And if it had blinded me, I didn’t know it.

40

Off to See the Wizard

In the beginning was the Word… and the Word was Bob.

Fraught with anxiety, I’d wrung my hands red and raw. I squirted another dollop of Dottie’s famous lotion on them and rubbed mechanically as I paced. Nineteen-point-six percent. Mathematically, one rounded that figure up to the next whole number. But nineteen-point-six wasn’t twenty, and twenty percent was Bob’s magic number. And while the “Say…” part of his directive left a little wiggle room, I didn’t know what “a little” might look like to him. I was a nervous freshman staring at her first Intro to Statistics exam.

Failure meant a new boss, possibly a new management line, and a comfy seat at the bottom of the ratings totem pole; another hill to climb, another set of bonuses to fight for, another slew of years to prove myself. I was so tired.

If I’d had more time… But I had, hadn’t I? And I’d spent it with Pete—not a second wasted. In fact, I’d never been happier in my entire miserable existence. I felt drunk and delirious most of the time. One by one, my fingers had slipped from the ledge of sophistication and a worldliness that had meant everything to me, and I’d fallen into something comfortable, soft and full of sheer joy. Perhaps I really wasn’t the woman I’d tried to be for so long. Maybe she was just someone I thought I ought to be.

I had given up Vivaldi, and with him much of my pretention. Now blaring from my open windows was music from the playlist Pete had created for me after the car crash. As I sped straight to his house with news, I wantonly sang, “Don’t Look Back”, my new personal theme song by the classic rock band Boston.

“Hi,” I said dreamily after our lips detached.

“Hey,” he said, grinning back. “How was your day?”

“Very exciting! Bob’s secretary called. I have a private meeting with him Tuesday before formal presentations begin.”

“And that’s good, right?” He towed me to the kitchen.

“Maybe,” I said, biting my lip. “Considering the timing, I think so. Early is usually good.” He kissed my cheek and handed me a glass of wine. I followed him to the cement patio and flopped in a white plastic chair. He set hamburgers on the sideboard and lit the grill. “Of course, if it’s bad news, I’ll be camping in your backyard until I find a new job.”

“We’d have to negotiate that one,” he mused.

“You’d probably charge me rent.”

“This is prime real estate, ya know.”

“For mosquitos!” I said, slapping one as it lighted on my arm. “I swear, as soon as I move I’m dumping all my bug spray in the garbage and doing a happy dance!”

We ate behind the protective screen barrier. “I will so miss this porch,” I said wistfully. His eyes dimmed slightly, though he worked to keep smiling features; ones I would miss to the point of pain.

“Do ya think there’s a chance ya might stay?”

“It’s possible, but I’ve done everything Bob’s asked. Even if he needed me to stay, I doubt it would be for more than a few months. Honestly, that option has never been discussed.”

“But you’ve done a great job so far. Couldn’t they keep ya here permanently? Especially if ya asked.”

I shook my head. “I’m too valuable, and frankly, too expensive to be kept in this region. Actually, I was amazed they sent me here in the first place. No, they’ll replace me with someone younger and cheaper.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t realize I was such a valuable commodity, did you?” I taunted.

“Really, I just thought ya were bein’ arrogant.” I stuck my tongue out and he grinned.

“Don’t do that if you’re not plannin’ on usin’ it.”

“Oh, I’m planning on it,” I said, meeting his eyes full on. “By the way, what’s for dessert? I’m dying for something sweet.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously,” I said, and then kissed his lips softly. “In a little while.”

♥

My apartment looked the same as when my black funnel cloud touched down in May—clothes strewn everywhere, drawers askew, one upside down on the floor. Three months ago seemed a year—maybe two. And while nervous about returning, I assumed the hurt and shock I’d felt then had dissipated, wiped away by time and Pete’s painstaking efforts to transform me back into a human again. But pain still hovered here, and inside the towering corporate building as well; a cloud of yellow jackets swarming an amusement park trashcan.

Tossing my travel-worn clothes on the floor, I entered my now moldy and completely disgusting shower, debating the cost of a professional cleaning crew. After dinner with colleagues, I’d declined the invitation to bar hop. Tomorrow, if I survived Bob, I would party.

Angry motorists on the turnpike, fights for parking spaces, impatient lines for overpriced coffee; I found myself shocked at first, and then somewhat enchanted by the mania. With Pete’s early morning pep talk surrounding me like a protective charm, I felt strong and confident as I rode the cramped elevator to my floor. As soon as my toes touched the industrial carpet blanketing that all too familiar hallway, however, my heart began pounding just as it had yesterday.

People milled restlessly or chattered in festive groups. Some poked faces over partitions searching for gossip. With a half-hour to kill and nowhere to hide, I ducked into an empty conference room and stared at the mocking wall clock.

Eight-twenty-five—close enough. I knocked boldly on Bob’s door.

“What?” he barked. I jumped at the sound; a programmed, Pavlovian-type response.

Ill-tempered, he demanded my data—all of it. There was no discussion of my future other than a grumbled “good job” followed immediately by a “now go”, which I took to mean I was still employed. I skulked away, somewhat disheartened, and slumped into my old, absolutely non-ergonomic chair. It squeaked a sad little “hello”.

Seven meetings, a wilted ham sandwich, and two fairly nasty cream cheese Danishes later, I needed a drink—several. My favorite bar—she couldn’t take that from me—was filled with colleagues. Before taking a sip of my cosmo, I was locked in conversation. Highly edible bar food, more drinks, interesting exchanges; a happy blur. Back in the beehive and suddenly not so afraid of being stung, I began feeling part of something again; big, important, urgent. The bantering, the competition, even the drama; it was like I’d been deprived of oxygen and hadn’t realized it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. It was late when I got in and I didn’t want to wake you,” I told Pete the next morning.

“I was up,” he replied in a gravelly voice.

“At two-thirty in the morning?”

“Okay, maybe not that up.”

A few minutes later, a blaring horn sounded behind me. “Pete, I’ve got to go. Traffic’s getting bad.”

“Susie-Q, did we forget our lesson? Be safe. Call me later.”

“Shut up. Goodbye.” I slammed on the brakes, screeched at the asshole in front of me…and smiled.

More meetings, a seminar on emerging technology, a workshop on the new CAD system Pete might just have to have. Dinner, drinks, schmoozing, more drinks. Tonight was better; only one-thirty when I rolled in.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“I had no time to call back today. It was crazy. You understand.”

“Yeah, of course.” He yawned again.

“I’ll call in the morning.”

“Okay. Night Susie-Q. I miss ya.”

“Me too.” I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Circles under my eyes. Crap. Though tanned enough they didn’t show badly, today was the big day and I needed to look my best. I smudged concealer over the evidence, then, after chasing down my aspirin breakfast with an entire can of Coke Zero, floored it onto the entrance ramp only to slam on the brakes. I was going to be late. Shit.

I wriggled into the back row. Of course, the only seat available was right in the center. The room was packed and too warm, and the speaker’s voice was monotone. I fought lethargy with a quick cup of coffee during the break, making a mental note to eat before my next meeting.

“Oh. My. God! That was the most boring presentation in history. Why do they let that man speak in public?” She made no effort towards discretion; she never had. I quickly hid behind a cluster of dark suits hoping Kirsten hadn’t seen me. I wasn’t ready to endure a verbal assault, especially not today. My plan of avoidance had been executed flawlessly thus far.

I grabbed the seat nearest the door—in case of emergency, and once finished with my presentation, slipped out and didn’t return. Instead, I wandered to the third floor and peacefully enjoyed a blueberry muffin.

Ten minutes into the next seminar, I realized it was devoted exclusively to sales—straight sales. I wasn’t even sure why I’d been scheduled to attend. I searched the room hastily. Oh please, please, please don’t let Ryan be here! I sank low in my seat and discreetly texted Mona, updating her on current events—aka, no sightings yet.

The last meetings on Quarterlies’ Thursdays were always devoted to reassignments, promotions, and applicable retirements. By this time the lucky contestants were bouncing in their seats; I was. The only thing I’d been able to eat at lunch was the remainder of my fingernails. My itinerary directed me to something entitled, “Organizational Meeting”, located in one of the smaller conference rooms on the eighth floor. This was it. Oh dear God!

I tripped over my pesky feet and stumbled into the room like a fool. I cut my eyes in both directions—of course, several people had noticed. After receiving a couple of odd looks and a few outright stares, I scurried to a seat near the front and pulled out my phone, becoming immediately engrossed in an all-important, life-altering, faux voicemail.

A sea of finely-tailored suits engulfed me, and I was relieved for the camouflage. I smiled awkwardly at the vaguely familiar man who seated himself beside me. He turned almost at once and began speaking to someone behind him.

Though many attendees had taken their seats now, several still chatted in clusters at the back of the room. It was then that I realized why I felt so out of place. With the exception of myself and one other bewildered looking service rep, every face in this intimate affair belonged to either a district manager, a vice president, a senior VP or—Holy shit,is that the President of the North American Division?

A clearing of Bob’s throat silenced the room. “We’ve had some shuffling,” he said gruffly. I felt a shuffling as well—in my stomach. His words sparked a few whispers, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off him to peer around. “Bill Greene of Ohio has accepted a position in the International Sales Division.”

Mild applause followed and I heard an audible exhale from several rows back. A buzz of speculative whispering rose as the clapping petered off. Many pairs of hungry, lustful eyes roamed the room. Ohio was a powerful, full-sized portion of district worth salivating over, and there were nothing but ravenous predators in this room.

“You may have noticed Beth Stamler has returned from her leave,” Bob continued, nodding. “Glad to have you back with us, Beth.” There was another brief round of polite clapping, and someone—a female—coughed loudly. I glanced over my shoulder to find a very happy, though somewhat sleep-deprived looking Beth. She greeted me with smiling eyes, and I returned them quickly before refocusing my attention on Bob.

“Since Beth’s position in Pennsylvania was filled during her absence, she’ll be taking over Ohio.” Loud and vicious whispers rose and fell in and amongst the clapping. A few people around me took out their phones and began texting. Bob cleared his throat again.

“Bert Knellinger is giving up North Dakota for the slot in New Mexico. I suppose he wanted a tan or something.” Chuckles followed and a quiet, but highly rude comment emanated from somewhere in the central portion of the room. It was the first time I’d ever heard Bob make a joke. “Calvin will address that move when I’m finished.”

He skimmed his notes and then delivered a sour look to Frank Calvin, the other Senior VP seated on the small stage. The man’s lips twitched slightly as Bob returned his attention to the audience. “Susan Wade has been promoted to District Manager and will take Bert’s slot in Dakota.” My head jerked up and I gaped at Bob. “Congratulations, Susan. Buy a coat,” he said, almost smiling. Snorting with mirth, the man beside me turned and nodded as if I was suddenly someone. North Dakota was awesome! Anywhere as a district manager was awesome. I am being promoted!!

It took everything I had to keep from jumping up, waving my arms, and running to the stage like I’d just won a car on a game show. In my delirious joy, I was only dimly aware of the ardent whispers. My fingers itched to text Pete, but as I felt so many eyes upon me, I didn’t dare. Instead, I began making an “essentials” checklist in my mind: Snow boots—definitely, serious outerwear—duh, and my new car would absolutely have to be all-wheel drive—a Range Rover or something of that ilk.

“And now I’ll pass the podium over to—”

Before Bob could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by the shrill, chalkboard-scraping sound of Kirsten’s unhappy voice. All heads turned as she stood.

“Excuse me, Bob, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” she said, sputtering like she’d swallowed a Chinese chili pepper the color of her flaming red suit. Regaining her composure, she raised her chin and continued. “Did you just say Susan Wade has been promoted?” She scanned the room until she found me in my own personal state of shock.

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself,” Bob said. His expression was one of disinterest, except for the slightly quirked eyebrow that challenged her to defy him.

“I don’t mean to question your judgment, but do you really think Susan is ready for a district?”

“If I hadn’t thought so, Kirsten, I wouldn’t have promoted her.”

“But, but—” In an outright act of kindness, Bob cut her off before she could dig an even deeper hole for herself.

“Kirsten, you were instrumental in my decision. After all, it was you who urged me to let her run what was, for all intents and purposes, a semi-district.” Deep muffled laughter sounded in the far back corner. Bob scowled in that direction before continuing. “She performed feats I didn’t think possible.” Then he looked at me and said, “I’m sure Susan will want to thank you after the meeting.” I smiled nervously at the curious eyes focused on me again, but a balmy warmth had begun oozing through my veins and I cared less by the moment. Bob really was on my side.

Malevolence surged onyx in Kirsten’s stormy gray eyes, and she didn’t sit down. Instead, her persona altered to one I knew well; she’d discovered a way to leverage something she wanted. “Bob, I’m assuming this rearrangement process is still fluid?” she asked, in a tone that was opiate sweet. Bob looked irritated but nodded for her to continue. “And as we are on the subject of performance, surely I’ve run Rhode Island long enough to prove myself. Isn’t it time for me to have a larger district?”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Bob replied, “but there’s nothing I can offer right now.”

“I don’t mean to contradict you, Bob, but Ohio is still open, isn’t it? I mean, Beth hasn’t moved yet, right?” Kirsten looked brazenly at Beth and then back to Bob. “Being a new mother,” she said, in what was clearly a sneer, “Ohio might be too much for her to handle—at least until the child is out of diapers.” With Kirsten her intended prey, Beth whipped her head around, looking very much like a hungry lioness. “I mean I haven’t been on maternity leave for the last, oh, how long has it been, now…a year?” She offered Beth a cold, taunting smile before continuing.

“Perhaps I should be the one to move to the Midwest. Beth can take my district. I realize it’s smaller, but very manageable for someone in her present…condition. And besides, who knows how many more children she’s planning to have. I would think you’d want someone you could rely on in a large district like Ohio.”

As she waved her hand airily, light glinted off the giant ruby she always wore to Quarterlies, casting a blood-red aura on the ceiling above her. The room crackled with electricity as hisses and whispers zinged through the audience.

“Yes, Kirsten,” Bob replied. “You’ve had Rhode Island for some time now, and you’re very capable. If you’re willing to relinquish your district, I suppose that’s doable. Actually, this might be an acceptable solution to several problems, assuming all parties are amenable.” He glanced at his Western U.S. associate and raised his eyebrows slowly. Mr. Calvin responded with the slightest of nods. “Does Rhode Island work for you, Beth?”

She nodded, but I noticed her eyelashes were glistening. “Yes Bob,” she replied in a thick voice after clearing her throat. She quickly dabbed at the corner of one eye. Kirsten looked at Beth smugly. That fucking bitch!

Beth was a great manager and a really decent human being. Someone needed to shield her from that dragon’s vile wrath. Before I even realized it, I was on my feet, fists clenched at my sides, scowling at Kirsten. The man beside me looked somewhat alarmed. This wasn’t my business any longer, but even so, I was ready to rip Kirsten apart with my bare hands.

As I stood there, mute with rage, I realized that other than further escalating an already caustic situation, I was absolutely powerless to do anything about what had just happened. I quickly took in Bob’s blank expression, and then gazed with tremendous sympathy at Beth’s tear-stained face before sinking back into my seat feeling the complete fool.

Bob regained everyone’s attention, and then looked at the three of us in order, almost relieved. “Alright, Kirsten, you can have your district change. You’ll turn your files over to Beth, and then meet with Bert.” I felt physically ill.

“Um, Bob, I think you made a slight mistake,” Kirsten said, laughing lightly. “You mean Bill.” She flipped her hand in Bill Greene’s direction.

“Kirsten, I don’t make mistakes,” he said curtly, but I swear I saw a glint in his eye. Glancing then in my general direction, his face broke out into a real live smile that was absolutely terrifying. “Susan, I guess that leaves you with Ohio.” My mouth fell open. No frigging way!

There was a single beat of silence, in which the sound of a pin dropping would have been an orchestra, and then the room erupted in laughter. Kirsten’s mouth gawped soundlessly like a fish tossed onto the floor of Pete’s boat, and her face went through several interesting color changes, settling finally on something between white and ash. I don’t know what color my face was, but I was equally short of breath. The man beside me said, “I love that guy,” and then doubled over, quivering with laughter. Bob tapped his files on the podium—a rapping sound virtually lost in the hilarity, and then calmly took his seat as if nothing unusual had happened.

The crowd settled only after a clearly amused Frank Calvin took over the podium and tapped the microphone. Graying handsomely at the temples and dressed to perfection in a very expensive-looking silk suit, his demeanor was commanding and his voice rich and polished as he thanked his cohort. Other than the identical fierce, almost feral look in his eyes and the sharpened and extended canines, he seemed Bob’s antithesis.

After giving Kirsten a long, pleased, and surprisingly wicked look, he began.

“In light of recent events, allow me to extend a long-awaited welcome to North Dakota’s new district manager. Kirsten, you’re going to Calvinland!” His grin was nothing short of wolfish.

Her hue altered once more; this time to a sickening green. Her lips formed a perfect O before she clamped her hand over her mouth, her crimson ring shimmering. Then it came flooding back to me: Frank Calvin was the one she’d so wretchedly used to get her district promotion; he was the one who’d given her that gargantuan ring after leaving his second wife for her; he was the one she’d publically humiliated. He hated her! Kirsten mechanically sat down.

I now more freely looked at the people around me; my new colleagues. Most heads belonging to our side of the continent—Bob’s side—were now buried, absorbed in their phones; some texting wildly, others idly scrolling through emails, or more likely, fantasy football stats. While powerfully compelled to text Mona and Pete, and anyone else I’d ever known, ninth grade math teacher included, I sat ramrod straight, palms sweating, waiting for Bob to jump up, seize the microphone again, and shout, “April Fool’s, Susan!”

When the meeting concluded without said ruse, I collected my things in a blissful stupor and merged into the exodus. A man spoke loudly over the chatter. “No, really. I got the whole thing on my phone. Check your inbox, I forwarded it to you twenty minutes ago.” There was another brief pause, and then the man said, “Do you have it?” As a giddy Bill Greene negotiated past, he mouthed, “Call me”, then said into his phone, “Okay, now watch the face.” Another short pause, a burst of Bill’s loud laughter, then I heard him say, “I know, right?!”

I only moved a few steps before Beth cut through the high-priced cattle and threw her arms around me. “I’m so happy for you, Susan!”

“Are you okay with me getting Ohio?” I asked anxiously, pulling back to look at her. Not only was she smiling, she positively glowed.

“You have no idea!” Then, choking up as she had earlier, she said, “Now my family won’t have to move.”

I was confused. What did the trivialities of moving have to do with anything? “But, I mean, it was yours,” I stuttered. “And it’s huge!”

“Susan, some things are just more important.” She flashed a couple of pictures of a wrinkly, bald baby in my face and I made the appropriate noises. Suddenly she said, “Oh! I’ve got to call my realtor and cancel the showing!” She hugged me once more and bolted for the exit.

Receiving several congratulatory pats in the process, I finally made it to the hallway. Bert sidled up beside me. He opened his mouth to speak, but then glanced back, shook his head, and burst into laughter, staggering away. Someone tapped my shoulder. I didn’t need to look; I felt the talons.

“You’ll fail,” Kirsten hissed with a harshness bordering hate. I felt that emotion equally and clenched my jaw. She placed her hands on her hips and blocked the doorway, completely stopping traffic behind her. “You don’t deserve Ohio. I do! Bob’s lost his mind if he thinks this is over. Watch your back, Susan. I’m coming for you!”

Before she could expectorate further, an elegant man stepped between us, his back effectively shutting down her tirade. Since I didn’t run with Senior VPs, and was, for all intents and proposes, fairly petrified of them, I’d never actually spoken to Frank Calvin. “Congratulations Susan,” he said, shaking my hand. “I was looking forward to working with you, but I think Bob made a good call all the way around. A great call, actually,” he corrected, his eyes gleaming fiercely.

Astonished, I stammered something that hopefully sounded like a thank you. Frank then spoke to the fire-breathing statue behind him. “I hear North Dakota’s rather chilly in the…well, all the time.” His lips quirked contemptuously. “But for someone with no feeling whatever, it shouldn’t bother you at all.” He offered Kirsten his back once more and winked. “If you ever get in a pinch, call me. Ohio was my very first district.” He smiled fully, and then left, whistling.

Best day of my life. Definitely!

I floated away from the last of the dispersing congregation and pulled out my phone. Pete picked up on the first ring. “Well?” He sounded as anxious as I’d felt an hour before.

“I got it!” I squeaked.

“Got what? Which what?”

“I got it all. I got the promotion, and they gave me Ohio! Can you believe it? Ohio!”

“That’s good?”

“It’s unbelievable! It couldn’t get any better. Seriously, this is me not believing it! Oh, and I wish you’d been here when it happened.” By the time I finished relaying the whole Kirsten thing, I was cackling like a crazy person. “These last hellish months were so worth it.” Wheezing, I collapsed against the wall. “Ohio,” I sighed dreamily.

Pete hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I’m really happy for ya, Susie-Q. I’m glad ya got everything ya wanted.” He sounded less enthusiastic than I thought he ought to, and I was about to ask if everything was okay, when I was interrupted by a boisterous shout.

“Susan Wade, our new hero!” The voice came from a conglomeration of my Pennsylvania sales staff, a few Midwest regional reps, and interestingly, two Rhode Island minions who wore exultant smiles. “There’s nobody important on that phone. Hang up! We’re going to Rabbit Jack’s and you’re buying!”

“I’m sorry, Pete, I’m dealing with ingrates here,” I said theatrically, turning my back on them. “So how was your—”

Suddenly, the phone was plucked away, multiple hands latched onto my arms, and I was carted to the elevators.

♥

My hopes of blowing off Friday morning’s meetings to sleep off my hangover were dashed when my phone sounded. Bleary-eyed, I checked the email. Bob’s secretary had kindly booked my entire day. I had a meeting with The Great and Powerful Oz, himself, at nine, one with human resources at ten-fifteen, and a lunch meeting with Bill Greene. After that, I would attend conferences with a host of people, most of whom I’d never even met, and lastly, Relocation Services. I scrambled into the shower.

It was only after I’d scarfed a bagel and was on my second large latte that I realized I’d forgotten to call Pete back last night. Crap! I took a large scorching gulp of froth and pulled out my phone. I had two missed calls from Mona and one from Bob’s secretary; nothing from Pete. I scrolled down and pressed the contact picture of his handsome face.

“Hi, I’m sorry I didn’t call back last night.”

“That’s okay, I had a bunch of stuff to do anyway,” he said, sounding tired. “How’re ya holdin’ up?”

“Great! Well, other than an awful headache. We stayed out way too late celebrating last night. Those guys practically bankrupted me.”

He chuckled softly. “Well, I guess ya can probably afford it, now.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said, ripping open the packet of promotion materials I’d carelessly plopped on my desk. Scanning quickly down the first page, I counted; one, two, three, four, five zeros. “Holy shit, Pete!” I exclaimed. “I guess I can!”

“I’m happy for ya. Now get home, girl. I miss your skinny butt!”

“My skinny butt will see you tomorrow night,” I said, laughing. Bill Greene stopped in front of the cubicle, raised two boxed lunches and jerked his head toward the small conference room at the end of the hall. “Listen, I have to head to a meeting. I’ll call you back as soon as it’s over.”

♥

Just before leaving for the wrap-up party—one I would attend with a very different, if not smug attitude, I realized I’d never called Pete back. Without ringing, it went directly to his voicemail. I had so much to tell him about my meeting with Relocation Services and the enormity of the decisions I’d just made. Instead, I left a quick apology.

A beer was placed in my hand before I could swim to the bar. “Susan, I couldn’t be happier for you. I know you’ll do a great job,” Tom Ridgeway said, smiling down at me. “I sure enjoyed that meeting yesterday. It was very…interesting.”

“It was something to behold, alright,” I said, fighting laughter.

“Quarterlies are good for that sort of entertainment,” he said in mock seriousness. “Have you met Clark Shanahan, yet?” he asked, motioning to the young guy beside him with a deer-in-headlights look.

I’d already met my North Carolina replacement. “How are you, Clark?”

Clark was a train wreck waiting to happen. I would help him as best I could, but as soon as he unleashed that South Boston accent, it would be all over. I considered what lay in store for him and raised an eyebrow.

Reading my thoughts, Tom nodded and smiled politely. “Mr. Shanahan’s gonna to do a fine job, I’m sure. Aren’t you, Clark?” He patted Clark’s back hard, causing him to sputter beer and launch into a coughing fit. Before I could say anything to the contrary, Tom quickly changed subjects. “You know, Susan, I wish we’d met years ago. I would’ve scooped you up in a heartbeat.”

“Dodged that bullet, huh?” I said, letting the Clark subject drop.

Later, after the retirees had scattered to their various roasting rooms, I wandered to the bar for another drink. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Kirsten. She was wrapped around Ryan like a mink stole. His expression was that of mild boredom—not unusual for him. Our eyes met. I raised my chin proudly, ignoring Kirsten’s scorching glare, and gave him a “bite me” kind of wave. He inclined his head towards me in an acknowledgment of defeat. Though he’d lost this particular skirmish with Bob, I certainly hadn’t cost him his private war.

I turned at the sound of another familiar voice. “Congratulations, Susan.”

“Thanks, Jeremy,” I replied with a smug smile.

“You look great,” he said, running his eyes over me.

“I feel pretty great.” He then glanced at my drink.

“Is the beer better than the wine?”

“Probably not, but I’ve developed a taste for it,” I said, smiling to myself.

“I can offer you something much better. Let me take you to dinner.”

“Thanks, but I’m involved with someone,” I said, dancing out of the arm he’d draped around me.

“I hope it’s nothing serious.” His expression would have been adorable had I been open to it.

“Actually, I think I’m off the market for good.” It struck me that it was so nice to be able to say that; that I loved someone; that I’d finally learned what that word meant.

“Lucky guy,” he said ruefully. He kissed my cheek and walked away.

As soon as I entered my apartment, I called Pete. When he answered, his voice sounded off—groggy. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he said, poorly stifling a yawn. I could hear the TV in the background and knew he was propped back in his living room recliner.

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I nodded off for a second,” he conceded. I could hear the sweet, sleepy smile in his voice. I kicked off my heels and began undressing.

“I tried calling this afternoon.”

“I went fishin’.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Whenever my calls go straight to voicemail, you’re on the boat.”

“Yeah, they haven’t installed a tower in the middle of the sound, yet. It’s about the only place on earth that remains untouched.” He chuckled.

I shirked out of my skirt and began rolling down my hose. “Did one of your clients cancel this afternoon?”

He hesitated, and then said, “No, I just needed to get out for a while…fresh air.” I glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed and stopped in the midst of unbuttoning my blouse.

“Wait, why aren’t you at the bar?” It was Friday night and not nearly late enough for him to be home yet, much less asleep. “Did Jimbo give you the night off?”

“Somethin’ like that.” I slid between the sheets and propped against my headboard. It was ugly, I realized. I would replace it as soon as I moved.

When he didn’t elaborate, I said, “This week has sucked the life out of me. I’m afraid I’ve gotten too used to the slow pace down there.”

“Life in the fast lane,” he said with a gentle laugh. I stifled a yawn. “Go to bed, sweetheart. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” We said our goodbyes and I was out like a light.

41

Rip Tide

Pete was wrong; I could have it all. In fact, I did. My dream job, all the power and prestige I could want, a fully loaded salary and benefits package…and I had him—this man I’d come to adore. And thanks to the overwhelming demands and myriad distractions of Philadelphia, I’d been spared the misery of this brief separation. Pete had become a vital appendage; one I wasn’t looking forward to amputating—or rather, stretching across a vast distance. I locked my worries in a small box. Plenty of time to suffer through the ghost pains in Columbus.

Forced to stop for one light in Smithfield—and then only because it was too red to fall under the “orange rule”, I raced back to Havelock. Nothing short of death itself would impede my celebration with one very fine male specimen by the name of Peter Walsh. He was waiting at the door when I burst in.

“Hi!” I barely pecked his cheek before sprinting down the hall. “Sorry, I’m about to pop!” His laughter was the last thing I heard before slamming the bathroom door. Moments later I met him where he stood. “Let’s try that again shall we?” I pulled his face to mine and kissed him deeply. “Mmm…that’s much better.”

“Much better,” he agreed, his eyes a mixture of mirth and spark. He placed a glass of champagne in my hand and said, “I’ve missed ya, darlin’.”

I took him in from blond waves to bare feet. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“To a victory well earned.” We lightly clinked glasses.

“I’m still reeling,” I said, meeting his smiling eyes. “I seriously saw spots and everything.” Leaning in, he kissed my cheek, my ear, and then nuzzled my neck. “For once, things have all fallen into place, you know?” I pulled away, too wound up for the seduction. “Of course, I have fifty-seven million things to do; I can’t even think right now. I have to pack up the office—so not looking forward to that—and train the new guy. He flies down later this week. His name’s Clark, by the way.” I ticked off the rest of my list. Pete watched with amusement as I paced the room excitedly, only occasionally taking a breath. Eventually, he followed me into the kitchen.

“Oh, and Mona! She’ll freak when she meets this guy. Mr. Dupree will chew him up and spit him out!” I snorted and sipped from the glass I’d forgotten about. Stopping suddenly, I looked at Pete. “This Champagne is really good.”

“Uh huh,” he replied calmly as if conversing with an asylum escapee, or someone very hyped on drugs.

The wonderful scent permeating the air had gone unnoticed until now as well. My stomach growled. “I don’t think I’ve actually eaten all week,” I apologized. “What are you cooking?”

He shook his head with personal sympathy and motioned for me to sit. After placing a plate in front of me, I began shoveling scallops into my mouth in great forkfuls. “Yum, these are great,” I said between bites.

“Got ’em fresh off the boat this mornin’.”

After swallowing, I said, “I’m really going to miss your cooking.”

“Yeah…”

A disheartened look crossed his face and I realized he was just pushing food around his plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I nibbled a little while cookin’.”

“You must have nibbled a lot.” The corners of his mouth lifted and he speared a chunk of tomato. When my plate was squeaky clean, he laid his napkin on the table and stared pensively.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, mildly bewildered.

He hesitated, but then shook his head. Motioning me to remain seated, he took our plates to the kitchen and began rinsing them. “I was just wonderin’ when ya have to go, that’s all,” he said without turning.

“Oh, they want me in Columbus by the fifteenth,” I answered, trying not to burst into song.

He busied himself putting things in the refrigerator. Finally, he said, as if reasoning, “Yeah, I guess October makes sense. That’ll probably give ya enough time to get your affairs here in order.” His smile seemed forced as he returned with two plates of something sinful enough to require dietary confession.

“No, silly,” I snickered. “The fifteenth of September.” He stopped midstride, looking absolutely stunned.

“Did you say September?”

Being outside the company, I realized he was unfamiliar with INTech’s practices. “Yes, as soon as my company wants you somewhere, you’re there,” I explained. He stared blankly, his face becoming quite pale.

“I told you that before dinner. I have to get the new guy situated, pack up my office, and leave. I cannot wait to get there! A week of onboarding, then Ohio’s mine…all mine. District manager,” I sighed. “I still can’t believe it.” Pete had become a marble sculpture between the kitchen and the table. “Are you alright?” I asked suddenly.

The plates dropped as if he’d forgotten they were in his hands. He lurched, but before he could catch them, whipped cream splattered all over the tablecloth. He absently wiped his hands on his pants, and then said, “The fifteenth of September…as in two weeks from now? That fifteenth?”

“Yes,” I answered, baffled by his expression. His mouth opened again, but he seemed unable to form words. “Pete, I was in Havelock less than two weeks after accepting the assignment. At least, then, I didn’t have to pack my apartment. I spent all this morning prepping for the movers. I really hope I don’t have to go back up again. I don’t have time.

“Relocation Services gave me about ten minutes to select a new place in Columbus. It was overwhelming. I signed a short lease in case I chose poorly on the neighborhood. Regardless, I’ll need to buy a house in the next year for tax purposes. That’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, me owning a house.”

Pete sat mechanically. “You don’t look well. Can I get you some water?”

His brows furrowed and he exhaled sharply. “You do realize you’re movin’ six hundred miles away from here in fourteen days, right?”

“I know it’s going to be crazy, but I’ll definitely make time for us,” I responded reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We’ll make these next two weeks count.”

Pete stood again and began pacing. Then he stopped and scrubbed his face. “Susan, I’m not worried about the next two weeks,” he said scornfully. “I’m worried about the next two years.”

“You’ve lost me. Are you concerned we won’t see each other enough? I’ll admit the drive is long, but it’s only about an hour by plane and I have boatloads of frequent flier miles. Visiting won’t be a problem at all.”

“Seriously?!” he spat. “Are you really that obtuse?” I opened my mouth to protest but wasn’t sure what he expected me to say. Honestly, I didn’t understand why he was so upset.

He began aggressively removing the silverware and remaining glassware from the table. I stood to help, but he signaled for me to remain where I was—it was really more of a stay the hell away from me motion, to properly classify it.

“Pete, this will be okay. We’ll work it out—we’re smart people. I’ll call you all the time and we’ll email constantly. You’ll get sick of hearing from me!” I laughed lightly. “It won’t be that bad.” He began pacing again, this time in the kitchen.

“I had no idea it would be so soon,” he mumbled to himself. He was taking this badly; I really hadn’t anticipated that. Eventually, he calmed enough to return to the table. He wrapped his arms tightly around me and said, “I’m sorry, I just…this is not what I expected.” His heart was racing. I stroked his back with my palm to soothe him.

“Hey,” I finally offered with an attempt at levity. “At least it’s not North Dakota.”

“No, at least it’s not that,” he whispered into my hair. When he looked at me again, his eyes were serious—grave almost; so much going on behind them. He tried to smile but failed miserably.

This was all wrong. I had big plans for us and they didn’t involve pissing away the hours worrying. I’d been honestly trying to live in the present all summer. I still wasn’t very good at it, but tonight I was damn well going to fake it. The future could just wait until tomorrow.

I grabbed his face and kissed him firmly on the lips. “I didn’t speed back here at ninety miles an hour so we could feel sorry for ourselves.” I kissed him again before he could retort. My persistent lips worked their magic and he melted into them. Finally, I pulled back and smoothed his disheveled hair. “Pete Walsh, I’m taking you to bed.” He hesitated for a moment, but then smiled genuinely, scooped me up in his arms, and carried me down the hall. I threw my head back and laughed in victory; this day was just too great to ruin.

Slowly and very gently he made love to me, but its taste was bittersweet. His kisses seemed measured, as though he were counting them, which I suppose in some ways he was—we both were. And it wasn’t as if the sex hadn’t been wonderful, but I’d hoped for a laughter-filled night of debauchery. Perhaps the tempo and mood were the aftereffects of our earthquake—his shock at my revelations, my confusion. For a long time afterward, he held me tightly and caressed my skin.

“You’re awfully quiet. Are you okay?” I said drowsily.

“Yeah,” he replied softly into my hair.

I glimpsed the anxiety in his eyes before he could hide it, and said, “This really is going to be alright. I promise.” I kissed each of his lids, his perfectly straight nose, and then his beautiful mouth. I snuggled into his chest, kissing it as well, and let my mind drift.

When you reach the top of a mountain after climbing for what seems forever, the rush is incredible. I’d never been this high before—almost to the clouds it seemed—and the view was simply spectacular. Sure, the journey had been fraught with jagged rocks and one very treacherous precipice, but the rewards of that effort now lay before me. And if the vista itself wasn’t enough, I need only turn my head to see the most beautiful man I’d ever known.

When he’d found me, beaten and scraped, he’d lent me strength and borne me the last few feet to the summit. And in the briefest of times, he’d burrowed deeply inside me, maybe all the way to my soul. But he was nothing I’d fought for or earned; he was a gift. And though it was tempting to remain at this pinnacle, my hand in his, as I looked past the Ohio Valley into the vast distance, I could already see the next professional mountain to scale.

♥

Pete’s arms were still wrapped tightly around me when I woke in the morning. I nestled into his body. “Hey,” he said in a deep gravelly voice.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I just wasn’t ready to get up yet.”

The smell of breakfast wafted into the bathroom as I toweled off. I threw on the clothes I’d worn yesterday and brushed vigorously with the toothbrush I now kept in his bathroom. Bacon, eggs, toast, grits; two plates waited at the table. He handed me coffee with a dollop of kiss.

“Thanks.” I ran my eyes over him; his hair was a mess, his eyes were red and droopy. He stifled a yawn. “You look like shit, Pete.”

“Thanks,” he replied sardonically.

“Did you not sleep well?”

“Worse than you. Ya slept like the dead.” His smile was a poor production.

“I think my week of sleep deprivation caught up with me. Tonight, it’ll be my turn to knock you unconscious,” I teased. He was supposed to chuckle at that. I traced the half-moons under his eyes. To look at him, you’d think he hadn’t slept a wink.

“Seriously, what kept you up?”

“Your snoring,” he joked halfheartedly.

“The dead don’t snore.” His eyes lit with a retort, but then the flame died.

“I just had a lot on my mind, that’s all.” He kissed my forehead. “Let’s eat.”

Breakfast was a quiet affair; somber. So used to our animated banter, the sound of clinking silverware seemed foreign and loud. After loading our plates in the dishwasher, we returned to the table. He seated himself across from me, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and looked at me steadily.

“I’m really happy ya got your promotion and everything else ya wanted. And I guess I always knew ya’d go. I…I just didn’t think ya’d be leavin’ so soon,” he finished quietly. He raked his hands through his mussed hair then reassumed his meditative pose. “I want ya to know—I need ya to know, I’m not gonna try and keep ya here.” He paused as if the words didn’t want to come out. “I, I have no intention of holdin’ ya back, or tryin’ to stand in your way. I promised I’d never do that, and I won’t. Besides, ya’d hate me if I tried,” he mumbled to himself. His eyes dropped to the table.

My skin prickled with foreboding, and I willed this conversation to be a joke—a prank or something, but looking at him, I knew it wasn’t. I reached for his hand. “I know you would never do those things. This—we are going to be fine. Whatever it is you’re thinking, stop it. Stop it right now!” He began shepherding a flock of crumbs across the tablecloth.

“I know it’s foolish,” he said finally, “but I guess I was hopin’ ya might try and find some way to stay.” I let go of him and stared in disbelief.

“I never even—did you expect me to turn this offer down?” Was he insane? “I’m leaving. Please tell me you understand that.” He nodded slowly, herding more crumbs. I’d never seen him look so vulnerable.

“Pete, this is what’s going to happen: Before I go, we’re going to spend as much time together as humanly possible—every night, no matter how late I finish work, okay?” I nodded fervently, trying to reassure him. “And then we’ll see each other two, three times a month. You might like Ohio. Fall will be nice there, cool. And I’ll come here. We’ll take long weekends. It’ll be…it’ll be great!” He sat quietly, pondering—weighing, I suppose.

“I hear what you’re sayin’. I really do,” he said, after a moment. “And I’m tryin’ to see things from your perspective. I just thought…I thought that…” He exhaled audibly, struggling very uncharacteristically with his words. “I just hoped maybe ya might’ve…well, fallen in love.” He winced as he met my eyes.

I gasped and covered my mouth. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? I shored my courage, ready to tell him how I truly felt; that I loved him with all my heart. Though it terrified me, I could do this—say those three little words. But just as I began to speak them, he added, “With North Carolina—that’s what I meant. I was hopin’ ya were ready to come…home.” My face fell like an anvil. This wasn’t about us; this was about stupid North Carolina. Suddenly furious, I shot from my chair.

“How could you possibly think that? I was never going to stay in this godforsaken state! Don’t you get it? There’s nothing for me here.” The lower half of his face disappeared behind his hand and he pierced me with shards of jade. “This isn’t my home and it’s never going to be again!” I continued.

His expression became more strained. “I’m not like you, Pete. I don’t get to call the shots. You are your business. You can choose to work wherever you want. I don’t have that luxury. I have to go where the work is. INTech didn’t offer me North Carolina. They gave me Ohio. My job is in Ohio.”

“I can’t follow you there!” he burst out. What a stupid thing to say!

“I don’t want you to!” I yelled back.

A flash of pure betrayal crossed his face. What we weren’t saying was possibly Grand Canyon-sized and I was losing it. I needed to leave before we began hurting each other.

“Listen,” I said abruptly. “I’ve got to start packing my office. Can we talk more, later—maybe run out to the beach this evening?” This would give us a reprieve; some time to cool down so we could discuss things rationally.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, scrambling his expression, pasting on an unnatural smile. “I’ll come by around five.”

“That would be great!” I said with too much enthusiasm. I kissed him quickly, ready to run, but he pulled me into his arms. He seemed reluctant to let me leave, like clinging onto me would fix everything. Eventually, I pulled back and looked into his fathomless eyes.

“So…I’ll see you later.” His top lip disappeared.

“Yeah.”

Though I waved casually before climbing into my car, my hands shook. I cranked the air-conditioning and took several deep gulps before throwing the car in reverse. A horn blared and I slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a passing car. Okay. Let’s try that again.

My skin felt tight and I wanted to peel it off. I unlocked my door and climbed the stairs. While changing into shorts, I looked around the room analytically. I really didn’t have that much to pack—hadn’t brought much down. And those things I’d collected—the important stuff—well, none of that could be boxed, anyway. Fidgety, with a need to be productive, I left for the office.

Just like my apartment in Philly, my room was exactly the way I’d left it; a disaster. Maybe this was the best metaphor for my life. I wandered around the stacks of papers wondering how much of this shit I really needed. Overwhelmed, I tried organizing my calendar for the next two weeks; I didn’t know how I’d get it all done. Hourly, I needed to be in five places at once, when all I wanted was to be near Pete; a brief and precious closeness. Two hours later, our morning conversation set on replay, I’d accomplished nothing more than to further flatten the carpet in my circuit. I left.

Pete arrived promptly at five o’clock. He trudged up the few steps as if they led to the gallows, and when I opened the door, if possible, he looked worse than he had this morning; face still unshaven, hair twisted, personally bedraggled.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied. He made no move to kiss me, or even to take my hand, but instead shuffled his feet. “Ready to go?”

“Yep,” I replied.

I was courtly, insisting my vortex of confused panic enter the cab before me. I fumbled with the buckle, finally clicking it. When we reached the sand, he did take my hand—held it tightly in fact, and we walked quietly down the beach near the shoreline. Occasionally, he stopped to pick up a shell, inspect it, and then toss it into the water. He kept stealing glances at me.

“What are you looking at?” I finally asked.

With a slight shrug, he answered, “Just lookin’.”

We stopped altogether a few yards later and he stared wholly into my face. His eyes were gentle as he traced my cheek. I leaned into his touch and he kissed me tenderly. Leading me to the dunes, he sat in the soft sand against them and planted me between his knees. His arms encircled me and he rested his chin on top of my head. We were quiet and remained so for a long time, just watching the waves roll in and out. He was solid against my back, and I thought for the hundredth time how very well we fit together. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Susan, this job, this…move to Ohio. Will it truly make ya happy? Is it really what ya want?”

“It’s everything I want.”

He kissed the top of my head again and squeezed me tightly to him. I closed my eyes, enveloped in sensation; the warmth of his arms, the sound of the restless waves, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the rich scent that was his alone. He exhaled sharply as if a hard decision had been reached, and then said, “Alright, then.”

Sometime later, I felt him stir. I opened my eyes. Dusk had painted the foam, and a damp and troubled wind began whipping our faces and legs, stinging us with sand. He helped me to my feet, and then looked into my eyes a very long time. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear and reached to touch my face, but then stopped himself and dropped his hand to his side.

“Time to go,” he breathed.

♥

My condo was dark when we pulled into the lot. He opened the door for me, and then took me in his arms and held me close to him. The sharp, cool wind had followed us inland. I shivered.

“It’s getting chilly, let’s go inside.”

He shook his head. “I’m goin’ home. I’m tired and I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” He responded with another headshake.

While more than familiar with the sensation, the sting of rejection hurt every bit as much as it always had. I’m not sure what my expression showed, but he bowed his head and walked me to the door.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“I’m fine.” He remained just inside the door as if poised to escape. I brought him a beer, anyway, and coaxed him into the living room where we chatted about nothing; neither willing to broach this morning’s conversation. This bizarre awkwardness sprouting between us was more than I could take, so I stood and took his hand.

“Come to bed with me.”

He glanced at the front door. “I should really go,” he said. I looked into his cheerless eyes with unveiled astonishment. When did my Pete turn down sex? Um, that would be…never.

“Please?”

We didn’t make love—another first. He said he just wanted to hold me for a while. I honestly didn’t know what to do, so I acquiesced. Begging for sex seemed sad and ridiculous. When he wrapped his warm body around me, my angst relinquished its firm hold and I closed my eyes.

Pete stood beside me on the boat. I was dressed in my best black suit, my hair pinned up in a lovely chignon, and he was smiling at me. We were in the ocean, the shore barely visible in the distance. Suddenly, the sun was extinguished by an ominous purple-green sky. The leaden water became ferociously choppy; white-bearded as far as I could see. Pete’s small boat rocked like a toy in a bathtub, and I held onto him for dear life. From nowhere, a giant wave crashed over the bow, knocking me to my knees.

I found the rail and pulled myself up. Pete was flailing in the water. He reached for my outstretched hand, but a vicious riptide stole him from me. My voice was obscured by the roar of the wind, so I tossed my briefcase toward him as a buoy. When he grasped it, it sank like a rock, dragging him under. Only when he let go, did he breach the surface again and then he was very far from me.

The waves grew even wilder, swelling and rolling, and I could only see his face when the boat was lifted high on a crest. I had to get to him. Frantic, I reached for the key in the ignition, but it was gone. I began pushing random buttons, spinning the wheel, turning the rudder, unable to take control. At last, realizing my efforts were futile, I simply hugged my sides, screaming his name over and over as I helplessly watched the current drag him out to sea.

“No!” I yelled, groping wildly, beaded with sweat, blind with stinging tears. I clawed around the bed, feeling the cold and twisted sheets. I was alone.

42

Tick Tock

Dawn’s weak light rescued me from unsettling half-dreams. I discovered his thoughtfully written note by the coffee pot. Call ya later—a wordsmith, that one. I lost the day to work, and my wits to last night’s heart-ripping ocean. I hadn’t heard from Pete, so I dialed his number.

“Hey, good lookin’, wanna come over? I’ll cook you a gourmet meal of pizza?” He snorted. I tossed my keys on the table and opened the refrigerator. “We could have Jeffrey join us for something illegal?”

“No, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

I could play Pete; he’d taken care of me enough times. “You have to eat. And you can tell me about your day—last week. We didn’t get a chance to talk much while I was away.” I climbed the stairs and surveyed my bedroom disaster with ever-mounting exasperation.

“I grabbed somethin’ earlier.” I glanced at my alarm clock; a few minutes past nine. Oh.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late. I just got home.” I kicked off my shoes and tossed them in the closet. To fill the stretching silence, I prattled. “Do you know how much crap I have to pack up? It’s obscene. I’m thinking about setting fire to the whole place.” I took a sip of Fresca and sprawled out on the bed. “I so need a massage, how soon can you get here? I’ll totally pay extra.” I was going for humor.

He didn’t respond, and in the silence that followed, I heard Vivaldi softly playing in the background. “Pete, are you still at the office?”

“Yeah. I told ya I had to work. You understand,” he said in a vaguely mocking tone. I ignored it. Clearly, he was tired.

“Did you take on a new client?”

He sighed and then said, “No.”

“Oh. Is that asshole from Connecticut still riding you? I’ll be happy when he’s out of your hair. He’s getting on my nerves and I’ve never even met the man!” He chuckled softly.

“No, that one’s wrapped up.”

“Let’s be grateful for small favors. So, did a project blow up on you? Tell me what you’re working on.”

“Nothin’ to tell.” He heaved the great and heavy sigh of Atlas, as though his load was just too much to bear. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Why?” I demanded, jumping off the bed. “And why are you going all Jimbo on me?” And then things began to click. “Pete, are you mad at me about last week?” Silence. “Look, I’m sorry, but you don’t know how consuming those meetings are. Ask Mona. She’s been to Quarterlies before. She hates them!”

“Susan, I’m not stupid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I get it.”

“Get what?” He didn’t respond. “Look, yesterday was a bad day for both of us. I know you’re not happy with the situation—the speed of it. I’m not either, but I can’t help it. Believe me, if I could, I would.” He made a contemptuous grunt that raised my hackles. “But rather than getting pissed at me—wait a minute! Is that why you didn’t stay last night?” When he didn’t reply, I said, “Are you punishing me?!”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone in shock. That son of a bitch!

♥

The Raleigh-Durham airport was its usual little beehive. Clark was waiting anxiously at baggage claim when I found him. Dangling from his tall, thin frame, his loosely fitting suit created the illusion of extreme youth; his first promotion. I fondly remembered my first visit to Pittsburgh, eyes wide with joy and wonder. Though wide, his puppy dog eyes lacked the latter.

His face lit when he saw me. Hand extended, he took two steps and promptly tripped over a hatbox. Ignoring the damage, its elderly owner smiled and said something kind that appeared incomprehensible to him. I snorted. “Let’s blow.”

Clark pushed a wayward tawny lock from his forehead and trailed behind me through the sliding doors. It took an impressive twenty-six seconds before sweat beads exploded across his nose. “Get used to it. It won’t get any better.” I laughed with mirthful cynicism as we climbed into the car.

With sadistic humor, I watched his hopeful expression fade as the miles between Raleigh and our car multiplied. To alleviate his mounting angst, I kept him talking. He was a nice kid, eager to learn, and of course, clueless he’d been sentenced to die before a Confederate firing squad.

Eventually, the recitation of his life’s story receded into white noise. I didn’t need to know him—didn’t care. I only needed him to know my clients. Besides, I had other things on my mind; important things. Hanging up on me was amazingly childish. If Pete wanted to punish me for advancing my career, well, I would punish him for his skewed perception. We had so little time left, and the thought of wasting it—by his choice—stoked my fury. I checked my voice mailbox yet again.

Mona was pleasant but cool towards Clark. I’d rather expected her to issue him the same warm greeting as me, but from her perspective, I suppose he was more of the same old thing; another disaster-destined man with whom she had nothing in common. She sighed audibly as she undertook the great burden of giving him “the tour”. After the bathroom, she led him through the eternally darkened wing to a storage room. File cabinets and extra janitorial supplies had been pushed against the far wall to make room for his small and dingy desk.

Her maliciousness surprised me. Then again, it wasn’t the first time she’d surprised me this week. Though we’d danced Monday morning, she’d become progressively less animated as time plowed forward; less inclined to offer assistance. Yesterday, she’d left without a goodbye. I attributed her sullenness to my perceived betrayal, but had I not been clear I was leaving North Carolina from the start? Were these people deaf?

Under the flag of self-righteous maturity, I finally called. He was my lifeguard, pulling me sputtering to safety every time my lungs filled with water. Was he not drowning now, like me? It went directly to voicemail. No, not drowning; sulking. I left a message—nothing detailed or long-winded or apologetic, simply that I missed him and time was slipping away; surely I was more important than fishing. Guilt was a powerful tool; my mother had taught me that. Clearly free tonight, I took Clark to dinner.

Pulling into a slanted space, we crossed the lot to Sanitary Fish Market; my idea of putting the area’s best foot forward. Forced to inhabit the sad little Travelodge on Highway 70 until I vacated the condo, he was alone and without any means of fending for himself. For his first night at least, I would save him from either of Havelock’s two culinary offerings: Pizza or greasy fried chicken. I viewed this as a kindness, to ease him into his depression. Tomorrow we’d begin our marathon, and it would become all too apparent just how grim life would be.

The water twinkled magically, owing to the nearby lighted restaurants, shops, and passing boats. I escorted him down the boardwalk before entering the restaurant. He was taken by its beauty. Yeah, yeah, yeah… He’d get used to it as I had; the looking glass through which he couldn’t pass his hand.

Pricilla was all smiles behind the podium. Very happy to see me, she threw her arms around my neck in a big ol’ Southern hug—evidently, she hadn’t read Pete’s memo. Though pleasant to Clark, she giggled at the funny way he talked. He was, of course, completely enamored with her. Prissy shared the same genetic blessing as so many of Pete’s relatives: Beauty and extraordinary magnetism.

Clam chowder was the special tonight. It was neither the Manhattan nor New England variety, I explained, but something much better; North Carolina-style. I forced it on him, and then the flounder—Pete’s personal favorite. It was a stroke of good luck for him that we didn’t share the same aversion to fried foods. Of course, he still enjoyed the metabolism of adolescence. I slid the basket of hushpuppies toward him in bored fashion.

“These are great!” he said, gobbling them down.

“Yes, and they’ll bring you just as many as you can eat.” Ignoring my salad, I glanced at my phone.

On our way out, I bought a box of salt water taffy, explaining this was local ambrosia. “Enjoy,” I said, shoving it in his hands. While paying, I noted Prissy’s absence and was told she’d left for the evening—school night. I hadn’t gotten to say a proper goodbye, and strangely, that bothered me. I was mentally ticking off all the things I must bid farewell before leaving what had eerily begun to feel like home; the list was substantial. I shrugged, assuring myself I would see her again—probably within the month. I wasn’t sure exactly how long I could stand being away from her pig-headed cousin; these few days apart had left me aching.

Busily pointing out various businesses of interest, I flipped my hand towards Coastal Architectural Design as we drove past. I stopped mid-sentence. The lights were on and his truck was there. A powder-blue convertible—the cutesy kind no self-respecting man, or Laney, for that matter, would drive—was nestled beside Myrtle, the two swapping secrets. Pete wasn’t fishing…and he wasn’t alone. A cold knot formed.

And by week’s end, it had doubled in size. Like a policeman’s gun, my phone never left my body, ready to fire at first ring. Though unnecessary in the end, my sales guys were stunned by my response time. The gap between us grew by the hour like we were being wedged apart—like he was wedging us apart.

Trekking back from the Swans Quarter’s disaster, my mind was plagued. Without warning, I shot into a geriatric filling station, spraying dust as I skidded to a halt under the rusting orange Gulf sign. I’d filled up shortly after leaving Mr. Dupree’s office, so we clearly didn’t need gas. Clark gave me a questioning look but said nothing. Still reeling from his first-ever encounter with a living Tyrannosaurus Rex, my behavior probably seemed barely out of the ordinary.

The old man’s face had become the color of a canned beet by meeting’s end. His smile was strained and voice thick as he said, “Now, Miss Susan, you come back and see me anytime.” He’d then given Clark the hairy eyeball. “And I do mean anytime.” I thanked him quite honestly for everything he’d done for me and let him hang onto my hand just as long as he wanted.

After offering Clark another scornful glance, he’d said, “I suppose I’ll see yew next week, Mr.—how do you pronounce your name again?”

“Shanahan, sir,” Clark repeated for the fifth time.

“I didn’t quite catch that. Could you speak slower, young man?”

“Shan-a-han,” Clark said, emphasizing every syllable. He gave me a pleading look, but I simply smiled complacently. Mr. Dupree had a new mouse to toy with. Who was I to deny him that?

“Ah, very well, then,” my favorite attorney said with a smile that could melt paint. “Good day to you, Mr. Hand.” John winked at me then slammed his door.

I hugged Donna on the way out. Touchingly, she dabbed her eyes with a tissue, repeating Mr. Dupree’s sentiments to the letter. And then, after giving Clark a good long glare, asked if she could call me if she needed help. I nodded and told her Mona knew how to reach me. As we skipped down the formidable stairs, I’d casually asked, “So, Clark, are you much of a coffee drinker?”

A burner blast seared my face as I threw open the car door. In explanation, I said, “I’m trying to reach a client who’s being—an ass, an obstinate jerk, a fill-in-the-blank—difficult. Don’t worry, once I get hold of him, he won’t pose you any problems.” Because I’m going to snap his neck! My call went directly to voicemail. Surprise!

“Dammit!” I yelled, kicking the tire. The full-service attendant stuck his head out the station door. Recognizing he wasn’t needed, he receded to the comfort of his portable fan. Flinging myself behind the wheel, I realized I was either terrifying poor Clark or perpetuating the regional assumption that I was mentally unstable; I didn’t care which.

“Would you like me to drive?” he asked, as I fastened my seatbelt.

“No, I’m fine,” I snarled.

Clark hadn’t developed the useful skill of masking his emotions behind carefully controlled facial expressions. “Alright, whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes as we made the exchange. “You need to learn the roads anyway.” As he drove the exact speed limit, I educated him on the dangers of phones and farmers.

♥

There are times when you can feel a storm brewing. The temperature drops noticeably, the pressure changes, moisture saturates the air, perhaps there’s a faint rumble in the distance. You know it’s coming, and there’s nothing you can do except batten down the hatches. All warmth had bled from me in the silence of the days. Now the wind was picking up.

I drove to the bar that night, planning on a showdown that was instantly thwarted when his truck wasn’t there. I called from the lot. When he didn’t answer his cell, I called his house. I’d taken to stalking him if for no other reason than to fill all his boxes to capacity just to piss him off. It was late and I think he answered because he was tired of hearing the damn thing ring. I was a proud woman, but I put that aside for the moment. I also put aside etiquette.

“Are you ever planning to see me again?” I asked hostilely.

“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered.

“You guess?” He didn’t respond, his new M.O. “We’re running out of time here. You do understand that, right?”

“I know,” he replied. Though I was less than a mile from his house I didn’t bother asking if I could come over; I knew what his answer would be. I also knew it would be counterproductive to discuss his behavior over the phone. That conversation needed to be face-to-face. I wanted him to look me in the eye when he said whatever stupid things he was going to say.

“Will you be at the Frog tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I have to work.”

“I’ll see you then.” I stared at the unconscious phone in my shaking hand. Oh, and by the way Pete, in case you’re wondering…I love your sorry ass!

A sheet of sadness covered me that night. I knew I couldn’t stop this rolling avalanche. I would try like hell, but in the back of my mind, I feared the cause was already lost. Actually, I knew it. I shed my first tears.

♥

That Sherman tank at the army surplus store couldn’t keep me away from the bar the next night. Though Saturday, Clark and I worked through the day. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. I invited him to join me. He wouldn’t be accepted no matter how hard he tried, but his physical presence was a comfort somehow; a paltry show of forces.

Mona had been shockingly reticent when I called. In fact, I’d only persuaded her after an immense amount of cajoling. She had recently, and very inconveniently, become Switzerland. And while I needed my friend like never before, I didn’t blame her for politics; picking sides, or even refereeing, could be socially damaging. I was leaving; the fallout would be hers alone to bear.

Pete barely glanced at me when we entered. I hadn’t seen that blond bastard in a week. The least he could do was say hello, or nod, or pretend he fucking knew me. I escorted Clark to our booth. When I pointed to the chair across from Mona’s cloud of disapproval, he hesitated. I sent him for drinks. Mona and I said little in the interim.

Though the place was less active now that Labor Day had passed, there was still enough business to assist Pete in actively hiding behind his job. His cousin’s sudden flurry had left Jimbo with nothing to do except chat with anyone who walked by.

After about an hour, I’d had my fill of this ignoring bullshit. I stood at the counter right in front of him and stared at the crown of his ball cap. He snubbed me as long as possible, fiddling with the ice, stacking cups, moving bottles around. Finally, he looked up in complete exasperation.

“What do ya want, Susan?”

“May I have a word?” He glanced around the room.

“It’s really busy right now.”

“Jimbo can handle it,” I said, looking pointedly at the loitering proprietor.

“He needs me.” You did not just say that!

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared until he flopped his towel on the counter and followed me to the quiet patio with all the enthusiasm of a kid going to the principal’s office.

“What the hell is your problem?” I demanded, turning on him as soon as the door closed. “This hide-and-seek game of yours isn’t working for me anymore, Pete. I’m tired of being it!” He didn’t insult me by pleading ignorance; had he I truly would have slugged him. “We have one week left before I leave. One week! Could you at least pretend to give a shit?” Or better, acknowledge the fact that we’ve shared the same bed practically every night for months.

“What do ya want me to say?”

“W-what do I want you to say?!” I sputtered. “Well, let’s start with why you’re avoiding me and go from there, shall we?” Though all too aware of it, I refused to acknowledge the cloud of disintegration hovering above us like a plume of black ash.

After an interminable amount of time, filled only with the chirps of forest creatures and muffled laughter from the crowd inside, he exhaled sharply and put his hands on his hips. “Susan, you’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met.”

“Ex–cuse me!?”

“I can’t believe you’re willing to cut and run like this.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Most people call it getting transferred.” He snorted derisively then violently flicked a dead beetle into the night. “Moving to Havelock was just temporary. I told you that the first time we met, and like a thousand times since then. I don’t get what you’re so mad about.”

“Sorry, I’m just havin’ trouble digestin’ your idea of ‘temporary’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He turned towards the expansive forest and spat over the rail.

“I guess checkin’ out was your plan all along.”

“Getting promoted was my plan,” I said, mildly shocked.

“And ya got what ya came for,” he growled.

“And you act like that’s a bad thing!”

“I guess it’s just a matter of opinion.” I gaped in shock.

“Were you hoping I’d fail?” My stomach clenched painfully and something inside me cracked. “First Kirsten, then Ryan…and now you? I’m just disappointing everybody, aren’t I?” I mumbled to myself.

“No. Susan, look at me—no! I just hoped ya’d think about things for five damn seconds before waltzin’ out of here like it’s no big deal.”

“It isn’t a big deal! You get reassigned, you move. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he hissed.

“So…what? You expect me to quit my job and throw away my entire future so I can hang around this bar and go fishing with you?” I said incredulously. “You’ve got Jimbo for that.” He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again. “I’m not staying here, Pete. It’s not happening, and it’s ludicrous to think otherwise.”

“Yeah, I’m a fool that way,” he said, chuckling darkly.

“Besides, don’t you think it’s a bit premature to discuss my staying, anyway? I mean we’ve barely known each other six months.” He glowered at me, then at the railing.

“Look,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t mean for this all to happen.”

“Yeah, well, a relationship wasn’t in my work and development plan either, but here we are.” I found a tamer voice. “I know this long distance thing will be hard, but we can make it work if we’re both willing to put forth the effort. And P.S., ignoring me isn’t effort.”

“There’s no point.” Heat bled from his voice and he looked helpless.

“What are you saying?” I asked warily.

“I’ve done this before—or tried to, anyway. It’ll just end in disaster.” He shook his head despondently.

“Well, I’ve done this before, too.”

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out,” he sneered.

“I’m not Ashleigh!” I screamed. He’d only spoken of his ex-girlfriend and their relationship a couple of times, and even so, it had been hard for him, but I would not tolerate his pinning their failure to our future.

Staring at me in sheer astonishment, he whispered, “I never said ya were.”

“I want you, Pete. There’s nothing in this world I want more.”

He snorted derisively. “Except your job.”

“Damn you, Pete Walsh. Damn you to Hell!” I banged my fist on the table hard enough to see stars. The pain screamed through my arm but cleared my head. “I’m glad you’ve got this all figured out for us,” I said, laughing bitterly. “But let’s be sure I understand. I’m moving to Columbus, you’re not willing to even try a long distance relationship, and somehow it’s all my fault. Does that about cover it?”

His eyes narrowed and he said coldly, “When you realize what’s really important in life, let me know, ’cause right now, ya don’t have a clue.”

We glared at one another for a long ugly moment, and then Pete’s whole demeanor changed. His lips disappeared altogether and he shook his head slowly. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully as his eyes searched the night. Finally, he looked full into my face again.

“Susan, I think this relationship meant somethin’ very different to you than it did to me.”

Meant? Anguish ripped through me, but thankfully, my desperate anger seared the frayed edges before I could bleed. “Evidently,” I spat.

I set a new speed record home, but then sat in my car for maybe an hour replaying the scene from all angles. It ended the same way every time.

43

Gold Watch

Sunday, I hoped; hoped he would blaze into the lot, fling open the door, tell me he hadn’t meant all those hateful words, hold me, make promises. He didn’t. We’d clawed with nail and knife, and the wounds needed not licking, but stitched. My flat desk calendar had turned hourglass, the sand flooding its base in great cascades of silt. I was desperate by nightfall, no longer able to endure the silent vacuum certain to last until I left.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to say in the message—my mind wasn’t working correctly. Flustered and fumbling, I’d made too many mistakes today. I couldn’t afford another—not with something so important. I bitterly regretted my lack of forethought when, on the fourth droning tone, he answered.

“Hey.” His voice was lifeless.

This time I was the silent one. My heart racing, I exhaled heavily and cleared my throat. “Can we…can we just talk?” On the verge of whimpering, I hated the sound; but that’s where I was in all of this.

“What can we say that hasn’t already been said?”

“I’m at the office. Could you…could you just come over for a few minutes…please?” I croaked. “I, I—can’t we be adults about this?”

“I’m not comin’ over.”

“Fine,” I snapped, grabbing my purse. “I’ll be at your house in five minutes.”

“No!” he yelped, sounding oddly anxious.

“Who’s there?” It leapt from my lips in a blaze of women’s intuition. My heart lurched, terrified of his response.

“Just…don’t come over here, okay?”

And then I heard it; the clinking of glass and a faint feminine sigh. The little blue car.

The toilet was too far away; I made it to the trashcan.

♥

My pendulum had swung back to anger by morning. Anger I could handle. Anger was an ally. And anger was working great until Mona broke the news at lunch. It was supposed to be a surprise, she explained, but after the way I’d run out Saturday night, she thought it best to forewarn me.

I never thought I’d lay eyes on that ugly bar again, but here I was…parking. And there she was…Myrtle.

Rather than glance at the counter, I mightily focused on the back corner where my entire sales force waved wildly. I tried my damnedest to look surprised. It was an award-winning performance; the best in my illustrious career. Though desperately lost and empty, and frankly horrified he was behind us making drinks, hearing, if not actually watching me, I opened the gag gifts with laughter and enthusiasm.

I was honestly touched by the outpouring of goodwill from my employees. I’d ridden those men so hard during my tenure—been very unkind at times, but it had worked; I’d won my one-way ticket to freedom with no residual animosity, it appeared. In fact, in inebriated confidence, Gene Daniel—the one on whom I’d been the toughest, told me I was the best boss he’d ever had. Then he tried to kiss me.

Not surprisingly, the entirety of the team eyed their new leader with thinly-veiled skepticism. Even I viewed his future with cynicism. One could regard life in terms of a casino if one wished; you were shown a table and forced to play the hand dealt as best you could. If you were smart, quite lucky, and your opponents screwed up, you might just win. Clark’s cards had just been placed before him and it was his turn. Over the last six months, I’d played mine with such speed and ferocity that now, as I met Pete’s sullen eyes for the first time, I had no idea whether I’d won or lost, or the amount either way.

He wasn’t bartending as I’d assumed. Instead, he’d settled into his old spot—the one in the corner, sole pressed against the wall, left hand gripping a bottle’s brown neck. I experienced the eeriest sense of déjà vu. He’d worn my favorite pair of jeans—the ones that hung so deliciously from his hips, his nicest brown belt, and a sharp starched button-down, sleeves rolled to just below the elbow; his signature. His handsome gold watch, that cherished graduation gift from his mother, caught the light, and my attention. He’d dressed for the occasion—for me. Oh God! And in that brief glance, though I hated him for what he was doing to me, he looked so beautiful it made my eyes hurt.

Once upon a time, I’d wished this bar bigger so the corner where he lurked was physically farther away—in miles—from my perch at Mona’s booth. All my dreams had come true, it seemed because now there was an entire state between us—two states. And my flirtatious, gregarious Pete had been replaced by a stranger with vacant eyes.

I felt my façade crumble into confused, question mark-shaped pieces. He regarded me impassively, shrugged in vague acknowledgment, and turned to Jimbo. The two became locked in conversation—yet another reminder of an earlier time. Except in those days, Pete had chattered while his cousin nodded, grunting replies. Tonight, their roles had reversed; Pete was the one nodding.

Harshly, as I surveyed the scene of happy, laughing people surrounding me, I was struck with the notion that life would return to what it had been before I’d ever graced this bar; as if I’d never disturbed Eastern North Carolina at all. But their world had forever changed mine.

The party broke with handshakes, goodbyes, and promises I would never keep. Mona hugged me tightly before taking me in with sad, worried eyes, wishing, I think, she could fend off the impending doom that had now become an entity. The only person capable of that feat, of altering this collision course, dissolving the gloom, stood behind her, staring at the pieces of peeled beer label scattered like spent confetti around his feet. I nodded grimly and waited for her visage to disappear before meeting my fate.

Jimbo had the check waiting. In silence, we completed our transaction. After sliding the receipt across the counter, I dropped my shoulders in resignation and turned to Pete. Discarding his naked bottle, he escorted me to the exit. Forever the gentleman, he held the door, but didn’t touch me, didn’t speak. Perfect…just perfect. The death dirge should have piping through the speakers rather than Eric Clapton, but I suppose his mournful tribute was appropriate enough.

The lot was virtually empty. I’d parked only a few spaces down from him, and other than the soft crunch of gravel, we walked in silence to my car. I’d wanted another confrontation; fantasized about it. But now that it was material—had been forced so soon, I was almost too frightened to breathe. I focused on the ultimate betrayal, mustering strength from the bitter fury it had birthed.

I set my purse on the roof and wheeled around, ready. His face was an open grave, but I would not be cast into its dark oblivion—not alone, and not without a fight.

“Oh, we are so not doing this!” He said nothing; just stood there, arms limp by his sides. “Dammit, Pete Walsh, you are not leaving me!” I shouted.

Still no response.

“I refuse to accept this!”

“Well, ya might as well start, sugarplum. I have,” he said suddenly.

“Why are you so hell-bent on throwing this—us—away?” Trembling now, I vacillated between fury and pain.

“What does it matter? You’re not stayin’, I’m not leavin’, so we’ve got nothin’,” he spat out.

“You poor, colorblind son of a bitch. Between all that black and white you’re living in, there are, like, a million shades of color—a whole world of it. But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? You can only see it one way.”

“There’s only one way to see it, so don’t blame this on me. You made your choice. I was there, remember?”

“You idiot! I’ll only be a few states away. It’s not like I’m moving to fucking Antarctica.”

“Ya might as well be,” he muttered.

“Hypocrite!” I screeched. “You moved across the entire continent for a job.”

“Not for a job, Susan! It was never for the job!”

To my twisted satisfaction, he looked forsaken, remorseful even. But those words, and the meaning behind them, hit me so hard I lost my breath. None of this was about me; I was fighting demons I couldn’t even see. But fight them I would, if only for my own pride.

Trying to mask the injury, I snarled, “Well, unlike you, at least I have my priorities straight!” He rubbed his hand forehead to chin, and with lids shut, shook his head. When he opened them again, his eyes were wrathful.

“Did ya have a nice vacation?” he asked, cocking his head to one side.

“What?”

“Ya know, enjoy yourself at the beach? Grab some Southern comfort—a nice distraction from your woes? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure not complainin’. I was more than happy bein’ used by you,” he sneered. “It’s just, ya did it all so well I forgot this was just a fling to ya.” My jaw dropped. “And don’t worry about lettin’ me down easy, I know ya have to go. The ‘real world’s’ callin’ and ya can’t say no.”

I laughed coldly. “You’re right Pete, I can’t say no. More importantly, I won’t! And at this point, nothing will please me more than leaving this shithole.”

“Well, I’m not stoppin’ ya.”

“Oh, you’ve made that perfectly clear. Actually, you seem more than ready for me to go.”

“You have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he growled through his teeth.

“Sure I do, I wasn’t born yesterday. Getting a little bored? Sex with me not doing it for you anymore? Already sampling something new?” He recoiled like I’d slapped him and stared at me in horror.

“This was never about sex!”

He’d just lied and I knew it. It had always been about the sex—the same with every man. Pain scorched me like lava from the floodgates of Hell. I wanted to lunge at him, pound on his chest with my fists, tell him I loved him—that he was killing me right now. But what good would it have done? And how utterly pathetic. He didn’t feel the same. He didn’t want me anymore. I was being dismissed, and that I couldn’t fight. I could scald him before I limped away, though; say freely what I’d been holding back. So I picked up my bucket of acid and doused him.

“Oh, what a fool I’ve been.” I bonked myself on the head. “I should have realized it sooner. You’ve been playing that game.” His forehead contorted in confusion.

“What game?”

“You know the one—that game you Southern boys like to play. ‘The Conquest’? Pick the most unreachable girl you can find, then use your vast wealth of charm to lure her into your bed. Well, yippee, you won! You beat me. Yea!” I said, with all the sarcasm stored within my being. “Now you can move onto your next victim. Oh, but I forgot. You already have.” He glowered fiercely but didn’t deny it.

Until that moment, I hadn’t thought my heart capable of shrinking further. Evidently, it could—or rather, it was caving in upon itself; a dulled star to a black hole. “Really though, catching me so quickly must have been a real disappointment. I mean, it probably wasn’t much of a challenge hunting down a wounded animal.” My throat constricted. “I couldn’t have been more vulnerable. How could you be so cold?” I whispered. A film of tears blurred his face, but it didn’t matter; I’d seen clear to his soul.

I clenched my fists to prevent my hands from visibly shaking. A fiery pain erupted as my nails bit into my palms, helping me find my voice again. “Don’t feel bad though,” I said, sucking in hard, “Ryan’s a serious competitor, but you struck the final blow. And I know he’ll want to congratulate you for finishing the job he started, so I’ll give him your number, ’kay? Oh, and here’s another fun fact that’ll make your fucking year: You’ve managed to damage me more in three months than he could in two years. That ought to make you feel real special.”

A genuine look of anguish spread across his face, and as I dashed away furious tears, I knew my pitch had hit its mark. He exhaled softly and bowed his head. His hands dropped lifelessly to his sides.

He remained that way for a long moment before slowly raising his beautiful green eyes to meet my blue; sound crashing into ocean. “Dammit, Susan,” he said in a wrenched voice. “You don’t get it, do ya?”

“Get what?” Suddenly seeming unable to speak, his eyes pleaded for an understanding I could assure wasn’t coming. “Get what, Pete?” I repeated.

“Susan, I…I—”

A loud bang shattered the night. Our heads whipped towards the porch where Joe Pat had just slammed the door. He took one look at us, pivoted on his heels and disappeared back inside.

I crossed my arms. “You were saying something?”

His shoulder slumped and a look of absolute defeat rolled over him. “Forget it,” he mumbled. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” His toe unearthed a chunk of rock as he stared at the gravel.

As despair swallowed me, I said, “Pete, I just don’t understand what happened between us.” I wiped away more tears. He made a choked, coughing sound, but didn’t look up. “Will I see you again before I leave?” My voice sounded childlike, small and fragile. I knew the answer; I just couldn’t come to grips with it, that I would never see this man again.

He cleared his throat, cleared it again as if wrestling with it. Finally, he simply shook his head no. Ice filled my veins, freezing them solid.

“So this is it?” I croaked. I swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the boulder-sized obstruction that had formed there. “You don’t have the courage to say it, do you?” I knew I didn’t. He looked as lost in the glow of the passionless streetlight as I felt. “So we’re not even going to say goodbye?”

A cold draft emanated from him as his face turned solid with resolve. Crossing the distance, he tightly wrapped his arms around me and I clung fiercely in return. He kissed the top of my head, inhaling deeply as he did. I buried my face in his chest, suppressing a sob, and breathed him in as well.

When he released me, his eyes were mere wisps of smoke, the very last remains of a once glorious bonfire. “I think we just did,” he whispered.

My lips flattened and I closed my eyes as rampant tears drenched my cheeks. He was gone.

44

Neptune

Cheap green carpet and a sideways perspective met me when I woke, curled in a ball on my bedroom floor. I didn’t remember driving home, but I did remember throwing one hell of a tantrum, and much worse, why. My stomach ached terribly, I was thirsty, and I needed…something; some clean thing with which to staunch my bloody wounds.

Snorting periodically while surveying the damage wreaked by Hurricane Susan, I waded through the wreckage to the kitchen. Surrounded by shards of glass was the bare spot where I’d huddled, crying for hours—the victorious devastation a pure and perfect metaphor for my time in Havelock.

Finding an unbroken tumbler in the back of the cupboard, I filled it with water and carried it back upstairs. Under the bathroom lights, I noticed my hands for the first time. I retrieved Neosporin and several Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet behind the cruel and unforgiving mirror and tended to the gashes.

Workday! I must call in. Though I’d exhausted what little God had given me earlier in the week, Mona’s intuition was working just fine; she’d already cleared my schedule. No, she and Clark could manage quite well without me, I was informed. Hell, in a couple of days they’d have no choice. Though her voice was sympathy incarnate, she had too much class to ask how I was, and for that I was grateful. It was only after hanging up that I realized she hadn’t employed her psychic abilities after all; she knew. She already knew! I braced myself against the sink and contemplated the fifty dollar question: How?

My mind chased possibilities as I washed away the dried tears and dust from last night’s extracurricular activities. And even though ten hot showers, a full body massage and three hours in a steam room wouldn’t have made a real difference, this was a start. I returned to the crime scene and began the arduous task of cleaning up.

I fondly recalled stalking about the place like a serial killer, choosing victims based on the sounds they might make. Though I’d put forth my best effort, to my chagrin, the coffee tabletop had survived. I righted furniture and deposited broken glass into a trash bag, even making use of the extremely lonely vacuum. Bottom line losses: An eight-piece stoneware set, twelve drinking glasses, one mirror, and two shell-shaped lamps. Not bad for an evening’s work.

A quick trip to New Bern’s Wal-Mart would make everything right, but then I thought, to hell with the security deposit! If the company wanted to bill me, so be it. Clark could do the replacing; he’d surely find no better use for his time. And if he chose not to get personally involved with these people, when he left six months from now, it would be less messy.

During my fit of unbridled rage, I’d distilled the reason for our breakup to its very essence: Pride—his; that ever precious male ego. Pete had skillfully orchestrated a clean break. In his flawed logic, it was easier that way—for him, anyway. And if he didn’t want me badly enough to fight for me…well, fuck him. He could just go off, revert to the arrogant bastard he’d once been, and screw whomever he wished.

At least he’d never lied about loving me; I’d credit him there. Miserably, my stance on that subject was inscrutable. I loved him, and I always would. And that made his absolute rejection a blow I genuinely hoped I could survive. Right now, I wasn’t so sure.

Other than the pitch fog I inhabited, it was another perfect day in paradise—a perfect day for packing. In two short hours, my life in Eastern North Carolina was stacked neatly in the corner; a couple of suitcases, my toiletries, and a few boxes. Despondent, I collapsed on the bed and stared at the whirling ceiling fan.

What a nice scent, I thought absently. The sheets smelled just like… Shit! I hopped to my feet as sorrow pelted me. I couldn’t sleep there again! No, not in the bed where we’d made love so many times, snuggled, talked, slept entwined. Realizing the couch was out as well, I looked dolefully at the floor. As if protesting, my back cracked, but a few nights’ discomfort was infinitely better than cracking my mind.

The suffocating sadness was suddenly too much to bear. I needed out. After choking down yogurt and a few Tums, I threw on a bikini top and a pair of shorts. Then, after rifling through a box—crying twice in the process, I found a hat that was actually mine. My large sunglasses had never been more useful.

The beach was empty. Summer vacationers had fled it like rats from a sinking ship, and I was grateful for it. I noted many rental properties already slumbered, their great metal shutters drawn for hibernation. In front of a hotel, a series of yellow beach umbrellas, wrapped up tight like Tootsie Pops, poked from the sand in haphazard fashion. “Closed for the Season” signs hung in the windows of every souvenir shop. With desolation my willing partner, I wandered the restless shoreline, unable to escape my troubled thoughts; flickers of Pete diving through waves with careless abandon, my aborted attempts at surfing, us holding hands and talking about everything and nothing, making love in moonlit dunes. Dreamscapes.

Without meaning to, I found myself under the Oceana Pier. I was hungry and thirsty after my long walk and scrounged through my pockets for money. Finding a crumpled twenty that had been through the wash, I praised God.

In preparation for fall’s vagrant storms, the hefty lifeguard stand had been pushed on its side like a dead elephant. I rinsed my sandy feet under the outdoor spigot and wandered shoeless into the tackle shop. Once my eyes adjusted from the outside brilliance, I claimed a sticky swivel stool and ordered a cheeseburger. Of course, I want it all the way. What a silly question.

Grease splattered and popped on the steel griddle as it cooked. Chili dripped sloppily down the bun, coloring the slaw and coarsely chopped onions an orangish-brown. I took a generous bite, ever surprised by the crunch of sand—the patented secret ingredient—and squirted a healthy dose of Delmonte Catsup—for that is how they spell it—on my thick crinkle cut fries. Ignoring the irony, I shoveled several into my mouth at once and washed my last supper—my Seder—down with a big gulp of Pepsi straight from the can. After a quick trip to the semi-indoor, semi-lit bathroom, I mounted the planked highway.

Mummified men, brown and leathered, slouched on gray wooden benches along the railing; permanent residents. Careful not to disturb these monks in prayer, I reasoned that perhaps fishermen search for peace as much as dinner in the silence of random gull squawks, whistling winds, and slapping waves. I thought myself in good company today.

Turbulent gray water peeked shyly through the uneven gaps between boards as I continued toward the terminus of the pier. Once there, I took a corner seat and admired the tenacity of the waves as they battled the shore; never giving up, never backing down. The tide was receding, white surges slamming riotously into one another on their return to the depths. It was all so damn beautiful.

I’m not sure how long I stared out into oblivion, but eventually, something inside told me it was time to head back. Really, though, I had nothing to head back to, nowhere I needed to be, nobody waiting for me. Ah, but that was the state of things now. Pete and I had said our goodbyes. It was time to bid farewell to this—mustn’t leave loose ends! I took a hard last look at the uncompromising Lady Atlantic. She of all entities understood me, but would she miss me as I knew I would her?

My phone vibrated in my back pocket; that accursed thing attached to me, making me always available—always reachable. Or was I the one attached to it—my connection to humanity, my arm? The call wasn’t important; these coastal clients were no longer mine. In fact, there wasn’t a single number in my contacts I would need where I was going. The only two in the whole world I cared about were branded on my brain, rendered useless only if he ever changed them. I stared at the rectangular piece of plastic and circuitry that had meant so much to me—my great treasure. Smiling faintly, I tendered it to Neptune; a worthy offering. Then I turned my back on the sea.

♥

Wednesday, I wore my favorite suit, my best set of patent leather heels, and an unerring mask—my sales face. I did have something to sell; I was selling undefeated; I was selling my indomitable will to survive; I was selling complete bullshit.

Mona’s face was the one thing I wasn’t properly girded for. Painted in modern art format, anxiety, concern, and sympathy melded—the same as if I’d waltzed in and announced I had terminal cancer. With kind scrutiny, her eyes raked over me head to heel, and then she silently wrapped her arms around me. I wanted more than anything to crack open and weep. Instead, I held myself together with sheer will and turned away. Tomorrow would be our last day together. After that, there would be no more hugs for me; nobody left to give them.

“Clark!” I barked down the darkened hall. “We’re going to Greenville.” He scrambled to the vestibule, gripping his briefcase handle and cup of 7-Eleven coffee. Following him to the parking lot, I climbed into his puce-colored micro fleet car without a word.

We returned to Havelock shortly after seven o’clock. Mona had long left for the day, her destination the same as always. I suppose from now on she’d sit there alone—same as before I came. I felt a helpless pang for her. After sending Clark back to his hotel, I spent the evening packing my office. It was so much easier now that I’d simply stopped caring.

♥

“I love you,” I said mournfully the next morning. To this one, I could say those words aloud and to her face, and have them mean something; only to this one, and really only now.

I would see her again through work at some point. Perhaps we’d meet at Quarterlies sometime, have a few drinks, catch up. Maybe one Christmas in the future when I was in visiting my mother, we could meet in Charlotte—maybe. After four years of service, I’d skipped away from Western Pennsylvania without a backward glance, but after only six months, leaving this region behind would be…painful. I would never have predicted that.

“Susan, don’t say anything else or I’m gonna start cryin’,” she threatened, tears already welling. I exhaled sorrow.

“I’d really like to take you to lunch today. It’ll be our last, and I don’t want it to come from the break room microwave. I thought we could meet at that cafe on Main Street and then get manicures.”

“Lunch would be good, but I just got my nails done yesterday after work. See?” She waved them at me.

“Lunch, then. Noon? I’ve got to walk Clark through all that security business at Cherry Point. It shouldn’t take more than eight hours.”

“Unless he’s a terrorist,” Mona added, snickering.

After an hour of watching him fill out paperwork, I left Clark in the capable hands of the Marines. I turned in my access badge to Joe Pat, and he personally escorted me to the lot, giving me one hell of a furious hug.

I’d planned to visit Dottie after lunch, but as I was quite early, I entered her overly air-conditioned, premenopausal queendom. Along with so many others, she had been good to me and I wanted to thank her for her business, for entertaining me, and on occasion for keeping me abreast of local scandals. I realized as the door shut behind me that I was probably the scandal of the week.

“Susan,” she said curtly, giving a quick nod of acknowledgment. I launched into what had become my standard thanks for making me feel so welcome speech but was stopped midsentence by her skull-melting glare.

“Dottie, what’s wrong?”

She crossed her arms over her generous bosom. “I thought yew’d be gone by now.” Her voice oozed…animosity?

“I don’t fly out until tomorrow,” I said, shrugging it off. “Besides, I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to one of my favorite clients.” She snorted, derisively.

“Well, I’m not your client anymore, now am I?” From her perspective, I was a traitor delivering her, like a political prisoner, into the hands of an inexperienced Yankee-man.

“I’m sorry about leaving you, Dottie. I got a job offer I couldn’t refuse. You’ll forgive me, though, won’t you?” Her sour expression only deepened. “I was wondering if I might get a manicure before I go. My nails are a mess and I want to look especially nice when I arrive in Ohio tomorrow.”

“I don’t have any appointments available right now,” she said, appraising me disdainfully. I looked around the empty salon. Okay…

“Should I come back after lunch?”

“Goodbye, Susan,” she said coldly.

“Oh. Goodbye, Dottie. It’s been a pleasure.” I reached out to shake her hand, but she only scowled at it. I turned away, confused.

“Yew know,” she said, stopping me. “You’re just like that other girl.”

“Who?” I said warily.

“That other one—that California girl. Yew two are the same.”

“Excuse me?”

“She up and left him the minute she got a better job, just like you’re doin’,” she said, flipping her hand as if batting away a fly.

“It’s not like that, Dottie!” I said, shocked.

“It’s God’s own truth. Twice now he’s been left at the drop of a hat. Twice!” she hissed. “He deserves a good woman. Not her and not yew!”

Tail between my legs, I limped down the sidewalk and staggered into the cafe. My favorite waitress sauntered right over. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a daunting stare. “We only serve sweet tea here…sugar.” I dropped my head in my hands. Unfuckingbelievable!

Why was I the bad guy? It was Good ol’ Saint Peter who’d slammed the Pearly Gates in my face. Besides, did these people honestly think I’d stay in Havelock forever just because I met someone? Of course, they did! I was a woman. They absolutely expected me to drop everything, marry the first man who called me “Susie-Q”, raise fourteen kids—while he cheats on me!—and, oh yeah, stop wearing shoes. Fuming, I drummed my fingers on the table.

On the dot, Mona breezed in all smiles and waved sweetly to our suddenly cheery server. “Here,” she said, dropping an ornate bag tied with multicolored ribbons in front of me. I rummaged through the layers of pastel tissue.

“A scarf!” I said, pulling out the long fuzzy snake. “That’s so sweet.”

“Crocheted it for ya, myself.” She nodded with a proud smile. “Didn’t want ya gettin’ cold up there,” she teased, wrinkling her nose. “I hope ya like it.” I modeled it over my sleeveless blouse.

“Thank you, Mona. It’s perfect. And in my favorite color, too!” I laughed.

Suddenly, she grabbed my wrists and said earnestly, “Don’t forget us.”

“Not to my last breath,” I replied with equal intensity.

My last night in this wretched condo. Had I the energy, I would’ve done a celebratory dance, thrown a party, gotten roaring drunk. Instead, I tossed my keys on the table, took a quick shower, and crawled into my nest of colorful pillows. Despite an exhaustion rivaling Mononucleosis, I didn’t sleep. Conversations chased one another through my mind’s crop maze, Dottie’s comments playing a special role. I am not the villain here!

♥

Boxes awaited the movers; suitcases were packed snuggly in the trunk. I hadn’t given myself a whole lot of extra time to get to the airport—only really enough to complete the mundane tasks necessary to leave your life behind.

I discovered an agitated Mona tapping a pencil on her desk when I entered the building.

“Here,” I said, handing her the keys; the last item on my checklist. “Say goodbye to Clark for me, or rather good luck,” I said, attempting a smile. “So, I’ll call you next week and tell you how fabulous it is.” She gawked at me bizarrely. “What’s wrong? You’re looking at me like I’ve got three heads.”

“Well, I’m not sure you’ve even got one right now!” she said spitefully.

“Oh, not you, too!” I groaned, slumping my shoulders. “I thought you were happy for me. Please tell me you haven’t sipped from Havelock’s crazy-well.”

“Oh, just…just shut up, Susan!” she snapped. “’Course I’m happy for your promotion. But you’re makin’ a huge mistake!”

“He does not want me, Mona! He doesn’t. In fact, he’s, he’s already found someone else.” I bit my lip to stop its quiver. Speaking those words unleashed a wild band of poltergeists that swarmed the entryway, needling my anger and resentment. I choked back tears. “He practically told me so!”

Mona leapt from her chair, her face bleached, her head shaking frantically. I closed my eyes but could feel her hands fluttering about me like frenzied butterflies. Finally, she hugged me tightly and rocked me as I ruptured.

“That’s just not true, Susan,” she whispered adamantly. “Not in a million years.” I didn’t bother contradicting her. She was such a trusting, misguided soul who’d never endured the treacheries I had. “He’s hurtin’ bad as you are,” she said, rubbing my back in mollification. “We spent all Sunday evenin’ talkin’ it through—well, I guess I listened more than anything, but he’s tryin’ to do right by you and it’s killin’ him. I shouldn’t be the one tellin’ ya this—he should, and I told him that, but he—oh, honey! Shh. Shh.”

Suddenly, I tore from her embrace. “You were with Pete Sunday night?”

“Yeah, ’til real late. He about drunk a whole bottle of whiskey after y’all hung up. It was bad.”

“Oh God! Oh God! I’ve got to go!”

In a manic state of delirium, I screeched onto 70 Eastbound, away from Raleigh and the airport. Find Pete was the only message my brain was sending. I didn’t know what I’d say—something—anything. I’m sorry. I love you—yes that! My heart hammered in my chest as I skidded into his lot. I smacked Myrtle’s rump for luck as I ran past but then stalled out, realizing the Jeep was gone. Frantic, I hurtled inside anyway.

Laney looked up from her screen, wearing the same disinterested expression as always.

“Where’s Pete?”

“Gone.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Gone.” Her eyes traveled back to her diagram.

“Seriously?! Okay, tell him—”

“Do I look like his secretary?” she said snidely.

“Fine. Could I leave him a note?” I asked, motioning toward his office. Why was I asking permission?

“Free country,” she muttered.

I snatched a sheet of his Anita-created letterhead, grabbed the lone pen from his tray of mechanical pencils, and then stopped, my hand hovering. All the things I wanted to say were far too personal to leave lying on his office desk. Glancing up for inspiration, I gasped. Mounted on the formerly barren wall opposite his desk was a huge, professionally framed picture of a ruby sun dipping in molten water—the one I’d emailed him that fateful night of our first real kiss. I wondered how long it had been there—three weeks, maybe? And then stupidly wondered how long it would stay after I left.

I hurried past Laney, and then stopped, cleared my constricted throat and mustered a smile. “You know, I always liked you.”

“That and three-fifty’ll get you a cup of Starbucks,” she said, raising one eyebrow slightly. The go to hell and shut the door on your way out needed no further translation.

I exhaled in defeat and her expression softened. She opened her mouth to speak, but I lifted my hand. “Don’t say anything nice, it’ll freak me out.”

She nodded once, one corner of her mouth lifting wryly. “Goodbye, Susan.”

Driving by his house on the off chance he was there would cost me my flight, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but finding him and shaking some sense into his stubborn head. The garage door was up and the boat was there. Hope sprouted. I leapt from my car, only to have my ears assaulted by LynyrdSkynyrd, blaring at full volume. Grimy jeans ending in ratty tennis shoes splayed out from the Trans Am’s underbelly, lending the appearance of a squashed bug.

“Jimbo!” I yelled. “Jimbo!!” I waded through greasy parts and yanked the extension cord from the outlet, cutting off Free Bird, mid-Free. Covered in black smudges, he rolled into view, regarded me briefly with large solemn eyes, and then disappeared under the chassis again. I squinted between wires and bent metal. “Have you seen Pete? It’s urgent I speak with him.”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“Gone,” he said simply. I snorted, and huffed, and stamped my foot, and got no farther with him.

Finally, I snapped, “Could you at least tell him I came to say goodbye, then?”

“Yep.” I waited for something more, but that was evidently Jimbo’s parting word to me.

Pete didn’t want to be found. He’d thrown up a cement barricade against me, and I was done with this bullshit. Done with it!

An arm slithered from behind the front tire and began feeling around for the tool just outside its reach. I raised my heel to skewer his hand, but then had a pinprick epiphany: I’d lance his heart instead—or try to anyway. Aiming at something time had still only salved was cruel, but if I hurt Jimbo, I was, by extension, hurting Pete for leaving me—leaving me in the name of “doin’ right by me”. Fucker!

“Oh, Jimbo?” I shouted into the engine, “Mona has my forwarding address, so make sure to send me a wedding invitation, you know, if you ever grow balls big enough to ask her out! She loves you, you stupid, cowardly fool, but she won’t wait forever—she’s a hell of a lot smarter than that. And by God, if you don’t crawl across that disgusting floor on your hands and knees soon, I swear I’ll get her ass transferred and you’ll never see her again!!”

Jimbo flinched but didn’t reemerge.

“I hate you!” I screamed. “I hate you all!” Snatching up the big wrench he was searching for, I hurled it across the yard with all my strength, and then, like the redneck I’d clearly become, blazed away, squealing my tires. I hoped they left big black marks down his street—my epitaph.

I finally stopped crying about the time I reached La Grange. Then, knocking the metaphorical dust from my shoes, rocketed to Raleigh. I had a plane to catch.

45

1492

A perilously blue sky met me in Columbus. I don’t remember the weather in Raleigh. Had there been clouds, or had the sun callously mocked me with another brilliant day? In my mind, everything had turned black as the mythical tar North Carolina was famous for.

I’d mopped my face in the airport lavatory before passing through security, lest I be detained for looking deranged. A benevolent blessing, my flight had been delayed, so I nibbled a foul piece of pizza and fidgeted; I couldn’t escape the South fast enough.

Ohio looked nothing like North Carolina. It was flat; dinner plate flat—the whole state. No majestic mountains, and to my satisfaction, no beaches. Revealed at cruising altitude, the landscape consisted of large skyscraper-clustered cities and sprawling tracts of stark farmland. Cut precisely by roads, interstates, and swaths of forest already brushed with fall color, the image was that of a patchwork quilt. And unlike the gray dust or rusted clay soil in the land of cotton, this rich, brown earth produced corn—boatloads and boatloads of corn. Ohio would be different in so many ways. And different was very good.

As the taxi slugged through heavy rush hour traffic, lofty glass buildings gleamed in the setting sun as if welcoming me. Even the crisp fall air echoed the change I so thoroughly sought; a marker of my new life.

South High Street. My furniture and Philadelphia belongings had arrived, and though exhausted from the heart-shattering week, I launched into unpacking with a zealous need to attach order to my personal chaos. Closets must be filled, boxes opened, things washed. After tucking in the sheets, I gazed at the bed—my bed—with a sense of great satisfaction. Other than myself, no one had ever slept on this mattress; an emotional safe haven.

My full-sized fleet car arrived the following morning as promised, and I navigated busy streets until I reached the nearest Kroger. I literally bounced down the aisles of this massive grocery, finding every type of foodstuff imaginable. The store even had its own liquor boutique. Having enjoyed yet another fitful night of tearstained blankets, I stocked up, opting for a nice sleeping tonic over any one of the illicit substances readily obtainable in downtown alleyways.

With a trunk weighted with booty, I merrily drove back to my apartment, the perfume from the gorgeous bouquet I’d purchased filling the car. Without warning, I slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into the stopped car in front of me. The sound of clanking bottles from the backseat made me cringe. What the heck?

Relatively light Saturday afternoon traffic had turned parking lot, packed with thousands of cars dressed with fluttering red and gray flags. Bumper stickers and window decals stamped most every car, along with license plates beginning with a large O, dripping green foliage that looked suspiciously like marijuana. Ohio State, or rather The Ohio State University—as if there might be impostors lurking about—had a pot leaf as its school symbol. Snort.

OSU’s colossal campus, nearly tripling Columbus’ population three-quarters of the year, was hosting a home game, and it appeared the football stadium was located somewhere between me and my apartment. After sitting in traffic for more than an hour, worrying about my thawing frozen food, I crawled back to my new home, making a major mental note to avoid Highway 315 at all cost on game day.

♥

INTech’s district office was impressive. My company leased the entire tenth floor of the glass and steel Fifth-Third Bank Building downtown—elevators, oh how I’ve missed you. Conveniently located on the luxuriant marbled ground floor, my new personal banker was efficient, factual, and thoroughly impersonal. Perfect.

After a brief introduction to my surprisingly large staff, I was shown to a handsome office by my personal secretary, an entity in all ways new to me. I’d barely fired up my computer when I was informed that Ohio’s District Acquisitions Supervisor, Bonita Bradford, had requested an audience with me.

She was pleasant, businesslike, but other than insisting I call her Bo, slightly aloof, and not at all like Mona; not by a long shot. But I was upper middle management now, and aloof worked just fine for me. In fact, in my current emotional state, the less personal, the better. That’s how I’d always liked things anyway, right?

My brownstone apartment was two blocks east of Front Street’s Brewery District, an area teeming with restaurants and bars that I looked forward to exploring. Parking curbside—my only option, I deposited my briefcase inside and made the easy walk to a little German deli nestled beside a Greek restaurant.

After a quick sandwich, I visited several nearby eateries, collecting to go menus like Halloween candy. I would not starve. And I would not be alone here, either. I vowed to accept all invitations, meet people, make friends. I would attend the theater, the symphony, the ballet, art exhibitions. I would wallow in my pot of gold—revel! I planned to make this city home.

I was invited to attend the annual celebration in North Market commemorating the removal of the interstate orange barrels; road construction here as sure as summer itself, I was told. I promised to meet up with a group of colleagues at the large Oktoberfest, only blocks from my apartment. I made plans to see some local bands at The Great Ribs and Blues Festival. Tailgates, church festivals, the State Fair… I worked instead.

It was so easy to blame my job for my absences. Being a boss was damn hard and my new position demanded just exactly as much time as I would give it, and I was giving it a lot—all, in fact. But my choice to stay late every night and work through weekends had little to do with the fear of failing; it was much harder to fire a district manager than a lowly service rep. No, I made love to my job in the name of self-preservation; the more I worked, the less time for introspection.

But the morning I heard myself snort at a coworker’s declaration that he’d won a local corn-hole tournament, I realized I was dangerously close to reverting to the callous, self-absorbed snot I’d abandoned the day I took Pete’s hand and walked into his sun. I didn’t want to be that person anymore, but without my defining compass, I wasn’t sure how to be anyone else. In fact, other than my job description, I wasn’t even sure who I was.

With such thoughts swimming through my mind, one fine evening while munching on Greek salad and actively ignoring the busy city living right outside my door, I crouched on my bedroom floor and ripped the packing tape from the last unopened moving box from North Carolina. It was last for a reason; I hadn’t the courage to open it before. And maybe it wasn’t courage tonight either, but rather a brazenness spurred on by four glasses of red wine. Regardless, I had to move on with my life.

I burrowed my nose in the crocheted weave of my bathing suit coverlet. It still smelled of sunscreen and summer, and my mind swam in that great ocean of love, exquisite pain, and rightful sacrifice. I transferred one item after another to the plastic storage bin I would bury in my closet until next summer, or possibly forever.

I laughed outright at a few items and sighed regretfully at others. Near the bottom, I brushed a hard, lumpy object. I sat back on my heels and examined the giant conch shell—the one we’d collected that long ago perfect day on Shell Island. When I turned it over in my hands, bits of fine sand fell onto my lap. I held the opening to my ear. Yep, I could still hear the ocean, just as I had that day—all of those days. I tasted the salt water, too, but it was my own.

♥

“What can I do for you, Bo?” I asked as she crossed the stately plush carpet the following Monday. I was completely absorbed in my new hobby of self-flagellation, so her presence caught me off guard. I plastered on a professional smile.

“I need your signatures,” she said, handing me a small stack of papers. When I’d completed my task, she nodded but didn’t leave. “So,” she said slowly, “you’re from North Carolina, right?”

I froze, but then laughed at my archaic response and its hilarity; I had been taken seriously; I had been promoted. I also recognized in that same instant that it didn’t matter to me anymore whether people knew where I’d grown up. One of the best things about hitting emotional rock bottom was I’d stopped caring about a lot of truly trivial things.

“Is it that obvious?” I replied. She suddenly looked confused. “My accent?” I prompted.

“You don’t have an accent. I just meant North Carolina was the district you were promoted from, right?” She hesitated, and then asked, “Did you grow up there or something?”

“Yes, actually, I did.”

“Girl, you are lucky!” She gave me the first genuine smile I’d seen from any of my staff.

My curiosity piqued, I asked, “How so?”

“It’s so beautiful there. My husband and I went to Charleston last year on vacation and loved it.” To correct or not to correct? I smiled tightly without comment. “No offense, but you were crazy to leave if you didn’t have to. If I got transferred down South, you sure wouldn’t hear me complaining,” she said animatedly. I chuckled, musing that she might have a few surprises waiting for her. I was rapidly learning the very hard lesson of being careful what you wished for. So far I’d gotten exactly everything I’d wanted…and wasn’t it all grand?

“Where are you from?”

“Detroit.”

“Oh.” And here I thought I had it bad. She glanced at the seat across from me and I motioned for her to sit.

“So, what’s it like?” she asked with wide eyes.

“What’s what like?”

“You know, being in the club. A female district manager?” Her face took on a vaguely dreamy quality. “And so young, too. How’d you do it?”

Shrugging, I said, “The usual way, I suppose.” Trashed my heart,sold my soul…

“I’ll be shouting from the rooftops come my next promotion.” Her eyebrow arched slightly, suggesting expectations. “But you probably did your celebrating in Carolina before you left,” she said, leaning in for details.

“Something like that.” My tone effectively ended that line of questioning. I shifted the conversation to work-related topics and she followed obediently.

Bo’s cool exterior hid a much warmer interior. Once she realized I wasn’t Elphabaon her broomstick, she let her curtain fall a bit and we had our first actual chat. Other than business, however, Bo and I had little in common, and I doubted we would develop a personal relationship. As she left a few minutes later, I recognized this was the first real conversation I’d had with anyone since my arrival. And then worse, I hadn’t heard Mona’s voice in exactly the same length of time. I would be an even bigger fool if I let her fade into my life’s backdrop.

“Susan!” I tore the phone from my ear at her high pitched squeal.

“So you’re still speaking to me?” I asked trepidatiously.

“Oh, don’t be silly, ’course I am. I know you’ve been busy.”

As she babbled on about clients and work and poor Clark, who wasn’t winning any prizes in the personality category, I drank in her effervescence and lilt, spending the majority of the call leaning back in my chair and smiling. There was only one voice in the world I missed hearing more than hers.

After disconnecting I realized I hadn’t caught half of what she’d said. I also knew I hadn’t mustered the nerve to ask her the most imminent question on my mind: Had Pete moved on? She certainly hadn’t offered any news on that topic—that, I would have caught instantly. Maybe it wasn’t fear that kept me silent. Perhaps I just really didn’t want to know the answer. Bullshit, it was fear!

Following careful deliberation, a battle in which the South reigned victorious, I picked up the phone I’d been staring at for the past five minutes and pressed the sequence of numbers I knew by heart. His contacts icon was on the ocean floor—probably halfway to London by now, and maybe that was a good thing.

“Hey, this is Peter Walsh of Coastal Architectural Design.” The timbre of his voice was a fresh warm breeze that took my breath with it as it blew through me.

“Pete,” I squirted out before the I am unable to take your call just now… yadda yaddayadda kicked in. Quickly hanging up, I willed my heart to slow, but as my dignity crumbled along with any remaining self-esteem, I shakily dialed the number again. My stomach flipped several somersaults as I listened to the recording again, and then sheepishly said, “Pete, it’s Susan. I was just calling to see how you were. Things here are great—really great. I just wanted you to know that I’m really happy. My number’s the same if, if you want to call me back…”

Of course, Pete knew my number was the same, and even if he didn’t, it wasn’t like he didn’t have caller ID, and it wasn’t like Mona didn’t have it if all else failed. And of course, after reciting both my direct office line and my secretary’s number, he ought to have no trouble reaching me. Now, at least, I had new material with which to beat myself. Pathetic.

Though incredibly busy, a not so small portion of my brain spent the rest of the day hoping the phone would ring. I shamefully kept the damn thing attached to my physical person even in meetings so I could feel it vibrate…just in case. And vibrate it did—so often, in fact, that it had almost turned me on, but none of the calls were from the right area code.

It was close to midnight the next evening when I gave up hope.

♥

Exercise had become my new religion, and I rarely left the gym before my legs were Jell-O. The health club I’d joined—and yes, there were many options to choose from—was a large two-story number with a full-service spa I’d yet to make use of. But I would, dammit! Today, though, I planned to work myself into an exhausted stupor before going to the office.

I didn’t meet any eyes on the trip to the cardio area. This wasn’t hard to manage since sideways glances and quick head nods were more the norms here. It was like living in Philly again; you stared through people, observing them peripherally if they looked interesting. I quickly nodded to the totally ripped guy ever present at the free weights, not sparing him even a ghost of a smile today, and chose my weapon.

Though I tried pushing unwelcome thoughts from my mind through pure physical exhaustion, they spiked even over the horrific din of angry noise I pumped into my ears. Right now I hated Pete almost as much as I hated myself. I focused on my pounding footfalls, but couldn’t run fast enough to escape the dreams that plagued me. Last night’s were the worst yet.

At first, they’d been of love, and then of loss, but more recently they’d shifted to nightmares of Pete with other women; of him smiling roguishly at me, and then slipping his arm around some lovely young creature with flowing blond hair. And that’s surely what must be happening. I ran until I could barely breathe because that’s one thing I knew how to do: Run.

As it was Saturday, the gym was filled to capacity. Usually, I found the company of others comforting, even if only by association. I didn’t reach out to anyone, but it was nice to be near people living their probably satisfying lives. Today, though, this notion brought out in sharp relief that once I’d been satisfied, happy, and quite possibly full. Now I was absolutely empty. Two hours later, I staggered to the showers, drenched with sweat and a million calories lighter.

After grabbing a smoothie at the snack bar, I left, my gym bag slung limply over my shoulder. As always, I was taken aback by the grain-fed Goliaths that made up this Midwestern population. One such giant walked out just ahead of me, chivalrously letting the door slam in my face. “Thank you,” I hissed as I walked past his shiny red Lexus. He glanced at me through the eyes of the obtuse before climbing inside.

My primary communications were electronic now, yet I still felt a jolt every time I logged onto my computer. How many emails could one person receive on a Saturday morning? I chuckled at my profound misconception that this promotion would bring with it a manageable form of insanity and more free time. I’d even tried convincing Pete, though I doubt he’d ever believed it. Thus far, the only real differences between my old job and my new were that I traveled less and got yelled at by different people.

Since I was typically the only one in this early, music kept me company. But rather than reverting to classical, or miserably wallowing in rock, I’d befriended a new genre: Punk—the more hostile and explicit, the better. I cranked the volume of an Internet station and collapsed. Green Day’s “American Idiot” queued. Ah, my new theme song. I began typing.

46

Cardiac Arrest

On the twenty-first day of October, after several hearty frosts, the sky turned the color of an oyster—a dead one—and it rained Biblically for five straight days, flooding the Olentangy River running through the heart of the city. Cinching my coat tightly, I left my personal deli, shivering under an umbrella; thirty-six degrees and raining—potentially the worst combination known to man. That night the deluge abruptly ended, skies cleared, and the temperature plummeted into the teens, freezing everything in sight. And that was that; winter supplanted fall.

From my staff, I gleaned that there was little promise of seeing the sun again until spring, which, I was further informed, arrived sometime mid-May. The perpetual wind blowing off the plains ripped the last of the colorful leaves from the tree branches, their dull nakedness provoking a sense of desperation. Snow soon followed, anchoring the season solidly.

Having lived in Columbus for over a month now, I’d met all my staff and traveled to both regions for meetings, but I hadn’t made a single friend. In fact, my closest acquaintances were Nicola, the proprietor of the Katzinger’sDeli, who kept me abreast of neighborhood gossip, and Marty, the chatty janitor who emptied trashcans while regaling anecdotes from his glory days in the record business—prior to three nasty divorces, several minor drug-related charges, an illegitimate son gone hard-core Goth, and rehab, that is.

And though my office was nestled in a tower bustling with pleasant Midwestern professionals, I was fairly certain I’d never been more isolated in my life—and it was my very own doing. Taking for granted the humorously wonderful, occasionally mangy people I’d spent so much time enjoying in the atmosphere of spoiled hops and sticky tables, I’d forgotten what being alone felt like. It sucked! And while work served as a veiled distraction, nights were cruel and I hated them.

Sticking my head out of my office, I caught Bonita gathering her things. Out of pure desperation, I stopped her.

“Bo, you feel like grabbing dinner?”

“Um, sure,” she responded, clearly taken aback. “It’s my husband’s basketball night, anyway. He plays pickup down at the Y. I usually catch up on laundry and cleaning, but girl, anything’s better than that. Let me make a call.”

I suggested an up and coming restaurant I’d read about. The hostess seated us and asked for drink orders.

“I’ll have a beer,” I said, without thinking.

“What kind?” I looked at her like she was stupid, but then realized where I wasn’t.

“What kind do you have?” She began rattling off the twenty-some-odd seasonal beers on tap. When she stopped for a breath, I interrupted. “You know, on second thought I’ll have a cosmo.”

“I’ll have one of those, too,” Bonita said, regarding me thoughtfully. Once alone, she remarked, “You don’t seem like the beer type.”

“No?”

“You just seem kind of upscale or something.”

“If by that you mean snooty, I’m not.” At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

As we pored over the sushi menu, marking our choices with the same pencil stubs found at quality miniature golf courses across America, she ventured, “You’re not married.”

“That is very correct,” I said.

“Engaged?” I held up my bare left hand and waved it in front of her. “I didn’t think so. Boyfriend?”

Wondering if an intimate relationship with a man’s answering machine counted, I swallowed the lump in my throat with a hefty sip of martini and shook my head no.

She looked down at the tally sheet again, and without meeting my eyes said, “So, Ryan Vittorio, huh?” I burst out laughing.

“So that’s where this is going.” She gave me a guilty smile. “Heard about that, did you?”

“Yeah, everyone did. Juicy stuff at the time.”

“I’m sure,” I said, with a sour smirk.

“Old news. Except when I found out you were taking over…” She shrugged. “Can you blame me for digging?”

“I would have,” I replied with a chuckle.

“I’ve met him several times. What a sleaze.”

We had a good laugh at his expense, and then I said, “He’s Kirsten’s problem now.”

“Yeah, and everybody hates Kirsten Scythe.” Then she paused. “Oh, but you were friends, right?”

“We all make mistakes,” I said ruefully.

“Okay, personally,” she confided, leaning across the table, “I’d rather drop her in a pit of spiders than look at her. If those two ever spawn, she’ll eat their young.” And that’s when I knew for sure I liked Bonita.

“You’re awful,” I said, smiling delightedly.

“Uh huh!” Her laughter was deep and warm, reminding me of the creamy vanilla flavoring I put in my coffee. “It’s none of my business, but what exactly did you see in that guy?” I shrugged. That relationship seemed a lifetime ago. “You seem too nice for him or something,” she said.

“Thank you. I am.”

I snared a piece of eel nigiri, contemplating how something so gross-looking could taste so good; this would always be a mystery to me. I couldn’t help noticing Bonita’s war with her chopsticks. When it became clear she would lose, I said, “Did you know the Japanese don’t use chopsticks when they eat rolls? They use their fingers.” I set down my bamboo weapons, saluted her with a slice of spicy tuna roll, and popped it into my mouth. She looked mildly relieved. After swallowing, I continued, “In the South, we eat just about everything with our fingers.”

“Especially fried chicken,” she added, laughing.

“The only way!”

She picked up a piece of her roll and bit into it. An avalanche of innards landed on her plate. She set the disaster down quickly and took another sip of her drink.

“So how long have you been married?” I asked, ignoring her glaring culinary disabilities.

“Joe and I will be together twelve years this June.”

“That’s a long time.”

“We got married shortly after school.”

“I can’t imagine marrying that young.” Until recently, I’d expended very little energy considering that particular institution. “How did you know he was the right one?”

“Joe swears he knew he was gonna marry me a month after we started dating.” My eyebrows almost left my face. She threw her hand in the air. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think some men are like that. They just know.”

“Are you telling me he proposed after a month?”

“No,” she said, chuckling. “But he got serious real fast.”

I choked back a very bitter comment and asked, “Did you know right away, too?”

She snorted. “No. I didn’t even consider him marriage material when we first met. He was just something good to look at, you know? It took at least a year before I was sure.”

“And then you married him?”

“Girl, do I look stupid to you?” I burst out laughing.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Who wants to jump into something like marriage without being absolutely sure? I mean, you have to live with that man the rest of your life. And I did not want a freeloader. Unh unh!” She slapped her hand firmly on the table and laughed richly. “I waited until he got a good paying job, then I married him.” I couldn’t help but admire her approach to relationships; very practical. She was my opposite there. With Pete, I’d clumsily stumbled into something I’d never foreseen and certainly hadn’t thought through, but I suppose with one glaring Italian exception, I’d always done things that way.

I ordered a second round of drinks, and she doled out marital advice likely wasted on me. When I was stuffed to my gills and she’d stopped talking, I asked, “Would you like dessert or coffee?” I was enjoying her company and hoped she would stay a little longer.

She shook her head. “I’d love to, but my sister’s probably done babysitting my monkeys. She loves them and all, but my ten-year-old can grate on anybody’s nerves.”

“Wait, you have kids?!”

“Oh yeah, two. Did I forget to mention that?”

“Actually, yes.”

“You want box for that?” the young Asian waitress interrupted. I glanced at Bonita’s plate; she hadn’t eaten much at all. In fact, only two pieces of what she’d ordered had actually been consumed.

“No, I’m good,” she replied.

“Was your food not good?” I questioned. She glanced at me uncomfortably.

“Oh yeah. It was fine. Just fine. I especially liked that green stuff.”

“The Wasabi?”

“Yeah, that. I’m just not really into raw fish,” she said apologetically. I bit my lip, knowing the only thing raw in her California roll was the cucumber. Not only was Bonita not a sushi fan, it was quite obvious she’d never even tried the stuff before. And then it dawned on me that she’d probably agreed to have dinner because I was her boss and she felt obligated. Worse, she’d ordered sushi only because I had. Talk about obtuse! Altogether mortified, I signaled for the check.

An awkward silence sprouted between us as we waited. Bonita broke it. “Can I say something?”

“Of course,” I said, forcing a smile.

“You haven’t looked real happy since you got here. You’re like disengaged or something—not in your work. I mean, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know what you were doing.” The nervous edge in her laughter didn’t fit her generally calm, confident exterior, and I felt my eyebrows scrunch. She then squared her shoulders as if preparing for an offensive tackle, which further confused me.

“Look, I’m just gonna lay it out here. It’s clear you’re not satisfied with the staff. Now I know a lot of managers like to bring in their own people, but if you’re planning on cleaning house or something, I want to know. I’ve got kids in school and I’m not interested in moving right now.” Her voice crackled with hostility, and she leaned back in her chair as if distancing herself from me. As what she said sunk in, I couldn’t blame her. If “dissatisfaction” was the message I was inadvertently sending, then…holy crap!

“No! I’m absolutely not,” I said emphatically—too emphatically, evidently, because the couple next to us glared at me. “I’m pleased with everyone’s work, thus far. Really, I am.” I leaned towards her. “Does everyone feel this way?”

Bonita considered the question a moment before answering. “By everyone, do you mean the Columbus office or the entire unit?” Oh, this was an epic disaster on rickety wheels, and I suddenly felt lightheaded. I knew how much Kirsten’s underlings feared, or more aptly, despised her, and I so didn’t want to seem her flavor of manager. What a wonderful way to start this new phase of my career!

“Disengaged” was the word she’d used, and it was the perfect descriptor for me, wasn’t it? My personal nightmare threatened to engulf my soul, but I didn’t think anyone had noticed. Confidently, I’d believed I’d craftily hidden my personal failure with a coating of formidable professionalism. Perhaps Community Theater wasn’t a fallback option after all. Stammering, I stepped way out of my comfort zone and asked for help.

Driving to my apartment, I dreaded my evening ritual even more than usual, because I was shrink-wrapped in a fresh layer of guilt. Once inside, I tossed my keys on the kitchen table and ghosted to the bedroom. Exchanging business attire for PJs, I climbed into bed. Memories and voices flooded my mind on the evening tide, and before I knew it, I’d gone fetal; arms wrapping knees, chin tucked into chest. I’d become so accustomed to lying with Pete, his body molded to mine, that curled here in my very own bed—the one I’d foolishly missed while in Havelock—left me cold and small in its expanse. Mourning each night we’d shared, I reentered the womb of exquisite pain and cried myself to sleep.

♥

Bo’s solution to my problem was a staff happy hour she’d arranged, personally—an act of self-preservation, no doubt. She kept it simple; a few drinks at a bar walking distance from the office. Everyone attended. My staff was not only human, but really very nice, and I was ashamed I hadn’t made an effort to know them on anything more than a superficial level. I sought out every single person and engaged them in conversation. Politically safe topics were sports, spouses, and kids, and I made a huge effort to contribute where I could. I needed this communion; we all did.

After the majority of people had gone, Bonita sat down next to me. “It was nice of you to do this,” she said.

“Thanks. I enjoyed it, and I really appreciate your arranging everything.” She took several sips of her strawberry margarita, eyeing me all the while. I got the feeling she had another complaint to air, so I prepared to bend over and grab my ankles.

“I was telling my husband about you,” she finally said.

“Is that so?” I replied, exhaling in relief.

“He has this friend at work who’s single and really nice.”

“Oh, no you don’t! Thanks, but I’ve sworn off men for the next decade.”

“Vittorio hurt you that bad?” she asked.

“No.” I chuckled, mostly to myself. “I just…well, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to start dating right now.” What else could I say? Sorry, but my heart was shattered in a million pieces and strewn like fertilizer over the front yard of 713 Pine Knoll Drive, middle-of-nowhere, North Carolina, 28532? How pathetic would that sound? I fondled the Halloween centerpiece without meeting her eyes.

“Okay. None of my business,” she said, raising her palms. “But if you change your mind…”

“Thanks, but I can guarantee I won’t.” She wrinkled her brow.

“Are you alright?”

“Sure. Why?” I asked.

“You look like you’re in pain. Do you have heartburn or something?” I realized my hand was rubbing circles over my heart. And this wasn’t the first time I’d caught myself doing it. Whenever I thought of Pete, or Havelock, or even North Carolina for that matter, my chest felt strange.

“I’m fine, really.” She raised a dubious brow over her frameless glasses. “Really,” I said forcefully.

“Whatever you say, boss.” I snatched up a tortilla chip from the half-eaten nacho platter and nibbled it as she scrutinized me in a motherly fashion. Oh Dear Lord, not another one!

“I only mentioned him,” she continued after a moment, “because he just joined the company. My husband took him to play ball with the guys last week. Says he’s pretty good—like you would care about basketball,” she said with a snort. “But anyway, we thought since you’re both single and new in town, and since you’re both from North Carolina, you might, you know…” she said with a nudging smile. “It was just a thought.”

“I’m sorry…what did you just say?” I choked out after trying to breathe my chip.

“He just joined the company.”

“No, the other part. Where is he from, exactly?”

“Someplace in North Carolina. Joe didn’t tell me where.”

Perhaps she misinterpreted my saucer-eyed expression because her face lit and she started the hard sell. “My husband says the women in the office can’t stop looking at him, and they all love his accent. Of course, like most men, Joe’s completely clueless about stuff like that, but it sounds like he’s pretty hot. You two might hit it off. Any man’s better than Vittorio, right?” I gulped hard again.

“Bo, what did you say your husband does for a living?”

“He works for a large construction firm.”

I’m really not sure what she said after that. I’d gone into cardiac arrest.

47

Trick or Treat

Neyer Construction was an important INTech client headquartered smack in the center of the district. With Columbus as the general demarcation line, I’d nearly broken up a fight between Liza Min in the Cincinnati office and Mary Albers in Cleveland for rights to the install. This was the second dispute I’d refereed already, and if they got into it during the next Quarterlies, I might have to eat one of them—or both. Though my former Pennsylvania service rep and I were both tenacious as hell, we’d gotten along fairly well. But really, we’d had little choice; Beth had been a tough manager who’d held onto our collars tightly.

Liza won this particular scrimmage only because Neyer’s Commercial Retail Division was located in Mason, OH, falling within the confines of her region. She was twenty-four, very ambitious, and ran at an insane pace, reminding me too much of my younger self. Then, my mother had worried about me, terribly. Now, I actually found myself a little concerned for this one.

Fastening the earrings I no longer wore, I did a final mirror check. I hadn’t expended a whole lot of mental energy choosing the ensembles I wore to work; I owned nice things that coordinated well. I dressed like the boss, of course, but as I only occasionally met with clients, I didn’t bother dressing to kill—or rather, to sell. I hadn’t let myself go by any means—I was much too vain for that, but I’d come to the conclusion that it really didn’t matter so much how I looked. I no longer had anything to prove to anyone. I’d made it; I was queen bee.

This last week was different, however. I’d dressed exceptionally each day, expecting—hoping anyway, that I’d get a knock on my door, look up, and find him leaning against the frame, sporting a smug grin. Each evening I left earlier than usual, fantasizing he’d step from the shadows holding flowers or a dessert of some sort. After the first few days, I’d forced disappointment aside, reminding myself of Pete’s flair for the dramatic. I knew I would see him soon.

The install was scheduled for eight o’clock. After casually cruising Neyer’s expansive parking lot, searching unsuccessfully for any signs of a late model white Jeep, a butt-ugly truck, or at least a car with North Carolina plates, I parked in a visitor’s spot. The snow-flecked wind blew me into the lobby of the large vestibule, twisting my carefully groomed hair in all directions. Great.

My tornadic entrance no doubt terrified Liza, who was caught completely off guard by my presence. I hadn’t come with the intention of shocking her, but her gaping response to what probably amounted to a spot check was so sadistically delightful that I didn’t correct her misconception.

After clipping on our visitor badges, it was mere moments before we were greeted by a man wearing a way-too-big smile; Joe Bradford. Though I continued to maintain a sprung steel trap regarding my personal life, Bonita had cleverly deduced the real reason why Ohio’s District Manager was supervising a simple installation job. What she didn’t realize was this man she and her husband were trying to set me up with—swirling black hole that he was—just happened to be the center of my universe.

“Let me show you ladies back,” Joe said, after shaking my hand too enthusiastically. Bonita would never have to worry about him cheating on her, I thought. He was a very poor actor. I noticed Liza was white-knuckling her briefcase as she made the kind of pleasant small talk service reps are supposed to. At every nervous glance back at me, I nodded and smiled nebulously. I hadn’t bothered with a briefcase; I didn’t need one. In fact, I was planning to take the rest of the week off.

My SR was on her third install and I’d polished off the last of my lipstick by nine-thirty. What is taking him so long? Liza peeked up warily as I paced in frustration. I knew I was frightening the child, but I was way too nervous to stop fidgeting. I looked once more at the clock. Pete was toying with me.

When a man cleared his throat behind me, my heart skipped several beats. I set my coffee cup by Liza’s tools for fear of crushing it. This was it. “Miss Wade?” Joe said.

A huge smile exploded across my face. I turned, poised to launch into Pete’s arms in front of this live studio audience and kiss him until neither of us could breathe. Kneeling to retrieve the pliers I’d knocked off the table, his blond crown was the first thing I saw.

“Well, it’s about damn ti—” I stopped mid-sentence as our eyes locked. Unfazed by my expression, Bonita’s husband proudly introduced this handsome man.

“I’d like you to meet Matt Hayes. Matt, this is Susan Wade.” Joe raised his eyebrows, hoping for my approval. Matt—I believe that’s the name Joe had used, though it was hard to hear over the storm of snow and silence that raged within me—appeared to be about my age, with pretty hazel eyes similar in color to Mona’s. He wore an open, friendly expression—one I desperately tried matching as I shook his warm hand. If my smile didn’t meet my eyes, well, he’d just have to forgive me that; I’d just been crumpled inside like an aluminum can—crumpled, flattened, run over by a fully loaded Mac truck.

I had to clear my throat and take a really deep breath before speaking. “Hello, Matt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hey, Susan, it’s great meetin’ you, too. When Joe told me you were from North Carolina, well I had to see ya. I haven’t been gone real long, but I’m already homesick. Ya know what I’m talkin’ about, right? Ohio State fans everywhere, and nobody can talk right up here,” he said, rolling his eyes and elbowing Joe. They laughed jovially. I attempted to laugh as well, and then I did laugh loudly, though it had an hysterical edge. The situation just was too fucking funny; fate had done it again. Thank you, God, for hating me so much!

“Hey, I’d sure like to take ya out for a drink after work if ya aren’t busy,” Matt continued excitedly. He waited for my reply. So did Joe. Even Liza turned to see who’d just asked her cold-as-ice boss out and why said bitch wasn’t responding.

“S-sure that would be lovely,” I said, with all the enthusiasm of a kid stuck inside during recess. Vacillating between utter despair and bitter resentment, the idea of pulling off pleasant conversation with this animated North Carolina ex-pat seemed ridiculously unkind to us both. After all, this smiling man’s only crime was not being the man I loved, or hated—pick one. He was also not the man who I now concretely realized was never coming for me. I made a tactical decision for everyone’s sake.

“Matt, since you’re new to Columbus, why don’t we make it a group thing to welcome you properly? It’ll be INTech’s treat. I imagine we’ll all need a drink by this afternoon.” Seeming delighted by the idea, Matt nodded his head and Joe smiled appreciatively. “Liza, you’ll come, too, right?” I said, looking down at her. “You don’t need to rush back to Cincy, do you?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I could use a drink, too,” she said, smiling anxiously.

“Joe, do you and Bonita have plans?”

He raised his palms. “You’ll have to talk to the boss lady about that. She’s in charge of my social calendar.” I smiled, thinking that was the most perfect response a husband could give, and I couldn’t help respecting him for it.

“Alright, I’ll touch base with her when I get back to the office and we’ll make plans.” I looked at the nonexistent watch on my wrist and said, “Oh, I’m late for my next meeting.” It was an important one with myself, to be held somewhere very private, like the side of the road. “I’d better be on my way.” I hurriedly shook everyone’s hand, and Liza, much to my amusement, sagged in relief.

That evening, the moon—a super-sized harvest moon, stared down at me, its pale light sparkling diamonds in the frost coating my car. Did that glowing man still know things? Had he ever? His illumined face seemed indifferent now, and I despised it!

Immediately upon entering my apartment, I raised the vase of red roses I’d carefully arranged and hurled it into the trash. Then, after violently flinging my shoes at the closet door, screamed at the top of my lungs into a pillow so as not to piss off the very nice gay couple next door. Doing right by me, my ass. Stupid, hateful bastard!

Angrily, I ripped off my clothes, took a scalding shower, and threw on some ugly flannel pajamas. Yanking back the freshly washed linens of my meticulously made up bed, I burrowed under them, feeling every bit the fool. I’d sprinkled a few drops of his favorite perfume on the comforter before leaving this morning, hoping he’d still find the fragrance enticing. Now the scent made me nauseous.

Matt had been a genuinely delightful man and the two of us might have hit it off, had we lived in an alternate reality. Regrettably, we were trapped in this one. Only now did I fully understand how Mona had felt when I’d shoved her towards Reeves, her willingness to wait for Jimbo forever, and why no one else would ever be good enough—would ever even matter. Finally, I got it. Finally! And it was just too late.

48

Retail Therapy

“I’m gonna buy stock in that company,” Bonita said, the following morning.

Confused, I asked, “What company?”

“Whoever makes those things you keep eating. You’re keeping them in business all by yourself.” I looked at the bottle of fruit-flavored antacids in my hand. “Every time I come in here you’re chewing on one.”

“They’re good for me—lots of calcium.”

“Uh huh. Have you considered seeing a doctor?”

“Why would I do that? And stop looking at me that way, will you? I’m fine.”

“Maybe you’ve got an ulcer, or something worse. My aunt’s chest used to bother her like that. Next thing we knew, she was lying in a hospital bed with cancer.” I glared at her and pointed at the door. “I’m just saying…” Her caramel laughter followed her out.

While Mona internalized her thoughts, her suggestions taking the form of gentle nudges and worried looks, Bonita externalized everything, which really got on my nerves, especially when it came to my personal life—no Southern reserve there. Plus, now she had me paranoid. I’d been too busy with work, and in my spare time thrashing in general regret, to pay particular notice to the dull ache that had crept like a poisonous vine from my stomach to just above my breasts. I assumed it was indigestion from my culinary rut of meaty deli food and creamy moussaka, but the antacids I’d been popping for some time now didn’t seem to help.

My life wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be happy and fulfilled and…happy! And if I didn’t pull myself out of this emotional tailspin soon, I was putting myself on antidepressants, or worse. Maybe Bonita was right. Maybe there was something physically wrong with me. I reached for the bottle again. Maybe I should just die and get it over with.

My people took care of most of the installs, but occasionally, when I wasn’t fretting over budgets and contracts, I handled some of the local lightweight technical work myself. I casually mentioned my problem to a nurse as I worked on her medical office’s Ethernet connection.

“Why don’t you make an appointment to come in,” she said kindly.

“Yeah, like I have time to see a doctor.”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

“I’m sure I’m fine.” She delivered the kind of stern look only a nurse can pull off. When I’d finished with the job, I tried to leave, but she was guarding the exit like a three-headed hellhound.

“Thursday at nine-thirty, or Friday at eleven. Pick one.”

“I don’t need to see the doctor, thank you,” I snipped. She looked over her silver-rimmed glasses. How many mothers were out there trying to adopt me? “Fine.” I pulled out my phone and checked my schedule. I left, annoyed and carrying an appointment reminder card.

When I stalked into the doctor’s office on Friday for my stupid appointment, every staff member was wearing some sort of OSU paraphernalia. I hadn’t paid attention to sports, but as college basketball is everything in North Carolina, so football is here. The Buckeyes were having a tremendous season, evidently, and spirits were high.

Arriving early as suggested by Margaret, aka Nurse Ratchet, I began filling out the novel of paperwork. Right after NAME and DATE, came AGE. I thought for a moment and then gasped. My birthday was next week. Holy shit! I’d be thirty! My twenties were almost over—no, they were over! How had this happened? My beautiful twenties were gone—lost forever, and I couldn’t quite remember where I’d left them. I quickly scribbled twenty-nine in the little block and continued writing while quietly nursing my apoplexy.

After taking my blood pressure—a little high, and with good reason—checking my temperature, perusing my family history, and asking the ever-popular do you take drugs? question, the nurse left. Could these people not read? I’d just spent twenty minutes writing all that shit down. Plus, who answers that question truthfully?

After an eternal stretch of boredom, Dr. Rabkin entered the room. She glanced at my five-paragraph essay, and then asked in animated blandness, “So what brings you in today?” She was short, wore nice shoes, and had curly brown hair dusted with gray. Oh no, I’m going to gray, too!Oh, the humanity! I told her about my chest hurting constantly, my lack of focus, and not-quite-suicidal depression.

“Hmm. Okay, let’s run some tests,” she said, before leaving me alone with my nightmares. Daddy’s cancer was caused by excessive smoking, but no cigarette had ever touched my lips so I should be okay there. Was there such a thing as heart cancer? I wasn’t sure.

Because I’d complained of chest pain, they hit me with the works. Evidently, heart attacks were more common in women my age than I’d thought, especially for those under immense pressure—clearly, I didn’t fall into that category. I left with a puncture wound in my left arm and a stiff warning about my lifestyle choices.

The results of the battery of less than pleasant tests were ready the following week. I assumed they’d just leave a message saying everything was fine, but no, they wanted to see me; this did not bode well. I sat in the waiting room, pretending to read a magazine. When I was called back to receive my verdict, I reluctantly got up. Susan, you have cancer; Susan, you need triple by-pass surgery; Susan, we’re committing you to an asylum.

The small, sterile room in which the nurse abandoned me was claustrophobic and as cold as it was outside, I was sweating. What if something very serious was wrong with me? What if I needed an extended hospital stay or something equally horrible like chemotherapy? Once again I was forced to the staggering realization that there wasn’t a soul in this state I could count on for help. Other than my mom, who would travel to the deepest jungles of Africa just to lecture me, I had no one. There would be no Mona or Pete or even church ladies running to my rescue this time. Hell, no one even knew me here. I, Susan Wade, Superwoman of the Ages, was completely alone. Well, isn’t anonymity a real kick in the pants!

The only one available to empathize was the resin skeleton in the corner. And though smiling, I wasn’t sure he even had ears. I swung my feet back and forth against the table, crinkling the paper with every jolt. After a light knock, in came the doctor busily flipping through my chart. Why do doctors knock before entering exam rooms? What exactly do they think we do in here? She looked up as she shut the door.

“Well, Susan, your test results show nothing unusual.” She rattled off a bunch of numbers and Latin terms that meant nothing to me, and then said with a pleased smile, as if she somehow had something to do with it, “You are a very healthy woman. Considering your age and overall family history, I believe the pain in your chest may be related to anxiety or emotional distress. You’ve said your career is demanding, but are there things outside of work that might be contributing to your condition?” I rolled my eyes but shook my head no. She raised her eyebrow slightly and consulted her papers again. “You may want to cut back at work for a little while and practice some stress relief techniques.” I silently snorted. Crank work up another notch would be better; I’d have even less time to think about my crappy, yet highly successful life.

She wrote something down on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. Meds? Meds could fix anything, right? I wondered if they made a pill that induced partial amnesia. I’d pay top dollar for that. “This is the name of a therapist I like. It might be helpful to talk to her.” She held my eyes for an uncomfortably long time, and then said, “Now, Susan, I don’t want to see you back here anytime soon unless you’ve got a cold.” She did the smile and wink thing as she exited.

Tossing the “prescription” in the trashcan, I stomped to my car. I suppose I should have been relieved by my prognosis, but it just made me mad. I did not need a therapist to resolve my “medical condition”.

The epiphany occurred when I pulled out my wallet to pay the garage attendant: Retail Therapy! Creature comforts, that’s what I needed. I left the complex and drove directly to Easton Mall.

One suit, three silk blouses, two pairs of spiked heels, and a rockin’ new purse later, and I was already feeling better. In fact, I almost had a skip in my step again. I tied the bow on the day’s therapeutic breakthrough with a raspberry chip sundae from Graeter’s, a local confectionary. Sure, this type of therapy probably cost more than your average visit to Dr. J. Klug, Ph.D., but I held instant gratification in my bags and walked away with something useful.

♥

Black Friday—not the magnanimous after Thanksgiving shopping event that sends my being into euphoria, but rather my personal dark day—arrived along with a string of cheerful sympathy cards from relatives and corporate coworkers. A bouquet of black balloons greeted me at the office. Clearly, someone had gotten hold of my HR information and spread it like a virus, and I had a pretty good idea who it was. Though I would have much preferred to forget the date altogether—really forget it, the sentiment was very nice and I sprang for pizza for the whole office, accepting jousts with grace. At this point, I was just thankful my people felt comfortable enough to joke with me.

A package from Mona waited on my doorstep when I got home that evening. Inside, an Atlantic Beach t-shirt, shot glass, and several other silly souvenir items were neatly and individually wrapped. Her note ended with Don’t forget about us. I chuckled and shook my head.

Sifting through the pile of bills and “please send us money” pleas, another envelope with a Havelock postmark dropped onto the table. You’d think Mona would have just stuffed it in the box like any normal person, but she was just like my mother; afterthoughts needed stamps. Before slipping it open, I froze, the bold, precise writing on the front glaring like a neon sign. My hands began trembling so badly I dropped it on the floor. After staring at this alien thing for several moments, I walked to the refrigerator.

The cork popped loudly on the champagne I’d been chilling since Halloween. After taking a few swigs straight from the bottle, I retrieved the bomb and carefully opened it. Centered on thick white cardstock, I found the following handwritten words: Happy and Birthday. It was simple, understated, and lacked even a hint of warmth. Though unnecessary for identification purposes, he hadn’t even bothered signing his name. I stared at the stationary, willing it to say more, tracing each letter until the script became wavy.

This was cruel. If Pete could take the time to send a card, why wouldn’t he return my calls? True, a sliver of me was thrilled knowing I plagued his mind enough to evoke a response of any sort—one that in some vague way suggested he might still care about me. But this baitless hook, at its basest level, was perverse. I wanted to shred the card into confetti and run it through my disposal—or better, stuff the torn pieces back into the envelope and scrawl “return to sender” across the front in permanent marker, just so he’d know I’d seen it for what it really was. In the end, I just set it back on my table and walked away. Glad you’re healing up, too, Jack Ass.

After another sleepless night, I needed a therapy session like never before. This was one of those “If this is an actual emergency, please hang up and dial 911” kinds of situations. I turned to the Internet.

The way it worked up here was that the car dealerships were grouped in clusters—very convenient for those with little time. I was now making well over twice what I had in my previous position, and that was not counting the enhanced benefits package, profit sharing, and cash bonuses. Further, the rent on my much nicer apartment was actually less than mine in Philadelphia; living in the Midwest had its advantages.

My fleet car was fine, slightly elegant even, in a large, American model kind of way, but my respectable time as a widow had passed. I needed to remarry. All smiles, I strode into the first showroom on my list and perused its wares. Car snob that I would always be, I was only considering a few makes—all expensive. After careful research, I knew the models in which I was most interested. This would be the first brand new car purchase of my life, and I wanted to do it right. I was a little giddy, really.

After an unprecedented therapeutic breakthrough, I drove away with a shiny, freshly-minted, silver quarter-colored Audi. I drove her—it!—gleefully around the entire I-270 loop, and planned visits to both regional offices in the coming week just to break it in. After accelerating from sixty to ninety in a split second, I knew this car and I were a perfect match, and it comforted me to imagine my BMW smiling down from that great auto mall in the sky.

Equally important to its torque, the car made exactly the statement I wanted: I am not a snooty bitch; I am a nice person who just happens to like foreign cars. I parallel parked in front of my apartment with the sleek efficiency of an expert and waved to my lovely neighbors, who wandered over to congratulate me and invite me for cocktails. And I accepted. Ha!

♥

Maintaining a photo album was way too much work for me, but I did have a box; a stiff, metallic blue floral thing my mother had given me—need I say more? In it I kept keepsakes; graduation tassels, some letters from my grandmother, my high school class ring, a bundle of photos, including one of the blond asshole to whom I’d so frivolously given my virginity…and a few special gifts from Pete. I removed the container from its hiding place, wondering if it in any way resembled the one Zeus had given Pandora. Removing the lid would fill my world with a new plague of some sort, but there was something in it I needed, so I had no choice.

Acknowledging that prolonged exposure would surely be my undoing, I rifled quickly through the small stack of pictures I’d taken while in North Carolina. With the push of a button, I’d erased my computer’s wallpaper, exchanging it for a factory preloaded one, but destroying these photos of him—no. Setting them aside, I quickly found what I was looking for. And while I owed him nothing at this point, I’d vowed that when I bought my new car, I’d affix the OBX sticker to it—the one he’d given me on that amazing summer evening when we’d become lovers.

It was cold as blue whizzes in Columbus now, and I waited until I got into the parking deck before executing the last item on our relationship’s will and testament. Barnacles of road salt already clung in clusters to my bumpers and doors. With the thumb of my black leather glove, I swiped away the crust and centered the oval below my license plate.

There, done.

49

A Close One

Hurricanes were never something I’d given much thought to. Growing up in the western part of the state, these storms rarely traveled inland far enough to cause any mischief other than a little rain; sometimes not even that. But as the Atlantic went into heat every fall, her cramps were a pain to the people living near the coast. As I watched the storm inch towards North Carolina, for once I was truly anxious—frightened even. The eye was predicted to make landfall just south of Ocracoke Island, and the monster was growing in strength. No longer just a coffee break topic, this situation directly affected me, because it was headed straight for people I knew—and loved.

During the press conference, broadcast to a mildly interested world, North Carolina’s Governor stood confidently in front of the State Seal, delivering his reassuring, chocked full of bullshit speech, his every gesture illumined by the lightning strikes of camera flashes. Rolling my eyes, I was glad Anita had peed in front of his house.

The segment soon cut to a raincoat-clad CNN reporter, who, barely able to stand in the gusts, shouted into his microphone over the roar of angry surf. Rain-splashed video clips showed road signs violently twisting in the wind. Tearing myself from the TV, I hurried to the office to continue monitoring the situation.

Warnings streamed across the bottom of my computer screen in stock market ticker tape fashion: Carteret, Pamlico, Hyde, Dare Counties have issued mandatory evacuations; North Carolina has closed all ports in preparation for this powerful storm; boats urged off the water; ferry services suspended; hurricane force winds, riptides, storm surges, wind shears, locations of local shelters… Maddening!

Eventually, my fingers found the bookmark I’d buried deeply, and after opening it, quietly closed my door as the annoying Navy Mutual LifeInsurance advertisement babbled to its awe-inspiring conclusion. A thunderous Southern voice, enhanced with echoing sound effects, proudly announced that I was listenin’ to WSFL, home of classic rock.

The DJ ticked off the same information I’d already heard, but in a matter-of-fact way I found altogether comforting. These folks were used to this type of weather phenomenon—had lived with it all their lives. With no sense of direness in his voice, he encouraged listeners to stay tuned; the station would continue to rock New Bern, Jacksonville, Havelock and all of Eastern Carolina until their antennae blew off the roof. Smiling, I clicked on their website link, made an online donation to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund, and then went back to work, seven layers of worry lighter.

Generating significant disappointment to the holy host of meteorologists, whose networks had canceled all scheduled programming to bring viewers “up to the minute coverage of the potentially monumental disaster,” the hurricane only skirted the shoreline before drifting out to sea. Delighted with the news, I called Mona. The storm had given me a great excuse to nose around under the guise of concern.

“Oh, we’re fine,” Mona said. “Good gosh, Susan, this happens every year. We had a little wind damage and lost power for about half a day, but that’s normal. ’Course Clark’s runnin’ all over creation servicin’ frustrated clients,” she said, giggling.

I let out a sigh of relief and said, “I heard all the boats were told to get off the water.”

“Yeah, well, they always are.”

“What about the bar?” I needed a segue of some sort.

“Oh, everything’s fine. Ya worry too much.” I found the comment wildly entertaining, considering its source, but I was getting nowhere.

“Thanks for the birthday gifts. I’ve already worn the shirt to the gym.”

“Did it fit okay? They didn’t have an extra small.”

“It’s perfect.” I hesitated, warring with myself, but then lost. “I got a card from Pete.”

“Really?” Her voice glowed with warmth. “Oh, I’m so relieved. I didn’t want to make ya feel bad or guilty, so I haven’t said anything.”

“Said anything about what? Is he okay?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. It’s just, I’ve been worried about him, that’s all. He’s been keepin’ to himself pretty much, and he’s all but stopped comin’ to the bar. He spends an awful lot of time out on his boat, even with as cold as it’s gotten. He’s been out of town a lot, too, lately. Workin’, I guess. Honestly, I hadn’t laid eyes on him in weeks ’til he came over to help Jimbo board up the bar for the storm. But if he wrote to ya, he must be alright.

“Jimbo’s hired himself a new bartender. He’s real sweet. His name is….” the rest of what she said kind of faded into noise. Oh, Pete, what have we done to each other?

A big part of me wanted to hop on the next plane to Raleigh. The other part—the practical one—reminded me that he was the one who’d broken things off, and maybe he deserved to feel bad. In fact, I took perverse pleasure in the thought. Since he couldn’t seem to find time to pick up the damn phone and call me, maybe he wasn’t nearly as bad off as Mona implied. Certainly, he hadn’t shown up at my doorstep begging for forgiveness, or asking if we might start over. In fact, the more I thought about it, the less I believed he could possibly be heartbroken, and his being out of town so much might mean something very different than what Mona had surmised. In fact, it was quite possible he’d found a source of comfort somewhere else.

My unpleasant dreams returned.

♥

Strumming my nails on the desk a few days later, I listened with harnessed patience as she repeated the same thing yet again.

“No, Mom, it’s totally fine. I’m really happy for you. Yes, really!” My mother was spending the Thanksgiving holiday with a gentleman friend, whom she’d only recently summoned the courage to mention. I was ecstatic. This was the first man she’d shown any interest in since Daddy died. It was time to move on with her life. Good advice, dummy!

“Yes, I hear Historical Williamsburg is beautiful this time of year. You’ll have fun. Besides, I’m swamped.”

“I hate to think of yew all by yourself,” she said for the fifty-seventh time. “I’m sure you’re busy with your big job, but Susie, I know yew. You’re workin’ too hard again. I can hear it in your voice. Now, you’ve got to slow down or you’re gonna make yourself good and miserable.” I chuckled grimly. “Why don’t ya go and visit your friends down in Havelock? I bet ya’d have a good time.” She unleashed her cajoling, singsong voice—the one reserved for guilting me into doing something for my own good—like piano lessons, or tap dancing, or the dentist.

“Mom, I have to go.”

“Alright then, but yew think about what I said. I love yew, honey.”

“Yeah, okay, mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I love you, too. Goodbye.” Ugh! I glowered at my substantial, grown-up office like a fuming teenager.

When my mother-induced frustration subsided, I wholeheartedly threw myself back into analyzing Liza’s monthly sales report. Unfortunately, my mind wandered off. For some reason, the mere mention of Havelock and Thanksgiving sent my thoughts straight to sweet potato pie. Musing, I envisioned power struggles between Havelock’s Junior League women, all vying for coveted slots on Belva Sue’s holiday pie list. I bet Pete’s name was at the very top; VIP status. Hell, he’d probably dug up the damn potatoes for her in the first place. As if on cue, the phone rang. I didn’t look past the 252 area code before snatching it up and then almost dropping the stupid thing.

“Pete?” It just popped right out of my mouth of its own volition. The few seconds of silence that followed caused my heart to stop.

“Um, it’s just me.”

“Oh hi, Mona,” I said, the air slowly deflating from my lungs. I tried to rebound with a pleasantly surprised and breezy tone, though I’d already blown it. “Sorry about that—must have read the number wrong. How are you?”

“I’m just fine.”

“Good.” It hadn’t been long since our last chat so I had no real news to share. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothin’. I just thought I’d call ya.”

“Anytime.” More silence. “So, how’s everyone?”

“Just fine. Mr. Dupree has his britches in a bunch again,” she said with a snort. “And Dottie wanted me to tell ya hello next time I talked to ya.”

“She did?”

“Well, not exactly in those words… And let’s see… Oh! Sarah at the bank—you remember her, right? She got engaged.”

“Wow, that’s great. I’m really happy for her,” I said, unaware she even had a boyfriend.

“Yeah, me too. She asked me to be in the weddin’,” she said, sighing dejectedly. Poor Mona, always the bridesmaid…

“That’ll be fun,” I responded cheerily. I began tapping my foot against the desk leg trying to figure out what she wanted.

Her perky voice returned. “And well…that’s about it, I guess. Oh, and it’s cold.” I glanced at the snow, blowing like confectioner sugar against my window and snorted softly. After a long pause, she said, “Susan, I’d like ya to come down to Havelock for Thanksgivin’. Since you’re not goin’ home, I thought…well, I’d sure love to see ya.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“How do you know I’m not going home for Thanksgiving?”

A small guilty voice followed a large silence. “Weyulla…” So, she and my mother were in league against me! We’d just see about that.

“Shouldn’t you be going to Charlotte for Thanksgiving?” I said sharply.

Sidestepping my snide remark she replied, “Your mamma’s just worried about ya, that’s all.”

Any attempts to protect my meddling mother were in vain, but for a freakish second, I actually entertained the possibility. Reason swept that silly notion away. I could just imagine the hard stares, awkward conversations, and other unpleasantries awaiting me if I skipped into town. It would be exactly awful, and I shuddered.

“Thanks, but I really don’t think I’d be welcome.”

“What do ya mean? ’Course ya’d be. Everyone misses ya,” she said, clearly stoned out of her flippin’ mind.

“Mona.”

“You could share all your stories about livin’ in Ohio—I bet you’ve already had snow, haven’t ya? And ya know the food’ll be good. Jimbo’s havin’ an oyster roast. You haven’t eaten oysters ’til you’ve tried ’em roasted. We’ll all have so much fun!” She was doing her nervous nonstop talking thing, and I pictured her seated at her desk braiding her fingers as she spoke. I wanted to press my hands over my ears and shut out the happy images she was projecting.

“Mona!” I barked, and then mustered a polite tone. “It’s very kind of you to ask, but I really can’t.” A tropical vacation popup advertisement flashed excitedly in the corner of my computer screen, catching my eye. It showed a smiling couple, hand-in-hand, splashing through cerulean surf. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about taking a quick trip to the Caribbean over the holiday.” Five seconds counted as “thinking”, right? “It’s one of those last minute deals.” Or at least that’s what the ad said. “So I might not even be in the country.” I am so going to Hell!

“Pete’s gonna be there!” she blurted out desperately. If reading a line of his handwriting made me crumble and explode simultaneously, I morbidly wondered what seeing him in the flesh would do. “I thought maybe if y’all talked some in person, then maybe—”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Mona.” My voice sounded flat and lifeless, rather like the way I felt. She made a coughing sound that loosely translated as “bullshit.”

“He’s hurtin’. I know it. And whether you’re willin’ to admit it or not, I think you are, too. And maybe talkin’ on the phone and writin’ to each other just isn’t enough.” My chest practically screamed in pain, and tears welled. I was so tired of feeling this way. I exhaled roughly.

“Mona, I haven’t spoken to Pete since I left North Carolina.”

“What?!” she exclaimed, horrified. But then spat out in a fiery voice, “Susan, you are the most pigheaded person I’ve ever met!”

“Excuse me?”

“We all know how happy ya are up there, and I’m glad ya found your place and all that, but the least you could do is call him, ’specially after he sent ya a nice birthday card and everything. Gosh!”

There was no fight left inside me; I’d used up my more than ample supply. I couldn’t even muster enough spark to lash out at her, much less bring myself to tell her that Pete hadn’t even bothered signing the damn card, or that it wasn’t even a card in the first place; just a piece of paper, really.

“I’ve called Pete many times, sent emails, tried texting,” I said softly. “He’s never returned one of them, never responded to any of my messages.”

“I don’t understand. I thought…” Her voice trailed off towards the shadows where mine lurked.

“Not one, Mona. Not ever,” I whispered hollowly. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room. I stumbled to the window and cracked it open, letting the frigid air billow over my face. My door was closed; no one could, or as I thought darkly, would complain.

“Oh my Dear Lord,” she said finally. “Oh Susan, honey, I didn’t know.” Mona’s voice was steeped in faithful pity, and for once, I suppose, I didn’t resent it. I was pitiful.

“I need to go.”

“I miss ya somethin’ awful,” she whispered as the first tear hit my desk.

“I miss you, too,” I squeaked. Without even powering it down, I jerked my laptop from its docking station, grabbed my coat, and rushed to the elevator, avoiding all eyes.

50

Parking Lot Prophecy

Alone and working through Thanksgiving was my reality. I unwrapped my turkey sandwich and stared at it with distaste. The bread was smashed and a sad piece of anemic lettuce flopped out one side. I probably looked no more enticing in my sagging Northwestern sweatshirt and wrinkled jeans. Well, wasn’t this just an Oceana Pier parking lot prophecy fulfilled? All I had to do now was find the number for an animal shelter to complete Pete’s prediction. I opened my top desk drawer and rooted around for those damned Tums.

“Susan…SUSAN!”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been twirling that pencil for twenty minutes,” Bonita said the following Monday. “Are you even in this room?”

“What? Oh, sorry. What were you saying about the balance sheets?”

“About ten minutes ago, I was saying everything’s in order. Now I’m saying it’s time to go home. You’re flying out tomorrow, right?”

“First thing.”

“See you next week, then.”

I hadn’t bothered getting a flu shot this fall and was majorly regretting it at the moment. After wiping my dripping nose, I added the tissue to the overflowing trashcan and replied, “Yep.”

I was attending my first Quarterlies as a district manager. Not only was I incredibly nervous, but I also had the bonus-added pleasure of spending extended periods of time in confined spaces with Kirsten—goodie for me! Not one to let go of a grudge, she was still furious that I breathed INTech air, especially in “her” Ohio district, and made no attempt to hide it. Regardless, from now on I sat at the big kid’s table, attending all those important meetings I used to fantasize about. Somehow, they didn’t seem so fantastical now.

I survived my three presentations and persevered through a fistful of nightmarishly long meetings, in spite of my embarrassing and disruptive coughing fits. Never to be outdone, Kirsten fully eclipsed my minor interruptions with explosive, germ-spewing outbursts that left her completely ostracized by her fellow managers.

“North Dakota not agreeing with you, Kirsten?” Beth asked, smirking as she walked by. She planted her very healthy self as far away as the oval table allowed. Rather than retort, Kirsten glared accusingly at me as if I were solely responsible for her illness. I would have found this amusing had I not been freakishly fevered myself.

Now the Jester in Frank Calvin’s merry kingdom, when we broke out into subgroups, her absence was well received. I didn’t attend any after work mixers, though I was warmly invited. Instead, I spent evenings locked in my hotel room, sipping hot tea and overdosing on a variety of cold and flu medications. At least I wasn’t puking my guts out, and for that I was grateful.

The company traditionally threw one hell of a holiday party, but because I was fairly sure I couldn’t physically stand long enough to carry on polite conversation, I rearranged my flight and left for the airport mid-afternoon. Plague-ridden, I seated myself on a hard vinyl couch at Gate 14C. Fluctuating between bouts of shivers and sweats, I managed the two-hour wait by furiously typing gibberish and drinking four Cokes.

“Susan?” With immense effort, I looked up. “I thought those legs belonged to you. How’s it going with your pretty self?” It was Kevin Clarisey from ComTech, Inc., a formidable Texas-based competitor. He’d been trying to lure me to the dark side since my college interview. He also enjoyed hitting on me whenever he got the chance—me and half the other women on the planet.

“Fine, Kevin. You?” I asked, stuffing my laptop and wad of tissues into my briefcase. He plopped down next to me, his hand resting dangerously close to my knee. Though at the moment, I was so sick I didn’t care if he copped a damn feel.

“Heard you were vacationing in Carolina these days. How’s that going?”

“Oh, I’m in Ohio now.”

“You didn’t go and get yourself knocked up, did you?” I blanched at the mere suggestion, but then, very slow at the draw in my fevered state, realized what he meant.

“Why, yes I did,” I said, unable to suppress a weak grin.

“Damn! That’s gonna cost us extra now.” I smirked, knowing where this was going. He shifted in his chair to face me, barely outside my infectious zone. I stifled a cough. “All kidding aside, if you ever want to jump ship, my company would really love to have you.” I shook my head. “We have some balmy Southern slots available if it starts getting too cold up there for you.” He sounded quite earnest, and for once I found myself mildly curious. But before I could inquire further, he added, “Of course, if you’re too much a slave to consider other options, I’d be more than happy to fly over and keep you warm.” Waggling his eyebrows, he leered irreverently, squelching any further discussion on the topic.

A pinched-nosed voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing my boarding call. Rescued from a long bantering session filled with sexual innuendos I lacked the energy or creativity to pursue, I gratefully gathered my things. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the hot ones.” He winked and handed me his card. I slipped it in my coat pocket, exchanging it for my boarding pass.

“Well, Kevin, I hate to leave you in the heat of your moment, but they’re playing my song.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to give me one of yours?” In my medicinal haze, I was forgetting professional etiquette. Reaching into my purse, I proudly handed him my shiny new business card with my shiny new title. He read it and then smirked. “You’re in the architecture business now?”

“What?!” I snatched the card back and gasped, remembering Pete’s words. “Keep it, Susie-Q. Ya know, in case ya ever forget where to find me.” I knew where he was, alright. He just didn’t want to be found.

Shoving it back in the purse I clearly hadn’t used since summer—one I must have grabbed by mistake, I groped in my briefcase with better results. After analyzing it, he shook his head. “You’re getting expensive. Don’t wait too long to walk into the light or we won’t be able to afford you.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Kevin.” Hoisting my bags I shuffled to the back of the growing line.

“Susan,” he called out. I stopped abruptly, causing the man behind me to stumble into my suitcase. He grumbled something I chose to ignore and skirted around me. “Call me if you change your mind. Seriously, let’s talk.” I saluted him then melted back into the crowd.

As I lay in bed, lost in a Nyquil-induced stupor, Kevin’s words chased each other around my mind; Southern, Southern, Southern…

♥

Mona’s Christmas card was a picture of Santa Claus holding a surfboard in front of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. My eyes misted at her lovely handwritten sentiment, full of feeling and well wishes. I placed it beside my mother’s on the small mantle in the den. Acknowledging my developing OCD behavior, I sifted through my mail nightly, half expecting another grenade from Havelock. It never came. On the upside, the Audi dealership sent me glad tidings and a coupon for a free oil change, which made me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

The next clipper rolled through at deafening speed. Snow and bitter wind scratched and clawed at me as I hurriedly scraped snow from my windshield before creeping to work. At lunch I dodged the dirty mounds left behind from overnight plowings, praying all the while the enormous icicle stalactites hanging from the ledges above would not choose this moment to dislodge and impale me. Tightening my scarf, I eyed the awning, poised to avalanche, before entering a restaurant known for its soup.

Ten days since my return from Philly and the ComTech card still rested on my desk, calling to me like a mythical Siren towards a rocky cliff. Pete’s was propped beside it—the rocky cliff. I glared out my office window at the crystal prison bars. A Southern territory; Kevin had no idea the temptation he’d placed before me.

Perhaps Mona was right. Maybe if Pete and I could just talk. If I opened up and told him how I actually felt, instead of leaving him stupid messages about how fine and happy and wonderful my new life was—and he could apologize for being a dumbass—then maybe we could bandage our wounds, find a way to make it—us—work. I dialed his number, vowing yet again that this would be the very last time. The call went directly to voicemail as always. For some reason, I actually expected him to answer this time. This one was important; there were things I needed to know. “Pete, give me a call when you get this. I need…I would really like to talk to you.”

Traffic came to its usual halt that evening, and I became lost in thought. Looking past the ice-entombed guardrails of the High Street Bridge, I watched cars inch along Interstate-71 below, their stream of red lights flowing through the island of downtown like a shining river of blood.

With nothing to do but sit, I analyzed my life from a Darwinistic standpoint, evaluating the differences between the two sets of people I now bridged; Northerners and Southerners. Could the fittest survivors of one clime thrive under the radically different conditions of the other? I thought of poor old Mr. Dupree in his polished dress shoes, slipping and sliding through snow and muck to his big shiny Cadillac. Then I thought of all the service reps from places similar to Columbus, whose careers had wilted miserably in the wet heat of Eastern North Carolina. Neither group was inferior to the other; each simply occupied a different ecological niche, evolving to fit its surroundings. I may not have fallen into the “fittest” category in either case, but I was a survivor. Was I really thriving though?

I wondered if my sudden distaste for the cold and a softening of my once rock-hard interior were results of the unstoppable swing of my evolutionary pendulum still caught in its southern arc. And if so, when would it swing back? I considered that perhaps my survival in the South stemmed from having already occupied that environment once before; re-acclimating rather than evolving. But hadn’t I crawled out of that evolutionary stew, sprouted wings, and migrated North? Was it possible to breathe both on land and in water?

And then I asked myself the tougher question: What if my “semester abroad” had been spent in the Southwest, or some other place where I was truly ill-equipped to live, a destination where I had no survival skills whatever? Was that the kind of balmy place Kevin’s company could offer? Was I willing to chance a brilliant career in hopes of getting closer to a place I was beginning to believe I belonged? And moreover, would “closer” be good enough for him?

My existential ramblings ended as traffic began to move again.

♥

The office was becoming emptier by the day as my staff cleared out for the Christmas holiday; only a few precious shopping days remained. Looking once more at the ComTech card, I realized I’d been grasping at the last strings of hope, and that the threads had dry-rotted, becoming so brittle they’d finally snapped.

A Southern territory could mean anywhere if it existed at all. Entertaining any notion of leaving INTech for a pipedream was ludicrous, and I knew it. But in my own defense, I’d never been in love before and I had no earthly idea how much the whole enterprise could hurt—how desperate it could make a person. Worse, I had no idea how to make him love me back. Hell, I couldn’t even get him to call me back, and his grace period had just expired.

I picked up both cards and tossed them in the trash…and with them a lot of me.

51

When Pigs Eat Doughnuts

A collective sigh resounded throughout the cabin when the plane pierced the tightly woven ceiling over central Ohio, and brilliant sunlight flooded the interior. Those passengers lucky enough to have window seats pressed their faces against the gremlin-scratched Plexiglas to drink up the rays. On the aisle, I felt a jealous pang. Like the others onboard, I suffered from solar anemia.

Thus far, the month of December had yielded exactly three days of sunshine. And it hadn’t been the pure and naked gleam of fall. No, it was a weak, low wattage fabrication barely backlighting blue flannel. But that would change soon enough, for I was flying to the sun’s home.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in your chest if ya keep rubbin’ it like that!” my mother exclaimed loud enough for all passersby to hear. “And you’re skinny as a rail. Goodness gracious, Susie, ya look awful!”

“Love you too, Mom,” I snarked, yanking my oversized carry-on hard enough to topple it off its wheels. Still sulking about the whole Thanksgiving conspiracy, at my mother’s urging, I’d conceded to fly home for Christmas. Her guilt tactics were finely honed, and my argument thin, after she reminded me she hadn’t “laid eyes on me” since the car accident. A private consolation was I’d prove my former lover wrong about working through Christmas.

With my mother spewing well-meaning insults, I trudged across the lobby trying to shake the sudden case of chills that had attacked me; the accents, the free and generous smiles, the suffocation. Home.

Passing through a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, we crossed the small bit of pavement to her car.

“I still don’t understand why you felt the need to drive all the way to Greensboro just to pick me up. I could have rented a car, you know,” I snipped.

“Well, it wouldn’t be right not to get my very own daughter from the airport,” she snipped back.

Muttering juvenile things under my breath, I fell into the passenger seat. Mom backed out of one of fifty or so metered spaces right in front of the building. No need to wind out of a large garage at The Piedmont Triad Airport, since they had no such animal. Nor did we have to swerve around myriad buses shuttling passengers to and from offsite parking; no angry horns blowing; no endless lines of taxis swooping in front of one another to scoop up their next fare. Exiting the airport was as peaceful as a fine Sunday afternoon drive.

In stark comparison, my hike to Columbus International after last night’s storm had been quite the adventure; traffic lights so caked with ice and snow, it was difficult to decipher their signal. White knuckling the wheel, I fully expected to be blindsided at every intersection. I took it all in stride though, enjoying my new favorite game: Dodge the Pothole. Every time the snowplows scraped through another layer of asphalt, I got to move up a level. My poor Audi’s suspension…

“It’s so green!” I remarked, marveling at the shiny-leafed magnolias as we merged onto I-40.

Completely convinced I was insane, she responded, “It’s not green. It’s winter for goodness sakes.”

“Mom, you have no idea.” It wasn’t what one would call warm at forty-eight degrees, but compared to the balmy negative two I’d left in Ohio, it might as well have been summer.

To justify my flight to the company, I’d arranged a brief, nonspecific meeting with Tom Ridgeway; a little sugar, a little coffee, a little chitchat and the price was covered. Tom had insisted we meet anytime I found myself in his district, and half drunk on beer and ego at September’s Quarterlies, I’d given him my word without a thought. I didn’t know then how very difficult staying faithful to it would be.

Tom’s formal residence was in High Point. By major city standards, his hour commute to the small town of Statesville, where the district’s headquarters now lay, was relatively short. So far west, his choice of location confounded me, as did the bizarre arrangement he still had with Bob. My only explanation was he’d lived here so long he’d contracted a solid case of the Southern loopies.

♥

Because the company had expanded years ago, Krispy Kreme doughnuts were now readily available in groceries as far away as Ohio, but the original location on Stratford Road in Winston-Salem still served the best doughnuts in the entire world. Tom felt similarly since it was there he wanted to meet.

While waiting, I chatted with the cashier. The technicians had just finished collecting the first group of malformed doughnuts from a new batch. Now, the perfectly-shaped pastries—the only ones deemed fit for customers—were traveling the conveyer belt. After the rejects were added to a bulging plastic bag, it was sealed and set beside four others, the various fillings squishing together in a rainbow of lemon, raspberry, and chocolate goo. This seemed a tragic waste.

“So, what do you do with the losing contestants?” I asked.

“Oh, we give ’em to this farmer over in Advance. He comes around ’bout six every day and picks’em up.”

“And what does he do with them?”

“Feeds ’em to his pigs, ’course,” she replied as if I were a simpleton. I shook my head and chuckled. Only in North Carolina would it be completely normal to raise pigs on a strict diet of doughnuts.

Currently the lone customer in the shop, I wandered the small interior. The walls almost sagged under the weight of a hodge-podge of framed photographs depicting customers from times gone by. I then pressed my face against the observation window to watch my little guy—I’d been promised the very first one—inch closer to its final and glorious destination: My stomach. Behind him, an army of dough inner tubes bathed in a lake of hot oil, nudging one another like bumper cars at a carnival. When they reached the shore, shiny stainless steel rollers whisked them up an incline through the sugary waterfall of happiness.

The white-uniformed matron disappeared from view, returning moments later carrying my doughnut like a sacred chalice. I raced to meet her.

“It’s hot, now. Be careful!” she warned as I lifted it to my lips. Burn me, my precious. I do not care!

She flipped a switch on the far wall activating the large neon sign in the parking lot. It began blinking the fiery Morse-coded message: “Hot Now”. Two more workers hurried to the counter with stacks of green dappled boxes.

As if summoned from Hell itself, the glass door swung open and Tom Ridgeway, wallet in hand, crossed the room in three hasty strides. Within a moment’s time, the shop resembled Wall Street at sounding bell. With great amusement, I watched the ever-lengthening line of customers fidget like heroin addicts waiting for a fix.

“Whew,” Tom said, as he pulled out the metal chair across from me. “Got here in the nick a time.” Though not originally from the South, Tom had acquired a rather impressive accent chocked full of local colloquialisms. After swallowing a bite in delirious ecstasy, he took in my appearance with shrewd eyes and asked, “How’re things going for ya, Susan?”

“Couldn’t be happier,” I lied. We didn’t know each other well, but his expression mirrored my father’s when I’d stayed out too late and wouldn’t give him an exactly straight answer about where I’d been. Averting my eyes, I meticulously wiped a white chip of sugar from my finger. “Ohio’s great, Tom. I love it! Business is solid, finances are in good shape, and my natives aren’t restless like yours.”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” he said with a wry smile. He took a sip of coffee and watched the rush of cars flooding the lot. Silence stretched. Finally, he quirked his lips and laid it all out in front of me. “Susan, you may not be aware of this, but I’m old,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll be announcing my retirement in March at Quarterlies. It’s time for me and Linda to start our second honeymoon.” There was a definite twinkle in his eye as he smiled.

“That’s great,” I said, somewhat stunned by the news.

“Yeah,” he mused. “The only problem is, I need someone to take over the reins here. Ya got any idea who my replacement ought to be?” I shook my head. “You were able to get the eastern region functioning again, but you and I both know that won’t last for long. In fact, I hear another storm’s already brewing.”

“That really doesn’t surprise me,” I said aloofly.

“This district was an ever-lovin’ disaster when I took it over back in the eighties. I’ve worked hard growing the business here and keeping it steady. Let me tell you it hasn’t been easy.” The eighties? “Charlotte, Research Triangle, and the Piedmont Triad areas have enjoyed significant growth in the banking, biotech, and textile manufacturing arenas—all big money,” he continued, sounding every bit the skilled salesman he was. “Agricultural and light industry markets are also thriving. Of course, you’re familiar with the Department of Defense contracts we hold down east,” he said with an ironic edge.

“Very,” I replied, smirking. “Tom, why the pitch?”

Steepling his fingers, he gazed at me. “If I had to pick a successor right now, your name would top my list.” I balked before catching myself.

“I’m glad you have that kind of faith in my ability—honored, actually, but I just took over Ohio. My district is rich and powerful—it’s an electoral swing state for crying out loud; Presidential elections are won or lost on its whims. You were at that meeting. People were fighting over it like hungry dogs! I’ve barely gotten my feet wet as a manager, much less proven myself. Besides, North Carolina would be a big step down. Trading in Ohio for it would make me look weak. Surely there are others better suited for this district. Plus,” I argued, “Bob would give me hell for even considering such a thing.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“Susan. Ohio, North Carolina,” he said, modeling his hands like a balance. “What’s the difference from a business standpoint? Percent increases versus losses, stability; numbers are numbers in the end. You know it as well as I do.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head, the picture of relaxed assurance.

I’d given up the wild hope of getting back here. And though his argument was sound, taking over North Carolina would ruin my career—we both knew it. Frank Calvin had gotten his start in Ohio. To advance to Senior VP, I’d need to follow his path. That was still my goal, wasn’t it? Was it? I suddenly felt like a drifting vessel with no lighthouse in sight.

“I’ve been with INTech my entire career,” he continued. “I trained Bob in the days when computers took up whole rooms, and we had to write programs with nothing but ones and zeros. Chips were called floppy discs back then,” he reminisced. “Ah, but the technology’s not important, it’s the business, and I believe you understand it better than you realize. It wouldn’t take much to get ya over here…if you wanted it,” he said, tilting his head analytically. “In fact, I’ve half a mind to call Bob right now.”

“Are you crazy?!” I yelped. Then I addressed the crucial point. “What if I don’t want it?”

He shook his head slowly and pegged me with a knowing look. “Susan, there’s more to life than work. And while it’s none of my business, word has it you enjoyed yourself down east.” My jaw literally fell open. “Over my career, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been offered larger districts. Hell, they even offered me Bob’s job a few times,” he said, snorting. “I’ve always refused. Would ya like to know why?”

“Yes, please,” I said, confounded on so many levels.

“Linda and I fell in love with North Carolina the moment we first visited, but more importantly, I’m very happy where I am. Ya see I’ve learned the value of balance. I enjoy my job, but I’ve also raised my family here; we have friends, a home—and I don’t just mean a house, Susan. I don’t need more,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “Besides, at this point, they pay me a fortune in options and profit sharing.”

As he laughed, I watched him in fascination. His eyes were permanently wrinkled at the corners, and I imagine he’d earned them by smiling a lot. Pete would have those someday, I thought errantly. My first would be crow’s feet or frown lines.

“Sure, I planned on taking over the world when I was young like you,” he continued, clasping his hands together as he sat forward again. “But thankfully, I realized I didn’t need to spend eighty hours a week in the office. Don’t get me wrong, there’s more than enough work here to control you if ya let it.” That seemed a common theme in our business; Ohio was certainly getting its fair share of me.

“Susan, do you know how many people in this company are on their second, if not third marriage because of their ambition?” I shook my head, spellbound. “I heard it put well once by a VP’s wife. She said, ‘I may be his wife, but INTech’s his mistress, and he spends a lot more time with her than me’.” Thinking that funny, I chuckled. He didn’t. Instead, he studied me with great intensity as if willing me to understand.

“That sort of thing can happen easily. I know you’re not married, and what I’m saying might have a different impact if you were, but sometimes people get so involved with their careers that the ones they love get set to the side. That’s no way to live.” I chewed on my lip, weighing every word as he became lost in thought again.

He finished his coffee, set down the diner style mug, and pointed his finger at me. “Think about where you want to be ten years from now. And I don’t mean in your career. I mean in your life. You could still be scrambling up the ladder with the other rats, or you could be settled with a respectably grossing district and a nice life to go with it. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid, Susan. It’s got no nutrients.” He shook his head slowly, making a sad, rueful expression.

“You know, Tom,” I said, clearing my throat, “another wise person told me something like that once.”

“Great minds,” he said with a light chuckle. “Well, I think I’ve given you enough to chew on for now.” He wiped his hands and tossed the napkin on his tray. “I’ve got to head out. My granddaughter’s singing in our Christmas pageant this evening, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Thanks for the talk. Really, thanks,” I said, shaking his hand. “I appreciate your candor and your faith in me.”

“Susan, ya only get one life. Use it well. I’ll see ya next year.” After winking, he left to the sound of jingling bells. He dropped a few coins in the Salvation Army bucket and then disappeared around the corner of the building.

Dazed, I sat at that table for quite a while. No one had ever spoken with me like that—not just professionally, but with genuine concern for my personal welfare. Tom was a real live mentor; an urban legend in a land where career discussions were merely masks for leveraging, bartering, and power plays. Right here in the same Stratford Road Krispy Kreme doughnut shop I’d frequented as a little girl, I’d just received the first honest career advice of my life.

♥

Mom made sure we participated in all the local holiday traditions, including the Christmas Eve Love Feast at New Philadelphia Moravian Church beside my old elementary school. Much to my amusement, she insisted we arrive a solid forty-five minutes before the service to get good seats—also a family tradition; she was nothing if not predictable. Forced to sit idly that long was torture for me as a child, and it still seemed a bit much. I suppressed the urge to check my messages, recognizing that not only would it bunch my mother’s britches, but it might get me hoisted out of the sanctuary by a mob of angry Moravians.

As the singing began, I was drawn into the service; it was just as I remembered. The women of the church, garbed in brown homespun dresses with decorative kerchiefs and lace aprons, marched into the sanctuary through swinging doors, carrying large woven baskets overflowing with spiced buns. The baskets were passed through the pews like offering plates. The men followed, hefting wooden crates of steaming, sugared coffee. Placing my bun on top of the mug, as dictated by tradition, I basked in the wonderful aroma of orange peel and nutmeg.

The service concluded with the lighting of handmade beeswax candles, the sweet, mellow scent filling my nostrils. Entranced, I watched the melting golden wax drip and harden on the red crepe paper fringes attached to the base by a homely nail. On the last verse of “Morning Star”, the several hundred members of the congregation raised their flames toward Heaven, and the darkened room exploded in warm, glowing light. Unexpectedly, my chest swelled with deep emotion at the sheer beauty of this solemn and joyous event. My mother, equally touched, pressed closely beside me and sang loudly and fervently, and just about as well as Pete.

Santa left me gloves and a bright pink scarf—evidently the only shade available in this state. The stocking my mother had hung by the chimney with care was one of Daddy’s old socks—also a tradition. Without looking, I knew it contained an orange, an apple, some unshelled walnuts, and a bit of candy from Hickory Farms. We ate Dewey’s sugar cake for breakfast—God’s holy manna, the dimpled surface reminiscent of potholes patched with inordinate amounts of brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter.

I didn’t mind indulging in hometown treats. In fact, I had no choice. Mom kept shoving things at me and then watching closely as I ate them like maybe she thought I’d gone anorexic or something. And, since I hadn’t had a proper Thanksgiving, she served both the standard pineapple and clove baked ham and roasted turkey with all the fixings. I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal since…crap!

“Eat up, Susie. You’ve got to put some meat on those bones or you’ll blow away,” she said, impressing upon my relatives that it wasn’t her fault I was half-starved. After two solid helpings of everything—including the mashed rutabaga I could only tolerate if covered by immense amounts of gravy—I pushed my plate away, fairly sure I was going to pop.

Mom danced into the room with the dessert she’d slaved over. None of my elderly relatives noticed me pale when the slice of pecan pie was proudly set in front of me.

I quietly excused myself.

52

Loverboy

“Happy New Year, Mona,” I said, with all the enthusiasm I could muster.

“I kissed Jimbo!” Mona squealed into the phone.

“What?! That’s fantastic—and amazing and in all ways Biblically miraculous—tell me everything!” I squealed back. In my head we were holding hands, dancing circles in her living room and screaming our heads off.

“Well, I made him kiss me, but I don’t care. He did it!”

“What do you mean you made him kiss you?”

“Well, it was gettin’ towards midnight, and I said to myself, ‘Mona, it’s now or never’. So, I marched around to the back of the counter and stood right in front of him. You would’ve been so proud of me! And Pete brought in a little champagne and I guess I probly had too much, maybe, and that gave me extra courage or somethin’, and also I had some beer and—”

“Mona, get on with it!”

“Well, he looked at me real surprised, then people started countin’ down like they do every year, but I didn’t count. I just stood there starin’ at him. And when the clock struck midnight, everybody started shoutin’ ‘Happy New Year’. All of a sudden, he bent down and planted one right on my lips! And then another! I couldn’t even believe it! Then he picked me up off my feet and really kissed me. Oh, Susan, it was everything!” She sighed dreamily.

Thank you, Lord! At least one prayer had been answered. The other, I was still too afraid to ask. “Oh Mona, I’m so happy for you…so happy!” It was the first real joy I’d felt since I moved. It was beyond joy; it was food.

“I was givin’ ya about five more minutes, then I was callin’,” she said giddily. “I was tryin’ to wait, ya know, to give ya time to get over your hangover, but I was just about to bust!” With many bars staggering distance from my apartment, I’d had my pick of places to celebrate. I’d even been invited to the party next door. I’d almost gone, too, but I had a budget proposal to complete.

After hanging up, the glow of Mona’s bliss faded, replaced by a bone-deep chill as I began wondering who Pete had kissed at that same stroke of midnight; who’d stepped in his path and held her ground. Perhaps I should have gone to a bar, gotten ridiculously drunk, and kissed someone—maybe several someones!

♥

The end of the year fiscal meeting wrapped up with an anticlimactic pat on the head. En route to the financial projections presentation, I passed my old cubicle. It was presently occupied by someone who liked cats—a lot. I frowned, hoping I’d never become a feline-worshipping shrew. Though, perhaps running my fingers through warm, silky fur every night—petting a purring creature that wanted my company, was worth changing a litter box for now and then.

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at Quarterlies,” Jeremy said, handing me a cup of coffee during the break.

“Had the flu.”

“That sucks. You didn’t look like you felt well.”

“Like death on toast, actually. But I lived. That’s all that counts, right?” He smiled warmly.

“So how’s the guy thing going? You’re not engaged yet, I see,” he said, glancing at my hand. I shook my head.

“No…I’m not.” He looked at me speculatively and started to say something, but Bob cleared his throat and we scampered to our seats around the table.

Several times during the presentation, our eyes met. I was the one who kept looking away, but as he turned to listen more intently, I found myself staring at his profile; strong chin, warm eyes, dark hair, several years of managerial experience; an attractive man. If I were honest, I was evaluating him. And it appeared he hadn’t entirely given up on pursuing me.

Though Kirsten had used him as a tool, from all I’d gathered, he was a decent guy, and I had a hollowness so wide and deep, that to fill it, even briefly, might make me feel human again, make me not ache so very much. But decent guys like Jeremy didn’t deserve to be used, no matter how lonely—or selfish—I was. Nonetheless, if he unwisely asked me out, this time I would say yes…to a lot of things.

When the meeting broke, I disappeared into the ladies room before I made a hapless mistake. The bank of sinks stood empty. I took a good long look in the mirror. I wasn’t getting any younger. Worse, Tom was right; I was letting life pass me by. I touched up my lipstick and fixed my scarf. The hallway was now empty.

An ambulance screamed by the plaza, spewing red light in all directions, turning INTech’s soaring glass lobby into a dance club. I returned my badge to the security desk and pulled on my leather gloves, physically preparing for the thermal shock of icy rain. I had high hopes of hailing a cab and getting to my hotel without incident when I heard a voice with which I was all too familiar. Busted!

“Susan, wait up!” I stopped a few steps shy of the revolving door and turned around slowly.

“Hello, Loverboy,” I said sarcastically.

“You look good,” Ryan replied, flashing a toothy smile as he approached. So very sharply dressed, he looked good, too, but I’d be damned if I’d say so.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to my hotel. See ya in Hell,” I sneered.

Somehow he managed to squeeze into the rotating pie slice, trapping me; two flies between glass. “Let me take you to dinner,” he murmured. Much too close, the creamy softness of his cashmere coat caressed my cheek, and his expensive cologne filled my nostrils as the carousel slowly turned.

“I’m really not hungry,” I replied, plunging into the frigid plaza as soon as I could squeeze through the opening. The wind whipped my scarf around my face like one of those tunic things Muslim women wear, and I lost my balance in the gust. He grabbed my arm to steady me.

“Susan, it’s cold as fuck out here, and I know you don’t have anywhere to be.”

By dodging Jeremy, I had avoided using a decent man, and I was proud of myself for that. But the man standing before me; he didn’t know what the word “decent” meant. And if anyone on this planet ever deserved to be used, it was Ryan. “Come. Let me take you to dinner,” he said, in the beguiling way that used to get me to do anything—absolutely anything.

I studied him for a long moment, and though an icy shiver ripped through me, I nodded slowly, acknowledging the predator I’d just become.

“Good girl.” He ushered me back inside and we walked silently to the bank of elevators. When the far door opened, Jeremy stepped out. As soon as he saw me, his eyes lit and a lovely smile crossed his lips.

“I was looking for you,” he said pleasantly. “Do you have plans—”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Ryan growled, all alpha-male, sidling beside me. Jeremy bristled.

“Piss off, Vittorio.”

For a moment, we stared at one another uncomfortably—well, Ryan wasn’t uncomfortable, he loved confrontation. Also, he was a reptile, so he didn’t feel things the way humans did.

“Are you going to move your ass sometime tonight? Susan and I have places to be,” Ryan snarled. Jeremy met my eyes with an expression of disappointment and pity. He shook his head and stepped away from the elevator door.

“Goodbye Susan.”

“Bye Jeremy.” I felt like shit, but really, it was just as well; he deserved better.

“I don’t see your car,” I said, scanning the nearby spaces as we stepped into the stale air of the garage. The blink of orange lights hailed us to a reserved space even closer than his last, and I casually wondered who’d died. His Mercedes had magically transformed itself into a Porsche Carrera; black like before, and just as steamy. With a cynical snort, I got in.

“Two,” he said before the hostess could ask. “Somewhere quiet.” I hadn’t been to dinner with a man in a very long time. But this wasn’t a date; it was Ryan.

“This way please,” she said, gliding ahead of us. The restaurant served primarily Italian fare. I’d been here with him before. In fact, I’d been to all the nicest places in Philly with Ryan. It seemed we were smeared all over this city.

“Wine?”

“You’re working awfully hard at being charming tonight. Why?”

“I’ve really missed you. I never see you anymore.” I rolled my eyes.

“I know she dumped you.”

News of their spectacular breakup played out in a heavily attended meeting, had sizzled like pure electricity across company wires. Bystanders relayed events in excruciating detail; the cell footage looked almost professional. Ryan had been discovered in the parking deck dipping his wick into a new hire’s inkpot, leaving Kirsten both shamed and outraged. At some point during the shouting match, one of her spikes had impaled the wall.

When the heady news reached me through a stream of thoughtful emails forwarded along with a notarized testimony from Ryan’s secretary, I fell on my hands and knees, cackling. Both Olivia, my secretary, and Bonita, who happened to be outside the door at the time, rushed into my office. Soon, the three of us were on the floor hiccupping with laughter.

“The whole thing with us…it never set well with me. The way Kirsten convinced me to act towards you…it wasn’t right.” Ryan shook his head regretfully, yet at the same time seeming in no way disheartened—or sorry for that matter.

“I’m sure your conscience would be burnt to ashes by now if you had one,” I mocked.

“We had a great thing, you and I. We made it work for a long time.”

“Two years,” I interjected. “Two long, wasted years.”

“Two good years,” he corrected ardently. “Before I messed it up.” His delivery was Oscar-winning, as always, but even so, I was having second thoughts about this whole enterprise.

“Ryan, I’m not sure what possessed me to come here tonight. I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m leaving.” I stood just as the wine steward arrived at our table. Ryan looked curiously anxious and motioned for me to sit again. Perhaps he was every bit as lonely as I. Exhaling in resignation, I sank back into my seat.

“Thank you. Let’s just enjoy a bottle of wine and a little food together for old times’ sake, Baby.” It was so convenient for him to call every lover “Baby”; that way he never confused names.

“Yes, let’s,” I said, raising my glass. I was hungry, and clearly, the most tragic person on earth to be sitting here with my psychotic ex-whatever, but as we exchanged pleasantries, I realized I didn’t feel the seething animosity towards him I had last summer. Though deserving no pity, he was merely a pathetic creature.

When the waiter asked if we wanted dessert, Ryan opened his mouth to object, but noting the challenge in my eyes, shut it immediately. “Yes, I would love to hear all about your specials,” I said cordially. “And please, take your time.”

I smiled with insurrection before taking another bite of my tiramisu, rolling my tongue through its rich, creamy, excessively high caloric texture. “Mmm, this is so good, Ryan. Don’t you want a bite?” He shook his head, an amused expression on his face. “You know, I may just have to order another.” He laughed good-naturedly and motioned for the check.

Ryan whipped out his American Express Black Card, holding it up between two fingers.

“We’ll need separate checks, please,” I said smugly, my identical company card gleaming ebony in the candlelight.

“God, I’ve missed you.” He reached over to touch my hand, but I pulled it away, giving him a level stare. He nodded apologetically.

When the waiter returned, I reached for the nonexistent pen to sign the merchant copy.

Scrounging in my briefcase, I found one and began filling in the blanks. Privately gloating, I tabulated a tip sure to triple Ryan’s. As I signed my name, light glanced off the tiny emblem, and my hand froze. I analyzed the pen, turning it, reading the words; Coastal Architectural Design. In the beginning, it was a weapon, then a treasure, but now, it was really just a piece of plastic.

“Is everything alright?” Ryan asked, raising his brow.

“Everything’s perfect,” I replied, smiling. I left it on the tray for someone else.

We ended up in my hotel’s lounge for a nightcap. Ryan was enchanting, refreshingly evil, and surprisingly interesting. He reminded me of the man I’d first fallen in lust with. He hadn’t changed in the slightest, of course, but over the last year, I’d become an entirely different woman, one who now commanded her own destiny, for better or worse; one responsible for her own mistakes.

“Let me walk you to your room.”

“That would be lovely.” Regardless of circumstances, Ryan had been an important part of my life. And after several bottles of very good wine, a lot of what he’d said tonight made sense.

“This is my floor,” I announced, holding up the keycard. “I had a nice time tonight.”

“I did, too.” He captured a few strands of my hair and twisted them between his fingers. “You always had the greatest hair, Baby.” I grabbed his wrist firmly.

“And you always had the greatest lines.” We looked at one another for a long moment and then laughed. We were two tragic souls, weren’t we? His hand dropped to my shoulder and caressed it slowly with his thumb. I was warm inside and relaxed, and laughing this evening had felt really good. I was still smiling when, without expressed written consent, his lips were on mine. Oh, I remember those…

I’d only recently been introduced to love, but was well acquainted with mean and ugly. And there was, after all, comfort in the familiar. He pressed my back against the door…and it popped open, like magic.

♥

Bob demanded an audience with me before I flew out the next day. I chuckled to myself before knocking. I no longer lived in fear of this man. He was just a boss, now—a pretty decent one, actually. The meeting began with him tossing a letter at me.

“Read,” he said gruffly. I recognized the letterhead immediately and my lips twitched. “I got this in the mail last week. I thought I was clear with you about these damn things.” I quirked an eyebrow. Though I did have a soft spot for this cantankerous old man, he wasn’t my problem anymore. “Well, read it!” I shrugged and followed orders.

My Dear Mr. Shillings,

The law firm of Dupree and Dupree finds itself once again in a state of dissatisfaction with regards to the service provided by your company. In fact, there has been only one scant period over the last four years when we have experienced any level of true competence. And though we are pleased that Miss Wade has been properly rewarded for her fine efforts, as well she should continue to be, it is our uncompromising position that she must once again resume control of our account, regardless of her location. It would be highly unfortunate if this firm were forced to take more drastic measures.

We are confident this situation will be resolved in a very timely manner.

With Utmost Sincerity,

Mr. John A. Dupree, Esq.

I shook my head, unable to keep a straight face. Bob seemed uncharacteristically amused as well.

“I have a couple of options here,” he said, pushing his glasses to his forehead and rubbing his eyes. “We can lose the account; it’s small and a thorough pain in my ass, but unfortunately still of regional significance, politically, anyway. I can shuttle you back and forth from Ohio every time this man springs a leak, which would be financially ridiculous,” he said, shaking the letter in the air. “Or…Tom Ridgeway, North Carolina’s District Manager, when he feels like it,” Bob grumbled, “has come up with a third option…”

Biting my lip to keep it from quivering, I left Bob’s office twenty minutes later. A one-way ticket to North Carolina, the lottery won if one looked at it from a certain angle. But I just couldn’t make myself bend that way anymore. Regardless, what had come out of my mouth stunned me.

No. I was sticking with Ohio.

53

Clarity is a Delicious Thing

Wanting, in the end, rarely lives up to expectation. I’d wanted a glimmering job, yet once gained it had lost its gleam. I’d wanted a beautiful man, who hadn’t wanted me in return. I’d wanted a filled life, but what I felt was emptiness.

Needing was another story. Spending these last two days and one very exciting night in Philadelphia had helped me rid myself of things I no longer needed. Walking out of Bob’s office was a giant and positive step for me. I didn’t need North Carolina, anymore—couldn’t need it. In fact, my needs were now fashioning themselves very differently.

Desire was my new focus; the desire to move forward, to forge and then embrace this life—my life; mine. And my greatest desire, in that regard, was not to piss away any more of it. This desire was achievable and within reach, its fulfillment beginning today.

Reality, above all else, was the clarity of purpose.

Feeling blissfully unfettered, I stuffed the last of my laundry into the A-One dry cleaning bag and set it outside the door for pick-up. A small sensual smile touched my lips as I lathered in the shower spray, the rich creamy shampoo slick between my fingers. Ryan. Last night had been mind-blowing, empowering, and I didn’t regret one moment of it; the two of us connected, quick-frozen in time. I was more a woman today than I’d ever been.

What an electric thrill; the sensation, the intimacy, the feel of his softest flesh against my knee; the radiating, stinging tingle across my palm as it made contact with his smoothly shaven face; the release of those cherished words I’d stored inside for so very long—ones exclusively reserved for his ears, ones festering like an infected boil. Oh, and the glorious perfection of his contorted expression as he doubled over clasping his groin, eyes rolling back in his head. The extraordinary pain between his legs would remind him of the final stake he’d pierced through my brain. My smile in the mirror had been one of a satisfaction so deep, so utterly filling and complete that I would cherish it to my very grave. I shut off the water.

During my flight home, I’d made a belated New Year’s resolution to find happiness—seek it out. If necessary, will it into being. And in the name of happiness, I resolved to take some time to do things for myself, as my mother had suggested—like so many had suggested. I would contact a travel agent this week and begin planning a vacation—somewhere warm, but different—an out-of-the-way place; somewhere that called to my soul.

Removing Sunday’s paper from the recycling bin, I spread the real estate section across my kitchen table, and in my PJs, pored over the listings. Finding a more permanent dwelling was my next task. My apartment’s six-month lease would be up in March. Maybe I could find the perfect place by then—one with a deck or patio where I could entertain, invite friends for cookouts or wine and cheese.

“You look different. Did you get a haircut?” Bonita, who had received a degree from the Mona Academy of Don’t-Miss-Anything, asked the next morning.

“Yes, and a sunny disposition to go with it,” I said proudly.

“I take it the meetings went well.”

“Very.” I’d negotiated our budget well. Ohio would be richly endowed. “Oh, here,” I said, rooting through my briefcase. “I brought Joe a souvenir.”

“A Seventy-Sixers cap. He’s gonna love it. Thanks.”

“Call it a bribe. I’ll keep him stocked in team garb if he’ll stop trying to set me up with every eligible bachelor at Neyer.”

“Hey, you never know,” she said, shrugging. I stopped at the doorjamb of my office and turned back.

“You’re right, Bo. You never do.”

♥

It was late in the afternoon when the staff meeting in Cleveland ended—another month of smooth sailing. Before leaving the city, I drove towards Lake Erie. I wanted to see water and feel a bit of the magic it invariably worked on me. I simply snorted at the solid sheet of ice and snow-covered shoreline that met me. What had I expected—graceful sea oats, pale dunes, welcoming waves? Duh! I drove away laughing.

The sky wore its usual gray garb. Grimy banks of plowed snow bordered the interstate like dirty subway walls, and corn stalks, their skeletal remains bleached gray and partially fleshed with ice, jutted from frozen fields. Though dreary, there was also a hidden beauty; the mesmerizing whispers of breathing drifts, and the hypnotic fluidity of finely sifted crystals slithering like wisps of silk across the salt covered asphalt. I felt warm and very light.

An angry horn blared as a truck blew by me, puffing great plumes of frozen smoke into the air, jerking me out of my trance. With a shudder, I watched the monster disappear into the distance, feeling very lucky.

Though I still found classical music soothing, and in some ways, a bridge back to the good part of me, soothing was not what I needed at the moment. As a more pleasant alternative to rolling down the window and letting frozen air smack me awake, I searched the radio for something interesting—NPR, a talk show, a ranting evangelist. When I heard “Take Me Back to Paradise” by the Southern-based rock band, .38 Special, the jolt was shocking. My finger hovered over the search screen, ready to move on, but then I thought, what the hell, I’d see if I could stomach it.

I’d already tested out beer—Budweiser even, and that hadn’t bothered me…much. Baby steps; a stroke victim learning to walk again. Listening to this first song wasn’t so painful—a little bittersweet, perhaps, but memories weren’t crushing my windpipe. In fact, before I knew it I was thumping the steering wheel to the beat.

The next song did steal my breath. Even though it was a lusty, grinding ballad rather than a sweet love song, Pete and I had often danced to it on the deck of his boat. As the first verse pounded through my speakers, I tangibly felt the pressure of his body against mine, as if his very arm was curled around my waist, his lips whispering the suggestive lyrics in my ear. No! With a quick stab, I dropped the window.

When I finally saw signs for the Columbus suburb of Powell, I glanced at the dashboard clock. I’d made decent time without falling asleep at the wheel or having a heart attack. With only the city to cross, I looked forward to a little dinner, a nice cup of tea, and a relaxing evening. My realtor and I had spent weeks viewing properties. We’d found a house that looked particularly promising, and if all went well, I’d make an offer tomorrow. I was rapidly crossing items off my list, and it felt good.

Without the least warning, the heavens breached wide and the sun exploded, streaming fantastical ribbons of color in all directions. The clouds bloomed amazing shades of orange and fiery pink, and I gawked in wonder as if I’d never seen such a sight before. As quickly as it appeared, the sunset in all its magnificent perfection was gone, the light eclipsed as if a Cyclops, disturbed from slumber, closed its droopy lid once more. I stared stupidly at the horizon expecting it to blink again.

Darkness came on as quickly as my tremors. The skim coat of plaster encapsulating my soul began to quiver, veined cracks spreading in all directions as a large fissure ripped across the center. The cupped ceiling collapsed, and the illusionary walls shattered until my fortress was nothing but rubble and rising dust. I was a good liar; I’d almost convinced myself I was healing, but it just wasn’t true. And only now did I realize that without Pete, nothing else mattered—not houses, or cars, or careers, or futures. My heart orbited around a single sun, one with wavy blond hair and the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen. Tears spilled down my face in great torrents as I eased onto the shoulder. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed uncontrollably.

After minutes, or maybe years, I regained wits enough to fumble for my phone. Though I’d worked like a Trojan to push him away, this man had taken to haunting me like a specter with a Southern accent. It had been close to two months since I’d last called. By now I should have become immune to hope, but like polio, it’s never completely stamped out.

The living, breathing voice said, “Well, hello, Miss Wade.”

♥

Quarterlies. A year had passed since my life was irrevocably turned inside out. Bob’s dangling carrot had shriveled, and honestly, I wasn’t even sure I liked carrots, anymore. The ghost of Christmas Past, Present, and in a few moments, Future, leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. A saint, he’d listened to my hysterical ramblings for over an hour and patiently talked me off the interstate’s ledge. He was here today both as champion and voyeur.

The meeting’s script was not altogether different from last year’s. Bob stamped and grumbled and put on a good show, and I defended and affirmed and stammered a bit. And at its conclusion, I once again stumbled from his office, scared shitless. Scared, but smiling.

As the justify-your-existence-a-thon wrapped up, everyone rushed to the Regency for the usual festivities. The jewel of celebrations was Tom Ridgeway’s retirement party, held in a large conference space off the main ballroom. I peacefully sipped beer and enjoyed the spectacle of roasts and gag retirement gifts, amazed, but nowhere near surprised by the number of supporters who’d turned out for the event; he had touched so many lives.

Thanks to Tom, and really Kirsten and Ryan who embodied the opposite of him, I’d learned that a career could be more than a mere feat of survival. And once I got my own world straight, perhaps I could pick up the torch and make a positive difference in this vicious environment; nurture the careers of others, become a mentor. I chuckled to myself. At the ripe old age of thirty, I suppose I was finally growing up.

Over catcalls and whistles, someone yelled, “Hey, Tom, who’s getting your district?”

“It takes a very special person to run North Carolina, and you ain’t that special,” he replied from the ridiculous throne he’d been hoisted onto. Over the sea of bobbing heads, he found mine and winked. Bursting into a huge grin, I buried my face in my cup.

Regardless of mutinous whispers and far-fetched speculation about the opening North Carolina slot, Bob had very kindly failed to mention the rearrangement during the district manager’s meeting, allowing me the opportunity to work a bit under stealth; one of my conditions. He had unquestioningly supported me.

My very qualified and obscenely delighted replacement, Jeremy Briggs, whose name I had suggested, was now wildly, but discreetly dancing like the Devil around a bonfire, as I had done last September.

♥

“You’ve had a smile on your face since you got back from Philly. Is something wrong?”

“No, something’s finally right,” I replied to Bonita.

“Wait a minute. Have you got a man?!” Other than biting my lip, I didn’t reply. I had no answer to that question.

I broke the news of my departure the day Jeremy arrived and asked her for a few days, so I could quietly put my affairs in order. She gave me exactly one.

“I still don’t know where you’re going, and I’ve been looking,” Bonita said, eyeing me. “I can’t find anybody who does, and I know people. Are you being transferred overseas?”

I made a noncommittal noise as I put the last of my personal items in the box. I hadn’t brought much into this office—no art, no decorative pieces. It was as stark as Pete’s used to be. His was to keep him from becoming distracted. Mine was just… Was I never planning to stay?

“You’re not leaving the company, are you?” she hounded on my last day.

“I’ve already told you, I’m not at liberty to say. Don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands. Jeremy’s a really decent guy.”

“Yeah, he’s very personable, but he won’t tell me either,” she said, narrowing her eyes. I shrugged. It wasn’t like he hadn’t badgered me all week as well. I was letting them draw their own conclusions.

“Well, it’s been nice working with you, Susan. You’re alright.”

“Thanks. You’re alright, too.” When she offered her hand, I hugged her instead. She’d been kind. She’d reached out. She looked totally freaked.

“Sorry. That’s just how we do things where I come from,” I said.

“One hint?” she begged, blocking my escape.

“Okay, one.” It would be nebulous, but the honest truth. With a private smile, I said, “I’m going back where I belong.”

After a long, confused stare, she patted my shoulder and stepped out of my way. “Yeah, you do that.”

54

Take Me Back to Paradise

After the movers left with my earthly possessions, I walked to the corner and ordered my final sandwich from Katzinger’s Deli. I departed with a warm handshake, a kraut-dripping Rueben, two double chocolate chip cookies, and an extra pickle for good luck.

With immense satisfaction, I climbed into my foreign semi-sports car, nodded to the city and its thick layer of snow, and rocketed towards I-77, the main artery that dropped me like a rock to what I would finally declare, without shame or timidity, my home.

A long time ago, I’d fled the South to break the chains I felt bound me, to become more worldly, to better myself. Now I raced towards it in pursuit of true enlightenment, real growth, and something of intrinsic value: My heart. I’d been given a second chance, an option for a different future. How many of those did one get in a lifetime?

My gas light blinked red, and I realized I’d stopped only once at a rest area in Beckley, West Virginia. I entered the Flying J gas station/truck stop, bustling with a sliding scale of travelers, truckers, and fairly interesting looking lurkers. I purchased a Coke and filed in line for the exit behind an elderly couple, linked arm-in-arm. A large, scruffy-looking redneck suddenly filled the doorway. Several unprofessional tattoos spilled from his frayed black t-shirt, and his Confederate flag ball cap was heavily soiled. He might as well have been wearing shining armor, however, because he smiled kindly, stepped back, and held the door wide as the seniors shuffled past. That’s when I knew for sure I was back in the South.

Halfway down the last of the Appalachian range, I caught my first glimpse of Pilot Mountain, its bald top floating like a great gray pearl on a sea of brilliant kelp. That monolith stood sentinel to my homeland—a marker, a beacon. Once I’d looked upon it with great disdain, imagining it a prison guard rather than a protector. Today, it was just plain beautiful.

Though the sun slid behind the darkening mountains without pomp, it dyed the eastern sky a candescent pink, as if North Carolina itself had dressed in a fine robe to greet its prodigal daughter. Did it have a ring for my finger and a fatted calf waiting? I wasn’t sure of the former, but Mom had a pot roast cooking and had called twice already for an estimated time of arrival.

As I reached Yadkinville, the moon—a gargantuan equinox moon—crested the horizon. Whether that man truly knew anything or not, I’d never know, but I forgave him just the same. I forgave Pete for his stubbornness, his behavior, and his silence. I forgave this state for its many sins and shortcomings. And I forgave myself—perhaps the most difficult act of all. As I thought about it, forgiveness was really the theme of my return.

♥

Biscuitville restaurant in Statesville was where I met Tom, to begin working through the western region before traveling east to reestablish the district’s headquarters. Earning a passing grade in District Manager 101 from Ohio—The State—gave me a grounded optimism.

“Hi, Tom,” I said, sliding into the booth. He was reading The Charlotte Observer while munching on a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit.

“You ought to have one of these,” he said. “They’re unbeatable.”

“Thanks, but I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.” In fact, I doubted I’d eat again today. Still drunk on the news of my permanent return, my mother had laid out a breakfast spread large enough for five men. Over her meager bowl of high-fiber cereal, she’d watched with an ear-splitting smile as I took bite after bite. When I couldn’t stuff another spoonful of grits in my mouth, she beamed with satisfaction. I waddled to the carport like I was ten months pregnant, and as I started the engine, she flew out in her flowered duster and thrust a brown paper sack through the window. I peeked at the country ham biscuit and rolled my eyes.

Seeming troubled, Tom spread the sports section across the table. The NCAA basketball tournament brackets were only partially filled. He eyed me speculatively, and then asked, “Who do you like for the championship?”

I burst out laughing. I’d forgotten it was March, and people here really did go mad for the game of college basketball. So obsessed, in fact, that my middle school teacher had rolled a TV cart into the classroom one fine day, and rather than forcing a nature video or some biographical documentary on us, we’d watched the ACC Tournament. Even at ten, I knew either something was seriously wrong with North Carolina’s educational system, or I was being brainwashed by a freakish basketball cult. It turned out both were true.

My feelings had never wavered, so my answer came easily. “Anybody but Carolina.” Tom took a sip from his Styrofoam cup and nodded sagely.

“I don’t know. They’re pretty good this year.” I countered with a snort, and he raised a silvery eyebrow. “You don’t by any chance play the pools, do you?”

“I’m way too smart for that.”

“That’s too bad,” he said with a private kind of smile.

♥

Raleigh, North Carolina’s state capital would have been the logical choice for INTech’s District Headquarters. Centrally located, it had served in that capacity for untold years before Tom bizarrely rearranged his regional borders. But logic wasn’t foremost in my mind at present. In fact, I wasn’t working with my brain at all; another organ had seized control. And though I was way out of my comfort zone, my future happiness depended on my faith in it. And if the new location was inconvenient for others, so be it.

Despite Mr. Dupree’s impressive efforts, as my first experiment in charity, I’d kept Clark from being fired. North Carolina was no place for him, but maybe Vermont was. And though her “exotic” Asian ethnicity might have been a distraction to some clients, I’d honestly kicked around the idea of bringing Liza down to fill his slot. Those thoughts had evaporated when I introduced Liza to Jeremy. They took one look at each other and it was like, zing! Her next promotion might very well be to “Mrs. Briggs”, and that made me very happy.

Though Bonita had feared I would clean house in Ohio and bring in my own people, I hadn’t had any people—at least none willing to leave the border. But here? Hell yeah, I was bringing in my own people—my eastern ones.

Without even knowing the identity of his new boss, Reeves had already left for Philadelphia, enrolled in INTech’s grueling three-month technical training program, designed to transform him from salesperson to service representative. He would take Clark’s place when he returned all shiny and new. And Gene…oh, I had a very special place for him as well. He didn’t know it yet, but he was also getting a big promotion. Filling Mona’s empty seat, he could placate Mr. Dupree ’til the cows came home—or at least until he learned how to answer the phone on the first damn ring!

At the official passing of the district torch—a magnanimous event held in the parking lot of High Point’s Libby Hill Seafood Restaurant, I shook hands with Tom Ridgeway for the last time as professional equals. North Carolina was now mine. After he escorted me to my already packed car, I dropped the window and looked up at him. There was something I had to know.

“Tom, I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Sure, Susan, anything.”

“You ran this state for decades without any outside help, you seem perfectly fit, and your mind is unquestionably sharp. So how is it that Bob of all people ended up managing your eastern region?”

His smile was huge and vicious as a shark’s. He looked at me for a long moment, and then simply convulsed with laughter. When he’d regained his composure and could speak without wheezing, he said, “Susan, I’ll give ya one last bit of advice. Never, ever bet against me in basketball.” He then winked, patted the roof of my car, and walked into retirement.

As I sat in my car, steeped in stunned silence, all I could think was: What would have happened to my life if Bob had won that bet?

55

Kidnapped

The cottage’s charming iron fence bordered the worn sidewalk. It didn’t have a driveway; the houses were packed too closely for that. I parked along the curb under a mature pecan tree, certain to pelt my car with its bountiful artillery come fall. Midway up the steps, I glimpsed the waterfront. I was so very grateful to see it again.

Hung from a blue wainscot ceiling—the color, a protective spell against “haints”—a series of verdant ferns spilled gracefully over the lips of their plastic pots. The porch swing swayed invitingly in the warm breeze, reminding me of those delightful visits with Pete’s relatives. My heels clicked across the plank floorboards to the front door, and after tracing the circa 1842 digits, I turned the brass knob and entered my new home.

Its polished pine floors flowed like a stream, breaking around the strewn cardboard boxes left by the movers. More would be delivered to the new district headquarters, formerly known as “INTech’s Regional Penitentiary”, by week’s end. I could scarcely wait to transform the little office building into its grand new self, a renovation started in some respects upon my arrival exactly one year ago today.

Mona would need to order new letterhead, I thought errantly. Actually, Gene would do that for her, wouldn’t he? I shook my head, amused, and then snorted when I realized the new district manager for the state of North Carolina had absolutely no way of getting into her own office until Monday; Mona had all the keys.

She also had to forgive me, as she was the sole reason I’d cloaked my transfer. She could be trusted with a great many secrets, but her face couldn’t lie. And someone as astute as Pete could spot her cloud of guilt a mile away and wheedle out its secrets with his arsenal of charms. I couldn’t afford that; there were words I must say and I needed to see his face when I said them. Caught off guard, his responses would be candid, however blunt.

Altogether petrified, busily stalling seemed as good an activity as any, so I began unpacking. And though it kept my body busy, my mind ran amuck like a pack of hobgoblins on All Hallows’ Eve. Eventually, I abandoned the whole enterprise for restless pacing. So many things could go wrong with my plan. As light bled from the windows, I slid my hand up the centuries-worn handrail to my bedroom.

Going through the rituals that gird a woman as a sword and shield might a medieval man, I shaved my legs thoroughly, rubbed lotion over my body, and chose an asset-wielding outfit. I took great pains in styling my hair, applying my makeup, polishing my nails. I placed a drop of his favorite perfume on my wrists and touched them to the fragile skin behind my ears. Threading my lucky earrings, I summoned their magic.

After brushing my teeth and touching up my lips, I assessed my image in the antique mirror. Except for my stark pallor, which had nothing to do with surviving a sunless winter and everything to do with sheer terror, the overall picture wasn’t too bad, really. A single act remained—one I hadn’t performed since childhood.

I got down on my knees and prayed…hard.

♥

Holding hands like spirit to flesh, the breath of evening swirled through my fingers, gently coaxing me to leave the porch. I wasn’t sure if its intentions were malevolent or good—clearly, the ceiling hex wasn’t working—but I submitted, allowing my reluctant body to be towed curbside.

When I dropped my keys for the third time, I shook with uncontrollable laughter. Here I thought I’d been so brave in changing the course of my life and moving back to Havelock. Ha! It had all seemed so clear while safely tucked away in Columbus. Now I was frightened to drive down the damn street. My foolishness never ceased to amaze me.

It was a few minutes past seven when I turned onto Pete’s street. I’d deliberately plodded along, even prematurely stopping at the yellowish light, but my gallows march had only taken six minutes. I hadn’t spared the bar a glance as I drove by. Mona said he rarely went there anymore, and even if tonight was an anomaly, in bar time, it was still awfully early. Besides, I wanted our meeting to be a private thing—for both our sakes.

The house was darkened and the driveway empty when I pulled in. I felt an odd mixture of defeat and cowardly relief. I reasoned he could be working late…on a Saturday night? It was quite possible he was fishing…in the dark? I followed the sidewalk to the front door in case the power was out…except for the porch light? Hearing nothing, I pressed the doorbell a second time in case he was sleeping…because he’d already gone to bed—alone!

Several other arguments—all equally outlandish, floated through my head as I refused to make eye contact with the most probable: He was at someone else’s place. I sagged against the door with rubbery legs, tracking the few moths and mosquito hawks orbiting the weak yellow glow above. Surely Mona would have told me if he’d found another—wouldn’t she?

I cupped my hands against a garage door’s pane. The boat was gone. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I knew where to find Bessie at least. Then I realized something was extremely not right. The Trans Am was gone—vanished with all its innards. I gawked at the great nothingness; yard tools, the lawn mower, Pete’s fishing paraphernalia, his instruments of uselessness and the pegboards on which they hung—all missing! And where the hell was the chest freezer?!

I found the answer all too quickly in the form of a glaring yellow FOR SALE sign, and I gasped audibly. I should have called Mona. I should have checked before coming. She should have told me this! Hyperventilating, I ran back to the car, only to sit there incapacitated. I loved this house. I loved the man who lived in it. Where was he? The marina, with its missing Bessie and her ill-favored pal, Myrtle, only increased my anxiety, so I drove toward my best source for information.

The Rusty Frog’s large parking lot was filled to capacity, which further confused me. With significant effort and excellent power steering, I managed to wedge my car into half a space, mere inches from Jimbo’s brown Blazer with its Hell no, I will not get stuck in the sand package. As I walked by, I ran my fingers fondly over the freshly waxed hood of Mona’s Honda. And then I froze, as did my heart. Parked askew near the entrance, where a small deprecating sign still stood, was an ugly-assed, beat-up, mostly cream colored antique Dodge pick-up truck. He was here! And while that should have been a relief, it was not.

I stood by it—her—fidgeting, wrestling with myself, stalling. Finally, I checked my reflection in her dusty side mirror—my ghost-white complexion now tinged an exciting green, took several deep breaths, and stepped onto the porch. I faced the door, strong and ready, and then simply stared at it as sweat beaded on my forehead. I can’t do this.

I pivoted and smacked squarely into a solid chest, squealing loudly in the process.

“S’cuse me, darlin’. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” The gentleman laughed good-naturedly, as he set me straight. He then opened the door and held it. Though beach music curled around me, I stood immobile until he cleared his throat. “Ladies first.” Then I was inside.

The crowded room was filled with laughter and conversation…and balloons and streamers. Weird.

“Can I buy ya a drink?” the man I’d already forgotten asked.

“Huh? Oh. No…thanks. I’m looking for…” My mumbling trailed off when Crystal Ann, rushing to a nearby table, saw me and froze. We gazed at each other for a long moment before she, the self-possessed woman that she was, rearranged her stunned expression and delivered her order as if I weren’t a suicide bomber ready to detonate. The establishment’s sniper already had me in his sights, however, and from his expression, my death was imminent. I forced a weak smile and lamely lifted my hand. The corners of Jimbo’s mouth lifted slightly and his big blue eyes softened. He inclined his head toward the dance floor.

Time plays tricks on memories, changing and altering the images, dimming some. Pete’s face was more markedly handsome than I ever remembered; the Southern ideal of perfection itself. He was talking and laughing in unison the way he always had…as he swayed with the beautiful young woman in his arms. He began twirling her in circles, and she threw her head back with glee, her long blond hair flaring like a silken fan.

Ice, pure and white as any in Ohio, filled my veins, freezing them solid along with my feet, rendering me immobile. And so I gawked in morbid fascination as one does at a horrible car accident, all the while grateful it wasn’t you. Except this was my wreck, and unfortunately, this time I was fully conscious.

When the song ended, he lightly touched the small of her back and they migrated to a booth overflowing with people, including my possibly best friend Mona. He pulled the woman to his side and kissed her cheek with an air of complete familiarity; this relationship was not new. Worse, they looked nauseatingly perfect together—cut from the same cloth, and he appeared altogether content. And though a screaming impossibility, I told myself to be happy for him; to be glad he’d found someone to care for. He deserved it; he truly did. But dammit, so did I! And he was supposed to be my happy!

Of those seated, Mona spotted me first. Her eyes popped wide as sand dollars, and the only emotion she registered was raw shock. My visage must also have rendered her incapable of speech—or movement, as it seemed she could do nothing but stare.

I broke eye contact and took in the whole scene. What the fuck was I thinking coming back here like this, intruding on these lives, trying to reinsert myself? It was folly. My eyes rested once more on Pete’s smiling profile and I adjusted my memory, augmenting and fine-tuning it, drinking in one last scalding gulp. The district realignment was not set in stone. I would leave for Raleigh in the morning.

I turned away and gave Jimbo a quick nod of defeat. He shook his head slowly, his smile growing wider. How cruel of him to revel in my pain. As I reached for the door, I was jolted by one of those short, high-pitched guy-whistles. I whipped around, horrified. Pete’s head snapped up as well. His eyes met Jimbo’s, and then, like a hawk spotting prey, found mine.

He mouthed, “Excuse me,” and cut through the crowd with steeled purpose and a grimly set jaw. Stopping just out of reach, he scowled indignantly. “So you’re back, are ya?”

“Um, yes…I, I am,” I whispered over my hammering heart.

Judging by his general demeanor, his next words would slaughter me, and I tried not to cower. But instead of showering me with spiked and rusted nails like I had Ryan, an eerie calm settled over him, and he wordlessly grabbed my cold, limp wrist. His grip was not painful, but undeniably firm, and I struggled to keep up with his long strides as he dragged me across the porch and into the lot.

Images of our fatal last battle came rushing back. Having replayed it a thousand times, I needed no script; every word was memorized. And I thought abstractly as we reached the fated spot, that his putting me away privately was better—kinder to me.

No longer in control of his emotions, he yanked me around in front of him and roughly grabbed my shoulders, locking me in place as he searched my eyes. His proximity was overwhelming, and though his face was contorted with anger and confusion, I’d never seen anything more beautiful. His warm breath filled my nostrils, and I battled the urge to lunge for his lips. But this reunion didn’t hold the promise of my joyfully flawed fantasies. No, it might well turn out the very opposite.

After a long moment, he shook me and demanded, “Are ya really back?” Though muted, I heard the sound of familiar laughter. I searched for its source, only to realize it was my nasty pet gremlin tearing at my brain. “This is what you wanted. Enjoy!” it snickered.

“Y-yes,” I stammered, shutting it out. “For good…if you’ll have me.”

His face became carefully expressionless, but his jade eyes were as hard as the stone from which they seemed fashioned. I searched them for some hint of kindness, affection—something I recognized. He examined mine as well, though in an abstracted fashion, and I hoped he could see past my fear to the love I had for him. But after a long and silent moment, I wasn’t sure he’d actually heard what I’d said.

Plucking rationale from my emotional stew, I forced myself to focus. I’d come here to tell him something—to do something. And even though at this point I’d resigned myself to the futility of my mission, I was going to complete it. I looked quickly over my shoulder, measuring the distance to my car, and then back at him. He was warring with himself—I could see it. I just wasn’t sure what battle he was fighting. Suddenly his mask fell away completely and I saw him. Say it now! Susan, for God’s sakes!

“Pete, I…I’m in—”

I wasn’t able to finish before my body was slammed wholly against his truck and my lips crushed by a savage and powerful kiss. During that infinite moment, something changed within me; shifted. If I ever thought I loved him, I’d been wrong. What I’d felt before was merely a shadow of this. And it was glorious!

I threw my arms around him and squeezed him tightly. Had I been a sponge, I would simply have absorbed him. This kiss between us was forged from fear and pain and passion, and our tongues wrestled furiously. Relief washed over me in a staggering wave, the deluge of salt water gushing freely down my cheeks.

He pulled away hours too soon, and his hands resumed their stronghold on my shoulders. With the heat of his body removed, I suddenly felt cold. I fought the urge to wipe my tears and look away to hide the raw desperation I felt, but I was afraid he might somehow disappear and I’d awaken back into my nightmare. I sniffled intermittently as we studied one another.

I couldn’t keep track of the emotions roaming his face. He hadn’t been given the luxury of preparing for this reunion. In the end, however, my own careful preparation may have been a very cruel, self-inflicted joke because he wasn’t smiling; no welcoming expression, no warmth. Suddenly, I remembered the girl inside—the beautiful one awaiting his return. Had this kiss been some kind of test to see if he still felt what he once had? To choose? Oh, God!

He released my shoulders, and I watched in horror as his face receded behind its mask once more. He’d made his decision, and it hadn’t been in my favor. New tears welled, but these weren’t the warm spring showers of moments ago when I’d been a hopeful fool. These were the freezing rain kind—the ones I’d shed once before in this same graveled lot. And though I wished with the entirety of my soul he’d chosen differently, it was unfair to guilt him; I’d forced his hand, and these were the cards he held. I quickly dashed away the wet streaks.

When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was calm and detached, and he simply said, “Well, alright then.” I nodded with a stiff upper lip and bowed my head. I didn’t need to watch him leave; didn’t need to torture myself further. He would go back inside and dance with his lovely girlfriend, and I would slink to my car and thoroughly go to pieces.

I suppose there was peace to be gained from knowing there’d been nothing left to salvage—surely that feeling would come. I’d reconcile with myself later what a huge mistake this experiment had been, that it was lack of good judgment on my part, that I’d needed this slap across the face, really. And freed of this emotional burden at last, I could begin earnestly rebuilding my life.

I heard the crunch of gravel—the sound I’d been dreading—the one that to me was every bit as loathsome as nails on a chalkboard. My next sensation, though, was that of weightlessness. Mortified at first, I assumed I’d fainted, but then it didn’t matter because I was in Pete’s arms—at least I was pretty sure they were his; there was still that whole question of consciousness to resolve.

I opened my eyes, which then popped wide, and I stared in disbelief. The faint smile that rested on his lips and the gentleness of his expression would have made him look altogether angelic, were it not for the Devil himself staring down at me. After a quick and curious quirk of his head, he very carelessly tossed my half limp body over the tailgate of his truck. I landed on the grooved bed with a painful thud.

Entirely shocked, I gaped at his retreating back, but then understanding dawned; he was going to drive me to Raleigh and dump my ass at the airport. I started to get up, but he stabbed his index finger at me and barked, “Sit!” My former headstrong and determined self slammed back into my body, possessing it once more, and I stood defiantly, jutting my chin, flatly refusing to obey. Damn, I’d missed her spirit; she was the very best part of me! With a slight shrug, he yanked open the door and slid inside.

The engine roared to life, Bessie lurched backward, and then stopped abruptly, landing me squarely on my butt. Then with spinning tires, we shot out of the parking lot, the plume of gray talcum rising around me, stinging my eyes and making me cough. I scampered across the dirty metal to the front and held onto the lip for dear life as Pete swung recklessly onto 101. When the tires met smooth pavement, I peeked over the wall to discover we were heading away from Highway 70 and in the general direction of his house.

At the speed he was driving, the gentle evening breeze assaulted me, my hair lashing my face as it blew wildly. I banged on the window with my fist and demanded he stop. His only response was a pleasant smile, and I wondered if my arrival had shoved him over the edge of reason.

His kiss had been thrillingly ardent, but I was starting to worry that I might have misinterpreted it. Maybe it hadn’t meant reconciliation, or a test, or even goodbye. Maybe it was the kiss of death. Maybe he was going to murder me; drive me to Seagate and drown me in the dark water—or worse, create some makeshift torture chamber in his garage and pluck out my pubic hairs with a set of dull tweezers. I was becoming genuinely concerned.

Just as I’d begun considering the merits of jumping for it, he swung onto Pine Knoll Drive, back tires squealing. I lost my grip and smashed into the sidewall. Motherfucker! I’d be purple tomorrow. On the upside, my fear had turned into nothing but red fury. How dare he!

Light spilled from the garage as the door lifted. When he wheeled into his driveway, he showed me the courtesy of slowing down so I didn’t suffer a concussion. Maybe he wanted my mental faculties intact so I could fully appreciate his work. He eased into the empty bay and turned off the motor.

Breathless, I clung to the dirty roof for support, and in astonishment, watched him casually saunter past me—whistling! I was wildly windblown and a little bit cold, and if he didn’t say something really soon I was going to completely lose it. He lowered the tailgate without a word, and in his first civilized gesture, offered me his hand. I took a hesitant step forward and then stopped. His expression held no remorse, rather the same faint smile and lighted eyes. And to Hell with him! I folded my arms over my chest and glared.

One side of his mouth lifted, as did an elegant eyebrow, and he crooked his forefinger slowly. With bad grace, I gave in and padded barefoot across the bed. As I prepared to dismount the metal beast, he grabbed my knees, and in one motion, slung me over his shoulder. I kicked wildly at the air.

Seemingly unaffected by my stream of obscenities, or the blows I was delivering, he strode through the unlocked side door, and hauled me through the living room and down the hall, flipping on the light switch without breaking his stride. In the middle of my fit of indignant rage, I started laughing—laughing and cursing and making vain threats as we entered his bedroom.

He stopped abruptly at the foot of his bed and dumped me flat on my back. I bounced onto the mattress, staring up in fascination, fighting my swelling hope. With a set jaw, he efficiently unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. Then, in businesslike fashion, unbuckled his belt, and with a swift, proficient jerk, snapped it from its loops. He shrugged out of his jeans and black boxer-briefs, and in all of his outrageous glory, stood naked and beautiful. I wanted him like oxygen.

Obscenely erect, he climbed onto the bed and straddled me, and with single-minded purpose, yanked my sleeveless sweater over my head. One of my earrings went flying, and I smiled, thinking that perhaps they were no longer cursed. Though my breasts sprang free of my bra, he ignored them and jerked down my skirt. The button popped off and the zipper ripped, but I didn’t care. He took a brief moment to run his nose up the lacy fabric of my panties, inhaling me with a dreamy, private look, and then shredded the material. I vaguely wondered what he thought I was supposed to wear when this little escapade concluded.

Mounting me again, he didn’t bend to kiss me, and he didn’t smile. In fact, there was no playfulness in his expression at all, the earlier glint gone. Light spilled from the hallway, gilding his broad shoulders, and rapt, I reached up and touched his face. Suddenly, his lips pinioned mine, the kiss every bit as fierce and demanding as before, and I desperately wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers frantically knotting his hair. I wasn’t letting him go this time; not for one moment.

Leaving me gasping, he kissed urgently down my neck. His mouth tugged at my nipples like an infant starved for milk. I was starved, too—starved and euphoric. Pete was touching me! I began to tremble. How many times had I dreamt of this? How many nights had I been away? The two numbers were equal.

With an audible moan that only maddened my need, he found my lips again and his determined tongue entered my mouth. I took his kisses gratefully, now truly understanding their worth. When he pulled away panting, the pure passion painting his face took what little breath that was left. He loved me—I knew it for sure. He loved me! I was a thousand years younger just then.

He rose onto his forearms and looked down at me with a small, triumphant smile, and I drew up my knees and pressed them against hips, sealing our unspoken pact. With a single, powerful thrust, he plunged into me, and we both gasped. I tilted my hips and clawed at his back, and he groaned savagely as we fought to get deeper inside one another, fought to drive away all the pain.

This sex was about healing, its passion the balm coating our still open wounds; the only way to mend them. With an explosive release of heartache, my world snapped back together in an all-consuming orgasm that left flares of color behind my lids. He finished with a convulsive shudder and collapsed on me, quivering.

Eventually, our hearts slowed and he raised his head and tenderly captured my lips. Then he gathered me to him and we rolled onto our sides without breaking contact. We clung to each other for a very long time, neither daring to let go. Calmed then, he ran his hands over my features, my hair, my neck. I took his face in my hands and searched it for anything foreboding, but his eyes were soft and his expression adoring, and I loved him to the very pit of my being. This was the most perfect moment of my entire life. I was safely home.

It was several hours before we used our voices for anything other than desperate, needy whispers. And as we lay spent and near exhaustion, he softly stroked me as I told him of my decision to move back permanently and the arrangements I’d made with my company.

“I don’t understand. I thought ya were so happy there,” he said.

I smiled sadly and shook my head. “I was miserable and lost without you. That’s why I called so often.” A tear escaped and he wiped it away with his thumb and kissed the wet trail.

“It nearly killed me when ya called,” he quietly said, after a moment. “I’d sit there with the phone in my hands, fightin’ with myself. I wanted to talk to ya so badly, even if it was just to hear ya yell at me.” This was very hard for both of us—to say and to hear, and it was effort that plied his small smile. Another tear inched down my cheek. “But if I answered, I’d just beg ya to come back to me, and I knew ya didn’t want that—didn’t want to be here. And then when ya stopped callin’ altogether, I thought…” he drew in a ragged breath. “I should’ve been happy for ya, but knowin’ ya’d moved on for sure—” His voice cracked, and he hugged me hard and buried his face in my hair.

Overwhelmed by this, I choked out in a strained whisper, “Every time you didn’t answer, I died a little bit more. And then one day I realized…if I didn’t stop calling, I’d just wither away.”

We desperately embraced, riding through the tears, and then my heart literally shattered when he whispered in a small voice, rough with emotion, “Please…please don’t ever leave me again.” I hugged him with all my might and swore it on my soul.

♥

Well after midnight, I finally settled enough to let go for a few moments. He was asleep; his frame had eased and uncurled. I pulled slowly away and climbed out of bed.

“Susan?!” he yelled, looking around wildly. I rushed back and touched his face.

“I’m right here. I was just getting a drink of water.”

“I’ll get it for ya.” His voice was gravelly from strain and silence. “Are ya hungry, too?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I guess.” Much too nervous to eat, it had been an awfully long time since lunch. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but didn’t stand right away. Rather, he wrapped his arms around my hips and pressed his face against my stomach. I smoothed his hair with my fingers, marveling at the feel; marveling that I could touch him, that he was here in front of me, flesh and blood.

Finally, he stood, and after kissing me softly said, “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” Yeah, like that’s going to happen!

“Okay,” I whispered.

When he returned, he set a plate and glass on his nightstand, turned on the lamp, and climbed back into bed, nestling beside me under the covers. I crawled against him like a child, and he gripped me firmly, stroking the side of my arm with his thumb. He placed the small dish on his lap. It was a rather homely looking piece of yellow sheet cake, frosted with chocolate icing. The scribbled blue piping looked remotely like a B.

“It’s not very good,” he said, placing a forkful in my mouth, “but my cousin made it and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. The cake had clearly come from a box and the frosting from a grocery store shelf, but even so, it needed help. Anita could so not cook! Pete swallowed and then turned to me with the most glorious smile.

“Ya know, you’re the best birthday present I’ve ever had.”

“Wait, today’s your birthday?” I knew it was in March, but considering the confusion of events that had brought me home, I hadn’t given it a thought. He glanced at the clock and laughed.

“Well, yesterday now, I guess.” I raised my hand to stop his fork and then slapped my forehead, remembering.

“Your birthday is March fifteenth!”

“Yeah?” he said, watching me curiously as I broke into a fit of hysterical laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, no wonder,” I said, through intermittent hiccups. “You are the Ides of March.”

He raised his chin and grinned proudly. “That’s what Mamma used to say.”

“And when I walked into the bar tonight, I felt like Julius Caesar stabbed in the back.” Realizing I’d just struck at him with the green blade of jealousy, I stopped laughing and quickly looked away.

He gently turned my face back toward him. “What’s wrong, Susie-Q?”

I knew I had no right to judge him. I’d chosen to leave, though I still didn’t believe I’d had a choice. But even acknowledging that I wanted to physically harm that nubile creature for touching what was so clearly mine—and I refused to even consider his touching her—how could I not empathize with any girl whose boyfriend dragged another woman out of a bar and never came back? And it wasn’t like Pete to be callous; not at all.

“Does she mean very much to you?” I asked in a small voice.

“Who?”

“The woman you’re seeing.” He looked perplexed. “The lovely blonde you were dancing with tonight?” I urged. Why was he making me say this? “I don’t want details—ever, but I’d like to know who she is.”

Mischief bloomed on his face and he broke into a grin of demonic satisfaction. Then he started to laugh, and he continued laughing as if he couldn’t stop.

Finally, through halted gasps, he said, “Maybe I won’t tell ya. You’d deserve it if I didn’t.”

“Maybe you will,” I retorted, pinching his nipple and twisting hard. He jerked away, but then reached out and gently touched my cheek, looking at me with the loveliest, most sincere expression.

“There is no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else. And if I get my way, there won’t ever be anyone else. There’s only you,” he said softly. He pulled me to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around me, kissing the top of my head as I sniffled.

“Now,” he said, lifting my chin. “That adorable little girl ya saw me with tonight is Piper Skarren, my cousin…who can’t cook.” He smiled, shaking his head in admonition. “She’s down visitin’ for spring break and stayin’—” He stopped and glanced at the hall. “Actually, I don’t know where she’s stayin’ tonight,” he said, chuckling. “It’s gonna be an interestin’ mornin’.”

Then the oddest expression came over him. “She’s really the only reason I was at the bar tonight. She lured me there for that ridiculous surprise party,” he said, rolling his eyes. Then he looked at me speculatively. “You weren’t in on it…were ya?” I shook my head no. “Mona didn’t—?”

“She had no idea I was coming. I hid it from her. I was afraid if you found out, you wouldn’t—” My voice got thick and I had to stop.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he said, kissing my temple. “Well, if Mona and Jimbo didn’t get ya down here, then it must’ve been the Lord Almighty finally answerin’ my prayers.” I bit my trembling lip. Or mine.

♥

Clearly, I’d been in an emotional coma, because I was roused very late by ribbons of sun winding through every crevice in the blinds. But unlike the first time I woke in this man’s bed, I knew exactly where I was—and why. The sheets and spread twisted and kicked off during our last and very passionate encounter were now straightened and neatly tucked around me like a protective cocoon.

As I lay inhaling the tantalizing scent of cooking bacon, my eyes swept the room. That silly picture of us from last summer hung on the wall above the light switch. My eyes pricked in disbelief; he’d never taken it down. Then I wondered if the sunset in his office remained as well. I’d put all the special trinkets that reminded me of him away, unable to look at them without breaking down. He was braver than I, by far.

I glanced at the nightstand, shook my head, and snorted at the sweating glass of orange juice waiting for me. He wasn’t one in a million; he was one in a billion. Then my eyes fell on another object, and an unstoppable grin unfurled itself. A camellia rested on his pillow, its pink petals turned towards me. It must have come from the bush by his patio. When I reached for it, I disturbed a small folded card. I picked it up and my vision got wavy. Written in his fine crisp penmanship were the purest words I’d ever read: I LOVE YOU.

I kissed the note and sprang from bed.

56

Not This Again

The wedding was set for July eighteenth at four-thirty p.m.—quite possibly the hottest time of the hottest day of the entire friggin’ year. But that’s what he’d wanted: A short engagement. I was fully onboard. In fact, tomorrow—no, yesterday—would have made me even happier. But I suppose I could wait a few more days if I absolutely had to. Sigh.

Technically, I still lived on Ives Street in the dainty rental into which Pete had moved me—like any “self-respectin’” boyfriend should do—and he’d been in his beach house a month now. It was habitable, though there was still a bit of work to be done. His ranch had finally sold, purchased by some fancy-schmancy, hazel-eyed, Charlotte-born, female middle management-type from a large out of state computer company.

Oddly, Pete had worked like the insane since my return, taking on extra jobs, some of which were, in my opinion, completely beneath him. An unmarried, thriving businessman living modestly, I’d never felt he wanted for money. Jimbo had further lined Pete’s bank account by purchasing his share of the bar with a tidy return on the investment. And even with the indulgences designed into his dream home, I couldn’t imagine he was strapped for cash. Mike’s crew had worked off the books as often as possible, and always “at cost”, so this sudden frenzy made absolutely no sense; the workings of that man’s mind would forever be a mystery to me.

Admittedly, I had no room for dispute since my workload had been obscene all spring as well, my time consumed by constructing my queendom, redesigning and staffing the new district headquarters, and performing Reeves’ new job until his return. Those projects now complete, I could finally sit back a bit, take a deep drowning breath of humid air, and settle into a more reasonable pace—one of running the district, rather than letting it run me.

My biweekly commute to Raleigh wasn’t particularly taxing, and with the exception of monthly visits to my western territory, I was home every night. Calling Havelock “home” was the scariest damn thing I could imagine, but it was true, and I didn’t even care. I was madly in love, beyond physically sated, and my bed was never cold or empty—basically, all in the world that mattered.

The impending ceremony would occur at the First Baptist Church of Havelock; it seemed fitting, somehow, and more realistic than moving everyone west. Designed to satisfy the local community, a traditional Southern Baptist reception, complete with pastel butter mints, salted peanuts, and rainbow sherbet punch, would be held in the refectory immediately following the service.

So matrimonially overjoyed, I would gladly have paid for a lavish feast, but a thick limb of Pete’s family tree blocked my way, demanding the honor of hosting the formal evening affair—if you called a down-home, multi-kegged, paper plate, potluck, pig-pickin’ “formal”.

Anita had deemed herself official party planner—didn’t see that one coming—and to her credit, The Graphics Shack had outdone itself on the invitations. But when I’d expressed concern about guests finding the remote tract of land Pete’s cousin owned—the only one big enough to accommodate half the population of Coastal Carolina—she’d plunked down a six-inch stack of reception signs, graphically designed to fluorescent pink perfection, and guffawed me out of her store.

The final fitting had taken place Monday after work. Stuffed into poofy, ruffled, taffeta grotesqueness, I looked hideous! Adding insult to injury, the dyed-to-match satin shoes with their severely understated heels did nothing for my legs. Of course, my suggestion of sharp, black cocktail dresses had been met with sharp, black glares and much eye-rolling. I mean, what did a Northernish/Midwesternish semi-transplant know about style, anyway—Maid of Honor, notwithstanding?

Dottie, who’d maneuvered herself into the wedding planner slot, had taken me aside and explained in no uncertain terms that this was a wedding and not a funeral for heaven sakes. She then inquired if I was a “Goth”—she’d read about those people in a gossip magazine. From out of nowhere, images of Lexi, my college roommate, flashed before my eyes, and I smiled to myself, wondering what she looked like now. Then, mentally shrugging, I informed Dottie that no, I wasn’t Goth, I was Emo, which, by technical definition, might bear some truth.

Since my return, I’d walked on shaky ground with the fine ladies of Havelock, only recently upgraded from pariah to grudgingly tolerable. And one fine day in the distant future—assuming I didn’t “up and leave” Pete again—I might hit acceptable. I wasn’t concerned about my long-term standing, however; loving Pete was my top priority, my career falling several pegs below it on the nirvana scale. It had taken trudging through the red-hot embers of Hell to figure that out, but I had.

Met with a chorus of feminine gasps, Mona stepped from the Belk’s Department Store fitting room looking absolutely dazzling. Plumped to capacity with crinoline, the lace-trimmed skirt swished as she turned in circles. My absolute favorite feature, though, was the mile of pearl buttons trooping like tiny ants down the bodice’s back, certain to drive Jimbo into a bloody lather before he could unfasten them all. I grinned at the thought.

Mona had ordered the dress the day after she informed Jimbo they were getting married. When the sweet engagement ring he’d produced that very same week caught the light, she stopped mid-swirl to marvel at it—she did this on the hour every hour. My theory was she still didn’t quite believe her dream had come true, and that shining stone was proof that it had. I’d never seen a happier bride in my life—I’d never known a happier bridesmaid in my life, either! Along with her Charlotte brigade and Sarah from the bank, I snagged a tissue from the passing box and dabbed my eyes.

Until recently, I hadn’t been completely certain Jimbo had a full set of teeth, but since the engagement, he hadn’t stopped smiling, and it completely transformed him; so much more like his happy and seemingly carefree cousins. I couldn’t wait to see his expression when this stunning vision before me walked down the aisle.

The following evening when Jimbo stumbled out of the dressing room fussing with his cummerbund, I was quite literally shocked. He looked so…just really handsome in his black tux. But it was when his best man swaggered out moments later, giving me a big cocky grin, that I melted right into the carpet. Pete looked absolutely friggin’ glorious, and like Mona, it didn’t seem quite true to me either; that he was absolutely mine.

♥

Having left very early this morning, I’d returned only an hour ago from an all-staff budget meeting in Raleigh. Pete was just pulling into the lot when I glanced out the window of my significantly enlarged and very nicely appointed permanent office. Judging by the Jeep and his outfit, he’d had an important meeting as well. His mop, normally wild and windblown, was neatly groomed; he’d gotten a haircut. A big smile bloomed at the thought of mussing it all up for him. I quickly developed a plan for trapping him behind closed doors; these rarely taxed my imagination!

The bells jingled loudly as he entered the building. I was waiting at my door.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, kissing me firmly.

“Hello, yourself,” I replied. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and in moments, lust took over and his lips began traveling down my neck. Suddenly, he stopped mid-kiss and pulled away.

“Don’t get me started,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “We’ve got somewhere to be before sundown.”

Thwarted and pouting, I objected, “I’ve still got work to finish.” This was typically his cue to convince me otherwise. And he did… He walked to my desk, and without a word, yanked the entire power strip from the wall, killing my computer instantly. Then, with an arrogant smile on his face, strode past my gaping expression and said, “Not anymore,” before disappearing up the hall.

Bounced and jostled by the rutted, construction-worn driveway, we parked in the yard, and he tugged me toward his fully completed dock with a sense of purpose. “Are we going out in the boat?!” He nodded curtly and caught my elbow as my heels sank in the sand. “Don’t we need to change first?” Ignoring me he climbed into the boat in his black dress shoes and stretched out his hand.

“You can forget it. I’m not going anywhere until I change out of this suit.” I pivoted and marched towards the house, where my oversized, built-just-for-me closet was filled with casual clothes and bathing suits. From nowhere, he stepped in front of me, turned my shoulders, and steered me back to the dock.

“What did I just say?”

Rather than responding, he seized my waist and lowered me onto a cushion. The boat rocked as he hopped back in. I kicked off my shoes and gave him the gimlet eye. “You’re paying the dry-cleaning bill.”

Efficient as always, he untied the ropes and kicked off from the dock. After deftly backing out of the shallow cove, the engine growled to life and we exploded northward. Even at this speed, the breeze was very warm—of course, it was like a hundred and ten degrees outside.

When we neared the heron estuary’s hidden inlet, he looked over his shoulder with the sweetest expression, his agitation of the last half-hour blown away with the wind. I swept the whipping hair from my face and smiled back, the thought of drifting into that magical place giving me a secret thrill.

The boat floated to a halt and he dropped anchor in a prosaic spot near our favorite crabbing area. The sun was rapidly setting and the wisps of clouds promised a gorgeous show. Pete left the captain’s chair and eased down beside me, engulfing me in his arms. I leaned against his chest, marveling at the feel, breathing him in.

In these next quiet moments, I thought about how my life had changed; how fate had held such different plans than the ones I’d made. Before last summer, I would never have imagined existing for sunsets I wasn’t aware existed, snuggling tight in the arms of a beautiful blond-headed Southern man, living permanently in a place so small it had barely been touched by urban hands…and being damned happy about it all! Life was good now; precious, and I needed nothing more than what I’d already been blessed with.

Rousing me from my thoughts, Pete eased himself up and walked to the cooler. “Ya want somethin’ to drink?”

“Dirty martini, please,” I said, goading him. He looked toward Heaven and turned his back to me. I waited for the flipping of a beer cap or the gurgling sound of wine, but instead, I heard pop! I raised an eyebrow as he handed me a foaming glass and then raised the other after taking a sip. It was very good champagne—very good, very expensive, and very French. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

Suspicion was replaced by panic as I quickly flipped through memories. Was this an anniversary of some kind I’d forgotten—the night of our first kiss? No, the romantic in him would have floated us under the dangling moss. The first night we made love? The date could be damn close. Shit! Well, I could remedy that with little trouble.

Without taking a taste from his glass—mainly because he didn’t have one—he returned the bottle to the cooler, and with a wary expression, came and stood in front of me. He pulled a wayward strand of my hair through his fingers and became absorbed in the action of twisting it. Eventually, his soft and somber eyes met mine. And then Pete Walsh of New Bern, North Carolina dropped to one knee and pulled a small box from his pocket.

“Uhh! Seriously? Not this again!” I threw my arms up in frustration, sloshing my champagne. “Just because the clasp on my necklace broke doesn’t mean you… You make me crazy, you know that?”

His jaw dropped incredulously and he seemed speechless for a moment. Then he said, “Zip it, Susan!” That got my attention. My expression must have reflected my shock, because as serious as he was—or rather, pretending to be, one corner of his mouth twitched and he tacked on, “Please.”

“Whatever. Go on if you must.” I motioned for him to continue.

He inhaled deeply and said, “Susan, I’ve loved ya since the first time ya spat your venom on me.” I snorted and rolled my eyes, but his expression didn’t waver. He was getting really good at these pranks, I realized. “And I’m not sure at this point if I could live without ya.” My face broke into a giant smile. Bullshit or not, that was about the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. “There’s nothin’ I’d rather do than fight with ya for the rest of my life.” I stuck out my tongue, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“I know the timin’ seems a little off, what with the weddin’ and all, but I want to ask ya somethin’.” He stopped as if collecting himself. “I need to ask ya somethin’.” Even with his marvelous summer tan, his face was pale and he looked altogether anxious. I almost wanted to feel sorry for him—not!

“No, that isn’t right, exactly,” I said, tapping my chin. “I think you started out with ‘I know it’s not fair to force ya like this’. And then there was the bit about your demanding an answer right away. You completely forgot that part,” I admonished. “I also remember the punchline.” I flicked my hand at his quelling look. “Alright, proceed. I’ll try to act surprised.”

He took another deep breath and clasped my hand in his. Though it was sweltering, his palms were clammy. “I want ya like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I, I want ya to live with me and—”

“You’ve been working hard on this one, haven’t you?” I interrupted. “The nervous expression, the stutter—impressive. No, really, I mean it.”

The most perfect look of exasperation came over him and he dropped his head and groaned. “Susie-Q, for the love of God, please let me get through this!”

“Sorry,” I said, grinning.

For a moment he studied me, and then said, “I love ya with all of me, Susan. And I want ya to be my wife.” He picked up the red leather box and cracked the lid. “Will ya marry me?”

I realized, quite belatedly, that this wasn’t a joke, because under the gold Cartier emblem was not another piece of repaired jewelry, but rather, a gorgeous diamond ring—a ginormous one, set elegantly.

He placed the box in my hand and I simply gawked at it. Holy shit! That thing must have cost a fortune! Where did he get that kind of mon—Oh.

The surge of mortification nearly knocked me to my knees, and I began trembling. For months, right under my nose, he’d made noncommittal noises every time I complained about his taking on yet another project. This was why.

“Susan, did ya hear me?” I nodded vaguely. “Sweetheart, will ya marry me?” he asked again, his voice now threaded with fear.

I sucked in every bit of oxygen within a fifteen-mile radius, and then exploded, slamming into him, knocking us both on the deck. I vaguely heard the plop of my glass as it hit the water. “Yes. Oh God, Pete…yes. Yes!” I grabbed him by the ears and kissed his face over and over. Laughing, he rolled on top and kissed me very deeply.

When he finally pulled back, he wiped an errant tear and stroked my cheek with his thumb. His expression was beatific, his own eyes brimming with emotion. “I truly love you, Susan.”

“I truly love you, too,” I said, sniffling.

“So, can I put the ring on your finger before ya change your mind?”

“Okay, but you’d better hurry,” I said with a strangled laugh.

After lifting my empty palm to give him the box, I snorted deprecatingly and fanned my hands across the slippery, champagne-soaked floor. I quickly pushed him off me and sat up. Four concerned eyes scanned the deck, the stow, the bench where he’d proposed. Nothing. Then I saw my champagne flute innocently lying on its side. We looked at each other in horror and shouted, “Oh shit!” in unison.

Rushing to opposite sides of the boat, we searched the water below. Seeing no sign at first, I began to whimper. This was the ultimate nightmare! All at once, an errant ripple caught the light just right and I saw the last remnants of a silty mushroom cloud.

“Pete!” I screamed, clambering over the wall. Then in all my silk-clad glory, I flopped into the water. I heard a whoosh as he torpedoed past me. Our hands moved frantically over the aquatic floor, billowing sand like smoke and scattering disgruntled crabs. After a terrifying moment, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to the surface.

He shot me a scalding look and then swam back to the boat, holding a glob of dripping goo above his head. Gasping and spitting brine, I followed. With one arm, he muscled his way onto the platform, and then lowered the ladder and helped me up. I collapsed next to him, our clothes plastered and sopped.

After wiping the muck from the lid, he said, “Give me your hand, dammit!” He opened the box carefully, and with the unwavering focus of a surgeon, slipped the glistening jewel onto my wet finger. He traced the band with his fingertip and gazed at it for a long moment, finally kissing it and then my finger. When he raised his head, his expression was nothing short of victorious. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me softly. A smile forged of pure love crossed his lips, and then another—one better suiting his character, quickly replaced it. Smirking wryly, he cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

“Susie-Q?”

“Uh huh?”

“Ya gotta stop doin’ that.”

THE END—Pah!

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Bestselling Author Virginia Gray is a graduate of Wake Forest University and an unapologetic North Carolinian. She spent part one of her career as a college professor. But after years of research, eighty-hour work weeks, and generally trying to take over the world, she stepped away from academics to pursue her love of writing. Until she earns enough money to buy Shackelford island, she lives in the Midwest with her wonderful family and far too many pets.

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Author's Notes and Disclaimers

1. Let it be known that though this is a work of fiction, for the most part (that porch for sale on the side of the road was for real, y’all!), my cousin Anita does, in fact, exist in all her effervescent perfection. And to set the record straight, she did not jump off her friend’s boat and pee in the Trent River in front of former Governor Beverly Pardue’s house. It was moi near a fellow novelist’s abode. Seriously, when ya gotta go… And while we’re on the subject of authors and going, a tip Mr. I think you know who you are: It’s best never to laugh at anyone stranded in the New Bern Regional Airport for TWO WHOLE DAYS—thank you very much Delta. Said persons tend to get cranky. Plus, not everyone owns a private jet, ya know.

2. While the author pokes fun at a great many things North Carolina (may God have mercy on her soul), most of it is done in jest and with great love, as the author is, in fact, gluttonously proud of her heritage. And as such, it is her hope that in the future, the fine law enforcement officers employed by her great state, will allow her to pass unhindered across its many borders.

3. Pete’s parents are not buried in National Cemetery in New Bern, mostly because Pete, very sadly, is not real. My grandparents are buried there as described, however, and I pray that as Americans we continue to fully appreciate our veterans, fallen and not.

4. May WSFL never stop rockin’, and may the owners of the Oceana Pier never change the paint color. (Also, please consider rehanging that old bench swing—surveillance cameras work great!)

5. Yes, the author is fully aware that Havelock does not have a quaint historical downtown area, nor anything “quaint” whatsoever. Reference: Little Washington. The town is in the possession of at least two fighter jet lawn ornaments, however, and don’t even try to deny that strip club thing!!

I am eternally indebted to the inventor of spellcheck . You walk as a god( dess ) amongst the undeserving…

Acknowledgements

I offer a universe of thanks to my family and friends for their unerring support during this long labor of love. My small community of readers has served as eyes, ears, psychiatrists, cheerleaders, editors, proofreaders, and sounding board. Thank you critical reviewers: Barbara, Pat, Elaine, Denise, Julie, Mary, John, and Andy for not gawking as I stood naked on my writing stage, and to Mike Thomas for sharing your blog about professional motivational tools, aka carrots. A wee boatload of thanks to Bob Atkinson, who meticulously searched every single line of this manuscript for errors and misplaced commas. Thank you, Anita, for still loving me after I stretched your persona well past its limits, and to Gene Daniel, owner of Tobacco Road Distilleries, for answering my random vodka questions and allowing me to create a caricature of you (sorry he didn’t get laid). Thank you to Rick and Betsy for your love, support, and the rockin’ computer you gave me for the writing of this novel. You’ve been godsends since the day we met. Thanks also to Belva Sue for lending me her name, and to all the wonderful people in Beaufort, Morehead City, Atlantic Beach, New Bern, and the surrounding areas, for being so generally awesome as I hit you with all kinds of random questions. Thanks to the boys from Beaufort, who toured me down Core Creek just to prove Seagate Marina actually existed and for reminding me how to dance the Shag and Pretzel. And finally, thank you Tom Ridgway (correct spelling) for serving as an amazing mentor during my personal superwoman/must-take-over-the-world phase. Glad I’ve outgrown that one—snort!

The author would also like to acknowledge the Southern rock band, .38 Special, her sole muse for this story. When I listen to your voices, I hear Pete singing—on key.