The Opportunist

by Tarryn Fisher

  The victory dinner is held at a posh restaurant in South Beach. I am extricating myself from a handful of well-wishers when I spot her sashaying over to me. I eye her sexy black dress with distaste. She is so polished and coiffed, she looks like a magazine cutout. I am wearing a simple, cream sheath dress. She is the Devil tonight and I am the Angel.

  “Olivia,” she purrs, sauntering up with a glass of wine in her hand, “cheers to our win. It was all very well done.” She clinks her glass with mine and I smile tightly.

  “Thank you?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand why you did it. You saved me. Unless, it’s because he asked you to.”

  As if on cue, we both look over at Caleb, who is laughing and chatting with a group of friends.

  “It must have been very hard for you to be around him.” She is watching him, possessively. I am struck by how much I miss hearing his laughter. It rips me to my core, that he belongs in her life and not mine.

  “He’s not the kind of man a woman can easily forget,” she continues sweetly, and if I wasn’t the type of girl that played her game, I would have thought her sincere.

  “No, he’s not,” I admit freely.

  “You watch him all the time—I see you do it, Olivia.”

  I look at her bored. She is playing games with someone who knows how to play them better.

  “Does he look at you, the way I look at him?” I ask casually. Ahh, there it is—the ill-disguised anger.

  And, by the look on her face, I know I’ve struck a nerve. She opens her mouth to say something but I hold up a hand.

  “Leah, go be with your husband,” I say, “before he realizes that he’s still in love with me.”

  And as if right on cue, Caleb turns to look at me, not at his wife—at me. Our eyes lock for the briefest of seconds, Caleb’s and mine, amber and blue. Leah witnesses our exchange and though she remains the epitome of decorum and class, I see a whiteness appear around her lips. Her anger rolls toward me, though what I feel coming from him pushes it away. He is longing, as am I. I garner what remains of my self-control and tell myself the truth: Not mine, not ever.

  I set my wine down on the nearest table and walk quickly out of their lives. Some things were better left alone.

  The following morning I turn on the TV only to see a familiar mug shot. I squint at the picture and groan when I hear the name.

  “Dobson Scott Orchard was detained by police at the Miami airport last night trying to board a plane to Toronto. Police have taken him into custody where accused rapist is being questioned. Among his victims are seven women whose ages range from seventeen to thirty. Five of them have come forward and positively identified him as the man who kidnapped and sexually assaulted them. Police are urging anyone else victimized to step forward at this time…”

  The camera then shifts to a picture of Laura Hidleson, naming her as Dobson’s first victim. I wave at her picture and shut off the TV. Life is all about choices, I decide—good ones, bad ones, selfish ones. But, it seems the safest one I ever made was not walking underneath his umbrella, the day I ran into Caleb.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Turner decided to move to Florida after I won the case. He sold his house in Grapevine, bought a new wardrobe of pastel oxfords, and traded his Lexus for a shiny, yellow corvette. I feel invaded when I come home one day and find my living room filled with his neatly labeled boxes. Downstairs Closet, Game Room, Office, they proclaim in handwriting that I know must be his mother’s. I wander through the maze of Turner’s belongings and hope that he doesn’t plan on unpacking them here. I have no room for dartboards and autographed pictures of Diego Maradona. We argue about it for a week and eventually he agrees to put his belongings in storage. With the boxes gone, I work on adjusting to my new ‘live in’ who patrols the hallways of my condo in white jockeys, singing show tunes in a Texan drawl. My fridge is filled with beer and salsa, and for some wild reason this annoys me more than the piles of dirty laundry that I find tossed around the house.

  One morning I wake up to find the words ‘You’re Hot’ scrawled on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. I grit my teeth throwing away the destroyed fifty dollar tube of Wine Gum and then spend ten next minutes scrubbing away the residue with vinegar. When it happens a second time, I hide my lipstick. Between the months of March and May, I find seventeen curious stains on my ivory sofa, twelve shoe scuffs on my wall and thirty seven bottles of beer left haphazardly around the house. He takes me out to dinner on our anniversary and wears a teal button down, with white pants and white crocodile loafers. I remember Caleb’s tasteful choice in clothes and I feel embarrassed by Turner’s flamboyance. This is not a game of comparisons, I remind myself. He tells me he loves me a whole lot and each time I inwardly cringe.

  Oh, what do you know about love? I silently complain. You’ve never cheated to have it.

  Handsome Turner, who adores me and treats me like an expensive accessory, I even hate the way his pillow smells.

  Caleb brought this on, damn him. I was happy, in a delusional sort of way, but happy nonetheless. And now—and now, all I can think about is his crooked smile and his smell and the way his eyes rake over the world in amusement. I psychoanalyze my relationship with Turner and when I can come to no sound conclusion, Cammie and I meet to discuss the matter.

  We chose a small French café down Las Olas Avenue and drink coffee from a French press.

  “He’s a filler,” Cammie says with more conviction than a suicide bomber.

  “What does that mean?” I am studying the menu, contemplating an almond croissant.

  “You know—stuff something into your heart quickly to stop it from cracking open…from bleeding out...”

  “Like, I dated Turner to stop thinking about Caleb?”

  Cammie nods.

  “Why couldn’t you just say that?”

  “Because, when you speak figuratively, it makes you sounder smarter.”

  I blink at her a few times before tossing aside my menu.

  “So what do you suggest I do, smarty pants? I already had his wife acquitted of her crimes.”

  “Wait,” Cammie says. “I’m not even talking about Caleb, here. All I’m saying is that Turner is wrong, wrong, wrong for you.”

  I sigh. Why does everyone keep saying that?

  Two weeks later, I am at my absolute wits end with ‘faking it.’ Turner is all over me and I am tired of pushing him away and finding excuses. I decide to take a day to myself. I part with my frowning fiancée at the front door, giving him a hasty kiss on the lips. He’s calls after me, asking when I am going to be home, but I ignore him and keep walking. When the elevator doors close, I slide to the floor and place my head between my legs. I feel like I can breathe again. Shopping sounds nice or maybe some time at the spa, I know a girl who can get me in at the last minute. But then my thoughts titter and drift to the man that I am still in love with, and I know that a day anywhere, is a day away from him. So, I settle for the next best thing, something that I haven’t done in a very long time. I pull my cell phone from my too expensive purse and hit number ‘one’ on my speed dial.

  “Cammie, it’s me,” I whisper into the phone, although I am obviously alone and no one can hear me. I feel guilty for what I am about to say. “Do you remember the old days in the Detective Gadget mobile?” There is a long pause in which I check the screen to make sure we are still connected.

  “You’re out of your mind,” she says finally. Then after a long pause, “Who are we spying on?”

  “Who do you think?” I ask, toying with the strappy thing on my purse.

  Another pause.

  “NO! Absolutely…NO! I can’t even believe…where the hell are you?”

  “Come on Cam, if I had another friend to ask, I would…”

  “You certainly would not ask anyone else to do something so psychotic. And, if you did, I would be highly offended.”

  “I’m on my way to your house,” I say throwing my car in reverse and c
urtailing out of my spot—diva style.

  “Fine. I’ll be ready and waiting. Make sure you pick up the coffee”.

  Thirty minutes later, I arrive at Cammie’s neat, cul-de-sac house and park my car haphazardly in her driveway. She has flower boxes on the windows and garden gnomes in the peonies, a lovely cottage for such a witch to live. She opens the door before I can ring the bell and pulls me inside by the waistband of my pants.

  “What car are we taking?” she says all businesslike.

  “I thought you didn’t want to.”

  She snatched the coffee from my hand and looks at me over the rim.

  “Of course I want to, but I would look like a bad person if I didn’t object at all.”

  I shrug. I stopped trying to soothe my conscience years ago, but to each his own.

  “Your car. He’s never seen it, so we have less chance of being spotted.”

  She nods while grabbing a duffel bag off the couch.

  “Do you know where this joker lives?”

  “I totally know,” I mock her tone and follow her into the garage. “I am his lawyer—duh!”

  “Yea? So, what position do they—” At this point Cammie says something really crude. I flinch. I have grown to dislike the ‘f’ word. Pretty and delicate Cammie started swearing after Steven, who cheated on her twice and stole seventeen hundred dollars from her dresser drawer. Ever since that fateful afternoon when she found Steven copulating with his secretary, she developed an obsession with saying the ‘f’word, and calling girls ‘trashy bitches’.

  “Probably the same position Steven and Tina were in when you found them doing the nasty,” I say.

  “Touché,” she replies. “So are we spying on the trashy bitch, too, or just Mr. Wonderful?”

  “Caleb,” I say decidedly. “I want to spy on Caleb.” Cammie nods her head and puts her black SUV onto the highway.

  “Call his office.”

  “Why?” I ask rummaging around in the duffel to check the supplies.

  “So we know where he is and what he’s doing today, genius.”

  “I can’t,” I say my finger poised above the buttons. Cammie snatches the phone from my hand and dials herself.

  “Weakling,” she mutters and then, “Hello, hi, I’m with Sunrise Dental and I’m trying to locate Mr. Caleb Drake. He missed his appointment this morning and…oh yes? Really? Well that’s perfectly understandable then…all right…I’ll call back to reschedule, thank you.” She hangs up the phone and smiles triumphantly.

  “They’re out of town!”

  “Okay,” I say shaking my head in confusion. “Why are you so happy?’

  “Because now we can break into their house!” she states, making a truly demonic face at me.

  “You are crazy,” I say turning away from her and staring out the window. “Why is it that I need to vomit all of a sudden?”

  “You’re going to love it, trust me. I broke into Steven’s place after he screwed that trashy bitch and found all kinds of interesting stuff—he had this thing for Asian…men.”

  “You broke into your ex’s apartment?” My head was swimming now. “How do I not know about these shenanigans and when did you turn into me?”

  “You’ve been busy. Lucy and Ethel didn’t break in to spy—Ethel broke in to find her grandmother’s earrings which she had left there.”

  “Okay, first of all, stop referring to yourself in first person, Ethel and second of all, I am not breaking into their house!”

  “Since when did you become the moral police?” she took a violent sip of her coffee.

  “I am a lawyer.”

  She frowned.

  “And an adult.”

  She snorted.

  “And I have already caused a lifetime’s worth of trouble for that man.”

  That last statement seems to enrage her because she starts sputtering. She comes back at me in full Texan drawl.

  “And he for you!” she points a finger at me and then slaps the steering wheel. “He keeps coming back! Damn it Olivia, he keeps finding you and you have the right to know why. He’s messed up your life at least four times now. I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE DON’T USE THEIR TURN SIGNALS!” She bares her middle finger at a Mercedes as we speed past. “Besides, let’s not forget that Leah did a little of her own breaking and entering back in the day, when she went all Fatal Attraction on your apartment.”

  That was oh-so-true.

  “I know their house alarm code,” I say weakly.

  “How?” her eyes are wide with admiration.

  “Something set it off once while Caleb, Leah, and I were in a briefing and the alarm company called his cell to verify the code before they would deactivate it.”

  “Now all we need is a key,” she smiles at me and turns off the Parkland exit.

  “They keep a spare in a birdfeeder in the backyard.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I heard him telling the maid on the phone when she locked herself out.”

  She swears at me, uses the “f” word and calls me creepy.

  “Yes, and you’re a trashy bitch.”

  We are standing in the foyer of Leah and Caleb’s mammoth house. I, guiltily, while biting my nails, and Cammie without concern is strolling around touching their things. I watch her and wonder who would win if she and Leah were to get into a fight.

  “Look at this?” she says, lifting a filigree egg from an ornate gold table. “This is worth at least a hundred Cartier purses.”

  “Put it down,” I hiss at her, spitting a piece of acrylic from the corner of my mouth. Their house was a museum and Leah was its main attraction. Everywhere I looked there were paintings and photographs of the red-headed beast, some of them gracious enough to include Caleb. I shimmied out from under her gaze and went to stand under an alcove.

  “We’ve already broken in, we might as well make the best of it,” she chirps at me.

  I follow her to the kitchen, where we look inside their fridge. It is stocked with everything from Bulga caviar, to Jell-O chocolate pudding. Cammie extracts a grape from a bunch and pops it into her mouth.

  “Seedless,” she mumbles. Juice squirts from her lips and onto the refrigerator door. I wipe the smudge off with a paper towel and toss it into the trash.

  We make our way up a winding flight of stairs, our heels clicking against the butter colored marble.

  Cammie pauses at what appears to be the master bedroom door.

  “Uh, uh I’m not going in there,” I say, backing up a few steps. I would rather sever a hand than see their bedroom.

  “Well, I’m looking,” and with that she pushes the door open and disappears inside. I stroll in the opposite direction. I walk down a long hallway that is lined with 8x10 black and white photographs. Caleb and Leah cutting their wedding cake, Caleb and Leah standing on a beach, Leah smoking a cigarette in front of the Eiffel tower—I turn away disgusted. I don’t want to be here anymore, this is their place; where they laugh and eat and have sex. I can’t believe how things have changed. I feel slightly left behind; like I am waking from a coma and finding out the world moved on without me. Why do I still feel the same when everyone else is different?

  I head back downstairs to wait for Cammie. And then I see it—a door, an oval door. Caleb always told me that one day when he built a house he wanted to have the door to his office resemble one of those heavy medieval things you see in movies. I edge toward it and reach out to lift the circular handle that is almost as big as my head. It swings open and the sigh of new house and cologne hits me in the face.

  It doesn’t even smell like him. In the last four years he has changed his cologne, I get that coma feeling again.

  There are walnut bookshelves lining every wall, filled with novels and textbooks and the occasional knick-knack. I veer toward the desk and seat myself in his enormous swivel chair. I take it for a spin and wheel myself around. This is his favorite room in the house. I can tell. Everything he loves and likes and hates is in here. A
utographed baseballs in a wall rack. I can almost see him extracting one from its display and tossing it into the air a few times before he lovingly puts it back. A very diverse music selection sits in a messy pile next to his computer monitor. I notice in mild delight that the CD from the music store is among them and then there’s the model Trojan horse that his father gave him when he missed his 21st birthday party. It was made out of solid bronze and needless to say, it was very heavy. Caleb hated the thing, but he always kept it on display because he said it reminded him to be a man of his word. I pick it up and turn it over until the horse’s belly is facing up. There is a small trapdoor there that nobody knows about. Caleb once told me that he stored memories inside of it—memories that he didn’t want anyone else seeing. I bite my lip before pulling it open. What was one more crime right? My spreadsheet was already extended past ‘far gone’.

  My fingers grab onto something thin and papery. I tug it out gently and unroll a vellum script of some sort. It is a drawing done with the snubbed tip of a charcoal pencil. At the bottom of the page the artist signed his name: C. Price Carrol in large, flowing letters. The artwork is of a woman’s face. She is smirking and there is a slight smudge of a dimple on her cheek. I stare at the face I recognize, but can’t quite place—not because it is bad artwork, but because it has been a long, long time since I have last seen it.