by Emily Sharpe
Deep down, as much as she had enjoyed Kristina and all her help, Layla was also looking forward to things getting back to normal—the New Normal. She'd been on bed rest since Thanksgiving, gone into labor prematurely, and had some terrible frights at the hospital before all was well. But now it was time to settle in, just them, Daddy, Mommy, and baby. She smiled as she heard Keith whistling in the kitchen. He'd be going back to his teaching job in a few days too, but he'd been so patient, so understanding through all of this, her main support. Layla glanced up at the calendar. There was a six-week hiatus for what the doctor kept calling "sexual intercourse".
Four more weeks, and she could thank Keith properly, she thought with a smile. She was sure Carol and Pops wouldn't mind babysitting.
On the other side of the wall, Kristina put the tiny articles of clothing in the new white dresser. One twin bed had been taken out, replaced with a matching white crib. Perhaps they would leave the other twin bed in case another guest visited, or so that a tired parent could lie down if the baby was sick or fretful. She wouldn't know, never planning to have children herself.
Who would want a perfect, precious, innocent child in my care, after what they did to me? After they turned me into… this. Kristina stood and caught a glance of herself in the little lamb-adorned mirror. She knew that Kayla had been shocked; she had seen the expression on her face that first day she arrived. I don't want them to win. I don't want them to have so much power over me, to change me like this.
The whole ordeal had been traumatic, from beginning to end. Not that it had ended for her. Will it ever even, really? She was torn, wanting to heal, to stand up to them where she was and where she continued to see them, but she also longed for a change, anything to get away from the city where it had happened, put some distance between herself and them.
Being here had been a welcome distraction, but perhaps it was time for a new chapter altogether. Go where no one knew her or might ask questions. She could reinvent herself. She'd miss her students, of course, but they'd be fine. Many of her students had trouble showing their emotions, but they felt them. She would explain that a new teacher would be there the next year. New school term, new teacher for them, new students for her.
Kristina shivered a little as she made the decision. As soon as she got home, she'd start applying to another school with a different climate, different everything. And, she decided to look into a counselor. I've been trying to do it all by myself, and obviously I'm not doing a great job. I can't talk to Kayla—too much to lay on her now.
A fresh start emotionally, and then a fresh start geographically. Maybe the mountains. Some rural hammock where nothing bad ever happens.
It had been a stressful evening. She had come in from the magazine bearing "gifts"—bags of Chinese take-out to remind him of Asahi's cooking—to find Eric completely out of sorts. He blamed it on his arm, but Donna could tell something else was bothering him. Conversation over dinner was tense, with awkward pauses and silences between. After they ate dinner, Donna cleaned up while Eric sat like a lump on the couch, flipping through channels. When Donna insisted they watch a movie on TV, he complied but grumbled, talked over the dialogue, and finally announced that he was going to bed.
After her own ordeal with Lance, Donna had no desire to instigate any romance. Shouldn't newlyweds have sex every night? she mused, pouring herself a glass of wine. Maybe not newlyweds with a broken arm and a recent attack between them. She'd heard friends talk about the "baggage" someone carried into this relationship or that marriage—now she understood. All of their lifetimes had built up to this very moment, dragging baggage of one kind or another. Some of the baggage was heavier, some lighter, but all of it had an inevitable impact on who they were now. Who they could become together.
She had reckoned on sex being the glue that held them together. They had always gotten along so well, even from the start. They loved one another and wanted to please the other. What could go wrong? She was a journalist as well as a romantic, though, accustomed to looking at the cold, hard facts. She had seen it happen too many times with friends over the years—"perfect" couples who eventually divorced.
In her heart, Donna knew that a strong marriage needed more than sex. More even than what passed for love in most households. She just wasn't sure Eric had "more" to give. She wasn't sure that she did, either—unloading all those memories about her father had, she knew, changed her somehow. She wasn't sure exactly how or why or what it would mean going forward, but she was sure the change for her was positive, cleansing, healing.
Eric's response had not been so positive. Of course, he couldn't read her mind, but after their return, he never brought it up again. He was injured, obviously, but he was also hurting at another level. Or not. What do I know? We're barely talking. He seemed content with her taking the lead, dominating, suggesting, instigating. It wasn't that he was wrong, and she was right, but on nights like this one, it felt like she did most of the heavy lifting in the relationship.
Then stop, a voice insisted inside. Take a step back and see if he steps forward. Give him room.
Donna put her wine glass in the dishwasher, glancing at the door of the red room as she walked to their bedroom. Since their return from Florida, intimacy had been both less frequent and more "ordinary". Satisfying, though. Lovely. She couldn't complain. There was a valid concern that rough play might delay the healing in his arm, might injure him further. But there definitely seemed to be something else holding Eric back, although she couldn't put her finger on what it was. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I haven't been sexy enough, or sweet enough, or needy enough. Stop. It doesn't have to all be about you.
In a few minutes, Donna slipped naked and soundlessly between the sheets, snuggling close to Eric's warm back. She put her arm around his waist and listened to his soft breathing as he slept. Goodnight, wonderful man. I do so love you.
Suddenly, Eric stirred and picked her arm off his side, pushing it behind him.
"Eric?" she said softly. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
Silence.
For some time, Donna tossed and turned, the first night she could remember when she and Eric had not fallen asleep touching, at least by a hand or a foot. Was I wrong to tell him about my father? Maybe I shouldn't say anything about Lance, after all. I'll tell Worth, and he'll get fired, and that will be the end of it.
14
Anti-climactic
Donna was nervous as she stepped into Worth's office. Jessica was already there, too, at her request. They were more than bosses, they were friends. But she was blonde—old stereotypes notwithstanding, she had a well-deserved reputation as being a little flighty. Maybe they wouldn't take her seriously. Perhaps Lance was more of an asset to the magazine than she was. Paul said he'd won some awards, anyway. Although Donna had come a long way over the years, dealing with the self-doubts and esteem issues trauma victims face, lately… everything had happened so fast this year. She wasn't sure she had managed to keep pace.
"Come in, come in!" Worth boomed. Handsome in a light gray shirt and signature green tie that matched his eyes, Worth Vincent beckoned for her to sit beside his wife. "How's Eric holding up? Almost out of that cast?" When his mother had purchased the magazine the year before, it had been doing well. Jessica had only been working there a few months. Under Worth's editorial guidance, Our City had really flourished. Jessica's flourished too, she thought, grateful for her presence.
"Any day now, I think," she told them. There was an awkward silence, but no one rushed her. Finally, she lifted her head and said, "I don't know where to begin."
Jessica heard the uncharacteristic tremor in her friend's voice and reached out to squeeze Donna's hand. "You can tell us, whatever it is." Her mind was racing. "Eric?"
Donna took a deep breath. "No, no, Eric's fine. It's someone here. The new photographer, Lance Glover. He has been… inappropriate with me several times." Donna's plan was to start at the beginning with a litany of Lance's random comm
ents and innuendos, building up to last night's assault. Although she hadn't been hurt, she had no doubt that without the night watchman's interruption, Lance had intended to molest her, at the very least. At the very worst… the thought made her feel nauseous.
Worth relaxed visibly. He sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Lance Glover no longer works here."
"What?"
"He no longer works here. He sent an email to me last night, quitting. He said that his side gigs are more lucrative than he had anticipated and his job at the magazine is actually holding him back. He even said he would forfeit his next paycheck in lieu of two-weeks' notice." Worth nodded, remembering the initial interview, his work, the email. "Nice fellow, though. Really talented photographer."
When Jessica shot him a look, he cleared his throat. "But obviously, that's no excuse for being inappropriate, talent or no talent. That was always a struggle with Jessica and me, you know. As the boss, I was perhaps more sensitive to what things might sound like or look like than I needed to be, but I'm genuinely sorry Lance said anything out of line." Worth frowned, looking toward a filing cabinet nearby. "As soon as we're through here, I'm going to add a note to his personnel file in case he ever asks for a reference. Any future employer would need to know about this. Thank you for letting me know."
All the wind was out of Donna's sails. She'd pumped herself up for a grand reveal, prepared to drag the guard in to substantiate. There was no need for dramatics. "No, that's okay. I came here instead of HR because you're friends… but if he's gone, he's gone." She managed a smile. "That's a relief, actually." She stood up. "Well, I've got work to do. Sorry to bother you."
After Donna closed the door behind herself, Jessica sat for a moment, silent and frowning.
Worth came around the desk and sat beside her, leaning over to kiss her tenderly. "What is it? You heard her. She's relieved. And Paul can hold down the fort until we find a replacement. Lance finished his last assignment yesterday. The timing works out great for the magazine, in fact."
Jessica shook her head. "It's not that, Worth. I've never seen Donna so… vulnerable, transparent. It's like her wall of giddy perkiness is gone now. She seems different. Not bad different, just different. Whatever Lance said or did, obviously has her shaken up." She had a thought. "It might be a good idea if I were to sit in on interviews? Get a female's input? Sometimes our initial impressions are spot on."
Worth chuckled. "I'm glad I passed muster with you. Eventually, anyway! We men can be oafs, that's for sure. With most of us, it's ignorance—we have no idea what we're doing half the time where you ladies are concerned. But there are plenty of others—users. Exploiters. Crude, vulgar. I'm appalled I let one of those guys fly in under the radar." Worth stood and opened the door for his wife. "Keep an eye on her, Jess. We've all been through a lot this year," he said gently. "The Florida job was a lifesaver, but poorly timed. I don't know what I would've done if you'd left right after we got married."
"Or I, you." Jessica came close to him, absentmindedly tickling the top of his shaved head. Every morning now, she made sure there were no errant strands he'd missed. Her hand drifted down to an ear.
He leaned in again. "Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Vincent? We've got work to do, you know." He kissed her, long and hard. Their embrace brought all of their attention and focus onto the moment. "You know, I do have a lock on my door," he said roughly as their hands and lips explored one another.
From around the corner of the wall, they heard a delicate clearing of a throat. They separated. As Jessica smoothed her hair and Worth adjusted his trousers, Skip's head peered inside. "Worth, I just saw the email you copied to me from Lance Glover. Shall I post the job opening online?"
Worth returned to his desk, once again all business. "That'll be fine, Skip—oh, but check with Paul before you do. Maybe he already knows of someone who's looking. I would trust his judgment."
Skip gave him a thumbs-up and grinned at Jessica. The hunger in the room was palpable, and he had stumbled upon many such scenes during the last year. "Sorry to interrupt. Carry on, you little lovebirds!" he said as he stepped out.
Jessica and Worth shared a tender look, but the moment had passed. Jessica had numerous phone calls to make as well as a column to finish. Worth had several other appointments on his schedule before he could even think about taking a break, she knew. She sang out to Skip, "I was just leaving!"
Blowing a kiss at Worth, she walked past Skip and returned to her desk.
Lance Glover had felt it prudent to leave the magazine, but he certainly wasn't ready to leave the city. There were so many photos still to shoot! Some months earlier, he'd stumbled onto a sort of "help wanted" ad in the chat room of one of his favorite porn sites. Not only were photographers needed in his particular area, but the pay mentioned was top notch. There was an element of risk, the kind of photos they wanted required… finesse, patience, sitting in the dark for hours at a time. Once Lance had called the number to discuss it, he was warned that out-and-out stalking might be necessary in order to get the best shots. He had fairly jumped at the opportunity—the job combined his two favorite things: photography and women.
Lance knew there were others out there hoping to cash in on the offer. Soon after he had begun the work, the Peeping Tom reports had started flowing in. No way was he responsible for all the Peeping Tom reports. Perhaps none of them—he was careful. He was professional. He had also gotten distracted from the money somewhere along the line. Looking at things objectively, he realized that he had been too focused on his favorite subject. "Oh, Donnalet. You slipped away too soon," he said out loud as he looked through his photos of her. "All I wanted to do was take your picture in more suitable attire."
He laughed. "Or lack thereof. After I make you a famous model, perhaps you'll let me do nice things to you. Donnalet. And if you won't, perhaps I'll do them anyway."
He looked at his watch. Time to grab a bite to eat, then another night of hunting. Now that he wasn't at the magazine office, he'd have to be more strategic where his favorite subject was concerned. He might need help to follow through with Donna Brown. He preferred to work alone, but in this case, he knew a fellow. He called a number on his phone and arranged to meet.
Eric played with the vegetables on his plate. The place wasn't crowded, so he'd taken a booth. He glanced at his left arm, amazed at how free he felt without that damn cast. Fortunately, he'd gotten tan enough before it went on that it hadn't faded too badly, he thought. When Donna came home from the club, wouldn't she be surprised?
The club. Eric sighed, remembering her wedding night gift that seemed a distant memory. She planned to quit soon, she'd assured him, now that he was back home. But someone had called in sick. Madame X had pleaded for just a little longer? She'd help out this week, anyway. But after… maybe she'd be open to celebrating his newly freed arm in the red room. Unless the Daddy thing is still an issue.
He frowned as he cut off a bite of steak and put it in his mouth., barely noticing the taste. Donna was different since Florida. It had taken a lot for her to tell him about her father. And, he had to admit, his response hadn't been overwhelmingly supportive. He'd been appalled that someone would do that to a child, to his own daughter. His thoughts were relentlessly accusing: You also thought mainly of yourself, how the change of attitude might affect you. Us. He continued to mentally berate himself until suddenly, his ears pricked up.
Through the slats at the top of the booth behind him, two men were deep in conversation. Eric couldn't hear every word, but what he heard sent a chill down his spine.
"No, I quit," a voice was saying. "No notice, just left. All because of that gorgeous little bitch. I wish I'd pulled every strand of that blonde hair of hers out… or at least…" The voice went too low to understand. "I know she would've complained. Probably did anyway."
A second voice made a comment Eric could not hear.
"…magazine, house, maybe… back now. In no shape… riskier."
More that was inaudible. "The club, yeah."
Eric looked across the diner to the mirror behind the lunch counter. An elderly couple blocked his view of the occupants of the booth, but… there. The couple were finished and got up to pay on their way out. Eric could clearly see two men, one in a fishing vest and plaid shirt, the other in camouflage. Perhaps he had been mistaken about them being up to no good. Those two look like they're about to go camping.
"She's… tonight. I heard her telling… every night this week. I paid. I'll find some way… until she's outside. Or stop by the house, bare spot in the grass, I've looked in so often." Both men laughed.
Eric watched the mirror out of the corner of his eye in horror as the man in the vest pantomimed a camera. The Peeping Tom. Maybe both of them are. But what club was a target? he wondered. His heart began to pound. Magazine. Club. Blonde. Surely, they were not discussing Donna? It felt like more than coincidence. He felt nauseous. What should I do? Should I call 9-1-1? What if I'm wrong?
Eric left his half-eaten meal and casually walked to the cashier to pay. "Keep the change," he said as he walked out quickly. Inside his car, he waited impatiently with the engine running. He would follow the men just to make sure this had nothing to do with Donna. He had to be mistaken. They were harmless. But if he did happen to see something suspicious, he could call it in then. Don't get ahead of yourself.
Ten long minutes later, the two men came out of the diner. Eric's heart sank as one of the men got into a van while the other, into a dark sedan. Which should I follow? The decision was made for him when the sedan pulled out into traffic first. Easing in behind it unobstrusively, he followed the car for several blocks before it pulled into a driveway and parked outside an apartment complex. When the man got out, he waved to someone out on a balcony and noisily greeted him. Obviously, he was not planning anything furtive any time soon.