by Heather Gean
I ripped open the envelope, realizing this time my hands were the ones shaking. A typed letter and a plane ticket fell out. Liz snatched up the ticket before I could. Once again, our trio was hovering around the desk. “Memphis to JFK. Next week!”
“What?” My heart began to race as I claimed the ticket and confirmed for myself that she hadn’t been lying.
The letter came next. Atop the crisp, white page was Schroeder stationary with an elaborate family crest in red. Questions continually piled up within me as I read it over.
Lorraine Clarke:
I am inviting you to visit me in New York next week. You are welcomed to stay for as long as you like. Any further arrangements or questions can be directed to my secretary whose telephone number and extension can be found at the bottom of this page. I will be out of the country on business until your arrival so I won’t be available to talk with you until our meeting. I look forward to your arrival.
Sincerely,
Ashley Schroeder
I felt as if I’d just read a letter regarding a business meeting. Either my most compatible mate in the country was much more formal and stiff than I’d imagined or his secretary possessed no skill at romantic embellishments. I prayed for the latter.
“What does it say?” Sasha pressured.
“Are they from Ashley?” Liz questioned.
I sighed heavily and dropped the letter to my side. It tugged me down like a weight. The bright red roses stared up at me. They were the same color red as the Schroeder family crest. I touched the tip of my finger to one of a few stray thorns the florist had failed to trim.
“Yeah,” I finally said. “Apparently I’m going to New York.”
Chapter 2
Airports made me anxious. Security had cracked down to the point that I was sure it had scanned my retinas before allowing the drug dog to sniff me in inappropriate places and sending me through the metal detector. Every fifteen minutes a recording would play over the loudspeakers reminding everyone of the heightened homeland security alerts. At one point, I got so paranoid while looking for terrorists that I began to wonder if I was a terrorist. The actual plane ride didn’t ease my nerves at all either.
All of that spun through my head as I stood in a crowd of strangers at baggage claim. The conveyer belt overflowed with black luggage. Some travelers I found to be too vivacious following a two hour flight wrestled with every suitcase that floated by, searching for a nametag. Thankfully, I had a father who’d done enough traveling to know that when he bought my luggage it needed to be bright purple. After squeezing between two men and nearly toppling over a short woman speaking French, I tugged my easily identifiable bag off of the conveyer and swam towards a less crowded area of arrivals.
My only remaining business in the airport involved locating the driver that the secretary promised would be waiting for me with a sign. I scanned the crowd for anyone that resembled the mental image I associated with a driver: a short, elderly man with a bushy white mustache and droopy, glistening eyes who wore a black suit and newsboy hat and spoke in a British accent. No such creature waited in the arrivals area. However, the small rectangle with my name in the middle of it floated at the front of the crowd, and the person holding that sign was not what I’d expected.
I double-checked, but the driver awaiting my arrival was nothing like the sweet, old driver from jolly good England. As a matter of fact, he looked as if he’d just stumbled out of a bar or roused himself from a week-long heroin binge. One of the arms branching away from the sign was blanketed in tattoos. He was a surprise, right from the messy, brown hair atop his head to the clunky Vans peeking out from the frayed cuffs of his jeans. I wasn’t sure, but I assumed that he wouldn’t speak with a British accent either. I had a hard time believing that this was the driver Ashley Schroeder would have sent for his fiancée, but I was prepared to figure it out.
With my luggage rolling behind me, I approached my target. He focused in on me with emotionless, bloodshot brown eyes the second he realized I was staring at him. I felt my cheeks get warm, and I hoped they weren’t bright red enough for him to notice. His expression remained unchanged, and I couldn’t decide if he made me nervous or if it was still my airport phobia nagging me.
“Lorraine Clarke?”
“Rainy Clarke,” I corrected. He dropped the sign to his side and greeted me with a handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Rainy. I’m Van,” he said. What sort of name was Van? I instantly thought of Van Helsing, Van Morrison, and Van Halen; vampire killers and rock stars didn’t exactly give me a positive answer. He gave me another once over then ran a hand through his hair and down one side of his stubbly face. “Um… you ready?” He reached for my bag.
“You aren’t a terrorist are you?” I asked him with a half-smile. My mother had given me specific instructions not to talk to any terrorists, and while I thought it was ridiculous, being as that I would never know a terrorist if I saw one, I hoped a joke would expel some of the awkwardness between us. He never cracked a smile, just raised one of his eyebrows in confusion.
“How’d you know?” he asked flatly. After another skip of my heart, I softly laughed. I’d deserved that. He fidgeted like a smoker who needed a cigarette. “Come on. Car’s this way.”
I followed him out into the intense sunlight. It glinted off of the metallic bodies of the dozens of cars and buses. I shielded my eyes as I wove through the traffic on his heels. I felt that we turned in so many directions I wasn’t sure if we were still near the airport. If Liz hadn’t forbidden me to wear my aviator sunglasses with the ensemble she’d masterfully pieced together that morning then I wouldn’t have been squinting like a blind fool as I navigated through the insanity of New York City’s sidewalks.
Within seconds I’d followed Van onto a side street that strangely resembled an alley. The cool shade of the buildings chilled my bare arms. I hugged myself, realizing within a few seconds that the alley wasn’t half as crowded as the streets we’d been walking down. My stomach got the flip-floppy feeling that horror movies gave it. Liz obviously hadn’t considered quick escapes or self defense when she’d put me in the cutest, most uncomfortable flip-flops my feet had ever worn. When Van finally pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked his vehicle, I was ready to turn and run despite the footwear. No driver sent by Ashley Schroeder would be driving a hearse.
Fear had frozen me at least fifteen feet away from the car. Was this some sort of high profile abduction? I knew my cell phone was in my back pocket. I watched Van innocently duck into the car to load my suitcase over the front seat. The main street was only a few seconds’ run away. As I pulled the phone from my pocket, I slowly backed down the sidewalk. I never took my eyes off of him as I backed away, hoping and praying to find a cop on the main street. When he finally saw me, he looked incredibly confused. Confusion switched to fear then annoyance. He only got one step in my direction before I took off.
~*~
“You thought I was trying to kidnap you?” Van asked. “Why the hell would you think that? I had the sign.”
“Like I was supposed to know! You also had a hearse. Who the hell drives a hearse? I’m a girl alone in a big city. I’m defenseless. I mean, what sort of normal person drives a hearse?”
Our hushed voices echoed off of the empty walls in the tiny room. Everything was white: the walls, floor tiles, and lights. We’d been left in an interrogation room in the airport. The police officer in the hallway glared at us through the window in the door. I’d never been so embarrassed in my life.
As luck would have it, we hadn’t been so far from the airport after all. I ran into an airport security guard, and when I say ran into I mean that literally since abrupt stops in flip-flops are impossible, and in hysterics convinced him that I needed protection. When Van sprinted up, the guard pieced things together, and took both of us into custody. After twenty minutes of thorough questioning, we’d been left to wait for release. The Schroeders had been called.
; My stomach was in knots, not only over one of the most embarrassing mistakes I’d ever made but also over the realization that if I’d avoided this trip altogether I would be at work where my help was needed to prepare the next exhibit. The Cultural Art Museum of Memphis downtown wasn’t the best paying job I could’ve sought out after I received my college degree, but it wasn’t the money that kept me there. I had something of a dorky passion for art. It was just my luck that only two weeks after I was put in charge of compiling and arranging our newest exhibit that I’d been whisked away to another part of the country to meet my future husband and his serial-killer-looking driver. I checked the messages on my phone, hoping that a few more of the pieces had arrived today, but ended up with nothing to get my mind off of the police interrogation room. If I hadn’t been such a hopeless romantic leftover from the days when romance was still free from government regulation, I might’ve put this trip on hold long enough to get my exhibit together. For the sake of politeness, I hadn’t.
“You aren’t calling the cops again are you?” Van asked just before I returned my phone to my pocket.
“I’m sorry,” I admitted. “But really… a hearse? It wasn’t what I expected.”
Van finally cracked a smile, and it changed his entire demeanor. He was almost... attractive. If only he’d offered up a smile like that in the airport, we wouldn’t be in the situation we were. I would’ve been too busy swooning over him to notice the damned hearse. Some of the tension floated away on a chuckle that escaped him. “Life’s funny like that. You never know what to expect.”
“I guess.” I relaxed a bit. He was suddenly informal and easy-going, but then again, he’d finally finished a cup of coffee, and the circles under his eyes were disappearing. I glanced at him again and wondered why he’d been sent to pick me up. He obviously wasn’t a professional driver so he must’ve had some close social ties to Ashley Schroeder. Just as I was about to ask him, the door to the interrogation room flew open.
A breeze floated through the door carrying a determined-looking woman in a business suit. She removed her dark sunglasses instead of pushing them into her modestly bobbed hair. At first I was sure she was a detective, since her strong jaw line tightened her features into an excellent poker face. I had a tendency to wear my emotions on my sleeve so I’d always been captivated by those who appeared sleeveless, but this woman was slightly terrifying.
“I’ll be taking these two off of your hands,” she informed the officer in the hallway. Van had already stood to greet her.
“Monica, this was all just a big misunderstanding,” Van explained.
“You went to pick Miss Clarke up from the airport?” she asked.
Van slouched a bit. “I did.”
“And you did something, I won’t ask what, that provoked a chase through the streets of New York?”
A sigh crooked Van’s head downward. He rubbed his red eyes. The more questions she asked, the shorter the height gap between Van and this woman became. “I did.”
“And that got you taken into custody at the JFK airport for questioning?” she asked.
“It did.” His brows knotted into frustration.
“Well, then, Van, it sounds to me like everything is pretty well understood.” Her tone was sharp, and the small smile that accompanied it was anything but warm. She patted the side of Van’s tattooed arm. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got her from here. And take a shower. You smell like a brewery.”
It seemed I was switching hands from the driver of a hearse to a woman who could create the need for such a vehicle with just one of her withering stares. She reminded me of Liz, minus the sexy walk and the fashionable flair, and perhaps fueled with a bit more coffee, or possibly a dose or two of speed.
I had only a moment to watch Van head toward the exit with slumped shoulders before Monica stiffly shook my hand. “Lorraine Clark,” she said, “my name is Monica Radella, family friend and publicist of the Schroeders. I can be your best friend or your worst enemy.” She giggled a high-pitched sort of giggle that I returned with uncertain laughter. “Welcome to New York!”
“Thanks. And, I go by Rainy.” I felt like I’d better get used to making that correction.
“Rainy? I didn’t get that memo. Oh well, I guess I have it now!” Without warning she headed for the door. I struggled to keep up through the airport and followed her outside to a black limousine with the same family crest monogrammed on the side that I recognized from the family stationary. I had no good reason to run this time, but I still had the urge. I bit it back and ducked inside. The limo smelled of leather. I had time only to take in my disheveled reflection staring back at me in the mirror-like window dividing us from the driver when Monica slid in behind me and instantly demanded my attention. She was armed with a tape recorder as well as a notepad, which gave me a sinking feeling much like the one I’d had in the interrogation room.
“Before we begin, do you have any questions?” Her intent stare bugged the hell out of me. There was a mini-TV screen right beside her head that I assumed would tune in to just about anything she might desire, but instead she insisted upon focusing on me.
“Begin what exactly?”
Monica didn’t even blink. Her eyes scanned over my face like probes. “The publicity release, of course. We have to get one out before the tabloids can get a hold of you. I’m not sure that you know this, but preemptive strikes are the prevention, Rainy.”
Tabloids? I imagined middle-aged women standing in line at the grocery stores staring at a horrible picture of me paired with a malicious caption. As the daughter of a politician, this terrified me. When I’d filled out that God forsaken compatibility test at the DML, I had not checked ‘yes’ for tabloids. I wanted to say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t sign up for this’, but I feared that Monica would kill me with her withering stare and call Van to transport my dead body in his hearse and that in death I would inevitably end up in the tabloids. It was a vicious cycle.
“Of course.” I flashed a fake smile effortlessly. Spending the past eight years as the daughter of a State Representative had definitely taught me a few tricks.
Monica clicked a button on her recorder and held it in the hand not occupied by her already scribbling ink pen. “First I need to verify the information I obtained from the government packet. Your name is Lorraine Beverly Clarke. Why the alias ‘Rainy’?” Alias sounded illegal, and her finger quotes made me want to break her hands.
“I was named after my mother. To avoid confusion they just call me Rainy for short.”
“Short for what?” Too bad Monica wasn’t as intelligent as she was confident.
“For Lorraine.”
“Hmm. Odd.” She seemed to be writing much more than was being said.
“You were born and raised in a small town in Tennessee just outside Memphis? And you now live in Memphis?” I nodded.
“Rainy, I’m going to need you to provide verbal responses,” she said as she waggled the tape recorder at me.
“Um, yes, I live in Memphis.”
“Good, this is good. The public is really accepting of Southern belles. It reminds them of Scarlet O’Hara and the good ol’ days. And once they hear that Southern drawl of yours, they’ll be sold!”
Her subtle stab at my accent toyed with my self-confidence.
“Now, tomorrow morning I plan to release that you are the future Mrs. Ashley Schroeder, that you are a Southern sweetheart daughter of a Tennessee State Representative who is thrilled to death about your impending marriage, and that you can’t wait to start the next phase of your life here in the New York City area.”
Whoa. When had I said that? “Ashley and I haven’t really decided anything about that.”
“About what?” She had huge, non-blinking eyes just like a fish.
“About my moving to New York.”
Monica followed up my statement with more gremlin laughter.
“Well, silly, you don’t really see him moving to Memphis do you?” She saw that I was ser
ious. Monica clicked her tape recorder, and the whirring noise it had been making instantly stopped. A heavy silence fell upon us.
“Rainy, I want you to understand that I’m doing this for your own good. The press wants to find out – it will find out. The least we can do is to throw them a few bones to keep them at bay. I just need something to satisfy them.” Her explanation was fit for a third grader. “I need your cooperation.”
I held back a sigh and quickly thought this over. My options were limited. If she was going to print something then it needed to come from me, so I agreed.
Monica began recording again. “What is it, exactly, that you do at this Cultural Art Museum?” The onslaught of questions began, and in the remainder of the thirty-minute car ride Monica found out that I opposed the Schroeder company’s outsourcing, favored alternative energy plans, had no idea where my ancestors had emigrated from, and owned at least five major appliances that bore the Schroeder name. What any of this had to do with my public appeal, I had no idea.
With my head still spinning, the limousine let us out in front of a massive house with Roman architecture. It had a perfectly manicured set of gardens surrounding it in addition to a fountain with a naked statue out front. Its four stories loomed in front of me. A shiver went down my spine.
Monica’s heels clicked up the walkway, and I trailed behind her. A doorman let us inside, greeting me as Lorraine. I was in such awe that I didn’t bother to correct him. After all, in a few days he’d probably read the name correction while he was in line to buy some lonely-old-man cereal. Expensive draperies and marble floors were the next things to greet me. A life-sized sculpture of an extremely muscular, completely nude man was crouched beside a second set of stairs that led downward. That was all I had time to take in before Monica whisked me all the way up the stairs and through one of the many closed doors.
“This is your room. Feel free to make yourself at home. If you need anything just pick up the phone and dial one for the maids.” She turned on her heel and started out the door.