by J. D. Robb
“Not too much for just one person?”
“No. Well, yes, but I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t like she had a lot of other things to do with her time.
“You’re sure?” She recognized the look in his eyes and sighed. It was the sympathetic, well-meaning look that invariably preceded a discussion of her nonexistent love life. “The reason I’m asking is, my wife’s ex-sister-in-law’s nephew is the . . . ah, um . . . you know, the main money man for this big chain of hotels, actually several chains with different names. They do fast food, too. And rental cars. He’s the vice president of money or something but they call it something else . . . ah . . .”
“Controller? Auditor? CFO? Chief financial officer?”
“Yes, that’s it. In Chicago. He travels a good deal, works long hours. A very nice, quiet, young fellow. He was out here last fall on a visit and fell in love with the water and the mountains and all the greenery—you know how people do. Says he wants to downsize his life a little, enjoy more of it while he’s still young . . .”
What if a patrol car happens to drive by? Cops get paid to notice the strange and unusual. Would they check with missing persons before or after they confiscated his shoes and locked him up? she wondered.
“. . . up and quit his job.” Henry went on. “Luckily, he’s single, did I mention that? A very nice, quiet, young guy. Anyway, he’s packing up and moving out here. Expect him any day now.”
“Bold move.”
“Gutsy, I thought, and smart, too. Figuring out early that money isn’t everything. Life is short, you know?” He looked uncomfortable in light of her recent loss. “Anyway, I believe he has plenty of money set aside but he’s not ready to retire just yet, so he’s looking for work. Something smaller. Something challenging. And when my wife told me all this, she seemed very enthused with the idea of the two of you at least meeting. Since you have so much in common,” he added, looking even more uncomfortable. “Perhaps you could work out some sort of business arrangement. Maybe . . . who knows? A nice, quiet, single young man . . . and you. Who knows what might happen?”
It started as a low grumble deep in her belly, then escalated to a high pitched screaming in her head. No, no, no! Nice, quiet man is a synonym for miserable, boring loser! I don’t want to have anything in common with that! I want more! I need more! I want bold, confident and determined! I want exciting! I want sexy! I want Alpha! I want passion and laughter and . . . and someone who will see me as more than a nice, quiet woman! I want a life! I want to live! I want to get out of here!
“It was awfully nice of her to think of me.” It was a strain to control her voice. “But to tell you the truth, Henry, I don’t think I’m going to need a partner. Not right away. Not for several years, if then. I’m feeling pretty confident that I can handle the whole business on my own, once I weed through it.”
“I have no doubt that you can.” Henry looked let off the hook. He could at least tell his wife he’d tried. “But it’s something to keep in mind, down the road a bit. Working alone can get lonely.”
“I know. Thanks, Henry.” She stood, slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase with the same hand, leaving the other free for the rest of her coffee. “If you think it might help, have him call me when he gets settled. I’ll give him the names of the companies I’ll be cutting loose. They’ll be looking for good accountants very soon.”
He beamed at her. “You’re a sweet girl, Charlotte Gibson.”
She smiled and felt heat in her cheeks. “I’ll see you next month, Henry.”
“I always look forward to it.”
“Me, too. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Good night, Charlotte. Hurry home. I think it’s going to rain.”
The moment she stepped out of the front door onto the sidewalk, he called to her. “Well, it’s about time. I thought you forgot about me again.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. She was nonconfrontational by nature, but everyone had their limit. She glanced at the traffic, then marched across the street to deal with him.
Three
“Who are you? And why are you following me?”
He gave her a charming smile and slipped his hands into the pouches on his jacket. But the man walking on the sidewalk behind him, stopped short and frowned at her.
“Who me?” the second man said, surprised and annoyed by her accusation. “I’m not following you.”
“No. Sorry. Not you.” She held up her cup and spread her last three fingers. “Sorry.”
She watched the second man stomp away, then curled all but her index finger around her coffee cup and directed it at her target. “You!”
“It’s a long story,” he said, calm and mildly amused. He spoke in a smooth, deep baritone that seemed to vibrate in the nicest way at the base of her spine. “Let’s walk or we’ll get caught in the rain.”
Turning to his right, he started to walk, confident that she’d follow. She only did so, however, because he was aimed in the direction of her apartment—she might need to know if he knew where she lived.
“This part is always so much harder when you’re dealing with adults who don’t believe in anything anymore. But you, I’m pleased to say, are a rare and wonderful exception, Charlotte. Deep down, you still believe.”
“In what?”
“In all the good stuff.” He inhaled deeply through his nose as if he could smell it. “Peace. The power of hope. Love. The Spirit of Christmas. Happily ever after. All of it. Most of the time you are a True Believer.”
“That’s very nice, but who are you?”
He thought a moment. “I know you like to add things together and come up with a sum total at the end. But in this case I think we should use a little algebra. You were always good at math. I’ll give you the answer, if you promise to stay and listen to the solution for X. You won’t have a clear answer to your question until you have all the components.”
“Okay. Shoot.” She was proud that she sounded braver than she felt. How did he know so much about her? It was creepy . . . and fascinating. Mentally she kept track of the shops ahead that were still open for business, and possibly sanctuary if she needed it.
“We’ve been friends a long time, you and I.”
“No, I—”
“Better friends when you were four and five, and for a while when you were six, but that doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten each other or that I didn’t exist all this time. I’ve always been here; you just wouldn’t let yourself see me.”
“Well I see you now, but I still don’t know who you are.”
“I am a figment of your ingenuity, the aggregate of your resourcefulness, a compendium of your dreams and wishes. In layman terms, I was once your imaginary playmate, and now I’m your—” Her feet took root in the sidewalk. He stopped to look back at her. “Oh, see? You’re not going to believe me, are you?”
She stared at him. He gave her a smug smile and lifted his brows. “I do look familiar though, don’t I? And how else would I know you had a make-believe friend if I didn’t exist?” He walked back to her, took the lax arm hanging from her left shoulder and looped it over his. “Come on. I’ll explain everything. It’s not as complicated as you might think.”
She allowed him to pull her along, taking careful note of the very real-feeling arm under her hand and the strange scent he had that remind her of winter holidays. Some sort of drug that oozes through his skin like garlic? Doesn’t cyanide smell like almonds?
There was a convenience store three blocks up—she could call the police from there. For now, she needed to keep him calm, keep him talking.
“I’ve changed some, I admit.” His tone was so casual it sounded like truth. “But, like you, I couldn’t remain a child forever. So, I grew up with you. I changed when you changed.” He laughed—not manically, but in a humorous way. A wonderful way. She liked his laugh. “I remember once, when you were fifteen, I looked like Kirk Cameron and Patrick Swayze in the same week. It was ter
rifying.” He glanced down at her and turned sober. “You don’t need to be afraid, Charlotte. If you really don’t want me here all you have to do is stop thinking about me. I’ll disappear again. Naturally, the reverse is true, as well. The more you think about me, the more real I’ll become . . . to you.”
How was she to not think about him when he stood right in front of her?
“To me.” She recalled the viewing and the way no one else seemed to notice him—and the second man on the sidewalk a few minutes ago. “I’m the only one who can see you.”
“That’s right. I’m all yours.” He winked at her. Her knees wobbled and she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, staggering against him—against his solid and very real body.
He used his other hand to catch her and she looked up into his handsome face while he held her close by her upper arms. Her mouth went dry. He didn’t feel imaginary. His out-of-this-world-blue eyes gazed into her soul and became soft and content with what he found there. He had the nicest mouth . . . a full, soft-looking lower lip that she suddenly ached to taste.
He frowned, looked puzzled, then set her back at arms length. “Uh-ah. Careful. You can’t wish for things like that. I’m not real, remember?”
“You look real. You feel real.”
“Only because you want me to.” Suddenly his head and face faded in and out with the head, face and muzzle of a gray and black donkey. She made a startled noise and stepped back, and his image settled into place again. He raised a brow in censure and spoke sternly. “I am not a jackass.”
“You can read my mind?”
“No. Not exactly.” He collected himself and turned sympathetic. “I know. It’s confusing at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. Just . . . be careful what you wish for.”
“So then . . . you’re what I wish for?”
“And what you dream of and admire. What you think you need. I’ve been a long time in the making, I can tell you.” He turned and started walking again. “Physically, I am now an accumulation of many men. You started putting me together, in this form, when you were in college . . . once you got over that Kevin Costner thing . . . and the, ah . . . Oh! Watch this.” He stopped to assume a more distinguished pose. The shape of his eyes altered minutely and the color grew darker as he said, “Miss Bennet, for many months now I have considered you to be one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured in awe, stunned and fascinated by Colin Firth’s eyes and voice.
He made a disgusted noise, rolled his chocolate brown eyes back to blue and started walking again. “What is it with you and that guy?”
“Can you do Mark Darcy, too?” She hurried to catch up with him.
“Of course, but it’s not him telling Bridget Jones—the actor telling the actress—that he likes her just the way she is that makes your heart constrict like that. It’s the thought of someone saying it to you that you love. And that’s right here.” He put his fist to his heart. “You made that a part of me. It’s what I want, too.”
She couldn’t help it; she glanced at his shoes and his hideous jacket. “You want someone to tell you that they like you just the way you are?”
He cast her a vapid look. “Do not go there. Would it kill you to take even the slightest interest in male fashion? You should have seen my hair before you happened to decide, one random afternoon, that you preferred shorter hair on men in general.”
“Not that many men can pull off really good-looking long hair. It always seems to look stringy or dirty. I don’t think men have the patience to mess with their hair like women do. They’re better off keeping it shorter.”
“I know. I just told you that. But what about the rest of me? Open your eyes, Charlotte. Look around. This . . .” He held his hands out to display his getup. “This is the entire extent of memorable male clothing inside your head. And I’d be wearing Dorothy’s shoes barefoot if you hadn’t thought tube was an interesting way to describe a sock. Captain Kangaroo’s jacket, of course, was a big hit with you but . . .” He paused to point an accusing finger at her. “Do not for one second think I don’t know why you are so hugely impressed with these football pants. Sure. Laugh.”
She giggled at his indignation even as a telling heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. A woman passing by turned her head to look at Charlotte—seemingly alone and giggling to herself—and her face grew hotter.
“Ha! Serves you right, you should feel embarrassed. You’ll never know how close I came to wearing Julia Roberts’ red Pretty Woman dress to your father’s wake, just to make my point.”
“I love that dress.” She tossed her empty coffee cup in a trash receptacle outside a private gym and caught herself feeling completely at ease with him again.
“And the black-and-white one she wore to the Academy Awards the year she won. I know. Women’s clothes you notice. But I can’t work with your negative images of male fashion, the clothes you think are boring or tacky on men. They disintegrate almost immediately.”
“I see men who dress nice. All the time. How memorable do a shirt and a pair of pants have to be?”
He shook his head. “It’s the texture of the shirt and how you feel when you look at it or touch it. The way it drapes across a man’s shoulders; the way his muscles ripple underneath it and how that makes you feel. The way it fits across his abdomen and tucks into the waistband of his pants, the way the pants hug his ass and how that—”
“Okay, okay. Really memorable. I get it. I’ll try to pay closer attention.”
“I’ll help you.” He looked down and up the long, drab black wool coat she had on. “You have good taste, Charlotte. You just need to use it more.”
She prickled instantly. “I thought you liked me just the way I am? I thought you were my friend?”
He smiled. “I do, actually. And I am. Friends tell the truth, don’t they? Besides, I can’t say anything you don’t already think. So we both know you could dress better.”
She snorted. “What would be the point of that? What difference would it make?”
“Ah. There’s that defeatist attitude we all know and love so well.” He slapped a hand to his chest dramatically and looked heavenward. Then he was instantly serious as they started to cross the street just beyond the convenience store. “The point, dear Charlotte, is that you’re never going to get what you want if you don’t make some sort of effort to go out and get it. I know you think that some man, who looks just like me by the way, is going to come galloping up on a white horse and give you everything you’ve ever longed for, but that sort of thinking is as unreal as I am.
“And the difference is, you’re on your own now. You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to worry about disappointing your parents anymore. You don’t need their approval. You don’t have to worry about who will take care of them, or feel responsible for them. You’ve been a good daughter. But now it’s time to start living your own life. They would want that. They never meant for you to hide yourself away in their ambitions. It just happened. All they ever really wanted was for you to be happy.”
She couldn’t help but wonder, how crazy was she to be taking advice from someone who didn’t really exist? And if she made him and he didn’t exist, did that mean she didn’t exist? No, too Matrix-ish for her. So, if she existed and she made him, then he existed . . . somewhere. Maybe not in this plane of reality, but . . .
“Do you have a name?” she asked abruptly, acutely aware of the real people around her, barely moving her lips, keeping her head movements casual.
He looked startled, then a little wondrous. “You really don’t remember me, even from before, when we were young?”
She shrugged. “I remember my parents teasing me sometimes about imaginary friends but . . . no, I don’t remember you.”
A slow, scintillating smile curved his lips. “So you don’t remember the name you gave me.” He whooped and laughed and did a little jig in Dorothy’s shoes. “There, you see? There’s some good in
everything, Charlotte. You don’t remember me, but you don’t remember my name either.” He seemed to grow slightly taller with relief and pride before he told her, “Just call me Mel.”
“Mel?”
“Yeah.” His gaze wandered as he tested the name. “Mel. I like it.”
“What is it really? Melvin?”
He gave her a sly look. “If you can’t honestly remember, I am not obligated to tell you. And frankly, that name was a flight of fancy taken first by Mr. Leitch and then by you that I have always resented. And, of course, you confused lemons with bananas but you were very young and may not have known the significance of—”
“You mean, you can remember things that I can’t?” The first line finally sank in.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “That’s where I come from.”
“Where?”
He sighed like he’d already explained a thousand times. He held out his hands. “You live here. Now. You are aware of everything going on around you. This is your consciousness. I usually hang out on the other side, just beyond the barrier. That’s where everything you’ve ever heard or seen or felt or thought about exists, and the barrier is like a fine film that keeps all that information from flooding your mind all at once. It allows you to reach in and pluck out what you want, when you want it. Like a big boiling pot, let’s say. Everything goes in there, all of it, from the moment your first two cells divide until . . .” He used one finger to poke her arm. “Now. And . . . now. And . . . now. And . . .”
“Okay. I get that it’s all there.”
“Most of what you put in the pot settles on the bottom because you don’t need it or care about it. Sometimes a memory or a thought will bubble up to the surface on its own; sometimes you need to stir the pot to get them to rise. There are some, many, that float all the time. Things that have made a big impression on you, say. Images of people you think of often, works in progress, lists of phone numbers, tunes you like—things you want easy access to but don’t want to think about constantly. You pick out what you want, think about it, throw it back in the pot a million times a day or more. Me, you think about a lot. I spend a great deal of time out of the pot.”