Getting It Right

by Karen E. Osborne

  "Maybe I should search for them . . . What do you think, Marty?"

  The cat's ears perked up.

  "A quick Google search might be all it would take." She turned the shower knobs on. "Wouldn't that be better than playing all these silly reunion games in my head?"

  Marty stretched and walked away. Obviously, he was tired of this particular conversation; they had it often.

  She let the water run until it was hot and stepped into the stall. How hard would it be to find these people, Worth and Alex Lawrence? They would be stunned. Would they even recognize her?

  She poured body wash onto her washcloth, her mind returning to her counterargument. How hard would it have been for them to find her? They didn't want to. They didn't want her then, and they don't want her now. She needed to let her fantasy go. It was time to grow up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alex exhaled, scanning the hospital corridor. No sign of Vanessa and Pigeon, even though she'd called both of them before her cell phone battery died. That had to be over an hour ago. She reached for one of the pay phones facing the CCU elevator bank and dialed the office number.

  "McCormick and Lawrence Graphic Designs." Sean sounded muffled. Alex pictured him scrolling through his e-mail messages, coffee mug in one hand, muffin crumbs sprinkled across his chest, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, tufts of disheveled hair standing on end, his handlebar mustache waxed and curled.

  "Hi."

  "Alex, where've you been?"

  "Family emergency." With her left thumb and index finger, she manipulated the frayed cigarette in her jean pocket. A No Smoking sign stared down at her. "I won't be in today."

  "Okay." He dragged out the vowels, making it clear that it wasn't. He sounded like her mother and often acted as if he were—an upsetting thought.

  "My dad's sick. I'm at the hospital." She heard him swallow. "It's serious."

  Whenever Alex spoke with Sean on the phone, she was reminded why she hated it—long silences followed by unexpected or unwelcome responses. She drummed her fingers on the top of the pay phone and waited.

  "I'm sorry. What's wrong?" he finally asked.

  She told him everything she knew. "I'll be here all day." She kept her tone professional. "Is there anything I need to know, anything urgent?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. Jonas Frankel is on the warpath again."

  Alex groaned.

  "He called three times asking for you."

  "About what?" she replied, although she knew the answer.

  "The first call came at eight thirty this morning, just so you know, and the last one was a few minutes ago."

  "What did he say?"

  "I'm getting to that."

  Alex closed her eyes.

  "You promised to complete his designs today. Designs that—and correct me if I am wrong—you told me you would have finished by last Friday."

  The cigarette crumbled in her hand. "Sarcasm is not helpful." Dried bits of tobacco stuck to her fingertips.

  "I told him you had a meeting this morning but would be in any minute."

  Whenever Alex complained about Sean to Vanessa, her sister asked why she partnered with him. What Vanessa didn't know was how creative he was, how he could be insightful and sometimes kind. He was a bit rough around the edges, but also loyal and hardworking.

  "You'd better call him now," Sean continued. "We can't afford to lose this account. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, but things are lean around here, in case you haven't noticed."

  She'd noticed. Over the last several months, they had pitched two significant companies, competing with firms much larger than their boutique operation of three employees. Sean had been reluctant to invest the time and money needed for their sales presentations, but Alex knew they were talented enough. She believed they had a real shot at one of the two clients, or maybe both. Unfortunately, neither had chosen them in the end, although they were now on the radar of some major corporations. And yet Sean was right—they had no money coming in.

  Thinking about that disappointment, Alex softened her tone: "I'll call him right away to smooth things over." She balanced the phone against her ear and pulled out a pen, scribbling his number on the palm of her hand. "I'll come in early tomorrow and stay until the Frankel job is done." She waited for Sean to respond, but when he didn't, she added, "I promise. If anything else comes up, just leave me a message on my cell phone." Then she remembered her dead battery and the charger in some unknown place in her apartment. "Actually, I'll check in," she amended.

  "Okay."

  She waited in case there was more he wanted to say.

  "Should I come over? I don't mind. That is, if you need me . . . if you want me to."

  That's what she had wanted to hear at the beginning of the conversation. "Thanks, but no. Although I appreciate the offer." In the space of one conversation, Sean would go from critical mother to would-be protector to senior partner and back to friend. "Don't worry about me, Sean. I'm fine."

  "I always worry about you."

  The emotion in his voice startled her. "What?"

  "Just call Frankel."

  Then Sean hung up before Alex could reply.

  What was that about? She was pretty sure he'd said he always worried about her. Argh. She didn't need unwanted complications. It was better to focus. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew he was right. With only a couple of small projects under contract and almost nothing lined up, Frankel's marketing package was their only bill-paying project. She dropped the last of her change in the pay phone slot and dialed Frankel's office.

  "Hi, big sister."

  Alex spun around. Pigeon stood in front of the elevator doors. Her dark hair was streaked with purple, and she was dressed in a leather miniskirt, coral blouse, and a man's bomber jacket.

  "Frankel and Hobson," Alex heard on the other end of the line.

  She hung up and hurried over to Pigeon. "I am so glad you're here." She hugged and kissed her. "You okay?"

  "I can only stay a few minutes."

  "Daddy's sleeping now, and Mom and Aunt Peggy are in the cafeteria."

  "Just tell him I came."

  "You have to go in." It pained Alex when Pigeon missed family gatherings with excuses like colds, tyrant bosses, and last-minute mishaps. Pigeon eluded eye contact. "Mom's going to be disappointed too," Alex said, forcing Pigeon to look her in the eye.

  "Okay."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I need to talk to you about something."

  "Sure, what's wrong?" There was always something: lost apartments with nowhere to go, lost wallets and no way to pay her bills, and lost boyfriends as well. Although Alex sometimes grew tired of the endless list of troubles and plans gone awry, she was never too weary to help.

  A janitor pushed a bucket ahead of his mop, leaving the strong smell of disinfectant in his wake. Alex waited to hear Pigeon's latest crisis. Maybe this was how Sean felt about her. Not that she ever let the business suffer, but she had to admit there was always something going on with her—a lost portfolio, late for an appointment, computer trouble . . . something.

  "Cool Breeze and I are moving to LA. We're leaving tonight."

  "Who the hell is Cool Breeze?"

  On cue, a linebacker-sized man with a white, shaven pate and scraggly flaxen beard stepped off the elevator and walked over to them. He had to be at least forty—fifteen years older than Pigeon.

  He scooped Pigeon up off her feet. "Miss me?" Then he turned to Alex. "You're Alex, right? Nice to meet ya."

  Alex tried not to stare at his manicured fingernails, painted black, or the multicolored tattoos climbing up his forearm. "Same here." She hoped she sounded friendly, and not scandalized.

  "He's got this gig, and I'm going with him."

  Cool Breeze grinned. "Monica makes a great road manager

  —lining up good places to crash, finding all-you-can-eat diners that are open late-night."

  Trying to process what she'd just heard, Alex
missed her mother's swoop-in arrival, all 105 pounds of coiled indignation advancing on them.

  "So there you are—finally. Your father laying on his deathbed, and where were you? Is your hair purple? The orange streaks weren't enough to put me in my grave? And pull down that skirt; I can see all your secrets and so can everyone else. If you needed money for decent clothes, all you had to do was ask."

  Pigeon shrunk against Cool Breeze. Alex opened her mouth to defend her little sister, but the large man jumped in.

  "You must be Mrs. Lawrence."

  Peggy trundled behind Alex's mother, glasses askew, her hands full of sodas and chips.

  "And you must be the famous Aunt Peggy. Monica told me so much about you both."

  Peggy giggled and bobbed her head as her glasses slipped further down her nose.

  Alex's mother asked, "Does your mother know you have those tattoos, or do you hide them when you visit?"

  "She has a few of her own."

  Judy looked startled, but stayed quiet only for a beat. "Monica, introduce us."

  "Thomas Cole, but my friends call me Cool Breeze."

  "Why on earth would anyone want to call you such a ridiculous name?"

  "It's my stage name. But you can call me Tom or Breeze—whatever you like." He pulled over a couple of chairs and helped Aunt Peggy with her bounty, bestowing a killer smile on each of the women in turn.

  "How did you come up with Cool Breeze?" Aunt Peggy inquired.

  "I wanted to be memorable."

  Alex watched in amazement as Cool Breeze asked about Worth's health, followed by a discussion of the music scene in LA. From there they went into the cultural differences between the Northeast and California. When Judy inquired about gang violence, once again eyeing his tattoos, Breeze managed a conversational pivot with an ease Alex envied. He seemed comfortable and knowledgeable discussing almost any topic. Pigeon listened with rapt, quiet attention, holding his hand.

  Her mother finally pulled herself together and got her razor's edge back. "What exactly do you do, Thomas?"

  "I play lead guitar with a band, The Bombers. We have a contract with Warner Bros., and our new album is moving up the charts."

  "What kind of music do you play?"

  He laughed. "You wouldn't like it at first, but I bet you'd come to appreciate it. Monica told me you sang professionally back in the day."

  "Not really." Judy beamed. She liked to tell her daughters about her piano-playing, nightclub-singing days. When they pressed her, Judy admitted it was only a summer job in a small town upstate.

  "Your daughter must have gotten it from you. She always knows if we have something good going. I find her perceptions to be spot on."

  "A contract with Warner Bros. is impressive."

  Alex couldn't believe it—her mother had been taken in by this child seducer. "Would I have heard of your band?" she asked, trying to get "call me Tom, or Breeze, or whatever" back into the role of the villain.

  "Do you like hardcore?"

  "Some." She wasn't sure what hardcore music was, or if she'd ever heard it.

  "Check out our videos on YouTube and let me know which cuts you like."

  In spite of herself, Alex couldn't stay annoyed with him. His earnestness seemed real. "Where are you guys going to live?"

  Before he could answer, Pigeon jumped up. "We have to go. I'd better go peek in on Daddy, and then we gotta hit the road." She bent over and kissed her mother, aunt, and Alex on their cheeks, tugged on the hem of her skirt, grabbed her boyfriend's hand, and pulled him down the hall.

  "Monica Lawrence, where do you think you are going?" Hands on her narrow hips, her mother yelled at the retreating pair: "You just stop right there, young lady."

  Cool Breeze slowed but Pigeon pulled on his arm.

  "Wait," Alex said as she ran after them. "How will I get in touch with you?"

  "I'll call you the minute we get settled."

  "But there's something important I need to talk to you about."

  "Just call my cell or text me." Pigeon wrapped her arms around her sister. "He loves me, Alex. Be happy for me."

  Then, without entering their father's hospital room once, Pigeon disappeared with Cool Breeze behind the closing elevator doors.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kara's eyes flew open. The dream was now occurring nightly, whereas before, she'd only have it maybe once a week. Blood, crashing waves, her mother's extended hand reaching for her. The ocean water became mud, sucking Kara under. Now, she dreaded closing her eyes. The nightmare left her fatigued but unable to actually rest, much less sleep.

  Now fully awake, covered in a clammy layer of sweat, Kara pulled back the covers. Marty jumped.

  "Sorry, kitty, I'm going crazy." She got up. "I am crazy."

  Of course, the dream was about Big Jim. But why, now, was it haunting her every single night? Kara donned her robe, eyeglasses, and flip-flop slippers. She needed to shake off the feeling left by the dream.

  "You deserve some cream and I need a cup of tea." Kara often found that after a cup of chamomile tea she could fall back asleep and the nightmare wouldn't return. With Marty at her heels, she eased down the stairs and into the warm light of Mrs. E.'s kitchen.

  Wheelchair bound from last winter's fall, Mrs. E. sat tall in her chair. An intricate pile of mostly white braids framed her dark, round face.

  "I thought I heard you come in."

  "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "I napped too long. I could use some tea and company." Mrs. E. rolled her chair over to the stove. "So how was your day and your date?" The kettle was a permanent fixture. A whoosh of flame followed the click, click, click of the burner. "Hungry?"

  "I'm starving." The last meal Kara had eaten was popcorn at the bar; before that, a cheese sandwich at noon.

  The gathering of cups, saucers, spoons, and napkins filled the silence.

  "So?"

  "Oh, the date. It went okay." Kara tried to sound untroubled by the events of the evening. "He had urgent business so we only had time for a drink and a dance."

  Mrs. E. made a sucking sound between her teeth.

  "He's involved in some big deal and had to go back to work."

  "Most men would love a chance to spend the evening with a beautiful, smart woman like you."

  "We're going away for a vacation when his deal is closed."

  "They wouldn't be dashing off, leaving you alone." She shook her head as if to underscore the stupidity of Zachary Lowe.

  "He's a good man."

  The face Mrs. E. made belied her words. "I'm sure he is."

  The two women finished setting the table in silence.

  Kara was tired of defending Zach to others—that's why she didn't want to mention him to Tuesday. It was harder to hide at home, of course. Mrs. E., Danny, and Kara knew a lot about each other's comings and goings.

  The kettle screeched.

  "Chamomile?"

  "Perfect."

  Mrs. E. poured the boiling water into a porcelain teapot that was topped with a strainer holding loose tea. "How come you don't date a nice boy like Danny?" She uncovered a pyramid of brownies and placed the plate on the table.

  "You don't know Zach." Again, Kara thought about the night he had told her about his wife's betrayal, his eyes watering, his voice thick with humiliation. It had been a turning point for them, a moment of rare intimacy for Kara. "Danny and I are friends. Anyway, isn't he seeing that Willa person?"

  Right then, Danny walked into the kitchen still in his uniform: his Glock angled from his right hip, a belt holding his cuffs and other gear circled his waist. "Her name is Willow." Tall, cocoa brown, slender, with long arms and feet, Danny grinned at the two women. "And no, he's not still seeing her."

  How much of the conversation had he heard? Kara flushed.

  Mrs. E. hummed under her breath in that I'm not involved in this kind of way she had.

  Without turning Kara remarked, "You're home late."

  "Came to catch a few w
inks, then I gotta get back."

  "Trouble?"

  "Overtime."

  His voice was deep and smooth, the kind you hear late at night on the radio, a voice to trust. Maybe she should mention to him what happened today.

  Kara sat down at the table and Mrs. E. pushed her wheelchair into place.

  Danny unholstered his gun and slid it on top of one of the kitchen cabinets. He lowered himself into a chair, leaned back, balanced it on its two back legs, and grabbed a brownie. Kara only nibbled on hers in spite of her earlier hunger. She tried to analyze her hesitation in telling Danny about her stalker. Was it that she'd have to explain too much, about where she had been when she saw him? They both knew she'd aged out of foster care, but neither Mrs. E. nor Danny knew about the abuse. Unfortunately, they did know about Winston, last year's unfaithful boyfriend, and definitely disapproved of Zach.

  "What have you two lovely ladies been up to?"

  "Kara had a date. Ended quite early," Mrs. E. answered.

  "With that old man?"

  "You don't know anything about him," Kara said.

  "Do you?"

  What was that supposed to mean? So far, the tea and the conversation hadn't calmed her. She wanted to change the topic. "Did both of you buy your lottery tickets? Mega Millions is up to $110,000,000."

  Danny licked crumbs from his fingers.

  Mrs. E. said, "I bought one for each of us. Maybe this is our time."

  Kara felt Danny's scrutiny but she didn't look at him.

  "What would you do with that much money, Danny?" Mrs. E. asked.

  "Give it all to you, every penny."

  Mrs. E. made a clucking sound but she appeared pleased. "And some to the church?"

  "No doubt."

  Kara stirred broken brownie pieces on her plate with her right index finger. If she had millions of dollars, first she would help Flyer and Tuesday—pay their bills and hers. But her dream would be to start a fund for foster kids living in group homes. How many times had she gone to school hungry, or without a notebook or pen, in hand-me-down clothes? If she had money, she'd take all the kids shopping every spring and fall so they had new clothes and school supplies like everyone else. No one would know where the kids lived, or how they lived. She'd buy them laptops and tablets. They'd fit in—belong. "Me too," she said. "I'd give it all to you, Mrs. E." It would take too long to explain her dream and its genesis. Besides, no one wanted to hear other people's sad stories. "How about you?"