by Debbie Burns
She bit at her lower lip and looked inside, then back at him. “I’m not trying to be rude. It’s just, you could be anybody and…” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know your name.”
Her words resounded through his mind. He could be anybody. To her. Not the story, the sensation, he’d become. Anybody.
And somehow that mattered to him more than anything had in months.
He worked to keep his tone light. “I’m glad you brought it up. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
She gave a light shake of her head, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
“I hear you,” he added. “You can’t be too careful nowadays. I mean, it’s possible this whole thing could be a ruse to get me to bring you upstairs where you plan to overpower me and plunder my loft and do who knows what else.”
A small laugh bubbled out of her. “Me? Overpower you?”
He shrugged with his good shoulder. “You look little but mighty.”
Her small laugh rolled into a larger one. “Okay. I’ll wait in the lobby.” She stepped in ahead of him, wiping her wet boots on the mat and keeping her arms closed over her chest. “I’m Tess.”
“Tess, huh? Nice name.” He stepped in behind her and Millie. The lobby felt particularly inviting thanks to the heat and the automatic lamps on the tables on either side of the couch.
Mason let the door close behind them. When the automatic lock snapped in place, her hesitant smile fell.
“Is it just Tess, or is that short for Theresa?”
“Contessa.” The single word seemed to be swallowed up by the empty room. “My family’s Italian.”
“Contessa,” he repeated, only this time the big, quiet room didn’t seem to swallow it. “But you prefer Tess.”
“Wouldn’t you?” She stepped tentatively off the rug and onto the marble floor left over from the old showroom that dated back to the late 1890s. The lobby had been renovated using as much of the showroom’s original features as possible. The rest of the building—the parts that hadn’t been seen by customers—was considerably less ornate.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “My name’s Mason, and it’s not short for anything except maybe mason jar. I come from a family of several generations of farmers, and they’re a little bit of everything except Italian.” He motioned toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Only, you’re soaked, so I don’t know how that’s possible.”
She thanked him and headed for one of the two leather chairs.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll bring you a towel and a dry jacket.” He coaxed Millie onto the elevator—some days, the finicky dog was more willing to jump over the metal floor trim than others. Today, she bounded over the divide with no persuasion.
As the doors closed and Mason lost sight of the girl—of Tess—he found himself strongly hoping she didn’t give in to the fear and indecision so clearly riding under the surface and take off. Despite the less-than-perfect circumstances of the moment, his desire to have more time with her was surprisingly strong.
* * *
Tess could hardly feel her toes, and her soaked thighs and numb fingers began to sting as the heat of the lobby warmed them.
The reality of what had happened at the park and its likely aftereffects were too much to process. The guy had been more than kind. Funny too. But what would Nonna or her parents say if she got in a car with him? He hadn’t pushed when she’d chosen not to follow him upstairs to his loft. This made him seem safer somehow. Yet he had a fading black eye and was wearing a sling, and she had no idea how he’d gotten them. For all she knew, he could have a ferocious temper. It certainly didn’t seem like it, but she couldn’t know with any certainty.
In Europe, she’d backpacked and hitched rides from one small town to the next. She’d made friends with fellow travelers, often joining up with backpackers she’d just met and traveling with them for a town or two before parting ways. It was crazy, but all of that had felt so much safer than following a guy into the lobby of his building in her home city.
Maybe it was an omen. Maybe she should take off and head back to Pooches and Purses. The owner would be gone, but surely the workers would let her use a phone and hang there until whoever she decided to call came and got her.
The idea of calling her family made her stomach begin a new set of somersaults. Comments they hadn’t even made yet —and maybe never would—circled through her mind.
What was wrong with her that she didn’t think they’d be supportive or sympathetic? And why did her thoughts have to circle so quickly to what they’d say or think? Why did she have to assume it would be another marked failure in their eyes?
She’d lost so much. The treats, dog food, lotions, and oils were replaceable. The stories, not so much. She could contact some of her old clients and ask them for a second round of quotes and pictures. There was the cost of replacing her laptop. The cell phone in her backpack had been the one she’d left in a drawer when she’d gone to Europe. It was outdated by three models at least and had had more quirks than its fair share. She’d been more than overdue for a new one. She’d get the money for all of that somehow. It was the files on her computer and the photos and cell numbers that couldn’t be replaced.
Photos flashed through her mind of the hole-in-the-wall bookstores and antique markets and mom-and-pop bakeries, and of the castles and villages she’d visited. So did the phone numbers of the friends she met along the way. Some of the best moments of her life, so irretrievably gone.
In the quiet but cozy room, Tess doubled over, burying her head between her knees, and finally gave release to her tears.
Chapter 4
“So, pick your passion for a cold, rainy afternoon. Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?” Mason asked as he drove his red Dodge Ram pickup truck up the ramp and out of the basement garage.
It was a good thing he couldn’t drive with his left hand or he’d have to work hard at not letting his right one close over Tess’s knee in reassurance. She looked close to irresistible on the other side of the console in the big leather bucket seat, wearing the several-sizes-too-large hoodie he’d loaned her.
“Um, hot chocolate, I guess, though there are compelling arguments for all three.”
“Unless you need a jolt of caffeine, I can promise you won’t be disappointed with their hot chocolate. It’s a coffee shop just up the road. I’ll run in. You can wait here out of the rain. I know you must be in a hurry to look for your stuff. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks. You don’t have to, but if you’re going for you as well, a hot chocolate would be nice.”
Mason left his truck idling because he could see she was still shivering and he didn’t want to kill the heat. He dropped a few coins in the meter and jogged inside. By the time he came back with a giant hot chocolate for her and a coffee for him, she looked a lot further from tears than she had when he’d returned to the lobby. He’d sensed she’d only pulled herself together at the ding of the elevator.
He opened his door and placed the drinks in the console cup holders before gripping the steering wheel to climb into the high seat, something he’d perfected since his left arm and shoulder had been immobilized. He couldn’t say for sure how he used to get into his cab. It had been second nature.
“Is it hard driving one-handed?” she asked.
“So far, so good. It’s my collarbone and shoulder, not my arm. I’m counting the days until I get this sling off.”
He was glad when she didn’t ask how he’d done it. He worried telling her he’d been in a car wreck might cause her to make a connection he was hoping she wouldn’t make. Not today. Today, he wanted to be generic Mason from a generic farming family in Iowa. He didn’t want to be the single, pro baseball player just about every social media gossip column had tagged in one sensationalized story or another that summer. He
didn’t want to be a player on the field or off. He just wanted to be a guy helping a girl recover her stuff.
She lifted her paper cup in both hands and took a cautious sip. “You weren’t kidding. This is the real stuff. Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
“By everything, do you mean not watching your stuff while you were saving the dog I was supposed to be taking care of?”
He headed for the side streets and alleys that surrounded Citygarden on the north side of Tucker Boulevard. With any luck, they’d find her case or backpack tossed on the ground or in a Dumpster.
“I didn’t ask you to watch my things. The park seemed empty. I figured it was safe, and I was focused on Millie.”
He shook his head and turned down the first narrow street two blocks north of the park. “It seemed empty, didn’t it? Do you want to describe your stuff so we both know what we’re looking for?”
“I had an aqua-colored backpack. The suitcase is a hard-shell spinner. It was rose pink, a gift. They weren’t exactly color-coordinated. But you know what they say: you start from where you are, right?”
Memory rushed over Mason. You start from where you are. He’d heard that line once before and never forgot it. Twice in his twenty-nine years, he’d felt so on top of his game that he’d almost believed nothing could bring him down. Twice he’d been wrong.
He’d been proven wrong just four weeks ago. The Red Birds had made it to the playoffs and he’d had a phenomenal second season with them. Then his buddy had been in town and what had seemed like a well-deserved night of partying had led to him piling into the back of an Explorer that, less than a mile after entering the highway, had flipped twice and careered across the highway, severely injuring his best friend and breaking Mason’s nose and collarbone and preventing his participation in his first-ever playoff season. Three other people had been in the SUV. Two had been injured worse than him.
The other time he’d been knocked down, he’d had a much harder time getting back up. He’d just finished his junior year of college and had gotten word that he was being considered for that year’s MLB draft. He’d gone home to his family’s farm in Iowa thinking he was infallible. Then, one fateful talk with his dad had left him angry and rebellious. That afternoon, he’d lingered outside too long when the game of catch he’d been playing with his cousin was cut short by a thunderstorm heading their way.
Mason had stood in the field too long watching the clouds race in, trying to lose the leftover fear lingering in him from his conversation with his dad to the power of the storm. He still remembered feeling the electricity that had been building in the air, causing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end and thinking what an unstoppable force nature could be.
That was the last thing he remembered. He woke up five days later to learn he’d been struck by lightning and that he owed his life to the CPR his cousin had given him until the ambulance arrived. The strike had blown out his left eardrum and caused a 60 percent loss of the hearing in one ear. He had also barely been able to move the left side of his body. His arm had been worse than his leg. Not only was moving it excruciating—it was nearly impossible. And no one would say for sure how much, if any, movement would return or if, like the hearing he’d lost, it was gone forever. There was the fatigue, disorientation, headaches, and irritability he’d had to deal with too.
What had terrified Mason the most was the partial paralysis of his left side. He’d wanted to be a pro ball player ever since he could remember, and the dream had been so close, he’d almost been able to touch it.
He’d acted like a caged bear those first several sessions of physical therapy, lashing out at a string of therapists who wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted. He’d finally been passed along to a bad-tempered woman on the verge of retiring who wouldn’t take his shit.
“You want to play ball tomorrow, then move that arm like I say today. You were handed a plate of crap, and now you can quit or you can work your ass off and set your mind to getting your body back under your control. It’s the best choice anyone’s ever given, isn’t it? Starting right from where you are.”
Mason did as the woman instructed and the path to full recovery was long—several years long—and chock-full of bumps and ruts and washouts. By twenty-five, he was starting to play close to as good as when he’d been struck at twenty-one. The Orioles picked him up for his first season when he was twenty-six. He’d been a mediocre player for them and a slightly better one for the Brewers before getting transferred to the Red Birds two years ago.
What kind of coincidence was it that he was hearing those words again now, after he’d had another brush with the chaos and uncertainty that had the potential to derail a career in a mere fraction of a second? And after a season of riding high, at the top of his game, and feeling like he again had the world at his feet. His friend Georges’s answer to that was that his unconscious was sending him a message, a loud, clear one that he needed to figure out, and figure out quickly.
Now, here was this girl, not recognizing him from anywhere, but reminding him so strongly of the connection of life. What message had he not gotten back then? What message was he not getting now?
You start from where you are.
“So, were you heading out of town or are you just getting back?” he asked, wanting to stop his racing thoughts.
She squinched her brows, then her face relaxed in understanding. “That’s a good question, considering what we’re on the hunt for. Neither, really. I got back from Europe about a month ago, and I’m staying put in St. Louis for a bit.”
Mason parked the truck at a row of Dumpsters, two for trash and one for recycling. “Europe, huh? Sounds nice.” He slipped the truck into Park and switched his wipers to low. “You can stay here, if you’d like. I’ll call out to you if I see anything.”
Tess unbuckled her seat belt. “Thanks, but they’re my bags. I’ll Dumpster dive.”
They headed over in the drizzling rain together. As Mason peeked behind the Dumpsters, a cat dashed out from underneath and ran off down the street.
“Poor kitty.” The way Tess looked after it was proof of the kindness in her heart he didn’t need after seeing her with Millie.
“Feral cats are pretty good at taking care of themselves. It’s the dogs you see around here that get to me.” Mason picked what seemed like a clean spot and lifted the first lid. It was cleaner than he’d imagined and a quarter full with tied bags of trash, a computer monitor, and a silk plant that showed more dust than green foliage.
“True,” she said, moving to the adjacent Dumpster with him and peering in. She had stepped close enough that he caught a whiff of her scent—soft, sweet, and subtle. It mixed with the stink of the Dumpsters, confusing his nostrils.
When the recycling bin proved empty as well, they loaded back into the truck and Mason continued cruising through the backstreets and alleys around the park. On the fifth stop, they surprised a dog who’d been hanging behind the Dumpster under the cover of a roof overhang. Mason was surprised to see it was John Ronald.
The magnificent animal dashed away about the distance between home plate and second base, then turned and stood in the rain, watching them with pricked-at-attention ears. Mason whistled loudly. The dog, who Mason guessed was part Husky and part something big and long-legged, responded with a single wag of his tail.
“That,” Mason said, “is my dog. He just doesn’t know it yet. Or maybe he does and he’s still trying to deny it.”
Tess looked from Mason to the dog and back to Mason. “He’s watching you like he knows you, that’s for sure.”
Mason wished he’d thought to bring some treats along in the likely event they’d run into him. He’d been in a hurry to get back to Tess, and he’d only been thinking of the guy in the statue head. He’d grabbed a pair of running shoes he didn’t wear often and a couple of muscle drinks, the only thing he had in hi
s empty refrigerator, and had dropped them off the second time they passed near the park.
Mason whistled again, but after a few seconds, probably determining that he was empty-handed today, the dog turned and trotted away, his long legs making fast tracks. Mason would put him at seventy or so pounds, eighty if he wasn’t overly lean like he was.
“Not today, huh, John Ronald,” Mason said under his breath.
Mason noticed Tess studying him harder than she had since she’d told him to lay off his attempts to recall Millie—since she’d called him imposing.
“What do you mean, ‘your dog’?”
He shrugged. “He’s a stray who hangs out near my building. We’ve had a few moments, but I haven’t been able to get close enough to catch him. If I ever do, I intend to keep him.”
Her mouth opened a fraction of an inch, calling Mason’s attention to the fullness of her lips. Despite the rain having slowed to a dull drizzle, it was still cold and wet, only she didn’t seem to notice.
“And why John Ronald?”
Judging by the incredulous look on her face, Mason’s best guess was he’d either done something impossibly wrong or impossibly right.
Hoping it was the second, he opted for the truth, letting it fall out in a display of rare vulnerability.
“The first night I ever saw him, I was up in my loft. It was last winter, late February or early March, and the moon was full. I told you, I’m on the sixth floor. I have a decent view of the street below. After I spotted him, I stepped out on my balcony to watch him. The white patches on his body and above his eyes stood out in the moonlight, and I could have sworn that he was looking up at me even before he stopped walking. I was afraid if I went downstairs and outside, I’d scare him off, so I dropped him some hot dogs and he ate them. He even caught a few before they hit the ground.