Dear Mystery Guy
A Jamaica Treasures Book
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright 2015 by Brenda Barrett
*****
Discover other titles in the Magnolia Sisters Series:
Bad Girl Blues
Her Mistaken Dream
Just Like Yesterday
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Prologue
Bungalow Seven, completed in the summer of ’98, stood out like a newcomer among the more gentrified buildings on the compound. It also had the distinction of being smaller and looking more like a house; it even had its own little lawn. With the newly planted flowers and shrubs that were artfully placed around it, it should look like a typical family home in no time.
Except that it would not be a typical home. The newest bungalow was built as a result of the kind benefactors and friends of Magnolia House, a place of safety for girls located in the lush hills of Gordon Town, St. Andrew, just a few minutes from the hustle and bustle of Kingston.
"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" Patricia Benedict looked through the matron's office window and stared at the house, a satisfied smile on her face.
"Yes it is," Matron said dutifully. "It is small, though. Maybe we can only fit seven or eight girls in there. We will have to furnish it with two bunk beds per room."
"No." Patricia shook her head. "It looks like a home. We should run it like one. You know, have a dedicated house mother, maybe an older woman, and put two single beds per room to accommodate four girls."
Matron pursed her lips. "Okay. You are right. Can we talk about the perimeter fencing to the river? There are a couple of rips in the fence and some of the girls are going down there to meet with boys from the community. The security firm said we should put cameras down there. If you say yes we could take that suggestion to the board."
"That's a good idea. I'll say yes." Patricia was still staring over at the bungalow. She turned to the matron after a long silence while the matron typed out a memo on her computer.
"I have an idea for Bungalow Seven," Patricia said in the silence. "I want the new girls to be special."
"What exactly do you mean by special?" Matron Nash asked, looking up from her screen. She had the utmost respect for Patricia.
Patricia was the chief benefactress of the girl's home and took a hands-on approach to the running of Magnolia House. Her visits were usually welcomed by Matron Nash, who had been at the house serving as a matron for ten years. She had seen good Samaritans come and go but none of them were as dedicated to the cause as Patricia Benedict.
Patricia's family had owned the main house and the five acres of land surrounding the property. Her grandmother, Martha Benedict, had turned it into a place of safety for girls thirty years ago. Back then they had started with ten girls but now they had over fifty and the running of the place was handled by a board of trustees.
"When I say special, I mean the worst of the worst," Patricia said earnestly. "I want the occupants of Bungalow Seven to be girls who have never experienced family, and who are really in need...you know," Patricia's eyes were glowing; helping was her passion and she took it seriously. "I want Bungalow Seven to be a place of difference for each of them."
Matron nodded. "The worst of the worst, you say. Well, I have a few cases. The state as well as the hospital sent some over. It seems as if every day our resident social workers are called to pick up new cases from the hospital and the State home."
She picked up a stack of file folders. "These are about sixty cases. You want to choose four from these?"
Patricia gasped. "Sixty? Oh my." She picked up the top file. "Now this sort of thing pains my heart. I always wish I could do more for these children. I mean, apart from what we are doing now."
"We are doing plenty," Matron said softly, "thanks to the donations from your family and friends. This place has helped hundreds of girls through the years. There is no place for guilt, especially on your part."
Patricia nodded. "I know, but still..."
She opened the blue colored file and looked at the picture of the little girl on the inside jacket. "Oh no, who did this to her?"
"We got that file this morning," Matron said. "My stomach turned when I saw that picture. They found her in the downtown market; she almost bled to death. She is just nine years old. Somebody slit her throat and left her for dead. She can't speak; the doctor's report said that the scar affected her vocal chords. She'll have that scar for life."
Patricia looked into the vulnerable golden eyes of the child in the picture. "No parents?"
"Nope. None," Matron said. "No missing persons report. They ran her picture and profile on the news for a couple weeks as well, but nobody has claimed her."
"Who would do this to an innocent child?" Tears came to Patricia's eyes.
Matron shrugged. "Whoever did it was an animal. That is one of the worst cases I've seen in a while, and I think I have seen them all."
"And she has no name." Patricia sighed. "When we take her we'll have to give her a name."
Matron smiled. "So that is girl number one for the new Bungalow Seven."
"Most definitely," Patricia said decisively. "When will she be out of the hospital?"
"Another three or so weeks," Matron replied.
Patricia closed the folder. "Well, I am taking special interest in this one. I like the name Della; what do you think?"
"Sounds good." Matron shrugged. "Sounds better than Jane Doe."
"Della Gold," Patricia said. "Gold like her eyes."
She picked up another folder and then another and still another. She paused when she read the report. "Whoa!" she exclaimed, drawing the matron's attention, who had returned to typing up her memo.
"What?" Matron asked, looking up.
"This girl showed drug withdrawal symptoms when she was a baby. She's just eight now. How awful!"
"Oh, that case." Matron sighed. "That case saddens me because her mother is an alumna of Magnolia House. We got the mother when she was sixteen but still...we hope to make a difference. She took drugs when she was pregnant so the child was born an addict. The effects of the drugs are still evident in the little girl. She has been through several foster families. I was going to send the file to the government's girls’ home."
"No," Patricia said, shaking her head. "She will be perfect for Bungalow Seven."
Matron cleared her throat. "Miss Benedict. The child is hyperactive. She has attention deficit disorder, and is a little kleptomaniac, if her foster families are to be believed. She has been through four families in the space of a year. She is better off in a state facility."
Patricia looked at the girl’s picture again. Her hair was a curly mess and she had a defiant look in her eyes. Under her picture somebody scrawled the name Brigid Manderson.
"We'll take her. We can do much more for her here than any government facility and if the home can't, I will personally fund her transformation."
Matron sighed.
"And we'll take this one too." Patricia put down another folder. "Definitely this one."
"Caitlin Denvers?" The matron frowned. "Why? She's not a bad case. Her parents died in a car crash. Her aunt who is living abroad
is willing to support her but she is in the hospital at the moment battling some life-threatening disease. Caitlin shouldn't even be in the system."
Patricia shrugged. "I like her."
"There's worse than Caitlin in there, much worse," Matron said, pointing to the stack. "Caitlin is normal. She has family. Her grandaunt wants her in the States with her."
"Why is she on our radar?" Patricia asked.
Matron shrugged. "Her parents died in a car crash. She has no other family in Jamaica. Social workers were thinking of temporarily placing her until her grandaunt can work things out."
Patricia tapped the file in excitement. "I know why I'm drawn to her. She seems familiar. Wasn't her father that guy who rescued a little boy from a fire last year? His name was Peter Denvers. They interviewed him on television. You remember? He was saying that he couldn't allow the little boy to die because he had a daughter the same age and they interviewed the little girl and she said her daddy was a hero. Remember?"
"Oh," Matron said. "You are right."
"Well," Patricia said, "her father was a good man. Good deeds should be rewarded, don't you think?"
She put the folder on her small pile and then looked at the still high stack of file folders. "You choose one."
Matron grimaced. "I've always hated this part of the job, but to tell you the truth this case has been on my mind."
"Which one?" Patricia asked eagerly.
"Well, there is this girl that strangers found on the steps of a shopping center eight years ago. They found her as a baby with a little book with her name and age on it. Her name is Hazel Brown.
"Nobody has come forward to claim her and she has been in State care for the past couple of years. The wing in the State facility where her group was housed burnt down and she was one of the children the matron asked me to re-house."
"Well," Patricia said, "there you have it, the fourth girl. We have all the future occupants of Bungalow Seven. Della, Brigid, Caitlin and Hazel. They are roughly the same age. They'll be like sisters."
Matron smiled. "The Magnolia Sisters."
Patricia nodded. "I like that. The Magnolia Sisters."
Chapter One
December 2010
Della Gold had one goal in the evening and that was to reach her workstation before her supervisor, Ted Nepaul, castigated her for being late once again. It was on days when she stepped in late that she wished she had a voice to explain herself: she had exams, the buses weren't on time, her university campus was two buses away from Brick Place Supermarket.
She reached the parking lot out of breath. She had to make a mad dash from the bus stop to the supermarket and yet the staff entrance still seemed so far away.
The parking lot was partially full with vehicles and that meant trouble. There were several customers inside and Ted was one cashier short. She paused for a second to catch her breath and looked at her watch. The evening sun was still in that golden warm phase that made everything seem like it was painted gold.
She took a deep breath, and a part of her appreciated it but she had no time for whimsy; it was four-thirty. She was going to be in for a cussing. But a movement at the corner of her eye had her slowing down. She completely stopped when she saw who it was.
It was the mystery guy; her deep, dark secret crush, Mr. Gorgeous with the tightly curly hair and the light eyes. He was tall, about 6 feet, and had lean, well-developed muscles. He even looked as if he was glowing as the sun hit him, like he was in some invisible spotlight.
He only shopped at Brick Place Supermarket on Thursday evenings. She knew that because since she had been working at the supermarket for three months now, she had only seen him on Thursdays.
Today his hair was overly high and a bit unkempt, like he hadn't brushed it or been to a barber. Her eyes ate him up in hungry fascination. His face was slightly bearded, like he had forgotten to shave for a day or two; he had a weary slump to his shoulders.
To her he was still the most gorgeous man on the planet, even when he looked as if he was off his game.
She wondered for the umpteenth time who he was. That's all she had been wondering since she got the job and started seeing him at the supermarket. Surely he had to be a model or something.
He was perfect physically. She had seen good-looking guys before but she was never this unsettled by them. Patricia had a whole host of them in her family; the Benedicts were very good-looking people and yet she had never felt quite so thunderstruck.
There was just something about this guy that tugged at her subconsciously. The feeling was both unusual and scary at the same time.
He shut his car door, a late model SUV. It was the first time she had noticed what he drove. She had only ever seen him in the supermarket itself, not the parking lot. She glanced at his license plate number; it was easy to memorize: 9876 HZ.
He spun around to head into the supermarket and she lowered her eyes. She didn't want him to find her devouring him like a starving junkie who needed a fix. She headed to the staff entrance swiftly. She was late now, really late.
Ted was standing in the staff area with her timecard in hand and he raised a brow.
She mouthed to him that she was sorry for being late but he still had that thunderous, 'I am the boss you are going to be fired' look on his face.
She signed sorry to him because he was not looking at her lips. She doubted that he understood sign language but she did it anyway. At least she hoped signing would engender some sympathy and wipe that terrible sneer from his face.
He looked at the movements of her hands suspiciously and then scoffed. "You are only here because of the grace of Patricia Benedict, or else I would fire you this minute. You do not know the meaning of punctuality. You believe that because you have connections with the owners, you can waltz in here at any time."
Della felt like screaming at Ted that she was super sorry, but of course no sound would come from her dead voice box.
It would cost her thousands of dollars to work on her damaged larynx, and even then there was no guarantee that she would be able to talk again. She had long ago resigned herself to being voiceless.
Ted's dislike of her stemmed from the fact that she couldn't explain herself. He was not comfortable around any disability. He usually avoided anybody who was not 'normal' and now he was forced to work with her. It must be a great hardship for him, she thought sourly.
She had heard him refer to her as the dumb girl, and her scar offended him. He thought she looked like a criminal with it. His reasoning was ridiculous and over the top. She overheard him telling the store manager, Mr. Gentles, that she did not have the right appearance for a cashier; that somehow her scar sent the wrong message.
As if somehow the fading scar that ran from her left ear to her throat would in some way impede her from cashing people's groceries.
On her first day he had asked her if she would consider wearing a scarf or a turtleneck blouse to hide it. "It would make customers more comfortable" had been his explanation.
She figured that it would make him more comfortable, not the customers, but she had started wearing her white turtleneck blouse to appease him and herself as well. She didn't want to draw any undue attention to her scar, though it was fading and not as obvious as it used to be.
Sometimes people were curious and would ask her what happened. And of course she didn't answer. She couldn't answer, at least not verbally.
She reached for her timecard from Ted's tight clutches.
"You listen to me," he growled, "not another late day or you are gone."
She nodded meekly, but she was feeling anything else but meek. She cursed him in her head while she punched in the time card, and she cursed him as she relieved the cashier at the Express line; apparently they didn't trust her to handle more than ten items at a time. Ridiculous.
She had always been exceptionally gifted with numbers. She spent her evenings at home playing Sudoku on her phone. She used to help her sisters at Magnolia House with their
Math homework and charged the other girls at the home for the same. She saw the mystery guy again and all thoughts of Ted and Mathematics vanished.
He was in the fresh produce aisle. He was examining the kale. He looked at it for the longest while. He always spent some time at that exact spot, where she could see him clearly.
If he moved down to where the tomatoes were she wouldn't be able to see him until he came back to where the whole grain breads were. No doubt about it, he was a healthy eater.
"Miss?"
She looked up to see a customer standing in front of her.
She smiled at the customer and rang up the few items. As usual, seeing the mystery guy lightened her day.
He was her fifteen minutes of eye candy. She watched him from the corner of her eyes, almost sighing with disappointment when he went to Cashier 3. He had more things than he could pay for at the express line anyway, but today she wished that she could see him close up.
She wanted to see his eyes close up. She had heard the girls in the break room last week mentioning that his eyes were gray. Two of the girls, Sally and Olivia, who were on the same evening shift as she was had made a bet. Sally said they were real and Olivia said they were contacts.
She'd bet anything that they were real gray. Somehow she didn't peg him as someone to wear colored contacts. He looked more like a serious corporate type of guy, not a fashion-conscious person who would want to draw attention to himself.
Sally was now cashing his items and talking to him. He laughed at whatever she said and his shoulders shook. It made the tiredness that she had seen earlier disappear. It slid off him like a second unwanted skin. He looked even better than before with the mantle of weariness gone from him.
Della wished that she could hear his voice. What was he saying? Had Sally asked him about his eyes? She was forced to turn back to her customers and when she looked up again he was gone.
She pressed her hand to her head and hurriedly lowered it when she saw Ted passing by. Her frequent headaches were coming back. She had not gotten them for years but ever since she started working at the supermarket they had been coming back.
Dear Mystery Guy (Magnolia Sisters Book 1) Page 1