by A A Bavar
“Tricia, he’s the cake! You know, the one you can’t have and eat.” Jocelyn swiped Patricia’s magazine from the table and held it up in-between her thumb and index finger like it had the plague. “Since when are you interested in reading this trash? As I recall, you’re the one who used to gag every time we were at the checkout in the supermarket.” She rolled her eyes and read the highlights from the cover out loud in a mocking high-pitched voice, “15 ways to eat slim! How to look ten years younger. What’s your sexiness score? How to have an office fling with your boss without getting caught!” Jocelyn arched her brow, eyes wide open, and continued in her normal voice, “Are you serious?” She flung the magazine back on the table.
Patricia frowned in defeat. “Yeah, I know, it’s ridiculous. I hate that garbage.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, tilted her head to the side, and implored, “Come on Joce, let me have this. What’s the harm? You’ve forgotten what it’s like to come home every night and have no one to share your day with. Look, I’ll go to dinner with him, enjoy the food, and then go home. I swear, I won’t even let him drive me so there won’t be the slightest possibility of us sleeping together.”
Jocelyn gave Patricia a that-wasn’t-even-an-option look. “You don’t know anything about him. What if he’s a psycho? Or worse, what if he’s married?”
Patricia laughed. “Married? That’s what you’re worried about? Well, he isn’t. I’d know. And if I don’t go out with him, how will I get to know him?”
Jocelyn shook her head and took a sip of tea. “Cold already. Damn!” She put the cup back on the table and sighed. “Look, Tricia, you know what I mean. It’s just a bad idea to go out with this guy. If it doesn’t work out, your new job will be on the line too. Trust me, these things never stay out of the office.” Jocelyn reached over and patted Patricia on the arm. “But sweetie, no matter what, I’m always here for you. Now, I need to refill my tea and get me one of those flaky pastries!”
Paul walked into his office and sat down behind his desk. It was only 7:54 a.m. He looked down at the documents neatly organized in front of him and then up at the half-height mahogany console by the far wall under the large windows overlooking the city. It was a custom made piece spanning the width of the wall with a solid front and discreet slits disguising the heat vents hidden behind them. Carefully displayed on top of the console were his prized possessions, several tennis balls in glass boxes signed by Agassi, Sampras, Nadal, and Federer, a couple of basketballs signed by Jordan and Magic Johnson, a multitude of plaques for distinguished work, and centered among them all, Samantha’s painting.
Paul’s eyes wandered from item to item, coming to rest on the painting. He rubbed his goatee, his eyes squeezed almost shut in thought. What had exactly happened last night? What did Wendy really want? From the moment they had met, their relationship was nothing but professional. At no point in time, had they allowed any hint of physicality or attraction between them, it was simply bad for business and they both knew it. So why had Wendy broken the rule? Why muddy the waters when their marriage had always been one of convenience, or more accurately, convenience and a smidge of what may be perceived as blackmail. Paul closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
After Sandy and the puppy incident, the situation with Samantha had gone from bad to worse. She became aggressive, drilling Paul about everything; who he talked to, where he ate, why he had to take female clients to lunch, or even meet with them. Then she started to show up at the same restaurants where Paul was with clients, embarrassing him, causing him to lose contracts. She stopped painting, and gradually they stopped having parties or friends over because Samantha was jealous of any woman who approached Paul for any reason. They even stopped being intimate. The final blow, however, came when the police found Maria’s body in the woods behind the club. She had been stabbed thirteen times and dumped into a shallow grave wearing nothing but a white, sheer lace robe. That’s when Paul knew he – and any woman he met, for that matter – was in real danger. He was debating what to do when Wendy showed up at the house for the first time the next day. She moved into the upstairs guest bedroom next to theirs and for a few days Samantha was her old self again. She was talkative, relaxed, and genuinely happy. At times, it seemed like she was even a bit childish in her behavior, but as long as she was calm, Paul didn’t care. To him, it was clear that they knew each other well, and he assumed that they were lifelong friends.
In an attempt to keep Wendy safe, however, Paul kept his distance and stayed away from the house as much as possible, only coming home to sleep. To his relief, Samantha had stopped sleeping in their room, preferring to stay with Wendy all the time. It was as if Wendy knew, understood exactly what was happening, and had a hold on Samantha, keeping her busy and away from Paul. At night, he could sometimes hear them talking, giggling, laughing about silly childish, fairy tale-like things like princes, magic, and pink elephants, and for a while things were calm, almost normal.
The situation, however, took on a dramatic turn on the fifth night. When Paul came home that evening, someone was waiting for him in the garage. They never closed the garage door, so when Paul’s headlights fell on the person standing in the middle of the garage in the dark, arms crossed and waiting impatiently, he almost crashed into the large, stone flower pot next to the entrance. It was remarkable how similar Wendy and Samantha looked and moved, so it was logical for his mind to make the leap and assume that something terrible had happened to Wendy and Samantha was there waiting for him, waiting to end it all. Paul jammed the car in reverse and almost fled, but something inexplicably stopped him. There was something magnetic about that figure in the dark, the way she tilted her head, the way her eyes found his. He sat there mesmerized, in a trance, as Wendy walked over and got into the passenger seat beside him.
“Hi, Paul,” said Wendy, her voice soft, comforting. “Let’s go for a drive.”
“What? What are you doing in here?” he blurted, suddenly himself again. “Are you mad? You have to get out, it’s not safe. You have no idea… if she sees us, we’re dead.” Paul leaned forward and looked up at the house through the windshield. The lights in his room and the guestroom were on.
Wendy nodded calmly and smiled. “I know, and I do have an idea, but don’t worry. She’s in a deep sleep and won’t be getting up until morning.” Wendy closed the door and buckled her seatbelt.
Paul twisted in his seat, his hand on the steering wheel for support, and faced Wendy. “You don’t understand, she—”
“Trust me, Paul, I do,” interrupted Wendy. She reached up and put her hand on his. “I’ve known Samantha for… well, let’s just say a very, very long time. I know what she’s capable of, I’ve seen it firsthand. That’s why I’m here… because of Maria.” Wendy put her hand in her lap and looked down. On her left index finger, she was wearing a large, ruby ring.
“Maria? What? You know?” exclaimed Paul, his eyes confused, frightened. “How? Why the hell—”
“Look Paul, I’m hungry and I’m pretty sure you haven’t had anything to eat either. So let’s go out, get some fresh air, have a bite to eat, and talk.” Wendy paused, waiting for an answer. “Come on, you don’t want to sit here in the garage and talk, right?” said Wendy, her eyes steady, calm. “I promise, I’ll explain everything. But for now, you have to calm down and trust me.”
Paul hesitated for a moment, then put the car in gear and backed out without a word.
“Nice car. I like Audis.” Wendy glanced at the roof of the car and grinned. “Can you open the moon roof? Thanks.”
They sat in a dark, corner booth diagonal from the bar. The Bistro 666 was crowded, and the noise from the people drinking and watching the game gave them the privacy they needed. Paul was sitting in the corner, Wendy in front of him with her back to the bar. A waitress approached and with a nod deposited their order on the table. Wendy had asked for a glass of wine, Paul a double scotch. He needed the stronger drink to calm him down, take off the edge, and help him
absorb what Wendy had just told him. He took a generous sip from his glass and allowed his eyes to settle on Wendy.
“Let me get this straight,” Paul started, “this isn’t the first time Samantha hurt someone. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Wendy, her face blank, said in a whisper, “Yes. However, this is the first time that she’s, um, killed. I have no proof, but we both know she did it… don’t we?”
Paul nodded. “We have to tell the police, there’s no other way. She’s a menace, and honestly, I don’t feel safe.”
Wendy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she leaned back and took a long sip from her wine glass. “Look, Paul, I know. I know that seems like the right thing to do, but we can’t. Samantha is too… dangerous.”
Paul leaned forward, the motion abrupt. “That’s exactly why!” he said tightly, both hands gripping the glass in front of him. “She needs to be locked up.”
A smile slowly curved Wendy’s lips. She sat forward, her arms on the table, her face inches from Paul’s. “Yes, she does, but not in the way that you’re imagining,” she whispered. “I’m sure you’ve realized that Samantha is… special. No prison would hold her. She needs to be controlled. More to the point, she needs to be controlled by me.”
Paul rubbed his chin, the worry in his eyes replaced by a deeper understanding. “All this time, these years, it was you. The house, the gallery, the help… you were supporting her, but actually keeping tabs on her. Controlling her.” Things were making more sense now. It was all about containing and managing assets, and how a shift in the pieces caused instability. “Then, something changed. A new element was added to the mix. That element being me.”
Wendy smiled.
“And now, you’re asking me to look the other way. To give up everything I’ve worked for and maybe, even, become an accomplice to things I’m not privy to, and for what? Why would I do that?”
“To keep the lifestyle you’ve become accustomed to, for one,” said Wendy matter-of-factly. “Think about it, with Samantha in jail, there will be no mansion, no car, no club… Why rock the boat?”
“But we’re talking about not reporting a murder,” said Paul, his voice low, anxious.
“Possible murder… or accident… or even a disgruntled boyfriend… we don’t really know, do we?” Wendy’s eyebrows arched slightly. “Do you really want to give it all up? And possibly get involved in a murder investigation?”
“No, and no. But I know I can make it on my own. I was, I am, on the right path,” countered Paul, more to convince himself than anything else. “A few more years and I’ll be at the top, a director at Clearwell for sure. True, I may never have this kind of wealth, but it will be more than enough.” Paul downed the rest of his drink and looked around the restaurant at the unconcerned faces surrounding him. He was ready to leave. For him, the conversation was over.
“Not so fast, Paul.” Wendy reached across the table and grabbed his hand. With the other, she motioned for the waiter to bring them another round. “Have another drink. Consider the possibilities,” said Wendy, her eyes fixed on his. “What will make you play along? To allow me to do what I have to do?”
The waitress came with their drinks and again, without saying a word, placed them on the table and left. Paul watched as she weaved her way back to the bar then turned his attention to Wendy. It was negotiation time, something he was quite familiar with, and he knew exactly how it was going to go down. Paul picked up his drink and took a slow sip. “I need a guarantee,” he said in a cool, detached, voice. “A guarantee that I’ll be safe and set for life independent of you or Samantha. And since you’re the one with the fortune – and I assume she’s going to be out of the picture – the only way I see that happening is if… we… have a permanent agreement. An arrangement protected by the law and sociably acceptable.”
For a split-second, Wendy’s eyes betrayed her annoyance, but almost immediately a soft acceptance of the facts washed over her face. “Okay, but let’s be clear. You will not interfere or meddle in any way with how I take care of Samantha. As far as you’re concerned, she’s gone, out of your life. In return, you will have access to my fortune. There will be no contracts or a prenup and you are free to use the money as you wish.”
Wendy stopped and bit her lip, her eyes riveted on Paul’s.
“And?” said Paul calmly.
Wendy exhaled. “And… in the event of an unexpected death, mine to be exact, fifty percent of all my assets will be transferred to you as long as you are not indicted in anything. But, there is a condition which I cannot elaborate on right now. I will leave detailed instructions with my lawyer, but it will involve Samantha… what would have to be done for her care. Will that be a problem?”
Paul smiled. “Not that I can see.”
“Good.”
The light knocking on the glass door was barely audible. Paul opened his eyes. To his surprise, it was Patricia. She was standing just outside the door, her expression uncertain, embarrassed.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you, but your assistant wasn’t at her desk,” Patricia said, pointing at the reception area immediately outside Paul’s office.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Paul, then added with a half-smile, “And in case you were wondering, I wasn’t dozing. There’s something to be said about closing your eyes and studying the insides of your eyelids while trying to figure out how to convince a beautiful woman to go out to dinner with you.” He motioned for Patricia go come in. “So, what do you say? Have an answer for me?”
Patricia walked in and stopped in front of Paul’s desk. There were no chairs. At this level, any clients who came to his office were received personally, and conversations were held in the sitting area of his office on ten thousand dollar sofas over twenty-year-old Scotch.
“Actually, I do. Yes, I accept.”
Paul clasped his hands together and stood. “Great. I know a perfect Thai restaurant I think you’d enjoy. I can pick you up—”
“Um, I meant yes to the position, the job offer,” interrupted Patricia. “I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing,” she said with a quiet, nervous laugh, but before Paul could answer, added, “But I do love Thai…”
Paul looked at Patricia and allowed his eyes to find hers. She was strikingly beautiful. “Then it’s settled. Yes to the job, and yes to dinner,” he said with a smile. “I’ll pick you up at your place at seven?”
Patricia smiled back. “Sure. I’ll text you the address,” she said as she turned to leave.
“Patricia, not to press my luck, but are we on for our run at lunch?”
Without turning, Patricia gave a sideways thumbs up and said, “We sure are. And this time, I’m not taking it easy on you.”
Paul slowly drove through the Esplanades complex, following the directions his built-in GPS spewed out in a sexy, Italian-accented feminine voice. In fifty yards, take the next right, bello… He glanced at the GPS screen, this was Patricia’s street. He was almost there. The realization made his heart skip a beat, and his palms felt unusually sweaty on the Veneno’s leather steering wheel. You have arrived, bello… announced the GPS in a why-don’t-you-take-me-to-bed tone. Paul shook his head in disbelief as he pulled up to unit 813. Whose brilliant marketing genius had it been to end every direction with the word handsome? But then again, it hadn’t bothered him until now. Paul reached for the GPS and touched the OFF button. The GPS lady sighed wantingly. Ciao, bello… Paul rolled his eyes, picked up the bouquet of flowers lying on the passenger’s seat, and got out of his car. He was wearing a navy blue Lacoste polo shirt – buttons undone, black slacks, a black, leather belt with a silver buckle, and black, leather loafers.
The small lawn in front of Patricia’s condo was perfectly manicured, the grass a brilliant green, the flower beds bushy but carefully trimmed. Paul walked up the path to the front door, removed his shades – hanging them on the v-neck of his shirt, and rang the bell. The wait seemed to take forever, but finally the door swung
open and there stood Patricia. She was the definition of simplistic beauty, wearing a long sleeved, loose, cream shirt, formfitting jeans, and brown heels. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders, and she had a touch of makeup highlighting her eyes. Paul stood mesmerized, speechless.
“Are those for me?” asked Patricia with a smile as she reached for the flowers.
“Um… oh… sorry, yes, of course,” said Paul, and handed Patricia the bouquet.
“They’re beautiful, thank you.” Patricia smiled, then asked teasingly, “Did you know that camellias are my favorite or was this a lucky guess?”
“You’re not going to make me answer that, right? It’s a lose-lose for me either way, so let’s just keep it a secret. What do you say?” Paul said with a wink.
“I’ll think about it. Let me put these in a vase and we can go.” Patricia grinned and walked back into her condo. “I’ll be right back.”
Paul stood by the door, peering in, completely oblivious to the light blue Porsche that was now double-parked beside his Veneno. Samantha was staring out, her eyes hard, on fire. Suddenly, there was a red flash and for an instant the world went dead silent, a complete vacuum. Paul twinged in shock and was about to turn when Patricia appeared in the hall.
“Hey, where are we going after all? You never said.” Patricia grabbed her purse and walked to the door, her attention on something behind Paul. “Wow, that’s a nice car. Didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood had one of those.”
Paul smirked. “Actually, it’s mine.”
“What do you mean… oh my god, is that your car?” Patricia looked from Paul to the Veneno and back as Samantha sped off around the corner. “What is it?”
Paul quickly glanced over his shoulder. “Um, it’s a Lamborghini,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “A Veneno, actually.”
Patricia walked out, pulling the door shut behind her, and slipped her arm under Paul’s, turning him around. “Let’s go. I’m a sucker for cool cars, and this one is, well… damn, I can’t even think of the right adjective. It looks like something Batman would drive!” She paused for a second and added, “You do know Veneno means poison, right?”