Package Deal

by Chris Chegri

  She gave her bag an exaggerated yank and staggered forward, legs bent at the knees by its weight. His expression, friendly and inviting, had reinforced her belief that the safest thing to keep between them was space. She’d spent a lot of lonely nights since her divorce and hadn’t looked twice at a guy in five years, but the last few months…and her tearful moment on the plane…well, her growing vulnerability troubled her.

  Pride riding high, she finally spotted the rental car counter. Half walking, half shuffling, she kept her eyes on the red and white Budget Rent-A-Car sign, while praying for deliverance and swearing the stupid suitcase gained another pound with each inch of progress she made.

  At the counter, she found her vehicle choices limited because of the late hour. There were two vehicles left, a Mitsubishi sports model, and a Chevy Impala. She owned an old Toyota, which got her where she wanted to go, though she wouldn’t brag about it. For fun, she rented the Mitsubishi.

  The clerk winked. “That’s a fast car.”

  “I think I can handle it.” She envisioned herself hurtling along the ocean road at mind-boggling speed, dodging gray haired ladies who struggled to see over the wheels of their ancient, rusting Oldsmobiles. She broke into a smile, amused by the picture in her head.

  The average age of Daytona’s licensed drivers was near sixty, and the resulting speed of traffic on a fast day might reach thirty-five miles per hour. Although known to college students across the country for being a fast paced, party town, in reality, Daytona Beach was a sleepy laid back beach town with virtually no super highways or traffic, and with less hubbub than the average Midwest farm town, except, of course, during Spring Break and Bike Week, when all the locals evacuated.

  She picked up a street map and, after locating the car in an adjacent lot, found her way to A1A, the beach highway. She drove north to Ormond Beach and to her room reserved at The Glades, a cluster of small, beachfront cottages with kitchenettes. A1A wound north and south along the Florida coast, littered by an endless string of condos, motels, and hotels. The strip was colorful by day, neon by night—a tourist haven for old and young alike.

  A glaring string of flashing lights guided her through Daytona’s hotel district. Her directions to The Glades were simple. Past the strip to Granada Boulevard, and then continue four miles further north. The Glades would be on the right. No turns. No hunting for street signs.

  She pulled into the motel just as the green fluorescent numbers on the car clock flipped over to one fifty-five a.m. After checking in, she located her assigned cottage and dragged her bag through the open doorway. The bag landed with a thud on the linoleum floor. She closed the door behind her, and slowly looked around, considering her temporary home. It wasn’t fancy, but since she would be in Daytona for ten days on her own dollar the price was right. Besides, a standard motel room wasn’t much bigger than a closet when compared to the cottage, which consisted of a small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom—furnishings circa 1960—and a boxy little kitchen with the bare essentials. A window air conditioner hummed on the far wall, and a chorus-line of invisible crickets sawed out a snappy welcome.

  She crossed to the picture window and pulled open the rubber-lined drapes, stirring the warm air behind them and releasing a musty odor into the room. Florida’s humidity spawned every mold and mildew known to science. Even the introduction of air-conditioning hadn’t eliminated the alien green stuff from growing in the corners of shower stalls across the state.

  Outside, a full moon lit the sky, connecting heaven and water and frosting the waves moving inland to pound the shore. She tingled all over with excitement. She couldn’t believe she was really here. She cranked open the old-fashioned jalousie windows, inviting the ocean breeze into the room. She was so close to the ocean she could hear the waves crashing against the sand before retreating back out to sea.

  She breathed a contented sigh. Florida offered her and Lacy a chance for a new beginning. San Francisco just held too many unhappy memories for her.

  The back door led to a small porch facing the ocean. She gave the doorknob a tug, but the wood had long ago swollen against the frame from humidity. After a second pull, the door gave a stubborn groan and scraped across the floor.

  Outside, she followed a narrow path through the thick brush out onto the dunes and stood in silence, overlooking the tidewaters. A gentle breeze blew inland rustling the thick grasses carpeting the dunes. Florida’s humid air caressed her skin.

  Kicking off her heels, she burrowed her toes into the cool, powder-soft sand. She glanced around, and spotting no one, stripped off her panty hose. She fought the urge to throw them into the sea, knowing she wouldn’t be wearing them any time soon. Not in Florida. She planned on getting a tan.

  She closed her eyes, breathing-in the heavy salt air. Oh, she wanted to stay here forever. No shadows, no memories to haunt her at every turn. Lacy would love it, too. She could swim, build sand castles, and dig for sand crabs. Together they could walk the beach and fish—yes, fish! She hadn’t fished since her childhood. It was one of the last things she and her father had done together, before she’d been left in the wake of his new family. But that was the past. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking with the sound of the waves. She could almost feel the gooey worm wiggling between her fingers and the elation of the catch.

  Now she and Lacy would be a lot closer to her mom, who lived with Kelly’s aunt in North Carolina. Unlike the sky-high airfare between San Francisco and Raleigh, Daytona to Raleigh was a quick, inexpensive flight. If Lacy didn’t have a father, Kelly would see to it that her daughter had a grandmother.

  Overwhelmed by fatigue, she picked up her shoes and stockings and stepped back inside, trading the warm, humid air outside for the cool, musty air of the room. She closed the window and drew the drapes, knowing morning would come soon enough. She would have plenty of time to enjoy the ocean later.

  Forever, she hoped.

  Too tired to unpack, she scouted out an iron and ironing board to press out the wrinkles in her suit in the morning. Digging through her carry-on bag, she found her toothbrush and toothpaste, brushed her teeth, stripped off her clothes, and climbed into bed wearing only her underpants and camisole. She nestled deep beneath the cool sheets and light blanket, hoping to fall asleep quickly. It was already two thirty, and her meeting with the Editor in Chief of the News Journal required that she be rested and alert first thing in the morning.

  Her resume impressive, she’d landed the job with ease, but she was well aware that first impressions counted. Fatigue and slow thinking would not be acceptable tomorrow—the first day of the rest of her life.

  Chapter Three

  The phone rang at eight a.m. Kelly rolled over and snatched up the receiver. Bubbling with excitement, she thanked the landlady at The Glades and bounced out of bed. She hoisted her bag up onto the end of the bed, unzipped it, and threw back the top. She gasped in horror when her gaze fell upon a neat row of ties and a stack of crisp laundered shirts. Men’s shirts!

  “Oh, no,” she whimpered. “This can’t be happening. This was the only beige bag on the belt.” In a gesture of hopelessness, she flopped backward onto the bed. “Unbelievable!”

  She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, resorting to denial, but finally jumped up and rummaged through the strange items in search of something, anything familiar. Again, she found the same—men’s clothing and enough hardbound manuals to fill a library shelf.

  “Well, that explains the ridiculous weight of the suitcase last night,” she grumbled, feeling like an idiot.

  She collapsed back onto the bed again, her spirit sagging with the old bedsprings, her thoughts barely surfacing through the emotions swirling around in her mind.

  “What am I going to do now?”

  Her mind switched to panic mode. Timing couldn’t have been worse. Her appointment with Editor Willis was scheduled for nine thirty. She checked her watch for the time. It was already eight fifteen.

  “Slit
my wrists!” she cried aloud then quickly struggled to center herself. She had to stay calm.

  “Okay, stay cool.” She talked to herself. “I’ll call the newspaper office and explain my predicament. Surely they’ll understand. Ted Willis isn’t going to fire me on my first day…is he?”

  Her stomach turned upside down, and she buried her face in a pillow. “Why me?” She considered her options. “I’ll call the airport. Maybe they found my bag.”

  Dragging herself from the bed, she searched the cottage until she found a phone book, flipped through the pages, found the number, and dialed. When the agent answered, she frantically explained the problem and was transferred twice before at last being told by a customer service representative that a gentleman with her bag had already phoned and left his number.

  After a brief reprimand for failing to identify her baggage claim tag, the customer service agent gave her the man’s telephone number. She scribbled it on the notepad and hung up. Taking a deep breath, she dialed the number. Four, five rings and still no answer. Her hopes flagged. Her calm frayed. “Please, someone answer!” Seven, eight rings before a man answered.

  Exhaling, she said, “Hi, my name is Kelly Pearson. The airport gave me your number. I flew in late last night and somehow ended up with the wrong bag, your bag. Therefore, I assume you have mine, a beige upright with wheels.”

  A short, seductive laugh winged over the wires, and Kelly unconsciously moved the phone away from her ear.

  “Yeah, I’ve acquired some feminine things overnight. They’re probably yours, because they sure aren’t mine.”

  “May I meet you somewhere, Mr.—”

  “Steve McCarthy. How about lunch and a luggage swap?”

  “I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time for lunch, so a luggage swap will have to do.” A picture of him rummaging through her underwear filled Kelly’s head.

  It had never been difficult for Kelly to draw a man’s attention and she knew it. She was young and pretty enough, but she neither desired their attention, nor encouraged it. Steve McCarthy might be dying of curiosity this morning, but Kelly was in no mood to play show and tell.

  “Look, Mr. McCarthy,” she said, before he could reply. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment I can’t miss. I need my bag immediately.”

  McCarthy sighed. “All right, Ms. Pearson, but it’s already eight twenty, so if I might suggest, why don’t you try to reschedule your appointment for ten thirty or eleven, because try as I may to please a damsel in distress, there’s no way I can get your suitcase to you in time for that nine thirty appointment. Unless, of course, I simply don’t dress.”

  Despite being alone, she blushed. I deserved that. She had irritated him with her pushiness, failing to consider his inconvenience. “Of course, you’re right.” After all, she had his luggage, too.

  Not usually inconsiderate, she was just so nervous about this new job. She wanted it so much and didn’t want to do anything to screw it up. The idea of calling in late her first day, well, it unraveled what nerves remained intact.

  The country was filled with newspapers—bigger, more prestigious papers than the News Journal—but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to be happy. Quality of life was more important to her than quantity, and Daytona offered a very inviting lifestyle. The salary wasn’t overwhelming, but it was adequate, and the area offered growing environmental concerns she could sink her teeth and pen into.

  “Of course, I’ll try to reschedule. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m starting a—”

  “No need to explain. Accidents happen. By the way, where are you?”

  She hesitated. Telling a stranger where she was staying—alone in a seaside cottage in Ormond Beach—wouldn’t be smart. “The north end of Daytona, near the Granada Bridge.” She offered as little information as possible.

  “Let me think…”

  Kelly’s nerves were shot. There couldn’t have been a more dreadful way to start the day. She groped for her purse on the dresser—the phone still pressed to her ear—and rummaged for the pack of candy cigarettes. Panic! She had thrown them away the previous day. Her hand trembled. Oh great, she berated herself. I’ve replaced a nicotine addiction with a sugar addiction.

  She pulled a pencil from her purse and chewed on the end while she waited for McCarthy to continue. His rhythmic breathing whispered through the line.

  At last, he said, “There’s a little mom and pop café on A1A about one mile south of Granada. It’s called Murphy’s. It’s across the street from the Fair Weather Inn. If you took the beach road last night, you might have noticed it.”

  She vaguely recalled the motel—a multi-story structure with gaudy pink neon seagulls lighting the entry “Yes. I remember the place.” Who could forget it? “I’ll find it.”

  “How about forty-five minutes from now?” he asked.

  “Sure. That’ll be fine.” She hung up and called the newspaper, a conversation that didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. Her new boss wasn’t interested in excuses.

  She slipped into yesterday’s clothes, then hurried into the bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror with a gasp. A wild tangle of black hair framed her fair complexion, paling her in the harsh overhead light. Her overnight bag held limited items—no hairbrush, but she found a comb. She leaned closer to the mirror, evaluating the damage. She looked tired. Her eyes lacked their usual shine, appearing more gray than blue. She scrubbed away the smeared mascara beneath her lashes, picked out the tangles from her shoulder-length hair with the comb, and applied some lipstick. She took another look in the mirror.

  She shrugged. “I’ve looked worse.” Maybe he wouldn’t notice her wrinkled clothes. Besides, she had no one to impress until her meeting with Ted Willis.

  Kelly hoisted the suitcase into the backseat of the Mitsubishi and slid behind the wheel. Maneuvering the car through the tight, palm-lined parking lot, she liked the way the car handled, like riding a Tennessee Walker after plodding along on the back of a pack mule. Her old Toyota had seen better days. Promising herself a fast ride along the beach road later in the week, she nudged into the traffic flow and headed for Murphy’s.

  Chapter Four

  Kelly pulled up to the curb in front of Murphy’s, hoping Steve McCarthy might show up early. She wanted to get this luggage exchange over so they both could be on their way again. Like The Glades, Murphy’s reeked of the sixties—a lot of Daytona Beach did. Nothing much seemed to change in the beach towns along Florida’s coast, and that’s what had attracted her to the area in the first place.

  Business was slow at Murphy’s, only a few customers. Not much moved, although it was obvious by the tantalizing aromas of sizzling bacon and fresh, brewed coffee, that the cook was busy. At this hour, most people were already at work—a thought that did little to improve Kelly’s mood.

  A young couple occupied a corner booth. A cell phone glued to his head, the boy was oblivious to the perturbed expression on his girlfriend’s face. At the counter, two older men perched on metal stools, their gray heads decorated with identical, crumpled hats covered in colorful fishing lures. They were each stubbornly gripping a cup of coffee, while trying to outdo the other’s fishing tale.

  The kitchen door burst open, and a middle-aged waitress with short brown hair and a warm smile crossed the cafe, dodging tables and chairs. She approached Kelly.

  “Good morning. Breakfast for one?” She picked up a menu from the stack on the counter.

  “Actually, two. I’m meeting someone.”

  “Two it is.” She grabbed a second menu. “I’m Connie, and I’ll be your waitress. Looks like you’ve got your pick of the place. How ’bout a booth?”

  Kelly pointed to a booth facing the front door, then followed the waitress and slid in. The call to the newspaper still bothered her. She should have flown in a few days earlier, but she hated leaving Lacy for any longer than necessary, even though Lacy adored Jill Wagner.

  “Can I g
et you some coffee while you wait?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  When she called Ted Willis, he hadn’t been very understanding, but his secretary had forewarned her that his bark was worse than his bite. He’d cursed the airlines, expounding on the trials of travel—not a direct reprimand, but enough to whittle away at Kelly’s confidence. He told her to get her business in order pronto because he wanted her to cover a story before she returned to San Francisco. He had pushed the proverbial knife in a little deeper and told her the news wouldn’t wait because she couldn’t write it today. As luck would have it, her peaceful new lifestyle was starting out about as smoothly as the grating of rusty gears.

  While the waitress hustled off to get coffee, Kelly studied the menu. Her stomach rumbled, so she decided to eat. She scanned both sides of the menu, her gaze lingering over the dessert section. Strawberry Rhubarb pie—her favorite—popped out on the list, calling her name, and when Connie, the waitress, returned, Kelly ordered a piece á-la-mode.

  The woman laughed. “Are you sure you want to start your day with pie? The hash browns are super, and the French toast is to die for.”

  “Why? Isn’t the rhubarb good?”

  “Oh, it’s great. All our pies are good. I just thought eggs or French toast were more nutritious choices.” She shrugged. “However, it’s a free world.”

  “In that case I’ll take the pie.” Kelly said with a warm smile. “I’m in kind of a rush.”

  Connie headed for the kitchen just as the restaurant’s door opened. A well-dressed man sidled up to the counter, his regard snagging on Kelly. Seeming to recognize her, he waved and crossed to her booth.

  “Well, we meet again.”

  The moment their eyes met, Kelly’s tongue slapped against the roof of her mouth, as if it were stuck there with rubber cement. It was Mr. Daytona Beach, Prince Charming from the flight from San Francisco. Surely somebody was out to get her, and for a moment, she had the crazy notion Jill might be behind this. No way. Impossible. She settled for the word coincidence, because destiny scared her to death.