I smack his shoulder, and his laughter makes me jump as the door again dings open and allows the other passengers to get off. They will catch another elevator so they can avoid all of our stops.
Ardal doesn’t make a sign of leaving the corner where we are squished, but I inch away and he doesn’t close the gap. “To answer your question, I’ve lived in the good ol’ US of A for around nine years.” He does a perfect imitation of a Texan accent.
Ding! We’ve reached the fifth floor. Then the sixth. No one else has gotten on, and as we reach the seventh, I expect Ardal to get off with me. “Sweet dreams,” he says, handing me the keycard. “I’ll pick you up in eight hours, sound good?”
I nod and open my mouth to thank him, but the doors close between me and his handsome face, leaving me quite alone.
It’s afternoon when I wake up in a queen-sized bed, screaming from a nightmare. Gasping and shaking, I look at the clock; I’ve been out for six hours, and Ardal won’t be back for another two. “It was just a dream.”
But it seemed so real! I could feel the stiff sheets beneath my touch, smell the bleach in the air, taste the blood on my tongue from where . . . My hand flies to my tongue, and sure enough, I’d bitten into it during the dream.
A dream about murder. Someone was trying to kill me, torturing me with knives and needles in my stomach. And there was a fountain of blood. My blood.
I lie back down and stare at the gray ceiling, trying to still my racing heart. But as my eyes droop, I am terrified of falling asleep again. “Get up,” I tell myself through clenched teeth. And I do.
The room is warm, but there is ice in my blood no thermostat can fix. And no matter the room is a bright, cheerful peach, or that slivers of sunlight dance across the walls. The chill is in my soul.
But I am being ridiculous . . . aren’t I? No one wishes me harm. I am here, safe. And as I stare at the tacky painting of two palm trees, the dream fades. I am bored and ready to do something productive.
Though I have nothing clean to change into, I strip out of my clothes and hop into the shower, which I make sure is hot. I haven’t had one so warm for a long time, and the droplets feel like a million burning kisses all over my flesh.
And for the first time in forever, I am singing. Because that’s what happy people do, even if they are often wrong to be happy, as I know I am.
Even though I have to face Ringmaster again in a matter of hours, at least I’ve had this time away. But happiness soon becomes guilt, and I wonder how much the hotel bill cost Ardal and if Ringmaster will call me a louse again.
With reluctance I turn off the water, step out of the shower, and stare at my water-wrinkled figure. “It’s not like I did anything with him,” I say aloud, staring into my own wild gray eyes. The thought makes me blush up to the roots of the auburn nuisance, which I didn’t bother to wash because it takes forever to dry. “It’s not like anything at all is happening, so you’d better pull yourself together.” I make a face at my reflection. Rail-thin, though my face has kept some fullness, I’m not ugly, but still not beautiful like I might’ve once been. It is with sadness that I address my reflection. “Nothing is going to happen, is it?” My eyes answer the question for me.
Yes, happy people are often wrong, and I am now feeling miserable as I wrap an overlarge white towel around my form. That is when someone starts yelling in the outer room. “Hello? Are you there?”
I freeze. There is a gentle rapping at the bathroom door. My heart skips a beat. “Hello?” I ask, wishing I had done up the suite room’s sliding lock.
“It’s just me,” Ardal says.
And I am all horror as I wonder how much of my one-sided conversation he might have overheard. “Oh,” is all I can think to say.
A pause. “Are you decent?”
I hesitate. “Sort of?”
“I’m sorry I’m early.” His voice sounds troubled, and my heart takes off at a gallop. “Can we talk?”
“Come in,” I say without thinking, knowing something is wrong.
The door opens, and Ardal’s jaw twitches as he takes in my towel. But he looks away, swearing under his breath.
Am I that hideous? I wonder . . . “Sorry.”
His laugh is shaky, and he peeks at me again. “Don’t be.” He sighs.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a step closer, water running down my legs. I shiver and clutch my towel closer to my torso. I repeat my question.
He hesitates, still refusing to look at me. “I’ll wait out here while you get dressed.” And just like that, he’s gone. But my clothes are in the outer room, so the door opens a crack, and he is holding my shirt in his hand.
Mortified yet laughing to myself, I snatch shirt, then my pants, and my underwear, and my bra. I take a quick whiff of my clothes and am relieved the find they don’t stink. “Thanks.”
He raps once on the door. “You’re welcome.”
As quickly as possible, I dry off and slip into my semi-clean clothes. There’s a strange man in my hotel room and I’m not worried. And it occurs to me: For the first time in my memory, I trust a man without a doubt. The thought puzzles me, and I open the door. “What’s wrong?”
Ardal is sitting on the bed, bouncing. He stops when he sees me, his eyes worried and tired. “Everything’s all right. No one’s hurt.”
That gets my pulse racing again. “What happened?”
“Your shop was broken into.” He motions for me to sit down. “Not broken into per se, as the door was unlocked, but someone came in and robbed you blind, I’m afraid.”
I am standing here, stunned and scared, and my brain is niggled-at near to death as I say in a tight whisper, “What did they take?”
“Well, your till was rather empty.”
“Yes? What else?” Please don’t let it be what I think it might be.
He watches me. “And your safe was broken into.”
“Yes?” I take in a sharp breath and hold it.
He frowns. “Some of the antique vases were stolen, and one of them was left broken on the ground.”
“Is that all?” It’s too much to hope.
He’s a little confused. “That is all.”
I sigh in relief, melting into the ebony chair next to the bed. Thank goodness. But the balance at work is . . . delicate. There is no knowing how Ringmaster will treat me now there’s been a breach in security. “How’s my boss?”
Ardal’s shrug is casual. “James is—well, he was locked in your storage room while it happened. Apparently something had terrified him into hiding back there.” He frowns, and I can’t help but giggle. “I did want to punch his face, you know.”
“Yes, I remember.” I grimace. “The pee is still there on the floor, isn’t it?”
The look he gives me is skeptical. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I pull the auburn nuisance out of its bun and begin combing through the tangled mess with my fingers. “No blood, no harm.” We’re quiet as I try not to watch him watching me work through kinks and knots in my long hair.
“He’s still locked in there, in the back room.” Ardal puffs out his cheeks and blows out a mouthful of air. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of stealing a key and locking up your shop.”
“No, I don’t mind. I’m grateful. Thank you.” I wince, finding a ratty spot in my hair. I look back at Ardal. “Have the police been there?”
“James refused to let me call them. He insists it was all a ‘big misunderstanding.’” Ardal pauses as I pull my hair back into a ponytail, and clears his throat. There is worry written across his forehead, and I can feel my own creasing because of it. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay somewhere else?”
It is tempting, so tempting. But it’s also terrifying. I can’t leave that place; it’ll fall apart without me. I smooth out my brow and try to remain calm. “I can’t.”
Ardal shakes his head and flops back onto the bed. He is tired; I’ve forgotten he hasn’t slept. “Well, I suppos
e we should get going.” He doesn’t budge.
“Yeah,” I say without conviction. I don’t feel like leaving either. Not yet. In a sense, this has been a mini vacation . . . even though it’s lasted less than half a day. Still . . .
His chest rises and falls slowly, and his eyes close. For a moment it seems as if he’s going to fall asleep, but he pulls himself up with a groan. “Back to the daily grind, eh?”
I get to my feet, hunt up my sneakers, and we’re out the door. “Thanks so much.”
“Please don’t mention it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives a genuine, albeit tired, smile. “So, what is on the agenda for the rest of your day?”
My shoulders droop. “Convincing my boss to call the cops. We’re hardly making it as it is.” In my mind I chide myself. I’m always saying too much around this man. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with that.” And now I’ve dug myself in even deeper. Mouth shut. Keep your mouth shut. I must be making an odd face, because Ardal is staring at me while biting down on the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“I was wondering the same thing. What are you so worried about?”
“Headache.” Although it’s not entirely true, it’s not entirely false. I never did get the aspirin I’d been hoping for.
When we reach the downstairs lobby—Ardal lets me push the button this time—I catch a glimpse of the hotel’s bar, and I am so thirsty it is almost tempting to ask for a drink. But I know better, so I don’t.
Ardal doesn’t notice my moment of weakness as he leads me to the gift shop, where he purchases an over-priced packet of two aspirin. He puts the packet in my hand, and I swallow the pills with what little saliva I can muster.
“Thanks.” It feels like the pill is sticking to the sides of my throat, and I fight a gag.
“Here.” He steers me toward a drinking fountain, and I wash the acrid taste out of my mouth.
As he drives us back to the Antique Boutique, he shoots me several furtive glances. It’s obvious what he wants to say, “Don’t go back! You’re not safe!” And that’s sweet and all, but where would I go? Ringmaster, as much as I don’t like him right now, couldn’t function without me. Or, so I flatter myself by thinking.
It’s four in the afternoon, and I know work must’ve been exhausting for Ardal, but even though he yawns a couple times and doesn’t say much, the lack of conversation isn’t laden with guilt. He’s a grown man; he can choose what he does with his time.
Just as I’m beginning to feel better on that score, he says, “Why ‘Scotch?’”
“Huh?” I ask, jolting into a full upright position. This smells like dangerous territory.
He makes a wide turn, and I clutch to my seatbelt. “Why do you call yourself Scotch? I’ve been trying to figure it out, and it doesn’t make sense to me.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “You are what you drink.”
We’re at a stop light, and he’s staring at me. There is no disgust, no judgment, just sadness. “You drink a lot?”
I hunker down in my seat and look at the people passing on the sidewalks. “I take the occasional alcoholiday . . .” It was meant as a joke, but Ardal isn’t laughing, and I can’t help but feel guilty. If only this seat would swallow me whole.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like it’s his fault. The silence we’ve entered is inconsolable. Anger charges the air, and I can’t help but wonder what I’ve said amiss . . .
“Ouch.” I am clutching the back of my head at the base of my skull, an odd place for a headache for a normal person. But something tells me I am not normal, and Ardal knows this. It could be the end of anything that might or might not happen.
Ardal looks at me sideways. “The medicine hasn’t kicked in yet?”
I nod, but that makes it worse. “I’ll be fine.”
“Hmm.” He parallel parks in front of the shop, jogs around to my side, and helps me out. It reminds me I might not be the only weird one in this friendship.
“Thanks again,” I say, expecting him to hop back into his car and take off. The lights are dim in the shop, and I am at once filled with dread. Is this a safe place to stay?
But Ardal takes my hand and leads me to the shop, unlocks the door with his “stolen” key, and tugs me inside. The urine is still there on the floor, and the shop reeks of it.
“I’d better get a mop,” I say, and the back room door opens a crack.
“Scotch?” says Ringmaster. “Is it safe now?”
I nod. “Yes, it’s been safe for several hours now.”
The door creaks open a millimeter further. “Your guy said they took all the money.”
I roll my eyes at Ardal—my guy, yeah right—but his eyes are narrowed and fixed on the door. “Yes, I suppose they did take all the money.”
“Do you think they’ll be back, Scotch?” The door opens all the way, and Ringmaster steps out. He freezes when he sees Ardal, and I half expect him to wet his pants again. “I said I didn’t mean to!”
“You didn’t mean to hit her? Really?” Ardal says, his voice steel silk.
I can’t help but smile for a moment, a moment too late to stop my friend from pinning my boss to the wall by his lapels. “Please, don’t.” I try to extricate my boss from this mess, which he most likely deserves.
“Don’t worry, J—miss. I won’t stoop to his level. Unless . . .”
I bite my lower lip, my shoulders shaking with laughter. I hope Ringmaster can’t see me.
“Unless what?” Ringmaster’s voice is a high-pitched squeal, and what’s left of his penciled-in eyebrows is running down his face.
“Touch her again, and I’ll forget our deal.”
My eyes narrow. Deal? What deal?
Ardal gives me a quick glance over his shoulder, but addresses my boss again, whom he lets drop. “I suggest getting a better alarm, James.”
“She left the door unlocked.” Ringmaster cowers under Ardal’s glare. “Sorry, sorry. I mean I left the door unlocked. Please don’t hit me.”
My hands wrap around the Englishman’s right bicep. It is hard and rigid at first, but the more my anxious fingers squeeze, the more pliant it becomes. “Boss, why don’t you clean up this mess, and I’ll call the cops?” I relax when Ardal seems finished cowing my employer.
“No, we don’t want cops. Cops ask questions.” My boss had been in the motions of obeying my request but freezes and gives Ardal a timid look. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Don’t call the cops. They’ll have us audited or something, and I don’t have the time for that right now.” And with a twitchy eye, he runs into the back, making a lot of racket for just filling a mop bucket.
“Well, that was weird and made zero sense,” I say, glancing at Ardal, whose jaw relaxes.
“You won’t sleep somewhere else?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He moves toward the counter and slumps into it. “I know this must all seem strange to you, but I have my reasons for—What I mean to say is, any decent human being . . .” He is yawning and stammering, and I’m beginning to wonder if he should drive home when he says, “Please don’t take this request the wrong way. But might I crash here? I left the keys to my shop at home.”
My jaw must drop by a fraction of an inch, because he is shaking his head and says,
“Never mind. I’ll make it home. I’m just s-so tired.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times, but his eyes are closed, so he doesn’t notice. It would be the decent thing to do, after all he’s done for me, but I need to be alone for a while.
With a jerk, Ardal stands upright and reaches into his jacket. “Do you have a piece of paper and pen on hand?”
I nod and hand him a pen and one of the boss’s many business cards. “Is that big enough?”
“Mm.” He scratches out a phone number on the back and hands it to me. “Please give me a ring if you need anything.”
“Ta,” I say.
“You’re welcome, and I mean it.” He is all wrinkled br
ow and wistful eyes. “Please ring me.”
The words and their delivery have a strong effect on me, and I know I am going to have his number memorized before long. “I’ll be fine.” This isn’t a light moment. I need it to be a light moment, but Ardal is tired, and his smile is weak and sad.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
Ardal nods. “Until tomorrow, then.” He leans in like he’s going to say something for my ears only, but he seems to think the better of it and puts out his hand for me to shake. “So long for now, miss.”
“Goodbye, Ardal.”
Chapter Seven
Skip
1994
It was early spring. Mom was round and fat with her third kid, and Dad worked from home so he could be of more help to her. Neither of them said it, but I had a feeling it was Mom’s idea for Dad to work at home so she could keep an eye on him. There’d been the affair to forget in 1992, and the great blow-up of 1993 still lived fresh in everyone’s memories.
Me? I was busy practicing my Alabamian accent for my high school’s production of the Helen Keller play. Last year I’d played the Dutch Jew Mr. van Daan in the Anne Frank play, which was an honor, they said, because I’d only been a freshman. Theater had become my thing. And accents. I was good at accents, especially English, which I hadn’t been able to put to use yet. But there was talk of the high school doing Jekyll and Hyde in the fall, so I had a shot.
The latest maid sat helping Julianna with her Spanish homework when I came into the kitchen looking for a bottle of cold water. I’d been running lines by myself for the past hour, and my throat was getting scratchy.
“Hey, you wanna help me with my lines?” I asked my sister.
“Sound it out, Julianna,” the maid said.
“Curtain’s in three hours. You excited to see my play?”
Julianna mumbled something I couldn’t understand. “Why do you make me do this extra homework? My teacher said I don’t have to take a language until junior high.”
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