by Nicki Elson
Cliff moved to stand out of the way against the wall by the staircase. He probably should’ve used the time to come up with a decent ice breaker, but instead he studied the crystal swan setting on a nearby hall table, admiring the multitude of facets in the graceful bird’s wings. They captured the wall sconce’s golden glow, reflecting it in countless different shades.
“Hi,” Jo said, coming off the bottom step. “Is there a problem? Did the champagne come?”
“Yes, it did. Everything’s great. I just wanted to…see you. Can we go somewhere and talk?” He noticed the muscle at the corner of her jaw tense. “Just for a few minutes. Nothing major. I know you’re busy.”
Letting out a slow breath, she nodded toward an opening to the left of the stairs. It led to a small lobby and a check-in desk for hotel guests. Turning down a short hallway, Jo led him into a room wallpapered in shimmery pink flowers. Two pale gray settees sat opposite each other with an oval, marble-topped coffee table in between. Above the table hung a delicate crystal chandelier. A door inside the room angled open, revealing a bathroom beyond.
“This is a dressing room for brides and their bridesmaids,” Jo explained, anticipating his unasked question.
He looked around at the feminine elegance, nodding. “Nice. This whole place is nice. I’m impressed.” His gaze fell back onto Jo and his smile widened in appreciation—of her.
She kept her eyes on him, but they were hard, unaccepting of the tenderness he beamed at her. “It’s not appropriate for me to talk about anything other than business here, and I have nothing new or different to add to our last conversation, so—”
“I don’t love her.”
Jo’s eyes widened and her mouth stayed open but unmoving.
“It’s never been love with her. I just couldn’t figure that out until I felt what love was really like…with you.”
Slowly, Jo’s head started wagging back and forth. The space between her eyebrows creased. The expression that overtook her face was more bewildered than anything else.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say that the other night,” Cliff continued, “but it’s true. I know we can’t get into it right now, but can you please digest what I’ve said and we’ll talk later?”
This time her head shake was more firm. “I’m sorry, Cliff. I really am. But it’s like I said—I have nothing new to add to what I told you the other night. I’m sure you believe what you just said, but…I don’t. And I won’t. I know it might be unfair, but being with you pushes too many triggers for me. I need to get okay with myself before I can be with anyone else. If you really care, you’ll understand and respect that I need to be done with this, with us.”
He didn’t want to agree to any of that. But what could he do? Debate her into submission? This wasn’t the time or place for that, and he didn’t want to get her back through those tactics, anyhow. He wanted her to come back to him all on her own, and that obviously wasn’t going to happen.
Giving her a small, sad smile, he simply said, “Okay.” He turned to leave the room, but before he got to the threshold, he stopped. His fingers fidgeted at a small box in his pants pocket. Huffing a breath through his nose, he turned and pulled the box out, holding it toward her. “I’m not giving you this to guilt you into relenting. I want you to have it, and this’ll probably be my last opportunity to give it to you—please don’t read anything more into it.”
She hesitated, but when his arm stayed steadily hovering, she took the box. Lifting the lid, she looked down upon the oblong pendant he’d spotted in the jeweler’s window.
“You deserve diamonds, Jo.”
He left the room before she could react, wanting her to know the gift truly hadn’t been a ploy. By the time he reached the host’s podium, he’d been drained of any inclination to return to the party. Veering out the front door and down the wide steps, he hoped Karen would understand.
Chapter 21
CLIFF HAD BROUGHT the diamond pendant to the party along with a secret, foolish wish that somehow by the end of the night, he’d be clasping it around his girlfriend’s neck. He’d known it was a longshot, but that hadn’t made it any easier when she’d shut him down. Over the following weeks, he tried to console himself with knowing he hadn’t done anything wrong to cause the ruin of the relationship. It was simply a matter of bad timing.
None of that erased the ache he felt whenever he thought of her. He could help JoJo get okay with herself—he knew he could. Their last weekend together had been perfection. Hadn’t spending the day with her condo-hunting shown he was supportive? Hadn’t every moan and tremor that rippled through his body as they’d made love proven his desire for her? If he’d pulled his head out of his ass years earlier, maybe he could’ve stopped her from forming such a bad opinion of herself, maybe then they would’ve worked out.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t bat away a less mitigating thought—if JoJo felt for him half of what he felt for her, she wouldn’t stay away from him like this, not over something so internalized and fixable. Deep down in the hollow of his heartache, he feared she’d never really cared for him at all.
Trish gave Cliff lots of pep talks, trying to coax him out of his dejection, but none of them worked. The only way she’d make him happy would be to say Jo wanted to see him again, wanted to give the relationship a chance. But that was something Trish couldn’t offer. As the days wore on, she stopped mentioning Jo at all, signaling to Cliff that she knew where her friend’s heart lay, and it wasn’t with him.
Three weeks after Karen’s promotion dinner, he returned with one of the senior partners to the River South office after a client meeting. It was a Friday.
“Oh, good, you’re back. Will you be around for the next few hours?” Charlie asked as Cliff rounded an overgrown tropical plant at the edge of the elevator bay.
“Should be. Why?” He paused by the reception desk.
“The courier stopped by and has something to deliver directly into your hands—and only your hands. I’ll let him know you’re back.”
“Thanks.”
After an hour or so of sorting through an intellectual property dispute, Charlie buzzed him. “Courier’s here.”
Cliff returned to the lobby to see the tight, sculpted form of a bicyclist he recognized. “Hey, Levi.” The guy was a native Chicagoan but had the perpetual air of a California beach dude. Cliff well remembered how flirty the sexy cyclist had been with Trish when she’d worked reception at the law firm.
“Hey, Clifford the big red dawg.” Levi held forth an envelope. “I’m supposed to stand here while you read it.”
When Cliff accepted the envelope and tore it open, he half expected to hear the words, “You’ve been served.” Instead, he pulled out a perfumed piece of stationery and read:
Time ticks slowly when love’s not quenched.
Each second of each hour is wrenched.
The heart beats with its purpose gone.
What can we do but carry on?
At six p.m. a car awaits
To take you to less dire straits.
The lyrical rhyme put him in mind of Castleabra and all the puzzles he and Claire had solved together. If only he could let himself believe the note was from her. “Trish put you up to this?” He cocked a knowing eyebrow.
“I promised not to tell.” Levi grinned. “Does the time work?”
“Six p.m. today?”
“Yep.”
“I guess.” How could he disappoint her when she’d gone to the trouble of writing a poem? He still didn’t feel capable of cheeriness, but he was intrigued by her new approach at consoling him.
“Cool. At that time, you’re supposed to look for a blue Chevy Impala near this building’s main entrance.”
Levi left, and Cliff stayed focused on work for the rest of the day. It left him with little excess brain space to speculate about what Trish might be up to. He presumed she’d whisk him away to a nice restaurant or maybe the theater. Just before six, he organized his files and set s
ome aside to review over the weekend.
Outside the building, he approached a sky-blue Impala and tapped at the passenger window, bending as the glass lowered.
“Clifford Walsh?” the bearded driver asked.
“That’s me.” Cliff slid into the backseat. The cloth interior was tidy, and the sharp scent of artificial pine bit his nose. “Where are we going?”
Without a word, the guy handed him an envelope. Cliff slid out a sheet of the same perfumed paper.
Hush and let the driver drive while three digits from these you derive:
Hope anew
The king returns.
An oddity at the home of Holmes
P.S. Don’t overthink it. Trust your instincts.
“How very Ben Kenobi of her,” Cliff chuckled, studying his clues. “Hope anew,” he murmured, and then repeated it a few times to stir up a connection: “Hope anew…hope anew hope anew hope a new hope—A New Hope.” Star Wars episode IV. So that digit was four, if he was right. The king returns…Going on first instinct, Return of the King popped into his head—third book in The Lord of the Rings.
The nerdiness of these answers gave him another flicker of a wish that it would turn out to be JoJo behind the riddles, putting Trish’s plan to raise his spirits in danger of backfiring. Instead of thinking more about Jo, he busied his mind with the third clue. That’s when he realized the whole purpose of the scavenger hunt—to keep his mind on anything but his ex.
The answer to the last riddle didn’t come as easily as the others. Sherlock Holmes’s flat held so many oddities: the human skull on his mantle; the knife stabbed into papers. “Don’t overthink it,” he reminded himself. Taking a mental step back, he went to the most basic element of Holmes’s home—the address: 221b Baker Street. “The oddity…” Cliff smiled. It was simple. This clue’s answer was one, the odd digit in the address. So his three digits were: four, three, and one.
The car stopped in front of a dive bar in Old Town. The Second City comedy club was nearby. Two years earlier, Cliff and Trish had spent an evening listening to comedians on the Second City stage after an awkward run-in with her ex. Cliff had cheered her up that night, so it was poetic for her to take him back there now.
The driver turned to Cliff. “You’re supposed to go into this bar and find the initials on the high scores that correspond with the three numbers you came up with from those clues. On the Asteroids game.” He handed Cliff an index card that read:
FL_MI_G _OI_ _R_
“This is the name of the drink you’re supposed to order. Complete the words using letters from those three sets of initials. You’ll have letters left over. I’ve been told to wait for you, but I don’t know where we’re going next. The bartender will tell you after you down the drink.”
Cliff grinned. It was fun having a real-life quest. With a nod to the driver, he left the car and entered the shabby bar. The essence of stale beer assaulted his nostrils before he’d even taken a full step inside. Early evening sunlight glowed through the large front windows, shining on the stickiness of the floor and over-lacquered bar. Silvery dust lined crevices that probably hadn’t been touched in decades. This was a place meant to be appreciated in the dark. Not many patrons occupied the stools and chairs at this time of day.
Going to the three arcade games along one wall near the door, Cliff noted the “Out of Order” sign taped to the controls of the Asteroids game. But its screen was lit, revealing high scores. Taking the initials from first, third, and fourth place, he had NUN, ADK, and BLE to work with. He asked the bartender for a pencil and scribbled the nine letters onto the top of the card.
“I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat,” he murmured to himself. It was fairly obvious that the first word was FLAMING, so he scratched A and one of the N’s off the list and wrote them into the blanks. Staring at the incomplete word, _OI_ _R_, he mentally inserted different letters, waiting for something to click. DOIBURN…KOIBURN…BOILERN…BOILERD…BOILERK…KOINERL…KOINERD…LOINERD?
“Wait,” he said out loud, his pulse beating in his throat. “That works.” He double-checked the letters, penciling them into the spaces and scratching them off the list to be sure. Quirking an eyebrow, he wondered if that could be right. He didn’t remember ever telling Trish his screenname.
Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to make a wrong guess, he went to the bar. The pudgy, balding barman strolled over. His bright green eyes gave a happy spark to his otherwise rough features.
“I’d like a Flaming…Loinerd?” Cliff said without conviction.
“Comin’ up. And even better—it’s already paid for.”
Cliff’s heart thudded against his ribcage. JoJo. His mind whirred, trying to recall the poem. He’d left it back at the office. If he’d honestly believed Jo’d had anything to do with it, he’d have studied it over and over again rather than casting it aside. He couldn’t recall the verses specifically; he only remembered the gist. It was about heartbreak and moving on to a happier place. At least that’s what he’d thought it had been about.
With his brain scrambling, he hardly paid attention as the bartender poured dark liquor into a thick shot glass and topped it with a clear alcohol. A burst of hot yellow flames at the surface of the drink yanked Cliff from his contemplation. Accepting the burning drink, he blew out the fire, then downed the strong, anise-flavored shot, hoping it would calm the hammering in his chest.
He set the tumbler onto the glossy mahogany and noticed the glass tilted slightly to the left. Closer examination revealed that something had been taped to the bottom. He lifted the glass and pulled off a brass key. When he shot a quizzical glance at the bartender, the man reached under the bar.
“This is for you.” He handed Cliff a rolled up piece of paper tied like a scroll. “It’s your next destination.” He winked a sparkling eye.
Cliff set a few dollar bills on the counter and walked out of the bar, slipping the key into his pocket and untying the scroll along the way. Two feet from the car, he stopped, staring down at what he held. It was a pastel drawing in blues, greens, and purples with touches of yellow and white. It depicted a futuristic city. Arching above the buildings was a sign in lighted marquis letters: Planet Claire.
“It is her,” he whispered. But where did she want him to go? His gaze flicked over the drawing. He noted that the buildings weren’t as tall as one might expect in the future. Despite the fluid, modern lines and hovering spacecraft, the cityscape had a homey quality, with sidewalk cafés and small trees lining the sidewalks.
At the center of the scene was a humble, unadorned clock tower watching over all. Looming over the edge of the city stood an imposing structure topped by a triangular, Parthenon-like crown. Verdigris leaves as sharp as dragon scales reached up from the edges of the roof. In the midst of the metallic foliage, an owl spread its wings. Cliff recognized the building as the Harold Washington Library.
Returning to the backseat of the Impala, he said, “We need to get to Printer’s Row. Dearborn Street.” He didn’t remember the address of the building where they’d looked at Jo’s condo, but once they reached the neighborhood, he guided the driver to it.
“I’ve been instructed to leave you at the second destination,” the man said.
“What if I’m wrong about my guess?”
The driver shrugged. “I could wait, but she only paid for two stops, so I’ll have to charge you.”
Cliff glanced at the picture again, firming his confidence in the guess. But then he worried it might only be hope spurring him on. He dug into his wallet and gave the guy a twenty. “Can you just wait until I see if this key works in the front door?”
“Sure.”
Taking a deep inhale and then exhaling slowly, Cliff left the car and approached the carved stone entrance. A giddy rush flowed through him when the key slipped in. He turned it, and something inside clicked. He gave the driver a jubilant thumbs-up, and then pushed the door open.
The elevator ride to the sixth floor took an eternity. H
e didn’t know what he’d find there. “Less dire straits,” he murmured, remembering the last line of the poem. That could mean she was willing to at least be friends. That would be a start, though he wanted so much more.
His phone vibrated. He looked down to read a text from Jo.
Come in and follow the box-brick road.
The driver must’ve notified her that Cliff was in the building. He exited the elevator and found the door to Jo’s condo propped open with a brick. She’s much too trusting for a city girl. Inside, he was met by stacks of boxes. He scanned the big, open room but saw no sign of her. Then he noticed that the boxes were arranged end-to-end in a line that curved toward the wall separating the bedroom into its own space.
As he followed the path, a new wariness tickled his gut. What if this quest ended with Jo dressed as a sexed-up Claire, like in San Diego? What if she tried to reinitiate the fuck-buddy arrangement? Cliff didn’t want that. Holding the relationship at friendship-only would be hard enough on its own; adding intimacy to the deal would make it impossible. If he turned the corner and found Jo in a bustier and glossy red lipstick, he prayed he’d be strong enough to walk away.
Peeking his head around the wall, he instead saw her in cropped jeans and a ratty T-shirt. She stood amid yet more boxes, wearing no makeup and with half her hair pulled back into a clip. Stray wisps fell to the side of her face.
“Hi.” Her lips twitched into a small, uncomfortable smile.
“Hi,” Cliff responded and left it at that. He wouldn’t know what else to say until she told him why she’d brought him here.
“This is me, Cliff.” She shrugged, almost as if in apology. “I’m not polished like Trish or kick-ass like PlanetClaire. I’ve spent my whole life as the plain, nothing-special girl stuck between beauties. That’s why I’m so loud and brash and wear tops stretched to the limit over my gigantor boobs. I want to be noticed.”
“I notice you without all of that.”
She scrunched her nose. “Not until after you’d noticed Claire.”