Winter Hearts

by A. E. Radley

  “Gotcha. Kevin and I will wait for the all clear.” She hugged the minion protectively but using it more as a shield. It was sweet and completely useless since Steve could pick her up and toss her out the window without breaking a sweat.

  Opening the door to the suite, I called out Steve’s name. None of the lights were on, and after a closer inspection, I realized his bag was gone. So was the whiskey. Damn.

  I popped my head around the doorframe, waving the all clear.

  Allison whistled again upon entering the room. “Damn. Are you Troy Aikman’s ex?”

  “Steve wishes he was like Troy, but Steve’s career had an unfortunate end, wrecking his chances of breaking any records. Are you a football fan—the NFL, not soccer?”

  “I haven’t forgotten my American roots that much and remember football. I’m more of a college sports nut, but go ahead and try me.”

  “Steve Laird.”

  “Your ex is Alabama’s quarterback, who led his team to the national championship three out of four years?”

  “The one and the same.”

  “How’d you two meet?”

  “College. He asked for my help on a test.” I made quote marks.

  “He wanted you to take the test for him or something?” Her face scrunched in confusion.

  “Oh, no. He wanted to copy my answers, but it was an essay test, so I didn’t see a way to accomplish that. I offered to tutor him, and he accepted.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  “Yes, including the relationship. But we didn’t date right away. We were friends for years before we reached the next level. I thought he’d sown his wild oats.” I ignited the fireplace using the remote. Rubbing my hands together, I said, “I’m going to change out of these wet clothes. Make yourself comfortable.”

  In the bathroom, I peeled the wet jeans from my pasty white legs. Maybe the Bahamas would have been a better choice for the holidays. At least I would’ve gone home with a tan. Shoving my legs into yoga pants and slipping into an Alabama sweatshirt, I fished in my luggage for clothes for Allison.

  She stood at the window, taking in the lights illuminating the fog that had settled over London.

  “Here.” I handed her a pair of sweats and a comfy sweatshirt. “Not sure they’ll fit, but you’ll get sick staying in your wet clothes.”

  “Thanks.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

  The bar had a decent stock, but I’d promised primo whiskey. I picked up the phone to order a bottle of what Steve had delivered yesterday, curious if I still had all the perk’s of being with Mr. Laird until flying back home.

  Home.

  Where was I going to stay?

  A staff member answered the phone.

  “Yes, this is Dagny Coombs.” I supplied the room number. “Can you send up your finest whiskey?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “A cheese spread and please put it on Mr. Laird’s tab.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’ll be up right away.”

  I hung up. Staring out the window, I couldn’t help but think about the evening. Steve. Winter Wonderland. Meeting Allison. I’d always believed in fate to a certain degree, but this evening was testing my strength.

  A rustling behind me brought me back to the present. I turned to see Allison. “Looks like the clothes fit.”

  She raised her arms, as if stepping out of a dressing room, seeking approval. “Thanks. I’m already starting to warm up.”

  “First goal accomplished. I have some good and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “Always the bad. Get it over with.” She mimed ripping off a Band-Aid.

  “Steve took the whiskey.”

  She peeked at the bar. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t know the difference between his special brew and what’s on offer here.”

  “That meshes with the good news. I ordered a new bottle, compliments of Steve. We can do a whiskey challenge.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Room service is fast here. Let the games commence.” I moved to open the door, the man with the cart bowing his head in the way that reminded me of what I didn’t like about being Steve’s girlfriend. Everyone acting as if my shit didn’t stink. I hated being put on a pedestal, knowing many didn’t truly see me that way but had no choice but to pretend. My provincial roots clung to me like superglue.

  He placed the cheese spread and whiskey bottle on the table in front of one of the black leather couches. “Anything else?”

  I shook my head, wondering if I should slip him a tip. Steve always took care of those matters. My purse was on the table near the door, and luckily the wad of notes was easily accessible. I peeled off a twenty and handed it over as slyly as possible, pretending it was a handshake. Did people really do it that way? Or only in the movies?

  He thanked me with another grave tip of the head, not addressing the money that disappeared into the pocket of his trousers. “Happy Christmas.”

  “You too.”

  “This is an impressive spread.” Allison stood at the table, with the fireplace warming her backside.

  The food was arranged on what appeared to be an extra-large wooden pizza oven paddle. Several types of cheese, including two of my faves: Stilton and melted Brie. Also, there was prosciutto, chorizo, salami, a sprinkling of pistachios, smoky almonds, cashews, Kalamata olives, hummus, breadsticks, grapes, and apple slices.

  “This is for two?” Allison asked.

  “Maybe they only have one size, or they thought Steve was with me. He could demolish most of this on his own and still have a steak dinner.” I selected two crystal tumblers from the bar. “Would you like water or anything?”

  “Water please.” Allison parked on one of the black leather ottomans, still with her butt facing the fire.

  I placed the glasses and bottled waters on the table. “Are you warming up?”

  “Slowly but surely.” She had her hands behind her back to feel the heat.

  “Let’s kick up the thermostat.” I pressed some buttons. “It’s more complicated than the dashboard in my car. Hopefully, I didn’t activate the AC.”

  “If you did, a little snow for Christmas wouldn’t be that bad.” She cranked the top off the water bottle, quenching her thirst with a lustful tug.

  “Not sure management would see it that way. And Steve would flip his lid. He never truly appreciated my fanciful side.”

  “Like musing about being a serial killer.”

  I leaned back on the sofa, pulling my legs underneath me. “Exactly!”

  Allison picked up the whiskey bottle, inspecting the label. “Shall we try it?”

  “It scares me a little. Steve is a whiskey drinker. I’m more of a beer or wine girl. He always said I never developed a taste for the finer things, like he did.”

  “Let’s prove him wrong.” She poured a splash into each tumbler. Handing me mine, she held hers aloft, waiting. “To new beginnings and the finer things.”

  I swirled the golden liquid, squishing my nose to the scent. “Here goes nothing.” I downed the glass, while Allison sipped hers. “It seems I’m still my uncouth self. Are you not supposed to shoot whiskey?”

  She leaned back on her right arm, holding the glass with her left. “Everyone has their own way of doing things. Don’t let Steve, me, or anyone tell you how to be. If you want to gulp a thousand-dollar glass of whiskey, by all means. Or if you don’t want to touch it ever again, don’t. Life’s too short to worry about what people think of you, especially former better halves.”

  “A thousand-dollar glass. That’s funny.” I squinted one eye. “Do you really think the bottle is that expensive?”

  She shrugged. “No clue. I’ve never tasted this type before, and they don’t offer it at my whiskey club.”

  “Whiskey club. Is there such a thing?”

  “Of course. There are clubs for just about anything you can think of.”

  “I didn’t know I was in
the presence of a whiskey aficionado.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I like whiskey and so do many of my business clients. I joined the group to learn a few things so I didn’t come off as the American rube. England is still very much a class-based society.”

  “What happened to being you and not giving a hoot about what people think?” I mocked.

  “Outside of work, that’s my motto. But I have bills to pay and need a roof over my head like everyone else.”

  “Yeah. The realization of what I’m in for when I get home is starting to sink in.” I sighed deeply.

  “I take it you two live together.”

  “Yes. In a fifth avenue apartment I couldn’t dream of affording on my own. I make decent money, but for New York real estate, I’m at broom closet level.”

  “What happened to you being from Arizona?” She feigned being upset.

  “Oh, yeah, that. I hadn’t decided if you were a total freak or not.” I tossed up my hands as a way of apology.

  “And now…?”

  “I’m okay telling you I live in New York City. It’s a big place.”

  She laughed. “What do you do in the Big Apple?”

  “I’m a quantitative analyst.”

  “Ah, a quant. I’ve always wondered if whizzes at math and statistics dream in numbers.”

  I laughed. “I can never remember much of my dreams. For a time, I used to wake myself up to jot things down in a journal, which Steve thought ridiculous, but as soon as I pried my eyes open, everything dissipated like the sun burning off a morning fog.”

  “I wish I had the same power. Before Thanksgiving, I had terrible dreams involving X. In one, I opened the fridge door, and all these moths, maggots, and worms fell onto the floor. When I asked her what was going on, she said she’d been grinding them up and adding them to my food.”

  “Did she cook for you?”

  “Hardly. Not to mention we were living in two different countries. I could never figure out the source of the dreams. X wasn’t a vindictive person, and it wasn’t like we hated each other. We’d grown apart, and I was enjoying my life over here too much to want to fix the issue.” She sipped her drink.

  “Maybe you felt like you needed to be punished. That’s why you had the bug dream.” I squirmed in my seat.

  Light rain splattered the windows, bringing a chill into the room. Looking over my shoulder, I watched as the droplets slid down the glass, reflecting the Christmas lights outside. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” I sang softly.

  Allison laughed. “Nearly there. One more hour.” She yawned, stretching her arms overhead. “I should think about getting a cab.”

  I eyed her tired, gentle eyes and then looked over my shoulder once again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not sending you out in this weather.”

  She waved for me not to be silly. “It’s like this most days of the year. If I never went outside in the rain, I’d never leave my apartment.” There wasn’t a lot of fight in her words, which came across more as if she felt she had to say them.

  “Does your place have a roaring fire going, a thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey, and a cheese spread that’d make Rachel Ray gush?”

  “Negative to all three.” She added more whiskey to her glass, lifting the bottle to ask if I wanted more.

  I nodded, and she refilled it.

  “It’s settled then.” I yanked a cozy cream blanket off the back of the couch and snuggled under it with the tumbler in my right hand.

  “Is that so?” She crossed her arms.

  A gust of wind caused the rain to momentarily batter the window.

  I arched my eyebrows, daring her to challenge my logic.

  While the rain dissipated some, the tops of the trees bent and swirled as the blasts continued their schizophrenic bursts.

  “Your couch is looking cozier and cozier.” Her eyes landed on the couch perpendicular to the one where I sat. “Either of them.”

  “You do have common sense, then. I was worried your stubborn streak would win in the idiotic battle taking place inside.” I gestured to her noggin, perfectly framed by her chestnut locks, adding the right amount of sweetness to her playful spirit.

  “What gives you the idea I’m stubborn?” She sipped her whiskey, color splattering her cheeks.

  “Little things. You obviously have a job in business. Given you work in the financial capital of Europe, I’m guessing it’s in finance. You’ve mentioned you wine and dine clients. Bankers can be somewhat stuffy. Yet, you’re still sporting a tiny nose ring. You must be good at your job to get away with that, but why risk it?”

  She bobbed her head in agreement. “Excellent observational skills, Sherlock. Tell me more.”

  “You care what your ex thought about the relationship. Why else have the terrible punishment dream? But you didn’t chuck it in and move back home to make her happy.”

  “Would you have?” She raised both eyebrows.

  I stalled for time by leaning over for an olive. After swallowing, I said, “I probably would have. I’ve moved four times and even changed states one of those times with Steve. Not to mention quitting three jobs, two of which were very good.”

  “Do you regret it now?”

  “Now that I’m on the cusp of being tossed out on the street in the most expensive city in the US?” I sucked in a deep breath to steady the swell of emotions ready to tip into the danger zone. “Absolutely.” I took another breath, leaning my head against the back of the couch. “Why was I so foolish? To attach myself physically, mentally, and financially to someone else?”

  “Does New York recognize common law marriage?”

  I hoisted one shoulder. “Never thought to look. Does that make me even more pathetic?”

  “Not at all. Love does things to people, and most individuals want to inherently believe those we trust will treat us with love, compassion, and respect.”

  “If that’s the case, why do I feel like I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown?” I rubbed my belly as if willing all the booze and junk food to stay put.

  She puffed out her cheeks with air, slowly letting it seep out. “I… did I mention that I’m horrible at these types of conversations?” She smiled sheepishly. “More than once, my ex told me I wasn’t a great listener. When she mentioned something, I immediately went into action mode. Locate the trouble. Craft solutions. Fix it. Learn from it. For the first year or so, I thought that’s what she wanted. Then, one night, after complaining about her boss for the bazillionth time, I did what I do at work, went into action mode, and she blew her stack. It took days to regain my hearing.” She shook her head as if the memory assaulted her eardrums.

  I smiled, although it didn’t settle my nerves. “Steve isn’t a terrible person. I need to keep telling myself that. He gave me the hotel room and a wad of cash for the rest of the trip. I’m flying back first class. It’s just—I’d gotten used to this way of life. His lifestyle.” I let that sink in, the words rolling around in my head like an errant Putt-Putt golf ball pinging through the windmill. Shimmying on the couch, I tried my best to set the thoughts to the side for the moment. Taking a slug of whiskey, I said, “That’s enough life crisis talk for the night. I can’t solve all my problems on Christmas Eve, and I’m fortunate to have you for company.”

  She studied me, worry creasing her brow. “You don’t have to do that. If you want to talk about things, we can.”

  “I’m not sure talking will help me at the moment. I’ll have the seven-hour flight home to let all the steps to leaving whack me over the head.” I mimed getting struck by a heavy blow. “Tell me more about you.”

  She laughed. “The pressure’s on now. I should have taken more psychology courses in college.”

  “I don’t know about that. Business sharks have a way of getting to the heart of people within the first few seconds. How else would you close a deal?”

  “From the disdain in your voice, you don’t have a great opinion of my skills.” Her eyes gli
mmered with humor.

  “Prove me wrong.”

  “About the world of business? I won’t take up the banner for the industry. Not after 2008.”

  “You are in finance, then.”

  “I won’t confirm or deny. I’ve learned not to bring up my profession. It’s like saying I’m cheering for Darth Vader. What about you? Miss Quant?”

  “Ah, you’re calling a spade a spade.”

  “Only seems fair.” She flicked her hands in the air.

  Another burst of wind shook the hotel windows, and Allison wrapped her arms around her upper body.

  “It’s getting worse.” I watched the intensity of the rain splattering the glass. “It reminds me of Frankenstein.”

  “Are we back on the monsters inside us?”

  “No, not really. I was thinking of Shelley and her friends on a night like this, telling ghost stories and challenging each other to pen a creepy tale. In my opinion, she won.”

  Allison moved from the ottoman and nestled onto the other couch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “Is that how it came into being?”

  “That’s the folklore, at least. If it isn’t, I give her credit for creating the narrative before that type of salesmanship became all the rage.” I leaned over and selected another Kalamata olive, chewing slowly. “I don’t think it was on Christmas Eve, though. Maybe that would have altered the story to a happier ending. Like A Christmas Carol.”

  “Have Frankenstein be visited by three ghosts? There’s probably a mash-up of the two stories somewhere out there.”

  “Are you a reader?”

  “Not fiction.”

  “You live and breathe spreadsheets?”

  She waggled a finger. “You’re not going to get me to confess what it is I actually do. As you say, it’s not the night for real life.”

  “Fair enough. If you were going to write a spooky Christmas tale, what would it be about?”

  “I like the idea we came up with earlier.”

  “The serial killer who strikes every December twenty-fourth?”

  Leaning forward, she dipped a breadstick into the Brie. “That’s the one. You?”

  “At the moment, it fits my mood.”