by Penny Reid
This started on Thursday morning, when I woke up and found a simple note on the kitchen counter,
Breakfast stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry. I’ll be home late. –Martin
Actually the fridge was stocked with every good thing. Because I had the time, I made myself eggs benedict and bacon, with a raspberry and banana fruit salad. I also baked chocolate pecan cookies, and was sure to clean up all my mess. Admittedly, I might have been stress baking. My drama-prone side wondered if Martin would be home late because of his redheaded friend. But my pragmatic sided quickly assaulted my drama-prone side and gagged her.
I left the cookies in a sealed plastic container on the same spot where I found his note with a message that read,
Eat me. –Cookies
When I arrived back to Martin’s apartment that night, I found his suit jacket on the arm of the couch and the door to his room closed. I surmised he was already asleep; but he’d left me a note on the counter that read,
I’ll eat anything you tell me to eat. –Martin
P.S. Did you read the interviews yet?
I noted that the plastic cookie container was empty. He’d eaten all the cookies.
Not allowing myself to get caught up in a marinade of uncertainty (where the ingredients were: my lingering feelings and resultant confusion, the unknown nature of his relationship with the pretty redhead, and his business partner’s mysterious insinuations) I jotted down a quick response,
Martin,
I have no time for reading interviews when cookies need to be made. Instead I’ve decided to wait until we have time to talk/discuss. I’d like to hear everything from you rather than the Internet.
-Kaitlyn
And so the next several days passed, and our note exchange proceeded as follows:
Friday morning
Parker,
Make me more cookies.
–Martin
Martin,
Here are more cookies.
–Kaitlyn
Friday evening
Kaitlyn,
What’s in these cookies? Magic?
–Martin
Martin,
No, not magic. But I do use unicorn blood to make them chewy.
–Kaitlyn
Saturday morning
Kaitlyn,
Unicorn blood? You can find that in Manhattan?
–Martin
P.S Make me more bloody cookies.
Martin,
You can find everything in Manhattan…except affordable rent.
–Kaitlyn
P.S. Here are your bloody cookies.
Saturday evening
Parker,
Move in with me. I’ll accept unicorn cookies as rent payment.
–Martin
Sandeke,
I haven’t seen you in so long I’m beginning to think you’re a figment of my imagination, except that you keep eating my cookies. Are you avoiding me because I smell like denture cream?
–Kaitlyn
Sunday morning
Kaitlyn,
Merry Christmas Eve. Do you have to work tonight? I thought I might take the afternoon/evening off if you’re off. Do you want to hang out? If you can’t today then how about tomorrow?
–Martin
P.S. I didn’t want to say anything about the denture cream, but yes. The smell is why I’m avoiding you.
Martin,
Merry Christmas Eve to you as well. I have shows today from 2 p.m. until 1 a.m. But, miracle of miracles, I have nothing on Christmas except for a short late afternoon gig that’s over at 4 p.m. We should hang out tomorrow morning. Also, know that I have burning questions you haven’t yet answered. We could make food, then eat it…since we have no tree maybe I could pick up a Yule log?
–Parker
P.S. I will stop using the denture cream, but then you will have to chew my food for me…
I was actually grateful Martin and I hadn’t seen each other for several days. The notes allowed us to settle into our friendship without all the looking at each other getting in the way and making things tense. He was still so completely and brain-meltingly lookable, as my pants liked to remind me whenever we shared the same space.
As well, it gave me time to contemplate and accept the very real possibility that the girl in the pictures had been his girlfriend. I decided I should feel happy for him, that he’d been able to move on so completely. I decided this, but I didn’t feel it. So I worked on feeling it, I worked on moving on as he’d obviously moved on.
Therefore, I stopped avoiding Abram.
And once I stopped avoiding Abram, he and I actually had a fantastic time together. We hung out backstage and discussed mostly music and our childhoods.
We ate meals together between shows and sets, and I learned about all his (visible) tattoos, what they meant and why he’d had them done.
After gigs I played a few of my compositions for him and he played a few of his for me. We were talking and enjoying each other’s company and it felt so very, very good to let myself like someone. Almost liberating.
As the week drew to a close I was feeling like things were moving in the right direction. Martin was my friend. Abram was my maybe future more-than-friend. Though I still had bucketfuls of residual feelings for Martin, all-in-all it had been a good week.
The plan was to head back to New Haven on Monday. I’d found a good price on the train ticket; tickets on December twenty-six were almost three times as expensive as they were on Christmas day.
Christmas Eve morning was actually my first and only chance to explore the city. I made a list of places I wanted to check out and crossed my fingers they’d be open. On the way I called my parents and wished them a Merry Christmas. It was a nice conversation, as they both sounded happy and relaxed.
My first stop was an independent record store in Greenwich Village that also served beer. Since it was only 10:13 a.m. when I arrived, I abstained from the beer, but I dug into the vintage collection of vinyl.
I found a few treasures to add to my record collection. As I was checking out, a discounted cover caught my attention. It was an original edition of Stevie Wonder’s album In Square Circle, dated 1985. I checked the song list on the back and was gratified to see Overjoyed.
Not wanting to overthink the gift, I added it to my purchases then left the shop. My next stop was a book store, also in the Village, that was supposed to have antique medical textbooks. I’d already sent my dad his Christmas gifts, but he was always looking for wall hangings for his office.
Again, after finding something for my dad, I stumbled across something for Martin. Actually, it was a signed edition of The Princess Bride, one of my favorite books and movies of all time. I was caught up in the desire to share my book joy with him and since the hardcover wasn’t a first edition I could actually afford it.
Then I went to a candy store famous for saltwater taffy. I bought more than I needed, deciding to wrap the extras up for Martin.
On my way back to his apartment, I passed a craft store and maker’s space that had handmade Christmas stockings in the window. Again on a whim, I ran in and purchased a stocking with a crew boat and eight oars on the front in a very unusual black graphic design on red cotton. They also sold ceramics; I grabbed him a Hobbit soap dispenser for his guest bathroom that looked like a garden gnome with big feet.
Then spotted an awesome, handmade coffee mug with the picture of a bass guitar that read, All about that bass. It made me chuckle so I picked it up for Abram.
Before checking out I found some cool stationery; the desk set that immediately called to me had a fishing pole in the right corner and read at the bottom, I’m not lazy, I just like to eat fish. So, of course it was perfect for Martin. So, of course I grabbed that, too.
I maybe spent more money than was prudent, but I figured Martin had let me stay in his home for free; the least I could do was pick him up a few cool things for his apartment. Plus, I felt strongly compelled to buy him these items. I sa
w them and I felt an undeniable compulsion to give them to Martin.
I was juggling my bags and trying to fish out the key to his place while navigating the lobby of the apartment building, when I heard a familiar voice call to me from behind.
“Kaitlyn, may I speak with you?”
I stopped and tensed, waiting a beat before turning and glancing over my shoulder. The voice belonged to Emma Cromwell and—good news—she wasn’t looking at me like I was responsible for Ebola.
But she did look determined.
CHAPTER 7
Atoms, Molecules, and Ions
I faced her, feeling caught and a little confused regarding what I ought to do next. “Um, hello, Emma.”
I’d always been raised to say, Nice to see you. But in this case I didn’t feel like it was appropriate because I didn’t want to lie. She crossed to me, her eyes moving over me and to the bags in my hands. She smirked. It wasn’t a nice smirk.
“Spending Martin’s money already?”
I sighed, because she was already being distasteful. “No. I don’t spend other people’s money.”
Her eyes narrowed as her attention moved back to my face. “Not even your parents’ money?”
“That’s a terribly rude question, Emma. Why do you feel like you have the right to be rude to me?” I asked this calmly because I was calm. She hadn’t upset me, but I was curious as to why she felt like attacking me constantly. As far as I knew I hadn’t salted the earth around her house or erased her DVR.
Her eyebrows notched upward and her lips parted. I’d obviously surprised her with my direct question.
“I…I…” She struggled for a few seconds, then finally her expression lost its hard edge. “I’m sorry. You’re right. That was rude.”
“You’re forgiven. Do you want to come up for tea? I can’t figure out his coffee maker, it has too many buttons. I feel like I might launch it into outer space.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond, instead I turned and walked toward the elevator. This was mostly because I was losing circulation in my fingers due to the heaviness of my bags. I knew she was following because her heels clicked on the lobby’s marble floor.
Once inside the elevator I waited until she boarded before pressing the button for his floor. A few other passengers also filtered in, so we remained quiet for the duration of the ride. As well, we walked in silence down the hall, and she stood silently as I used my key to unlock the door.
She grabbed two of my bags and helped me carry them into the living room. I didn’t miss how she peeked inside as she set them on the table behind the couch.
“Tea first or talking?” I asked, unburdening myself of my winter coat.
“Talking. I don’t want tea.”
“Fine.” I shrugged, tossing my coat to the couch and claiming a leather club chair. “What’s on your mind?”
She didn’t sit. I noted she was bursting with restless energy. “Aren’t you even a little bit sorry? A little ashamed?”
“Sorry about what?”
She huffed, like I was being purposefully irritating. “About Martin? About what he’s done for you?”
I studied her, cocking my head to one side. “Here’s the thing, Emma. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She snorted and crossed her arms. “Yeah, I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t. I haven’t been keeping up with Martin, I haven’t been searching out news stories about him. In fact, I’ve been avoiding them.”
“But you read the news, right? You keep up with current events?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve been spending the last nine months avoiding the world, outside of music and work. I haven’t read a newspaper or a headline in almost a year.”
Something behind her glare loosened as I spoke and she blinked at me several times, like she was seeing me with new eyes. Her arms uncrossed and fell to her sides. Emma slowly sat down on the couch, her gaze growing introspective.
“You don’t know about…anything that’s happened?”
I shook my head.
“And Martin, didn’t you ask him?”
“I haven’t seen him since Wednesday morning, and he didn’t want to talk about it then, so I didn’t push.”
“You haven’t seen him since Wednesday?”
“Nope.”
“But aren’t you two back together?”
“Of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
Now I huffed. “Would you please tell me what’s got your piano out of tune? Because I need to leave for a gig in about a half hour.”
She studied me for a beat, her eyes narrowing, but with thoughtfulness, not suspicion. At last she said, “Do you know about the houses?”
I shifted in my seat; this topic was a bit of a sore spot for me. “You mean the houses Martin was to gain as part of the trust his father set up?”
“He did, he got them. And then he sold them for approximately one hundred twenty million dollars.”
This wasn’t a surprise, given what I’d seen of the house in the Caribbean. “And then his father…? Did something happen?”
She shook her head. “He could do nothing about it. By the time he found out, the houses were sold and the money was offshore. Though he tried to file an injunction, a petition to sue for the proceeds, it was thrown out.”
“How nice.” I gave her a flat smile and she issued me a questioning look; I clarified, “How nice for Martin, that he got his revenge.”
“His revenge? Hardly.” She rolled her eyes, scoffing at me.
“What do you mean? He sold the houses, didn’t he? He launched his fancy satellites?”
“He sold the houses, sure. But, so what? What’s a measly one hundred twenty million to a man worth billions? Nothing. Denver’s injunction was half-assed at best. Honestly, I think Denver had been looking for a reason to cut Martin off. As of right now, Martin is Denver’s only child. He stood to inherit over twenty billion if he’d just been patient and quiet.”
“Twenty…billion?” My mind had trouble comprehending that much money. It might as well have been a googolplex of pirate gold.
“Yeah.” She nodded once, then added with an impressive amount of derision, “The money was invested into the satellite project, but instead of using these first satellites to drive Sandeke Telecom out of business—which was the whole purpose of his involvement and investment—he’s proposed to the board that the satellites focus on delivering Internet to areas with the most need.”
“He what?”
“Nothing about selling the houses has gone according to the original plan,” she said, mostly to herself. “He gave the money away!”
I tried not to show my interest, but I was interested. Martin’s plan and his unwillingness to deviate from it had been—at least in my mind—why we’d broken up.
“Gave the money away? What do you mean?” I picked a piece of lint off the knee of my jeans.
“He donated the sixty million.” She said this like the words tasted sour.
I stared at her for a very, very long time, and she stared back. Her eyes were greenish and she was watching me with avid interest, as though keenly interested in my reaction to this news.
Certain I’d misheard her or misunderstood, I finally asked, “I’m sorry, what? He donated sixty million dollars? To whom?”
“To a non-profit foundation, one which he established early last summer. It provides funding for startups that focus on training rural educators, both domestically and internationally in the use of the latest classroom technology and web interfaces.”
“I don’t understand. He sold the houses for, what? A hundred and twenty million?”
“More or less, yes.”
“And he donated half, and then invested the other half into the satellite project?”
“No. The donation and the investment are the same sixty million. He still has the other half—or thereabouts—in some offshore bank-account.”
“I�
�m confused. You just said that he invested in the satellite project.”
“No. He didn’t invest in anything. The foundation he established owns what would have been his share of the ‘satellite project’. He forfeited his profits. All the profits go to the foundation and will be used to purchase equipment for schools and students, and will fund initiatives to train teachers.”
I sucked in a slow breath, trying to wrap my mind around this story she was telling me. “So, he…what? He gave away sixty million dollars to a foundation he founded?”
“Yes.”
“So, the satellites will still be launched?”
“Yes.”
“But the foundation owns his share?”
“Yes.”
“And he’ll…receive no profits?”
“He’ll receive no profits. He’s given up billions of dollars and probably his only chance to get revenge on his father.”
I shook my head because I felt muddled. “Why would he do that? Why would he give it away?”
She smirked. I recognized it as her not-nice smirk. “Why do you think?”
I kept shaking my head. “I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“For you. He did it for you.”
I stopped shaking my head; instead I made a very unflattering scoffing noise that sounded a bit like a gurgle. “What? No. No…did he say that? Did he tell you he was giving away sixty million dollars because of me?”
Her smirk fell away and she looked suddenly tired, older. “No. But he didn’t have to. We’d been planning this for three years. Then he meets you and everything changes. Of course you’re the reason.”
“No. That doesn’t make sense. We’re not together.”
“He wanted you back. That’s why he did it.”
“Did he say that he—”
“No. We never talk about shit like that. We’re not gal pals, we’re business partners. But I have a working brain and I saw him after you broke his heart. Then suddenly all his plans changed and he’s giving up his future because Joss Parker’s daughter filled his head with bullshit altruistic nonsense? Yeah…he wanted you back, at least he did then.”