Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet

by Natalie E. Wrye

  Even Kara didn’t know the real truth of what happened between Saturday and Mark.

  Nearly half of a minute ticked by before Saturday realized that Jay was still speaking to her. She reeled herself back from the mental abyss into which she was sinking.

  “I’m so sorry, Jay. What did you say?”

  “I said,” he responded, squinting inquisitively at her phone, “where have I seen him before? He looks so familiar.”

  Saturday reached for her phone. “Because he probably is. He’s a lover of art, too. It’s very possible that you’ve seen him around somewhere.” Upon retrieving the phone, Saturday nearly chucked it into her purse.

  “Enough about him,” she snapped abruptly. “Let’s order something. I’m starving.”

  ***

  That night, Saturday had the same dream she’d been having once a week since that cold Sunday night in late November.

  Except…

  What she was having really wasn’t a dream at all.

  It was a memory.

  It played back in her mind like an old black-and-white movie reel, skipping ever so gradually, almost running in slow motion.

  She’s running, turning, looking when she sees him. Him…standing there, his bare back and shoulders exposed, his hair tousled and wild from sleep.

  But he doesn’t see her. He’s facing the opposite direction in the long hallway, looking towards the front door, his head moving on a swivel.

  Scared and confused, she slinks into the nearest room, crossing herself when she sees a window on the far side. A way out! Not the best way, but it would have to suffice.

  She sneakily grabs the bottom of the window, pulling upward gently. Its ascent isn’t smooth; it makes the tiniest of squeaking noises. Then she hears his footsteps, slowly at first then quicker, now sounding swiftly in succession.

  The stamps of his bare soles fall heavily, thundering loudly against the floor, pounding harder than Saturday’s own heart. But her bare legs are already halfway out of the window with the ground below only a short distance away.

  Nonetheless… now he’s in the doorway.

  He sees her. He’s calling after her.

  She drops down out of the window and hits the ground, running as fast as her feet can carry her. The drop was steeper than it looked; her footsteps are staggering and stumbling as she bursts towards the street, where the cab occupied by Kara is waiting.

  The wind is bitter; her red flannel shirt and blanket are no match for its malice.

  The gusts throw hair wildly into her eyes, blurring her vision as she looks over her shoulder.

  SHIT! He’s coming through the front door!

  She reaches toward the back door of the taxi, scrambling to open it, falling in headfirst.

  She screams… yelling “Go!” to a startled Kara and cabbie. The taxi accelerates, knocking all three of them off kilter.

  She glances through the rearview window at a rapidly waning image: this… strangely disorienting image of a beautiful but stunned man standing curbside.

  His face is distraught, devastated: his expression unforgettable. She stares at him as he stares blankly at her.

  At this point… (always at this point)… Saturday wakes up from the dream, brushing furiously at the hot tears that have formed in her sleep.

  Still, even these tears do not compare to the earthquake of emotion that shook her body with tremors in the backseat of that quickly speeding taxi.

  On nightmarish nights like this, Saturday would lie there, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing her body to go to sleep: willing her mind to tuck the haunting pictures away.

  And every time she did… without fail… she would come to the realization that the most haunting visual of all…was the look of unfiltered sorrow on that despondent man’s fading face.

  ***

  The next two weeks went off without a hitch. Well… about as perfect as it could get for the new emotionally bankrupt Saturday.

  Work at Clairvoyage had gone really well: so well, in fact, that she considered quitting her job as a server at the Greenhouse.

  She tried not to get too ahead of herself. But the money from the sale of her paintings at Clairvoyage and other galleries had been trickling in… a bit slowly but steadily, nonetheless.

  Saturday and Jay had been hanging out regularly, touring museums, shopping excitedly for new painting tools. She never realized how much she was missing out on before, now that she had a fellow artist with which to share those experiences.

  Even she and Axe were in a good place. He had called the night of their date and two days after, wanting to see if she was ok. Wanting to apologize for whatever he might have done wrong to make her leave so suddenly.

  Saturday blamed it on her period, kicking herself for making up such a pansy-ass excuse, but it seemed she had no choice. She didn’t really know how to say, “I’m screwed up over an ex... and I don’t know if I’ll ever be quite right again. Ever.”

  He had forgiven her quite naturally, and they continued to see each other in the upcoming days, putting the disaster of a date behind them.

  During those two weeks, she was at ease, more relaxed than she had been in months. She was laughing more; smiling more; enjoying more.

  Maybe it was because she hadn’t received a single parcel from Mark during the entire two weeks. She didn’t even have a single dream about him during that time.

  Maybe it really is true what they say. Maybe out of sight really is out of mind. God, please let that be true.

  On Thursday afternoon, Saturday met Axe in Central Park. They lazed about on a cliché-checkered blanket for a picnic. Encouraged by the warmth of such a beautiful day, they kissed and lightly fondled each other under the shade of a nearby elm tree.

  They jokingly fed each other from an assortment of fruits and cheeses, and for once in a handful of weeks, Saturday didn’t feel like jumping out of her skin because of the intimacy.

  She felt a sense of hope within her heart, a glimmer of renewed faith, that life could always be this simple if you let it. Axe didn’t push further than Saturday was willing to go, and they were free to unwind, free to let their relationship flow naturally.

  But life has a way of crashing down on you, upsetting the natural ebb of things and knocking you on your ass.

  And the following Sunday, that’s exactly what it did to Saturday.

  ***

  Sunday afternoon, Saturday was hanging a series of paintings on a display wall at Clairvoyage. She took a step back from the images, pondering the different arrangements in which she could hang them. It took skill to determine how best to display each artist’s work in the gallery: took considerable practice.

  Every painting, sculpture, and piece must fit in well with those surrounding it; the pieces must complement each other in one harmonious visual. Art is meant to evoke emotion, and it was the gallery employees’ responsibility to make sure that the artist’s intention was effectively conveyed.

  She accidently dropped her measuring tape. She reached for it slowly. A man picked it up before she could.

  She should have recognized the greasy fingers as soon as she saw them. They belonged to Cristiano.

  It had been over fourth months since he had made an appearance at Clairvoyage, despite his wife, Vicky, being the manager.

  In fact, Saturday hadn’t seen his sweaty, swarthy face since Mark had placed a fist in his gut at a local bar. She had hoped that she would never have to see it again. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

  She snatched the tape from his grasp, wishing she could also snatch the smug grin off of his face.

  Cristiano just stood there, his puke green suit an uncanny reflection of the sick feeling that Saturday felt in the pit of her stomach.

  “If you thought I would just disappear forever, think again, Saturday,” he said, running a hand through his slimy black hair.

  “Get. Away. From. Me,” Saturday growled through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, I will. For now. I
’ve been keeping an eye on things around here. Haven’t seen your little boyfriend around. You know, the one I have a debt to settle with?” he hissed.

  “You’d better be damned lucky that you haven’t. Otherwise, you’d wind up like you did back at the bar. Remember that?”

  Cristiano shrunk by an inch at her words, his eyes fearful but still holding on to determination.

  “I’m not afraid of him. Of either of you. I’m not going anywhere. This is my domain.”

  “Actually,” Saturday commented. “This is Vicky’s domain. You remember her? Your wife? And if you don’t leave me alone, she’s going to find out exactly what kind of vicious, philandering man you are… if you could even call yourself a man.”

  Cristiano narrowed his eyes at Saturday, but just then a couple of the other Clairvoyage employees turned the corner, walking past them. Saturday stood taller, not speaking, letting her insult sink its teeth into Cristiano.

  He was mad… but he was not crazy. He wouldn’t try anything here at the gallery. He just thought that he could show up and scare her. She would make sure that she was never afraid of him again.

  Cristiano looked around them, taking note of their present company, then he turned to slither his way out of the door like the two-headed snake that he was. Over his shoulder, he threw a “See you around, Saturday,” and disappeared out of the door.

  Finally, Saturday released the breath that she was holding while talking to Cristiano. She also released the grip she had on the screwdriver behind her back. Without Mark here, she’d have to watch her own back around Cristiano from now on…

  ***

  The craziness didn’t just stop there, however. Several weeks prior to her run-in with Cristiano at the gallery, Saturday had received a voice message from Nancy Rich: Mark’s mother.

  Saturday could hear the message in her head now:

  “Saturday, it’s Nancy… Mark’s mother. I don’t know if this is appropriate or not… well, hell… we’re way past appropriate levels now, so I might as well just say it.

  “I really need to speak to you. Will you please agree to meet me? It’s about Mark… if you haven’t guessed already. One meeting is all I need. You won’t ever have to hear from me after that, if you choose.

  “Just… please. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  But Saturday never returned the call. She ignored the message at the time, shaking her head at an invisible Mrs. Rich.

  Mrs. Rich, you’re a wonderful person… but meet me? Why? To explain to me why your son has a mini-montage of me in the back room of his basement? To explain to me why he’s taken pictures of me before we’d ever even MET? Excuse my French… but no fucking way.

  Saturday never thought that the message would come back to haunt her.

  She was on the final leg of her shift at the Greenhouse, grabbing the last of her orders when her coworker David tapped her on the shoulder.

  Saturday knew about David’s crush on her but he had kept a respectful distance since finding out that she was dating Mark and, subsequently, Axe.

  She wondered what he could want now. After delivering desserts to her last table, she stopped behind the bar long enough to hear what he had to say.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, “but someone is asking for you.”

  “Someone?” Saturday inquired. She froze out of panic, her voice cracking from worry. “Who? Do you recognize this person?”

  She knew David had seen Mark’s face before. She hoped that she wasn’t walking into some sort of trap set by Mark himself.

  David quickly shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “I have no clue. She’s an older woman. She’s sitting in the back. She didn’t give me her name.” He shrugged his shoulders, retreating back into the kitchen area of the restaurant.

  Saturday tried to sneak a peek of the back, but she couldn’t take a look without making herself visible to whoever was waiting for her back there. She straightened her shoulders, bracing herself for what was to come.

  She never expected to see Mrs. Nancy Rich sitting in the Greenhouse, waiting for her. Saturday’s legs had started to feel as if they were turning into stone right before her very eyes, making each step in Mrs. Rich’s direction slow and painful.

  For a split second, she thought about hightailing it out of there in a full sprint. But it was too late; Mrs. Rich had already seen her.

  Ironically, she was sitting exactly where Mark had sat before, when he showed up unannounced, wishing to see Saturday after leaving her in the middle of the night and never returning.

  Seeing her sitting there in Mark’s seat, Saturday honestly had to admit that she was a bit intimidated by Lady Rich. The elder woman was sophisticated, charming… and scarily convincing.

  Like mother, like son.

  Mrs. Rich was dressed sharply in a white overcoat and scarf, her blonde yet grey-streaked hair pulled back into a chignon. Saturday, on the other hand, looked like hell, especially next to this beautiful woman who looked like she stepped off of the cover of an over-fifty version of Vogue.

  Nancy Rich gave a small smile when Saturday finally reached the table. The smile was a bit sad, however; she knew that Saturday was shocked and dismayed to see her.

  “Please… don’t go, Saturday. I know this is unexpected, but I would love it if you could sit with me for a moment,” she said.

  She must see the urge to take flight written all over my face.

  Saturday hesitantly took a seat, her knees almost knocking from the anxiety. But she didn’t have the courage to speak. She yielded the floor to Mrs. Rich. If Mrs. Rich wanted an audience with her, she was going to get one: one that was very silent but attentive.

  Mrs. Rich clasped her hands on the table, pursing her lips before beginning.

  “I know that something bad has happened, the extent of which I’m not sure… but I needed to come here to see that you were ok.” She looked meaningfully at Saturday.

  “So, are you ok?” she continued.

  Saturday was confused by the woman…by the question as well. She stared probingly at Mrs. Rich. She could tell that the elder lady meant it; she seemed truly concerned.

  “Yes,” Saturday answered at last. “I’m… better. Much better than I was. I just have had to separate myself from Mark… indefinitely.” She stressed the last word to drive her point home. The point being…

  Mark and I are no longer together. No, I haven’t seen him, and no… I don’t plan to.

  Mrs. Rich nodded sincerely. “That’s good… because Mark isn’t faring as well.”

  Saturday grimaced, her heart actually skipping a beat upon hearing his name.

  Mrs. Rich went on. “He’s better… much better than he was in the beginning… but he is still struggling. And I know it’s because of you… because of whatever happened between you two.”

  “Look, I know my son. He’s a talented, genuine and loving man. A good man. I also know that he’s been a bit of a… broken man…”

  Saturday shivered at the latent implication behind Mrs. Rich’s words.

  “… but I also know that he loves you. He loves you deeply. He doesn’t even have to tell me. It’s you… you’re all around him…like an aura. I could see it when he looked at you, when he talked about you. It’s like he bathes in a pool of your essence.”

  “Mark has his flaws, I know… but darling, let’s be realistic. We are all slightly damaged in our own little ways. We all have had experiences that have touched us… that have changed us…” Mrs. Rich trailed off, her expression sad and introspective.

  “But I think you two have a real shot at love, a real chance at happiness if you can work things out.”

  Saturday sat on the other side of the table, stiff as a board. She felt the droplet run down the side of her hand for several seconds before it registered that it came from her own eye.

  Wow. This is intense. Too intense… I can’t bear this right now.

  Saturday wiped a quick hand under her lashes and started to stand when Mr
s. Rich placed a loving hand on hers, effectually seating Saturday.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Mrs. Rich urged. “And then I will be out of your hair.”

  Nancy exhaled soundly, her calm reserve outwardly cracking at the seams. She appeared to be on the verge of tears as well.

  “I just ask that you dig deep within yourself, Saturday. Dig deep to forgive him… for whatever he’s done. I know about some of what’s happening. Believe me, I do. Even if Mark won’t share it.”

  “Whatever has happened, whatever you’ve experienced… please know that it isn’t as bad as you may think it is. It isn’t as bad as what it seems.”

  Mrs. Rich then stood, wrapping her white scarf tighter around her collar. She stepped closer, leaving a warm kiss on Saturday’s cheek before walking towards the restaurant’s exit.

  Still seated, Saturday turned to watch her leave. On an impulse, she called out to Mrs. Rich.

  “If he didn’t share his troubles with you, how did you know Mark was broken?” Saturday inquired of her.

  Mrs. Rich stopped in her tracks, turning her head to the side, showing her face’s perfect profile.

  “Because, my dear,” she softly commented. “I’m the one who broke him.”

  Chapter Two

  Kiss me Goodnight

  THE MACKLEMORE ART CENTER

  Saturday leaned against the balcony railing of the second-level mezzanine: drink in hand, gazing at the spectators as they ogled the art on the walls.

  Fuck these patrons. Fuck this music. Fuck everything.

  Saturday’s look of contempt at the scene before her could probably wilt a fully bloomed flower. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way. If temperament had a smell, hers would be that of a rotten egg; she was in the foulest of moods.

  She couldn’t get the impromptu meeting with Mrs. Rich out of her head. It was Wednesday night… the evening of Axe’s showcase a.k.a. “Art-splosion”: an event filled with art, live music and libations.