Watercolor Hearts

by Sutton Shields

  “She’s being modest,” Blake added earnestly. “Prodigy would be a more accurate term.”

  “How old are you, if I may ask?” inquired Lydia.

  “I’ll be twenty-five in January,” I responded, garnering a fairly surprised flip of the head from Blake. I had never told him when my real birthday was, not even on my applications.

  “So young to have so much knowledge and appreciation for the finer things of our past and present,” Lydia marveled.

  Setting my glass down on an ornate glass coaster, I quietly said, “Well, the arts acted as a life preserver for much of my youth.”

  “Charlotte has the best eye I’ve ever seen. Her knowledge would rival even old Marltmac,” Blake added.

  Lydia’s eyebrows shot straight up. “That is saying something. Marltmac is world-renowned for his keen eye, seemingly unending expertise, and—”

  “Mustache twirling, followed by a prolonged ‘Mmm’ and throaty, ‘I do believe my brain has locked on the proper nugget,’” I said, doing my best imitation of Marltmac to the amusement of Blake and his mother. “My dad introduced me to Marltmac when I was about five. I ended up spending Saturday mornings watching him over cartoons.”

  Lydia, her hand upon her chest, said, “My goodness! Your parents raised a wonderful young woman.” I tried not to falter in my emotions, but her words pierced my heart like a poison dagger. “They must be very proud of you.”

  Apparently, Blake hadn’t filled Mama Traverz in on my orphaned status, for which I was incredibly grateful to him. Knowing Blake as I did, he probably respected that it wasn’t his story to tell.

  “I-I hope so.” I bowed my head. “But my parents are no longer with me,” I said, trying to stay as vague as possible.

  I heard a tiny gasp from Lydia. “Oh, my dear…I do apologize. Was it sudden?”

  “It’s all right. And, yes, it was sudden, very sudden. I was just a child.”

  Blake reached over and took my hand, squeezing it supportively. Lydia set her tea down and moved as swiftly and as gracefully as a gazelle over to me.

  “Slide over son,” she said. Sitting between us, Lydia took my hands in hers. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love to the vapid, unyielding greed so prevalent within the fibers of life.”

  I wasn’t sure what Lydia meant. Perhaps she was alluding to the lesser known greed of Lady Luck and fate and their tendency to strike at will and without cause. At least, that was the only interpretation my brain could conjure on the fly. Regardless, I appreciated the sentiment and her tenderness just the same. In Lydia, I sensed a lonely woman longing for the past, and in that regard we were quite similar. However, I also saw an emptiness lurking behind her eyes, one forged by an irrevocably broken heart, one that could never be filled no matter how hard she may try.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Traverz.”

  “I’ll have none of that ‘Mrs. Traverz’ nonsense.” She wagged a finger playfully.

  “Lydia,” I said. “Thank you again.”

  Lydia gave me a squeeze, before a look of sudden recognition registered on her face. Checking her diamond-encrusted watch, she said, “Well, I had instructed Bette to serve dinner promptly at four-thirty, and here it is, four-forty. The audacity. Absolutely no one can follow simple instructions anymore.”

  “Maybe the turkey took a little longer than expected,” suggested Blake. “This stickler shtick of yours is getting worse.”

  Slowly turning to face her son, Mrs. Traverz said, “If expecting competent employees equates to being a stickler, then this country is in even more trouble than I feared. Now then, let’s mosey on into the dining room, shall we?”

  Lydia led the fairly long walk down the hall and to the dining room. Elaborately decorated with no less than three festive fall centerpieces on a table capable of seating sixteen, probably more, the dining room was absolutely tailored to the high standards of Lydia Traverz, not that I expected anything less. Creamy china plates sat atop larger golden ones; gold flatware topped off the Thanksgiving theme.

  “Oh dear,” Lydia wheezed. “This is inexcusable. She didn’t use the holiday china. I specifically asked for the themed china.”

  Shaking his head, Blake pulled out a chair for me, and I had to work hard to keep from laughing at Lydia’s nitpickiness; overall, her complaining wasn’t so much bitchy as it was comical. Although I’m sure Bette, and those who have come before her, may beg to differ.

  “Mum, you really have too much time on your hands,” teased Blake.

  Soon, Bette swept in with a truly mouth-watering turkey, and Lydia, Blake, and I indulged in all the delicious delights, serving up some wonderfully engaging conversation of our own, including Lydia’s ‘significant alterations’ she would make to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Not more than ten minutes after I happily shoved a sizeable piece of chocolate cream pie in my mouth, food coma started setting in. By the time eight-thirty rolled around, I was desperately trying to keep my eyes open. Falling asleep in the company of Lydia Traverz would be catastrophic.

  Blake, almost sensing my near-coma status, tenderly wrapped up the evening. “Well, Mum, that was a delicious meal.” He stood up and stretched, and I followed his lead.

  “Oh, it really was,” I quickly chimed in, standing. “This has been the most enjoyable Thanksgiving I’ve had in many years, by far.” I wasn’t remotely faking it, and she knew as much.

  Lydia joined me, giving me a big hug. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear that.” Noticing Blake’s subtle exit strategy, and like a true master of manners, Lydia effortlessly turned me around and began walking me to the front door while Blake trailed behind us. With an arm around my shoulders, she said, “Charlotte, would you like to get together for lunch at some point before Christmas?”

  Stunned such a renowned recluse would want to go out with me, I practically jumped at accepting the invitation. “I’d love that, Lydia.”

  “Then it’s settled,” she said happily. “I’ll get your number from Blake and give you a ring once I’ve set it all up.”

  I wondered what she could possibly have to ‘set up’, but this was a gal who fretted over the absence of doilies and properly themed china, so…

  “Night, Mum, and thanks,” said Blake, giving his mom a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  We said our goodbyes and left Traverz Estate. Blake took me back to my little apartment, but I insisted that he not walk me all the way up to my door.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I could carry your bag up.”

  Despite his gentlemanly character, I knew ‘carry your bag’ was code for other activities. And though I certainly could go a few rounds with Blake, I was stuffed, bloated, tired, and feeling entirely un-sexy. “I can carry my bag, Mr. Traverz. Plus, you said you wanted to check on Ivy and it’s getting pretty late.”

  Blake huffed, but not in a dramatic way. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am. And we both could use some sleep.” His sexy smirk reappeared. “But, like, actual sleep.”

  “Eh, I guess you’ve got a point. Unfortunately. Don’t forget about the meeting tomorrow at the hub. It shouldn’t take too long, but we have a few points to cover.”

  “I won’t. Excellent strategy to meet while everyone is out of town or preoccupied with shopping and sleeping.”

  “Yeah, whenever we’ve had a heist falling around holiday time, we always schedule meetings on Black Friday, much to Ivy’s disgust. It’s the only sale she regularly partakes in. I usually get an earful of colorful loathing over making her miss the sales, but this year, she’s not in a position to bark.”

  “I dunno. Even hobbling, I would think Ivy could still be a pretty scary shopper.”

  Blake thought for a second. “You know, I think you’re right. Even women with two working feet wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Laughing, I said, “Thank you for such an amazing Thanksgiving, Blake.” I leaned over and kissed him. It was the kind of kiss that very nearly made me change my mind about
him ‘carrying my bag.’

  He waited until I was safely inside my building before driving off. I climbed the staircase, cussing at each step. I swear they had sprouted extra steps in the last twenty-four hours.

  Finally. My door. Thank God. Eating too much turned stairs into an enemy. I unlocked my door, pushed it open, and WHAM! Someone shoved me hard in the back. I fell to the ground and quickly rolled over to face my attacker. Wearing all black, gloves, and a ski mask, the man pulled a knife and started to lunge for me. This was where all my training with Blake and the boys would come in handy. I swung my leg into his, knocking him off balance. Not allowing him to regain his footing, I kicked again, this time in his manhood, causing him to drop the knife and fall to the floor. As I crawled across the floor for the knife, someone grabbed me from behind—another attacker. Fortunately, my hand struck the knife as I slid backwards, sending it sliding under a chair, hopefully buying me a little time.

  The man pulled me to my feet, yanking me against his chest. I head-butted the son of a bitch and lunged for a toaster; whirling around, I struck him on one side of the head, then the other. Unfortunately, the bastard was resilient, clearly skilled. I dodged left, jabbed right, swung around, and kicked, dunking down to escape blow after blow, the last of which struck me right in the side. I stumbled back just far enough for his buddy to grab me and hold me still. I tried the head butt move, but he was too smart.

  “Knife went under there,” said the guy holding me, a jerk I’d now refer to as Busted Balls.

  “How’re your balls? Swollen?” I said to Busted Balls. It might not have been smart to mouth off, but I’d be damned before I’d ever leave this life like a quiet little wimp.

  He growled and squeezed my arms tighter. “Hope you like it rough.”

  While his co-attacker was busy retrieving the knife, I managed to dig my heel into the soft part of Busted Balls’ foot. His grip loosened just enough for me to wriggle, kick, and elbow my way free.

  “You know, I do like it rough.” I sent my heel straight into his groin. “One for the road.”

  “Bitch!” he shouted.

  I made for the kitchen, for a knife of my own, but Busted Balls just barely tripped me; I crashed against the counter and fell hard to the floor.

  He had me by my feet, pulling me to him. I scratched and clawed at the floor fruitlessly. This wasn’t good. I was trapped. Busted Balls crawled on top of my back, pressing my face against the cold, wood floor. He leaned over, sniffing my hair and breathing rapidly.

  Before I could process what might happen next, a loud thud echoed through my little apartment, followed by a distinct and stomach-churning CRACK. Suddenly, the weight of Busted Balls upon me had vanished. Carefully pushing myself up, I spotted my attacker slumped over on the floor, his head hanging ominously.

  When I looked up, I saw my savior, a man larger than my two attackers…a man moving with the speed and precision of a machine…a man I was falling in love with: Blake Traverz.

  The second man forged ahead for Blake, knife in hand. In what seemed like one fluid move, Blake clasped the man’s fist in his hand, stopping him cold, swiped the knife, elbowed him in the teeth, and stabbed the blade deep into his eyeball. The man screamed in pain and ran from my apartment.

  Blake dropped to his knees and cupped my face in his hands, his eyes frantically surveying my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. You’ll be glad to know all of our training has served me well. Although I’m not sure the ending would be the same had you not showed up,” I said, sitting on my knees. Blake kissed me with an equal mix of relief and pride. “How did you know to come back?”

  “I saw one of the guys leaning against a building up the way. As if getting a signal, he started in your direction. When I looked in my rearview, I saw his partner enter your building. Gut instinct kicked in,” he said, stroking my hair. “You did an amazing job, Maggie, better than you may think. These guys were the real deal, expertly trained.”

  “Not to take away from my kickass-ness tonight, but…if they were the real deal, why was I able to fend them off for as long as I did? I mean, I might’ve been a handful, but they probably should’ve taken me, right?”

  Blake nodded. “I’d bet my last dime they were sent here to scare more than hurt.”

  “Well, they failed, there. I’m more pissed than scared.”

  Smiling slightly, Blake said, “Definitely something their boss didn’t plan.” He stood and paced a bit before checking the dead man’s pockets. “Didn’t really think there’d be anything.” He removed the mask, but neither he nor I recognized the face.

  I crawled over to the body and lowered the collar of his black turtleneck, checking both sides of his neck for a talon tattoo. “Nothing.” I was relieved, but not completely. I’d been around enough to know there were levels in any organization, particularly in organized crime. “Do you think these guys were gophers?”

  “Absolutely. Low-level, easily disposable, not missed should something go awry.”

  I sighed. “Speaking of awry, what do we do about this guy? Can’t exactly call the cops.”

  “I’ve got a cleaner on call.”

  “No offense, Blake, but a maid isn’t going to just swoop in here and clean up a dead body without…wait…never mind…I get what you mean.” God, I could be slow sometimes.

  He put his arms around me. “We’ll run his prints through the system, see if we can identify him. For now, you need some sleep, and don’t even start to protest,” he said before I, well, protested.

  “What will you do?”

  “You’re not sleeping here alone tonight. I’ll wait for the cleaner and then I’ll squat in that old recliner facing your door.”

  “You’re going to stay up all night playing watchdog? Blake, you can’t.”

  “Might as well put my insomnia to good use, yeah?”

  I couldn’t argue with him, since I’d done the same so many times over the years. “Okay. You win. Good watchdog.”

  “That I am,” he said, kissing me. “I have some overseas conference calls set for tomorrow.”

  “But it’s Thanksgiving weekend,” I said incredulously.

  “Yeah, when it comes to money, some people have no regard for holidays,” he said. “I’ll probably have to leave around eight in the morning. I won’t wake you—you need the sleep.” He was always so considerate. “Now, you go get comfortable and crawl in bed. I’ll be right here. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  I nodded, squeezed his hand thankfully, and headed to the bathroom. I threw my hair atop my head in a messy bun and washed my face. The water felt good, as did washing that makeup and grime off my face. After changing into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, I took a couple of ibuprofen and headed to bed. Crawling in, I gazed into the living room and saw Blake sitting stoically in my old chair, talking quietly on the phone.

  The last thought that crossed my mind before sleep found me was one I found bizarrely funny in the last conscious moment of the night: Only Blake could make a beat up, stained recliner look like a throne.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sleep came easy, but was short-lived. A troubled mind coupled with a sore, stiff body didn’t really allow for prolonged sleep. I stretched my arms, back, and neck, and crawled out of bed. Blake was still sitting in my old recliner, facing the door, only now he was asleep. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. In this moment it hit me like a rogue wave: I wasn’t falling in love with Blake; I was deeply, profoundly lost in love with him. I loved him for everything he was, everything he wasn’t, and everything I had yet to discover. Funny, how the most life-bettering realizations always occurred in such unexpected ways.

  I glanced over at the area alongside the kitchen counter and mercifully found it devoid of a corpse.

  Kneeling beside Blake, gently caressing his arm, I softly said, “Blake…Blake…it’s almost eight.”

  Blake’s warm brown eyes begrudgingly opened, the light of morning making the task a diffic
ult one. Making a noise along the lines of an ‘Ergahah’, he straightened up, rubbing his eyes clear. “Caught me sleeping on the job. Dammit.”

  “I have a feeling you weren’t asleep very long. Besides, no way was One Eye coming back for round two.”

  “If he had, there wouldn’t have been a round three,” he said strongly, and I believed him wholeheartedly.

  Glancing over my shoulder at the spot where Busted Balls once sat, I said, “See your cleaner, well, cleaned.”

  “All done,” Blake replied firmly. “Greg’s probably already working on identifying him. Speaking of which, I should probably head to my place—get showered and changed. Then I need to head into the office for those godforsaken conference calls.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing, and I knew whatever he had to say next would probably make my stomach sink like a concrete block. Hmm. I wondered if cement blocks and fishes were involved in the cleanup of Busted Balls. Really must not think about it. Best not to know.

  “Maggie, it’s time to tell the gang about your situation,” he said kindly, but in a ‘no nonsense’ fashion. “They need to know what or who could be behind all of this. It’s hard for you to talk about, and I understand that, but—”

  “But they’re in danger because of me. It’s only right they know why.”

  “We don’t know with absolute certainty that these attacks are even connected to your past and the talon tattooed man. Remember that,” he said, trying his best to comfort me in light of a rather blinding truth.

  “The fact remains it is a possibility. My new friends…family…must know,” I said sternly, yet concerned they might never forgive me, especially Ivy. Oh, how very bad that confrontation could go. The hint of nausea tickled my throat at the thought.

  “I’ll be right there with you, Maggie, every step. Ivy, Pike, and Ty are set to be at the hub around noon. My conferences should be done by two o’clock. I’ll swing by here, pick you up around two-thirty, and we’ll head to the hub together. As always, Finn will drop us off at different locations. I’ll take the back alley entrance. I know you don’t care for that one. You can take the far end of the block, closest to the pizza joint. Okay?” he asked, but my brain was only half-following what he was saying.