by Kyra Davis
“As I said, what I know is that he’s planning—”
“What you know is that he’ll win. You play by your father’s rules. You always have and you always will. But Lander?” I shrug. “One never knows what path he’s going to take. He might follow Daddy’s rules, or he might not. You can’t predict him, and that’s what makes him stronger than you.” I smile and cluck my tongue. “Don’t lose too much sleep over it, Trav. As far as I can tell, Lander isn’t working on any major battle plan.” I walk up to him and give his arm a little patronizing pat. “You really need to stop worrying about people in your own family coming after you. It makes you sound paranoid.”
I take a deep breath and turn to leave. And as I do, I call over my shoulder, “After all, it’s not like you’re going to be able to stop them if they do.”
As I walk through the lobby, I’m literally in awe of myself! That was the most satisfying exchange I’ve ever had in my life.
I just wish it was satisfying enough to distract me from how much pain I’m in.
chapter twenty-four
* * *
I’m almost out of the HGVB building when I spot her coming in through the rotating doors. Cathy Lind. She’s wearing those big sunglasses movie stars wear when they don’t want to be recognized. But not recognizing her would be hard because she is so very . . . Cathy, in her handkerchief-hem pale pink shirt, skintight white pencil skirt with a metallic silver belt, and heels to make it all pop.
“Cathy?” I call out as she blindly walks past me.
She stops at the sound of my voice and pivots toward me, taking her glasses off as she does, giving the whole move a bit of style. “Bell, right?” she asks, as if we didn’t have a long tête-à-tête over vodka in her kitchen.
“Are you here to see Travis?”
“Oh? You two are on a first-name basis now?” She’s looking at me hard, but now I wonder, is she glaring at me, or is she just trying to see me?
“Mr. Gable,” I correct myself. “I actually just quit.”
Her mouth curls into an amused little smile as she toys with her glasses. “I assume he did something to provoke that.”
“Well,” I hedge, “he’s not the easiest person in the world to work for.”
“He’s not the easiest person, period,” she replies with a laugh. “But then, easy is boring. I’m attracted to challenges.”
“And what about his wife?” I ask pointedly. As the doors open and close behind us we can hear the staccato swears of a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk.
Cathy’s smile broadens. “What about her?”
“Is she . . . a challenge to overcome?” There is something so freeing about being able to ask the questions I want to ask without worrying about it getting back to Travis.
She looks slyly over her shoulder and then leans forward. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” she admits in something just above a stage whisper, “but he’s going to leave her. Actually, you know what? The hell with it.” She steps back and says in a full volume voice, “He’s going to leave her, everyone!”
A few people passing give her curious looks, but I’m still the only one who seems interested in this news.
“He . . . he told you that?” I ask.
A slight shadow passes over her face, but she quickly brushes it away. “He says he’s going to find a way. I know what you’re thinking,” she says, holding up her hand to stop me from interrupting, although I had no intention of doing so. “You’re thinking that he shouldn’t have said he was going to find a way. He should just do it. And you’re right, but . . . but . . .” As she grabbles for the words she seems to get a little smaller. It’s subtle, but I can see her shoulders curling in a bit as uncertainty and hope light up her eyes. “It’s more than he’s ever offered me before,” she says, finally completing her thought.
It’s hard for me to keep from shaking my head. What is it about love that makes the strongest among us weak?
“You’re better than him,” I tell her flatly. People are streaming past us, oblivious to the tragedy that this woman represents. “I don’t know what your husband is like, but even if he is the wrong man for you, Travis has got to be worse.”
She nods, although I can tell she’s only indicating that she hears and understands my concern, not that she agrees with it. Her eyes now cast down as if examining her glasses. “Just over a year ago,” she says, quietly, “I was diagnosed with something called gyrate atrophy. Some rare genetic condition. Apparently I’ve always had it, but other than a little nearsightedness it hadn’t caused me any problems. But now . . . I’m losing my sight. And you know what?”
She looks up, and now for the first time I notice that the light that reflects in her eyes isn’t quite normal. Cataracts perhaps? Or something else . . . something even more damaging.
“My husband,” she continues, “my husband—the doctor—didn’t notice. I waited for four months after my diagnosis, my vision weakening a little more every few weeks, and he didn’t notice a thing. When I finally told him he gave me a whole bunch of excuses about why he didn’t see it. He talked about how I cover so well, refusing to make eye contact, moving around our home without ever bumping into a thing. But the truth is, he simply doesn’t see me. But Travis?” She smiles. “He noticed after speaking to me for less than five minutes. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Yes, you’re saying that Travis is a man who sees who you are and what you’re going through. You’re saying that you can’t let go of that.
I understand it, I really do. And it makes me wonder . . .
How am I ever going to be able to get through these months without Lander?
As I walk to my place from the subway I feel tired and there’s a pounding in my head. In a thousand years I never would have predicted victory would feel like this.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I turn to see Mary sitting in an alley along my path. Mary, the closest thing I have to a friend.
She has another coloring book in her lap, one that depicts stained glass windows, the kind you might find in a church. Even as she addresses me she keeps her focus on the paper as she fills in the details with a stub of a green pencil and the quick, controlled movement of her hand.
“How are you, Mary?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good, that’s good . . . Well, I won’t bother you . . .”
She glances up briefly and shakes her head. “You’re sad,” she declares as she drops the green and pulls a glittery gold crayon from her frizzy brown hair.
“How can you tell?”
“You didn’t offer me a Clif Bar,” she says sagely. “You always give me your Clif Bars. So I figure you’re either sad or you’re mad at me, and I didn’t do nothin’ to make you mad.”
I laugh and look up at the sky. “I actually don’t have any on me. My bad. But you’re right, I’m sad.”
“Someone die?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Then is it a man? Men always making people sad around here.”
“Men make people sad everywhere,” I mutter.
“But this one who’s making you sad . . . Is he in your family?” she asks, sharply this time. “You gotta talk to him if he’s family.”
“He’s not family.”
“A lover then?”
I nod, my voice now smothered by a renewed sense of loss.
“That’s the worst kind of man,” Mary says. In the dark shadows of the alley her colors lose their distinction, all blending together into something opaque and mysterious. “Strangers can hurt you. They’ll hurt you bad sometimes. But a lover? They’ll make you hurt yourself.”
“I don’t want to hurt myself anymore.” I say it slowly, measuring the sentiment against my tongue, making sure that it’s true.
“Oh I don’t know,” Mary says, shaking her head and making a few crayons she has stored in her hair go flying into the air. “If we feel pain we know we’re alive. Gotta hang o
n to whatever it is that reminds us of that.”
“Anger, hate, pain,” I say hoarsely. “I’m ready to feel something else now. I’m really, really ready. But I just . . . I just need someone to help me with that.”
“Girl,” Mary laughs as she adds a touch of pink to a dove’s wing. “Don’t you know that if you want something in this world you gotta go out and grab it all on your own? Ain’t nobody gonna help you if you don’t help yourself. And even that doesn’t work sometimes.”
I look down at Mary, her head bowed, her fingers moving furiously over the paper. What brought her to this? Bad experiences with her family? With men? Was she self-destructive in her youth?
Was she like me?
For a moment I see Mary differently. I see how she must have looked twenty years ago. I imagine her standing defiant against the world, angry and distrustful.
And alone.
Just like me.
“I have to go,” I mumble. I reach into my purse and hand her a twenty. “Get something better than a Clif Bar,” I insist. “Try something new.”
And as I leave her I realize that’s exactly what we all need.
We all need to try something new.
chapter twenty-five
* * *
The next morning comes too soon. I pull the covers over my head, trying to hide from the sun. As far as I’m concerned, there’s simply no reason for the sun to rise anymore. What is there for me to do? I try to think of angles I can work, ones that won’t interfere with Lander’s plan to bring in the FDIC on Travis, Sean, and Edmund’s crimes. I could try to cause trouble for Cathy and Travis. Or I could call Micah. I’d have to call him eventually anyway to tell him I’m no longer in a position to spy on Travis for him. But I could call him and tell him more than that! I could tell him I saw Travis with Javier again. I could make sure that Micah really sees Travis as a threat. Maybe then Micah would just kill Travis. The thought should probably bother me but at the moment it doesn’t.
Still, it doesn’t delight me either. Neither does sabotaging whatever weak excuse of a relationship he has going on with Cathy. It all feels pointless. I’d actually rather see them all go to prison for funding terrorists and drug cartels. Travis won’t do well in prison. And while I might not be able to be there when they take him away, I’ll be damned if I’m not going to be there for the verdict. Of course there are other people involved in this. The list of people emailed about Edmund’s plans isn’t all that short. But the only three I care about are Edmund, Sean, and Travis. I wonder if they’ll have separate trials. Three trials would mean triple the fun.
But how long will I have to twiddle my thumbs before that happens?
How long will I have to be without Lander?
What reason could I possibly have to get out of bed?
What do I do now that my anger has achieved its aim?
I turn restlessly against the mattress and squeeze my eyes closed tighter. I try to imagine that the covers are Lander’s arms. I try to pull his voice out of the silence.
You’re beautiful.
My warrior princess.
There’s no one like you.
I love you.
But of course I can’t quite conjure up that last one. I don’t know what it would sound like for him to say that.
There’s no reason to get out of bed at all.
The sound of my cell phone jars me out of my musings, interrupting my depression with a shot of annoyance. I reach over and pick it up off the floor and pull it under the covers with me.
“Hello,” I mutter.
“Hello, is this Adoncia Jiménez?”
I suck in a sharp breath as my heart leaps into my throat. No one calls me by my real name other than Lander. Aside from Micah, he’s the only one who knows who I really am . . . or at least that’s supposed to be the case.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
I clear my throat and find my voice. “Who is this please?”
“This is Mandy Simpson, the manager at Callow’s Rare Books. Am I speaking to Miss Jiménez?”
“Yes!” I say, bolting up, the covers still over my head. I flail at them with my free arm until they fall to my waist and I can see the light. “This is Adoncia, can I help you?”
I have no idea why Callow’s would be calling me, but those who work for Callow’s are essentially the nuns of my house of worship. Anything they have to say, I want to hear.
“Adoncia, I’m so glad I caught you. I hope it’s all right, but Mr. Gable gave me your number.”
“Lander?”
“Yes.” She laughs lightly. “That’s the Gable I’m referring to. The associate he usually works with here—”
“Garda.”
“Yes, Garda. Garda is retiring and we’re looking for someone who can fill her position. Mr. Gable is a very good client of ours, and he felt that you would be an excellent addition to our team. He said he would be very comfortable working with you . . . In fact he suggested that he might not be comfortable working with anyone else. And Garda, you met Garda, well, she had nothing but good things to say about you. Apparently you are extremely well versed in classic literature and . . . well, almost all literature according to both Mr. Gable and Garda.”
Once again I’ve lost my voice. Is Lander devising a way that we can secretly see each other?
And . . . am I going to be working at Callow’s?
“Of course, you’ll have to come in for an interview, and if you could, bring your résumé. Do you have any experience in this field?”
“I . . . I’ve worked in a few bookstores.” My cheeks turn red with shame as I add, “Used bookstores.” As if selling a beat-up copy of Harry Potter is even in the same ballpark as selling an autographed first edition of . . . well, Harry Potter.
“Any experience with books is good,” Mandy assures me. “Where did you go to college, Adoncia?”
My mind travels to Micah. He promised me he would help me fake any reference or résumé I needed to fake. He did that for me when I was applying for the job with Travis; he could do it again. I could make up more experience . . . maybe something with antiques! Maybe he could find a way to make it look like I have a college degree too!
But this is my church.
And I’m so very tired of pretending.
I bend my legs and rest my forehead on my knees as I admit the truth. “I went to Kingsborough,” I say quietly.
“A good community college,” Mandy says approvingly. “Where did you transfer to, dear?”
“I . . . I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
Suddenly this dream is feeling like a nightmare. I can handle being humiliated in front of my enemies, but to shame myself in front of the manager of this place . . .
And it’s all my fault. I haven’t prepared myself for anything other than destroying other people’s lives. How could I think for even a moment that I could do more than that? How could I think I deserved something like this?
“I only have a two-year degree,” I manage to clarify as I curl up my toes and bring my knees tighter to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I add, because at the moment not having more of an education feels like an offense.
“Oh . . . Most of our salespeople have their master’s.”
“I understand,” I say hoarsely. There has to be an elegant way to get out of this conversation so I can climb under the covers again . . . this time to cry.
“But Mr. Gable is a very good client of ours. We really do need someone who he will feel comfortable with.”
I lift my head. Did I hear her correctly?
“Tell you what. Why don’t you come in tomorrow, shall we say three? Bring your résumé listing whatever work experience and education you have. Let’s see if we can find a way to make this work.”
“Yes!” I say, leaping up. “I can make it at three tomorrow, absolutely.”
“Wonderful, Adoncia. I look forward to meeting you.”
As soon as she hangs up I start squealing and ju
mping up and down. I literally can’t stop and I don’t stop until the person living below me starts banging on their ceiling in protest.
It’s only then that I fully register what’s just happened . . .
. . . I found a reason to get out of bed.
chapter twenty-six
* * *
I got the job.
I know I didn’t earn it. I certainly don’t deserve it. It’s a gift from Lander. I suppose some would feel guilty about that. They would think that taking a job that other people might be more qualified for is wrong. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but personally, I don’t feel bad at all. So many people in this world are given breaks and advantages. They’re born into money, they have a loving family to nurture them throughout their childhood and young adult years, they happen upon a mentor who takes a keen interest in them . . .
I didn’t get any of that. I’m not complaining, I haven’t lived the life of an angel. There’s a reason why my foster families rejected me in all the various ways you can reject someone. But now that I’ve been given this break? This gift? Well, maybe it’s not fair, but it’s also about time.
Furthermore, I’m determined to earn what I’ve already been given. As the weeks progress, I settle into a new routine. When I’m not at Callow’s, I’m at the library looking up and studying everything there is to know about rare and valuable books. I study the history of each piece we have—and we have a lot of pieces. Not just books, but collections of articles and letters by famous and distinguished figures in history dating all the way from the fifteenth century. Every single day leaves me breathless.
I’ve been told that because of the small number of people who make up our target market, getting sales can be difficult. I’m told it takes a while to build up a clientele.
Which is why everyone is so impressed when I make my first six-thousand-dollar sale in my first week of employment.