by Linda Joyce
Wrapping the towel around her body, she stepped from the tub and grabbed a hand towel for her dripping hair. From her bedroom, her cell phone chimed. Clutching the towel to her body, she dashed to check caller ID, but she had no time talk to anyone, including her cousin, who hadn’t called back last night.
She blamed Biloxi for her need to rush. “If you’d have called me back, I wouldn’t have forgotten to set my alarm,” she muttered tersely.
The phone chimed again. As she reached for it, movement outside her bedroom window stopped her cold—a silhouette of a man. In a few quick steps to the window, she intended to flip the plantation shutters closed. She recognized the person peering inside, his nose pressed against the glass.
“Oh Lordy! You scared the crap out of me!” She hollered at Bill, the painting contractor. Yesterday afternoon, she’d inked her signature on a contract for him to paint the outside of the house.
“I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I knocked. You didn’t come to the door. Your car’s still in the drive. I knew you had to be here. I came to see if you were dead or something.”
She winced. Bill yelled loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.
“Are you a painter or a peeping Tom? I’m in a hurry. Can’t you start painting in the front of the house?” Precious minutes ticked by. She had to hurry or she’d arrive late for class.
“Would love to, but your import is in the way. Don’t think you want the metallic blue dotted with white house paint.”
“Please, just go wait in the drive. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
She snapped the shutters closed and finished drying off. Her clothes, draped over the chair last night, a habit she perfected so she never had to think about what to wear before her first cup of coffee, made dressing easy. This morning she prized her organizational skills and reached for her skirt and top.
Blow-drying was quick work with short hair. She finished with a paddle brush, then stood over her antique vanity, a gift from her Covington grandparents, to apply makeup, which timing herself, she managed in under two short minutes. Finishing with a soft peachy lip-gloss, she ran to the bathroom to wash foundation her fingers. She’d never gotten the knack of using a makeup sponge. When she grabbed the cold-water tap and twisted, the faucet came off her in hand. Water sprayed a steady stream, down her turquois blouse and brown skirt. The water gushed. She froze and stared.
Her reflection in the mirror showed disaster.
Makeup ruined.
Hair wet.
Clothes needed changing.
Panicked, she bent to look under the sink. Found the shut-off valves, cranked them both until the water cut off.
Ding-Dong. The doorbell rang.
Her cell phone chimed again.
“Crap!”
She raced to the front door. “I told you that I’d be fifteen minutes. Can’t you keep your pants on?” she shouted, pulling open the front door. Her next-door neighbor, the elderly and very proper Mrs. Campbell, stared back.
“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry Mrs. Campbell. I’m running late for work. How may I help you?”
“I just wanted to be sure this man wasn’t trying to break in. I already called the police.”
“The police?”
Branna opened the door wider, stepped out onto the porch next to Mrs. Campbell, and waved Bill over.
“Mrs. Campbell, this is Bill, my painter. If the police come, please tell them it’s a case of mistaken identity. He’s legit. Now, I’ve got to change for work.” She closed the door on the pair and headed for her bedroom. Her darn cell phone started chiming again. She shoved it into her purse. Whoever called could wait.
After handling details with Bill and finally dressed for work, she took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. Her old Volvo started with a purr. She put the car in reverse and backed down the drive. If she hurried, she might just make it on time. If nothing else, the adrenaline running in her veins would push the car to the college. Tardiness was an embarrassment she wanted to avoid. Especially on the second day of school. She was probably more anxious than her students about the semester.
The bright morning sun shone in her eyes as she drove due east. She flipped the visor down and turned the radio to classical music, something to settle her racing pulse. Checking the speedometer, she slowed. A speeding ticket would definitely make her later. As a distraction from the 35 mph speed limit, she checked her cell phone log.
Steven. Steven. Steven.
Couldn’t he take no for an answer? She had bigger issues to deal with than his ego, like finding a plumber. She’d ask Sadie or James or maybe Vivian for a recommendation. If luck smiled on her, though after the morning she’d had she wondered if luck had left her high and dry—more like low and wet—the plumber could meet her at the house at lunchtime.
Once on campus, she turned into the closest commuter parking lot and found the first empty space. As faculty, she had a reserved spot in a designated lot, but that was on the other side of campus. Not enough time to drive there and hoof it to her class on time. She parked, then sprinted across the street, by-passed her office, and made a beeline for her classroom. The clack-clack from her heels ricocheted in the mostly empty hall, which required careful navigation to avoid falling on the newly polished floor. Pausing outside the classroom, she took a moment to catch her breath. When she had changed from a skirt to pants, they called for much higher heels. That made staying upright and movement beyond a turtle’s pace difficult.
“Good morning class.” She breezed in across the threshold. “Let’s get started.”
The students’ chatter continued. A female student from the first row jumped up and grabbed something from the back of a seat. She met Branna at her desk as she pulled the roll call list from her binder. The student hovered close. So close that Branna could smell the lilac soap and mint mouthwash on the younger woman.
“Miss Lind. I don’t want to embarrass you, but please take my hoodie.” The girl’s face reddened.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m Crystal Cabot, Miss Lind.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m perfectly fine. It’s not cold in here.” She started to move around Crystal to the front of the desk, but Crystal grabbed her arm. Behind her, the students were quieting. Someone snickered, which caused the hair on the back of Branna’s neck to rise.
“Miss Cabot, is there a problem?” she asked warily.
“It’s not me Miss Lind. It’s you.” The girl raised her hand close to her chest, wiggled her fingers and pointed discreetly to the front of Branna’s pink blouse.
Branna looked down and gasped. Dampness had seeped from her bra on to her shirt and made two prominent darkened spots. Shaken, she grabbed the hoodie from Crystal.
“Thank you.” She pushed her arms through the sleeves and zipped up the jacket. And she’d thought being late would be her worst embarrassment of the day. Luck had abandoned her without so much as a backward glance. Thank goodness the damp shirt scene happened here rather than Bayou Petite, otherwise, it was one more thing she’d never live down at home.
Crystal smiled and nodded, then took her seat. Branna hoped no one else had noticed. An older male student winked at her when she leaned against her desk. To hide the rising heat in her cheeks, she held the student list in front of her.
“Please answer when I call your name.” Professionalism dictated that she ignore her own embarrassing discomfort and teach.
The time couldn’t pass fast enough for her. In the final minute before class ended, the older male student raised his hand.
“Miss Lind?”
“Mr…?” She scanned the seating chart. “Mr. Ashford. Yes?”
“Are we going to discuss non-verbal communication?”
Was she walking into a trap? Was he somehow baiting her? “It’s covered in the syllabus, Mr. Ashford.”
“I know.” The man grinned. “I just thought maybe you were trying to get to the topic sooner. You’ve provided a goo
d example today all through class.”
There were several snickers.
“Class dismissed.”
She left the room ahead of her students. When she reached the English department’s office, she pushed open the door and stopped. Sadie sat at her desk with her fingers flying over a keyboard as though an accomplished pianist. She sported a new short haircut that looked all too familiar. However, it made Sadie’s face look much rounder.
Flattered, Branna grinned. “Good morning, Sadie. I need advice.” She headed for her office with the key in hand.
Sadie jumped up and followed. “How can I help?”
“By the way, like you’re new haircut. I need the name and number of a plumber. I have a situation with my bathroom that needs immediate attention. You know everyone in town.”
“Well, there’s good. There’s fast. There’s good and fast. Which do you need?”
“Good to know there are three plumber options. I need the one who’s going to be at my house at twelve fifteen so I can let him in, trust him alone inside, and fix my bathroom faucet without breaking anything. Oh, and do it for a reasonable price.”
Sadie looked up at the ceiling, puffed out her cheeks, and tapped her index finger against her pursed lips. Branna squelched a giggle. Sadie looked like a middle-aged chipmunk with a bowling-ball haircut.
“Lester Sullivan.”
“Lester Sullivan it is. I’ll take whomever you recommend. I trust you. Please give me his number, and I’ll call him now.”
“Well, since it’s a bit of an emergency, I’ll call him for you. That way he’s sure to show. He’s my brother-in-law. You can trust him. I promise.”
“Thanks for handling that for me. It is above the call of duty. I’ve another class next period, but I’ll be there by twelve fifteen. Let me make it up to you, I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.”
“No lunch. This is the least I can do after our misunderstanding. You know. About your engagement.”
Branna nodded and hoped Steven would never come up again. “I insist. Let me buy.”
“Well...if you insist.”
“Done,” she said. She opened her office door and stepped inside. Paper crunched under her heels. More messages from Steven? She closed her door halfway and hobbled to her chair to pull the papers off her heels. The harassment had to stop. She needed to figure out a way to handle Steven. If she continued to ignore him, he’d push until he sweet-talked Sadie into something drastic. He’d pulled stunts before. Would reason work with him? If the past was any indicator, probably not.
If not, she’d call Uncle Peter again and ask for more advice. Last time, she’d hired “the Big Gun,” her nickname for Uncle Peter, he had a chat, attorney to attorney, with Steven. Afterward, her ex-fiancé had left her alone…for a while.
Steven’s stunt last November had scared her and sent her running for the Big Gun. She remembered the incident all too well. A rainy night after she had finished teaching a class at the Senior Center and only a few students mingled in the hall, she investigated someone whistling an eerie tune. The sound echoed from the hall into the classroom where she sat reading essays. When she stepped out of the classroom and into the hall, the man continued to whistle as he strode purposefully in her direction, as though he had waited for her to appear. He carried folded papers.
“Branna Lind?”
“Yes,” she answered hesitantly.
“You’ve been served.” He handed her papers, then walked away whistling a funeral march.
She’d listened enough to Steven’s attorney-speak to know what “served” meant. She glanced over the papers—suit papers—alleging breach of contract. Steven wanted a million dollars! Stunned, she raced home to Fleur de Lis and called her father who was at their beach house in Biloxi. He calmed her down and agreed to meet her at Uncle Peter’s law office.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, her anger burned on a short fuse. She marched in and took a seat in the chair in front of Uncle Peter’s desk. Her father sat next to her and patted her hand. When Uncle Peter read over the papers, he chuckled. She wanted to hit him.
“Start at the very beginning and read this document. This is Contracts 101,” Uncle Peter instructed.
She glared at him, but did as told.
“Steven Sterling, Plaintiff, verses B. Noel MyLove, Defendant.” She stopped. “What in the world? I’m not a lawyer, but this can’t be proper form.”
“Darl’n,” Uncle Peter drawled, “I think the man is desperate. He wants your attention. This looks like a lawsuit. Served it like a lawsuit—well, maybe—and written like a lawsuit. But it’s not.”
“But...” she sputtered. Leaning forward she tossed the papers back on Uncle Peter’s desk.
He laughed.
Her father sighed, crossed one ankle over a knee, and sat back in his chair. “Peter, explain.”
“Uncle Peter, what can I do?” she interrupted. “I’m done with that man. I’m sick of the harassment. Jewelry, flowers, cards, phone calls, and now this! A fake lawsuit? Served where I work! Isn’t there a law against that? He’s invading my space. Ruining my life.”
Her uncle sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Branna, there’s no law against a man trying to win back the woman he loves. I can see how upsetting this is to you. I’ll give him a call and ask him politely to stop. How would that be?”
“Can I have him arrested?”
“How about we try it my way first?”
“Hmph. Charge your billable hours to him!”
That had ended Steven’s attempt at wearing her down. Until recently. She hated that she had let him upset her. She didn’t want another empty apology from him, then or now. She promised herself, after a month of crying every day over that man, she would never cry over any man again. So far, she’d kept that promise.
“Excuse me.” Sadie interrupted her thoughts. Standing in the doorway she said, “Lester will be waiting for you at your house at lunchtime.”
“Thanks very much, Sadie.”
“Good morning,” James said as he walked into view behind Sadie. “Will you need a ride to your house or do you have a rental?”
“What?”
“Do you need a ride home? At lunch today?” James spoke slowly, as though she might not understand English.
“Why would I need a ride?”
“Because your car got just towed from the student parking lot?”
“I thought my decal was good for any spot, except the ones reserved for Dr. Westcott and Dr. Brown. Someone towed my car?”
“Correct. You can park anywhere, but those two spots, and your car was towed. I thought you had mechanical problems or something, thought that was the reason for the tow truck.”
“I own a Volvo. I don’t have mechanical problems,” she insisted.
“Well, your car just got towed. I saw the tow truck pull out as I pulled in. No one else I know has a metallic blue Volvo with Mississippi tags.”
“Oh, yeah, got to change those...What was the name of the tow company? Where are they taking my car?” She rose. Was James joking around? Her car towed? No. It had to be there.
“I’ll call campus security to see if they know anything. Maybe security can stop them before they get past the front gates.” Sadie scurried to her desk.
James appeared deep in thought, as though he scanned his brain for data. “Best Boys,” he finally said.
Confused, she shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“The name of the tow company is Best Boys.”
She yelled, “Sadie, the tow company is Best Boys.” She dashed for the door. Her high heels slowed her pace when carpet transitioned to tile. Changing from a trot to a fast walk, she called over her shoulder to James, “Are you coming to help me or not?”
When she arrived at the spot where her car had sat, her feet ached from pounding the sidewalk in heels. Campus security officers blocked the entrance and exit of the student commuter parking lot. Red lights flashed. S
he scanned the parking lot.
No tow truck.
No Volvo.
But in the spot where she had parked the Volvo less than two hours ago, a new Mercedes sedan waited with a big, red bow on top.
“Ma’am, please stand back.” An officer—an older, heavyset man with white hair poking out from under his cap—hitched up the waist of his pants. “Is your name Ms. Lind?”
“Where’s my car?”
“Are you Ms. Lind?”
“Yes.”
“I found this addressed to you and taped to the door handle of this here new vehicle.” The stern looking man offered a red envelope.
She refused to touch it. Instead, she raised her hands to shade her eyes from the bright sun. “But my car? Where has Best Boys taken my car? And why?”
“I’ve been told your fiancé authorized it.” The disapproval that etched the man’s face said he had better things to do with his time.
“Officer...” She looked for his nametag. “Officer Hutton, I don’t have a fiancé.” She flashed the back of her ring-less left hand and wiggled her fingers as evidence.
“What?” Shock registered on the man’s face.
“Ms. Lind says she’s not engaged. With whom did you speak to about her car?” James asked as he drew closer. A few students gathered in the parking lot appeared to be straining to hear the conversation.
“A man called, said he was Ms. Lind’s fiancé. He arranged for a tow truck to deliver her new car. He said it was an engagement gift, and that he had arranged to have her old car picked up.”
“And you let him?” she cried.
“Calm down, Branna. I talked to the dispatcher at Best Boys. Your Volvo is waiting in your driveway.”
“Oh great! Now it will end up with paint on it!”
James’ furrowed brow told her he didn’t understand.
“A painter is there today, painting the exterior of my house.” She turned to face the older man. “Officer Hutton, you’ve been had. I don’t have a fiancé. And if my Volvo has paint on it when I get home, you’re going to need to arrest me for killing Steven Sterling!”