by Roya Carmen
“I have two more days,” I tell her. “Counting today.”
She shakes her head. “I’m so upset you’re leaving. I like having you around. You brought energy and light into this big, dark house. We need someone like you around here.”
“I’m going to miss your lunches,” I tell her. “You’re an amazing cook.”
She laughs loudly. “No, I’m not. You should see me try to cook a roast beef.”
I smile. “Well, you make a mean French toast.” This hurts. I’ve never liked good-byes. “Who knows? Maybe you could pop by my place across the road and make me a yummy BLT for old times’ sake.”
Her whole face lights up when she says, “I would love that. Just because Mr. Hyde was foolish enough to let you go doesn’t mean we can’t stay friends.”
“Exactly.” I give her another hug, and this one is the best kind – the kind that wipes away all sorrows and lifts you, the kind of hug only a good friend can give.
Ginger’s big green eyes are sad. She feels sorry for me. She knows I’ve been fired. I’ve been talking about it for the last hour. I don’t care what anyone else says – animals are smart and can understand everything you say. Especially cats. They can’t offer advice, but I swear she’s nodded in agreement once or twice. I don’t think I’m imagining it. So far, she agrees that Mr. Hyde is seriously troubled. She also agrees that he’s very foolish for letting an amazing, productive, creative employee like myself go.
“It could have worked between us,” I tell her. “He thinks I would get too emotionally attached or would fall madly in love with him if we had sex. Men… they’re so full of themselves.”
She stretches on the quilt on my bed. She nuzzles her adorable face against her paws, her long whiskers spilling out on either side, and listens attentively. She’s riveted.
“I could have totally done the ‘friends with benefits’ thing. I’ve done it before. What makes him think he’s so special?”
She tilts her head, almost as if she’s telling me she hasn’t the slightest clue.
“The thing is… he kind of is… special. He’s like no other guy I’ve ever met. He’s so smart and sweet and sensitive and quirky.” But then I come back down to earth when I tell Ginger, “He’s also really messed up. His wife died, and some people think he had something to do with it.”
Her ears perk up, and her eyes seem to grow rounder.
“No, no, no. He had nothing to do with it. I’m positive. He’s a good man,” I say, trying to convince not only my cat but myself too. “I Googled him and found no evidence whatsoever.”
Ginger simmers down as she presses her head against her paws again.
Then it hits me. I Googled August Hyde, not Eric Hyde.
I bounce off the bed so fast I startle Ginger. I slither into my desk chair and fire up my laptop. The name Eric Hyde yields quite a few results. There’s a Web site, which appears to be a photography portfolio, another link to a photography club, and several articles about his family. Apparently, he was born in a suburb of Montréal, and he’s heir to Beaudoin Cheeses Inc., a company founded by his great-grandfather.
Nestled among all these results are articles about Olivia Hyde’s death. I can’t read fast enough as my greedy eyes take in the newly found information.
Olivia fell from the second story of her luxurious home in the prestigious Bridle Path neighbourhood of Toronto. She was found in the foyer of her home by her husband Eric Hyde, son of Peter Hyde and Marianne Beaudoin-Hyde, heir to Beaudoin Cheeses Inc. He was suspected of and investigated for his wife’s murder, but no charges were filed. Investigators and family suspected that Olivia had fallen to her death during a tragic sleepwalking incident. Her family, friends, and doctor confirmed that she had suffered from severe somnambulism from a very early age.
Fuck. I stare at the screen, motionless. I feel so nauseated. No wonder the man is shattered. No wonder he can’t move on. No wonder he’s afraid to live and face the world. Not only did he lose the love of his life, but the whole world had pointed their fingers. The whole world believed he could be responsible for the death of the person he loved most. And he was the one who found her dead on the floor, probably bloody and twisted.
I feel light-headed as a sour taste rises in my throat. I lie down on my bed and close my eyes, but all I can see is Olivia with her long dark hair, her white skin stained by blood, large dark eyes open with the aimless gaze of death. I haven’t seen a single photo of her, but this is how I picture her.
I fall into tears. I can’t take this. I need to help him. Someone needs to help him. This is a man who has stopped living, who has retreated into his own little world of darkness. He needs someone to show him the light and help him face the world again.
August
“Fuck,” I scoff. “Damn useless piece of shit.” I’ve never been one to curse, but today is that kind of dreadful day – the kind you’re not sure you’ll survive, the kind of day that leaves you wanting to just crash into your bed and bury yourself in blankets.
“Piece of shit,” Miko repeats.
I turn toward him, not impressed in the least. “Miko, please…”
The last thing I need is a cursing parrot. My much-deplored printer is at it again. If it isn’t the ink, it’s the Wi-Fi connection. I need to print this manuscript. I want to get lost in it and forget about my worries. My only escape is words, be they in the pages of another author’s book or my own. I’m trapped in this house, caught by shackles I willingly put on myself. I never escape with alcohol or drugs. No, isolation and words are my only vices… and perhaps sex too.
I realize I’m lost without Ruby. She’ll need to be replaced by a new PA soon enough, but at the moment, I much prefer to not think about that at all. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep. I haven’t been able to get any shut-eye. I haven’t been able to eat a thing. I’m heartbroken and feel such a sense of loss when I realize that she will no longer be part of my life.
I know all about loss.
I slam my hand on the printer and pivot toward Miko’s cage. I gently pull the cage door open and welcome him to perch on my hand. He cocks his head and dances his little jig. He always loves when he gets attention – he doesn’t get enough.
“You’ll miss her too, won’t you?”
His beady little eyes stare back at me. He understands I’m not myself. I’m sure he doesn’t understand Ruby’s departure, but he knows his master isn’t happy. He replies with a clacking and a whistle. We’ll be all right, it says. I’m not convinced.
“Well, we have one more day with her,” I tell him. “Let’s make the most of it.”
I hear the front door, and I know it’s Ruby. My heart races, and the rest of my body stands to attention as it always does whenever she’s nearby. I don’t walk over to greet her – I never have. That’s not because I don’t want to. It’s a way of distancing myself from her – one of my many antisocial patterns of behaviour.
When she finally reaches my office, I’m completely taken aback. Her tight fashionable suit is gone, replaced by a frumpy oversized blazer and slacks. The sexy Louboutins have been replaced by black house slippers – slippers!
“Hello, August,” she says cheerfully.
“Hello,” I say quietly, my gaze still glued to her, taking in the unexpected transformation. Her hair is up in a severe bun, and as she inches toward me, I can see she isn’t wearing a single dab of makeup. Yet despite the lack of lipstick, her full lips are still a sensual shade of pink. “Wow. You look quite different today.”
“Yes, well…” She takes a seat at my desk, uninvited. I fall into my own chair, intrigued by her curious behaviour. “You and I can’t have a romantic relationship. I get that. But we need to talk.”
What could we possibly have to talk about that we didn’t already cover yesterday? I’m intrigued.
“You need me,” she says simply. No pleasantries or chitchat. “Let’s stop playing these games.”
“What games?”
She sw
allows and straightens her back, determined. “I know you, August… or should I say Eric?”
I jerk back in my chair, rattled by the sound of my real name on her lips. I’m not sure how she discovered it, but that’s really of no concern. All that matters is that she knows it. What else does she know?
“You need me to help you. I know all about you, August. I know where you come from.” She looks so serious, so fierce, like a “don’t mess with me or I’ll slit your throat” hard-edged executive. Yet she still manages to be beautiful.
I struggle to figure out where she’s heading with this discussion.
“You grew up rich.” she says. “Your mother wore pearls and pretty cardigans. She always looked perfect. Your father wore impeccable suits and was revered by anyone who knew him. You and your sister were perfect children too.”
I’m mildly amused by her antics, and I have to admit she’s spot-on.
“Insubordination was not acceptable. Neither was cursing or fits of emotions. Politeness, proper manners, and decorum were always encouraged. You did not talk about your feelings. If your thoughts and emotions weren’t pleasant, pretty, and perfect, others did not need to be introduced to them. Complaining was never appreciated.” She lifts her chin. “How am I doing so far?”
I nod, impressed. She is right. There’s no arguing that.
“Well, that’s bullshit!”
My breath hitches. A moment ago, she seemed so calm, and now I can practically see the veins bulging on her forehead.
“I wasn’t raised like you. In my family, we talked! If I got picked on at school, I cried over my mashed potatoes that night. If my sister, Amber, was having problems with her boyfriend, we all heard about it even if we didn’t want to. When my mother died, we all leaned on each other to be able to live through the pain.”
I’m at a loss for words. I’m not even sure what we’re talking about. Why is she telling me all this? I have no clue where she’s taking us, but I cling to her words, desperate to discover our destination.
Her eyes seem to darken. “Did you know my big brother Ken died in a car crash over two years ago? He was driving drunk.”
My heart reaches out to her. Yes, I knew. “Yes, I had heard…”
“Not only did he kill himself, but he killed my sister’s husband too.”
Not too sure what words of condolence to offer, I simply say, “I’m sorry, Ruby.”
She stares at my desk, drained. Feisty Ruby is gone. “It’s fine. My point is” – she looks up at me – “I carried on. I moved on. I did not hide away in a dark room. I did not retreat from the world.”
This is all about me. It finally dawns on me – all this is about Olivia’s death. I absolutely do not want to go there. “I’m very sorry for what you’ve been through, but I assure you I’m fine. Now if you’ll just go tie up your loose ends here and let me be? If you can manage to get everything done by noon, you can leave early.”
She glares daggers at me – the woman is clearly livid. “There’s no way I’m leaving you. You need me.”
There is no shaking her. Ruby Riverstone certainly has some Irish in her – stubborn to a fault. What a pigheaded little firecracker. But I might as well humour her, I muse. As they say, “if you can’t beat them, join them.”
“So you’ve mentioned. And how are you planning on helping me, Miss Riverstone?”
Her gaze softens, and even without a hint of makeup, her eyes capture me. “I know how your wife died. I know you found her. I know you were suspected of her murder. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know.”
My heart drops to my stomach. I’m not surprised she knows. It’s not exactly a well-kept secret. But I feel stripped… completely naked. I feel vulnerable. I’ve always felt safe around her because she didn’t know. She never looked at me with accusation, disgust, or pity in her eyes. Around her, I felt like a normal person.
That’s all about to change.
“I want to help you, and I’m going to help you,” she starts. “You have no say in the matter. You aren’t firing me yet. I’m going to help you with your work while you look for a replacement. And I will also be helping you… just you.”
I shake my head. She has taken this too far. “I already have a therapist, thank you.”
She cocks a brow. “Oh, that lady with the red hair and the briefcase?”
“Yes…”
She turns her gaze in Miko’s direction and smiles at him. “Hi, Miko.”
Miko bobs his head enthusiastically.
She smiles and turns to me. “How long has she been your therapist?”
I quickly do the math in my head. “About nine months.”
“Well, obviously she’s doing a crap job,” she scoffs. “Look at you. When’s the last time you stepped out of your house?”
Damn, Ruby Riverstone is smart as a whip. She seems to know all my secrets. There is no getting away from her.
“I’ll have you know that Dr. Murphy is a registered therapist, educated at the University of Toronto. She has a PhD and has practised for over ten years.”
“Well, I don’t care how many letters she has after her name. She clearly sucks.”
There’s no sense arguing with her because she’s absolutely right. I’ve worked with Dr. Murphy for nine months, and I feel no further along. Dr. Murphy has suggested medication more than once. She seems convinced that serotonin reuptake inhibitors specified for obsessive-compulsive behaviour would be of benefit to me, but I’ve been on that sort of medication before, and I couldn’t stand the side effects. They also prevent me from being as creative as I need to be. Unfortunately, she all but gave up on me following my refusal to medicate myself.
“I’m going to work this morning,” Ruby tells me. “And after lunch, we’ll sit in the living room, and we’ll talk.”
I don’t utter a single word because the truth is… I do need to talk to someone. I have no one. My whole family is back in Montréal, and we’ve never been close. I chat with my sister and my mother once in a while, but our conversations lack depth. I always ask about my nephew, Jackson, and my niece, Ava – I miss them. Since I can no longer bring myself to get out of my house, I certainly can’t board a plane to Montréal. They’ve come to visit me once since Olivia’s passing. I’ve also drifted away from any friends I had. Millie is sweet, but we have a certain employer-employee dynamic. And Anita has never been much for talking. She prefers my mouth between her legs.
Ruby stands and smiles. “I’ll see you later, August.”
“Later,” Miko squawks.
What a funny pair we make – a talking bird and his speechless owner.
Ruby
As I plop my rear in my desk chair, I can’t believe what I’ve just done – the way I marched in there, full of gumption. I was fierce! But someone has to be. Someone needs to help that poor, beautiful man. I fire up my computer and finish a few things from yesterday. I also do a little research into possible candidates to replace me. I know the hiring process will take a while, but it’s important that I find him someone good.
I almost forget all about August as I’m consumed with so much work. I barely take ten minutes to eat lunch, and at one o’clock on the dot, I walk to his office. I know this is a good time – he writes in the morning, but in the afternoon, he’s more approachable. When I pop my head into his doorway, he looks up, almost as if he’s been waiting for me. I’m glad he seems to be enthusiastic.
“You ready?” I ask. “Let’s go to the living room.”
He follows me down the hall. We enter the stunning room with oversized leather sofas and a sleek coffee table.
I feel a draft and grab the throw off the arm of the sofa. “Are you warm enough?”
He smiles and takes a seat. He looks stiff, his back straight, his feet firmly planted on the floor. “I’m fine.”
He does look pretty cozy in his black sweater. Why does he always have to look gorgeous? It’s so damn frustrating. But I’m not here for funny business. I’m here
to help him.
I tuck my feet under my legs and get comfortable. “First off, you need to relax. Lean back and stretch your legs out on the coffee table.”
He smiles as he follows my instructions. “Now what, Dr. Riverstone?”
I laugh. “Now, you tell me about her. I want to hear all about her.”
He swallows and falters. “I-I don’t really…”
“You don’t want to talk about her?”
His striking blue-green eyes are black. “No.”
“You will today. You need to. We’ll start off slow. Tell me how you met.”
He seems reluctant and starts off slowly. “We met at McGill. She and I were both English majors. But what she truly was was an artist.” His face lights up. “She was quirky… wore these ridiculous colourful hats and these clunky black boots. She was completely different from all the girls I had grown up with.”
“It was love at first sight?”
He nodded. “Yes… the stuff dreams are made of.”
“Then what happened? What brought you to Toronto?” I ask.
“Well, I got a job as a teacher at a private school in Toronto, and she followed me there. At first she thought she could teach too, but I insisted that she focus on her passion. We didn’t need the extra income.”
“What did you teach?”
“English and history. She painted, and I taught. At night, I’d tell her naughty stories, and then we’d make love.”
Damn, that’s hot. I want to know more about the dirty stories. Focus…
“Um, is that how you became an erotica writer?” I ask, completely enthralled.
He smiles. “Yes, Olivia insisted that I write the stories down. She wanted to be able to go back to them. Then she started posting them to a popular fan-fiction site, and next thing you know, I had thousands of fans.”
“Wow.”