by T. E. Woods
Charlotte shook her head. “Stay with Larry. I live about three blocks from here and the walk will do me good.” She smiled and shook Mort’s hand. “Thanks for the beer.”
Both men watched her walk out. Mort reached for his copy of the New York Times. He flipped to the crossword and looked up to see his friend still smiling.
“You wanna get down to this puzzle or you want me to wipe that grin off your face?”
“Smitten,” Larry said. “It’s such a lovely word, don’t you think?”
Some days are just luckier than others. He seemed taller than I would have guessed from his newspaper pictures. Not the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, either.
I’ve been to this truck stop before. In other clothes. For other reasons. I lean to check my makeup in the mirror on the “Guess Your Weight/Learn Your Future” scale. I paint on a new coat of lipstick. “Blow Job Red” is what they should call it. I tug on an exposed black bra strap and watch my girls bounce.
Then I see him. Dirty ball cap, two-day beard. At least forty extra pounds pouring over his belt buckle and daring his flannel shirt to stay buttoned. I catch him watching me in the reflection. My eyes are on him and his are on the Daisy Dukes barely covering what they’re supposed to. I wiggle what he’s watching and see him give a slow smile and elbow his buddy sitting on the stool next to him. I pull up real slow, do my best to look confused as I turn to scan the room, and let my eyes fall on him. Just like in a movie. He touches the brim of his hat, nods, and moves his gaze down my body. I stand there and let him look. He picks up his coffee cup and raises it in invitation.
Gotcha.
I look down, then up. A small smile, just enough to give him the illusion he’s safe. I throw my shoulders back and toss my hair. I take one step toward him and they walk in.
Four cops. One a woman. She looks my way and raises an eyebrow.
I turn and walk out the door.
I hear Tubby call to me before his friend starts laughing. Slaps him on the back and spins his attention to his oversized cinnamon roll.
Tubby ought to head straight to Vegas with the luck he’s having tonight.
Chapter Five
Lydia tossed the envelope on the counter and poured a glass of iced tea. Long gone were the hours spent opening payments from patients, invitations to conferences, and the various postal communications associated with running a thriving psychology practice. These days the mail was typically for “Current Occupant.”
The return address identified her business landlord. She scanned the letter attached to preprinted legal forms. Her lease was expiring in ninety days and the Bradenton Holding Company wanted to know her intentions for renewal. She hadn’t set foot in the cozy space she’d occupied for seven years in over thirteen months. The writer assured her she was a valued member of the Bradenton family and hoped the four percent increase in monthly rent was acceptable. Lydia noted that both her first and last names were misspelled and set the lease aside.
She visualized her home on Dana Passage, high above the water, looking across to Anderson Island and the Olympic Mountains in the distance. She’d shaped what she thought was the perfect haven. Far away from the pain and injustice of the world. But Private Number’s henchmen had invaded her sanctuary and destroyed any illusion of safety long before he fired that bullet into her head.
Some days her life in Olympia seemed like a book she had read long ago. Other days she ached for the normalcy of her old routine. Early morning coffee on her deck, watching the world wake up. The hourly cadence of patients throughout the day. Exercise in the evening. Three glasses of wine per week. The small anchors grounding her to her place in the world.
So distinct from her life as The Fixer.
Lydia finished her tea, rinsed her glass, and tucked it into the dishwasher. She went to the bedroom of the small house she rented on Whidbey and pulled a leather folio from the nightstand drawer. She held her hand over nine unopened envelopes, each addressed in the same handwriting. They’d been forwarded and stacked in order of arrival. Lydia sat against the headboard, pulled her feet up onto the bed, and opened the one on top.
A card with an antique photo of a hospital ward urged her to get well soon. She opened it and read.
I hate that I’m sending this to your office. The good news is you’re alive, right? The bad news is I don’t know where you are. No one is telling me anything. Call me. I’ll bring lattes. With thoughts so warm you’d blush, Oliver. P.S. That’s Oliver Bane in case you’ve got more than one.
Lydia remembered shaggy hair and casual brilliance. How his height made her feel delicate. The way his kisses tasted like coffee.
She opened the remaining envelopes from Oliver. Some held cards wishing her well and signed with brief clever musings. One was a longer letter in which he related his confusion. How shocked he was when he saw the television coverage of her inadvertent involvement with a Seattle crime. Her brush with death nearly killed him, he wrote. How could she disappear from his life? Had he been so wrong about their time together?
Lydia closed her eyes. So many lies had been spun to explain how she’d wound up in the cross hairs of a killer. Most had been waiting for her when she awoke from her coma, but if she didn’t support the fantasy, Lydia would spend the rest of her life in a prison cell.
And she’d take Mort with her.
She opened the last letter, postmarked seven months ago. Oliver restated his confusion and concern in the first few paragraphs. The heaviness in her chest spread throughout her body as she read the last few lines.
So I get your message. I don’t understand it, but I get it. I’ll leave you alone. My hope is you find health and happiness wherever this letter lands. Just know I will regret for the rest of my days not knowing what might have become of us. And I will look up in hope each time the door of my shop opens, wishing forever that I’ll hear you order your latte with honey. With every good thought, Oliver.
Lydia returned the letters to the folio. Outside the bedroom window, rain teased pansies struggling to stand along the walkway, and she wondered how spring was treating her garden at home. Were the birds visiting empty feeders? Did squirrels, fresh from their winter’s nap, scamper across her deck looking for the corncob buckets?
Did Oliver have a new roast featured in his shop?
She glanced at the clock. She could be in Olympia by four. Lydia pushed the urge aside. She deserved none of the serenity waiting for her on Dana Passage. She closed her eyes and conjured memories of Oliver’s caress. The sound of his voice was fading, but not his manner. She remembered how his brilliance mixed with humor so subtle you had to pay attention to catch the full nuance of his words. She brought her hand to her shoulder, that special place his kisses landed the night they danced. She jerked away and clenched her fists until fingernails dug into her palm.
She was still an assassin, no matter what her current penance. Undeserving of Oliver.
Lydia got up and went to the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. She opened the medicine cabinet and stared at the pink plastic container holding the double-edged razor blades. A few quick slices would bring relief. She slammed the mirrored door shut.
A surge of anger brought new energy. Lydia returned to her bedroom, pulled a small valise from the closet, and tossed a few things in. She scrambled back to the bathroom for her toothbrush and toiletries and snatched the pink container on impulse. She grabbed her keys and headed for her car before the self-loathing voice screaming in her head could stop her. If she hurried, she could catch the twelve-thirty ferry from Clinton.
Lydia walked into Bane & Friends at four twenty. There was still time before state workers poured down Capitol Boulevard to grab their caffeinated favorite after a long day spent getting their fingers sticky with red tape. A small group of undergrads occupied two tables in the back. Their thrift store grunge identified them as students from the Evergreen State College. A woman behind the counter restocked cookies and cupcakes. She smiled as Lydia approa
ched.
“Rain stopped?” she asked.
Lydia nodded and looked past her to the storeroom and Oliver’s office beyond.
“What can I get you?” the barista asked. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a clip, highlighting the pale and freckled skin of a true ginger.
Lydia ordered her standard. “For here, please.”
The barista fired up the steamer and Lydia laid her purse and jacket on a table by the window, as far from the service counter and the Greeners as the shop allowed. She returned to the pickup area. The barista finished Lydia’s order with practiced efficiency and called out louder than necessary in the nearly empty shop, “Latte with honey.”
Lydia thanked her. She turned to see Oliver Bane, his brown hair still shaggy and his six-foot frame still lean and athletic. He stopped mid-step when he saw her.
“Hi.” Oliver looked to the barista, then back to Lydia. He stepped forward, then back. He lifted his hands in chagrin. “I’m sorry. That was lame.” He took two steps forward and stood, staring at her. “I … I can’t believe I’m looking at you.” He took Lydia’s cup from the counter. “Where are you sitting?”
Lydia pointed to the windows and Oliver followed her to the table.
“Mind if I join you?” He set her cup down.
Lydia stood so close to him she could feel his heat.
“I’d like that.” She motioned back to the counter. “Do you want something?”
Oliver shook his head and called out to the barista without taking his eyes off Lydia. “Hold the fort, will you, Callie?”
They stood staring at each other for several long seconds before Oliver broke. “Your latte’s getting cold.” He pulled out a chair across from her. “You look great. How are you feeling?”
Lydia sat down and wrapped her hands around the warm mug but had no interest in drinking. She focused on Oliver’s eyes, large and brown and filled with a light she feared she’d never have in her own.
“I’m good,” she answered. “It’s been tough, but I’m good.”
Oliver nodded. “You back working?”
Lydia glanced down into her coffee. “No. I have a lot to sort out before I know what my next move is.” She looked up. “I wanted to see you.” She held his gaze. “Talk to you.”
The light in Oliver’s eyes flickered. He placed a palm on each leg and Lydia sensed he was forcing his hands to stay calm. “You were comatose in a hospital the last time I saw you. I came a lot, by the way, did you know that?”
Lydia nodded. “Mort told me. He said you brought coffee and pastries for everyone.”
“It seemed like the only thing I could do.” Oliver’s tone hardened. He looked back to the counter. “My God, Lydia. I’m sitting home one night, watching the news and thinking of the next cool date I could dream up to capture your attention, and all of a sudden there’s a news story about a shootout in Seattle and your picture comes on the screen.”
She realized another level of pain she’d inflicted upon him. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“You’re sorry?” His voice cracked. “Let me tell you, it was nothing compared to walking into that hospital room and seeing your head, swollen like a pumpkin and wrapped in gauze … cops every five feet. You lying there, unresponsive, with all those machines beeping. Trying to explain to that Mort Grant guy who I was. He grilled me like I was some punk-ass freak coming to take his twelve-year-old to a crack house.”
“He’s protective.”
Oliver bit his lip and stared at her. “We got to be kind of buddies, Mort and I. He helped the day I came to see you and was told I was no longer welcome. The nurses didn’t tell me squat. Nothing beyond I couldn’t go in the room. At least Mort came out and told me you were out of the coma … that you were talking and could see.” Oliver shook his head. “I wanted to shout out loud, I was so happy. All I wanted to do was see for myself you were okay. To tell you how scared I was that I might lose you.” Oliver’s anger pushed her farther back in her chair. “But I wasn’t allowed in.”
Lydia was spared from an immediate response when Callie approached with a plate of cookies and a glass of ice water. Her smile was warm and wide as she set them on their table. She laid a hand on Oliver’s shoulder.
“How about some treats for your break?” she asked. Her fingers teased the longer hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck. “Raspberry filled, fresh from the oven.”
Oliver smiled up at her, his voice calmer. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Callie tugged his collar, nodded to Lydia, and headed back to the counter.
Lydia reached for her purse. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Oliver blocked her from rising with a hand on her arm. “What did you think? You disappear for over a year … not one of my letters acknowledged, let alone answered. I have no clue where you are … whether you’re alive even … all I know is you don’t want to see me. Did you expect me to sit until you decided you were ready?” The irritation in his voice subsided. “Are you ready? Is that what this is about?”
Lydia held Oliver’s gaze and wondered how those eyes would look in the face of a newborn child. She glanced back toward Callie, who was greeting the first of what would be a steady stream of end-of-workday customers.
“She seems lovely,” she said.
Oliver didn’t turn to look. “She is. Answer me, Lydia. Are you ready to explore what’s going on between you and me?”
Lydia allowed herself one long last look at Oliver. She reached out to touch his hand. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness after the shooting.” She pulled her things together and stood. “It was wonderful to see you.”
“Lydia …,” Oliver called as she walked away.
Lydia stepped aside for several women who hurried into the coffee shop, then headed out the door.
Lydia threw back her third shot of whiskey and watched the band return from break. The bar was filled with truckers, mechanics, dockworkers, farmers, and the ladies who loved them. Neon signs advertising domestic brews decorated cedar-paneled walls. In Olympia, lawyers, legislators, dentists, and business types sometimes dressed up in cowboy boots, took their freshly exfoliated women to specialty clubs, and spent an evening trying to look hip while pretending to understand the complex issues underlying the simple lyrics of country songs. But twenty miles down the interstate, in Lewis County, Lydia knew she’d find the real deal. Here men and women sang along with every word. Not only because the songs were the constant soundtrack to hourly wage jobs or drives down county roads in F-150s, but because the lyrics told their story and the tunes were built for beer.
The dance floor filled when the lead singer began the set with a tale of a wife and her husband’s mistress conspiring to kill their two-timing man before driving off in two black Cadillacs. Lydia kept her eyes on a couple she’d noticed when she first arrived. They looked to be in their late twenties. He was tall and lanky. His face bore the weathered skin of someone who earned his money outdoors regardless of the weather. She was as tall as his shoulder and outweighed him by forty pounds. Her fleshy midsection and oversized breasts suggested she’d probably given birth in the past year, but that didn’t stop her from wearing an electric pink tube top or him from letting his hands explore every inch of it. Lydia imagined it was their first evening free since the baby arrived. She sipped her beer and watched while the two of them danced and sang as if this entire party was being thrown just for them.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
Lydia looked to her right to see six feet of denim and plaid leading to a grinning stubbled beard under a Seahawks baseball cap. Broad shoulders weren’t enough to draw her attention away from a silver-buckled belt straining to keep a beer belly tucked in. She turned her attention back to the dance floor. Mr. and Mrs. Newborn had shifted into a respectable two-step.
“You wanna dance?”
Lydia shook her head without looking at the man.
He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “I said,
wanna dance?”
She inhaled the pungent perfume of cigarettes, MGD, and pork rinds and gave him a smile she didn’t feel. “No thanks. I’m just here for the music.”
He dragged a chair next to hers and took a seat. “If you’re lucky, I’ll let you buy me a Jell-O shot. We’ll dance the next one, how’s that?”
Lydia didn’t smile this time. “Look, I don’t dance. I don’t want you here. And I disappear at midnight. So leave now and we can both get on with our evening.”
“Oo-wee.” The man slapped his knee and inched his chair closer. “I like ’em ornery. You’re a twenty-pound salmon on a ten-pound line. I know how to reel ’em in when they don’t wanna.” He put his hand on Lydia’s shoulder.
Lydia spun and grabbed the man’s right thumb in her left hand and his left one in her right. She twisted hard and down, pulling his arms close to his side. He was speechless in pain as she tightened the pressure against his wrists. His head leaned in toward her and Lydia brought her mouth close to his left ear.
“I want you to think of your worst girlfriend ever. The one you would have sawed off your dick with a rusty sardine can just to get away from.” She waited two heartbeats. “You got her?” She twisted his thumbs harder. He groaned, then nodded.
“Now I want you to think of her on steroids. She’s having the worst PMS ever, she’s had a fight with her boss, and her mother just called her a whore. Now multiply that times seven and figure she’s hopped up on cocaine. That’s me.” Lydia brought her foot over his instep and pressed down. “In one second I’m going to see if I can relax my grip, catch you again, and twist one millimeter farther to break both your wrists. I think I can do it. Wanna see?” Lydia relaxed her hold. Plaid-and-Denim shot out of the chair and scuttled away like a cockroach after the kitchen light comes on.
Lydia shoved the man’s chair away and returned her attention to the band. Mr. and Mrs. Newborn were wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying in time as the singer crooned a story about long-lost memories of home. Lydia sipped her beer, signaled the waitress, and ordered another shot.