by Dara Girard
When he reached town, Kenneth went to the office instead of returning home. It would be too much of a strain to show a happiness he didn’t feel.
“Hello, Mr. Preston,” Mrs. Mathew greeted.
He affected a casual smile. “Hello.”
“I should warn you about your office.”
“At this moment nothing could shock me,” he said, opening his door. His emotions had become numb. Nothing could bother him.
He was wrong. His office had been turned into a flower shop. Bouquets, plants, and single roses lay everywhere. Their perfume soaked the air like an overzealous sales clerk with a new fragrance.
He stood stunned in the doorway. “What is this?”
Mrs. Mathew stood behind him, peeking into the room. “They started arriving late Thursday then early Friday.”
Kenneth picked up a bouquet of chrysanthemums. “Why?”
“I think it has a lot to do with the fact that you have yet to choose a date for the Hampton Charity Ball.” She went to her desk to retrieve the messages.
He put the bouquet down and glanced up when he heard a light knock on the door. “Come in.”
Stephanie walked into the room. “I spoke with Draxton.”
“We’re not selling.”
“That’s for the board to decide. They’ve sweetened the deal. ” When he didn’t reply, she took a seat and glanced around the room. “I see that the annual hunt has begun.” She crossed her ankles. “Who will you take this year?”
“I haven’t decided,” he said absently, retrieving papers from his box. It wasn’t like Stephanie to chat on frivolous subjects.
“I hope it won’t be Jessie Clifton.”
His head shot up. “Why not?”
She pulled lint off her trousers. “Because of the bet.”
“What bet?”
Her eyes clashed with his. “The bet she made with Deborah.”
He loosened his tie. “Bull. Jasmine isn’t like that.”
“Oh no?” She raised a brow. “You didn’t find it odd that after all these years she suddenly wanted to work for you of all people? That she suddenly wanted to be your friend? Has she stroked your ego so much that you’ve forgotten to be cautious? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but to her you’re just part of the game. Rumor has it some sort of pendant is at stake. I heard Deborah say so herself.”
His heart raced. “I don’t believe you.”
She stood. “Suit yourself,” she said as she left.
Kenneth stood paralyzed as everything came into focus. Why Jasmine had strangely become cordial. Why he had seen her conversing with Deborah as if they were old buddies. Why she had been so eager to be his friend. Why he had felt she was up to something. Why she had suddenly changed her mind about sleeping with him. He grimaced. Of course. Sleeping with him wasn’t part of the deal: no witnesses.
But she had sounded so sincere. So honest. He’d thought her feeling had been for real. How she must have silently laughed at him as he stood vulnerable before her. Kenneth threw his briefcase on the couch. He was more annoyed than angry. He glanced down when pain shot up his arms and saw his hands clenched, his nails biting into his palms.
No. He was angry—furious, really—that he had fallen for her ploy. He had really wanted her as a friend—no, more than that—but he should have known better. He’d never meant anything to her. Perhaps Eddie was right about some aspects of fate. He and Jasmine were meant to be enemies. He slowly relaxed his hands and adjusted his tie.
Mrs. Mathew entered the room. “You have your regular hints of course,” she said, placing the messages on his desk.
“Thank you.” He opened his window. “Could you take some of these flowers and deliver them somewhere?”
“I tried, but more kept coming.”
He sat behind his desk and glanced around the room with a scowl. “Call someone from the adult day care program to pick these up.”
“Okay.” She hesitated. “I take it that you didn’t have a good weekend?”
He rubbed his chin. “The worst.”
“How would you like me to order you a large breakfast?”
“Thanks.”
Mrs. Mathew nodded then nearly bumped into Nathan as he entered the room.
Nathan took a stunned look around the room then burst into laughter.
“Shut up or get out,” Kenneth growled.
Unaffected by Kenneth’s mood, he picked up a flower and stuck it to the lapel of his jacket with a pin. He sat down. “I had to see it to believe it.”
Kenneth checked his email.
“I would love to have women fighting over me like that.”
He didn’t reply. He knew being a trophy had its downside too.
That evening, Kenneth sat in his car and stared at his house before he got out of the car. This was his home, but the word made him feel empty. He had accomplished so much in his life, yet he felt he had accomplished nothing. Ace had no father and Jasmine only wanted him as a trophy, just like the other women. Funny, he hadn’t expected betrayal to hurt so much. He should have known better than to trust her. All day her deception hung on him like a virus, causing his mind and body to ache.
When he opened the door, a familiar scene greeted him. Ace sat on the ground working on a puzzle and Jasmine sat curled up on the sofa engrossed in a book with an image of a bloody dagger on the cover. In a perfect world this homey scene would be a pleasure, instead it was a burden—another game to play. To think he’d been foolish enough to consider getting the pendant for her when that had been her plan all along.
Syrah jumped up when she spotted him. “Hi, Uncle. How was your trip?”
“It was fine.” Kenneth took off his jacket and rested it on the back of the sofa. “Come over here.” He sat down next to Jessie, deliberately crowding her space. He wondered how much she would hate him when he made her lose. He said, “You don’t look happy to see me.”
Jessie closed her book. “Probably because you don’t look happy to be here.”
Syrah sat down next to him. “Okay.”
He sent Jessie a curious look then turned to Syrah. “I bought you something.”
“What?”
He handed her a small box.
Syrah looked down at the purple high-tech looking object, one of the latest electronic games. “Oh, Uncle, it’s beautiful!” Syrah started hitting buttons.
“Turn the sound off,” Kenneth said.
“I will in a second.”
He snatched it from her. “Now!”
The echo of his voice hung in the room. She stared at him with wide eyes, her hands paralyzed.
Regret assailed him. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” she said quickly, backing away. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” She ran upstairs.
He stood to run after her, but fell back on the couch instead. He held his head.
“Your talk with Eddie didn’t go well?” Jessie asked.
He desperately wanted to share. He wanted to share how helpless he felt and how angry, but he couldn’t trust her. He couldn’t trust anyone. He let his hands fall in his lap. “No, it didn’t.” He looked at her and raised a brow. “Surprised? Kenneth Preston failed at something.”
“About the other night—”
“It’s over.” He reached in his bag and placed a box of colored pencils on her lap.
“What is this for?”
“To color your jewelry designs.” He rose and picked up his bag. He didn’t want to make an issue of it. He didn’t want to think of the half hour he’d spent searching for the perfect selection.
“Kenneth, I have something to tell you,” Jessie said in an urgent tone.
“Forget it,” he said and disappeared upstairs.
He owed Ace an apology. Never in his life had he spoken like that to a child. The graying darkness of evening filled her room as he entered. He heard the violent rush of sheets being rearranged as he approached the bed. He shook his head and sat down next to the hiding form.
“Ace, I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault,” a small muffled voice said. “I should have listened the first time.”
He pulled the sheets down. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
She nodded then turned to the window where a bee was banging against the glass.
“Dove, please don’t be scared of me.”
She turned to him and her face dissolved into tears. “You were so angry.”
He pulled her onto his lap and held her. “Not at you. Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
He wiped her tears. “Do you forgive me?”
She nodded.
He looked around the room. He could give her everything, but she didn’t belong to him and with his temper he wasn’t good for her. “You know your father loves you.”
She stiffened alarmed. “You want to send me back, don’t you? I didn’t mean to make you mad. It won’t happen again,” she said with growing panic. “Please, Uncle Kenneth. I—”
He framed the side of her face as her eyes filled with tears. “Shh, dove. You’re not going anywhere right now. I’m just telling you that your father loves you.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “You love me too, right?”
“Yes, very much.” He sighed as her little arms wrapped around his neck.
* * *
Kenneth surveyed the elaborate layout of the room: the Moroccan red damask window drapery, plush dark carpeting, and black iron bed covered in a maroon bed sheet. His eyes fell on the woman whose warm, dusty brown body stretched out on the pillows with an easy seductive grace, her black hair cascading about her mature face. Her dark brown eyes regarded him with concern. She pitied him, he knew that much. She knew she was the only type of woman he could get. This was the only place he could be himself and it cost him three hundred a night. “You’re still tense, Kenneth. Do you want to do it again?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You know I always make it worth your while.”
He drummed his fingers on the glass table and studied her. “Yes, and you did. I just don’t feel like going home yet.”
She rolled on her stomach and kicked up her legs. “That’s fine, sugar. It’s your money.”
He turned to the window.
Leticia watched him. Kenneth was one of her favorite clients. The most gentle and sweetest one she’d ever had. She’d never been able to figure him out though, even after all these years. It was strange. In her profession she’d gotten to know men pretty well. Some had sexual problems and wanted a boost. Some wanted to do kinky things they couldn’t imagine doing with their wives and others were either deformed or lacked the social skills to get a woman. Kenneth didn’t fit any of these categories.
Okay, so his body was a shock to see at first. Even she had to control a grimace when she’d seen them, but he had the face and the money to make up for them. His scars were something most women would overlook. So why did he pay for it when he could get it for free? She gathered a pillow underneath her chin. There was something sad about him—something guarded. Even though he had shared some things about himself, she still felt as if she didn’t know him at all.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He was lying, but she was used to men lying to her. Something was wrong. Something about him had changed and after knowing him for so many years she knew what it was.
“So what’s her name?” she asked casually, careful that her Midwestern accent didn’t slip through.
He turned to her so quickly she knew her suspicions were correct. “Who?”
She ran her fingers through her hair. “The woman you’re seeing.”
A muscle twitched at his jaw. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“How long do you expect to keep this up?”
“I’ve been wearing a mask most of my life. I wouldn’t know how to function without one.”
True. His mask had kept her going for over ten years, but she could see it slipping. She was about to lose him. And she couldn’t afford to. She was getting older and had to look out for her retirement. She wanted to save enough money to go to Rome.
She crossed the room and saddled his lap. He immediately responded; she could feel a hard bulge pressed against her bottom. His mouth captured hers then he moved his lips down her chest. He abruptly stopped then sat back.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, lifted her off his lap and stood. “I have to go.”
After the door closed, Leticia glanced around her room. She’d come too far from the pathetic Ohioan town she’d grown up in to turn back now. Kenneth was her investment. She remembered when he had first come to her as a young college student: eager, fresh, and desperate. The best kind. With one look she knew he would change her life. He was her ticket to a new future and she couldn’t lose him now. All she needed was the right information and Jack could get it for her. Jack Alton was an unscrupulous writer who had been fired from a major newspaper for unethical behavior, but he still had grandiose dreams of winning the Pulitzer.
She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hey,” she said when he answered. “I got another job for you.”
“Good. What do you need?”
“I want you to find whatever you can on Kenneth Preston.”
* * *
“He doesn’t need a puppy,” Jessie said, unsure of Wendy’s solution for Kenneth’s withdrawn behavior.
“A dog is man’s best friend.” She gestured to the basket she had brought with her. “I wasn’t able to give him away so I’m going to take him to the pound.”
Jessie looked at the sleeping brown ball. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He limps and has a lazy eye so his vision isn’t the best. But he’s still adorable.”
Jessie chewed on her nails, thinking of how Kenneth had fed the squirrels. She probably shouldn’t, but she would. “I’ll take him.”
Wendy looked relieved. “I thought you would. I really didn’t want to send this fellow to the pound.”
“Let’s see if he can work a miracle.”
* * *
Syrah was ecstatic when she saw the puppy and she was eager to surprise her uncle. Her enthusiasm died when he didn’t come home.
This time Jessie wasn’t angry, she was worried. There was something else keeping him from coming home and it wasn’t work. She needed to know what. She placed the puppy in the basket and headed for his office.
She got off the elevator and listened to the quiet swooh as the doors slowly closed. She marveled at the strange quietness the office had in contrast to the day. She could only see outlines of the desks and chairs and the backup light bouncing off the computer screens.
She stood in front of Kenneth’s office and raised her hand to knock, but decided to peek inside instead. She carefully opened the door like a grounded child, seeing if her parents were gone. The room was dark except for the red glow from the fireplace, the only sound of biting and crackling flames pierced the silence. She pushed the door wider and saw a silhouette on the couch—only one, thank goodness.
“Kenneth?” she called in a soft voice, hoping not to startle him.
“Qui est là? ” He turned his eyes to her, two biting black orbs full of such hostility that she took an involuntary step back.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she stammered.
“No,” he agreed. “But since you are here, you might as well come in.” He returned his gaze to the fire.
Jessie closed the door and gingerly walked to the couch. She placed the basket on the ground behind it then noticed three empty beer bottles on the table. She watched as Kenneth brought the fourth to his lips. She grabbed his wrist before he could drink.
“No, don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s not worth it. Nothing is.”
His eyes meet hers. She expected to see a glazed sheen but they were remarkably clear.
“You’re worried about this?” He gestured to the bottle. �
��It’s nothing. I don’t drink alcohol.”
His words weren’t slurred, but she still didn’t trust him. Some men could handle alcohol surprisingly well.
Seeing her disbelief, he held the bottle out to her. “Come then, taste it.”
Jessie took a small sip, gasped and began coughing. It was like swallowing heated gasoline that rested in the middle of her chest to burn. Kenneth fetched her some water and rubbed her back.
“Ginger beer?” she finally managed, tears in her eyes. “I hate that stuff.”
“Yes, pure Jamaican ginger beer.” He took a long swallow then placed the bottle on the table. “Keeps me awake.”
She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “I can imagine.” She sniffed. “Funny the place smells like flowers.”
He decided not to comment, glad that the bouquets were hidden from view by the darkness. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Is something wrong at home?”
“No. I was worried about you.”
“Worried about me.” He repeated the words as if trying to decipher the meaning. “Worried about me?”
“Yes.”
“Strange, I’ve never heard that before.” He shook his head, remembering something. “No, I’m wrong. I had a teacher say that to me once in elementary school: ‘Kenny I’m worried about you,’ she said.”
“Did she have a right to worry?”
He glanced at her then turned back to study the fire.
Jessie refused to be afraid of his silence. She decided to tease him. “I can’t imagine what she could have worried about. Did you get a B plus or something? Perhaps a wrinkle in your trousers or—”
“You see those flames, Jasmine?” His voice, though thick, was barely a whisper. “When I was a little boy I once thought they were so beautiful that I wanted to touch them. So I did and ended up with blisters on my hand.” His eyes captured hers. “Have you really ever played with fire?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t suggest you start.”
“I just want to help.”
His tone was bland. “That’s just great because help is what I need. See I’ve got this tiny little problem. My brother is dying and there’s nothing I can do. My niece wants to stay with me and I know that she can’t.”