by Kira Blakely
I turned on the shower, fetching clean underthings from my drawer in the bedroom. The water felt good, maybe because for the few minutes you spent beneath the spray, the world couldn’t get to you. I got dressed and pulled a slice of bread from the bag, carefully twisting the bag closed and fastening it with a clothespin so bugs and air couldn’t get to it. I popped the single slice in the toaster and ate it dry. I would save the peanut butter for lunch.
I was really going to have to take a serious look at my finances. Natalie was a constant drain, and business at the studio just wasn’t bringing enough in to nurse her through her various addictions. I’d have to look at finding a second job—maybe at a restaurant. At least there they’d probably feed me.
I checked my wallet and decided I’d better walk to the studio, so I’d need to leave earlier than normal. I checked on my sister one last time and then was making my peanut butter sandwich lunch when there was a knock at the door. I assumed it was probably one of Natalie’s mooching friends and was tempted to ignore it. As it was, I had to leave anyway, so I picked up my purse, my sandwich wrapped in tissue paper, and opened the door.
“Good morning, miss,” began the strange man standing there. “I’ve come on behalf of Mr. Symington. He sends you these with his regards.”
As I stood there with my mouth gaping, he produced two boxes: one rather long and slender and the second more of a shirt-size. I set my things down and took the boxes from him. Puzzled, I looked up at him. “Do I need to sign something?”
“No, miss, not necessary. Have a wonderful day,” he said, and I watched as he disappeared down the stairs.
I took the boxes to the kitchen counter and opened the slender one first. Inside I found one, long-stemmed red rose. There was no card, but I already knew who it was from. I put the ruby petals to my nose and breathed deeply. I felt a little thrill course through me as I remembered the way Bolt had made love to me the night before. The storm, his hard, muscled body, and those lips—god, I missed him and I didn’t even know him.
The second box was beautifully wrapped. I opened it to find a yellow raincoat, a tribute to our lovemaking in the rain. I couldn’t imagine anything more romantic or perfect. I slid into the sleeves and hugged myself, pretending it was him. I laughed. I was behaving like a little girl rather than a mature businesswoman who was going to be late opening her shop if she didn’t quit goofing around.
I laid the jacket on my bed, put the rose in a jar with water on my nightstand, and then picked up the box to throw in the dumpster on my way. Something slid inside, and there was a jingle as it fell out onto the linoleum. I pushed the box out of my view and saw a set of keys with a piece of paper tied to the ring with a bit of curling ribbon.
The slicker is so you don’t get wet with anyone else while I’m gone.I’ll be out of town on business, but my card is in the pocket. Text me so I’ll have your number.The keys belong to the car in your parking spot. Please take care of it for me while I’m gone.It’s the only way I can take care of you.
The keys hit the floor with a hard jingle as I shifted my armload to go look out the window again. Sure enough, the car in my parking place was a dark seafoam green Audi convertible. Was he serious? I suspected the car wasn’t his at all. He’d bought it for me and knew I couldn’t accept that kind of a gift, so he pretended to lend it to me. I couldn’t fall for that. With resolve, I picked up my things again and locked the door behind myself as I headed to work. I got as far as the dumpster and peeked over my shoulder at the Audi. I’d never ridden in a convertible before. It wouldn’t hurt to just look at it.
It was waiting for me, tempting me like a poisoned apple that would forever change my life. I couldn’t even afford insurance on a car like that, much less the gas it would take because I knew I’d be driving all over the state if I had something like that at my disposal. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to open the door and peek inside. I slid my hand into my deep pocket and pulled out the keys. There was a button on the fob, and I pressed it. Setting my things on the gravel, I opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. A gentle bell warned me that the door was open. I closed the door and sat there, inhaling the new car scent. The dash wrapped around me like a pair of wings. I fingered the leather gear-shifter and wondered what would show up on the dash display. Naturally, I had to put the key into the ignition to find out, but no one was watching.
Sweet Jesus! It sprang to life and all around me. The cockpit presentation invited inspection. Google Earth lay between the tachometer and the speedometer, which, no big deal, by the way, topped out at one hundred sixty miles per hour. Where could I even drive a car that fast? I cringed as I tapped on the sound system and classical music flooded the cabin. Naturally, I wondered how it would feel to drive such a vehicle. I was late for work, but it made sense that I could maybe drive, just that once, so I wouldn’t be late. Determined to exploit the chance of a lifetime, I adjusted the mirrors, slid the gearshift in the console into reverse, and backed up. The accelerator pedal was responsive, and I so, so wanted to skip work and head out on I-64, which offered mile after mile of almost empty interstate. If I was cautious and avoided the state police post at Frankfort, I might be able to nurse the speed up to at least a hundred—an exhilarating thought. I knew that was pushing it, so I went to work instead. That’s when I realized I’d left my purse, store keys, and peanut butter sandwich sitting on the gravel next to where the car had been parked. Of course, now it was mandatory that I drive a little more, and maybe even a little out of the way, to go and retrieve them.
It was noon before I arrived at the studio. Butch was sitting in the scrub grass by the dumpster out back. “What are you doing?” I asked as I got out of the dream car.
“Where the hell have you been? Out stealing cars?”
“Whoa, Butch, what’s up with the interrogation?”
He walked over to look at the car.
“Don’t touch it!” I barked, and he swung around, surprised. “It’s not mine. It’s just…a loaner, OK?”
“Some loaner. They generally give me an old greasy pickup.”
“Well, well. It just depends on where you get your car fixed, is all,” I justified. I went inside the shop and began turning on lights and the music system. Butch followed me in.
“C’mon, Lilly, where did you get the car?”
“Personal. What are you doing here? You can’t want another tattoo.”
“I do, but I can’t afford it today.”
“There’s a story I can identify with,” I answered, tucking my purse into a drawer. “So?”
“I felt bad about Natalie. I know I was supposed to watch out for her, but damn, Lilly, a fellow has to have a little fun, too, you know.”
I swept past him. “You’re not her babysitter and neither am I,” I proclaimed, even though I knew I was lying to myself. “She’s safe, at home in bed and will probably still be there when I go back after work. So, go on now. Do what you do on Saturdays. I’m going to sit here and hope I get a few customers. Bills need to be paid.” I summarily dismissed him, and his head sagged as he shuffled out the door.
I dragged out the broom and thought of Bolt and the way he’d rescued me from Natalie’s stunt. After I swept, I stood in the front window and noticed the red geraniums in the planter across the street. They reminded me of the red rose waiting for me at home. Everything, it seemed, reminded me of Bolt. The door’s little bell tinkled as a customer walked in. With a sigh, I returned to the drudgery that was my life.
Chapter 5
Bolton
I boarded the plane at Standiford Field, and once it had leveled out, I allowed myself to put my head back and think about Lilly. She wasn’t like the girls I’d grown up around or known in business. Those girls had always been more consumed with my name and what it could mean for their future than with me as a person. I wasn’t naive, I understood that people were attracted to wealth and old-money names. I knew of many cases where someone’s name counted for more than what they
had in their bank account. The South was like that. I’d made up my mind a long time earlier not to trade on anything that belonged to my father, and that included his last name.
The attendant approached, holding out a tray with coffee and a platter of small muffins. I took the coffee but shook my head at the pastries. I’d never had a sweet tooth, not even as a child. My mother always said that was a lucky thing, and she’d smooth her hands over her hips as she said it. She’d always been very conscious of her appearance, and I had picked up that habit.
I was headed to Los Angeles, and from there, to Asia. I tried to focus on my business objective, but those amethyst eyes kept blocking my mind. I remembered how she looked up at me, the rain having created a mass of sandy curls, like a halo about her head. I saw the war she battled inside—the desire to keep control of her life versus the feminine instinct to turn it over to me. All she needed to make that change was trust. She needed to trust in me, she wanted to trust in me. The question was, was it possible for anyone to trust in me again?
My younger life had been quite different from most of the boys with whom I went to boarding school, and later to college. They were raised at their father’s knees, one hand holding a riding crop and the other a stopwatch. Their lives had revolved around horses and all that stood for. Horses were just a rich man’s hobby. In the early days, breeding had been businesses—owners to trainers to jockeys to stable boys. It was an entire ecosystem that revolved around the unique qualities of bluegrass to make horses’ bones stronger so they could endure the pounding as they circled the track. Later, the tax laws changed, and horses did become hobbies, but they were still a coin of the realm.
People spoke of horses as they did their distant relatives. They tracked which mares were carrying and when they were due to foal. Every spring there was a sale at Keeneland in Lexington, and it was here that their racing lives began. My mother had socialized in that circle, although she only rode horses occasionally for pleasure. It was my father who had dragged us in, me with my knuckles fastened tightly around the handle of my mother’s suitcases.
My mother was cosmopolitan in her outlook. She didn’t have a single home in Kentucky but multiple homes around the world. Indeed, everywhere she went, a motel room, a friend’s château, even a small garret above a shop in Paris became our home. I always went with her, and it wasn’t until later in life that I suspected perhaps that had been my father’s condition for letting her go. She was entirely too beautiful for her own good. They had met through a mutual friend. I think she was attracted to his bravado before she learned it was control. As for him, who wouldn’t want her on his arm? She was everything a woman should be.
I picked up languages until I was fluent in more than a dozen, even down to regional dialects. My mother said it was a talent. I thought of it more as survival. I learned to adapt to my father’s demands in order to avoid his scorn and punishments. I learned to blend in with my surroundings, with reptilian abilities to change my personality accordingly. In France, I could be arrogant, humorous, and carefree. In Germany, I learned to be controlling and serious and to strive for perfection. Every part of the world had its own flavor, and I knew them all.
In my senior year of college, the government had come calling. They watched for people like me, those who had unique abilities or facets to their personality. They had a place for me, they said. They wanted me to travel the world, something I did on a regular basis. They wanted me to be a good American, to work in the service of my country. None of that had any great appeal to me. It wasn’t until they said that I could become anyone I wanted that it caught my attention. I lived mostly in my head, because that was where my father couldn’t go.
I agreed, although the terms of our relationship were unique. I had no need of a job and no desire to earn more money, and I certainly wasn’t looking for anyone to control me. I proposed a symbiotic relationship in which I would move around the globe in my professional guise as an importer/exporter. That business environment, when coupled with my personal contacts and my ability at languages, gave me entry into a world they could not otherwise touch.
Our deal was simple. From time to time they called me in and mentioned they had need of a certain bit of information, or to contact someone and pass along a message. Perhaps they wanted to know the source of a shipment, or how to avoid allowing it to reach its destination. All of this fell under my expertise. In return, they looked the other way as I conducted business for my own enterprise. My shipments were never held in customs. The holds of my ships were never inspected, nor were tariffs charged as long as goods traveled under my name. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, until that night when Carmella died.
I carried the events of that day with me, like a suitcase that was too heavy to lift and could only be dragged as though fastened to my ankle with a chain. It haunted my dreams, colored my view of the future and of the world as a whole. The next time they asked for me with an assignment, I shook my head and walked away. They tried several more times, and each time I refused. Finally, they sent one of my former team members to talk with me.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he told me as we sat in the corner booth at a lonely bar on the side of the highway. “You had a clean shot. It was just dumb luck that he turned at that moment. She didn’t blame you, Bolt. She knew what she was doing, and she knew the risks. You’re trying to trade places with her, and you know that won’t do any good. It won’t change a thing. Look, they don’t want you full-time. They know you won’t agree to that. They sent me to ask you if you would help on that rare occasion when only someone with your unique qualities would make the mission successful. It won’t involve weapons, just information. The conversation at a dinner party or taking a beautiful woman to dinner. That wouldn’t be so hard, would it?”
I was on the verge of refusing again, but my life had become boring, and I truly was a patriot. Not just of the United States, but every country where my mother had made us a home. It was for her that I agreed, only because it could mean that a violent act would never have to occur. I outlined my demands, and my team member nodded, shook my hand, and left. I hadn’t heard from them yet, but I knew it was inevitable. They would come for me, and when they did, I could tell no one that I was leaving or where I was going, much less when I would return. That sort of information jeopardized an entire team of people as well as the mission itself. This always lay in the back of my mind and was one of the reasons I couldn’t form lasting relationships. It hadn’t bothered me before. That was before Lilly. I had failed to take care of Carmella. I had failed to take care of my mother. I couldn’t fail again—Lilly had no one to fall back on but me.
Chapter 6
Lilly
I texted Bolt that first day after we’d been together. On my end, it said the message had been delivered, but he never answered. I debated trying to call him, but my pride wouldn’t let me. He had my number now, and if he wanted to contact me, he could. I knew he was out of town on business but wondered how he could be so busy that he couldn’t tap out a single text.
Look at me, the jealous girlfriend. I’m not even his girlfriend, am I? I continued to drive the car as each day I came up with a new excuse. Natalie eyed it with envy, as I knew she would. When I came home after work that first day, I walked in to find her wearing the yellow slicker.
“Take that off!” I told her.
“Why? I’m not hurting anything.”
“It’s just not yours. It’s mine.” We had always been jealous sisters, but she had crossed the line. It was a gift, to me, and seeing her wear it, especially after the night she’d had, made it feel dirty.
“Where did you get it?”
I didn’t want to tell her. If things didn’t pan out between me and Bolt, I didn’t want to hear about it. I told her I’d bought it, which led to a whole big argument about my having money for new clothes but not enough money for food. Of course, that led to the next argument about her spending and stealing money from me, and that
’s why we didn’t have any food. By the time we were done arguing, we weren’t speaking. A part of me knew that I’d escalated things, just so I wouldn’t have to explain where the car came from.
As soon as it got dark, I went out and moved the car down the street, parking it next to the local police precinct. I caught an officer as he was coming out and asked if they could keep an eye on it, telling him it was a loaner from a friend who was out of town, and I didn’t have anywhere to park it safely. He told me it was fine, to go ahead and leave it there. So each day, I pretended to walk to work, but instead I went down the street and climbed behind the wheel of the Audi. It wasn’t lying. Well, not really. The car needed to be driven, there was no doubt about that. One day, Natalie showed up at the studio and I told her that I’d had a wealthy client in earlier who must’ve gone to lunch somewhere in the block and left the car behind. She wasn’t overly interested so I didn’t go into any more detail. After that, I parked it clear to the edge of the lot so it looked like it’d been left behind.
Through all that subterfuge, I waited for a text or a phone call. It never came. With each day that passed, I grew more and more depressed. That was not a huge reach for me, as our lack of good fortune kept me in a constant state of depression. I also knew the day was coming that Bolt would come home, I would hear the story about how we had a good time but we just weren’t right for each other, and I would hand back the keys to the car. I compared it to going to Disney World with a free day’s pass only to find out they were closed. I knew I was being silly and selfish, but your dreams have to be made from something.