Pink Neon

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  A black Ford sedan slowed and then turned into her lot. Everything between her tummy and throat seized up tight. Breathe, girl, just breathe. Cecily cleared her throat and pasted a fake smile on her lips. She expected a woman to emerge from the car, a matron, maybe, with a big purse draped over one arm or a stylish young woman. Maybe two or three women, buddies, would be together. If Pink Neon had any shot at success, Cecily believed the first customer would buy something. And if not, she figured her chances of running a profitable business ranked somewhere below fair.

  When he emerged, she stared. His body unfolded to a height of at least six feet and after he shut the door with a graceful motion, she watched as he padded toward the front door with the beautiful, lethal stride of a panther. His dark jeans fit his legs like gloves and his black t-shirt failed to conceal his lean but muscular build. Before he entered the shop, he pulled off his sunglasses and hung them on the neck of his shirt. Sweet baby Jesus, my first customer is smoking hot. I think I just died and he’s my dream angel come to carry me to heaven. Or he might be a demon to drag me down to hell. Either way, I’m willing.

  “Hi,” Cecily said as he stepped onto the soft carpeting. “Welcome to Pink Neon. We’ve just opened and you’ll find an eclectic blend of beautiful things here. Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

  Her pat greeting sounded lame now but she rattled it off anyway as she drank in his face with her eyes. His copper hued skin, weathered and darkened by the sun, indicated an ethnic heritage but he wasn’t black. Native American or Hispanic, maybe a little of both showed up in his family tree along with some white heritage. He watched her with deep, dark eyes, both powerful and still. They reminded her of a placid pond, deep and mysterious surrounded by shadows. Tiny wrinkles wreathed the corners of his eyes and a few tight lines around his mouth indicated he must be older than she was, mid thirties maybe. His lips were thin, her mouth well-shaped and she wondered how well he could kiss. He looked tough – and she figured he was – but he had soul, too. Even if he doesn’t know it, he’s got it. For the moment, though, he wore a bland mask.

  “I’d like to look around if that’s okay,” he said in a baritone voice, solid as good steak, richer than whipped cream, and soft as velvet. Cecily suspected it could turn knife sharp and hard in seconds. He’s either a career criminal, heavy duty, or a cop. Growing up ghetto she could recognize either one although they often shared similar qualities.

  “Sure,” she said. Resisting the urge to drum her fingers in a restless beat on the counter to relieve her tension, Cecily switched on the CD player to find a calm center. One of her favorites, the haunting Take Me Down To The Water by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals flowed from the speakers, powerful and poignant. Her customer, paused near the gourmet coffees, halted and his head jerked upward. He turned to face her, features alive and curious.

  “That’s my favorite song,” he said with surprise. “I like most of their tunes but that’s the one I listen to the most.”

  “Me, too,” Cecily told him. She had the song on repeat, had listened to it over and over while putting the shop together. The shorter cut appealed to some inner emotion, a deep pocket of need and longing.

  The man gazed at her and his eyes shimmered. “Can you sing it?” he asked. “Will you sing along with the music?”

  His question slashed through ten years of silence, a decade during which she seldom sang. Once, Cecily lived to sing and cherished music. During the years with Willard, she seldom raised her voice in song or listened to tunes. Freed, she’d immersed herself with music again but it wasn’t until the last week or so, she’d felt able to sing. Cecily sung along to CD’s in the car, at home, and here at the shop but without an audience. She parted her lips to say ‘no’, to refuse but his eyes caught hers and she sensed a kinship, a shared knowledge of suffering. He lived with anguish and he knew the price of pain. Kindred souls, we’re kindred souls. Her chin lowered in a brief nod and when the song ended, she allowed it to begin once more.

  Cecily unleashed her voice, blended hers with Grace Potter’s, and added her rich chocolate to Grace’s vocals. In the first moments, her skin prickled with awareness of his presence but after the notes emerged the music filled the spaces between them. She’d sung the lyrics many times and knew them well. And she didn’t miss any notes her voice remained true to the melody. During the song, he moved closer and closer until at the end, he stood at the counter, eyes intent on her. When the song ended, he stretched his arm over the barrier and turned the player off.

  Tears brightened his eyes, unshed but present in their depths. Her cheeks were wet too although Cecily hadn’t realized she cried. He extended his hand to her and she took it, held it instead of shaking it. “Thank you,” he told her. “I’m Daniel Padilla.”

  “My name’s Cecily Brown,” she replied. “I’m glad we share the same taste in music.”

  His fingers caressed the back of her hand. “Me, too,” he said. “I like your store. You’ve got some pretty things.”

  “Thanks,” she said. He’d never got past the gourmet foods and coffee area but she understood the need to say something, even if it sounded lame. “It’s the first day and you’re my first customer.”

  “Then I need to buy something.”

  “Only if you want something I’m selling.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen several things I like.”

  Please, let one of them be me. I like what I see and I want it more every second. If she’d met a man like Daniel ten years back, before Willard Bradford the Fourth, things could’ve been so different. An unspoken connection hummed in the air between them, powerful and intense. “Good,” Cecily said. “I’m glad.”

  If the bell she installed over the front door hadn’t tinkled, she wasn’t sure what might’ve happened but it did. Two older ladies, their hair tinted blue from multiple silver rinses at the beauty parlor, entered. Cecily ripped her gaze from Daniel and greeted them. He sauntered back and picked out two small scented votive candles from the nearest shelf.

  “I’ll take both of these,” he said. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

  She rang them up. “You’re not.”

  “What time do you close up shop?”

  “Eight o’clock. Why?”

  “I wondered if you might like to grab some supper afterward.”

  Although far from the most romantic invitation she’d received, his simple statement turned her insides gooey and fired prickles of anticipation down her spine. “I would,” Cecily told him. “Thank you.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up here, a few minutes after eight.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I’m looking forward to it, Daniel.”

  His dark eyes met hers and seared her soul. “So am I.”

  Cecily watched him walk through the door and climb into his car. He never glanced back but she kept him in her vision until his car merged onto the strip and blended with the growing traffic.

  “Miss, do you have this angel in blue by any chance?”

  With effort, she turned her attention back to the customer. “Yes, I believe so. Let me check.”

  By seven-thirty in the evening, her back ached, her feet hurt, but she’d sold more than she expected. Although she hadn’t planned to open Sundays, figuring there wouldn’t be enough business to warrant it in the Bible Belt, Cecily wondered if she should re-think her decision. She’d hate to miss the business if the Sabbath turned out to be business as usual for tourists and locals alike but Cecily didn’t know if she would enjoy working seven days straight. I’d never have a day off, not one because I’m the staff, all of it. She decided she’d mull it over before making a decision.

  Since many of the shows began at eight, her customers dwindled by seven forty-five. At five till, Cecily counted down the register and locked the day’s proceeds in the small safe she’d installed in her office. In the dinky bathroom she touched up her lipstick and brushed a little bronze powder over her face. Her eye shadow had faded so sh
e re-did it, too then spritzed a little more Eternity onto her pulse points. Ready as she could be for her date, Cecily did a walk through the shop, straightened up anything in disarray and began turning off lights. Just as the cuckoo clock she’d bought and hung on a wall for its’ eclectic value announced the hour Daniel Padilla strolled through the door with confidence. He still wore the black jeans and t-shirt but she inhaled a hint of male cologne, caught the scent of soap and shampoo. I bet he’s got a whole damn wardrobe with black jeans, black shirts. I’d call it boring but damn, he’s anything but!

  “Hi,” she said. In the social circles she moved within during her marriage people often greeted with a kiss, sometimes a peck on the cheek, often just an air version. Cecily doubted Daniel would expect one but she wanted a kiss, just not the polite version. It’s way too soon to expect anything like that, so get a grip.

  “Hey,” he said. “You ready to go?”

  No compliment, no kiss, nothing but an abrupt greeting but she didn’t give a shit. “All I have to do is lock the door and walk out.”

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  On the way to his Taurus, Daniel placed one hand against her lower back as if to guide her. The simple gesture increased her pulse rate and where he touched, Cecily sensed the heat through her blouse. With old school manners of a gentleman, he opened the passenger door so she could climb into the car. In the few seconds before he joined her, Cecily assessed her surroundings. New and kept immaculate, the Ford provided a comfortable seat. A faint hint of his masculine musk, a combination of his cologne and natural body scent, met her nose. Rhythmic music, more chant than song, issued from the speakers of his CD player and it took a few seconds before she realized what she heard – Native American music. The steady drum and the combined voices weren’t like anything Cecily had ever listened to but as she found something soothing in the sound.

  “I can turn it off if you don’t like it,” Daniel said.

  “No, please, I’m intrigued,” she replied. “What is it?”

  “The group’s called Southern Thunder and they did a lot of intertribal music. It’s pretty much what you’d hear at a pow-wow. I’m guessing you’ve never been to one?”

  Pleased she’d guessed right about Native American music, Cecily laughed. “No, I never had much of a chance growing up in Chicago. The last few years, I wasn’t around anyone who’d have any interest either but I always thought it would be awesome.”

  His deep brown eyes gazed at her. “Yeah, it can be,” Daniel told her. “I’m part Comanche, Mexican from both sides of the family and some old-fashioned Southern redneck with a sprinkle of Irish in there somewhere. Hell of a mix, huh?”

  She eyed him with the kind of appetite a kid develops in a donut shop. “Looks like it works, Daniel, besides, my family tree isn’t much less complicated. My mama always called it All-American mutt.”

  For the first time since they met, he laughed with a deep bass sound reminding her of the drums. “That sounds about right,” he said. “So you’re from Chicago?”

  “Born and raised,” she replied. “I grew up in a poor ass neighborhood, then lived in a mansion but now I’m doing things my way. First time in my life so I hope I don’t fail.”

  “You won’t,” Daniel said as if he knew her well. She shot him a look to question his statement and he added, “You don’t seem like the kind of person who gives up easy.”

  “True,” Cecily conceded after a moment. “So what’s for dinner?”

  “Whatever you want,” Daniel said. “You tell me where.”

  Chapter Four

  Quiet by nature, taciturn even among his peers Daniel Padilla found more to say to the woman he should be investigating, not dating, than he had to anyone in a long time. His partners bitched about how little he said and once a newly hired agent pegged him as a mute until the supervisor reamed her out about her false assumption. His widowed mother gave up trying to coax more than monosyllables and short sentences from him in their weekly calls and none of his neighbors in his Raytown apartment complex knew his name. Daniel kept apart from the world, afraid if he entered it, he would get burned a second time. One reason he got the current assignment was the solo nature of the gig. Everyone knew Daniel savored solitude and preferred his own company. Or they thought they did. They failed to realize his silence covered his secret – loneliness so deep it lacked a bottom.

  With Cecily riding shotgun beside him, Daniel’s senses shifted into overdrive. Her sweet fragrance invaded his nose and she looked so pretty in her dark pink blouse he couldn’t help but sneak glances. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, rich and pleasant and decided he’d draw her out in more conversation just to hear it. Daniel wondered if her skin would feel as satiny as it appeared and it took incredible self-control to resist stroking her arm. He ached to kiss her wide mouth and hold her shapely body in his arms.

  “I don’t know,” she said in answer to his question. “I’m not picky and every place will be busy on Saturday night.”

  Damn, he’d never realized but as his eyes focused on the brimming parking lots, the slow bumper to bumper traffic, he agreed. “So what do you suggest? You probably know more about Branson than I do.”

  Cecily laughed, a sound infused with audible brown sugar and honey. “I doubt it. I just moved here a month ago. I figured you might be a native or something. What are you? Are you a tourist?”

  For a woman suspected of murder, she’d been damned straight. She’d already mentioned she came from Chicago, had alluded to her humble background and to the wealthier life of recent years. Now she admitted to arriving in town a few weeks earlier. I’d think a guilty woman would try to hide her past, not blurt it out. Trained to trust his instincts, to know his gut, Daniel thought he believed her innocence. But he couldn’t deny his physical attraction or emotional pull, two things powerful enough to skew his perspective.

  “Yeah I’m a tourist,” he told her. “I’m here for some much needed down time, a couple of weeks of vacation. I’ve been here before though but it’s been a while back.”

  Unexpected pain rippled through his belly. Don’t even think of Mollie. Forget the damn memories. Let the past stay where it belongs, in the rear view mirror. For one terrible split second Daniel swore he could see Mollie’s pale, freckled face, her light brown straight hair, her green eyes reflected in the windshield. Her lips pressed tight together, a frown not a smile.

  “Well, we can explore the options together,” Cicely said. Her words banished the image and he sighed. “Do you want something fancy or simple? Steak or seafood? Burgers or barbecue?”

  Damned if he knew. Food ceased to matter years ago. He ate when he grew hungry, drank more often because it dulled the inner pain and sometimes delivered sleep. But Dan wasn’t picky. He grabbed a bite where and when it was convenient and even on his rare forays to the supermarket, he tended to pick up the basics, things he recognized and were on display.

  If I told her I want her, she’ll freak out and whatever fragile little thing there is between us will die.

  “Any of it sounds fine with me,” he said. “What’s your preference?”

  “I like barbecue,” Cicely said. “The restaurant just ahead on the right is pretty good but I see a line stretching from the door to the highway so I’ll pass. I don’t like waiting, much. My feet are tired today.”

  He’d forgotten she got up early to open her shop, neglected to remember she probably hadn’t stopped for lunch or had time to go pee. She probably wanted to go home, kick off her shoes, settle down on the couch and vegetate or take a long bubble bath. So what’s she doing with me? His attraction to Cecily had blinded him to the fact it was mutual. Damn, she must like me. His revelation caught him short. Daniel, long out of practice with relationships, hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t dealt with his own emotions or sexual tension yet. If Cecily felt the same, it complicated things all the more but in a good way. Or so I hope.

  “Would you rather grab something to go an
d head home?” he asked. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

  Her face lit with a smile. “Yeah, I’m worn out but I don’t really want to go home. I haven’t done much since I got here but work on getting my shop open. We can do whatever you want, though.”

  No one could be more out of practice at dating than he was or as rusty at communicating but Dan decided he’d give it a try. “Look, if you don’t mind the drive, we could pick up some fried chicken or something, then head over to Rockaway Beach. It’s a lot quieter over there than here and the lake is nice. There’s a swimming beach, a fishing pier, and an awesome view of Taneycomo.”

  He half hoped she’d said ‘no’ and opt instead for fast food but Cecily grinned. “Sounds nice, Daniel.”

  “Then it’s a plan. Is chicken okay or would you rather have something else?”

  “Fried chicken’s one of my favorites,” Cecily told him. “I haven’t had any in a long time - my ex never wanted anything so working class. It sounds delicious.”

  Her tone sounded regretful but not bitter. To Daniel’s trained ear, it didn’t sound like a woman who shot her husband to death at close range, then entered her former home to make off with a fortune in precious stones and jewelry. “Then let’s grab chicken and all the fixings,” he told her.

  Daniel hadn’t expected a rich man’s wife, ex or not, to crave fried chicken or consent to eating overlooking Lake Taneycomo. He figured she’d want lobster and caviar, served in a five star restaurant or at least someplace where they served meals on real china plates and offered cloth napkins. She’s not what I expected when I read her file but then I didn’t plan to find her attractive, either.