Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  “Don’t take too long.”

  He rolls the window up as the deputy grabs on to her hat and ducks into the wind. A moment later she swings one of the barricades aside, leaving just enough room for his truck to squeeze onto the approach to the bridge.

  He hasn’t driven forty yards when the sky opens and releases a deluge. He turns the wipers to their top speed, but he can hardly see past the wall of water streaming over the windshield. Beside him, Sadie whimpers and lies flat, her plumed tail drooping off the bench seat.

  “Don’t fret, girl.” Eddie keeps his gaze on the road, knowing one false move could land him up against the guardrail or in the bay. “We’re gonna be fine. Just two miles of straight road, then the hump, then we’re in Tampa. We’re practically there.”

  When Sadie whimpers again, Eddie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a liver-flavored dog biscuit, which the retriever accepts with delicate pleasure.

  Eddie feels his mouth curl into a one-sided smile. As long as the dog is willing to eat, things can’t be all that bad.

  Eddie rolled over and felt his arm drop into emptiness. He opened one eye, momentarily confused. This wasn’t his bed, not his apartment. He was stretched out on a narrow sofa in a stranger’s living room.

  He closed his eyes and deliberately let his mind run backward. Yesterday…Pete Riddleman had thrown a party to welcome the new lifesaving crew to Panama City Beach. After the orientation meeting, they’d all gone over to Pete’s place, where Mr. Riddleman had stashed plenty of beers in iced tubs. At eighteen, neither Eddie nor the other newcomers were old enough to drink in Florida, but Pete’s father had winked and said as long as they stayed at the house and didn’t drive drunk, everything would be a-okay.

  Eddie rolled onto his back and forced himself to focus on the ceiling. Across the room, a couple of guys snored into air that smelled of cigarettes and sour beer. Riggs and Murtaugh argued on the television as a Lethal Weapon DVD repeated its play cycle.

  Eddie lifted his head, felt an invisible two-by-four slam the empty space between his eyes, then let his throbbing skull drop back to the sofa pillow.

  A hangover. His first.

  He lifted his hand and gingerly massaged the bridge of his nose. How did people cure this misery? His friends could sleep it off, but Eddie had pulled the first shift; the condominium bosses expected him to be in his chair by nine o’clock.

  What time was it?

  Careful not to lift his head, he raised his left arm and moved his wristwatch into his field of vision. Eight-thirty. Still time to make the chair…if he could coax his body into an upright position.

  He let his arm drop, then groaned when the limb struck his stomach. His newly awakened belly roiled with nausea, and the thought of coffee only increased the turbulence.

  He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes and reminded himself that the john was only a few yards away. Through the living room, if his memory could be trusted, and to the left. There he’d find a toilet. Shower. Sink. Maybe an Alka-Seltzer or an aspirin in the medicine cabinet. He wouldn’t be choosy.

  He breathed hard through his nose, marshaling his strength, then pulled himself upright. Bodies lay scattered over the floor—young men sacked out on pillows, on blankets, one guy sprawled on his back in a bean-bag chair. Eddie rose and ignored all of them, bulleting his way to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

  He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach revolted at the sudden change in position. He retched for what felt like an hour, then rose in a stooped posture and moved to the sink. He rinsed his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. He clung to the edge of the vanity and peered into the mirror.

  Bleary-eyed Eddie Vaughn would lose his first post-graduation job if he didn’t get down to the beach on the double.

  He splashed his face again, scrubbed his skin dry with a towel and staggered back through the living room. None of the other guys stirred as he moved to the kitchen, where Mr. Riddleman had piled his collection of car keys in a brandy snifter. Eddie fished out his key chain, winced at the jangling sound it made, then waved a silent farewell to Pete, who was sleeping on a chaise longue by the pool.

  In his car, he tapped out the rhythms of Wilson Phillips’s “Hold On” as he wove in and out of the beach traffic. Nine o’clock on a Friday morning, but every driver on the highway was out for a relaxed Sunday drive.

  Except Eddie.

  At ten minutes past the hour, he zipped into a parking spot, dropped two quarters into the meter and grabbed his gear from the back of his Jeep. He sprinted past the bed of tall sea grass, his sneakered feet pounding the wooden boardwalk, then came to an abrupt halt.

  A knot of people had assembled near the empty lifeguard station. A dark-haired woman in a black bathing suit crouched at the center of the circle, a pale boy face-up on the sand beside her. A man knelt across from the wailing woman and desperately tried to blow life back into the boy’s lungs.

  A grim-looking onlooker propped his hands on his hips as the woman sobbed, then his gaze brushed Eddie’s. His hot look seared Eddie with scorn and reproach.

  An investigation later established that the boy had gone into the water at 8:50 a.m. and had been caught in the riptide only a moment later. Because the child had begun to swim before a lifeguard had been expected on duty, a civil court ruled that the condominium wasn’t liable and Eddie could not be faulted for the boy’s drowning.

  The legal decision did nothing to assuage Eddie’s guilt. If he had not partied the night before, he probably would have reported to his stand early…and the boy would still be alive.

  After successfully completing twelve months of lifeguarding without further mishap, Eddie moved back home to Birmingham. He set aside his plans for college and checked out vocational schools instead. He thought about firefighting and briefly considered police work, then he fell in love with elevators.

  Through careful maintenance and the occasional rescue, in the elevator business you could save a life every day.

  Despite her intention to remain calm, by eleven-thirty Michelle is as frustrated as a race car driver stuck in commuter traffic. In order to stop thinking about Parker, she’s forced herself to focus on the problem with Greg Owens, but she can’t do anything until she reads the man’s application. Once she sees how the columnist has presented himself, she should be able to find him a legitimate job offer within a week or two.

  The thought of sidestepping the reporter’s assault brings a smile to her face, but she can’t deny the irony. Greg Owens, champion for the cause of integrity and ethics, has resorted to deception in the hope of exposing an employment scam. To remain free of his sticky little web, Michelle will counter with complete honesty. If not for the danger of further fallout, she might even be tempted to expose Marshall Owens’s false application.

  But what kind of jobs might he have applied for? He might have claimed to be a teacher or a writer. Depending on his background, he might have claimed to be a coach or in retail. She could ask the school principal who e-mailed her this morning for possible leads at local schools, and Lauren might know someone at the mall. If they meet at Lord & Taylor tomorrow—when they meet—Michelle could stop by the store office and ask for a sample application.

  She pulls her purse from the corner and rummages through its depths for her notepad and a pen. She wants to jot down these ideas before she forgets them; she wants to feel as if she’s doing something useful while she sits here staring at the walls.

  She finds her notepad, drops it onto her lap and thrusts her hand back into her purse. After grabbing a handful of objects at the bottom of her bag, she brings them into the light: a wrapped cough drop, a highlighter, a paper clip, a gum wrapper and two pens, neither of which work when she drags them across a sheet of paper.

  From the other wall, Gina watches with a look of patient amusement. “You might check—” she points toward the purse “—to see if you have anything edible in there. By the time the storm passes, we might be hungry.�
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  Michelle gives her a wintry smile. “We won’t be here when the storm passes. Eddie’s coming.”

  “He may be,” Gina counters, “but unless he’s bringing help, I don’t think he’s going to get us out. Even a piece of hard candy might boost our energy.”

  Tired of arguing, Michelle dumps the contents of her purse on the floor. The other women lean forward as she takes inventory: “Two tea bags—one Earl Gray, one chamomile.”

  “Nice,” Gina says. “If only we had teacups and hot water.”

  “A USB flash drive,” Michelle continues, “a couple of wadded tissues, one AAA membership card, one tube of raspberry antibacterial hand lotion, six pieces of sugarless gum and my passport.” She looks up, anticipating the question in Gina’s eyes. “I’m not going overseas, but I do travel occasionally and I hate showing my driver’s license at the airport. The passport has a much better picture.”

  Gina tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would do the same thing.”

  “One pair of prescription sunglasses, a bottle of Motrin, a travel-size mouthwash, a handful of receipts, my cell phone, my wallet, my pocket calendar. My notepad, highlighter and two pens, both of which are apparently out of ink.”

  Isabel sighs and leans back against the far wall while Gina folds her arms. “Nothing edible? You must not have been a Girl Scout.”

  “Look,” Michelle says, her voice coagulating with sarcasm, “at least I brought a purse. Where’s yours?”

  A secretive smile softens Gina’s mouth, but she doesn’t answer.

  NOON

  CHAPTER 14

  Michelle sits in silence, her eyes fastened to the sweeping second hand on her watch. Time is a funny thing. As a kid, an hour seemed woven of eternity; as a businesswoman, sixty minutes flies like a bullet.

  Yet in the elevator, time hangs over them like a noxious cloud. How long has it been since she talked to Eddie Vaughn—two hours? On a good day the drive from central Pinellas County to downtown Tampa might take forty-five minutes; today is not a good day. But surely the weather hasn’t deteriorated so much that he won’t be able to make it.

  She sighs, looks at her watch again, then claps her hand over the face. She’ll drive herself crazy if she fixates on the clock. Eddie Vaughn is on his way; she will believe that. He’ll arrive any minute now and he’ll save their lives.

  One hero on a white horse, courtesy of 1-800-SAV-A-GAL.

  The other women have grown quiet. Isabel fell silent after her abbreviated attempt at storytelling, and Gina closed her eyes soon after Michelle emptied her purse. The redhead wears the placid face of a woman at rest, but Michelle knows better. Gina didn’t lower her eyelids so she could sleep; she lowered them because she was weary of her companions.

  Michelle closes her own eyes, veiling her thoughts of Parker. How she wanted to see him this morning! He has to be gone by now, and he’s probably worried. Will he look for her, maybe drive to her condo? Or will he simply go home and trust her to take care of herself?

  “One thing I admire about you,” he told her once, “is your independence. You don’t sit around waiting on me. I can’t tell you what a relief that is.”

  The compliment warmed her even as it stung. If he wanted to protect her, shouldn’t he want her to be a little less independent? She’s always been proud of her self-sufficiency, but it would be so nice to know that someone wanted to take care of her so she could lay her burdens down….

  “You’re thinking of someone.”

  The remark snaps Michelle back to the present. Gina is watching, and her green eyes have narrowed with speculation. “You have a transparent face.”

  Mercifully, the dim light in the car hides the full extent of Michelle’s embarrassment. “You must have caught me in an unguarded moment.”

  “Are you thinking about him?”

  “Who?”

  “Earlier I believe you said we ought to talk about our men. We heard about Isabel’s Carlos, but I’m curious about the man who brought that enigmatic smile to your face.”

  Michelle smiles. “Maybe I should sit facing the wall.”

  “Easier to tell me about your man. I don’t see a wedding ring…so he’s a boyfriend?”

  “For the moment.” Michelle bites her lower lip, then glances at Isabel, whose face has lit with interest. “He’s older, a widower, successful in his business. An amazing guy, really. We’ve been together about a year, and I think—well, I hope—we may be ready to get serious. We were supposed to meet this morning to discuss the future, but—” She shrugs. “I guess that’ll have to wait.”

  The redhead smiles, but the distant look in her eyes tells Michelle that her brain has focused on something entirely different.

  Michelle leans forward. “What are you thinking about?”

  The redhead arches a brow. “Don’t you hear it? The wind has picked up.”

  Michelle strains to listen. The whistle of the wind has been constant for the past hour, but beyond that sound she hears new noises—thumps and bumps and splintering scrapes.

  She gasps in a shiver of panic. “What is that?”

  “Some of the windows must have blown out,” Gina says, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. “This building is almost thirty-five years old—it can’t handle much stress.” Despite her calm, her face has gone pale, and a drop of perspiration trickles from her hairline. “I’m afraid your mechanic isn’t coming.”

  “He is.” Michelle clenches her jaw to kill the sob in her throat. “He’s been delayed, that’s all.”

  “Did you ever think,” Gina continues, “what a tragedy it would be to learn how to live on the day you die? I’ve been sitting here reviewing my life, wondering what I ought to have done differently so I wouldn’t be here at this moment—”

  “We’re not going to die today,” Michelle says. With an effort, she pushes herself off the floor and turns toward the elevator panel. “I’m going to call Ginger. She’ll get Eddie on the phone and you’ll see that he’s close. He’s probably trying to find a way through those blasted barricades.”

  She speaks with more bravado than she feels, and her hand trembles when she presses the telephone button. She waits, her ear above the speaker, and when nothing happens she presses the button again.

  Silence.

  “It’s a bad connection,” she insists, jabbing the button a third time. “Any minute now the phone will kick in….”

  But it doesn’t. She is waiting for nothing.

  She’s done it before.

  To recognize the twelfth-grade daughters

  of Boone County, West Virginia,

  who have achieved exemplary academic standards,

  the Daughters of the American Revolution,

  Oak Hill Chapter,

  invite you to a tea to honor recipients

  of the Star Student Award.

  The Holiday Inn in Oak Hill

  The seventh of June, 1991, four o’clock p.m.

  Young ladies may bring an escort.

  The engraved invitation stood on Shelly’s dresser, propped next to a precious bottle of Halston cologne. The invite arrived weeks ago, and every time Shelly looked at it she felt like a trash-picker who’d found the bottom half of a winning lottery ticket.

  The honor was nice, but she’d never been to a tea and didn’t stand a chance of finding an escort. Even if some eligible Prince Charming crept out from a mountain holler, she couldn’t afford a decent dress.

  Where was her fairy godmother?

  Still, the card was a pretty thing, shiny silver and white, and she might not ever see anything as nice until she picked out her own wedding invitation…provided she found a way out of Bald Knob and a man who wanted to marry her.

  She’d kept the card purely for decoration, but yesterday afternoon Brian Hawthorne, class president and star linebacker, asked her if it was true.

  “Is what true?”

  “You won the Star Student award. Mrs. Purvis said only two girls from our school even c
ame close, you and Jennifer Milton.”

  At first Shelly thought he was crazy, especially since nobody else at school seemed to know a thing about the tea and the ceremony. She looked into his eyes, searching for signs of desperation or mischief, and saw nothing but round blue orbs flecked with green and gold.

  “Yeah, they’re having some kind of fancy tea to give out the awards.” She shifted her books from her hip to her arms. “But I’m not goin’.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “What do I know about tea? Besides, all the other girls will have an escort. I didn’t want to drag some guy all the way over to Oak Hill just so he can be bored and sip from a fancy cup.”

  Brian laughed. “Well, I figure you ought to go, so if you need somebody to take you, I’m up for it. Besides—my mom’s a member of the DAR. She won’t let us be bored.”

  She searched his eyes again and saw only twin reflections of her own timid image.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll go. Not because I like you or anything, but because I reckon a girl ought to go to a fancy tea at least once in her life.”

  Brian’s grin had practically jumped through his lips. “Great!”

  The thought of that smile warmed her as she spritzed Halston on her neck and wrists. The question of what to wear had pressed heavy on her mind, but a quick search through the cedar chest produced a sleeveless white dress with a V neck. Though her mother had married in that gown, Shelly didn’t think Momma would mind if she wore it to the tea. Years of loneliness and several hundred bottles of booze had obliterated any happy memories lingering in its folds.

  Shelly sniffed at the garment before laying it out on the bed. The fabric smelled of mothballs, but she didn’t have enough time for a trip to the dry cleaner’s. The steam iron had removed the creases and probably set a sprinkling of orange spatters near the hem, but good enough would have to do. Nothing mattered but getting to the awards ceremony.

  Brian had promised to pick her up at three-thirty. Shelly showered at two, then took extra time applying her makeup and curling her long hair. When she was satisfied with her face and hairstyle, she slipped the dress over her head and breathed deeply to fill out the bodice. Her mother had always been bosomy, but Shelly refused to stuff her bra the way some girls did. If she couldn’t pass muster with what Mother Nature had given her, tough.