An image of his father seated behind a thick, mahogany desk, face set in a scowl, flashed through his mind. Words, spoken more times than Richard cared to remember, echoed in his psyche. “You can do better than this, Richard. The weak man settles for mediocrity. While you waste your time listening to music and rotting your brain cells with television, tomorrow’s CEOs are at the library, putting forth the effort required for greatness.”
Nothing Richard did was good enough. But once his book launched, he could finally look his father in the eye. Presented with an autographed copy from the son he deemed unworthy of more than a passing glance, his father would be forced to acknowledge Richard’s abilities. Perhaps they’d even share a celebratory drink.
He unlocked the door and entered the modern yet classically styled office. The dense, chateau carpet cushioned his steps. Breathing deep, he inhaled the rich aroma of soft Italian leather mixed with the faintest hint of ginger wafting from electronic air fresheners.
A quick sweep of the lobby assured him the cleaning staff had come and gone. It was 6:05 a.m. Mrs. Ellis, his secretary, wouldn’t be in for some time, which allotted him blessed silence to work on final book edits.
He crossed the room, gathered the small stack of phone messages from Mrs. Ellis’s desk then continued to his office.
He frowned at the first message. Dr. Appello had canceled their engagement and declined Richard’s request for endorsement, claiming he didn’t have time to read the book. That was inconsequential. Richard wasn’t asking for an academic abstract. A quick scan would suffice, followed by a glowing recommendation, of course.
Settling into his office chair, he grabbed his phone.
His publicist never slept past 4:00, and as expected, answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
However, analyzing the results, or lack thereof, Richard often wondered what the man did with his time. “Good morning. Is it too early to discuss publishing concerns?”
“I’m always happy to talk with you, Richard. What can I do for you?”
“Dr. Appello called.”
“Excellent! I knew he’d respond quickly, and with his endorsement—”
“He declined.” Richard turned on his computer and pulled up his email account. Twenty-five new messages, mostly spam.
“What? Did he say why?”
“He claimed lack of time. Perhaps I should have called him myself.” As his father always said, successful results required self-implementation.
“I spoke with Dr. Pioni yesterday and plan to call him back this afternoon, at which time I will invite him to your engagement dinner. I believe you will have more luck discussing the matter with your colleagues then. Face-to-face.”
“I hope you’re right. Have a good day.” Richard hung up and dropped his phone onto his desktop. Things weren’t progressing anywhere near how he had planned. Not that bemoaning the matter would do any good. No. He needed to continue to push forward, to focus on the positive. Like his upcoming wedding.
He grabbed a silver-framed photo of Ainsley. Seated on a park bench, her green eyes glimmered in the midafternoon sun. Her olive complexion glowed next to her lilac sweater, giving her the appearance of youthful naïveté. She’d been so timid when they first met, like a frightened cat abandoned one too many times. And yet, beneath her unsophisticated, and perhaps even childish, demeanor hid a sparkling gem waiting to be adored and refined. Yes, he was confident he could mold her into a woman of standing. A wife to be admired, one to make his parents proud.
Ainsley tucked a few granola bars into her briefcase, grabbed a cup of coffee, and rushed down the hall. She pulled her jacket and gloves from the coat closet. The file she meant to read the night before lay on the entryway console, untouched. Sighing, she flipped it open. Twenty-five pages of medical research—not something she could digest during the handful of stoplights between her house and Dr. Senske’s office.
OK, so she’d wing it.
As if taunting her, Richard’s deep voice filled her mind. This job is much too stressful for you, my dear. Once we are married, you can spend your time engaged in much more pleasant and rewarding endeavors.
Right. Such as attending operas and art gallery functions with Richard’s mother. No, thank you. Voltex or not, God had much more exciting, eternal things for her to pursue. If only she could figure out what. An image of the sad child staring out of a third-story Whispering Hills apartment came to mind, weighing heavy on her heart. How were he and his mother? She’d probably never know—would never see them again. Oh, Lord, watch over that sweet boy. Place Your hand upon him.
Snapping her file shut, she tucked it under her arm then wiggled into her designer knockoff, toe-jamming shoes. Her feet, still tender from the day before, protested. What she wouldn’t do for a jeans and tennis shoes kind of day.
After a quick glance in the mirror, she dashed out, locking the door behind her. Spinning around, she tripped over a red Frisbee.
“Sorry about that.” Dressed in exercise pants and a faded crewneck, Chris sauntered over with a boyish grin. The navy fabric accentuated the icelike specks in his blue eyes.
She grabbed the Frisbee and winced as her fingers closed around something cold and gooey. Forcing a smile despite a rapidly mounting gag reflex, she handed it over, casually inspecting her hand. “No big deal.” Best-case scenario? A glob of mud. She glanced at the old dog lying on Chris’s lawn. She wouldn’t even consider the worst-case scenario right now, and she certainly wasn’t going to smell her fingers.
“I’m trying to get old Rusty off his hindquarters, see if we can’t get some blood pumping through those twelve-year-old legs of his.” Holding the Frisbee in one hand, he spread his feet shoulder distance apart and crossed his arms. “You know what they say, use it or lose it.”
A similar phrase, spoken nearly a decade ago by Ainsley’s voice instructor, replayed in her mind. Squelching the thought, she maneuvered around Chris. “As I said, no big deal. You have a good day, Mr. Langley.”
Her heels clicked rhythmically on the concrete as she scurried to her car. Fumbling for her keys, she glanced up to find Chris watching her with an odd, almost quizzical expression.
Looking away, she slid behind the steering wheel. She set her files on the passenger seat for easy access at the stoplights and searched the car for her gigantic bottle of hand sanitizer. It lay on the floor, partially tucked under the passenger seat. She grabbed it, squirted a healthy glob in the center of her palm then sat with dripping fingers and no napkin. Lovely.
After wiping her hand on the floorboard, she turned the key in the ignition and looped her car around. As she neared the end of her cul-de-sac, her phone rang. Richard.
“Good morning, princess.” As usual, a keyboard clicked in the background.
“Sounds like you’re already hard at work.” On Vivian Road, two kids hiked up the paved bike path, bogged down with backpacks nearly as large as they were. The first fallen leaves of autumn swirled around their feet.
“Since 6:00. I’m working on some final edits, trying to find a better way to tie this book into Telioni’s latest research. Or any of the latest research, before my final deadline next Friday.”
“So you’ll be out of pocket for a while, huh?”
“Maybe a little, but I’ve reduced my client load. I doubt I’ll be taking appointments for some time. And if this book does well, perhaps never again.”
“Oh.” Rear lights flashed in front of her. She tapped her breaks and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I thought you became a psychiatrist to help people.”
“Yes, well, we both know how that’s turned out.” He snorted.
Ainsley bit her bottom lip to keep from responding. His frustration was understandable, considering all the clients he’d worked with, most of whom remained just as messed up now, after years of therapy, as when he met them. If only he’d point them toward Jesus. . . . But reminding him of that would only instigate a fight.
“I wasn’t calling t
o talk about the depravity of mankind, however. I wondered if perhaps you’d be able to join me for lunch. At Marlique’s at 1:00?”
“How about somewhere a bit more casual?”
“Like where, the Burger Warehouse?” He spoke through his nose.
Ainsley bit back a giggle as an image of his face, puckered in a disgusted frown, came to mind. “Marlique’s is fine. If you think we’ll be able to get in. Did you want me to call?”
“Already done.” The steady tap of typing resumed. “I’ll see you at 1:00.”
Click.
Apparently the question had been rhetorical. When had he become so controlling? She’d be glad when everything settled down and the old Richard returned.
Although in all truth, she hadn’t seen that Richard in quite some time.
Chapter 5
ome on, old boy. Playtime’s over.” Chris held the door open for his dog. Rusty lumbered through, his hind legs dragging slightly.
Chuckling, Chris glanced at Ainsley’s house one last time before slipping inside. “I don’t think we’ve scored any points with our new neighbor.”
Rusty’s tail flicked, large brown eyes centered on his master.
“I agree. No sense stressing over it.” He scratched Rusty behind the ears then grabbed an opened box filled with miscellaneous junk and carried it into the kitchen.
Rusty followed and sat, ears pointed, a few feet away.
“What, you hungry?”
He yipped, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Laughing, Chris poured a mound of dog food on the floor. He’d find Rusty’s bowl tomorrow. “I know, I know, you’re dying here. About to waste away.”
Another laugh tickled his throat. What did people say about lonely eccentrics who conversed with their animals? But hey, everyone needed a dash of insanity in their day. Kept it fresh, kept it fun. And slightly pathetic.
He grabbed a cup of coffee and settled himself at the kitchen table. Junk mail, legal documents, and business files covered the surface. He sifted through a large stack of papers until he found the brochure for Lily of the Valley Assisted Living. “The home away from home, where residents are treated as family.” Sounded great, minus the price. But then again, folks got what they paid for.
He set the brochure aside, thinking of his dwindling savings. A long list of recent withdrawals filled his mind. And the expenses were just getting started. Maybe buying that quaint little coffee shop on the corner hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
No. There was no point second-guessing himself. He’d made his choice. Now he needed to make it work.
Thirty minutes later he stood in the doorway of Java Bean, a box of books in hand. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon, and chocolate surrounded him. The heavenly aroma contrasted sharply with the rather loud decor. The walls were splattered with a mess of colors, as if someone had tossed a bunch of a paint in a blender then released the lid. Two girls with pale skin, dressed entirely in black giggled behind the counter, steam moistening their faces. A man with a black Mohawk and a large hooped nose ring manned the cash register.
Something told him his employees weren’t going to be thrilled with what he planned to do with the place. About as much as a dog loved a muzzle.
“Can I help you?” A third girl, caressing her long, copper hair, flashed a smile. She wore a much too revealing, tight navy blouse fastened above even tighter, low-riding khakis.
“Can I help you?” the girl asked again, with more edge in her voice.
“Hi, I’m Chris Langley, the new owner.” He shifted his box to one hand and extended the other to his new employee.
Her perky smile turned into an O, which puckered into a frown when her gaze landed on his box of books and the leather bound Bible lying on top.
“And you are?”
“Candy, like a lemon drop.” Her lips popped the last word.
“Good to meet you.” He forced an awkward smile and wiggled past her.
People flowed in and out, cream-topped cups in hand. A woman in black leggings and a thick, swoop-necked sweater. Two men in jeans and combat boots. An older woman dressed in orange and yellow sweater.
Smiling at customers as he passed, Chris wove around circular tables covered with laptops, newspapers, and textbooks. Upon reaching the counter, the man with the Mohawk glanced up and gave him a peace sign before turning back to his customers.
Chris tucked his box beneath a shelf lined with various flavors of syrup then faced his crew.
Mohawk Man studied Chris, his face hovering between a smirk and a scowl. “So, you’re the boss man, huh?” His smirk broadened as his gaze swept across Chris’s green polo and crisp slacks.
“Yep, in the flesh.” He surveyed the milk and coffee-splattered area and forced a smile. “And you are?”
The man ran his tongue over his lip ring. “Lawrence. But they call me the l-man.”
“Only because loser-man has too many syllables.” A girl with black lipstick flicked the guy with a towel.
Chris stifled a sigh and turned to the long line of customers, expecting to see frustration etched across their faces. Instead, they laughed, tossing out a few colorful expletives.
Are You sure this is Your plan, Lord? Because I’m starting to think our wires got jumbled somewhere along the way.
“Now that you all have robbed a good five minutes from my very important, highly productive day—” A woman with long, brown hair and a dress made from thick, colorful wool, like those you see in high-dollar boutiques, interrupted their banter. “I’ll take a triple shot, part skim, part whole, extra dash of whipped cream. Oh, and add a bit of vanilla, will you?”
Lawrence scribbled instructions onto a cup. “Quite the slave driver there, Marlina. Got any sugar to go with that vinegar?”
“Only what you give me, lollipop.”
The two continued their verbal banter while Chris finished hauling boxes in from his pickup. He stacked his collection of Christian fiction, study materials, sudokus, and a handful of Bibles along a far wall to be distributed on shelves later. Board games would line half the tables and large toy chests would occupy every corner. His final box contained a large collection of Christian rock, old-time hymns, and a touch of Southern gospel.
Lawrence meandered over and surveyed a box of reading material stacked beside a container of board games. “You’ve got quite a load there, boss man. You’re not planning on making this joint a Sunday School, are ya? Cuz I’d advise you rethink your plans on that one, unless you’re looking to flip it to a Jesus joint, turning this oasis into no-man’s-land.” He picked up a book of inspirational poems, turned it over, then dropped it back into the box. “As in no-man would step foot, let alone fork over their dough, here.”
Chris flashed his best smile. “More like a spiritual haven. And I’m not worried about the sales. That’s God’s department. He’ll bring ’em, we’ll fill ’em.”
Lawrence frowned. “Is that legal?”
“Making this a calm and uplifting environment? Absolutely.”
Lawrence studied him for a long moment. “You’re not gonna start cleaning house, are you?”
Chris examined the café, taking in the, dark, abstract paintings and angular ceramics lining the windows and shelves. It was enough to make his eyes cross. “Housecleaning, yes. Employee cleaning, no . . . except perhaps in regard to wardrobe.”
Lawrence moaned and slumped behind the counter, turning his attention to the growing line of customers.
Box in hand, Chris strolled down a back hall in search of his office. Industrial-sized boxes of flavoring, rolls of paper towels, and reams of cash register tape packed the area. A grungy mop stood beside a bucket full of black, foul-smelling water. Crushed milk containers filled an adjacent trashcan and spilled onto the floor.
A wave of nausea gripped him as the stench of soured milk mixed with overripe trash assaulted his nostrils. And the next health inspection is? He really should have paid more atte
ntion during his final walk-through, not that it mattered. He was here now. Besides, he had a lot of money riding on this place.
With no backup plan.
A windowless cubicle twice the size of a bathroom stall sat at the end of the hallway. Manila files and invoices cluttered the dust-covered desk. The place smelled like vomit. Ten minutes of rummaging through old boxes, partially filled coffee cups, and sample bags of coffee beans revealed the culprit. A glass of milk curdled to moldy cheese. Appetizing.
A far cry from the plush, high-end office he left in Los Angeles. But some things were more important than the almighty dollar and a steady dash of prestige. If only he’d learned that before wasting his father’s money on law school.
Grabbing the trashcan tucked under the desk, he made quick work of a week’s worth of half-eaten food and drink items then leafed through the invoices. Luckily, most had been paid. The others were negotiated in the sale price. After almost an hour of sorting, filing, and tossing, he stretched and stood.
He glanced at the plastic superhero clock dangling sideways on the far wall.
My, how time flies when I’m having fun. The rest could wait until closing. For now, the best place he could be was on the café floor, getting to know his employees and customers.
“Wow, looks like you’ve been busy.”
Chris glanced up. Candy leaned against the doorframe with her hip shoved out, back slightly arched.
He rifled through a stack of papers on his desk, memories of an old sexual harassment case flashing through his mind. A tad paranoid, perhaps, but better safe than sorry.
“Did you need something?”
The girl pouted and twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. “Yeah, there’s someone here to see you. She says she’s your sister.”
Chris exhaled and raked his fingers through his hair. Apparently Matilda hadn’t wasted any time tracking him down.
Beyond I Do Page 3