He blinked quickly, three, four times in succession. A rumbling started in his guts, quickly surged up, then burst from his lips in a laugh that nearly rent him apart and shook the bed. It poured from him like a gusher, taking his breath away.
Finally it ebbed away, and when the laughter finally deserted him, she was still sitting there. She wasn’t smiling.
Instead she stood up and said, “I got things to tell you, David, and I’m not leaving here until you’ve heard everything I know about you. And I’m not the only one who knows you’re in trouble. My friend Jennifer DiMello has been seeing things about you, too.”
Jennifer? Who was Jennifer? And what the hell was his mother talking about?
Suddenly, he was afraid.
Chapter 15
J ennifer went through the stack of answers to the questionnaire Simensen had distributed to its employees a month ago. The questionnaire was ostensibly an assessment of skill levels to determine that each employee was suited to his or her job. In fact, it had been peppered with “flags,” specific questions innocuous on the surface but that pinpointed those particular employees who might be prone to unethical behavior. “Might be” was a broad categorization, and it was Jennifer’s job to critique the answers and follow up with interviews to ascertain the probability that any of these “flagged” employees would be future trouble.
Simensen, a major Midwest pharmaceutical, was particularly sensitive to the reality of unethical employees. Last year, a shipment of a new FDA-approved drug, Biloxin, was stolen; the boxes were later found in the apartment of a delivery driver. Simensen execs had breathed a sigh of relief at escaping certain liability. Biloxin was a stimulant that was highly toxic at inappropriate doses and might have resulted in deaths had it reached the street.
Jennifer had been with Simensen for almost a year. Ironically, her title was psychometrist, even though it was far removed from her ability as a feeler. In her official capacity as pyschometrist, she was simply someone who administered and interpreted assessment tests. That’s how the nonbelievers defined the term. In this capacity, she was more than qualified for the position with a BA and Master’s in psychology.
No one here knew about her other ability. The dullheads in charge would hardly be amenable to having a clairvoyant of any kind on staff. Not to say she didn’t use her ability now and then. Always by accident though. Like now.
Just a slight impression. A bit of lipstick in the corner of one of the pages. But it was enough. The woman, dark hair, over forty, maybe a few years younger, two bluish pills—no, actually capsules—in her hands. Wariness in her eyes as she swallows the capsules. The sweat bead on her brow and the shakiness of her hands give her away. Possible addict. Maybe doing some personal testing of the product. Jennifer looked at the name. Marilyn Puchinski. The questionnaire is not flagged, but she would put it in the follow-up stack for a possible interview. Better to waylay this one right now then let it fester.
The phone rang. Even before she picked up, she had a feeling of urgency. Something about the ring, which seemed more shrill than usual.
“Jennifer DiMello,” she answered.
“Jen? I need your help again.” It was Carmen Carvelli. She sounded breathless. Jennifer’s stomach lurched, and she immediately felt guilty for the reaction. But there wasn’t anything she could do for Mrs. Carvelli’s son. It was enough they had identified part of the problem. Past life regression was more than a little out of her expertise. Still, she felt that irritating pull of loyalty.
“I would love to help, Mrs. Carvelli, but if your son’s resistant to the whole idea of psychic phenomenon, then I don’t see how I can help him.”
“I talked to him, Jen. I told him about me. He still says he thinks everything I told him is crazy…but I think I convinced him on some level. He’s not going to admit it, but I told him things that only he would know. I think I can get him to sit down with you.”
Jennifer began tapping fingers on the pile of papers sitting in front of her. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do anything with so much resistance.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I think part of him is willing to listen now. Please. I told him to come to the house this Friday. It would really help me if you could be there. To feel him out, especially those things I can’t pick up.”
“I…” Jennifer started, wanting desperately to find a way to back out.
“Jen, he almost died today.” The voice, strident before, was calm, a fatalist’s calm. “If we don’t get to him now, I don’t know what’ll happen next. He needs to be fully prepared, and he can’t be unless we know what he’s dealing with.” Pause. “Please Jen. Don’t make me beg past this point.”
“Ummm…” She hesitated using time she didn’t have, adding another questionnaire to the pile. A quick flash of a man, thirty, brownish hair, regular features, staring into a mirror, tears running down his face. Jennifer put the paper down with a sigh. So many people in need.
“OK, I’ll be there,” she finally said.
“Thanks, Jennifer. I appreciate this,” Mrs. Carvelli said, then finally hung up.
Jennifer reached into her special drawer, pulled out a bottle of pink liquid. In the privacy of her office, she took another long sip of Pepto-Bismol.
Tyne crossed her legs, attempting to appear casual, then regretted the move as the other woman focused on their length for a couple of seconds, seconds that made Tyne’s breaths constrict before the woman looked away again.
“Nice.” Sherry said. Tyne didn’t know whether she was talking about the resume or her legs. She shook the thought off. Of course, the woman was referring to the resume.
She glanced over the office while Sherry perused the resume. Impressive. Georgia O’Keeffe reproductions on the walls. A combination of light oak and glass opened up the office’s space. Then there was the dazzling view of Lake Michigan. She could see several boats in the distance. All of it served to good effect, which, of course, was the intent. Usually small start-up magazines had to forgo the luxury of décor, directing all monies to production.
“So, you basically did copy editing while at the Clarion? But no writing?” Sherry looked up and Tyne knew she was already losing her.
She took a cleansing breath. “I know my history is a bit sketchy, but I have written in the past. You can see that I did some contributing at the Chicago Herald before I came to the Clarion.”
The woman didn’t look convinced. “So why did you leave the other paper?”
“More money. And I was told that my position at the Clarion would be just a starting point, that my responsibilities would grow from there but that never happened. I promise you though that I can handle whatever you give me. If you’re not convinced, give me a probationary period. You assign me whatever…”
But Sherry was already shaking her head, peering through the articles Tyne had attached from her days at the Herald. “I’m not sure about this. We’ll be dealing with some tight deadlines, and this is the first issue, so it’s going to have to kick ass. I mean you only have a few samples here, which I have to admit are pretty good…still…”
Tyne needed to clinch this. This was her job. She knew it. She just had to get over this hurdle. “Give me an assignment, no matter how big or small, and I promise you you won’t be disappointed. I really want…no, I really need…this. Just give me a chance to prove myself.”
There was silence while Sherry once again peered over the resume as though she wasn’t sure she hadn’t missed anything the first few times around. Tyne felt a ping of guilt at the masked hope that her association with David would help her clear the hurdle. Especially since she had been so adamant at not owing him anything and doing this on her own. She knew coming in that she could do the job, but that other applicants would probably have a better track record. Yet they weren’t as desperate as she was, and she knew now that she was desperate enough to exploit whatever ties she had to get this.
“OK.” Tyne sat up at the one w
ord. Sherry’s eyes were still elsewhere on the resume, and Tyne wondered if she had heard the word at all.
Sherry looked up, settled back in her seat. “I’ll give you a chance to show me what you can do. First of all, let me tell you a little about the magazine and what we’re going to be about. The magazine will be called Elan. The audience I’m aiming for will be diverse in race, orientation, marital status and income level. I don’t want the same fluff the other women’s magazines offer. So we’ll be focusing on relevant issues that affect all women whether they’re a young college student just starting out, a married mother of two, a lesbian facing discrimination, a black woman dealing with harassment, or a retiree grandmother wondering how to make her pension stretch past a couple of years. Many editors usually center on one market and that alone. But I think that we can do better without diluting our impact. I’m only going to bring on about eight writers. That’ll include you. But again, this is provisional, a test period. If I like what you do, we’ll talk about salary and benefits. And if I don’t…” Sherry shrugged.
“I understand,” Tyne quickly filled in. “So where do we go from here?”
Sherry reached over her desk, nearly knocking off a small statuette of two intertwined women as she reached for a folder. “Here’s an article I actually had planned to do myself. Let’s see what you can do with it.”
Tyne tried to hide the smile as she reached for the folder being handed to her. She didn’t want to seem satisfied. But inside, she was kicking up heels and doing somersaults. She opened up the folder, read the notes, saw the address. She nodded, and at the same time wondered what she had just let herself in for.
David sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the rays of a new sun barely breaking the horizon. Last night, he hadn’t dreamed at all, and when he awakened, his body felt as though he had fought a battle in which he was fairly throttled. He was still recovering from his near-drowning, but had been able to go into the office yesterday for a few hours to do some follow-up calls. When he checked his e-mails, he wasn’t surprised to find one from Clarence officially giving notice that he was terminating the partnership. Rick had been out of the office most of the day with meetings, saving both of them an awkward confrontation. He hadn’t told anybody about his close call; instead he told Debbie that he had taken a day off to fight a cold.
He didn’t want to go in today. It just didn’t seem worth it. He loved being an architect, but he didn’t like the hassles of keeping a business afloat, especially when others in the boat were tearing holes in it. Sometimes, he thought it might be better if he just walked away and took a position with another firm, a well-established firm where someone else had to deal with the headaches and all he had to do was design buildings.
He hadn’t let himself think about the last couple of days. He didn’t want to deal with Friday coming up. Why had he let his mother talk him into it?
But he knew the answer. She had told him things about himself. Things she shouldn’t possibly know. Yet she did. In the hospital, she had regaled him with events that happened in high school and college—including the near-suspension he had never told her about, fights he’d gotten into, stupid daredevil stunts that had almost cost him a limb or two. Hell, she even knew when he lost his virginity and to whom, which was something considering he barely remembered the girl’s name.
He was fighting to keep his world straight. There were rules that were supposed to operate, reactions that by logic should follow certain actions. But those rules were breaking down. As angry as he had been with his father for leaving, he probably understood a little better why the man had walked away from the marriage, from his mother. He had to fight not to take flight himself, just get on a train or plane and not look back. But he was different from his father; he knew his responsibilities. He would never leave her, no matter how crazy things got.
He got up, put on his robe, went downstairs creaking like an old man. He needed to get back to the gym, work out a little. His muscles were atrophying.
He stopped at the answering machine. He had forgotten to pick up his messages yesterday. There was only one. From Sherry. He listened as she filled him in on the new employment status of his “girlfriend.” He blinked at the emphasis on the last word.
Surprisingly, he was ambivalent at the news. He should be glad but he wasn’t certain how he felt. Just a couple of weeks ago, Tyne had attached to every thought, shadowing his work and his play. He had jerked off continuously to the image of her. But the dreams were fading now, and oddly, when he thought of her, he thought of green organza and tight curls. But that image was not hers.
He remembered the kiss and her subsequent shock. He had seen himself in smoky eyes, seen a man driven by passion. He’d stepped back that time, and he wasn’t sure he could do that again.
He strolled to the kitchen, put coffee in the coffeemaker, then sat down and waited for it to brew. He ran fingers over tired eyes, through his hair, yawning. It was as though he hadn’t slept at all. By the time the aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, he had already decided he wasn’t going into the office. He got out the bowls, eggs, butter, the makings for homemade pancakes. The day was blossoming like a marigold, yellow and white against a clear sky. The clouds were lacy, the kind that adorned rather than obscured a mellow sun. This was a day to go jogging, throw around a football, or go swim…The thought cut off. It would be some time before he ventured into the water again. One day he would. But not today. Today, he would enjoy being alive. There was something about nearly dying that put priorities in perspective. Today, work wasn’t a priority. He would let Clarence walk, let him take his damn money without any argument. If Rick wanted to leave, too, then fine. They could both go. He’d deal.
But today, he didn’t have to deal. He wanted a time-out. No calls or meetings. No confrontations. Just a chance to enjoy a beautiful day. But he didn’t want to enjoy it alone.
He mixed the batter, turned on the radio to the soft jazz station. Boney James’s sax weaved around the pop and sizzle of butter, of batter being poured into the skillet. He whistled along. He felt like a picnic. Maybe he’d pack up some cheese and crackers, wine, find some good company. He played with the idea, let it loiter in his mind, at turns rejecting then calling it back. Her number was upstairs, but would she be home? More important, would she come? He didn’t know when she was due to start her new job, didn’t know much about her at all. He flipped a pancake, caught it in the pan.
He missed her, missed touching her in his dreams. That was just how weird this was. He was missing someone he barely knew. Why Tyne instead of the many other women he’d dated? Why was she so embedded in his psyche that she now seemed an integral part of him? Standing at the stove, he let his mind wander back to the kiss, let himself remember how soft her lips had been, how warm and liquid, how sweet she had tasted. A sexual surge went through him, and he felt himself growing hard. He turned off the stove, left the kitchen. He took the stairs two at a time, wondering at his urgency.
He had placed the original fax copy in a folder and brought it home. Even then, he told himself there was no reason to keep it, to just toss it. He never did. The folder was on his nightstand.
The phone rang four times with no answer and he nearly hung up.
“Hello?” her voice came over the phone. She sounded breathless, and so near, as though she were standing next to him. As though he could just reach out and touch her. His throat constricted, and suddenly he was back in grammar school, hands sweating, calling his first crush, wanting to hear her voice, fearing what he might hear in it.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said finally.
“Oh…thanks.” Her hesitation caused his stomach to flinch. Suddenly, the ambivalence was gone. He wanted her. Had wanted her before they ever met. Most of all he wanted her to want him, wanted to know how it felt to touch her, to hear her moan, bury himself inside her so deep that he’d lose himself and never find his way back out. Already his body was crying out for her.
“If you’re not busy today, I thought we might celebrate, maybe a picnic in Grant Park. I’ll supply the food and wine. It’d be a shame to waste such a beautiful day.” He tried to sound casual but he heard the plea beneath the words, was afraid that she would hear it too and that she would bolt again. Much as she had done at the wedding.
But instead she said, “A picnic? Funny. I don’t picture you as the picnic type.”
“Oh? And how exactly do you picture me?” He didn’t want to admit to himself just how important her answer was.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess I picture you as the active type, you know flying around in your plane, maybe waterskiing, but not exactly lolling around on the grass eating pâté. Anyway, thanks for the invitation, but I have some errands to do today.”
He swallowed the disappointment, thought of something else. “Well, don’t underestimate the pleasure of grass lolling and pâté eating, especially if it’s at—oh let’s say, a Ravinia concert, maybe listening to Wynton Marsalis or Tony Bennett?”
“So, are you inviting me to Ravinia?” she asked.
“If you’re game. Ravinia’s on Friday nights, but I can check the schedule, see who’s playing this Friday. What kind of music do you listen to?”
“Usually smooth jazz, some R & B, a little classical, especially Handel.”
He wasn’t much into classical, but he would leave himself open to the experience. “Then, let’s do Ravinia. I’ll pack us a basket. What do you like?”
“Surprise me. I’ll take a chance on the food and the music.”
He liked the idea of surprising her, of guessing her tastes, her desires.
“Friday, then. They usually start around eight, but traffic to Ravinia is heavy, so I’ll pick you up at around six-thirty. That’ll give us time to get there and find a spot.”
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