by Anna del Mar
“For God’s sake, Lily, get inside, now. Don’t you know any better? It’s not safe for you to be outside alone at this time of the night. Go into your apartment and lock the damn door.”
“I’m fine.”
“You won’t be safe until you go inside,” he said. “See? This is why I wanted to have someone watching over you.”
Boy, he was high-strung tonight. But so was I. Overcoming my fear of the door, I retrieved the keys, unlocked the bolt and stepped into the tiny foyer. I made sure Josh heard the lock clicking in place behind me. I feared he might recall Amman, or worse, call in his security team to make sure I was safe.
“I’m in,” I said. “No need to worry anymore.”
“You’re a damn worry factory to me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Nothing I can do about that.”
“You could follow directions.”
“I try, but you give a lot of those.”
“You could also tell me why you were so upset when you answered the phone.”
His ability to recognize my distress struck me as uncanny as his capacity to talk me out of a panic attack. Sometimes I swore he knew me better than I knew myself. I didn’t want to sound weak or pathetic. Not to him. I didn’t want to bring him into this either. This was my problem and I had to solve it.
“Go talk to your Hong Kong group,” I said. “I’m fine and I’ll be in bed in the next ten minutes.”
“I wish I was in bed with you,” he said.
The wistfulness in his voice echoed through my body. “Me too.”
The silence on the other side of the line was deafening. “Thursday,” he finally said.
“Thursday it is.”
“Keep the phone close by. Rest.”
“You too,” I said as we hung up.
Despite the circumstances, the conversation felt routine. Now I had to decide what to do about the door. I grabbed a sponge and a pail and made my way down the stairs. I took three pictures before I scrubbed the door clean. Just as I finished, my phone screen lit up again.
Good night, Josh texted. Everything will be all right.
I so wanted to believe him.
* * *
I woke up smiling. Wednesday was my favorite day of the week. I got to teach. I actually got paid to share my passion with students. It wasn’t a lot of money, but I didn’t care. I would’ve done it for free.
My good spirits waned when I remembered the door last night. Oh, God. I had to deal with that. I reached for the cell on the night table. Josh’s text was already waiting for me.
Morn.
Morning, I typed the greeting that had become part of my morning ritual.
The reply came back in seconds. Rest?
Yes. You?
@meeting.
I rolled out of bed, got dressed and made my way to the nearest police station. The officer at the desk was on Facebook.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’d like to report a crime.”
“What type of a crime?” the guy said, without looking up from the screen. “Robbery, assault, murder?”
“I would have called 911 for any of those.”
“Good for you,” he said flatly.
“Somebody wrote on my door.”
“A threat?”
“A slur.”
“Community relations.” He stuck out his thumb. “That way.”
I filed a report with the community relations officer. When she finished gathering my information, she asked. “Is there anything else that you might want to contribute that may be pertinent to this investigation?”
That I was in a pseudo-contractual sexual relationship with one of Boston’s richest businessmen, and he’d banged me on the staircase just a day or two ago?
I decided to pass, although my blush was in full bloom.
She promised to investigate as soon as she could, which, judging by the pile on her desk, would be in three or four years.
I visited Mom and then headed back to the community center, where I arrived with time to set up for my day. I taught seniors in the morning and the kids’ afternoon class, which was one part riot, one part birthday party and one part mess, but really fun. It was almost four thirty and I was about to start my adult advanced class when my cell rang.
“Hey,” Josh said. “I’m back.”
“Welcome,” I said.
“I’m going to need you tonight.”
A delicious shiver tickled my toes. “You are?”
“I need you to come with me to an event.”
The word “event” set me off. “But I’m off tonight.”
“You’re also on call.” He sounded annoyed.
“I can’t go.” I broke into a cold sweat. “I’m teaching a late class. I don’t have time to get ready and I don’t have anything to wear.”
“I’ll take care that you do.”
“But Josh—”
“No buts, Lily.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t like big, stuffy parties.”
“I met you at one such party.”
“I told you, I threw up before, after and while I was there.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Please, Josh, don’t make me go.”
“If I have to go, then you have to go,” he said. “Amman will pick you up at six.”
“But—”
“See you tonight.”
The phone clicked off.
I had a mind to call him back and tell him off, but my class was about to start and I knew better than to antagonize Josh Lane when he was in one of his moods.
By the time I finished teaching, Amman waited parked by the front doors.
“Miss Lily.” He nodded as he opened the Audi’s door.
“Hi.” I climbed into the car. “I have no idea where we’re going.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Lily,” he said. “I’ve got detailed instructions.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “Why don’t you just call me Lily?”
“No way.” Amman took his place at the wheel. “I like driving Miss Lily. It reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Driving Miss Daisy.”
“Oh, I liked that old movie too.”
“Besides, my new bride will like it a lot better if I’m driving Miss Lily as opposed to just plain Lily.”
I laughed. “So you just got married?”
“A year to the day.”
“You ought to be celebrating instead of driving me around.”
“We’ll celebrate,” Amman said. “And I don’t mind driving you around. In fact, I like it.”
Amman negotiated the rush hour traffic with impressive dexterity. He double-parked on Newberry Street and escorted me to the converted townhouse which housed Antoine’s, the most luxurious beauty salon in town. It was also the most expensive. Black marble floors and creamy silk drapes framed the expansive reception room, where affluent socialites sipped on champagne as they waited for their appointments.
The receptionist raised her already upturned nose. “Boswell?” she said, making a show of consulting the schedule. “I’m afraid I don’t have your name in the book.”
“Miss Boswell has an appointment,” Amman said.
The detestable woman looked me up and down then shook her head. “She? Here?”
Was it my clothes? Was it my fake Louis Vuitton that gave me away? Was it me?
A tall man wearing studded designer jeans rushed the desk. “Hello, Amman,” he said. “Is this Lily?”
“The one and only,” Amman said.
“I’m Antoine.” My hand looked miniscule in his grip. “Come on back.”
The snooty receptionist protested. “But she doesn’t have an appoi
ntment!”
“She does now,” Antoine said in an acerbic tone. “And since it’s my name on your paycheck, I’d zip that sassy mouth of yours if I were you.”
I gaped at this giant of a man who stood almost seven feet tall. His massive shoulders contrasted with his narrow hips just as his Zebra striped blouse contrasted with his combat boots.
“We better get started,” he said. “We have little time and much to do.”
After the attendant washed my hair, I found myself back in Antoine’s chair, pumped four feet above the ground.
“Who the hell does your hair?” Antoine pulled my wet locks this way or that.
“Fantastic Dollar Cuts?”
Antoine grimaced. “Have some self-respect. If you’re going to date our Josh, you better put a little effort into it.”
Our Josh?
“I’ll have to do a quick repair job before we get to styling,” Antoine said. “Symmetrical, I think, just like Josh suggested.”
It irked me that Josh had discussed my hair with Antoine, but I knew better than to protest. I didn’t think Josh could help himself from taking care of everyone and everything to the slightest detail. In fact, he thrived on it. Antoine’s scissors whirred in the air. Hair started flying every which way. At this rate, I feared I’d end up looking like Antoine, with my head shaved smooth as a baby’s bottom.
The dog tags tied to Antoine’s boot laces read Anthony Chiarelli. I ventured an educated guess. “Weren’t you with Josh in Afghanistan?”
“Did he tell you that?” Antoine said, clicking away.
“Do you know Mac and Baez as well?”
The scissors almost fell out of Antoine’s hand. “Have you met Mac and Baez?”
“Josh introduced us.”
“Damn, that’s unusual,” he said. “So you know about him being a SEAL and all that?”
“I do.”
“In that case,” he said, “you have to stop judging me. I might not look and sound like Mac and Baez, but honey, I’m a SEAL too.”
“Under all that silk, you’re a hundred percent SEAL,” I said. “And after taking on the wreck that is my hair, you’re already a hero in my book.”
He laughed like the Green Giant. “You’re funny. I see why Josh likes you. Sorry, but I hate stereotypes.”
“Me too.”
“Josh saved my life,” Antoine said. “Twice. He probably didn’t tell you that part.”
My interest perked up. “What happened?”
“IED in Fallujah, sniper’s ambush in Afghanistan.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Me?” He looked up sharply. “No, not me. Oh, God, look at your nails.” He examined my fingers. “What the hell do you do for a living?”
“I’m an artist,” I said, a little self-conscious. “I paint and I taught today.”
“Irma!” Antoine called one of the nail techs over. “Take care of that mess, will you? Quickly, please. We don’t have much time.”
Antoine’s powerful blower drowned out my efforts to ask more questions. He wielded the blow-dryer like an automatic rifle, firing bursts of heated air instead of bullets. By the time he finished, my nails had been filed and polished, and my hair was shiny, sleek and smooth, cut straight, blunt and precise at shoulder length.
“Much better,” Antoine said. “Josh was right. Symmetrical does bring out that amazing jaw line of yours. Our boy is quite smitten with you.”
If Antoine only knew what Josh really liked about me.
“Josh suggested an updo.” Antoine’s huge hands moved gracefully to gather the hair at the base of my nape, not the clumsy stump I usually did, but rather an intricate twist framed by the curve of my side-swept bangs.
Amman returned, delivering an expensive looking garment bag to Antoine. It occurred to me that there was a dress in that bag. For me.
“Francois!” Antoine was done with my hair. “Makeup, please.”
A small, skinny waif of a man sporting a long, bleached-blond mane detached himself from the makeup counter and strutted over.
“You have less than fifteen minutes,” Antoine said, consulting his glitzy watch.
“But I can’t.” Francoise twisted the dog tags around his neck. “I’m fully booked with the gala tonight. I have a line of VIPs waiting for me. I don’t have a minute to spare.”
“My dear, please,” Antoine said. “This is Josh Lane’s date.”
It was as if all of Francois’s VIPs had evaporated from the world. Without another word, he snapped his fingers, summoning his attendant, who brought over the makeup cart. While Antoine hovered, Francois’s brushes powered my face, contoured my cheeks and shaded my brows and eyes. When he was done, I was a much improved version of myself.
Antoine led me to a dressing room, preceded by Francois, who held the curtain open for me. A dress hung on a peg on the wall, an exquisite confection, conceived in champagne tones and embroidered in gold. Cut above the knees, the dress featured a plunging back, a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Totally decent. I couldn’t help my sigh of relief.
I spent my brief time in the dressing room trying to shield my privates from Antoine and Francois, who didn’t give a hoot, and couldn’t be dissuaded from helping me to put on the dress, the high heels and the thin sparkling belt.
“Come on.” Antoine wiggled his fingers. “Give them up.”
“Give what up?”
“The skivvies, darling. No panty lines, please. That dress is screaming commando.”
“But—”
“High fashion requires great sacrifices.” Francois stuffed his hands up my skirt and slid my panties down my legs.
“Yep,” Antoine said, checking out my ass and ignoring my blush. “Now we’re ready for the runway.”
An evening jacket completed the outfit, matching the dress’s champagne tones. When they were done, the three of us stood in the tiny dressing room, contemplating the results of Antoine and Francois’s efforts in the trifold mirror.
“Perfect,” they said in unison.
“Josh has impeccable taste.” Francois touched up my lipstick.
“Lovely Lily.” Antoine handed me the little gold clutch that came with the dress. “Go make our Josh proud.”
I tested the high heels. They felt very comfortable to my feet. I turned around and waved at Antoine, AKA Anthony Chiarelli, and his partner Francois, also known as Frank Johnson. They waved back at me, and at that moment, I had a vision of the two of them dressed in their combat gear, scouting an advanced position and signaling the rest of the team forward.
“Thank you.” I blew them a kiss. “And thank you especially for your service.”
Amman waited for me by the car. “Miss Lily, if I may say so, you look ravishing.”
“Credit the heroes in there.” I negotiated the skirt’s tight fit as I climbed into the car. No sense in flashing poor Amman.
I felt pretty outside but iffy inside. Caught in the flurry of preparations, I’d forgotten my apprehensions. But now they returned, evolving into a full-blown bout of social anxiety. Dear God. I wanted to throw up and I wasn’t even at the party yet.
The car stopped before a distinguished four-story townhouse in Back Bay, a Boston beauty with copper dormers and iron rod details. Amman jumped out of the car and held the door open for Josh, who marched down the stairs with his usual swagger.
My heartbeat accelerated way past the speed limit. My palms began to sweat. He looked like a model out of Esquire, sporting a traditional black tie. God. Why did he have to have this liquefying effect on my body?
Graceful as a panther, he took his seat next to me. “Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m trying,” I said.
He flashed his best grin, took my hand, and kissed my knuckles. “You
look amazing.”
The car sped up and so did my heart, although I didn’t think it was possible for it to beat any faster. My stomach, on the other hand, churned ominously.
I grumbled. “I don’t understand why you’re making me go to this.”
“And I don’t understand why you’re making such a big fuss,” he said.
“I don’t want to go.”
He entwined his fingers with mine. “You can’t go through life avoiding everything you’re afraid of. You’ve got to confront your fears and get over them.”
“Who are you now, Doctor Phil?”
He laughed, a rich and smooth sound. “Bear with me, Lily. I wasn’t planning on going tonight, but there’s a man that I’ve got to see about a billion dollars.”
“In that case, what’s a few gallons of lost bile?” I gagged. “Amman, please, could you pull over?”
“Keep going, Amman.” Josh squeezed my hand. “You’re not going to wretch, or go into a panic attack, or anything like that. You are going to walk into that room like the princess you are. You are going to show those sons of bitches that you’re not afraid.”
“I don’t want to ruin your very nice dress.” I grappled for a way to open the windows, pressing every button and succeeding only at blasting on the air conditioning.
“It’s your dress.” He switched off the frigid air. “And you are not going to ruin it. Look here.” He pulled out a rectangular box from his breast pocket. “I have a gift for you.”
“For me?” I said. “But...why?”
“Because I wanted to give you a gift.”
“I told you, you don’t need to buy me gifts and clothes and all that.”
“Don’t you like the clothes I buy for you?”
“How could I not?” I said. “For a guy who went from uniforms to designer suits in a blink, you’ve got an eye for fashion and excellent taste.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he said. “Would you prefer to buy your own clothes?”
“Heck no,” I said. “I hate shopping.”
He gave me one of his looks. “Why?”
“Do you know how hard is to find something that you like and fits when you’re counting pennies?” I said. “I’d rather eat nails than go shopping.”
“PTSD,” he said.