Fringe Benefits

by Christine Pope

  “How couldn’t I?” I shifted the compress a bit; it was rapidly warming up and losing any effectiveness it might have had. “Is the warehouse okay?”

  “Well enough. A few crates toppled over. I righted them as best I could, but I suppose I’ll have to get Max over to help me open them to ascertain there was no damage.” His gaze sharpened as he looked down at my battered knee. “It still hurts?”

  I nodded. “Do we have any more of these compresses? Maybe it just needs some more time.”

  Before I could protest, Pieter came around the corner of the desk, then bent and took the compress from me. This was the first time I’d been able to get a really good look at my knee, and I had to admit it had seen better days. An angry reddish-purple knot had formed on the cap, and the whole joint looked swollen.

  “If I may?” he asked. “I had first aid certification once upon a time. At the very least I can try to ascertain whether it’s broken or not.”

  Who was I to turn down a chance to have Pieter fondle my leg? I nodded.

  His touch was very gentle. He felt my kneecap and asked me if I could flex my leg. I did as requested. The throbbing got going in earnest I as soon as I wiggled my leg back and forth, but it was a manageable sort of pain. I’d broken my arm falling out of a tree when I was nine years old, and this pain felt nothing like that. Sure, it hurt, but not to the point where I couldn’t walk if necessary.

  “Good,” said Peter, after he had finished his inspection and straightened up once again. “A sprain, I think. But perhaps I should still take you to the hospital?”

  Emergency rooms in the area weren’t great at the best of times. I’d found that out the hard way when Leslie sliced her hand open while trying to pull her ’Vette’s radiator and I had to drive her to the hospital. We’d spent almost three hours waiting to see a doctor. I could only imagine how awful that same E.R. must be following a natural disaster.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. “I’ll probably be fine if I just keep it elevated and put ice on it.”

  The worry line between his brows deepened. “Unfortunately, the first aid kit had only the one compress. But if you would allow me to take you home? I don’t think you should be driving with your knee in such a state.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Just the thought of the continuous abuse my knee would take on the drive home while working the gas and the brake was enough to make it throb a little harder. Still, I couldn’t help thinking it was asking a lot of Pieter, to leave the building alone right after an earthquake of that magnitude. I had a vague idea looting was often a problem in these situations. Then again, it wasn’t as if the Big One had hit L.A. Even if there were looting going on somewhere, I somehow doubted too many people would be making a run for chinoiserie screens or ormolu tables when they could be stealing flat-screen televisions or iPads instead.

  Correctly interpreting my silence, Peter said, “It’s not as if I could do much here, with the phones down. I’ll engage the alarm as we leave. Besides, at some point I would have had to leave to check my own house. It is no problem for me to take you home first.”

  Of course. I had completely forgotten that Pieter had a home of his own, one full of expensive antiques. About the worst that could have happened at my apartment was the entertainment unit toppling over. It wasn’t as if I had any Ming vases or Roman pottery to worry about.

  “Right,” I said, feeling a little foolish. I’d just have to blame my short-sightedness on delayed reaction to the earthquake. Or the continuing ache in my knee.

  He extended his hand. I slung my purse over my shoulder and let him guide me up out of the chair and to the front door. Even that bit of exertion caused more waves of pain to shoot up my leg. Maybe I should have let him take me to the hospital after all.

  Maneuvering me into the passenger seat of the Maserati was no picnic, either, but once I was safely inside I started to feel a little better. Except…

  “What about my car?” I asked. Not that I was in any shape to drive it, but it did look sort of forlorn sitting there in the parking lot.

  Pieter gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the Mercedes as he began to back the Maserati out of its parking space. “It will be safe here. The security company does a sweep once an hour, and I’ll tell them to keep an eye on it. Then, if you’re able to drive tomorrow, I can bring you back to retrieve it.”

  I opened my mouth to say that wouldn’t be necessary, that Leslie could bring me over to get the car. Then I realized she had to do clean-up duty at work tomorrow and wouldn’t be available. “Thank you,” I said, although the words sounded hopelessly inadequate.

  He didn’t reply, but instead pointed the car up San Fernando Road. “I think it best not to take the freeway. It’s probably fine, but I would prefer to stick to surface streets just in case. Where should I turn?”

  “Chevy Chase Drive,” I responded. “Right. Then another right on Boynton.”

  A nod, but he kept his eyes on the road. Just as well—although I didn’t see any signs of buckled asphalt or other physical damage, the lights at most of the intersections were out. Some of the buildings we passed had shattered glass on their adjacent sidewalks. People milled around, and I saw some men already putting up boards to cover the broken windows.

  That seemed to be the worst of it. I’d heard that California had really strict building codes, and now I knew why. This earthquake wasn’t up to Northridge standards, but I think I would have seen a lot more damage if, say, the temblor had struck in Billings, where no one tended to worry about that sort of thing.

  Even though I knew my apartment building had been constructed some time in the ’80s and therefore was up to snuff as far as earthquake codes went, I halfway expected to see some sort of damage when we pulled up. Hadn’t a bunch of apartments gone up in flames after the Northridge quake when the gas mains exploded?

  But everything looked relatively intact. Oh, there were a lot of people standing around outside and jabbering away at each other, but I think that was mostly to work off nervous energy. I didn’t see Leslie, and I didn’t really know anyone else in the complex. There were a couple of individuals I thought I recognized from passing them in the parking lot or the laundry room. Heads swiveled in our direction as the Maserati pulled up. Mine wasn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where you saw six-figure Italian sedans.

  Since the complex actually had adequate parking, Pieter found a spot not too far from the main entrance. He turned off the engine, then asked, “Where is your apartment located?”

  “Second floor,” I replied, and repressed a sigh. Of course I had to live upstairs. My knee twinged at the thought of hauling myself up the steps.

  “Naturally,” he said. A bit of a smile danced around the corners of his mouth. “Wait, and I will come around and get you.”

  I did as he said. Getting in and out of a car in heels and with a bum knee—not to mention a torn skirt—was a tricky procedure, and I’d just as soon have his help.

  I would rather have not gone through the whole thing with a bunch of rubberneckers watching my halting progress from the car to the steps. The entire time I was acutely aware of the pressure of Pieter’s hand on my arm as he helped me up the steps and guided me down the landing to my apartment. At some point during this process the throb in my knee morphed into a weird, hot tingling, as if the nerve endings had just lit themselves on fire.

  It seemed to take forever for me to dig my keys out of my purse and unlock the front door. Almost as soon as I was inside, I limped out of my stilettos. Maybe I should have just taken them off before I left work, but with my luck I would have stepped on a rock or a piece of glass and been that much worse off.

  Although my knee was screaming at me by that point, I knew I didn’t want to spend another second in my mutilated skirt.

  “I need to get out of this thing,” I said without bothering to elaborate. I was pretty sure Pieter knew what I was talking about. “There should be a bag of ice in the
freezer. Can you get it ready for me?”

  “Of course,” he replied, and turned toward the kitchen.

  Some of the cupboard doors stood open, but nothing seemed to have actually fallen out. Thank God for small favors. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some items lying on the living room floor—photographs, books, the poor creeping Charlie plant I’d been coaxing along on the table near the window—but all that would have to wait. I yanked the sliding screen shut to give myself some privacy and hurriedly pulled out some replacement clothing.

  Probably the smartest thing would have been for me to put on a pair of shorts. I felt strange about exposing that much flesh on purpose in front of Pieter and settled for some yoga pants and a tank top instead. Besides, the yoga pants had wide enough legs that I could pull one up past my knee in order to apply the ice pack.

  Just pulling on the pants hurt, though, and I sucked in my breath at the shooting pain in my knee. Even though it hurt like hell, I limped into the bathroom and downed a couple of ibuprofen tablets. Then I staggered back out to the living room and collapsed on the couch just as Pieter emerged from the kitchen holding a freezer bag filled with ice.

  He came to me as I lay there on the sofa, and placed the bag against my knee. “Better?”

  “Much,” I said. The sharp shooting pains subsided somewhat and returned to the familiar dull throb. “I never realized how many stairs this place had until today.”

  “Perhaps I should have carried you.”

  Laughter bubbled to my lips, but then I looked up at Pieter and realized he had been dead serious. “Oh, I don’t think that was necessary. Now that I’ve got some serious ice on it, I’m sure my knee will be its old self in no time.”

  His mouth looked pinched. Was he truly worried about me?

  An odd little tendril of warmth seemed to blossom somewhere in my midsection. He had to be. If he really didn’t care anything at all, would he have driven me home, helped me up the stairs, put together an ice pack for my knee? If he were just trying to discharge his duty as my boss, he could have simply dropped me off at the emergency room and been done with the whole situation.

  Still without speaking, he moved away from me and began to pick up some of the debris that littered the floor.

  “You really don’t have to do that—” I began.

  He stopped, a framed family photo in one hand and a paperback book in another. “I wouldn’t recommend that you do it. You need to stay off that knee.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. I had to remain on the couch, ice pack clamped to my knee, and watch as he placed the books back on the shelf—in correct alphabetical order, of course. He then paused, still holding the photograph.

  “This is your family?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “It was taken right after I graduated from MSU Billings. That’s the last time all of us were together. Alex doesn’t like to leave Berkeley.”

  “He is the professor, correct?”

  I nodded, a little surprised Pieter had remembered that piece of information. Additional proof that he cared more than he wanted to let on?

  “You have a handsome family,” he commented, giving the photo another glance before setting it on the entertainment unit—which, thank God, had somehow stayed upright.

  “Thanks,” I said. I’d never really thought about it that way, but I supposed he was right. We’d all had our given roles: Alex was the smart one, Ellen the responsible one, and I the pretty one. But Alex and Ellen were also very attractive, and she and I had both done pretty well academically, too. My mother might have had a few choice words about the “responsible” thing (based purely on the fact that Alex and I had both traitorously relocated to California), but it wasn’t as if we’d ever been arrested for drunk driving or investigated by the IRS for tax evasion. “My mother will be glad to hear that. Did I ever tell you she was Miss Billings in 1976?”

  “No. I think you must have left that off your resume.”

  For a second I blinked up at Pieter. Had he just made a joke? From the glint in his eyes, I guessed he had.

  “I figured you were probably more interested in my typing speed,” I replied.

  A flicker of something indefinable came and went in his face so quickly I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it. “Among other things.”

  I had no idea how to reply to that, so instead I looked away from him and made something of a show of shifting the ice pack on my knee.

  “How is it doing?” he asked. He sounded almost relieved by the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Better,” I said. Oh, it still hurt, but at least I felt as if I had a kneecap again instead of one big throbbing bruise.

  “Then I should probably be going. I want to stop by the storefront on my way home and make sure everything is all right there. I attempted to call Max several times but couldn’t get through.”

  Again I felt a sharp little twinge of guilt. Here Pieter had driven me home, made sure my knee was properly iced, and even helped pick up a few items that had gotten knocked over during the earthquake, all while he still had his own house and the antique store to attend to.

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you again for bringing me home. I’m sure if I’m careful I’ll be up and around in no time.”

  He frowned slightly. “Do try to stay off your feet whenever possible. Is there anything else I can get you before I go?”

  It seemed odd to ask him for anything else, but he had made the request in the first place. “Could you bring me the handset to my phone? I left it on the dining room table. I don’t know if I can call out yet or not, but sooner or later the lines will have to open up. I hope.”

  Without comment he went and retrieved the phone, then handed it to me. I set it down on my lap. Obviously I wouldn’t make any calls until after he’d left.

  I didn’t want to ask him for anything more, but I was thirsty. “And a glass of water, please?”

  He nodded and went to fetch it for me. In fact, he brought me a glass and the whole pitcher of water from the fridge. “So you don’t have to get up again any time soon.”

  That made sense. Maybe by the time I got my appetite back I’d be up to a trip to the kitchen. Or maybe Leslie would have gotten home by then and could help me get something together.

  “So you are all right for now? Do you have someone who can check on you later?”

  “My friend Leslie will be probably be back soon.” Again I saw a shadow of worry cross over his face. I added, “I think she just had to finish up a few things at work before she could leave, so she should be home at any time. I’ll be fine. Really.”

  A slight hesitation, and then he said, “Very well, then. I will try to call in a few hours to make sure you are still doing well.”

  I flashed him what I hoped was a brave big-girl smile. Deep down I wasn’t entirely thrilled to be left alone with a bum knee in a second-floor apartment. After all, what if the quake had just been a foreshock? What if something worse was still waiting to slide its way up the Whittier Narrows fault, wherever the hell that was?

  But Pieter had his own properties to look after. He’d already wasted enough time babysitting me. What did I expect, for him to stay here and play nursemaid?

  “Thanks, Pieter,” I said. “I guess I’ve been thanking you a lot lately, haven’t I? But I really do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “You would have done the same for me.” He nodded again, said, “Very well,” and turned and let himself out. The sound of the door shutting seemed unnaturally loud.

  Amazing how the absence of a single person could make a room feel so empty. For a second all I wanted to do was get up and hobble after him, ask him to stay. But I didn’t want him to think I was a scared girl, afraid to be alone for even a little while. Never mind that the weight of solitude had never felt so heavy.

  Well, I’d try to push the isolation back for a bit. Pieter had business to take care of, and so did I.

  I picked up the phone, mentally crossed
my fingers, and dialed my parents’ number.

  Fifteen

  “That place isn’t safe,” my mother said. “Now will you think about moving back to Billings?”

  She would hear a sigh, so I settled for rolling my eyes instead. “It was just a little shake. Nothing in my apartment even got broken.”

  “But Alex said you hurt your knee—”

  “I did that to myself,” I cut in. “I was a little too eager to get under my desk. And it’s doing much better, anyway.” That was true enough. Oh, it still hurt, but I’d managed to limp to the bathroom and then to the fridge for a much-needed ice cream sandwich without feeling as if my knee was going to fall off.

  A brief pause, which in some conversations might have been seen as a promising reaction. In this case, however, I guessed it was just my mother dreaming up another tack so she could continue the assault on a different front.

  That hunch proved to be correct. “Well, maybe it wasn’t that bad…this time. If you hurt your knee, how did you get home?”

  “Pieter drove me.”

  “Your boss?” From someone else, the question might have been completely innocent. But I knew my mother. While she’d never encourage me to do anything inappropriate, neither would she discourage me from pursuing a legitimate relationship with someone as wealthy as Pieter. Maybe she hoped I might get the life she never had.

  “Yes, my boss,” I said, my tone flat. “He dropped me off and then went to check on his own house.” There wasn’t much meat to pick at there, and I hoped she would drop the subject.

  “Oh.” Another ominous pause. Then, “I heard someone on the news say that it was just typical, that California’s four seasons are fire, flood, earthquake, and drought. It’s coming up fall. Isn’t that fire season?”

  Luckily I’d already thought of a response. A lifetime of having worst-case scenarios thrown at you tended to make a person prepared. “Mom, I live in a concrete apartment complex. It’s not as if I’m up on a hillside surrounded by brush. And the nearest flood channel is two miles away. Drought? I don’t even have a front lawn to worry about.”