by Natasha Boyd
Beau smiles. "Fine. Remarried. Lives out near Summerville."
"Good, that's good. Send her my regards, will you? She was always kind to me."
The waitress brings our drinks, and I order the soup and salad of the day. Something with goat cheese, but I'm too distracted by our recent meeting to pay much attention to the menu.
"Are you okay with not being involved with Montgomery Homes & Facilities?" I decide to cut to the chase with Beau. "I mean I thought I got a read that you were happy with the way it played out. Until today, obviously," I add.
"I never wanted to be involved, no. Of course, I would have done it for the family. But I think it's in the best hands now."
"What about your father? Uncle Robert? He looked ready to commit murder. Do I need to be worried?"
Beau looks at me seriously. "He's pretty upset. But to be honest, I think it's more about what people might think of him being passed over, that he might lose his social standing or at worst not be able to maintain his lifestyle." He lifts a shoulder and then drops it. "It's not about any sense of ambition. I doubt he could name half the operations we own. He’ll still be a good source of information for you though."
I nod. "And Isabel? Was she more interested in the day to day?"
"I don't know, to tell you the truth. But I think it's more of the same feelings my father is having." He raises his hands to his mouth and widens his eyes. "What will the people at the club say?" he mimics.
"Ah."
"So what about you?" Beau asks. "I must admit, I didn't see that coming. It's like Grandfather is forcing us all back together in a way he was never able to when he was alive. So are you going to do it? Do you want to? Yesterday you weren't sure."
"I don't think I have a choice. My ego wouldn't let me walk even if my head tells me to run the other way. I have to hand it to the guy, he sure was a creative thinker."
"That's putting it mildly."
"So?" I grin and volley straight back to him. "Who are you going to marry in order to get your inheritance?"
The waitress comes back to top off our iced tea at that exact moment. She pauses mid pour and steps back looking Beau up and down. "Well honey, I'm available if you're stuck," she says with a wink.
Beau's skin color deepens about fifteen shades as he glares at me, and I crack up laughing. "Uh, thanks," he mumbles, not quite looking at her.
"He'll keep you in mind," I tell her.
"See that he does. Your food will be right out."
"Thanks."
We both watch her walk away.
"She's cute," I say. "You could do worse."
"Probably. What in the hell was Grandfather thinking putting that stipulation on me? Why not you?"
"Me? Never. Anyway, I hardly got off scot-free." I grimace. "It just so happens I'm about to sell my company in New York. I wasn't sure what I was going to work on next, but it sure as shit didn't involve anything to do with the Montgomerys. No offense. I'm sure Grandfather knew if he added in a marriage stipulation to that bombshell, I'd walk."
"Well, I for one am glad. It'll be good to have you back here more." Beau brushes his hair off his forehead. "You can help me narrow down my prospect list."
Emmy pops into my head.
"Sure," I say. Emmy is single. Nice. Beautiful. Funny.
I open my mouth then immediately close it.
"You okay?" Beau asks, looking concerned by whatever he sees on my expression.
"Yeah." I sigh. "No. I don't know. Nothing. I'm fine."
There's an awkward pause. I look up at the ceiling.
"Today sure was a lot to take in," Beau says, relieving me of clarifying my comment.
Our food arrives, saving me from adding anything else. I pull out Emmy's phone, take a picture and start to text it to her. I stop myself and put my phone away. Beau is grinning at me.
"Shut up," I say.
He raises his eyebrows. "Didn't say a word."
14
Emmy
The continuous rain made the already dilapidated neighborhood seem that much more abandoned. Unlike the busy hustle of the city, where New Yorkers merely continued their day under an umbrella, the streets around David's nursing home were deserted. I'd planned on starting the day with a walk down to the water and a search for a coffee shop, but a peek between the buildings toward the shore showed only a misty view awaited me, so I pressed on. The coffee shop eluded me too, and by the time I arrived to see David I was soaked and irritable.
The email I'd sent last night to Trystan weighed on me. I felt vulnerable, like I'd exposed a part of myself to him and been left wanting. It was preposterous to even let it bother me. He was a stranger. And in a few days, after we had traded back phones, he would continue to be a stranger. After I'd sent the email, I'd gone through his photos. He wasn't a manic picture taker like me, but what I found fit with what I knew about him. He was a kind, beautiful man, with a tendency toward periodic assholery. There weren't any pictures of him with anyone who could possibly be categorized as family. None of him with any women. Nor men, though I thought I'd pretty much assured myself he was straight. And definitely not one of him with a dog. Every now and again, he'd capture a scene from the city—the leaves in Central Park, a bridge at sunset. He took pictures of art. Perhaps he was a collector and took pictures of things he liked on occasion to remember them. And the bulk of the pictures were of documents. If he was like me, I used an app where you could send faxes from picture files. I often sent our service agreements and contracts this way to clients. There were also several pictures of him with a younger dark-skinned boy, pictures of that boy playing basketball, hanging out, and receiving a diploma. I'd studied the picture of Trystan and the kid as I fell asleep, thinking I made out the sign for the Boys and Girls Club of America behind them. It made sense that my handsome stranger would do something as awesome as have a Little Brother. There weren't many people I knew who'd give their time to a cause like that. But then another notification from one of his dating apps or a text would come through, and it sobered me up. I turned on the Do Not Disturb around midnight.
* * *
I greeted the nursing home staff in the downstairs office and headed to the cafeteria to see about getting coffee. David was still at his table eating breakfast. I went to the far wall and filled a Styrofoam cup with pale brown liquid and creamer then went to join him.
"Mind if I sit with you?" I asked David.
"Emmy!" he greeted me right away, and I leaned down to kiss his cheek. Inside, my tense stomach relaxed to know that at least I had my David back today.
D'Andre saw me drinking the coffee. "Baby girl, you can't drink that. Give it to me."
I raised an eyebrow and handed him my cup.
"You know we don't fully charge the coffee down here. Be right back."
It hadn't occurred to me that they didn't give their patients real caffeinated coffee, but it made sense. Caffeine was a drug, and with all the prescriptions going around in here, I should have thought about it. Sure enough, the coffee D'Andre brought me, in a real mug was heavenly. "Thank you," I said gratefully.
David and I chatted about everything and nothing, the old days and my new memories in Charleston. I explained his medical condition to him while he was lucid enough to understand as I'd done several times before. And as before, it made us both cry. But I'd been advised that it was important for him to understand as much as possible why he was in a home, so there was less chance of him trying to get out. We played cards, and then I walked him back to his room for a rest before lunch.
As always happened when I spent time with David, I was left feeling both full of love and emotionally drained.
I needed to go and clear my head in order to be back with him in the afternoon. Pulling Trystan's phone out of my purse, I ignored all the missed calls and messages and opened the web browser to find somewhere to eat lunch. I was under no impression that I'd be hearing from him today unless he needed some information off his phone, so I was taken by
surprise when a text from Suit Monkey popped up at the top of the screen. Having absolutely no will power, I opened it immediately.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Breakfast was great. Lunch?
* * *
So he'd taken my recommendation for breakfast, that gave me a small modicum of satisfaction. Actually, it made me insanely happy, which was clearly an indication of how depressed I was about the situation with David. I'd seen an email last night from someone called Isabel Montgomery and something about it rubbed me the wrong way. The fact she assumed he'd have breakfast with her, I guess. Or her tone. She made mention of Trystan's mother so carelessly in the email, that even without knowing him, I wanted to protect him. Was his mother even in his life? I had no idea. I was operating on pure gut-level instinct. So I'd offered up the breakfast suggestion, letting him in on one of my best kept secrets, my most favorite place. A place that happened to be almost next door to my little carriage house. It felt like inviting him into my world. Would he even appreciate it?
But then his text had come, and it all felt okay again. As if I'd done the right thing. So I gave him my next favorite place. 5Church. With his appreciation for art, I was sure its uniqueness would appeal to him. Especially at lunch. As beautiful as it was in the evening, the daylight coming through the window was a sight to behold.
When he admitted he was stunned, I couldn't help my smile. The fact that my stomach flipped over as I read his text was, however, a little concerning.
My madness was complete when I found myself looking up the number and calling Armand.
"Indigo Café," Armand's voice greeted me.
"Armand, it's Emmy."
"Emmy, mi amor. I saw your friend today." He whistled. "Aye, aye, he is delicioso."
"Stop it, Armand," I admonished. And then because I couldn't help it. "He is though, isn't he?"
"Darling girl, yes."
"So did he enjoy his breakfast?"
"Of course," he said, sounding affronted that I'd even suggest such a thing—especially since after the café closed at two in the afternoon, Armand spent the rest of his time hand-making menu items from scratch. "But he spent mucho tiempo on the computer, tap, tap, tapping."
"Right, well, he seems to be a busy man. So, how are you?"
"Bien, bien. Annie, she came for lunch with the baby. So cute!"
"She did? That's great. You didn't tell her about Trystan, did you?"
"But, of course. He is too handsome not to be news."
I cringed. She'd probably texted my phone, and if she hadn't she would as soon as she arrived home and got the baby down for a nap. "Shit. I have to go and do damage control. Love you, Armand. See you when I get back. Are we still going dancing?"
"Claro, mi amor. See you Friday."
I hung up and immediately opened the message app to text Annie and then froze. Oh my God. I didn't remember her number off the top of my head.
I bit my lip and sent a text to Trystan.
* * *
Any chance you can forward me the contact information for my friend, Annie? Thx.
* * *
I caught myself chewing on my thumbnail and decided I couldn't put off walking somewhere to have lunch, or I was going to eat my own hand with anxiety. Thankfully, the rain slowed but the forecast showed there was more coming.
* * *
Oh and if she texts, just ignore it. She has a new baby and is a little woo-woo in the head. Says some crazy stuff. K, thx, bye.
* * *
After a frustrating meeting with David's assigned social worker, the head nurse, and Penny, I was no clearer on what to do about him. They wanted hard and fast dates when they could count on David being gone. It came down to a liability issue where they simply weren't equipped or insured enough to deal with a dementia patient. Then I spent an equally frustrating few hours with David, who started slipping into confusion as he got tired. And I still hadn't had a text back from Trystan. It shouldn't have bothered me, but somehow it did.
Maybe my phone had died. The battery was for shit. Unfortunately, the lack of hearing from him was probably more along the lines of him having received a couple of texts from Annie that were meant for me, and was now, at this very moment, hiring personal security.
What a disaster. It was already weird between us. This had made it infinitely worse. And I didn't understand why I was so fixated on making a good impression.
When I looked at his phone, I almost expected to see no signal, showing me he'd given in and bought a new phone and cancelled this one. There was an Apple Store right there on King Street. It would take him approximately eight hundred dollars and twenty minutes to get rid of me. Clearly he had the means. He wouldn't even have to ditch my phone, he could just leave it with Armand.
Trying to untangle my feelings about whether I was more worried about not having a working phone for the next twenty-four hours or that I might never hear from Trystan Montgomery again was giving me a headache.
I came to a dead stop outside my rented Airbnb. I looked at the phone to make a decision about dinner, and some kind of instinct borne of always checking my work email when I looked at my phone to make sure I never missed anything had me opening Trystan's by mistake.
Shaking my head, I double tapped to close it just as I saw an email from Trystan. From Trystan. To Trystan. It took all my effort not to open it and assume it was for me. I'd just pretend I hadn't seen it. I had to kick this Trystan habit.
Except right at that moment a text appeared at the top of the screen, and my heart rate sped up. Shit.
* * *
Suit Monkey: I replied to your email.
15
Emmy
To: tmontgomery
From: tmontgomery
Subject: re: Phone
* * *
Dear Emmaline Angelique Dubois
* * *
Thank you for your restaurant recommendations today. Both came at very opportune times. And by the way, your town is lovely, but I wouldn't call it a city. New York is a city.
I decided to wing it tonight and find somewhere to eat without your help. I chose The Ordinary. Luckily the food was extra-ordinary. Ha. I sat at the bar. Did you know they have 412 different types of gin? At least it seemed so. I'm more of an aged single malt man myself, but when in Rome . . .
Leaving my phone at the front desk of The Planter's Inn tomorrow evening might be problematic. They are kicking me out in the morning. Apparently your town has some kind of festival starting this weekend and the entire hotel is booked. In fact it seems every hotel is over-booked. Perhaps they should move the festival to an actual city?
If you have a hotel hookup who can get me a room for the next few days I'd appreciate it. I can't leave at the moment as apparently my grandfather has decided he can dictate my life from beyond the grave.
Regards,
Trystan L. Montgomery
* * *
P.S. Your friend Annie has some colorful language. She seemed to get annoyed when there was no return text from you, so of course I had to answer. It was about me, after all. Don't worry, she doesn't know it wasn't you.
email to trystan
To: tmontgomery
From: tmontgomery
Subject: City Vs. Town
* * *
Dear Trystan L. Montgomery
* * *
I think you'll find that if a town has a cathedral, it becomes, by definition, a city. We have a cathedral. Several in fact. The spires of the City of Charleston have graced many a postcard. I believe you might have been in one of them just two days ago. Perhaps you spontaneously burst into flames upon entering and that's why you are so ornery?
I'm sad for your lack of accommodations, I wish you good luck in that endeavor. It is indeed the largest festival of its kind in the United States, having exceeded the festival in Spoleto, Italy, from whence it was derived.
It is so popular, in fact, that I often stay with my colorful friend, Annie and rent my place out. But Annie h
as recently had a baby, my godson. She's quite sleep deprived, so I'm sure anything she says can be dismissed. Perhaps you could see your way to forwarding her contact information to me (this is my second request).
Perhaps you should stay with family.
The Ordinary was a satisfactory choice for dinner.
Regards,
Emmaline A. Dubois
* * *
P.S. I have greatly enjoyed corresponding with your matches on your various dating apps. It's been quite . . . educational to realize all the different expectations they have, depending on the app. So fun! And naughty! Don't worry, they don't know it's not you, Jeff . . .
email to emmy
To: tmontgomery
From: tmontgomery
Subject: Privacy (zero expectation of)
* * *
Dear Emmaline Angelique Dubois
* * *
Can I rent your house, condo, or whatever?
* * *
Regards,
Trystan L. Montgomery
* * *
P.S. I can't believe the smut on your Kindle app. You've made me blush. I think you might be naughtier than I'll ever be. I found the one about the mafia boss to be particularly shocking.
email to trystan