ACCIDENTAL TRYST

by Natasha Boyd

  I'd answered without thinking, desperate for the distraction she brought from my own family drama, only to be greeted by almost incoherent hysteria.

  "D-David's missing. He wandered off. They can't find him, they don't even know when he left."

  My stomach sinks as I stand on the sidewalk outside the law office. "Oh shit, honey. I'm sorry." I cross the sidewalk and lean against the building. Did I just call her honey?

  "H-has he called you?" she asks.

  I frown. "What?"

  "That's why I called you. He calls me sometimes, repeatedly. I thought maybe he was trying to get hold of me and couldn't, and that's why he left, you know?"

  She hiccups.

  Shit. I look down at the phone and go to the missed calls in case somehow I didn't hear them. There's nothing but the calls from early this morning and then two I let roll to voicemail that was a Charleston number that said "Work."

  I breathe out. "I'm sorry. Only your work called."

  "W-Will you answer the phone though? If it rings? If it's a New York number? Or any number? He could be anywhere. Oh my God. What if something happens to him?" Her voice breaks to a whisper. "He's all I have left."

  My bruised heart is taking a fucking beating today. Jesus. The sound of Emmy's desolation is killing me.

  "He can't have gone far," I tell her. "I mean he has no money, right? And they've called the police?"

  "Yes." Her soft sniffles are pathetic, and they make me feel helpless.

  "Can you think of anywhere he might have wanted to go if he had money?"

  "I—no. I don't think so. I mean he worked in the city, but I can't think where he'd go. And he doesn't have any money, so there's just . . . it's impossible."

  "Where did he work?"

  "He had a small investment firm near Wall Street. But I really don't think he'd go there."

  "Look, I don't know much about how this stuff works, but my instinct tells me he might go somewhere that feels familiar."

  There's quiet. "I'm scared, Trystan. God, why am I telling you this? I don't even know you. I'm sorry."

  I squeeze my eyes closed. "It's going to be okay, Emmy. I'm sure he'll call, and if not, someone will find him and call the police. It's going to be okay."

  "Okay." Her voice sounds tiny.

  "Okay," I reply softly.

  "Trystan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You can rent my place. I can't come back tonight what with David missing. And I . . . if you still need to that is. But it would probably help me. Monetarily, I mean, if you did. Staying in New York is expensive—"

  "Yes," I cut in. "I'll rent your place. Text me your bank details, and I'll deposit the money for two nights."

  She's quiet again. "Th-Thank you," she says haltingly.

  "Of course, Emmy. Let me know if I can do anything else, and I'll let you know if David calls."

  "Wait! Are you allergic to cats?" she asks. "I have a cat. Armand's been feeding her. Is that okay? You don't hate cats, right?"

  I frown. "Only if they sleep on my face," I say.

  She giggles then.

  I smile, but my brow furrows. "What's so funny?"

  "No pussies on your face. Got it," she says, stunning me speechless.

  Then she bursts out laughing which almost instantly devolves to crying again. "Oh shit, I'm a mess," she finally manages through her tears.

  "Not gonna disagree," I counter, shaking my head but grinning at the same time.

  "Thank you, Trystan," she says finally when she has herself under control.

  "You're welcome, Emmy."

  I press end, slip the phone into my pocket, and head back inside.

  * * *

  We're an hour into the meeting with the accountants and going through all the profit centers. Every time the phone buzzes, I apologize and take it out of my pocket to check the number. Emmy sends her bank details, and I forward them to Dorothy asking her to make an instant transfer or go into a branch if she has to. I name a stupid amount, but I'd rather err on the side of too much than not enough.

  The next time it buzzes it's Emmy, sending her address and telling me to call Armand for the key.

  The next one after that she's asking if I've heard from David.

  And the following one is a list of instructions including where to find clean sheets to change the bed and the Wi-Fi password.

  "Are you with us?" Robert asks, frowning.

  "I am," I say. "Apologies. I have a friend going through a crisis. Her elderly family member walked out of a nursing facility this morning. He may call me, so I'm trying to make sure I don't miss a message."

  "Surely they had an anklet on him?"

  I look at Robert blankly.

  "Elderly residents, particularly those with a propensity to wander, have a digital bracelet or anklet that sounds an alarm if they near the exit. It's gross negligence on their part if he wasn't wearing it, or it wasn't working. Which facility is it?"

  "Um, Rockaway Nursing in Far Rockaway outside of Manhattan."

  "Oh. I don't know it. I thought it might be somewhere near here. We pretty much know of all the major competitors in the area."

  I narrow my eyes on all the paperwork in front of me and the lists of assets. Most are student housing, apartments, a couple of emergency clinics, and a whole family of retirement and nursing home communities. Huh. I hadn't put two and two together, that Montgomery Homes & Facilities also owned nursing homes.

  "What would it take to move someone into one of our facilities down here?" I ask.

  Robert shrugs. "If they can pay, and there's a suite available, sure. It's not a problem. They'd need a medical evaluation to see what level of care they might require."

  "Okay." I nod. I can at least let Emmy know she might consider moving David closer. I wonder why she hasn't already.

  When she finds him.

  I grimace.

  "And also to check what kind of insurance they have," Robert goes on. "Now if it's someone dependent on Medicaid or something, it's harder. We have to assign a certain number of Medicaid beds to be compliant and equal opportunity, and there's a waiting list a mile long. And frankly, my father would try to fudge those numbers a bit to make a larger profit, if you know what I mean."

  The man next to me coughs and shifts, looking uncomfortable.

  Robert doesn't notice or doesn't care. "And it might depend on whether they are receiving social security and how much that is."

  "Fine, fine," I say. "Let’s get back to what we were looking at. Profit centers." Then I look at the accountants. Two of them, the balding man with glasses who looks uncomfortable and his colleague with dark hair who's been running his finger down sheets, his lips moving silently all meeting, but who's now looking up at me.

  "Please make sure that any report you show me has the actual number of beds available, and there is never any creative accounting. Am I clear? I'll fire anyone who tries to pull that shit past me."

  Robert makes a sound I can't decipher, but I don't get a chance to dwell on it because we dive right into the weeds of numbers. Pages and pages and pages.

  By three in the afternoon, after a lunch of delivered sandwiches and pages and pages of more numbers, my eyes are crossing and another headache is brewing.

  Suddenly, the phone is buzzing again with an incoming call. From a New York area code.

  "Excuse me," I say to the room. "Hello," I answer. There's silence. Ambient noise but no speaking. Then the line goes dead.

  David.

  Shit.

  Of course he hung up, he was expecting Emmy.

  I stand, willing him to call back. What if he doesn't call back?

  "Anyone know how to reverse look up a phone number?" I ask the room.

  18

  Trystan

  David, don't hang up," I say quickly when the phone rings again.

  "H-Hello?" It's a man's voice, crackled with age.

  "David is that you?"

  "Where's Emmy?"

  "She
's not here right now. David, where are you?"

  "What do you mean she's not there? She said this was her mobile phone. That she had this with her all the time."

  "I know, David, I just spoke with her and—"

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Trystan, and I'm a friend of Emmy's. I—I'm helping her."

  "Helping her with what?"

  "Well, right now I'm helping her get in touch with you. She's worried because she doesn't know where you are."

  "I need to talk to Emmy."

  "I know, sir. She wants to talk to you too. Can you tell me where you are so she can come and meet you?"

  There's quiet then the sound of sighing. "I—I'm not sure. Oh, this is so embarrassing. I—I thought I . . ." He's beginning to sound panicked.

  Thinking quickly, I try to keep him distracted. "It's okay, David. Happens to all of us. Are you in a restaurant?"

  "Yes," he says. "I know this place. Well, I thought I did. Miguel was the maître d’. Excuse me, young man," I barely hear the last part as he's covering the phone. Then I hear talking and David saying indignantly. "No, I'm not lost!"

  "David," I try and get his attention. "David! Can you listen to me?"

  There's more muted sounds and then the line goes silent. I look at the phone to see he hung up.

  "Shit. Anyone find out where he called from?" I ask, even as I dial the number back.

  "I think it's called the Paris Cafe?" the dark haired accountant stammers.

  It rings. I know the place. It's in the Seaport near the financial district. That makes sense.

  "Paris Cafe, can I help you?"

  "Yes, that elderly man that was there, please don't let him leave."

  "Sir?"

  "The man. David. Can you keep him there? I'll cover his tab. Just feed him and keep him there."

  "Sir, we're not open for dinner yet. And he was belligerent and rude to—"

  "This is Trystan Montgomery, I will literally read you off my credit card number and you can charge me whatever you see fit for your trouble. But he is confused, and he's a missing person. His—" Damn it. What was Emmy to him? Niece? "His family are looking for him."

  "He's left, sir."

  "Christ! Well, get him back and offer the poor man a safe place to wait while we get him back to his family. I don't think you want the bad press if something happens to him, do you? This is the equivalent of a lost child right now. So get off the fucking phone and go and find him."

  "Yes, sir!"

  I hit end, my chest heaving. "Fucking incompetents."

  I blow out a breath. I dare not tie up the line by calling, so I text Emmy.

  * * *

  David called, he's near the financial district. Paris Cafe. I don't add that he might not still be there. But then I realize they might not get him back. Shit. I go back and delete the text before sending and try again.

  David is okay. He's in the financial district. Tracking him down now.

  * * *

  Emmy: OMG. Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Where is he? How did he get there?

  * * *

  He's fine. More when I know. Oh, and what's his last name?

  * * *

  Emmy: Same as me. Dubois.

  * * *

  Soon as I talk to him again, I can have a car there in under thirty minutes to pick him up and bring him back out to Far Rockaway. I'll let you know as soon as he's safely picked up.

  * * *

  It's a promise I hope I can keep.

  * * *

  I borrow Ravenel's phone to call Dorothy and get the number for my driver and explain the situation to him.

  Then I dial back the bar. "This is Trystan Montgomery, did you manage to get David back?"

  * * *

  I look up Armand's number in Emmy's phone as I massage the tension in the back of my neck. What a day.

  * * *

  Hi, it's Trystan. Not sure if you heard from Emmy, but I'm renting her place tonight and apparently I can get the key from you?

  * * *

  I pull up the address Emmy sent me and when I map it, I realize I can walk there pretty easily. Charleston is still bustling in the early evening. Bars and restaurants are starting to fill. I find myself in the same cobblestone alley she sent me to the first morning to have breakfast at Armand's place. Makes sense then that he's taking care of her cat and has a key since he works such a short distance away. The café is closed up, I hope he knows I'm coming. I find the address pretty easily and stop by a gate in a wall. It's locked.

  Looking through the bars down the narrow plant-lined pathway, I look ahead to the periwinkle blue front door. It's so Emmy, I think, even though I have no idea why I should assume that. As I look at it, it opens and Armand steps out.

  "Ahh, Trystan! Emmy told me you are renting her little casa." He reaches back inside the house and the gate buzzes open.

  "Armand." I greet him.

  He nods, looking at me speculatively as I approach. "Interesting new development, no?"

  I shrug. "I needed a place to stay."

  He nods slowly. "Of course, of course." He stands aside and gestures me inside.

  I have to duck slightly through the doorway as it's basically built for a hobbit. Inside, the space is rectangular with a small kitchen against the closest wall to me, an eating area in its mirrored spot to my left. The rest of the room is a cozy living area facing a fireplace. One side of the fireplace has shelves stuffed with books, the other is the beginning of a narrow staircase that disappears behind the chimney.

  Luckily, I can actually stand up straight, though I probably shouldn't do any jumping jacks. It doesn't feel claustrophobic though. The wide windows on three sides showcase the lovely gardens surrounding the tiny house. I look outside the window. "Emmy do this?"

  "Si. Fireplace has gas," Armand informs me and shows me how to turn it on. Though I can't imagine using it in this town. Does it ever get cold? I can't remember.

  "Hot water takes a few minutes and bedroom is upstairs. Beer is in the fridge, Emmy told me to buy some. I must go. But I'll see you for breakfast?"

  I'm looking around taking in my surroundings. It feels both familiar and strange to be in Emmy's home. It's tiny. But somehow it fits her. There are small, framed pictures on the walls, covering any white space that isn't filled with large colorful paintings. The dining table, if you can call it that, has a sewing machine on it, and rolls of fabric are leaning, stacked in the corner. Books are piled here and there, but it doesn't seem cluttered.

  In fact, it's everything I imagine Emmy to be. It's the Emmy in my mind personified. It smells enticing, clean, but unfamiliar. There's a sense of a life well-lived and opportunities seized. It's vibrant, a bit edgy in parts, fun, yet comfortable. Unexpected but still . . . traditional.

  "Where's the cat?" I ask

  Armand makes a disgusted sound. "Who knows? But she eats her food and makes her shit, so I know she's here." He shrugs. "I'll be back to check on the cat tomorrow. Unless you want to?"

  "No, not really."

  "Okay. Well."

  "Wait. You want to stay for a beer?" It's weird to ask. I mean he's a friend of Emmy's. But then, I don't really know Emmy.

  "I wish I could, but I'm meeting someone, and he seems like a punctual type of guy. Maybe tomorrow?"

  I nod, his revelation answering a question about his relationship with Emmy I wasn't sure I wanted to ask. "Maybe tomorrow. Thanks, Armand."

  "Night, Trystan."

  He closes the door behind him, and I breathe out a long sigh of relief.

  I head up the stairs, stooping to get up there without hitting my head. The stairs open up into a large room built into the eaves of the roof line. Despite its use of space, it doesn't feel like an attic. It's light and bright. The floor is covered in sisal, and the bedding on the queen bed is white and fluffy. The main event, though, is an old antique claw-footed tub set under a long shed dormer window on one side of the room. I stare at it. Visions of that yellow bik
ini-clad Emmy with soapy, glistening skin and pink from heat and steam assault me, except now there are just bubbles where the bikini used to be.

  Jesus. It was a really bad idea to think staying at Emmy's place wouldn't be fodder for many a spank bank fantasy in my future.

  I drag my eyes away from the tub to a door into what I presume is the actual bathroom on the other side of the room. I drop my laptop bag off my shoulder down to my hand and lay it on the bench that's at the foot of the bed. I inhale the smell of sunlight, natural fibers, and a light floral scent that's all Emmy. I suddenly remember noticing the scent of Emmy at the airport when she sat next to me briefly.

  The bathroom is small but clean. A sink, toilet, and shower decorated in white and off white.

  The phone in my pocket buzzes.

  * * *

  Emmy: You settled in? Armand says you found it okay. I'm sorry if it's messy, I normally declutter before I rent it out. And don't forget to put clean sheets on the bed.

  * * *

  I turn around and stare at her bed again. My pulse is doing weird erratic things, and . . . I blink and shake my head. I should go back downstairs.

  * * *

  Settled in fine. Thanks. How's David?

  * * *

  Emmy: Can I call you?

  19

  Emmy

  When a long and sleek black town car pulled up outside Rockaway Nursing and Rehab, I wanted to cry with relief. D'Andre was waiting with me as well as an officer from the local 101 Precinct. The driver hopped out of the car as I jogged toward it.

  "Are you Emmaline Dubois?" he asked as he headed around to open the back door.

  "I am."

  "Mr. Montgomery wanted me to make sure you were here before I let Mr. Dubois out of the vehicle."