Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  God, I am such an idiot! Carlos needs me to make ends meet. Why should I walk out and let him sell my stuff? With the money he’d get, he could live for a few more months as cushy as if I never left while giving him time to find another Sugar Mama. In the meantime, I’ll get even more screwed by having to make payments on the lease, else my wages will get attached.

  A wave of reality smacks me in the face. Dating services are for people seeking long-term relationships. That means he is using the hookup service for flings, and the dating service to score a backup Sugar Mama incase I bail. That is so dastardly! Given his sweaty brow, he doesn’t have someone in the bag yet.

  Oh, I am playing this all wrong. The gloves are off now, but he won’t get a fight. This is war, and war requires a calculated playbook.

  “Honey, come on,” he says. “That girl means nothing.”

  Knowing ignorance will play in my favor, I put down the suitcase, but I don’t surrender. “Tell me what happened!”

  Carlos takes my hand and guides me to sit on the sofa. “I met her one night while out with the guys. They slipped her my info as a joke and told her I was going to be in some big movie. You know how people get around celebrities.”

  This is the most incredible bull ever! Still, I play along by staying quiet while not forgetting for a second about the dating service.

  “She calls me all the time. We even had to switch bars because she won’t go away.”

  With a tender tone, I feed him the line he wants to hear. “Why didn’t you change your number?”

  “Because I was afraid they would charge you. You know how embarrassed I am about not having an income. I’m trying not to get in deeper.”

  That was a slick one! Now it is my turn at bat. “Of course I would have understood, but why didn’t you have whomever started this problem pay?” My tone carries so much faked naiveté my stomach turns. I even muster the gall to make sweet little strokes on his hand with my thumb.

  Carlos doesn’t even blink! “Because we ditched the jerk. Remember how we all used to hang out with Anthony? He’s the one who messed with her, and that’s why we don’t talk to him anymore.”

  Yeah, except he and his friends gave Anthony a going away party a few months ago, when he moved to Montreal. Carlos really thinks I am an idiot.

  His hand wraps around the back of my neck. Those eyes, as dark as a sewer rat’s, gaze into mine, and I pretend to get gooey. “Baby,” he says, “I have so little self-respect left that I need you to believe in me, else I don’t know what I’ll do. We can’t afford for me to slip deeper into depression.”

  My eyes go to the ground in faked guilt for calling him out on my suspicions. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what got into me. Forgive me?” I really should start auditioning.

  “Of course, baby.” He goes in for the killer of all kisses, and I manage to fight off a cringe. But when his tongue slips into my mouth, I just about puke. It’s a good thing I never got around to eating.

  Or is it? Puking on Carlos would be epic.

  “Come on,” he says, tugging my hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Sure, honey, but I really need to get some sleep. Some of the crew are just getting over the stomach flu, and I’m not feeling so well. I don’t want you to get sick.” He swallows, hard. “Sorry I didn’t think of that sooner. Obviously my head has been a little clogged. I’ll see you in bed.”

  I’ve got to formulate a plan. This man is as good as gone. If he doesn’t leave peacefully soon, by the time I am done with him, he’s gonna wish I had dumped him down the trash shoot and into a pit of vipers!

  Stormy Weather

  DALE

  My eyes narrow, closing my vision into black. With a jerk, my head pops up before it crashes onto the hotel room desk. Gripping my temples and scrunching helps exorcise the sleep demons.

  Sweet Jesus, where is that messenger? It’s nearly ten in the morning. This contract needs to be done and at Racer Enterprises by three so they can take their sweet time reviewing it. Hopefully they will surprise me, and I’ll make it home before the next ice age sets in.

  Below my window, people crane their necks to see looming charcoal clouds as thunder rumbles in the distance. I’m stuck in this gloom while the guy who should fix this contract is strolling through temples in the Mediterranean. He may not have a job to come back to. Even though I am under orders to fix his mess, knowing I am about to nab his commission makes me feel as sleazy as when I paid for Kyle’s hooker.

  A downpour of rain batters the pavement below. Memories of Abby’s glimmering face and matted hair come to mind, nearly shoving me out of the chair in search of another view. Instead of staying at the hotel to save time, I could have crawled to our Mississauga office at the crack of dawn and been back two hours ago. Instead, I’m sitting like a lame duck, struggling not to stare at a world coated in grey, reminding me of the love I lost.

  Light beams from the lamp on the nightstand, yet this room feels as dismal as outside. Perfectly smoothed sheets, the mint still on the pillow, and the little card left wishing me pleasant dreams—all intended to make me feel welcome—are reminders that I am alone. That single mint should be a box of chocolates, the card should be a love note, and this room should be on a beach somewhere while I laugh and lounge with the woman who is my dream. Instead, that bed mocks me, screaming I’m not for you.

  A flurry of rain hits my window. The racket is as annoying as BBs hitting my head, but my heart reminds me rain can make a joyful melody. Once upon a time, that tune was the perfect accompaniment while running through a downpour. I miss holding Abby’s hand as we tried to escape the drops. Since she died, raindrops sound hollow. Their vacant clanking makes me feel abandoned until I find some kind of comfort, even if it is as mundane as a mailbox filled with ads. At least then I know I exist, even if only to the guy who created the mailing list.

  I need to get out of this place—to escape the rain and the memories it brings.

  Think of something else—anything at all. What you did last night … The ride back to the hotel … Anything.

  Last night I went to Duke’s Place and hung out with Stan. Once I drop off this contract, I’m going back so we can nail that drink. Talk about something to rattle your brain. That concoction is far more complex than the Shark Bite that Daryl and I created.

  My gaze wanders back to the street. The sight of a couple huddled under an umbrella while dashing down the block sends me pacing.

  Get your mind back on the drink.

  Stan’s girlfriend swears a cocktail with pineapple juice and pear vodka rocked her socks off. It’s a weird combo to work wonders with, but hearing my mom, the chef, talk for years about pairing flavors has to play in my favor somehow. What goes with both pineapple and pear? Something strong would make that thing taste like poison.

  Wind whooshes through the air as rain batters everything in sight, bringing forth memories of days past. Abby’s matted hair … Her smile that made the drops on her face look like tears of joy …

  Focus, Dale. Pineapple and pear. What works with both?

  We need something smooth. Amaretto? Maybe, but then it is sugar city.

  Thunder rattles the window, begging for my attention. I can’t let it win.

  Come on, Dale. What would Mom do if she had a pineapple kicking around?

  New memories are forced into my mind—ones of Mom chopping away in the kitchen, and then standing over a barbecue, placing down skewers of pineapple. Like a snap, the obvious kicks me in the pants. Mom likes to drizzle vanilla brandy syrup over grilled pineapple. Pears rock with brandy, so vanilla brandy is definitely the answer. Oh man! This thing is going to smash that Shark Bite we concocted for Brandon to smithereens. I already can’t wait to get home and show this one off.

  Home …

  I miss Mom’s cooking. I miss my friends. Crazy as it is, I even miss Darla.

  Another spray gusts forth. Ripples slither down my window and out of my sight—out of my grasp—much like
the smile of the woman I dodged raindrops with.

  I scrape my hand through my hair, nearly digging into my scalp. Somehow, I’ve got to turn this misery around. So does Brandon. The ten-year anniversary of his fiancée’s death is right around the corner. If I feel this crappy, I can only begin to imagine how things are eating him.

  With the time difference, it’s still early in Los Angeles, but Brandon should at least be lying around and thinking about going to work. I dial while nearly holding my breath.

  Come on, Brandon. I need a diversion. Be here for me.

  “Hello!” He sounds jolted. Did I wake him?

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead! How’s the weather in sunny California?”

  “Su—Su—Sunny.”

  I must have yanked him out of another nightmare about Amber’s accident. That poor guy. At least I manage to sleep. “Hey, man, you okay? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, believe me, I am wide-awake. Why do you sound so chipper?”

  I’m so eager to take myself out of my own problems and convince my head it is now in a better place, my voice takes on its sales tone. “Man, I have to tell you about what is going on around here! Life has been in-sane!” I relay my adventure in Saskatoon, accentuating my uncertainty if Mercedes was incognito regarding her side job or if she suffers from a personality crisis. However, I omit my hand in financing the deed. I’d rather not remember participating in Kyle’s infidelity.

  I expect some kind of reaction from Brandon—like a groan of disdain or a gah of disgust—yet he’s quiet as a mouse. Maybe he ate some of the gumdrops from his work, and the chemicals fried his brain. “Brandon?”

  His end of the line is silent.

  Is my phone on the fritz again? I swear these things fry faster than I can buy them. “Brandon! Did I lose you? Damn cell phone.”

  “No,” comes out through his deep exhale. He sounds resigned to misery. “I’m here. Must be a bad connection.”

  His tone is one I know all too well. That must have been one crap of a dream. I need to call Shane and make sure Brandon has someone to occupy him this weekend. This morning has been a prime reminder of how hard it can be to move forward, which I need to keep doing now. “Anyway, closing that deal in Saskatoon sat pretty well with the upper ups, which means they are keeping me here for another week.”

  Finally, I get the knock I needed hours ago. Maybe now I can get out of this room.

  Outside the door I find a happy diversion. A cute messenger, with bright green eyes and blonde hair tucked under a yellow rain hat, hands me a stack of manila envelopes slipped into an oversized plastic bag. Cold raindrops slide off the bag and onto my arm, nearly jolting me enough to drop the phone. After taking a moment to thank the messenger for trudging through the rain, I crane to watch her walk away. Just as my mind is shaping what beauty must reside under her bulky raincoat, Brandon snaps me back to reality. “Hey, are you alone, or are you holding court with some girl?”

  My playboy reputation never falters. “I’m painfully alone in my room.” The stack gets tossed onto the floor and thuds.

  “Where exactly in Toronto are you?”

  With a swipe, I nab my guitar pick and flick the thing into the air with my thumb, sort of like a thug in an old gangster film. It’s amazing how human interaction revitalizes me. “Downtown at the Sheraton. Why?”

  “How about I fly out first thing tomorrow and hang with you Saturday night and all day Sunday? You can dump me at the airport on Monday morning.”

  Fly all the way here? Is he serious? “What? Brandon Wayne wants to get out of his little world and spread his wings? Don’t toy with me, man!” This is the diversion I need. A piece of home sounds like heaven.

  “What do you say?”

  Is that a ray of sun coming through the clouds? Despite disbelief over what I am hearing, I keep encouraging Brandon to take the plunge needed to relieve his grief. After all, with my reputation I can’t let him down. Even my pick looks like it is rejoicing. “Fathers of Toronto, lock up your daughters! This is going to be one crazy weekend!”

  And The Angels Sing

  BAILEY

  Pressure nags at the base of my head, pushing its way through my sinuses and into my brow. Work may have been crazy, but not enough to cause this kind of stress. It is much like how while Carlos is the source of many woes, I can’t blame him for all of my problems.

  Rain trickles down the windshield, distorting my view of the road just enough to need the wipers. My heart longs for the glorious California sun. I always assumed sunshine felt the same everywhere. It doesn’t.

  I sigh when I pull up to a stoplight, but not because I have to wait for my turn to cross the road. The last few days have brought on an avalanche of realizations. I was once a confident person who didn’t fear the consequences of failure. I left everyone I loved to move across the continent and work in a foreign country because I was willing to seize opportunity.

  The light changes, and my car hitches upon acceleration. It feels more like the universe commanding my attention than engine problems. Why did I stop accelerating? Have I become too lazy to strive for better? Why have I been dedicated to Carlos instead of my dreams?

  Regret sinks in as I reflect on precious time long gone. My life may be half over, yet here I sit as cars race in front of me. In every molecule in the world, time is in motion, passing me by.

  Suddenly I feel like GranGran’s cane has smacked my butt. If she were here, she would kick it six ways to Sunday. I can almost hear her voice saying, “Only our bodies have to grow old, not our spirits. The benefit of aging is learning who you are. Dwelling over mistakes puts you on an ugly road of regret leading to excuses that enable future failure.”

  The light changes, and I hit the gas. Flashes of the fateful night I sat at Mulligan’s with Darla and her friends fill my mind. Despite only wearing a hint of blush and a swipe of the glittering blue eyeshadow I mixed for her, Jacqueline looked like a model. Darla’s vibrant hair and clothes were a shocking contrast to my forties updo and natural tones.

  Marching to your own drummer is hard—twice so in Los Angeles where the pressure to look perfect is unrelenting—but Rox led the band. Her board-straight hair, wild mod eyeliner, and pale lips made her a brunette version of Twiggy. When she pulled out my gifts of a vintage, custom-filled Slicker lipstick tube and a Biba compact, her look was sold. The four of us must have been quite the sight.

  The job I had was sucking the life out of me, and I needed a way to embrace my passion on my own terms. A group of film students crashed our party, nearly begging Jacqueline to be in their movie. Their mention of budget constraints birthed my idea. What if instead of taking finals, students who attended a makeup arts school specializing in film and theater served internships? Established production companies would pay the school for services, but Indies would only have to cover expenses. Someone needed to offer this service. Why not me?

  Then Toronto called, and helping actors find confidence in being someone else was a new challenge I came to embrace.

  Come to think of it, the challenge wasn’t new at all. Helping Katherine build her character was no different from the rush I got the first time I dyed Darla’s hair. The glimmer in Darla’s eyes screamed everyone now saw her the way she had always seen herself—vibrant and thrilled to be alive—just like Rox when she looked into that compact.

  Suddenly I feel I’ve leapt off a cliff and had waves crash me into reality. The last few years have not been in vain. I didn’t know myself well enough to see I wasn’t devoted to the school idea. In trying to stand by Carlos, I’ve come to know how dedication feels. Also, I’m not a principal or a dean; I’m someone fueled by helping others feel comfortable. People who don’t meet societies norm need confidence. Who better than to be their beauty consultant than me? I had to get lost to find who I am.

  At the next light, I pop in my headset and place a call. My words fly before Darla can say hello. “Did you ever wonder why I lagged on starting my own s
chool?”

  I don’t only hear her sigh; I feel the internal conflict behind it. “Not to be difficult, but something tells me I need to let you answer that one.”

  “Because it wasn’t what I really wanted, and I needed to figure that out for myself? Because you somehow knew in getting tied up in life I would eventually find what I need?”

  My dear, sweet, little sister chuckles, but it is in no way malicious. “Something like that. We knew you would get there in time.” Now I feel her smile come through the line.

  “We?” Suddenly, my skin feels surrounded by flutters of warmth that sink into my soul. Darla knows something I don’t.

  Her “yeah” is laced with prodding, hinting at how I already understand. Suddenly I realize she has been waiting for this moment not because she knew it would come, but because she was told it would. And somehow, I am the one who knows what is coming next.

  A million questions run through my mind, but I go for the most basic. “How did you know? How do you always know what I need?”

  I hear a happy huff, indicating a chuckle and a warm smile. “Pull over and park.”

  Once I pull into a parking lot, shut off the car, and tell Darla to go ahead, the warmth enrobing me is accented by the sensation of sitting next to a gentle fire. I’ve been waiting for this moment, though I have been completely unaware of that fact until now.

  “When GranGran left the house on her last Christmas,” Darla says, “she told me you would need to get lost to come home again. That is why she gave you the savings bond. I periodically work it into conversation to make sure you are not about to do something stupid with it. She knew a time would come when you really need it.”

  Prickles cover my skin. My great grandmother was a wonder. She could read people like no other—almost like she was a supernatural being. The water forming in my eyes is apparent in how I choke on my words. “I miss her so much. I really wish she were here now.”

  “She is, Bailey,” Darla says so softly I almost don’t hear her. “Every time you think of her while hashing out your woes, it’s because she is giving you warnings or asking questions you need to answer. She’s with you now, both in your heart and in the form of a savings bond. She’s also waiting to see what you do next, knowing whatever it is, it will be the right thing.”