Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  “Oh, thank the Lord! Isn’t that show wrapping in a month?”

  “It sure is. The way I see it, instead of getting fired outright, she now has some kind of notice. Hopefully they can deal with her blundering that long.”

  “Brilliant! But are you okay? Just how much is Carlos freaking out?”

  I exchange how Katherine is gripping my hands for holding hers, telling both of us I’ve got this situation under control. “I’m fine. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been better. And Carlos isn’t freaking out, because he doesn’t know.”

  Her mouth full-on drops, and those darkened eyes turn bright again. “Are you serious!”

  I just smile and nod.

  “How are you managing that? Is Darla coming out to help you slaughter him and hide the body so you can get your stuff out, or are you going to empty the place one weekend while Carlos is fishing? Dear lord, what are you going to do with your furniture?”

  I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand and sprout a smile of pride. I have grown so much in such a short period of time. “If Carlos knows I am bailing, I suspect he will find ways to sabotage me, like run up the credit card bills or steal my jewelry. I don’t want to leave that sneaky bastard with a thing, but some stuff is not worth the hassle of dealing with. With a little help from my landlady, I’m giving him the slip, right under his nose!” I hold up my palm. “Try as I might, I can’t get some of the paint out from under my nails.”

  Katherine looks at my hand with such bewilderment her eyes nearly cross. “What the?”

  “Once the people at work heard why I need to bail, they found a way to let me cut ties on the quick. Even if Carlos figures out what is up, he will never guess I can execute it so rapidly.”

  Katherine’s jaw reverberates in wonder. She’s stunned to where she can barely start to form questions.

  “Hmm … Where should I begin? If I can repaint and get out within two weeks, I get my full deposit back and my landlady will deal with Carlos if he refuses to leave. She is also letting me use her storage area to stage my stuff for shipping to Darla. I spent the last two days clearing out and painting the closet to disguise my packing. Then there is how I slipped black trash bags over my nice clothes, while Carlos watched. What he won’t see is how I replace the contents with stuff intended for Goodwill so I can take the nice things with me.” Katherine clamps her hand over her mouth and freezes. “Oh, and the shoe boxes in my closet are empty because this morning I sent the contents to my sister.”

  “Oh my gawd!” She utters through laughter. Now our tears are for good reasons.

  “Oh, just you wait! I’ve got this.”

  Katherine wipes away the tears of happiness and takes my hands. “I needed this conversation. Something big is going on with both of us. If we leap instead of tiptoe, before we know it, we are going to be the happiest people on the planet.”

  The hairs on my arms raise from the tingles of hope racing through me. “I expect nothing less.”

  Duke's Place

  DALE

  Roaring, live jazz floats out of Duke’s Place, Toronto’s most swinging, Art Deco lounge, and into my ears, but what I hear is Glenn Miller playing Moonlight Serenade on his clarinet. Midnight strikes as I stand on a white-pillared balcony, willing the moon to continue radiating through the gathering clouds. Whomever I seek lives under it, just as lonely and in need of all of the glow she can get. But I can only stand here—humming, wishing, and damn near praying for the moon to illuminate our paths.

  I have spent days on an endless search for information regarding a man on an album cover, hoping to solve a mystery. I matched every member of Glenn Miller’s Orchestra from the era in which the recording was made to photos and came up empty. Expanding my search to every person who has played in that orchestra yielded the same results. Given the band is still going after decades, the task wasn’t simple. I even emailed the record company and the band’s website to no avail. At this point, all I can do is wait for Fedora Guy to show again, hoping he has a big, neon sign telling me what to do next.

  A sip of the newest concoction Stan, the bartender here, and I just came up with goes down smoothly. Pomegranate added to vodka and lime makes it red. Vanilla sugar takes the edge off of bitters, which inspired the name Wallowing Heart. The moniker seems even more fitting as the gathering clouds begin their release. However, instead of deepening my sorrow, those clouds kick my spirit into gear. Cool drops tap my face, reminding me I am alive, and there is joy to be found. I’ve been given clues, I just need to piece them together.

  Okay. Enough madness.

  I toss back my drink then whip out Jennifer’s card and my cell phone. It’s only nine in Los Angeles, and I need some blanks filled in.

  A male voice answers on the second ring. Given how he sounds half-baked, I’m assuming it is No Shirt, No Shoes Guy. “Yo, Dale, man. What’s coming down?”

  I pull the phone away from my head and stare like it spoke on its own. How in the world did he know it was me?

  Caller ID. He got my name from Caller ID.

  “Hold a sec. Jenny thought you might fall by or something. She’s out with her curling league, but she left you a note.”

  Again, I stare at my phone—a stupid, stereotypical, jaw-dropped stare. Caller ID is one thing, but knowing I would call is nuts.

  Well, she is psychic.

  I bring the phone back to my ear only to stop and stare at it again.

  Curling league? In Los Angeles? Like on ice with tea kettles and brooms?

  Shoot, maybe she’s also a witch and needs a cover for her transportation.

  I bring the phone back to my ear and catch a few shuffles in the background before Stoner Man returns.

  “Alrighty, you ready?”

  “Sure, lay it on me.” I sound like my dad flashing back to his teen years.

  “She said, ‘People ignore words, but symbolism sinks in. You got the message, so ditch the pick. Light tricks encourage stupidity. Besides, that’s a symbol, not the charm. You are honing in on a lot of things, including the woman you seek. You will know you found everything once you have been guided through the right door. Dorothy,’ wait, there is a line through that name, ‘GranGran, will become cherished.’ ”

  GranGran?

  “Huh,” he says. His words sound soft and directed at himself. “Wonder if that’s the same old lady who helped raise her. Didn’t Jenny say she consecrated a Ouija board for her like forever ago? Man, that is heav-vee.”

  I’m quick to press for more info. “Tell me about her.”

  “Eh, just some sweet, ancient broad who died ages ago. Knew Jenny’s grandma or something.” In the distance, a doorbell rings. “Got to groove with it. Later, man.”

  I toss my hands up, but what I really feel like doing is tossing myself in to a lake while wearing cement shoes. Who the hell is GranGran? With the way things are going, she is the love of my life, stuck in a deceased, ghostly body.

  Oh, no way. I’m scrubbing the possibility of that cruel twist of fate out of my head now.

  Then again, a woman called GranGran would probably have listened to Glenn Miller back in her heyday.

  Ice cubes seem to tickle my back, reminding me of decaying fingers doing a death waltz. Surely my future betrothed is a relation of GranGran’s and not a corpse.

  With a prayer for salvation, I dash back into the club. What would you put in a drink called Confused Mess? Thank God this madness comes with a money back guarantee.

  I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair

  BAILEY

  My whirling about as if I am the Tasmanian Devil has made this bedroom look like a bomb has been detonated. Constantly tripping over bags and boxes has Carlos eager to leave. I’m itching for him to get out of here too, but first, I need a favor. “Hey, can you please go through these bags before you take off? I should’ve gotten them to Goodwill days ago.”

  Carlos grouses, just like he does every time I ask for a spec of help. “Yeah, I guess
I should deal with this. You’re really gonna get rid of all this stuff?” he asks while staring at two mounds of plastic shopping bags.

  I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I? We haven’t worn these things in ages. The grey bags have your things.”

  He picks up a white bag and peers inside. “This is all yours.”

  Seriously? “Yes, your things are in the grey bags.” Is he checking up on me, or has he really not heard the five times I told him to look inside the grey bags? Then again, it’s been ages since Carlos has heard a word I have said. Why would he start listening now?

  He rummages through the mound while grumbling a stereotypical rant about a woman making a man get rid of his things. Suddenly “Oh no!” bursts out, and he pulls out a ratty, black T-shirt. “I love this thing! Why would you get rid of it?”

  “That one has been sitting in a wad in the back of the closet for months. The one you love is currently on your back.”

  His gaze briefly drops to his chest before he crams the shirt back into the bag. “Ditch it. I had no idea how many grubby things I have. I’ll get some new stuff next week.”

  He can do all the shopping he wants after I cancel the credit card.

  Carlos heads toward the door, then stops and looks at the bags. “You want me to take those for you?”

  What? Carlos wants to do something? Why?

  How bad is it I wonder why he is willing to help? It also just figures, because I could really use those things for phase two of my plan.

  My smile beams with gratitude for the assistance. “Great! Dropping them off on your way out would save me a huge hassle.”

  He reaches down but stops shy of touching anything. “Nah. I’ll get them later.”

  Although I put up a front of being upset, the frustration I sigh out is real. “Will you at least help me move the dressers?”

  Carlos drops his stuff and grumbles. “Yeah, okay.”

  Geez.

  Once the bed is in the center of the room, Carlos grabs his bottles of cologne off of his dresser. Instead of packing them safely in one of the many boxes kicking around, he lays them on the bed. There is no way I am taking this malarkey from him. I shove a box into his gut. “Here.”

  “Nah, they might break.”

  “What am I supposed to do, cuddle them tonight? I do need to sleep, you know?” Suddenly I see Carlos did me a favor. “Hold on.” I grab my jewelry case and slip it into the bottom, pack my perfume bottles around it, and then toss a couple of T-shirts on top. “There. It’s nice and padded.”

  My teeth dig into the side of my cheek, suppressing the grin threatening to sell me out. I’ll leave that box open so when he returns on Sunday, he will see his stuff is still inside. Unless a miracle happens and he finds ambition, who knows when he will discover I have repacked the bottom with things he just saw in the Goodwill bags. Meanwhile, I will have shipped the valuables inside to Darla. Given Carlos’s laziness, it may be weeks before he catches on.

  I further ensure him not uncovering the truth before I am ready. “Be sure to put the one you use most on top incase I don’t have time to unpack right away.” Undoubtedly, that wording has him thinking if he doesn’t touch that box, I will eventually deal with it for him. There is no way he will even look at it now.

  Carlos nods and finishes. “Anything else you need me to do?”

  I suppress the urge to tell him lying on train tracks sounds like something he might find cozy. “Just help me move the dressers out a few feet.”

  The creep has the nerve to cross his arms and oscillate his head like I am an ignorant woman. “Baby, that will pin them against the bed, and you won’t be able to get into all of the drawers.”

  Aw, how cute is it for once Carlos was smart enough to determine the obvious? I continue the charade by smacking my forehead with my palm. “You’re right. We should flip them.” Midway to a dresser, I detour for another box. “Better yet, let’s toss a few things into boxes so we don’t have to flip the dressers.”

  Carlos moans, and we each pull out some essentials. Now he has no reason to get into the drawers, which he will come to appreciate once I muster the strength to push the faces together. First though, I’ll swap out the clothes I want to keep for some of the Goodwill ones. If he does try to move those dressers, he won’t notice a weight difference. However, I’m betting he will be too lazy to even nudge them until he absolutely has to. It may be months until he understands the depths of my plan.

  “Can I please go now?” he asks.

  Oh, yes. For the love of God, please leave.

  I finish selling my plan by snuggling up to him with downturned eyes. “Okay” sighs out fueled by how much I don’t want to deal with the volume of work ahead of me. “I was hoping you’d change your mind. I really did myself in when I took on this project.” I peer up like an innocent doe and stop myself short of batting my lashes. This performance makes every cell in my body want to hurl.

  Carlos fails to offer a word of support. Instead, he slips his hand around the base of my neck, gently tugging my hair while pulling my body against his. When his tongue slips into my mouth, it is hard to fight off a knee-jerk reaction that would send his balls into his throat.

  He pulls away and damn, his dark eyes are soft and locked on mine. An outsider would be jealous of the adoration expressed in his glance, but this victim knows the score. With another kiss to my forehead, he leaves me behind, swooning as convincingly as he is.

  When Carlos returns, he will find this place even more chaotic, further disguising my escape plan. Soon after, I am LA bound!

  Going To Chicago

  DALE

  Life is sweet!

  My butt plops into the desk chair. As much as I am dying to spread the word the deal I have sweated over closed, I take a moment to loft my feet onto the desk and catch a breath of victory.

  What is that sound I hear? Is it the cha-ching of a cash register saying a sizable deposit is about to hit my bank account? With this deal done, maybe I can finally get home.

  My head falls back for another deep breath of success. It helps clear the clutter that has amassed, making not only my vision seem brighter but the reality of my surroundings clear. Am I really in someone’s office, or did I fall into a vortex and land in a kid’s bedroom? Awards, framed memorabilia, and photos of sports figures are prominent throughout. While their professional mounting and framing make them look like a museum display, something about them feels childlike.

  When my eyes hit the desk, they lock on a message that has my blood halting. Not only has the framed photo of a kid holding a football trophy been moved dead into the middle, the teal feather sitting before it commands my attention. Just like when I was drawn into the record store, the feather feels like a message to look deeper. My eyes get sucked into the photo, uncovering a sad reality.

  Until now, I thought a guy who loved sports, as did his son, inhabited this office, but the details tell the real story. In the background looms a woman wearing a bright red dress with shoulder pads so high they almost make her neck disappear. Her bangs are curled and sprayed nearly straight up. This photo screams it was taken in the nineteen eighties, and the name on the trophy reveals the little boy is Mark Peck, the man whose office I sit in. Now that I am paying attention, I notice the framed jersey hanging behind the desk is teenager-sized and sports his name. This office is not only his second home, it is a shrine to himself.

  My glow of victory fades. There are no photos in my office. Not a single one of myself or anyone else. Does that make me more, or less, tragic than a man whose only photos are of his childhood? Does it mean I am hopeful my glory days are to come, or am I afraid to admit they have passed? Today was a glory day. Surely this feather is a signal to relish it.

  Richard Yimora, the Head of Sales for this division, dashes past my door and into his office. His nose is almost pressed to his laptop as he single-handedly types. Without the slightest pause to make sure he is not about to land on his butt, he spins and plops into hi
s chair, nose still down, fingers still flying. He’s even able to slide his chair in without missing a stroke. Is that how I look to the outside world? Like a mechanized being?

  The tension in his eyes and his stern brow show he is living under a veil of paranoia, as he well should be. Everyone knows his ax is about to fall. If I can fix his team’s messes, all while keeping my own team afloat, he and I should not be considered peers.

  I also haven’t a clue why they are running me ragged while BJ Potter, the VP of Sales, is plopped in a chair all day. If anyone should be coming to the rescue, it’s him. Not only does he get a cut of everybody else’s hard work, his salary means he doesn’t have to be a slave to commission. Maybe that salary is why he doesn’t seem to care Richard and his team are failing. Is that why BJ feels it is okay to head off to a retreat today with the other big wigs while we peons slave our lives away?

  I take a good, long look at the feather before tucking it into my briefcase. Thankfully, my work here is done. As I grab my coat so I can head to the hotel and pack up for home, my cell phone rings a distinctive chime that locks my feet. After what I pulled off, Walter, our CEO, is likely sending congratulations. However, the last time he called to thank me, I was also told I was only going to be home for two days before getting shipped off again. With my luck, he’s calling to say they are firing Richard and I am stuck here until they find a replacement. If I ignore the call, maybe I can make it home long enough to remember why I still pay rent.

  Against all logic and reason, just as I have seconds before the call goes to voicemail, I answer.

  “Dale!” Walter says. “Glad I caught you. Congrats on closing the Racer deal. Hey, do me a small favor, and pop by corporate on your way home.”

  Chicago? Crap. I’ve got to leave Toronto for Chicago instead of going home? I cannot get stuck there. I promised Mom I’d be over for dinner on Sunday, just like I have promised for weeks.

  Well, it’s Monday. There is no reason why I can’t make it back by then.