I eye the stack of files on my desk. "I really should say yes since my boyfriend has bailed on our Friday date night again, but I have to admit I'm exhausted. It's been a whirlwind of a week, and I have a mountain of case files to review before Monday."
She lets out an exasperated sighs. “I understand, but we haven't been out in forever. Your job has kidnapped you."
I sigh too. "I know. Sorry. I promise that after a few days, I should be back on track. Plus, Laura said she’s going to take me out next week for my birthday, so maybe we can make it a group thing."
"Okay." I hear the disappointment in her voice.
"I love you." I blow a kiss into the phone.
"Never as much as I love you. Please call or text me this weekend."
We hang up after agreeing to text over the weekend, and with me promising I won't disappear on her again. I lay my phone on the desk, slump in my chair, and open my email to find thirty-nine unread messages. I really don't want to be doing this on a Friday evening.
After turning the computer off and grabbing the stack of case files and my purse, I lock up behind me on my way out.
• • • •
At home, I run a bath and fetch a book from the bedroom. I started reading it over two months ago, and I haven't touched it in weeks. Despite wanting to devour every page, I haven't had much time to myself lately. Remembering that I still need to read the letter my mom gave to me this morning, I run downstairs to the entryway, where I left my purse. I reach in, anticipating the letter to be at the top, but I don't feel it. Digging down farther inside, it’s not there either.
I turn the light on, hoping I can see it, but it’s not there. Flipping my purse over, I dump the contents on the floor. Nothing. I’m puzzled. "What did I do with it?"
I often speak out loud to myself, which happens to be one thing that gets under Rich's skin, so I try not to do it when he's around.
I gather the contents spread out on the floor and put them back in the purse. Trying to think of all of the places I've been to today―almost too many to think of—I realize that I might have dropped it on the plane or maybe in the car. I’m certain I stuffed it down farther into my purse after Rich noticed it peeking out though. Remembering I'm running water for a bath, I rush back to the bathroom. I turn the water off and return to the bedroom to grab the book and my cellphone.
The water feels amazing, and I instantly start to relax. I press three on my cell phone.
"Hi, Ames," my mom answers, but her voice sounds hoarse.
"Are you all right? You don't sound like yourself."
"I think it's a cold."
"Do you want me to come over? I can bring you some soup or medicine."
"No, Ames. I'm fine. Thanks anyway. I have some honey I can take."
After a bit of back and forth, she confesses she knew about my new car and Rich taking me to the island. She tells me that she spoke with Julie to plan our vacation. While detailing our four-day cruise to Baja Mexico next Thursday through Sunday, she adds that the girls’ weekend has now turned into a family weekend since she thought it would be nice to invite my brother and sister's family along. I smile in response. We haven't spent a whole lot of time together in a while, so it will be nice. She also called Rich to see if these dates would work for him, but he told her he’s unsure at the moment. He thinks he may have to go to England sometime in the next couple of weeks. This is the first I hear about it.
"I'll talk to him, Mom. We'll work it out," I console her.
After a bit more chatter, we get ready to say goodbye. "Did you read your letter yet?"
I hesitate to tell her I can't find it. I don't want to sound like I was careless. But before I can even think of how to respond, I blurt, "I haven't yet. I think I dropped it on Rich's plane this afternoon. I plan to get it first thing in the morning."
She's silent for a minute. "Oh, all right."
Why didn’t I tell her I hadn't read it yet? Why couldn't my mouth wait for my brain to function before opening up and speaking? I try to think on my feet. "I love you, Mom. I hope you feel better," I say, attempting to divert her attention.
"I love you too, Ames. Call me this weekend."
After hanging up, I lay my head back and start to read.
I’m woken by the sound of the front door closing downstairs. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I see it’s eleven-thirty-five. I hit the drain with my foot and get out of the tub. After wrapping my robe around me, I head downstairs to find Rich rummaging through the fridge.
"Did I wake you?" he asks without turning around.
“Yes, but I’m glad you did.” He pops a few blueberries into his mouth. "Would you like me to make you something to eat? I can cook you an omelet."
He shakes his head. "I want to take a shower and get to bed. It's been a long day," he murmurs.
"Yeah, you're home late."
"It's a long story. The guys from England are proposing something I'm not sure I want to be a part of."
"That's too bad. You seem to have established a good relationship with them over the past couple of years."
"I know. And that's part of the problem," he says, pressing his lips together, looking annoyed. "Let's get to bed." I lace my arm into his. We turn off the lights while making our way upstairs. “You know it is still Friday," I say, looking up at him suggestively.
He grins. "Give me a few minutes to shower, and I'll be right there."
I lie in bed listening to the sound of the water, and it practically lulls me to sleep. Rich finally comes into the bedroom and lies down next to me. "I'm exhausted, babe. Do you think we could take a rain check until tomorrow?" he asks, turning off the bedside light.
"Of course," I respond with too little energy to argue.
Wrapping an arm around him, I push up against his back and lightly kiss his shoulder. He takes my hand in his, and we drift off to sleep.
Chapter Two
Saturday
April 13, 2013
7:18 a.m.
Rolling over, I notice Rich’s side of the bed is empty.
Stretching my arms over my head, I contemplate sleeping for a bit longer, but suddenly my bladder starts screaming. I push back the covers and sit on the edge of the bed, while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
When I exit the bathroom I can smell coffee, and immediately start to feel awake. I walk downstairs toward the kitchen, wondering if Rich left any coffee for me. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear muffled voices coming from the home office.
As I draw closer, I notice the door closed. He never closes the door unless he’s in a meeting or on a teleconference. I look out the living room window to see if there’s anyone here besides Rich, but only my new car and his SUV are in the driveway.
I tiptoe over to the door and put my ear up to it, hoping to make out some words. "I'm not going to do it," Rich says in a much angrier tone than I've ever heard him use. "I don't care. You're not going to do this to me and my business." Then I hear the sound of the telephone being slammed down. It makes my insides jump. My feet are glued in place, and I’m unsure of what to do next. If I stay in this spot, he'll open the door and see I’ve been eavesdropping.
My brain finally wakes my feet up from under me, and I start toward the kitchen just when Rich opens the door. "Good morning," he says, and it sounds more like a question than a statement.
I smile. "Good morning," I respond, trying not to let him see my concern for what I overheard. "Did you make some coffee?"
"Yes, and I left you a cup. I have to head out in a few. The guys from England are leaving today, and I have to meet with them before they go," he says from behind me.
“Is everything all right?"
There’s a pause. "It will be," he says, huffing.
I turn around when I remember that I, too, have something to do this morning. "Can I get William's phone number?"
Rich furrows his brow and tilts his head to the side. "William, my pilot? Why do you need his number?"
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"I think I may have dropped the letter my mom gave me yesterday on the plane. I thought it was in my purse, but I can't find it."
"That's… too bad," he says after a long pause. "I can call William on my way into work to see if he found it."
"That would be perfect. Thank you."
Twenty minutes later, he kisses me on the forehead and rushes out the door after I remind him to call me as soon as he speaks to William.
• • • •
Three hours pass, and I have yet to hear from Rich. Growing anxious, I text him: Hate to bother you, but have you called William yet?
I put my phone down and continue looking over the case files, sitting in the lounge chair by the pool. My stomach growls and I realize I haven't eaten breakfast yet. I gather the stack of files and go inside to make some eggs and bacon.
While eating, I run over everything I need to do this weekend. Remembering that I never returned my accountant’s call from yesterday, I dial Roger’s number.
"Amy, good to hear from you," he answers, after just one ring.
"Hi, Roger. Sorry I never called you back."
"Not to worry. How is everything?"
"Good, I guess. Does it look like I'll be able to keep the firm alive for another year?" I joke.
"I'd like to hope so. I don't plan to retire for another ten years," he shoots back, and I hear the smile in his voice.
"Do you think we should file for an extension?"
"I do, Amy. With the change in ownership within the past year, I think we need a bit more time to get everything together."
"That works for me. Let me know what you need from me, all right?"
"I will. Congratulations on the big win. I know that was probably your biggest case. You sure are making your dad proud."
"Thanks, Roger. That means a lot coming from you."
"Are you home or at your office? I need to fax over some paperwork for you to sign, and I need to do so today since the deadline for the extension is tomorrow."
"You can fax it to my home office number."
“I’ll do that right now. You just need to sign the first page and fax it back to me.”
"Thank you. I couldn't manage without you."
"You're welcome. Take care of yourself. Talk to you soon.”
I hang up, thinking how great a relationship my dad and Roger had. He was my dad's accountant from the first day he opened up the firm. My dad had many long-term relationships, friendships, and connections which really benefited his career. I could only hope for the same.
I check my phone to see if Rich texted back, but he hasn't. He must be in a meeting. I hope it's going well. This morning's phone call didn't sound so great. The stress of his successful—but demanding—business has put a damper on our relationship. Not that he meant for it to, it just does. We don't get to spend time together as we once did, and when we do, it’s always disrupted by phone calls, texts, and emails. I get that he doesn't work a Monday through Friday, nine to five job, but I don't think he anticipated his business would ever become this demanding.
Hearing the fax machine, I go to the office and grab the papers as they come through. Looking around for a pen, I don’t find one. I rummage through the drawers of my desk unsuccessfully. "Why do I lose everything lately?"
Searching Rich’s desk, I still come up empty-handed. I open a drawer and feel inside, hoping to find a pen—or even a pencil at this point—but find neither. Opening another drawer, I pull too hard, and all of its contents fall to the floor. Defeated, I plop myself down, thinking Rich will be upset that I created a mess of his impeccable organization. All off a sudden, something catches my eye. It's a cellphone. Similar to one I had in college—it’s simple flip phone, not nearly as fancy as the iPhone. Flipping it open, I see TracFone written below the screen. Isn't a TracFone a prepaid cellphone?
My curiosity is peaked so I press a button. It must have some charge left because it powers up and the home screen appears. Unsure of what I'm looking for, I push a series of buttons, and one pulls up a screen of text messages. Clicking the first one in the list, I immediately freeze. My whole body goes numb for a second, and then fires back up. I scroll through the long list of messages.
Outgoing Message: Meet you at the restaurant at 7 tonight.
Incoming Message: Where have you been? Call me, I miss you.
Incoming Message: You’re the sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on.
Outgoing message: I can't wait to kiss every inch of your body.
I rub my hand across my face and shake my head. This can't be happening. My stomach hurts, and I can't get myself to scroll to another message. These texts have to be from before we were together. That would make the most sense. I look for dates and find, February 14, 2012. My heart drops, and a lump forms in my throat. That is not an old message. That’s about three months before my dad passed away. This cannot be Rich's phone. It can't be. I run through countless reasons why he would have it. Maybe one of his friends gave it to him to hold onto for some odd reason? Nervous, I feel guilty for rummaging through his belongings.
I put the contents from his desk back into the drawer, but hold on to the phone, unwilling to let go of it. After quickly placing it in my pocket, I slide the drawer back into the desk. Worried Rich will walk in and see me sitting on the floor by his desk, I jump to my feet and go to the door. Remembering that I never signed the papers Roger needs, I turn around. As I do, I notice a pen lying right by the fax machine. I sign the first page and fax it back.
I run upstairs and shut the door to the bedroom behind me. In a panic, I go over to the closet and hide the phone under clothes stacked on the top shelf. Deciding that I need to get out of the house, I grab my cell phone and keys, and rush out the front door.
• • • •
I don't know where I'm headed, but I've been driving south on the highway for over an hour when my phone chimes. Pulling off at the next exit, I find the nearest gas station. I take out my phone. There’s a text from Rich: Talked to William. He checked the plane and your letter isn't there. I should be home in a couple of hours.
I rest my head against the headrest. Should I come out and ask him about it? Should I try to find out more information before confronting him in case I'm jumping to conclusions? I dial Laura's number, but it only rings until her voicemail picks up.
Looking around, I realize that I'm not even sure how I got here. It appears to be a small town, and close by is a beach and the ocean. There’s a bar and grill off the beach, aside from a few shops. Thinking that they might have outside seating where I could have a drink and gather my thoughts, I cross the street and park.
Glancing at the front door to see if the place is open since it looks dark inside, I read the hours posted: 11:00 am to 1:00 am Monday thru Sunday.
I walk in and I’m greeted by the hostess. "Welcome to the Love Shack. I'm Izzy. Would you like a table or a seat at the bar?" I ask to sit outside. "Of course ma'am, all of our tables are outdoors," she responds in high-pitched, overly cheerful tone. Did she call me ma'am? I understand she's young―maybe pushing seventeen―but do I really look old enough to be called ma'am? She walks me through the bar area where the bartender chats with customers. He briefly looks my way and nods.
"Is this table good for you, ma’am?"
"Yes, this is perfect. Thank you.”
"Ana will be right over to take your order," she says, placing the menu on the table in front of me.
This place is beautiful. It sits right off of the beach, overlooking the ocean. And in the distance there’s a lighthouse. I’m surprised to see not many people on the beach—there are only maybe ten or so, and they aren't even dressed in bathing suits. In the near distance there are rows of white wooden chairs facing the ocean, and an archway is draped in red silk fabric. It must be for a wedding. If there was a perfect place to get married, this would be it.
I'm interrupted. "Hi, I'm Ana, and I’ll be your waitress for today. Welcome to the Love Shack. Can I ge
t you a drink while you look at the menu?" She has the same high-pitched, overly cheerful tone that the hostess did. Wondering if that’s a requirement to work here, I inwardly giggle to myself.
"Yes, please. May I have a red raspberry martini with Chambord?"
"Of course."
When she returns with my drink, she takes my order. Grabbing my cell phone out of my bag, I dial Tracy's number. I really need a friend right now, someone who can talk some sense into me. The line rings, and when her voicemail picks up I leave her a message: "I was really hoping you would answer, please call me."
Not more than ten minutes later, the waitress returns with my food. "This place is beautiful," I remark.
"Yes, ma'am. It is." Did she call me ma'am as well? What a crappy day this has turned out to be. "I've been working here for a year now and really love it. Many of my friends work here too. Everyone is really nice. We often host events and parties. We’re hosting that wedding this evening. There’s going to be over two hundred guests so it should be a good night for tips."
"That's great," I say, thinking that she gave me more information than I bargained for.
Taking a bite out of my salad, that’s her cue to walk away. "Let me know if you need anything," she says, before turning and heading back inside.
After finishing my salad and drink, I pay the tab and head back through the bar. This is exactly the kind of place I needed to help clear my head. Izzy opens the door for me. "Thank you for visiting the Love Shack. We hope you plan to return soon. Have a nice day, ma'am." My skin crawls.
I rush out and head back to my car, thinking that I have to make an appointment to see my stylist soon. My gray hairs must be showing.
• • • •
Once I’m back in San Francisco, I have no desire to go home so I decide to do some shopping instead. Shopping is always my best friend when my real friends are busy—actually, anytime is a good time for retail therapy. And while out, hopefully Tracy or Laura will call me back. I don't want to be home with Rich when they do. As I exit the car, my phone dings. It’s an incoming text message from Rich: I just got home, where are you?
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