by Nella Tyler
Dexter smiled. “He’s coming over for dinner, right?”
“Yeah, do we have any hot sauce?”
“Of course.” Dexter and my father both adored hot sauce on everything, and I’d learned to ignore how bizarre it was that they couldn’t just enjoy food without setting fire to their mouths.
I heard a knock at the door and let my father in. He was smiling; he did a lot of smiling lately, now that he was having better luck with his company. Well, it wasn’t luck; he’d employed someone who would work tirelessly to make sure that everything ran smoothly.
“Is Dexter in the kitchen?” Dad asked.
“In here!” Dexter called, having only heard his name.
We followed him into the kitchen, and my dad shook his head. “The man’s worked all day, Briella!”
“So have I!”
“So has she!” We both exclaimed at the same time. We grinned at one another, and my
father laughed heartily at the situation.
“I like cooking.”
“That’s why I keep you around,” I informed him.
“You don’t find men who work that hard anymore,” Dad said. “You just don’t. I could hire 10 men and I bet they couldn’t do the job he does.”
“I know. He’s incredible.”
“I’m right here!”
“We’re complimenting you,” I retorted, and swatted his shoulder.
We had yet another phenomenal dinner. Dad could never seem to heap enough praise on Dexter’s shoulders, and no matter how much he heaped, Dexter never seemed to fully understand or feel that he deserved it. I talked to him late at night sometimes about how he still felt like he’d abandoned someone, left something behind. Mason Investment had hit the shitter since he quit, and his father had appointed Tyler as his successor. People started pulling their funding; no one wanted to go to the firm.
Tyler, of course, delighted in it. He did everything he could to make sure that people knew exactly what the successor to the Mason throne was spending his money on. He got to party all the time while bringing ruin to the family name.
Leonard Mason was alive, of course, still in Florida. Dexter hadn’t spoken to him since that fateful night two years ago when he’d quit his job. Sometimes I thought to bring it up, but it didn’t seem like we needed to. We were away from it all.
This was enough.
After dinner, I decided to do the dishes, just so I wouldn’t feel like Dexter was overworking himself. Dexter still stood beside me at the sink, and I noticed him making a lot of eye contact with my father.
“Are you making fun of me or something?” I asked him.
Dexter shook his head. “No, there’s… there’s something I have to tell you.”
I expected him to have something to say about his father or the corporation. Every day I feared he’d wake up and realize what he’d walked out on. “Oh. Um, yeah, sure.” I set down one of the dishes. “All ears.”
He cleared his throat rather formally, like he might start giving a speech. Dad was sitting down at the table with a grin on his face. This all felt rather strange.
“I love you, Briella. I’ve loved you since I saw you at The Amelie two years and some months ago. After watching our relationship grow, and after seeing you prove again and again to be the only woman I could ever be with, I only have one thing to ask of you.” Dexter knelt down, and I couldn’t understand.
He withdrew a ring box from his pocket and popped it open. “Will you plan one more wedding? For us?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and instantly looked at my father. He was grinning, sitting up in his chair.
“My dad’s here,” was all I could think to say.
“I knew he had to be,” Dexter said.
I nearly cried at how considerate he was. I didn’t know what to say. I would need to get a different place, and we would certainly need to start looking at caterers now before the prices went up in the spring.
“Don’t leave the man hanging!” Dad exclaimed.
I shook my head and shrieked a laugh, jumping up and down slightly to contain my enthusiasm. “Oh my God, yes!” Didn’t that go without saying? “Of course, yes!”
He slid the ring onto my finger—I hadn’t even gotten a good look at it yet in all the excitement, but I had the feeling he’d probably consulted Nina about it. He pulled me in for a hug, and I wrapped my arms around him, smiling madly.
Everything in the world had changed since the day that I met him. But now, it finally felt like I could go home.
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SINGLE MOM’S PROTECTOR
By Nella Tyler
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Nella Tyler
Chapter 1
The dilapidated train depot sheltered only a few passengers, most of whom looked homeless.
If one looked carefully, it was possible to see still the remnants of how the building looked in its heyday. The ceiling was a series of wooden arches, birds’ nests, and spiders resting at their junctures with the paneled walls. The railroad had given up painting some decades before, giving the interior a legitimate shabby look.
The wood floors were chipped by years of dragged luggage, and snow-packed boots had caused it to warp. Perhaps the most overwhelming impression was the energy emanating from its walls. They’d witnessed soldiers leaving mothers and girlfriends as they went off to war. There were reunions of aging siblings returning home to bury their mother, and the children who were sent off to grandparents for the summer. The sun had long dried the window shades meant to block the late western sun, and the massive casement windows no longer opened to air out the smell of coal and human waste released in steam along the tracks.
Gilda, a slightly-built woman in her early twenties, huddled in her oversized coat as she waited on one of the long wooden benches. She clutched her son Carson, just fifteen-months-old. She pushed the strands of her strawberry-blonde hair impatiently over her shoulder as Carson fought to climb off her lap and try his newly discovered toddling legs across the expanse of scarred wood floors.
“Stay put now, Carson,” she pleaded in a musical voice with a southern drawl. She was tired and anxious to get some sleep once they were aboard the train.
As Carson wailed his disapproval, she blindly sought his bottle of juice in her oversized purse. She heard the train whistle in the near distance. “Amtrak 428 bound for New York City now arriving at Gate 12. Please present your tickets and prepare to board shortly,” came an anonymous voice over the public address system. The sound echoed in the almost deserted interior, sending shivers through those who waited. In her mind, Gilda likened it to the sound of the last train out of hell.
She rose awkwardly, trying to balance Carson with his bottle on one hip, her purse over her shoulder, and the belt used to lash together the boxes and single suitcase she’d brought with them. The box on top, bearing the pressure of the belt, was threatening to burst open. Gilda herself was ready to burst into tears. It had been a traumatic two days, and she while she dreaded their destination, she knew their safety depended upon it.
“Need some help?” A man’s voice came from the bench behind her. “Looks like the little guy is a handful. How ‘bout I handle your luggage for you and free you up?”
Gilda looked over her shoulder and saw a middle-aged, slightly paunchy man with glasses smiling at her. He looked like a husband some woman was trying to forget. She tried to subdue her initial reaction of fear at a man’s voice, but then reminded herself quickly that he wasn’t Scott. He was just a strange man offering her help at a time when she could sincerely use it.
“The name’s Barry… Barry Milton.
I know you probably were taught not to talk to strangers, but in this case, I think you need help and we’re in public. I’m boarding the same train as you. I can even show you identification if you like.”
Gilda immediately felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not used to trusting people I don’t know.” Or people I do know, for that matter, she thought to herself. “Yeah, if you could help with our baggage, it would be wonderful.”
Barry relief at being trusted triggered a tiny alarm in Gilda’s head. Why is he surprised I’m trusting him? she asked herself.
Just then, Carson let out yet another wail and she knew he was tired and unlikely to be the least bit cooperative. She decided to gamble and nodded to Barry.
He smiled and came forward, grabbing up the bundled luggage and boxes and motioning to her to precede him. The train had pulled in and the doors to the passenger cars thrown open. Holding Carson tightly to her chest, despite his wailing, Gilda ascended steps and looked over her shoulder to see Barry immediately behind her.
She found two adjoining seats and gratefully lowered Carson into one and then turned to take her luggage from Barry. “Thank you for your help,” she told him and pushed the bundle ahead of Carson’s seat to fill the gap between rows. She watched nervously as Barry took a seat on the aisle just one row behind them, giving him an excellent vantage point from which to watch over them.
The conductor came to collect her tickets as she fashioned a bed from her coat and a pillow pulled from the overhead compartment. Carson was far too lively to lie in a carrier at his young age. She, on the other hand, was so tired she had begun to shake.
“You go ahead and catch some z’s,” she heard Barry urge her from behind. “I’ll keep an eye on the little fellow.”
Gilda panicked and realized she had set herself up by accepting his offer of help. She had never developed her sense of streetwise skills; there had always been Scott to look after her…until he became the enemy.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She pulled Carson into her lap and wrapped her coat over the both of them, reclining her seat a bit so he could lie upon her at an incline. To her relief, he settled down quickly and fell asleep just after the train lurched away from the platform.
Looping her purse over her shoulder, she pushed its thickness between her cheek and the edge of her seat, forming a rough cushion. She felt sure that should anyone attempt to disturb her baby or her purse, she would wake instantly. She let the motion of the car moving over the track rock her to sleep.
Gilda awakened slowly, trying to recover her memory and determine her whereabouts. Her ear hurt from something poking into it and she wiped away the dab of drool from the corner of her lax mouth. Suddenly, she sat upright as she realized Carson was no longer with her!
She spun around in terror and saw Carson sitting back against Barry’s arm, his bottle in his mouth and contentedly happy. Panicked, Gilda flew out of her seat and snatched Carson, shooting a glare at Barry for his efforts.
He was startled by her mother-bear attack. “I’m sorry, but the little guy was hungry. You were out and didn’t wake up when he started crying. He was trying to climb down, so I thought I’d better hold him.” The words poured from Barry’s mouth in frantic explanation, and two older ladies in the seats directly across the aisle both stared and nodded in confirmation.
Gilda felt her heart racing as she realized that Barry had gotten into her bag to find the bottle for the baby. She also realized that it must have appeared to everyone who watched that they were traveling together, otherwise someone would have stopped him. She instantly felt her boundaries had been violated, and putting Carson over her shoulder, she staggered back to her seat in the rolling car.
She felt she had to be careful, though. She didn’t want to anger Barry — it could provoke him. “I’m sorry. It just scared me, that’s all,” she explained and quickly sat down, pulled her hair over one shoulder, and tried not to look at anyone. Barry said nothing more and she assumed she’d probably hurt his feelings.
Good. Then maybe he’ll leave us alone, she thought to herself. Maybe he’s not as vengeful as Scott.
She finished Carson’s feeding and then changed his diaper before sitting him on her lap, giving him a toy to keep his interest. She could feel Barry’s eyes on her actions, and it made her feel ill. Gilda shifted her position, causing her shoulder to block Barry’s view. She knew from experience she’d have to be subtle; too overt of a reaction could trigger his anger and she’d have to pay for it.
Gilda checked her watch and looked out the window at the buildings seeming to fly by. Her new life would begin in under an hour and she intended never to look back.
New York City is a darn good place to get lost, she reasoned, and that’s precisely what she intended to do.
Chapter 2
Gilda found an inexpensive hotel room for the night and made Carson a temporary bed in one of the dresser drawers. She carefully locked, bolted, and slid the chain on the door, rubbing her arms to comfort herself. It felt so lonely and frightening to be on her own. She simply wasn’t used to it.
Carson dropped off to sleep immediately, worn out from his journey. She had given him the last bottle and now had to plan her next move. Leaving Scott had been a sudden decision, even though she’d been thinking about it for some time. She hadn’t expected her opportunity to come so quickly.
She had married Scott Sawyer one summer afternoon beneath the big oak tree in the courthouse square. She had just graduated school as a nursing assistant and was still living at home to save on expenses. Her mama had stood by, a frown of disapproval on her face, but Gilda was over the age of consent and it was her decision. Her mama had muttered something about, “Tying herself to a boat anchor,” and walked away afterward.
Scott worked at the lumberyard in town, considered by many to be a pretty stable job since building had skyrocketed with the creation of a new Toyota plant on the edge of town. He hadn’t made it through graduation from Brownsboro High School, where she and Scott had met. Half the time he was sleeping one off, and the rest of the time he was flirting with the teachers. One day, Scott just stopped showing up for roll call and Gilda knew he wouldn’t come back.
He did, however, come by Gilda’s house in his rusted red pickup. He cruised by in the evenings, tapping his horn and hooting her name until the neighbors flipped on porch lights and Gilda would have to run out to quiet him down. He always demanded a kiss and a pinch of her nipple before he’d leave — and Gilda always let him have it.
Eventually, Scott got more demanding and Gilda would climb in and go for rides out to the Halden farm. It had been empty since Old Lady Halden died, leaving it to her daughter who lived out west. He knew how to jimmy open the door and he’d take Gilda inside and into Old Lady Halden’s bedroom, the one with the mahogany platform bed, covered with dust and the bodily fluids of Scott’s earlier conquests. Gilda, naturally shy, would stand next to the bed, shaking her head in protest as he urged her to lie down.
Scott seemed patient at first, but one afternoon when a storm was raging outside, he pulled her to stand on the bed. As she quivered in the rainy darkness of the cool room, he pulled a jackknife from his pocket and slid it slowly up the inside of her leg, beneath the cotton skirt she’d sewn for herself on the old treadle sewing machine. She was frightened and spread her legs to avoid being cut.
He came to the apex of her thighs and slid the narrow blade between the crotch of her panties and her tender flesh. With a sudden snap, he slit the crotch open and the silky fabric fell backward, opening her to his view. Grinning as the scent of her virginal purity drifted over him, he pushed his middle finger into her. Gilda had panicked, trying to push him away, but he still held the knife and its blade reflected the flashes of lightning outside the window.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered.
Gilda’s knees had wobbled, but she complied.
Scott let the knife drop to the floor as he pulled her, opened and read
y, down onto him. He opened his pants and freed his bulging member, planting her upon him. She let out a tiny scream, but he quickly slapped his hand over her mouth, the smell of her juices on his fingertips. When she didn’t rock enough to keep him stimulated, he rolled her over and mounted her from the back, blood dripping from her virgin’s tissue onto the filthy, faded blanket.
That began the regular visits to the Halden place and the nightmarish cycle of demands Scott placed upon her almost nightly. He left her sore and raw — even bloody at times. When she had her cycle, Scott slapped her across the face, hard, and entered her anally.
When Gilda began missing her cycle, she said nothing, but he knew. By the time she was sick in the mornings, he had made up his mind. He wasn’t going to share her.
She had cried for a church wedding, but the best he would agree to was the courthouse yard and her mother in attendance. Gilda thought she deserved this; she thought it was normal.
Carson was born, and before Gilda was fully healed, Scott climbed her two or three times each night. She knew her mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help her, so she began saving money. It was slow; the stray dollar bill in the clothes dryer at the laundromat, the dimes she found in his pants pocket or in the cushions of the sofa. She did a little babysitting while he was at work or ran errands for tips. From time to time, when Scott came home one drink shy of unconscious, she slid a few bills from his pants pocket, knowing he never stayed sober long enough to keep count.
By the time Carson had passed his first birthday, she had managed to accumulate nearly two-thousand dollars. For that extra margin, she sold the pearl ring her granny had left for her.
Scott had come home for lunch drunk again. He was angry over some slight by the management at the lumberyard. He had been especially rough with her that afternoon, slapping her and threatening to carve off a nipple if she couldn’t make his drink-sodden penis hard. She worked at it and trembled at his threats because he had been known to carry out the worst of them. At one point, he swung his arm far back and hit her, knocking not only her to the floor, but himself, as well. He hit his head on the edge of the bed frame and blood poured from the wound.