by SE Reynolds
Enigma Rose
A Novel
S.E. Reynolds
Copyright © 2021 S.E. Reynolds (alias)
All rights reserved
ISBN: 9781639444120
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Sometimes you reflect on your past at different moments in your present, and if you are a writer, those moments come flooding through in understatements or exaggerations and land on blank pages. If you read this book, you will think the author has mommy issues. Who doesn't? One thing I know for sure is my mother loved us with all of her heart, fought for us with every fiber in her being, protected us the best way she knew how, and provided for us every day. Thank you, Mom, for believing in me and supporting me through this new adventure. I love you more than any adjective can describe.
Sometimes you think that being a parent is a one-way street, always giving and never getting anything in return; until one day, you make a promise to yourself to do something big, like write a novel. But before you finish the first paragraph, you start to doubt yourself and are ready to break that promise you made. Then, the child you just fought with yesterday asks, "how's the book coming?" At that moment, you know you are not allowed to quit. Thank you, Jacob, for holding me accountable, even if you didn’t realize it. I love you, my littlest cutie.
Sometimes you meet someone at just the right time in your life, but you don’t realize it until one day, you are writing a dedication for your very first novel. Bill, you read every word I wrote and pushed me to do better. I still have a lot of room for improvement, but I do believe I am a better writer because of you. Thank you for giving me the right amount of space and the right amount of attention to finish this book without killing you or me. I love you; you are my best friend.
Prologue
"How many lovers did you have before me, Rose?"
"I'm not sure I'd call them lovers, Joshua."
"What would you call them?"
"Hmm, I'd call them fuckers. Yes, I'd call them fuckers."
"Stop it, Rose, seriously!"
"I'm serious. I'd have to love them to call them lovers. I didn't love them, but I liked fucking them. Well, some anyway."
"What would you call me, Rose?"
"What would you call me, Joshua?"
"I asked you first."
"I'm not going to tell you until you tell me first."
"Fine, I'd call you my lover, Rose."
"I knew you'd say that, Frat Boy."
"Your turn, Rose. What would you call me, lover, fucker? Tell me!"
"Fine. I'd call you…Joshua."
"That's not one of the choices, Rose. It's not funny! Stop laughing at me!"
"You're so gullible, Frat Boy; you give yourself away too easily. It'll get you into trouble one day."
"You're the only trouble I ever want, Rose."
Part 1
Enigma Rose
Chapter 1
"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program with grim news coming out of Fairview, Virginia. Hi, I'm Leon Holtz. Jennifer London is live. Jennifer?"
"Thanks, Leon. I'm outside the upscale, gated community of Fairmont Estates. At approximately 12:45 p.m. today, a 9-1-1 call was made from one of the residences inside this community. The 9-1-1 caller said a woman was in distress and unresponsive. Sources tell Channel 4 News when paramedics arrived, they attempted CPR but couldn’t revive the woman. We don’t have the details of who the woman was or what caused her death, but we do know the residence belongs to Mayor Joshua Steadman and his wife. We've made calls to the mayor's office, but there has been no response. It's Saturday, Leon, so no one is around Fairview City Hall today. Again, we don't know who the woman was or what led to her death. It's all a bit of a mystery, Leon. We will let you and our Channel 4 viewers know as soon as we do. Back to you, Leon."
"Thank you, Jennifer. The Steadman family has been good friends to our Channel 4 family throughout the years. You may recall the mayor's first wife, Melissa, led Channel 4's No Child Will Go Hungry Campaign. Melissa lost her battle with cancer two years ago. Our prayers are with the mayor and his family. We will now return you to your regularly scheduled program."
Chapter 2 – Virginia
“Gasp! What did I do? What did I do? Oh no! Where is it?”
I search under my pillow and in between my damp sheets, but it's not there. I lean over my bed and sweep the floor with my hand, back and forth, back and forth. Finally, I feel it, and not a moment too soon, as burning acid fills my throat. I grab my phone, push myself up, and lean against my headboard, waiting for the burning lava to flow back to my empty stomach. I stare at my phone as beads of sweat seep through my pores, forming a film of moisture all over my body. It's time for the dreaded reveal. Well, it's not really a reveal; I have a foggy memory of what I did. I open my messages, and the one I sent Harry before I crashed last night is still open.
Sometimes I just wanna choke u til ur eyes pop out of ur head like Panic Pete.
Have you gone mad? Go to bed; you're drunk. Quit harassing me. I'm going to block you if you don't stop.
No u won't. How can we coparent if you block me? Robert deserves a father that's not a scum bag like you.
Go to bed, Virginia. I'm not doing this with you anymore.
Fuck u Harry.
Well, it's not too terrible; it could be worse. I should apologize again, but he won't accept it, not like he did the first one hundred times I sent him texts like these. He used to respond to my I'm sorry, I'm just dealing with a lot of shit text with an, it's okay, I know I've hurt you, but I still love you text. No, not anymore. Now he just ignores them and me, so I behave for a while. Eventually, he silently forgives me or accepts me for what he turned me into, a pipe bomb that will eventually go nuclear.
I guess that’s what I get for trying to be civil last night when Harry dropped Robert off for the week. I opened the door and saw Robert standing on top of the stairs staring at his shoes, holding a piece of rolling luggage with his backpack slung over one arm.
"Hi, Mom," Robert said and immediately turned to his dad, "Bye, Dad."
"You grew an inch in a week, Cutie," I said, patting his shoulder as he walked by me and went straight upstairs to his room.
Robert is fourteen and still has a couple more years to grow. According to Dr. Sparks, the used-to-be brain surgeon turned into daytime talk show host, a child will be at least as tall as the shortest parent. If Robert grows anymore, he can thank me for it. Harry is short for a man, five-feet-eight without his lifts, but he's handsome regardless of his height. His eyes are deep-sea blue, and his once pre-mature gray hair that plagued him as a teenager now makes him look like a real distinguished Englishman. Yes, it's his Britishness that got to me. He resembles a mature Hugh Grant, lean and neatly fitted in his smart sports jacket and matching pants or trousers, as he likes to call them. He has a way of sounding like Prince Charles during the day and Ringo Starr in the evening after a bit of wine.
I was two glasses into a dry pinot grigio when Harry and Robert arrived, and my journey to numbing relaxation started. Harry remained at the bottom of the front porch holding a Nike shoe bag.
"I took Robert to get new trainers last weekend. He's saving them for the sprin
g basketball season," he said while avoiding my eyes.
I went downstairs and took the shoes from Harry's hand, and, in a rare moment, I felt sorry for him. He looked bewildered as if the reality of us finally settled in. So, trying to establish some kind of normalcy between us, I invited him in for a glass of wine.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"For fuck's sake, Harry, it's just a glass of wine."
"Hey, that's my line," he said as he climbed the stairs into my townhouse.
Living with a Brit for fifteen years, I couldn't help but adopt some of his expressions like for fucks sake, bloody hell, and that's bollocks. I find them more cuttingly amusing than the usual Jesus Christ, what the hell, or that's bullshit. The crude little English sayings came in handy when I wanted to soften Harry up after one of our fights.
I followed Harry's eyes as he stood in the foyer, scanning the room.
"Is that new?" he asked, pointing to the Italian countryside painting that hangs over my couch.
"Not really; I bought it when I first moved in."
"It's nice."
"Thanks. I like it. So, what will it be, white or red?"
"Huh?"
"White or red, Harry, the wine?"
"Oh, shoot, I'm sorry, Virginia, I forgot I ordered a pizza for myself. I need to pick it up."
"Okay, have at it then."
I couldn't let Harry escape that easily, so I followed him out the door and down the front steps to his car.
"You didn't order a pizza."
"I didn't? How do you know?"
"You can't stomach the fact that I bought that painting."
"What? I don't care about your bloody painting."
"Yes, you do. You hate that I have my own house with my own things that I picked out without any influence from you."
"Don't flatter yourself, Virginia. I really don't care."
"Yes, you do, or you would've come inside and had a fucking glass of wine."
"Listen, I know you really want me to care still, but I don't. There was a time, a very brief time, I did. In fact, I was devastated, but as time went on and you moved on decorating your house and buying your fucking painting, I realized something. Virginia Barnes, you are a drama queen. You overreact about trivial things and made my life miserable."
"Trivial things? You call everything I found, everything I witnessed, almost on a daily basis, trivial?"
"I'm done having this conversation with you because I don't want you to make a fool out of yourself in front of your neighbors. Go inside, Virginia, and be a mother."
"Oh, you are good, Harry, twisting and turning things around as if all this is my fault, my overreaction. You shouldn't have given me reasons to overreact."
"Look at yourself, Virginia. You need help. You have turned into a bitter woman, a lonely bitter woman."
"Go fuck yourself, Harry. Get out of here. Go get your imaginary pizza and choke on it."
I turned away from Harry and saw Robert looking down at me from his bedroom window. I took a deep breath and retreated inside the house to the kitchen and to the cold bottle of pinot grigio that was waiting for me in the refrigerator. I poured a full glass this time, got comfortable on my couch, and turned on the evening news. Harry hated the local news. He'd complain about the news anchor's fake expressions and their forced looks of concern after reporting a child was missing. He especially hated the fake chuckles they made after the weatherman told one of his silly G-rated jokes.
"Some seasons are cold, and summer hot, Doreen," Bob said, trying not to crack a smile until Doreen chuckled. Then he would chuckle, and I would chuckle.
Doreen and Bob make me feel safe and welcomed. It's like coming home from school and seeing your parents calming gestures and hearing their comforting words. Last night, after the banter between Doreen and Bob subsided, Doreen quickly altered her playful expression with one of a concerned mother’s.
"It's with heavy hearts today we say goodbye to a lovely woman and friend to all of us at Channel 4, Melissa Steadman, wife of Fairview Mayor Joshua Steadman. Melissa lost her battle with cancer yesterday. She was well known in the community for organizing Channel 4's No Child Will Go Hungry Campaign."
While Doreen continued, a video played of Melissa and the mayor sitting on top of a parade float adorned in every symbol that represents small-town America. A giant paper-mâché apple pie lie on the bed of a truck. Protruding from the center of the pie was a grand American flag. It must have been the Fourth of July, but the year unknown. Melissa was holding onto Joshua's arm while whispering something into his ear. Melissa, looking vibrant and almost child-like, was waving to families lined up along manicured sidewalks. She looked very innocent and young with her white curls draped down below her shoulders.
The camera loved her as it zoomed in so close, cutting out her husband, and revealing her steel blue eyes, so clear and sober. She had a Farrah Fawcett smile but much more genuine; her eyes smiled. She worked the crowd by mouthing greetings to her fans. Thanks for coming out, great to see you today. She was a natural-born politician's wife. And as for the mayor, he was her physical equal. He was college-boy handsome, with a very 1950's businessman's haircut, short and parted on the side. His brown hair was receding, but he still had plenty of time before a horseshoe would take shape on his head. He had an intense grin that caused his eyes to crease, making it impossible to see the color. The mayor seemed well versed in the politician salutes; the thumbs up, the finger pointing to the crowd as if he was saying to them, hey, I know you, and I want you to know I'm noticing you. You are special to me. You couldn't deny his charisma, but my eyes couldn’t leave Melissa.
Did you know, Melissa, when you were riding high on the float, a tumor was growing inside you? Did you have your lowest of lows imagining your own death, crying over your impending physical transformation from a beautiful, envied first lady to a pale, hairless, androgynous cancer victim? I can't imagine she knew. She looked too happy, carefree, alive, and a woman in love. Doreen continued, carefully forming her sympathetic words.
"Melissa is survived by her husband, Joshua, and their son, Josh Junior. In lieu of flowers, the family is asking for donations to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society."
I immediately thought of Robert and the loss he feels every day. His idea of parents died; the unit of us died in Robert's eyes. And now, he's the one that has to mourn and adjust his life, all because Harry couldn't behave, couldn't be decent.
"Fuck you, Harry! I will make sure my son is raised to be respectable like the mayor on the float."
I turned off the TV and poured myself another glass of wine. I don't remember going to bed last night, but I did, and unfortunately, I woke up.
Chapter 3 – Joshua
"Hi, JJ, it's Dad. I'm on my way home. I left the city hall a few minutes ago. Going to stop by the grocery store, so I should be walking in the door around six. Make sure your room is cleaned up and let Mimi know. I tried to call her, but there's no answer. I bet she didn't turn her phone on again. We need to retrain Mimi on how to use a cell phone. Be there soon, bye."
Driving back from my office to my home on Farmer Court, allows me time to change out of character. The traffic in and around the Beltway adds twenty minutes to a drive that should take ten. Still, it gives me enough time to evolve from a respected mayor of a small city to a grieving widower raising my fifteen-year-old son. I feel a sense of loss transitioning from mayor to dad. I should be racing to get back to JJ, yearning to see my son, but my son is not a baby, and I'm not his mother. Guys aren't built that way, but I shouldn't feel like I'm in a funeral procession heading towards a grave site every time I drive home. I should be anxious to see how his day was, listening to him talk about his friends at school or telling me the stupid thing he did to get him into detention. But JJ isn't your typical teenage boy; he is different. He needs constant guidance, a routine, a doting parent. If it weren't for Melissa's mom, Mimi, I would've had to quit my job after Melissa's death. I wouldn't know wha
t to do with myself. I couldn't be just JJ's dad.
Josh Junior and I aren't close like he and Melissa were. She affectionately called him JJ. I preferred Junior, but Melissa thought it sounded like one of those deep-south, banjo strumming river dwellers from the movie Deliverance. JJ was the love of Melissa's life. She had a special bond with JJ that I didn't have. He was a beautiful child, almost too beautiful. A perfect little Hitler Youth, I'd jokingly say to Melissa, but she didn't find it funny. He definitely is his mother's son with her blond angel curls and silver-blue eyes. When JJ was a little boy, I'd watch him sleep and listen to his breathing. It was calming to me, and I had moments where I really felt like his dad and not some stranger that bothered him and his mom. But when JJ was awake, he was all on all day. He couldn't sit still or stay focused on the simplest puzzle. He would get frustrated and throw the pieces all around the room. Sometimes Melissa would just hug him, squeezing him tight, trying to draw some energy out of him. Finally, he would slowly collapse in her arms. I could feel the blood rush to my face trying not to snap at the kid. “What the fuck, JJ” has exploded out of my mouth too many times. I trained myself to leave the room, go outside, let them be. I'd sneak out of the house guiltily every morning before our miniature tornado woke up and returned when JJ was tired out by a full day brought to him by Melissa.
JJ was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder when he was three. Melissa insisted on homeschooling him so he wouldn't be subjected to the rigid classroom environment born in the public school system. She knew he'd become the unpopular kid once his classmates realized he was different or just plain annoying. He'd be the kid every teacher dreaded to have in their class, the kid that needed meds to keep him in line. Instead of listening to a teacher drone on about the evolution of a meal bug, Melissa would take JJ to the backyard and dig up dirt on a rainy day so that he could see meal bugs in their natural habitat. She allowed him to pick up the meal bug, throw it, and then splash in mud puddles. I admired her for that.