“This is amazing! Thank you, Miles!” She put the bracelet around her wrist, then hugged him, her new/old jewelry jingling.
Then Miles handed her another small box. Inside was a new charm, shaped like the state of Florida, engraved with the date they first met outside Kensington High.
Jennifer attached it to the bracelet, saying, “You know, if someone sees this—my mother—and asks what it means…?”
“Go ahead and tell her.” Miles was tired of lying—at least the lies that weren’t necessary.
#
Arriving at the warehouse, Miles heard the unmistakable voice of Juan’s father lecturing his son about girls: how having your heart broken could make you sad, make you feel like you couldn’t go on. But you didn’t feel sad forever. You didn’t allow that to happen. Because other things were also important. Your work. Your family. And that Juan would find another girl to love—one who would love him back.
Mr. Arroyo believed Juan was depressed over a girl because that’s what Miles had told him.
But Mr. Arroyo’s patience had reached an end. “Le dices,” Juan’s father angrily ordered Miles when he saw him in the doorway. You tell him—then stormed off.
Miles walked slowly to where Juan remained standing with his head down.
The food trucks had been brought inside, shiny and clean after being washed outside in the cold winter night.
“Es malo,” Juan said, his tone low and despondent. It’s bad.
Miles continued the conversation in Spanish, “It gets better.”
“Cuando?”
“It doesn’t matter when. It just does. And you want to be here, with your father when that happens. Not in prison.”
“I can’t stop thinking—”
“It gets better,” Miles insisted sharply, wanting Juan to believe that—leaving out how the dark thoughts would never go away. “And you need to get your head straight to deal with what’s coming.”
#
“It’s a good tree.” George Peterson admired. “Wonderful shape to it. And that really nice pine scent.”
Lights strung on the tree reflected softly across the living room along with the warm glow cast by small logs burning in the fireplace. Christmas music—the standards Miles’ father preferred—played on a music channel on TV.
George had been pleasantly surprised to find the tree already in a stand by the side window when he came home. And was even more surprised to learn of Miles’ and Cara’s trip to a tree farm. But he hadn’t asked about Cara other than how she was doing and had not commented about her not being home again tonight. Instead, he talked about his week away, seeming more confident than Miles ever remembered—saying he wished he’d worked for this company years ago.
As Andy Williams sang about it being the most wonderful time of the year, Miles and his father began decorating the tree. The ornaments, brought from their house in Florida, briefly reminded Miles of being a little boy. But those memories receded, pushed away by the present.
Miles said, “There’s some stuff going on at school. What that cop was here about last month. There’s going to be a school board hearing about what happened. And a lot of us are going to get subpoenas to testify.”
“Do you need a lawyer?”
Miles sensed the financial wheels turning inside his dad’s head—how much another round of legal woes might cost. “No. No lawyer.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“When’s this hearing going to be?”
“The end of January, I think.”
“All right, well, let’s see how it goes. In the meantime, any reason this should keep us from having a nice Christmas?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” His father carefully placed a more delicate ornament. “Maybe we’ll get some snow.”
#
Cara was face down on a bed in a nice hotel room in Bethesda, with another hard penis inside her and four-hundred dollars already on the dresser.
She hadn't said anything about a price to this latest guy and he hadn't asked how much. He hadn't said much so far, just asked her to take off her clothes and lay on the bed—and she'd thought at that moment how he'd gotten it grammatically correct that she should lay on the bed, not lie on it. In a few more seconds she would lie—pretending she was having an orgasm once he started to come and his ejaculate shot into the condom she'd watched him put on.
And then he'd leave and she'd take another of those pills Wendy gave her—maybe two.
42.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Cara’s head felt hazy as it sometimes did after taking those pills.
She thought about the customer from last night—already forgetting his face—wondering if it had been worth it to him to give her $400 in addition to paying for the room she’d spent the night in. Was that better than masturbation?
In Amsterdam, she’d once asked Danique a similar question, trying to understand the sex-for-money arrangement from the man’s point-of-view. Danique said she generally didn’t spend much time considering what went on in men’s minds, the same as not considering the thoughts of apes caged in the zoo— an opinion Cara hadn’t expected. “I thought you liked men,” she’d said. To which Danique shrugged: “I do. But I’m also disappointed in them.”
Cara ordered breakfast from room service but didn't eat much of it. Her appetite had changed, which perhaps also was because of the pills, but she'd lost a few pounds which she thought was good.
Standing at the hotel room window, Cara considered going for a walk, but Christmas was everywhere. All the decorations. Everyone hurrying to do last-minute shopping. Restaurants opening in anticipation of busy lunch and dinner services. Metro running extended hours.
But none of that was for her. Tonight, Danny Valentine would meet her here, and pay her for whatever he wanted to do. And then she would go home and try to forget tomorrow was Christmas—maybe pretend Christmas was still a month away and she'd decorated early, not late, and in a month maybe something would have happened and she'd have Ian back.
She thought that way to combat the anxiety of how quickly she'd fallen into this life—what she often considered as darkness, then would tell herself that was not an accurate word. It wasn't darkness, but necessity, or so she rationalized, when she recognized the truth was that she'd done very little to resist this choice when Wendy Jordan had presented it to her. She'd been shocked at first, not by the actual offer but that she'd felt exposed—that somehow Wendy had read her mind and knew about her past, not appreciating Wendy wasn’t a mind reader, just someone very good at picking out people who could be used.
The day drifted by. Cara left the room just long enough for housekeeping to change the sheets and towels and clean the bathroom, time she spent in the lounge off the lobby with a glass of wine. Back in her freshened room, she watched TV, dozed in and out of sleep, then got ready for Valentine.
He arrived not long after dusk. She opened the door to find him smiling expectantly, holding a bouquet of cut flowers adorned with tiny bells that jingled when he shook them. He wore a tweed blazer, pale-blue shirt, corduroy pants, and smelled of pleasant cologne or body spray or whatever they sold these days to men with the suggestion it would make women succumb. His little boy cheeks were rosy red from the cold, his dark hair neatly combed, his face smoothly shaven.
“Very pretty,” Cara said of the flowers, and they were. But she would have said that anyway—her mind already in gear to please him. Her red robe was belted strategically at the waist to let Valentine know she wore nothing underneath. So whenever he wanted, he could undo the belt—and there she’d be.
An hour later, Valentine was finished. Dressed again in his corduroys and tweed, he was heading for the door when Cara asked: “Didn’t you get me anything?” She’d wanted to say get me anything for Christmas, but the word wouldn’t come out.
Valentine gave her a playful look, as if unsure what she was talking about. Then, as if just remembering, he sa
id, “You mean your money?”
“No,” she replied sweetly. “My present.”
He pretended to be puzzled: What could she be talking about? Which Cara knew meant he wanted her to tease him a little. And maybe if she did that well enough, he’d get hard again. And pay her more.
So she unbelted the robe, let it fall to the floor. Then glided to him, touching his chest, whispering into his ear, “I know you already gave me those…” Nodding toward the jingle bell flowers. “…and this…” Her hand glided across his crotch, which was showing renewed signs of life. “But what about my other present?”
He whispered back: “You mean your money?” The thought of buying her always stirred him, and Cara felt the hard urge rising inside him, wanting her to say, Yes, the money, the money you give me to fuck you.
So she said it. Which was what Valentine needed to hear before telling her he was a cop.
43.
It was a lonely Christmas for Miles and his father.
Even though there wasn’t any reason to get up early—the years of unbounded anticipation of what Santa might bring now well in the distant past—they were still downstairs by eight a.m. Miles cooked breakfast while his father got a fire going in the fireplace.
Last Christmas, the murder charges had still been fresh in their minds—the horror of it having pressed against them for so long they’d been unable to feel much more than relief, so they’d only pretended to enjoy the day. Their focus had been on leaving Florida, looking for a new place to live where people wouldn’t whisper about them in supermarkets.
Through it all, George Peterson never once blamed Miles. That had been his mother’s role. But she wasn’t around now—although in some ways it seemed as if she never had been, as if it was more natural for it just to be Miles and his dad.
Standing contentedly before the fireplace and their decorated tree, Miles’ father said, “I always wanted a fire on Christmas morning. It never seemed right for it to be so warm on Christmas. To have the air conditioning on.” After a moment, he shifted positions to look out the window. “Looks like Cara still isn’t home. I was hoping we’d all have dinner together tonight. Got to be tough on her without Ian.”
“I imagine so,” Miles said, concealing his concern over not knowing where Cara had been for the past two days.
An hour later, Miles grabbed his phone when a text hit. But it wasn’t Cara.
It was Jennifer, sending a picture of a Christmas card that featured a winking Santa sipping a mint julep on a plantation-style front porch. Santa was on the phone to Mrs. Claus saying he was working late at the office. That gets howls down here, Jennifer texted.
Wanting to hear her voice, Miles called her. He could tell she was having a good time with her family despite her protests to the contrary, listing each of her relatives by name and her primary complaint about them. “Mostly, though,” she said, “I miss you. I’m sorry I’m not there.”
“Me, too. And I miss you back.” Which was true.
“I’m wearing your bracelet,” she said.
“I’ll be wearing your scarf.”
“Later then,” she said.
“Yep.”
And then she said, “Love you.”
And he said, “Love you, too.” Which didn’t feel like a lie—and maybe wasn’t. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
#
Back downstairs, Miles and his dad exchanged presents. There was rechargeable battery pack for George’s power tools; and a flannel shirt, because even though Miles couldn’t get used to seeing his dad dressed like that, he seemed to like the new look. There was also a Buffalo Bills coffee mug for when his father accepted that promotion, which Miles was certain he would—or should.
Miles unwrapped a gasoline gift card; a long-sleeved fishing shirt like the one he used to wear as a mate on charters; and a pair of deck shoes.
By early afternoon, with Cara still not home, George suggested that instead of Miles cooking dinner they could do what one of his new friends at work called a “Jewish Christmas.” He explained, “It’s what Jerry’s family have done since he was a kid. They go to the movies, then get carry-out Chinese food.”
Miles said it sounded good to him.
With George wearing his new flannel shirt and Miles’ jacket collar wrapped in the scarf from Jennifer, they headed out, texting Cara an invitation if she wanted to join up. They never heard from her.
44.
Cara called Wendy Jordan for almost 36 hours. Called and texted—again and again. Leaving panicked messages.
Afraid to leave the hotel room, Cara lost track of time. She paced. Pulled at her hair. Screamed into a pillow. Took those pills to try to subdue the anxiety, then took more when she threw them up. Slept—or passed out. Then repeated the sequence.
Her messages to Wendy repeated the same facts: Danny Valentine was a cop. He wanted a thousand dollars a week or he was going to lock her up for being a whore. And warned she’d better pay him. And better not tell anyone. Because if he arrested her, she could forever say goodbye to seeing her son again.
How Valentine knew about Ian, Cara didn’t know. But it terrified her. He also said she’d go to jail for years. And did she know what happened to whores like her in prison?
His baby face had turned hard and sadistic saying that. He’d liked it even more when she ended up on her knees—pleading with him, trying to explain that she couldn’t afford to pay him that. She didn’t make that kind of money. His response had been: then she’d better fuck more, because she was going to pay him—$1,000 a week.
The day after Christmas, Cara somehow made it home. She was in her driveway, in her car with the engine running. She had little memory of leaving the hotel. Of driving. It felt as if she was outside her body, except she could feel herself shaking. And she was weak. Very weak.
Her car door opened. Had she done that? Then she saw: Miles. He was talking, but she didn’t hear the words.
He got her out of the car, put her in his arms and carried her to the side door. “You’re okay,” he said. She could hear him now. “You’re going to be okay.”
#
Debra Vance had been determined to use her day off to get back to those study materials for the Sergeant’s Exam. But she kept picking up the old book about Paris walking tours Miles had given her. For the better part of the morning she went back and forth between study and reverie. Then Miles called. It excited her seeing his name on her phone.
“Merry Christmas,” she answered, even though it was the day after.
“Merry Christmas,” Miles echoed, but it was not a happy greeting.
Something was wrong. She asked, “What’s going on?”
“Do you know a county cop named Danny Valentine?”
45.
“Are you sure about this?” Cara’s voice was barely audible. She was with Miles in his truck, crossing the Key Bridge into Arlington from Georgetown, heading to a place Miles had scouted.
Cara was exhausted, her nerves frayed. She’d finally eaten something last night—scrambled eggs and toast Miles made for her—but hadn’t been able to sleep and only made it through the night by keeping her window open and hearing Miles’ voice whenever she called his name. “I’m here,” he’d whispered from his own bedroom. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of it.” She didn’t know what he meant by that, but she believed him.
Now, crossing the river into Virginia, Miles turned into the Marriott parking garage, continuing around back to the covered deck where he backed into an empty corner space away from the walkway to the hotel.
Cara sat with her arms crossed and legs together, her down coat zipped to its collar, a fleece cap tugged toward her eyes.
“You don’t have to tell her about any other men,” Miles said. “Or about Wendy. Just Valentine. And don’t say anything about his paying you. Just tell her about the blackmail.”
Cara stared straight ahead, whispered, “I don’t want any of this to be happening.”
Miles reached for her hand.
Fifteen minutes later, the little Honda Fit entered the heavily-shaded parking level and stopped near Miles’ truck. Debra Vance got out. She wore jeans and an inexpensive dark parka that accentuated her small frame, its hem—intended to fall to mid-thigh—touching her knees.
Cara started shaking again. “I can’t do this.”
#
A bad actor. That’s how Debra Vance described Danny Valentine. Not literally a bad actor in the theatrical sense. But a fraud, a bad person—bad cop.
Valentine was rumored to have ended up in vice because he supposedly had so many of his own. He ran up debts in casinos. Cheated on his wife—who’d once filed for a protective order but failed to show in court, later claiming she’d overreacted and been drinking herself. Valentine had also been investigated for having sex with informants and threatening defense attorneys—but none of that ever stuck. And maybe wasn’t true.
“Word is he’s got friends all over the department,” Vance said. “Including Internal Affairs.” She stood alongside Miles’ truck, peering across at Cara Blakely who, so far, hadn’t said anything. Miles had done all the talking, providing little more than what he’d said over the phone: that Valentine wanted Blakely to pay him $1,000 a week or he was going to arrest her. For what, Miles hadn’t yet said.
Vance had a difficult time speculating what crime the woman may have committed. Nor could she imagine how Miles had become her confidante and—apparently—spokesperson.
“In a perfect world,” Vance said, “you’d go to Internal Affairs. But Valentine’s friends could get word to him what’s happening before any meaningful investigation can begin.” Vance paused, distracted by how Cara Blakely started to move her hand, as if about to reach for Miles.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 19