by Evy Journey
“Yes”
“Did they come back together for dinner?”
“No; not together. But Mr. Barrett has. He’s a regular.”
“Was he alone or with someone else?
“I think with someone else. With his family once, for sure. Other times he came with another man or another woman.”
“Did you talk to him those other times?”
I shake my head.
“When was the second time you talked to him?”
“About a month ago, at a coffee shop.”
“A couple of weeks after the stabbing incident. Was that a date?” Up to this point, the lieutenant has kept his deadpan face. But this time, I notice a flicker in his eyes; a flicker, maybe of greater interest.
His question irritates me, though. “No, I didn’t even know he was going to be there. My friend Marcia, the pastry chef here, arranged it without telling me.”
I proceed to tell him more about the meeting at the coffee shop, again in as much detail as I can remember. I make it clear that I told Leon to turn his attention elsewhere. I don’t know why but I wanted the lieutenant to understand that.
When I finish, I say, “Will they have to call him as a witness?”
The lieutenant ignores my question. “He’s been sending you flowers for weeks but you’ve only really talked once.”
His remark irritates me all over again. “I’ve no time to see anyone. This work keeps me very busy and often exhausted. Who knows—maybe Mr. Barrett’s family owns flower shops.”
“You never asked him to stop?”
“Stop what?”
“The flowers.”
“I was going to but Marcia said not to bother so long as I didn’t take them seriously. She knows him quite well, you see. So, I just let them come, thinking he’d soon get tired sending them. Besides, they’re really nice. I don’t get too many nice things like that.”
“Did you tell Miss Silva about the flowers?”
“I didn’t have to. It seems Mr. Barrett told her about them. She says that’s also how he let her know he was interested in her.”
“How many times did he have to send them before Miss Silva agreed to go out with him?
“You have to ask Cristi but I think not many at all.”
“Hmm,” he says and, unexpectedly, he answers the question which he previously ignored. “The DA decides if he needs Leon Barrett as a witness to argue his case. I think he’d rather not bring him into this if he could help it. Mr. Barrett isn’t a stranger to these proceedings. He was in a case like this three years ago. Normally, these cases don’t hit the papers but he’s from old money, handsome, pursued by many women; so there was more press attention than is usual for such cases. The DA wants to prevent the media feeding frenzy that came with that trial.”
“Never heard of the trial. Too busy. When I get home, all I can think of is sleep. What’s it about, anyway?”
“Mr. Barrett, as you may know, is known to run around with quite a lot of women, most of them not from rich families but working women. This particular young woman stabbed herself in the stomach and claimed he did it. As in Miss Silva’s case, Leon Barrett had broken up with her. Her motive, though, was revenge. It went nowhere. Some evidence didn’t add up. Plus her lawyer was no match for what the Barretts could buy. She later admitted she lied. The case was dismissed.”
“That’s dumb—getting revenge that way. She could have died.”
Lieutenant Hansen says, his eyes clouded by his knitted brow. “She could have. Luckily, she didn’t. She sustained a fairly serious injury. But I’ve seen worse things. Much worse. You never know what people can do in desperation.
He gets up and extends his hand. “Thank you again for answering my questions.” Then, he leaves the room.
I follow him out the door, wondering what “worse” things Lieutenant Hansen has seen in his job. He intrigues me in a way quite different from the way Leon does. It must be those eyes that speak of a tortured soul he can’t hide even when he smiles, which I’ve only seen him do twice. I get a strange urge to turn him around, kiss that sadness out of his eyes.
As if he read my thoughts, he turns toward me and gives me an unexpectedly bright smile. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Regine. Maybe, we’ll meet again under happier circumstances.”
Before I can reply, he’s briskly walking away and out the door of the restaurant. I smile and say to myself, “I’d like that Lieutenant Hansen.”
Why he called me Regine, I can’t say. I’ve always insisted on being called Gina.
10
My hope that Leon won’t bother me again is dashed the following Tuesday. I’m getting ready to go home to my parents when the bell rings. I look through the peephole in my door and I see red. Nothing but red. I’m tempted to pretend I’m not home because I know what it means. But my curiosity gets the better of me. Besides, those flowers are beautiful.
So, I open the door and Leon’s chauffeur hands me a huge bouquet of red roses and thrusts an envelope in my hand. This time, the roses exude a heady whiff of fragrance.
But I shake my head. “Take them back, please. Tell Mr. Barrett no offense, but I can’t accept them.”
The chauffeur says, “My instructions are to leave them by your door no matter what. I think it’s best to take them, Miss. It’ll be such a waste. These roses are so beautiful and so fragrant.”
I relent a little. “I’ll have the roses, but not the envelope.”
“I told you, my instructions are to leave them by the door, flowers AND envelope. Why not just accept it, Miss? You don’t have to read it.”
“You’re right,” I say as I snatch the envelope from his hand and tear it and its contents to pieces. “There. Now you can tell your master you delivered both flowers and envelope.”
The chauffeur says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to tear it, Miss.”
“It’s been given to me. It’s mine so I can do as I please with it,” I say, grinning at him.
He shrugs and adds, “Yeah, but I know Leon. Ah well! See you again tomorrow, Miss Lambert.”
He means it. On Wednesday morning a few minutes before I leave for work, the doorbell rings and I see red through the peephole. Again. The chauffeur grins and says, “Good morning, Miss Lambert. Good to see you again.” He thrusts flowers and envelope at me, gives me a slight bow, and turns on his heels.
Since then, he’s been flashing that amused grin at me, the same time, day after day. My actions don’t vary: I scowl at him, take the flowers and shred the envelope in the same dramatic fashion.
A week later, I decide all that drama is lost on the dutiful, loyal chauffeur. So, I say thank you and take both flowers and envelope. Until the following Tuesday. When he hands me both, the chauffeur says, “Leon says he’ll stop sending these if you read the letter.”
“But how does he know I’m not reading the letter?”
“Don’t know, Miss. Why don’t you just read it? Maybe something in it’ll tell you how come he knows you’re not reading it.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling defeated. “I just want him to stop bugging me.”
The letter is handwritten. I didn’t expect that.
It’s actually pretty touching, knowing that he took the time and effort to write me a letter by hand. Who does that anymore?
As I begin to read, I can’t help wondering if this particular letter says the same thing previous ones did. For a moment, regret nips at me. I’ll never know what’s in those earlier letters since I threw them away as soon as I closed the door on the chauffeur.
In the letter, Leon says he’s staying away on the advice of his lawyer. And he’ll stay away until the battery charge against Cristi is either resolved in court or settled. Like me, he thinks she doesn’t belong in prison. Maybe, we can work together to help her.
He wants to do what he can, short of paying for her defense, which will only attract needless attention. In any case,
Cristi is getting Elise Thorpe, a smart lawyer from the public defender’s office,—a lady well-versed on women’s issues.
If I agree to work together, I should call his lawyer. We’ll talk only through him. Leon leaves a phone number.
I can’t think of a reason not to work with Leon to help Cristi through his lawyer; so I dial the number.
“Hello,” a familiar voice answers.
Even on the telephone, I’d recognize that voice. I’m puzzled and I hesitate, but I also become aware that my heart is thumping louder in my chest and my hand is clutching my cell phone tighter.
“Gina, please don’t hang up,” Leon says.
“You tricked me. Like that time at the coffeehouse with you and Marcia.”
“Forgive me. I just wanted to hear your voice. It will be a long time before I hear it again.”
“Does this lawyer even exist?”
“He does, actually. I can give you his name if you really want to know.”
“Not really. Will you stop sending me those flowers, then?”
“Yes. Scout’s honor.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to it.”
“May I say one more thing before you hang up?”
“What?”
In a tender voice, he says, “I want you to know I can be patient. For me, this whole Cristi affair doesn’t change anything. I’m still in love with you.”
I should remind Leon that I don’t want to get involved, but I’m at a loss for words. He does make my chest flutter. And how often does someone like me attract a man like him?
Leon is not really my idea of the type of man who excites me. To me, Lieutenant Hansen is that man—tall like Leon, lean but taut with muscles beneath his shirt, strong features that reflect torments you can’t even guess at, especially in his eyes. He intrigues me. I want to look deep into his soul, but I’m afraid he won’t make that easy. Leon is beautiful, with fine features and the polished air of someone who’s been catered to all his life. You don’t have to look too deeply to know what he is. He doesn’t belong in my world. But Leon also knows exactly what to say. How to say it. And when.
Leon is waiting for me to speak. Matching his gentle tone, I say, “What am I supposed to say, Leon? I’ve no control over how you feel.”
“I don’t expect you to say anything. Not now. I just wanted you to know. Goodbye for now, my sweet dream.” He hangs up and the excitement in my body slowly ebbs into disappointment.
I wonder: Am I capable of what Marcia half-jokingly suggested—go out with Leon, have fun, and don’t expect anything more serious. Then, I’ll never have to wonder again what it’s like dating someone rich and sophisticated, someone like no one I’ve ever met.
11
Marcia nudges my arm. I’m slicing golden beets for a salad we’re serving as first course in this evening’s tasting menu. “Come on, let’s go take a break. I’m dying from the heat in here.”
“Go, then. Don’t wait for me. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
“No. I know how you can forget time when you’re working. A few minutes to you can mean a half hour. Come on. I need company. Those beets are done, anyway.”
I put the beets in a bowl, rinse my hands and wipe them on my apron. I follow Marcia out the back door. She sits at one end of a pile of empty crates we’ve turned upside down.
“Give me a minute. I’d like to return a call I got about an hour ago.”
“Who from?” Marcia says.
“Cristi’s lawyer, I think, from the contact info.”
I call the number; a recording answers. I leave a message about a good time to call me back.
“No answer?” Marcia says.
I shake my head as I sit next to her. I stretch my legs out, a position I find relaxing.
“Have you met her yet?”
“No.” I scowl, feeling weary of Cristi’s problems. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Marcia points to a couple of girls walking by, headphones in their ears and cell phones in their hands. “I think you and I are the only ones who come out to relax here without those thingies in our ears.”
“Most people like to relax to music,” I say.
“No, that’s not it. They tune out, like those girls are tuning out, not only from the world around them, but also from each other. I think those thingies are their way of telling others not to bother them. People are such pathetic loners. I’m a pathetic loner.”
“But you and I have each other. We’re very good friends and we talk. Not like those two.”
“You’re a pathetic loner, too. We talk, but only during break. The only time you and I did something together outside these breaks was when I set you up with Leon. Deviously, I admit.”
“This work keeps us too busy, or too tired for anything else.”
“That’s what I mean.” Marcia heaves a sigh, long and deep, and deliberately dramatic. “I need something else in my life.”
“Don’t you have other friends?”
“Not here. In Oregon, yes. Did I tell you I left a boyfriend there to work for Laure here?”
“No. What was he like?”
“Sweet, real sweet. But he married a former rival three months after I left. I think he became too lonely. Maybe he was getting back at me for leaving.”
We’re both silent, sobered by how our choices have plunged us into pathetic loneliness. Marcia turns to me. “I need a replacement. Can you introduce me to that brooding detective who came here a couple of weeks ago? He looks like he can use some loving; some of my pastries, too.”
“You saw him?”
“Yeah, nosy friend that I am. My cakes were in the oven; so I peeked in on you in Laure’s office.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“No, you couldn’t. You two seemed deep in conversation. You wouldn’t have budged if someone shouted ‘fire.’”
“Well, he was asking questions and I needed to jog my memory to answer him truthfully.”
“Was that it? You looked more like lovers having an intimate conversation,” she says, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
I shake my head in protest. “It’s those chairs by Laure’s desk. They’re placed right next to each other.” I’m conscious of how lame my explanation sounds. Am I denying what she seems to be implying because there’s a seed of truth in it? With the detective’s long legs, we were sitting knee-to-knee. I gave him my full attention and I’m quite sure he gave me his.
“That’s it, I’m sure, those chairs.” She gives the hand on my lap a gentle squeeze. “Anyway, if you choose Leon over this brooding hunk, can you introduce me to him?”
“But how? The detective and I aren't friends, not even acquaintances. I see him only when he has questions to ask me for his investigation.”
“I’ll come up with a plan. How about you invent an excuse to see him in his office and I go with you?”
“But what excuse?”
“I’ll help you think of something.”
Frowning, I say, “You think Lieutenant Hansen is attractive? He’s a bit rough around the edges.”
“Honey, that’s part of what makes him hot. The other is his brooding face. That mouth! I could swallow that lower lip whole. Slightly open from disgust; or could it be from suffering? I’d like to know what’s going on in that head of his.”
“You just might have the chance if you come up with another devious plan.”
“Oh yes, I’m a master of devious machinations. I’m not planning one, though.”
I smile but I’m uneasy.
Marcia says, “You still have a lot to work out, don’t you? The haute cuisine trade can gobble you up, and Cristi’s case is a bitch. Isn’t she getting on your nerves?”
I chuckle, “Yes. The case is getting tiresome.”
“For me, too. Do you sometimes wish you could see Leon, talk to him?”
“Not really. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. He does make my heart go
thump, thump when I see him. He’s quite delicious to look at.”
“He is that, especially with all that moolah. But you’re keeping things cool. Bravo! That way, you don’t get your heart broken.”
That evening, as I’m sinking into sleep, I mull over my conversation with Marcia. Her probing, telescopic gaze misses very little. And she’s frank, at least with those she counts as friends. It’s a precious trait in a friend you confide in, like I do in Marcia. I prefer the truth to lies, even when truth is devastating. Lies meant to protect me can actually hurt in the end.
I’ve disclosed my innermost thoughts to Marcia and she knows the big and little scrapes I’ve gotten myself into. But have I been honest enough with her? How honest can you be with another if you’re not honest with yourself first? Like everyone else, I have doubts and I don’t always get why I act the way I do. Or, maybe, I know why but I refuse to see it.
What did Marcia expect me to tell her about Leon or Lieutenant Hansen? And how can she be attracted to the detective when they haven’t talked at all? True, her keen eyes saw his brooding nature right away. But she says it’s his mouth. I say it’s those clouded eyes, and “brooding” does describe them.
The detective. He’s never revealed his first name. But I would have liked to know it. When I remember those two times we’ve talked, I’m filled with a kind of warmth that I've felt only in intimate conversations with Mom, Sabine, or Adam.
I can see myself loving him. Maybe I do already. Is that the truth I can’t disclose? A truth I can’t admit because it makes me feel naked? To Marcia, anyway. I doubt the lieutenant has any interest in me except as the victim of one of his cases. So I don’t worry about him knowing. But Marcia is on to something. An unspoken connection. A connection she grasped when she saw the lieutenant and me in Laure’s office.
What about Leon? I can’t ignore him. I doubt he’ll let me. And it puzzles me that I also find him attractive.
*****
I wake up the following morning to dusky light diffused by the dusty, blue curtains that came with the apartment I’m renting. The night seems to have crept by without my noticing it. Much like the way my electric-light days inside Du Cœur’s kitchen flash by me unnoticed, until I close the restaurant door behind me to face the black night again.
