by Evy Journey
Today, one stands out from the rest. It’s in a pink squarish envelope and fragrance seeps out of it. My first thought: An old flame. A new one? Leon isn’t wasting any time. But the letter is addressed to me. Strange.
I open it as soon as I get into my car. What I read gives me goose bumps:
Get out of Leon’s apartment. You’re in serious danger.
What does this mean? Is it a hoax like the cans of worms? Two boxes and a letter sent to me, all with threatening messages—can someone keep up that kind of hoax? And does that person have any intention of following up on it? But who would do such a thing?
I get sick to my stomach that someone out there has thought to do me serious harm. It’s happened once already, though Cristi acted on the spur of the moment. The person sending me these threatening messages may have been planning to hurt me for some time. Does she hate me so much she wants to kill me?
I shudder thinking about it. I tell myself I can’t dwell on the message in the pink letter. Du Cœur is waiting. It’s time to make things that give pleasure, that give life. No time to waste on things with meanings that are still a mystery.
It takes me a few moments to turn the key on the ignition. I force my leaden foot to step on the accelerator, to push it down gently.
What can I do? I’m a coward. Can’t just ignore the letter. The message with the cans of worms? Too vague. This last one? Scary. I am afraid to go home tonight. No place else to go, though. A cheap hotel room, maybe?
Meantime, I have to put my worries on hold until I leave Du Cœur tonight. I’ll ask Laure if I can leave an hour earlier that evening so I can look for a place to stay.
Urgent personal business, I say before she can answer. If she doubts my excuse, she doesn’t show it.
When the hour comes, I sit in my car in the parking lot, googling for a cheap hotel on my cellphone. But as I start to dial the number of a prospective hotel, I realize I may need a bed for more than a night; in fact, I need more than a place to stay. The pink letter message—I must deal with it. Isn’t it why I’m frantically searching for a hotel room?
I need help. If nothing else, I should talk to someone at the police station tomorrow morning before I go to work.
But, why not Brent? I know he can help me figure this out. But I can’t ask him, not after all these months. Especially not after our last meeting. Was that less than a month ago?
Anyway, he’s in homicide. I have no reason to call him. He’s a friend. Admit it, you want to see him and you have a good enough excuse.
I call Brent’s number before I argue against myself again. The phone rings twice, and stops. Words spill out of my mouth in a trembling rush. “I’m sorry to call you this late, but I’m scared.”
It takes him a moment to answer. Maybe he never expected to hear from me again. When he answers, his voice seems as agitated as mine. “Gina? What’s wrong?”
“A threat. In a letter. I can’t go back to Leon’s… to my apartment.”
Another pause. Maybe, I’m not making sense to him. I know I’m not making much sense to myself. But he answers. “Why? Did Leon threaten you? Is he home?”
“No, no. He’s gone. It’s all over. It’s a pink letter in the mail. I don’t know what to do.”
“What does the letter say?”
“Get out of Leon’s apartment. You’re in serious danger.” The words quiver out of my mouth, my teeth knocking against each other.
“Where are you?”
I take a moment to calm myself. “At the restaurant parking lot.”
“Can you drive? Come to my house?”
“Where’s your house? But I don’t want to be any trouble to you.”
“No, you won’t. You’re a friend in need, right? What are friends for? Anyway, we’ll have to find out what that note means. We can do it better face-to-face. And I can also put you up for tonight at least, if you’re scared to go home.”
Fifteen minutes and ten miles later, I knock on Brent’s door.
He opens it right away, dressed in a robe and pajama bottoms. “Regine,” he says, in that soft—now achingly sweet—way he’s always uttered my given name. “Come in.”
My anguish, the mournfulness in his eyes at our last meeting make me hesitate on his doorstep. But I’m also shivering and near tears. “I’m sorry to disturb you this late, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
With that ever-so-slight smile and a shake of his head, he says, “Please don’t worry. I’m a night owl, as you know. The truth is I’m quite happy to see you. I hoped, but I never expected it to be this soon.”
His hand on my back, he ushers me into his small living room and on to his couch. “You look beat. A glass of warm milk?”
“Yes, yes, I think so.” It’s all I can think of to say as I begin to wonder, sitting on the large couch in his warm living room, if I should even be here. Regretting for a few moments that I came. Thinking of Marcia.
Brent brings me milk he microwaved in a coffee cup, hands it to me without a word, and sits next to me on the couch. He’s silent, watching me as I drink.
Nervous, tired, and hungry, I finish the milk a little too quickly. Brent takes the empty cup from me and places it on the table on his side of the couch. He says, “Now, tell me about the letter.”
“It came in the mailbox this morning. Except for my mother, I’ve never given that address to anyone.” I pull the pink letter out of my backpack. I drop it on his cupped hand as if it’s a match with the flame reaching the end of its stick.
He sniffs the envelope. “I think that’s a woman’s perfume or cologne.” He scowls. “A bit familiar. Probably popular. But not cheap.”
He takes the letter out, glances at the printed content. “Is this the first one you received?”
“Yes, but not too long ago, I also got two boxes with cans of worms in them. They had no return addresses and Leon thought they might have been a random hoax. They came with a message. The same one: ‘Don’t open this can of worms.’ Now, I think they’re not a hoax, not after that pink letter.”
“We’ll have to see. They may amount to nothing. But you never know. Anyway, you really look like you need to sleep. So if you can relax, I say let’s put this off for tomorrow.”
“I can relax. You’re right. I’m exhausted. Maybe all this will prove to be another hoax tomorrow.”
“I’ll take you to the guest room. The bed is made. There are fresh towels in the bathroom. How about I lend you a pajama top?”
I nod, allow myself to be led, and utter a feeble, “Thank you.”
Five minutes later, I’m in the shower, relishing the warmth of the water flowing down my body. Thinking, Brent is just a door from me.
25
Clutching the towel, which is already damp from the beads of water on my body, I sit on the bed, seeing the room for the first time. After the large spaces and expensive furniture in the Hills house and Leon’s condo, this small spare room is comforting, embracing. Nothing in it is superfluous. A bed that’s firm, but yielding under my weight, a nightstand, a chair and writing table, and two lamps, one on each table. Except for the white bed covers, everything is a soft shade of olive green.
I bring the damp towel to my wet head, rubbing slowly at first, then vigorously. Grabbing a handful of long, thick hair, I shake off countless droplets of water. I could use a hair dryer. Maybe I should ask Brent to lend me one. Brent is just a door away. The thought of it mesmerizes me.
What happens next is a blur, like stepping into a dream sequence belonging to someone else. Maybe it’s fatigue; maybe it’s all the events of the past week or so, over which I had no control, events to which I was a mere spectator, but one who absorbs the pain she witnesses.
Wrapping the damp towel around my body, I get up. I don’t walk; I float, borne by a warm breeze. It sets me down just outside Brent’s room, where I stand for a few moments. His door is ajar and I open it wide. Slowly, I take a few steps in, and
stand gazing at him under the white sheets. Maybe he’s asleep.
But he isn’t. Lifting his head off his pillow, he says, “Regine?”
I say nothing, let the towel fall slowly to the floor as I glide toward the bed. I crawl into bed with him. He lifts the sheets and makes room for me. He wraps me in the sheets, puts an arm around me and says, “Go to sleep. You’re safe here with me.”
What a strange thing to say: Go to sleep. You’re safe…
I turn toward him, pull his face to mine, and press my lips to his.
He returns my kiss, then those strange words again: “Go to sleep. You’re all stressed out.”
With a sob, I say, “Make love to me. Why can’t you? Have your feelings changed so quickly?”
“Oh, Regine, my love, is that really what you want?”
“Yes, more than anything. I’ve waited too long.”
He moves and, for an instant, I’m afraid he’ll get up and escort me back to the guest room like a small child. Instead, I feel his lips nibbling around my neck, moving up my chin, then sucking at my lower lip.
I cling to him, answering his every kiss with an intensity I haven’t experienced before.
His lips wander down my neck, lingers on my breasts for a while. He stops, and I suppress a cry in protest.
He kicks off the sheet and flings his pajama bottoms on the floor.
He crouches above me, his hands caressing every part of me, his lips searing the skin all over my body. He says, “You’re trembling.”
“No more than you.” I say, stroking his chest and his stomach, kneading the muscles in his arms. Brent is sinewy; every muscle in his body ripples with strength.
My hand wanders down, grasping him. He utters a groan, a fusing of pleasure and pain.
Moaning, I pull him closer. “I want you in me.”
He positions himself between my legs, and bends over to take my mouth in his. He thrusts into me slowly, deeply, a long, drawn-out breath escaping his mouth. He stops for a few seconds. I feel him throbbing and a moan rises out of my chest.
He says in a soft voice, “Don’t move, not yet.”
Seconds later, he resumes thrusting at a slow steady pace.
Leaning on his elbows, he lies on top me and murmurs into my ear. “I’ve longed to make love to you for so long. Many nights before I go to bed, I imagine doing this, but it’s never as delicious as this.”
I run my hands up and down his back and say nothing, relishing his rhythmic movement inside me.
He murmurs into my ear again, “I don’t want this to end. Is this real and not a dream? Are you actually here, and I’m making love to you?”
I pull his head down and suck on his lower lip. I say huskily, “Is that real enough for you?”
“Oh my love,” he says as he presses harder on my lips and increases the pace of his movement.
I grab his buttocks, pushing him deeper into me, our bodies rocking in wondrous synchrony.
I can’t say when the dream ended. The next thing I remember is waking up in the morning from a tender kiss on my cheek and the smell of coffee on my nose. I open my eyes to look up at Brent’s smiling face.
Reaching down under the sheets, I touch my naked skin and the moist spot between my legs. I can still feel him inside me.
Brent is smiling at me. A tender, relaxed smile that floods his face with a glow as warm as moonlight. “Good morning. It’s early, but I’d like us to go to your apartment to check it out before you go to work; maybe even get someone to change your locks. You shouldn’t have to feel scared in your own home.”
“Good morning,” I say, blushing.
“Do you regret last night?”
“No, how could I? It was beautiful. Like a magical dream.” I smile back at him.
“I’ll always be here for you, Regine. You should know that. Always.”
That night, I return to the apartment. Brent went through it in the morning, checking and finding nothing suspicious. He stayed until the locksmith he called had changed the locks while I went to work. He came to Du Cœur just before it opened for dining, gave me my new keys, and whispered that he’d see me again soon.
I pressed a new key in his hand. “Just in case,” I say.
He smiled, shoving the key in his pants pocket. “Are we still in your magical dream?”
“Dream. Reality. Does it really matter? I’m happy is all I know.”
He kissed my hand, then my lips, before he sauntered away.
I passed the day calm, giddy, and incredulous. A day that started in fear ended bringing Brent and me back together.
26
Brent has texted me a few times, but I haven’t seen him for a few days. He’s been busy on a new homicide case.
The day before my day off, he sends me a text. He’ll come by my apartment late afternoon on Monday.
Shortly before noon, while still in my nightgown, I hear the doorbell ring. He couldn’t be here already. I peek through the peephole, and can’t quite believe my eyes. Marcia in a red dress, holding a small white box—the kind bakeries pack pastries in.
“Marcia!” I say, both pleased and puzzled. “Come in.”
We buzz each other’s cheeks, and I lead her to the couch. “How did you find this place?”
“You never gave me the address, so I asked Leon.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That the marriage is off.”
She stares at me. Incredulous. Didn’t Leon tell her?
“No, he said nothing. I hate to say I told you so. I knew his father wouldn’t give his consent.”
“Just goes to show you how naïve I am. Leon was sure he could convince his father and I believed him.”
“That’s Leon. He can make anyone—including himself—believe anything. But I’m disappointed you never told me.”
“I guess our breakup affected me more than I ever thought it would. You’re the one who said I should just have fun with him. And I did. I was prepared for the relationship to end after a few months. But I did learn to love him and I never thought he’d propose. And these last couple of weeks, I saw a side of him that surprised me. A side that made me love him more.”
“Well, I guess you never know when love can hit you. I never expected Leon to fall for anyone. And to ask you to live with him—never crossed my mind. Then, he gives you this place.”
“Did Leon tell you that?”
“Not really. I assumed it’s his wedding present to you.”
“But why would you think that? I don’t understand why Leon didn’t tell you the marriage is off.”
“Maybe he forgot.”
“He transferred this place in my name without asking me.”
“Gina, you don’t have to apologize or feel guilty for accepting it. It’s only right he should atone for breaking your engagement. I think it also shows his appreciation for the time he spent with you. Leon is nice and generous that way. And you deserve it.”
“Thank you for saying so. It makes me feel better. I wish I could keep it, but I can’t. Can’t afford it. Not if I have to save for that dream restaurant.”
“No, maybe not. Still, lucky you. Thinking of selling it?”
“In time. I have a few months yet. The taxes would eat up my yearly savings, but they’re paid this year.”
“Sell it, then your dreams can come true much sooner.”
All those words Marcia uttered today—I would remember them weeks later, months later, years later. And I would look upon them, first with anger at her, at myself. But slowly, anger is replaced with disgust for allowing myself to be betrayed. Resignation comes later. I couldn’t have known what was going to happen; nor could I have stopped it.
After her reassuring words, Marcia lapses into silence. I remember my obligations as a hostess. “Coffee or tea?” I say, getting up from the couch.
Marcia looks up at me, but her unfocused gaze tells me
she’s not seeing me; her mind has wandered off elsewhere.
“Oh, uhh, coffee. Black.” Then, remembering the box she brought with her, she picks it up off the coffee table where she had placed it. “I brought us some cookies to nibble on. Bitter dark chocolate.”
I take the box to the kitchen. Five minutes later, I return, carrying a tray with two small cups, a pot of espresso-maker coffee, and a plate of bitter dark chocolate cookies.
Marcia says, frowning, “Espresso cups may not be a good idea.”
“I’ll get you a bigger cup, if you want.”
“No, maybe this will work. No, you’re right. Get a bigger cup.”
I trudge back to the kitchen, struck by a feeling that something has gone awry between now and the time I went to the kitchen to make coffee. Marcia is distracted. She’s being weird about the coffee cup.
Back to the living room, Marcia pulls at my arm. “Sit down and fill that cup with coffee.”
Dutifully, I sit but my gaze doesn’t stray away from Marcia’s face. Something is wrong. Marcia isn’t seeing me anymore. The glazed look in her eyes—I’ve seen that same look, on Cristi, just before she attacked me.
While Marcia is pulling what looks like a bottle of pills out of her purse, I gingerly move a few inches away from her, hoping she won’t notice. She mustn’t see I’m getting scared.
She places the bottle on the table. She says, “Pick it up and open it.”
I hesitate. “What’s going on, Marcia? Are you sick?”
“Yes, but not in the way you may be imagining.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Are you really that dense? Yes, I’m sick. Sick of how things are. Sick of how certain people have these advantages. This luck. You know, Leon helped me buy my condo. But I had to pay mortgage and taxes from day one. You, you open your legs and you get all these, free and clear. Then, there’s Brent. Open the bottle.”
I pick up the bottle, glance at the label, and turn to Marcia. “Marcia, what are you doing? These pills. You’re not taking them. Are you?”
