BLIND: A Mastermind Novel

by Lydia Michaels

  I look forward to it, Ms. Farrow.

  Her mouth tightened with a smirk. The Ms. Farrow thing was growing on her. It was totally different, reading her formal title from a man, than hearing it from her students.

  Me too. Bye.

  She shut her laptop and tucked it out of sight. Two seconds later Nicole walked in. Scarlet put on a happy face and embraced the situation. She had six hours and thirty-eight minutes to kill.

  As Nicole rounded the corner, Nordstrom’s garment bag in hand, she came to a jolting halt. “Whoa. You look fabulous! Did you have a date last night or something?”

  Scarlet had been very cautious, avoiding all dating topics with her friend since their disagreement, but she could never stay mad at her forever. “Nope. But I took myself out this morning and got a makeover.”

  “All by yourself?” Her friend’s expression of disbelief was a testament to just how closeted Scarlet had allowed herself to become.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, look at you!” Nicole smiled. “That’s awesome. Where did you go?”

  “That little boutique on Main.”

  “Stelluna? I love that place! I always go browsing, but never know what to buy. It’s so fancy and pristine. I can’t believe you went there by yourself!”

  Scarlet laughed. “Well, I’ve decided to try new things. Today I tried makeup. I can’t believe how expensive that stuff is.”

  Nicole draped her dress over a chair and disappeared in the kitchen, the clink of glasses preceding the rush of the faucet. A moment later she returned sipping a glass of water. “I know, but aging sucks. If I go out without my eyes done everyone asks if I’m feeling okay, like, I look ill without makeup. Fucking people. Do you think I look old?”

  “God, no! Nicole, you look the same as you did in high school. People are idiots.”

  She sighed and sagged against the wall, her mouth screwing to the side. “I’m really sorry about what I said the other day.” Her hand waved in her general direction. “You don’t need to change who you are to get a decent man, Lettie. I never meant for you to go out and get a makeover.”

  She appreciated the apology, but had to laugh. “I didn’t do this for a man. I did it for me. I wanted to buy something at Stelluna that was solely mine and I did.”

  “That’s really great. And listen, Mr. Right is out there—”

  She held out a hand. “Stop. I love you for trying to find me a husband, but the search is making me insane. No more blind dates for a while. I’m taking some time for me. I’m going to let life lead me where it will and if an opportunity comes along, great, but I’m not sitting around waiting for it.”

  Nicole smiled, her eyes dancing with surprise. “Okay. You go get yourself a big old bite of life.”

  “I plan on it. Now, go try on that dress so I can gush over you for a while.”

  “Okay, but if I look fat, lie and blame it on the design. I’m a bottle of Belvedere away from going all elastic and living off Oreos. Why the hell are they making dresses so short now?”

  “Because the fashion industry is evil and that’s exactly why I stick to more conforming brands.”

  Nicole laughed. “You don’t have a brand. You bought that sweatshirt at Sam’s Club.”

  “Sam’s has nice clothes!”

  “It’s a grocery store, Lettie!” She grabbed the dress and sashayed up the steps.

  Scarlet admired her sweatshirt.

  ****

  A lot happened over the course of six hours. Scarlet experienced a myriad of emotions, not all of them pleasant.

  Once Nicole had finished modeling her dress, they’d had coffee and talked for a bit. Every time Scarlet was tempted to tell her friend about the mysterious Mr. Stone something held the confession inside.

  Mr. Stone was a small personal joy, one she wasn’t sure other—married people—would understand. Why his presence wouldn’t be understood left a lot to examine.

  Over the years there had been many debacles in the dating arena. There were the headliners Scarlet hoped would work out, the good guys she wished triggered a spark of chemistry, and those she couldn’t get away from fast enough.

  But there were also the so-called “duds” she’d been interested in for reasons her friends couldn’t comprehend. Protectively, she didn’t want Mr. Stone to be labeled a dud.

  She wasn’t sure what ingredient he brought to the table, but he captivated her. Something about this man was different and she had yet to figure it out. She didn’t want Nicole stepping in with warnings and disapproval.

  Sure, he was a stranger and the world was a dangerous place full of dangerous people, but what harm was she putting herself in if she only talked to him online? Okay, fine. There were definite risks to proceeding with an online relationship. Hell, she warned her student’s of the dangers all the time, but there really was no difference between what she was doing with Mr. Stone and what she did when people contacted her on dating sites, so in the end she justified her actions. It was all part of her new deca-lution to seize the day.

  Of course, there was the slightly creepy factor that he’d identified her from her letter, which she needed to investigate, but still… All of her trepidation was overridden by the hopeful idea that this could be destiny stepping in.

  What if he was the one? She didn’t want to dismiss the possibility too soon and miss out on something exciting and possibly wonderful. As much as she declared not to be searching for Mr. Right at the moment, she also didn’t want to miss the door should he come knocking. And even if he wasn’t Mr. Right, he might be Mr. Fun or Mr. Really-Good-in-Bed or Mr. Distraction. They were all worth meeting.

  The reactions Mr. Stone provoked were definitely worth investigating. She couldn’t figure out how much of what she felt was due to her own desolate existence or to the actual man behind the name.

  The one thing she could admit was that she was enjoying herself. Her apprehension had faded into manageable caution and her usually guarded self was prepared to take considerable risks in order to see where this led.

  Is this how people end up dead? Oh, stop being Captain Panic! You’re only talking.

  She didn’t think he was a dangerous person, but she wasn’t certain. If only she could find out a little bit more about him.

  At six forty-five she was anxiously pacing. Her laptop sat on the edge of her bed, the screen slowly fading to the sleep setting, which she would repetitively interrupt with a brush of her finger over the mouse pad.

  By ten-of she was nervous he wouldn’t contact her. The ten minutes leading up to seven were filled with a ricocheting tangle of hopes and fears until finally, at precisely seven o’clock, her computer chimed.

  Good evening, Ms. Farrow.

  Her heart erupted with numerous sensations she hadn’t felt since high school. His punctuality earned a small measure of trust. Falling to her bed, she slid her computer close and smiled.

  Good evening, Mr. Stone.

  I assume the rest of your day was pleasant.

  Breathing in a sigh, she poised her fingers over the keyboard to type out a response just as her phone rang. “Damn it.”

  Reaching to her nightstand she set it to vibrate. There would be no interruptions this time. Her brow lowered when the caller ID read Restricted. Freaking telemarketers.

  My day was very pleasant. And yours?

  The phone silenced and abruptly started buzzing again.

  Very pleasant. Pick up the phone, Scarlet.

  She froze, her gaze devouring his command on the screen and slowly drifting to the buzzing phone on her bed. Her heart thundered heavily in her chest. No, he couldn’t be calling her. How did he get her number?

  Are you calling me???

  Your privacy settings need to be amended if you intend to set your contact information as unavailable to the public.

  Still not picking up the phone, the buzzing continued a few more times then stopped only to start again.

  I have my number listed for my students’ p
arents to get in touch with me.

  Understandable. Now, answer the call.

  She stared at the phone, her body shivering with fears of the unknown. Inevitably, she knew she’d answer, but this was a big deal. He was calling her. She’d finally hear his voice. A voice could tell a lot about a person.

  Her fingers slowly closed over the phone as she drew in a steadying breath. What if he didn’t like her voice? Closing her eyes she swallowed as the phone rattled in her grip.

  “Please don’t have high pitched pool boy voice,” she muttered under her breath before sliding her finger across the screen and bringing the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Scarlet.”

  Oh, thank God. His voice was deep, masculine and gravelly, rich with maturity. Hers, on the other hand, had turned pinched and falsetto. “Hello, Mr. Stone.”

  “It’s lovely to finally speak to you.”

  She remained silent, unsure what to say and still processing the appeal of his voice, his words pitched low as though he were whispering dark, dirty secrets. “Are you comfortable speaking on the phone?”

  Uhhh…her senses were on high alert, definitely not a relaxed feeling, but certainly not an unpleasant one. Getting a call from him was so unexpected she was still analyzing the experience.

  Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Gone was the ability to think out her responses. They were live, in the moment. What was already strangely cozy transcended to unusually intimate.

  “Yes,” she rasped.

  “You sound a bit breathless. Is everything all right?”

  Needing to take a moment to regroup, she jaggedly sucked air into her lungs. She could do this. She could talk to him. “I’m okay. I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

  “The messaging was becoming tedious. I find this method of communication a bit more personal, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” Jeez, did she know any other words?

  “What were you doing before I called?”

  Waiting for you. “Just tidying my room.”

  “Tell me about your room.”

  She glanced at the furniture filling the space as though seeing it for the first time. “It’s small. The walls are pale purple. My furniture’s black.” No need to mention the plum satin dragon scale pillows or the wall art that saidI’m not a princess I’m a Khaleesi. Sure. She was a grown-up.

  “And what of your bed, Scarlet? Is it large?”

  “No. It’s a double.” Why did everything she say sound so unsophisticated while his words sounded eloquent, and chosen with a refinement she lacked?

  “Is it soft? What color’s the coverlet?”

  She blinked, finding his attention to detail different. Maybe he really was into interior design. Maybe he lied. Oh, God, maybe he was gay. It became clear she was more than curious. She was becoming attracted to him.

  “Um, it’s sort of a dusty olive color.”

  “After seeing your pictures online I think those colors suit you. I can imagine you there.”

  It was still off-putting that he’d seen her. Sure, it was only in stills shared through her GP profile, but that was more than she’d seen of him.

  “Can I see what you look like?”

  “I’ve told you my features.”

  “But you’ve seen pictures of me.”

  “Yes, and they’re lovely.”

  Hedonistic gratification crowded her frustration. Being introverted didn’t usually garner compliments, but his praise seemed more valuable than the few she’d received. He was adept at knocking her off balance.

  “What is it that worries you, Scarlet? I have no remarkable scars. I’m a fairly average man. You continue to fixate on my appearance. What holds more relevance here, my words or my physical attractiveness? I personally find intelligence the more alluring attribute.”

  Well, yeah, she didn’t want to date a beautiful idiot. Everything about him so far seemed incredibly attractive. There had to be something hideous she wasn’t seeing, and she wasn’t seeing him.

  “I’m not superficial. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “Good. Should we ever come face to face, I would hope my appearance is pleasing to you. I certainly find you attractive. However, I wouldn’t want it to be an interfering factor in getting to know one another.”

  There was no ignoring that he’d established the upper hand, but she didn’t want to get too hung up on looks alone. She decided to investigate other facets. “How old are you?”

  He didn’t sound too old or too young. His profile said he was thirty. This was more fact checking, in case there were holes in his story.

  “I’m thirty.”

  His response to her gentle interrogation was solid so far. “And you own your own company?”

  He tsked three times slowly. “I find it exasperating how social interactions have turned into a sort of practiced interview. How much did you make at your last place of employment, Ms. Farrow? What’s your opinion on the recent amendment to the Individuals with Differences in Education Act? Let’s press beyond the credentials of our resumes.”

  She chuckled. “Point taken. So…what should we talk about?”

  “Let’s discuss your letter.”

  She groaned. “That letter. It wasn’t meant to be read by anyone but me.”

  “Yet it was published in the paper. Care to explain?”

  “Too many failed blind dates and too much wine.”

  “Ah, so you plead unaccountability by liquor.”

  “Yes,” she agreed emphatically and giggled. She could appreciate his dry sarcasm.

  “Some would say intoxication leads to truth. Drunken words are often sober thoughts. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, those pesky little walls we erect to protect our most vulnerable feelings—as does sex.”

  Her mouth went dry at the mention of sex. She laughed off her nervousness. “I’ve had more luck with booze than the latter.”

  “Interesting, and so I gathered from your letter. Let’s examine some of those thoughts, shall we?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Because you’re in a state of awareness, weighing the consequences. Too many times people alter their actions in fear of consequence, when some consequences to our actions can bring about rather pleasant results. My personal experiences have taught me to invest less in others’ opinions and focus more on satisfying my own personal desires. I’ve achieved many things I’ve wanted in life, but none of that would have been possible if I let my fear of consequence stop me from traveling paths untraveled. I intend to help you push through those walls, Ms. Farrow, among other things. But you must be honest.”

  “No one likes their flaws exposed,” she commented, searching for empathy.

  “I agree, however, revealing our deepest desires and fears can liberate us from emotional bondage. Let’s begin with your standards. You stated that others have accused you of setting your standards too high.”

  “I can’t help what I want.”

  “True. Our emotions dictate themselves. We are only responsible for how we react to our feelings. What is it you want, Ms. Farrow?”

  Her eyes closed as his voice lulled her into a state of intimate secrecy. They were entering some sort of metaphorical confessional and she suddenly longed to unburden herself. “What everyone wants. Love.”

  “That’s quite an assumption. Some could argue other motivators in life; greed, power, or even lust.”

  She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling. His voice was intoxicating, lowering her inhibitions as though it carried the headiness of wine. “But it’s a love for those things that moves people.”

  “Very true. And what is it you love?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” His whispered question rolled over her, thick and tempting.

  “No, not by any mature definition. I love my parents and my friends, but I’ve never had an impassioned need for someone else.”

  “And that’s what you want.” He
posed it as a statement, not a question, as though he were gathering facts.

  “Of course.”

  “And your definition of love is impassioned need?”

  “Among other things. It has to be mutual.”

  “You want to feel needed with a passion so bold it requires action.”

  “Yes.” That was exactly it. No one had ever summed up her feelings so accurately.

  “Tell me about the other standards.”

  “I don’t think they’re unreachable. I want a partner, someone who holds my hand through the ups and pulls me from the downs. I want to be that person for someone as well.”

  “That’s lovely, the way you phrased that. I can’t see many disagreeing with you, which leads me to believe those are not the standards your friends criticized. Care to expand on your answer?”

  She sighed, fearing he’d see her as high maintenance. “I don’t think it’s too much to expect a guy to have a job, be independent, know how to hold a conversation, and own a car.”

  “I’d have to agree with you, but I’m curious why you felt the need to qualify your expectations with an excuse. If those are your expectations, you should stand by them. Leave the justification out.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. You seem to be the only one who agrees those are reasonable ideals.”

  “I wouldn’t want a relationship with a woman incapable of having a sophisticated discussion. Nor would I be interested in a person dependent on others. I understand the comfort of reliability, but to be completely reliant on someone else at this age…no, I’m afraid that holds little appeal. A vehicle is somewhat necessary, especially in this area. And I think working is healthy. Even the richest man needs to serve a purpose.”

  His words stirred something inside of her. Not only had he listened and agreed with her, he took the time to clarify his comprehension and verify that he understood her reasoning.

  Having such an open conversation curbed fear of judgment. Mr. Stone appeared to be a very impartial man.