Hush Hush #1

by Anneliese Vandell

  My mind goes back to the way his body was so close to mine, the exciting frankness of his proposal. My insides squirm.

  “I guess…”

  “And look, maybe you won’t even have to sleep with him. You can make him wait for it. That might even work better—that kind of thing drives guys crazy.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say nervously.

  “Of course I’m right. Just who d’you think you’re talking to, lady?”

  I smile nervously. “Okay, fine. I’ll give him a call.”

  “When?”

  I hesitate. I hadn’t thought this far ahead.

  “Now, I guess,” I say. “As soon as we get off the phone.”

  “Awesome,” Miranda replies, sounding pleased. “Good luck!”

  “Wait!” I say, half-shouting, desperate to catch her before she hangs up the phone. “What should I say?”

  “You want to give me a script?” Miranda asks in a clipped voice. I can almost hear her raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, yeah,” I admit. “That would be nice.”

  “Fine,” sighs Miranda. “Just tell him that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since last night. Laugh at his jokes, if he makes any. Give him some banter. Be flirty.”

  She makes it sound so easy. But unlike Miranda, I’ve never been much of a flirt. In fact, I only managed to find a social life in college because I happened to befriend a couple of people from my study group. We spent our nights playing Scrabble and watching low-budget scary movies, the kind where you can see the zipper on the monster’s costume. When I wasn’t being hauled around from nightclub to nightclub by Miranda, that is.

  “Banter. Right,” I say weakly.

  “And one more thing—when you go out with him, wear that pink dress I packed for you. Whenever I’ve worn it, the guys have gone wild.”

  I’m not sure if wild is what I need from Liam. I’m pretty certain he’s got a wildness of his very own.

  But I don’t say this to Miranda. Instead, I promise that I’ll wear the dress and quickly hang up the phone.

  Now where did I put that card?

  I head back to my nightstand, where my leather clutch is resting beside the blinking alarm clock. With trembling fingers, I open the clutch and dig around for the business card.

  My nerves are definitely jumping right now. I try to read Liam’s phone number on the card, but my hands are shaking so hard by now that the digits are a blur.

  Relax, I tell myself.

  I put the card down onto the nightstand and pick up my phone. Despite my shaking fingers, I manage to correctly punch out Liam’s number on the first dial.

  The line begins to ring.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, concentrating on the sound in my ear and valiantly attempting to steady myself. After the fourth ring, I’m about to hang up.

  But then someone answers.

  “Hello?” a man’s voice says hoarsely.

  I look down at the clock. It’s barely nine o’clock in the morning. I realize I’ve probably woken him up. Why didn’t I think to wait until a more reasonable hour? This is hardly the best first step, to rudely start someone’s morning like this.

  Nice going, April, I silently chastise myself.

  “Uh, hi,” I say nervously. “This is Sophia. I’m looking for Liam…?”

  “Ah, Sophia,” says Liam, his voice warming with recognition. “That didn’t take long, did it?”

  I try to make one of those coy giggles, that come-hither trill of laughter that Miranda is so good at—but to my horror, it comes out more like a cackle.

  Damn it.

  Hoping to recover, I press on: "I feel like we started off on the wrong foot last night. I guess I'm just a little old-fashioned, compared to Courtney and the other girls you probably talk to."

  Liam replies, “You are an exception to the rule, it seems—in more ways than one.” For a heart-dropping moment, I can't tell whether that works in my favor or not. But what he says next fills me with relief. "Though I suppose that's what makes you so intriguing."

  His words fill me with encouragement. I take a steadying breath, and find that my shaky nerves are starting to calm. Even if it’s just a little bit.

  "I'm glad to hear that," I reply sincerely. "I have to say—I enjoyed your company at the party. And I'd like to see you again." I twist the spiraling phone cable between my fingers, then add, in what I hope is a flirty voice: "In a PG way, I mean. PG-13, tops. But only if you play your cards right."

  His chuckle is smooth and low over the line.

  "I don't really do dates,” he says.

  I bite my lip. "So you're, what, an arranged marriage kind of guy? No fling without a ring, that sort of deal?"

  "Not quite," he says, and a hint of humor creeps into his tone—almost like he's savoring what he's about to tell me. "I don't do relationships at all. I find that things are simpler that way."

  My throat is suddenly dry. “Oh."

  So much for making him wait, I think.

  "That's not to say I won't be a gentleman. But it's just that the rest of it—the complicated, messy nature of the relationship itself—never seems to be worth the trouble. I've found that it's much simpler to keep things strictly physical. It's a more honest approach.”

  "Right. Honest," I echo nervously.

  “And besides, you don’t want to get tangled up with a guy like me,” Liam says.

  I shift the phone beneath my ear. “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t be your Prince Charming even if I tried,” he says darkly, and the words send a curious, chilling sensation down my spine. It’s like a ghost is passing through me.

  There’s a note of finality to his voice, preventing me from asking the questions that are suddenly pressing on my tongue. Why? What do you mean? My heart starts to race, contemplating the possibilities.

  Miranda has no idea the kind of challenge she's put in front of me, I think worriedly.

  If she’s right—if men really do think of “the chase” as just a game—that’s one thing. Maybe that’s even something I can handle. But how am I supposed to play if Liam is in a different league altogether? How am I supposed to ensnare Liam's heart if he's explicitly chosen to keep it under lock and key?

  My fingers wrap more tightly around the phone. What would happen if I declined his offer? Could I call Miranda and ask her to come up with a new plan? Do we even have any other options?

  And the most baffling question of all—am I actually still entertaining the idea of letting him touch me? The notion sends an excited shudder into my belly.

  "Okay," I breathe out.

  "Okay," Liam repeats, sounding satisfied.

  "But wait—" I say hurriedly. "Meet an old-fashioned girl halfway, at least. At least give me a chance to get to know you a little better, before…” I don't have to look in the mirror to know that I'm blushing furiously. I can feel my cheeks burning red-hot.

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. The seconds seem to stretch out into minutes as I wait for Liam’s response—or am I just imagining that? My eyes swing down to the clock on the night stand. It’s difficult to ignore the lurking, fearful voice at the back of my mind: Have I asked for too much? Has he changed his mind about going out with me?

  But then he draws a breath to speak. And almost as if my breathing is timed to his, I exhale all at once.

  “It’s a deal,” says Liam finally. "I'll plan something special. Let's meet at eight o'clock tonight. Where can I pick you up?"

  I tell him the address of my hotel, hoping that my tone doesn’t reveal how relieved I feel. We exchange our good-byes and see-you-soons, and then I slam down the phone.

  My heart is pounding wildly. A strange mixture of excitement and nervousness courses through me. I can’t help but wonder: what am I getting myself into?

  3

  My head won’t seem to stop spinning, so I decide to take a walk through the Garden District in an attempt to calm my tho
ughts.

  Back when I was a kid, my mom used to take me for a stroll past the neighborhood’s old southern mansions on Sunday afternoons. It became something of a tradition for us. I used to love looking at the architecture, at the candy-drop houses painted in every color of the rainbow, with regal-looking columns, jutting balconies, and elaborate lattice fretwork. Compared to the drab brick of our apartment building, it seemed too beautiful to be real. The houses were like something out of a fairy tale.

  Now, as I pace through the familiar streets, I’m comforted by the realization that everything looks exactly the same. I suppose I should have expected that—after all, it’s a historic district, so the entire point is that the beauty of the original architecture is preserved.

  But, as I gaze upon a particularly gorgeous sunflower-yellow house, it dawns on me: on some level, it always seemed to me like I had lost my hometown. But it was never New Orleans that had been lost—rather, it was just me. And now I’m finally home.

  Feeling my spirits lighten, I continue down the street. The buildings shrink and become more densely populated as I enter the more commercial part of the district. I begin to pass cafes, boutiques, and mom-and-pop shops. A grin grows on my face. I can’t help it—something about all of this makes me feel like a kid again.

  I’m eyeing a colorful sign for a candy shop, silently debating whether to treat myself to a buttery praline, when a man in a loose-fitting suit crosses my path. The pralines forgotten, I turn my head and watch him lumber down the street, swaying ever so subtly with each step.

  Strange—there’s something familiar about that man’s face, something about his bent nose and sunken cheeks.

  My curiosity getting the better of me, I quicken my pace and follow him down the block.

  Something metal and square glints in his left hand. As he brings it to his lips, flicking his head back quickly, I realize it’s a flask.

  Technically, this is legal; with the liberal open container laws in New Orleans, it’s fairly normal to see someone strolling down the block with an open can of beer or a plastic margarita cup in their hand.

  But still, there’s something intriguing about this—dark, even. You don’t often see people carrying flasks, or drinking quite so desperately.

  The man stops short suddenly, and I nearly collide into his back. I jump to my left and, my own momentum pulling me forward, walk ahead a few paces before I turn around.

  The man has stopped beside a bench. He brings out a hand to steady himself against the bench. The veins on the back of his hand bulge beneath this skin. A racking cough comes out of his mouth, his entire body shuddering.

  I take a tentative step forward. “Are you okay…?”

  The man’s head jerks up suddenly. His pale, hazy eyes struggle to find me. He’s drunker than I realized.

  Searching his face, I don’t recognize the wrinkles on his forehead or the whiskers on his chin. Maybe he’s not someone I know after all.

  I’m about to turn and continue back up the block when he speaks.

  “I’m fine,” he growls. “Mind your own damn business.”

  I freeze. That voice.

  I know that voice.

  Suddenly I am eleven years old again, sitting in the back of the courtroom with my cousin Miranda and her mom, my aunt Winnie. Lost in my memories, I can hardly recognize the shapeless figures at the defense table—my mom and dad—because my eyes are so full of tears. A voice is speaking to them. It’s harsh and it’s loud, echoing off the hard floors of the courtroom until it’s seared into my memory. I’d hear that voice in my head for weeks later, though I didn’t know it at the time.

  “What we have here,” says the voice, “are the charges of, one, conspiracy to commit fraud, and two, multiple substantive counts of fraud. Each of these counts carry a thirty-year maximum sentence. We also have…” The voice goes on, naming off crime after crime.

  There’s a wailing sound, mournful and long.

  Is it me? Could that be coming from me? The sound fills my ears. It’s so loud.

  The voice continues on for a while. The words begin to jumble together, but the harsh, rasping tone is as sharp as a knife.

  I hear the words “maximum sentence” again, and then “life in prison.” The court explodes with murmurs at this last part.

  “That is excessive, Your Honor. They’ve plead guilty—surely this grants them some leniency,” says another voice.

  This one is familiar to me, too—but sweeter. He was sometimes there when I came to visit my parents in prison. After the charges, the state froze my parents’ assets, so my aunts and uncles pooled what little money they had to get the best defense attorney possible—which, for the amount they could pay, frankly wasn’t very good. But he was kind, and we could tell that he tried his hardest to win this case for us. That was some small solace, at least.

  “The Morrisons here have an established record of fraudulent criminal activity,” replies the judge’s voice, the tone resolute. “The sentence is fair.”

  Life in prison. Life. At eleven years old, it was difficult for me to wrap my mind around how colossal that was.

  As I rocked on the hard wooden bench, tears flowing down my cheeks, all I wanted was for my parents to scoop me into their arms and tell me that everything would be okay. But, of course, it would never be okay again.

  “Mind your own business,” repeats the voice, cutting through my thoughts like a blade.

  I blink, returning to the present. The man has abandoned the bench, now taking staggering steps toward me. “This isn’t a zoo, young lady. What are you still doing, standing there?”

  Attempting to take a step backward, I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk. My heart is pounding.

  It’s him.

  Judge Connelly.

  He’s thinner and more worn-looking than I remember, but the closer I look at him, the more unmistakable his face becomes. As he lurches toward me, I can smell the bourbon on his breath.

  I leap away from him and cast a frantic look around me, careening toward the first shop I see.

  I let the door swing behind me with a bang. My back pressed against the door, I wait for eyes to adjust to the dim lights of the shop.

  How could I have been so foolish to go right up to him? I think wildly. What if he recognized me?

  My mind turns over the terrifying possibility that he may have just discovered that the Morrisons’ daughter has returned to town. Who would he tell? What would happen? If the word reached the Hawthornes, then surely they’d be on the lookout for me, and my upper hand would be gone.

  But no. There was no glimmer of recognition in the judge’s eyes. I was just a little kid back then, bearing little resemblance to the woman I am now.

  Craning my neck toward the small window in the door, I watch him shove his flask back inside his jacket. He straightens his suit and then hurries out of sight. My heartbeat begins to slow back to a normal rate.

  “Uh, can I help you?” asks a kind voice.

  I turn away from the window and, for a second, I think I’m going to have a heart attack. In the commotion outside with Judge Connelly, I had forgotten where I was.

  This is the Second Hand Prose Bookshop.

  Where Riley works.

  I couldn’t resist looking up my former childhood neighbor before making my return trip to New Orleans. It was easy enough to find him online, and it came as no surprise to discover that he had found work at a bookstore. Only a year older than me, he was always the quiet, brainy type, who much preferred to spend his sunny spring days with his nose stuck in a book. This, of course, was the bane of my eleven-year-old existence. Having developed a secret crush on him, I would take any chance I got to stomp up the two flights that separated his family’s apartment from mine.

  And now, as I look at my old friend, I’m surprised to discover how he’s grown into his looks. What used to be a gangly, fair-haired, freckled kid is now a strapping, poised man. He’s just wearing a faded t-shirt and a pair
of jeans, but there’s something about him that makes the look seem effortlessly attractive. His biceps flex under a messy pile of books. A pair of black-rimmed glasses is perched on the top of his head.

  “I’m—uh—“ I say, searching for ideas. “—looking for a book.”

  Riley walks past me and carefully tips the pile of books onto the front counter.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  I give him a tight-lipped, private smile. If only he knew who he was talking to, I think.

  I can’t help but wonder if there was some scheming, unconscious part of me that made me enter this bookstore. In truth, I’m glad I’m here. And it’s all that I can do to keep my lips sealed. As much as I want to give Riley a playful punch on the shoulder and say, “Hi, remember me?”—I know that’s a bad idea.

  The mission needs to come first. I need to follow the plan.

  So instead I just reply, “Whatever you recommend. Something…romantic.”

  “Romantic, huh? I can do that.” Riley brings his glasses down to his face. He nods towards the towering shelves of books at the back of the store. “Follow me.”

  “So how long have you worked here?” I ask as we make our way through the aisles. Even though I already know the answer, I just want to hear his voice. I want him to tell me all about what I’ve missed during the years I’ve been gone.

  “I’m closing in on eight years now,” he says. “That’s weird to think about, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s funny how time can pass like that,” I say, resisting the impulse to add, Believe me, I know. “You must really like it here.”

  He nods and grins. “I started working here in college. I went to Tulane for English, and so I guess it was a no-brainer to get a job in a bookstore. I mean, I was basically paid to read books all day. And then a few years ago, the owner—this really cool lady named Delores—decided she was ready to retire, but she didn’t want to sell the store to just anyone. But she didn’t want to close the shop either.” Riley puffs out his chest. “So she made me a hell of a deal.”