Valentine's Fantasy: When Valentines CollideTo Love Again

by Adrianne Byrd

  Taking the coat off the hanger, she put it on and wrapped her arms around her body. The coat’s hem practically fell to her knees because Michael had been at least seven inches taller than Alana. With her eyes closed, she could almost feel his two strong arms holding her against his broad chest. If she concentrated, she could remember the deep timbre of his voice whispering, “Good morning, Lana.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Michael,” she cried morosely, “what were you doing in an Oakland neighborhood in the middle of the night? And when they ordered you to hand over your money, at gun-point, why didn’t you just give it to them and not try to fight them. Couldn’t you forego your police training for just one instant? No. You had to fight back. Why couldn’t you think of me and how miserable my existence would be without you? Couldn’t you think of me? I hate you for leaving me alone like this!”

  With a sob, she replaced the coat. Her daily ritual completed, she slowly walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee. While it perked, she took a hot shower. The phone rang as she lathered up. Unwilling to leave the warm shower, she let the machine answer it. She could hear the anxious voice of the caller from the bathroom.

  It was Genero, her assistant. “Alana,” he said, sounding as though he had been sprinting, “would you please tell your mother that your people perform better when she isn’t breathing down our necks? Little-Miss-Hollywood is getting on my last nerve and sister doesn’t want to go there.”

  Alana smiled. Genero and Margery were both high-strung. No wonder they were getting in one another’s hair. Genero was the coordinator in her catering business. She was owner and the supervising chef, but Genero made certain her instructions were carried out to the letter. Meticulous to a fault, he was easily flustered and turned into a tyrant when excessive pressure was put on him. Margery knew exactly which buttons to push.

  Quickly rinsing off and toweling dry, Alana sat on the bed as she dialed Genero’s cellular phone number.

  He answered at once. “Hello!”

  “Well, you sound pleasant,” Alana said, laughing.

  “Alana, thank God,” Genero breathed, his voice softening. “You can’t get here fast enough to suit me. Margery is making our lives miserable. Changing recipes. Questioning the staff’s abilities. Clovis is wielding his cleaver menacingly. If you love your mother, you’ll speak with her at once.”

  “Put her on,” Alana said calmly.

  “Alana, where did you ever find this, this person?” Margery demanded imperiously. “I think you ought to—”

  “Margery,” Alana cut in, “I want you to leave Genero to his work. He knows what he’s doing. I would not have left him in charge if he didn’t’.”

  “But—” Margery began.

  “Please, Margery. I would like this affair to be the most highly praised fête of the year. Unless you put your trust in me, I don’t think we’ll be able to pull it off.”

  “Oh, very well,” Margery conceded. “I’ll let the little man win this go-round.”

  “Little!” Alana heard Genero exclaim hotly before Margery hung up.

  Sighing heavily, Alana rose and went to the kitchen to pour herself a large cup of java. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

  Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, she stood at the sliding glass door that led out to the balcony of her Pacific Heights apartment. The reflection in the glass was that of an attractive young woman with flawless café-au-lait skin, wavy, coal-black shoulder-length hair, large, wide-spaced, sable-colored eyes with golden flecks in them, a short, pert nose under which was a full mouth with sensual contours.

  She occupied the entire top floor of a stately Victorian home owned by a retired University of California English professor, Jonathan Crenshaw. She had lived there for about a year, having taken the converted apartment shortly after Michael’s death. She’d been lonely rattling around in their large Daly City home.

  Daly City had been ideal for them because it wasn’t very far from San Francisco, where Michael worked as a police detective, first class, and Alana had her fledgling catering business. Margery had wanted Alana in San Francisco, where she would have been able to see her on a daily basis. But Michael had balked at the idea, saying that newlyweds needed their space. Alana had felt bad about the decision because since her parents’ untimely demise in a head-on car crash ten years ago, Margery was the closest thing she had to kin.

  The balcony overhung Jonathan’s backyard and offered an unobstructed view of their neighbor’s orange clay tile roof. She glanced down and thought she spied Jonathan’s silver head below. Opening the sliding glass door and stepping onto the balcony, she placed her coffee cup on the weathered redwood railing and bent over it to call out to him.

  “Good morning, Jonathan.”

  The still handsome septuagenarian beamed at her, revealing dimples in both suntanned cheeks. He removed his big straw hat as he returned her greeting. “Good morning. You look particularly well rested and lovely today. Is there a reason...?”

  Eyebrows arched in confusion, Alana said, “What?”

  “Someone sent you a beautiful bouquet of red red roses,” Jonathan informed her, smiling. “Not wanting to disturb you in case you were sleeping in, I left them outside your door. Is there a new beau in your life?”

  “If there is, this is the first I’ve heard of him,” Alana said jokingly. “Roses you say? I can’t imagine who would send me roses. No one has sent me flowers since...” She stopped. She was about to say, Michael sent me those orchids on our first anniversary. “Since Godzilla was a lizard,” she said instead. That was one of Michael’s favorite sayings, meaning a great length of time had passed.

  Jonathan laughed and replaced his hat. He squinted up at her. “Make sure you tell the eternally gorgeous Miss Devlin that her number one fan sends her his best. And I want to hear all about your new beau, my dear.” Then as an afterthought added, “Oh, yes, your mail arrived. I put it through the slot in your door.”

  As Alana went back inside, she glimpsed Jonathan’s tall, fit figure bent over his beloved roses, pruning away the unwanted growth which would in turn leave room for the flowers to thrive.

  She went into the living room to scoop the mail up off the floor. There were a couple of bills, a lingerie catalog, a magazine and a letter written on fine linen stationery. There was no return address on the letter and her own address had been typewritten. Tearing it open, she gingerly unfolded the letter, expecting to read a short missive from a close friend. Instead, the note read:

  My darling Butterfly... It’s time you learned to love again... It’s time you learned to love again.

  Alana’s hands trembled as she reread the note. The breath caught in her throat, and she found her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She gratefully sat down on the Shaker bench which stood near the front door. This is some cruel joke, she thought, it has to be. She looked down at the paper, then in a fit of anger, balled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket next to the bench. Who would want to hurt her this badly? Reading Michael’s personal endearment for her evoked bitter sweet memories. No one, absolutely no one on this earth, called her “butterfly” except her dead husband.

  A chill ran down her spine. She stood and retrieved the piece of paper. She would make a detour before driving to Nob Hill. She’d phone Margery from the Caravan and tell her she was going to be delayed; but first, she had to get dressed.

  Ten minutes later she was heading out the door attired in a midnight-blue raw silk pantsuit. Tailored to fit her slim, slightly muscular figure, it accentuated her trim waist and nicely rounded derriere, but she had not chosen it because she knew it heightened her sex appeal—she’d chosen it because it had been within easy reach when she’d gone into the closet in search of something to wear. In the last year Alana hadn’t put much thought into ways in which to attract the opposite sex. As far as she was concerned, she was still in mourning.

  Just outside the door she nearly tripped over the huge bouquet of roses. She’d completely forgot
ten Jonathan had told her they were there. She bent to scoop up the fragrant gift. Inhaling the sweet aroma, she sighed. She hoped that whomever had sent them wasn’t connected to the letter. She needed something positive to attach her emotions to today.

  Removing the card, she read: Love is a spirit longing to be free. Fear is the jailer and faith holds the key. It was signed, Your Secret Admirer.

  Alana held the roses close as though they were a loved one she was giving a warm embrace. A satisfied smile brightened her features making her heart-shaped, brown face appear childlike, almost ethereal. The flowers had to be from Nico. Who else could make her feel so wonderful with just a few words written from his heart?

  She turned on her heels to take the flowers into the apartment. She was glad she’d made up her mind to go see him this morning. Not simply because she needed his help but because she also needed his strength.

  Sunglasses on, purse firmly in hand, she stepped back out of the house on Lombard Street into another beautiful San Francisco morning. As she approached the champagne-colored Caravan with her company’s Vesta insignia on the side: a painting of a lovely black woman dressed in a toga, a few grains of golden wheat in one hand and an egg beater in the other, she pointed and pressed the remote keyless entry button.

  She slipped onto the leather seat, fastened her seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. She sat there a moment as the engine warmed up.

  Reaching down for the cellular phone, she absently dialed Margery’s number. What could she say to her that would not make her worry needlessly? Margery, being an actress, was given to reacting dramatically to any sort of change in plans. Alana was going to be delayed? Why? She was going to drop by the police station to see Nico? Why?

  Alana found herself wishing anyone other than Margery would answer the phone. She was relieved when Maria, Margery’s personal assistant, answered in her Spanish-accented voice. “Hello, Devlin residence. Maria Martinez...”

  “Hi, Maria.”

  “Alana, where are you? You know how Margery gets when things don’t go her way and right now she’s arguing with Genero about the menu. He tried to tell her that all the food has already been purchased for the menu you all settled on months ago but she doesn’t want to listen.”

  “I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. I have to swing by the police station for a few minutes first. Hang in there, Maria.”

  “You know me,” Maria said, laughing suddenly. “Margery can growl all she wants to. I’ll keep my cool. Are you certain nothing’s wrong, Alana? You sound peculiar.”

  Alana supposed since she and Maria had been friends a long time, the other woman could detect subtle changes in her tone of voice. They were around the same age, Maria having recently turned twenty-eight. At the age of eighteen, Maria had come to work for Margery soon after her family came to the United Stated from Mexico. Alana had just moved in with Margery during that time period and the two became fast friends. Alana had been a bridesmaid in Maria’s huge Catholic wedding in Santa Clara and had held her hand when Maria had been in labor with Mariana, now five. Carlos, Maria’s husband of seven years, had been out of town on business and hadn’t been able to make it back home on time.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,” Alana promised her friend. “I should be there at around eleven.”

  “Okay,” Maria reluctantly agreed. “I’ll give Margery your message. See you later.”

  “All right. Thanks, Maria.”

  * * *

  Eight-fifty Bryant Street was bustling with activity, even at nine fifty on a Wednesday morning. The San Francisco Police Department never closed. Keeping the peace in a city that spans one hundred thirty square miles and was the home of over seven hundred thousand people was a daunting task.

  Nicholas Setera, one of the city’s finest, was busy taking down the statement of a drug addict he and his partner, Jack Pullman, had arrested twice before. It wasn’t the junkie they wanted, it was his supplier. Pete Bodis, alias Peanut, committed burglary to support his drug habit. He was arrested this time for a smash-and-grab. He threw a rock through the window of a pawn shop and stole a portable TV.

  Nico cleared his throat and looked at Peanut over the computer monitor. His brown eyes were stern as he shoved the arrest form across the desk for the addict to sign. “You must like our accommodations, Peanut. You keep coming back for more.”

  Peanut was slumped down on his chair. His brown, pockmarked face wore a sullen expression and he looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal or a bath in weeks. He sat up, preparing to sign the form.

  Nico slammed his hand down hard on the desk, atop the form. “You’re pitiful. Don’t you give a damn about anything anymore?”

  Peanut’s eyes widened with fear and his hands dropped to his lap. Oh God, he thought, Setera has that look in his eyes. He knew he wasn’t going to be taken to his cell without a sermon. He’d gladly spend twice the allotted time behind bars if only he didn’t have to hear what a mess he’d made of his life. That was cruel and unusual punishment.

  The muscles worked in Nico’s strong, square jaw as he eyed Peanut. “How long have you been on that crap? Three, four years? Your first arrest, not by yours truly, was in ninety-four. Before that you were an orderly at San Francisco General. You had a wife and two kids. Whatever became of them? Do you ever see your kids?”

  Peanut didn’t reply. His eyes were riveted on his hands.

  “You’re twenty-nine and you look fifty-nine,” Nico stated flatly. He ran a hand over his short, curly, jet-black hair. His heart wasn’t in this. He knew Peanut was just as much a victim as he was a criminal. Nine times out of ten if a man hadn’t become an addict, he would have been a law-abiding citizen. Who knew what circumstances in his life had induced him to try narcotics as an anesthesia to his problems. However, Nico also knew he’d be remiss if he didn’t try to reach the addict on some level. A life wasted is one life too many.

  “It’s too late for me,” Peanut said in a voice so low that Nico had been unable to hear him.

  “What?” Nico asked evenly.

  Peanut met Nico’s gaze. “I’m a dead man.” He tried to moisten his cracked lips. “Ain’t no hope for me.”

  “There’s always hope, Peanut. I’ve known addicts in worse shape than you are who turned their lives around. You can do it. It will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life, but it’s not impossible. I’ll help you as much as I can. I have friends who work with addicts. They can help you get clean, if you really want to be clean.”

  Nico’s last statement hung in the air. He waited, hoping that the decimated human being sitting across from him would respond positively. Even a nod in the affirmative would be a step in the right direction.

  “How?” Peanut asked plaintively, his voice cracking. Unshed tears sat in his bloodshot eyes.

  Rising, Nico bent over the desk and grasped Peanut’s hand, firmly shaking it. “One step at a time, my brother, one step at a time.”

  He grinned as he sat back down and began typing a message to John Goldman, director of the South Market Rehabilitation Center. John was a good friend, and though it was difficult to find space for all the addicts who needed a place to dry out nowadays, he felt certain John could pull off a miracle. Nicholas Setera was a man who believed in miracles.

  * * *

  By the time Alana reached Bryant Street, she had almost talked herself out of seeking Nico’s help. The last time they’d been together, about a month ago, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. In fact, Alana had thrown him out of her apartment.

  It had begun innocently enough. Both Alana and Nico were free for the evening. He was off duty and she didn’t have any parties to cater, so she’d invited him over for a home-cooked meal.

  Before Michael’s death, Nico was a frequent guest in their home. She and Michael and Nico and whomever the woman of the hour was would often double date. They liked to dance and on weekends went to some of the trendier San Francisco night spot
s, sometimes closing the places. But they were also the type of people who could enjoy a quiet evening at home barbecuing steaks and playing bid whist.

  Michael and Nico had been partners for five years. They worked Vice. Their personalities were complementary: where Michael was hotheaded, Nico was a calming force. When Alana met Michael, she was welcomed into their group. So it wasn’t surprising that she grew to love and admire Nico like the brother she’d never been blessed with.

  Alana had prepared arroz con pollo, Nico’s favorite main course. When she opened the door to greet him, the aroma of the Cuban dish assailed his nostrils. As if under a spell, he handed her the dozen red roses he’d brought her and headed straight back to the kitchen.

  Alana shut the door, a smile on her face. She was always pleased whenever someone reacted favorably to her cooking. In the kitchen, she placed the flowers in a vase as she watched Nico examine the contents of the pots.

  “Mmm...” he said rapturously. “Are you hiding my mama somewhere on the premises?”

  His downward sloping, velvety-brown bedroom eyes regarded Alana with newfound respect.

  “I’m innocent, Officer,” Alana told him, grinning.

  Placing the top back on the pot, Nico turned to take her into his arms. He danced her around the tiny kitchen.

  Alana laughed happily. “Okay, I admit I did get the recipe from Mama Setera.”

  “I knew I smelled Cubano magic in those pots,” Nico told her triumphantly.

  Nico was Cuban-American of African descent. He and his parents were among the hordes of Cubans who, because of poverty and political persecution, fled the island nation in the early eighties. He had worked hard to claim his share of the American Dream, earning a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, serving two years on the Greater Miami police force.