Valentine's Fantasy: When Valentines CollideTo Love Again

by Adrianne Byrd

  “Hello again, Georgie,” Pierre said. He had the southern twang of a Texan. Alana couldn’t imagine him growing up with the name Pierre St. Martin in West Texas. The other kids would have ridiculed him mercilessly. Pierre St. Martin had to be a stage name. Bree used Briane Miller when her true name was Briane Marie Shaw.

  “And this is my dear friend, Alana Calloway. Alana owns a catering service here in San Francisco,” Bree explained.

  Alana offered her hand in greeting. Pierre removed his glasses as he smiled at her. His eyes were a pale shade of green in his dark brown face. “Hello, Alana. Bree has told me so much about you, I feel as though we’re already friends.”

  Charming and handsome, Alana thought. No wonder Bree is enamored of him. Who wouldn’t be?

  Bree was busy taking Pierre, her ebony-hued toy poodle, out of his traveling cage. Pierre possessed a pugnacious nature and was extremely protective of Bree. The only people he’d taken a liking to over the years was Alana, on whose lap he was known to curl up on and take a nap; Toni, who, he’d learned, had no patience for his imperious moods, and Toni’s mother, Marie Shaw, who had such an angelic aura about her that all creatures tended to be drawn to her.

  Now as Bree held him in her arms, he was wiggling his tail and pushing out of his mistress’s arms, eager to go to Alana. Alana took him, and he immediately began licking her face. “I’ve missed you, too,” Alana said with affection.

  “I don’t believe it,” the human Pierre said. “He actually likes someone other than Bree. That dog hates me.”

  “You and I do have something in common, after all,” Georgie said as she reached down and picked up one of Bree’s many bags. “Head ’em up and move ’em out, you guys. Mom and Margery are waiting.”

  “We’re staying with Aunt Margery?” Bree asked. “I told you we had reservations at the Fairmont.”

  “Yes, well, our little Margie wouldn’t hear of it,” Georgie told her. “She insisted that you stay with her. She and Mom are in hog heaven having all three of us home.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bree said worriedly. Then to Pierre, “But don’t you worry, darling. They’re really wonderful women and you have been dying to meet Aunt Margery.”

  Alana wondered if Bree made it a habit of stroking Pierre’s ego or if she was truly nervous about his meeting her mother and aunt. Over the years Bree had played at relationships. Could it be she was serious about Pierre St. Martin? As they crossed the terminal, she decided Bree’s anxiety was real. She wanted them all to like her new paramour.

  Pierre put up a valiant effort to assure Bree everything would be all right. Even Georgie seemed impressed by his sincerity. Maybe I was wrong about him, she thought.

  Bree’s apprehension was unfounded, however, because when they arrived at the house on Nob Hill, Toni and Margery were on their best behavior.

  Hugs and kisses were the order of the day. Margery even gave a pat to the head to the canine Pierre who had been most unkind to her the last time he’d visited.

  “Hello, you little rug rat,” she said happily. “Left any presents in anyone’s shoes lately?”

  “Auntie,” Bree said. “He only did that because he senses that you don’t like him.”

  “Then he’s very intuitive for a birdbrain,” Margery returned good-naturedly. She then relinquished custody of the dog and gave her undivided attention to his human namesake. “I’m very pleased to meet you, young man. Where did you get those interesting eyes?”

  Pierre blushed profusely. Margery had a way of reducing full-grown men to whimpering babes. They were putty in her hands. She’d worked years at perfecting her craft.

  “I, I,” he stammered.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Margery said as she took him by the arm and led him out of the foyer into her home. “With a face like yours, you don’t need to speak.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Miss Robinson, but we haven’t any job openings at the moment. I’d be glad to take your application, and if anything opens up, we’ll call you back for an interview,” the human resources manager at the fifth business office Karen had visited that morning, regrettably said. “Our company has had to put a freeze on hiring.”

  Sighing, Karen nodded. “Okay.” She placed a neatly filled-out application form on the woman’s desk. “Thank you for your time. Have a nice day.”

  The older woman looked after her with sympathy. “Good luck with your job hunting, dear,” she called.

  Karen turned to briefly smile at the woman before pushing the glass door open and stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the travel agency’s office.

  Her fifth rejection. It wasn’t that she’d believed all she had to do was apply for a job in order to get one, it was just that she hadn’t observed even the prospect of being hired yet.

  She tried to maintain a positive attitude as she quickly walked to her parked car. She had one more place to try: a small architectural firm across from the Civic Center was looking for a secretary. She could type and knew shorthand and was schooled in WordPerfect, a computer program which proved helpful to secretaries in the performance of their jobs. She’d never worked as a secretary before, but she was qualified nonetheless.

  She liked the cool ambience of the architectural firm the moment she stepped into the office. The walls and floors were done in muted tones of gray and maroon. A pretty African-American receptionist greeted her and invited her to take a seat. One of the architects, Mr. Prentice, the partner who needed an assistant, would come out and take her back to his office for the interview shortly.

  Karen sat down on a gray leather upholstered chair facing the entrance. She was wearing her best business attire: a two-year-old navy-blue suit whose skirt fell just above her knees. She had not wanted to wear it because having it on evoked bad memories. The last place she’d worn it had been to Michael’s graveside memorial service.

  Not wanting to be seen, she’d stood apart from the others amid a copse of trees. Her mother had tried to talk her out of going, but she was unable to stay away. Even with the realization that Michael had used her, her love for him compelled her to say goodbye to him.

  It was a chilly, overcast day in February. There was a long line of cars at the L.A. cemetery: limousines, privately owned cars of family and friends and the service vehicles of the San Francisco Police Department. Michael had been one of their own, and they’d shown up in droves to show their respect.

  When Karen arrived, in her beat-up Toyota, she had had to park at the very end of the processional, and by the time she was close enough to see and hear the service, her shoes were mud-splattered.

  She’d stood about thirty yards away and observed as the minister talked about Michael Calloway. She heard him describe a man she was not familiar with: a pillar of his community, a devoted husband. Her Michael had been a confirmed bachelor who, although he loved her, did not propose to her even after she conceived his child. They had met in a club in Oakland. He told her he lived in nearby San Francisco and worked as a security guard. He never mentioned the San Francisco Police Department. He most definitely never mentioned his wife.

  Karen had learned his true identity when she had read about his murder in the San Francisco Chronicle. The paper did a touching tribute on the young cop who’d been gunned down by would-be carjackers. The killer had been apprehended three days later. The police were not about to let anyone get away with killing a brother in uniform.

  Karen followed the whole morbid tale with fascination. She cut out every article the paper ran about him, pasting them in a scrapbook. When Michael’s obituary appeared in the paper, along with the time and place his service was to be held, she knew she would be there.

  So as she stood among the trees in the drizzle, her tears intermingling with the rain, she watched as the chief of police handed a folded American flag to Michael’s widow.

  The woman stood and was immediately embraced by a tall man in dress uniform. From her vantage point, Karen could see that Michael’s wife
was beautiful. She was wearing a designer suit and was smartly coiffured. All those around her were especially solicitous of her, and when the tall man in dress uniform was not at her side, she was flanked by two attractive older women—one of whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Margery Devlin, the movie star.

  Suddenly, Michael’s wife looked up and stared in her direction. Karen knew she had seen her. She felt incapable of moving, however. Then the woman who resembled Margery Devlin put her hand on the widow’s arm and whispered something into her ear. Karen took the opportunity to leave. She’d seen enough.

  “Miss Robinson?” a deep male voice inquired.

  Karen slowly raised her eyes to the smiling face of a tall, trim, dark-skinned, ruggedly-handsome man in his mid-thirties.

  He reached for her hand. She hastily rose to her feet and grasped his hand. They shook, and he laughed deep in his throat. “You were daydreaming. What’s the matter, aren’t you having a good day?”

  He indicated the way to his office with a courtly gesture. They began walking down the hall. “The reason I ask is it’s my theory that people daydream more often when they’re worried about something.”

  He talked easily to her, as though he’d known her all her life. Karen was instantly at ease in his presence.

  “I’m not exactly worried,” she said. “A little apprehensive, maybe.”

  “About the job?” Scott Prentice asked.

  He opened the door to his office and allowed her to precede him. Karen stepped into a large, airy work space with plenty of light filtering in through the oversized windows.

  There was a large oak desk near one of the windows, and a few feet away from it stood a huge drawing board with several rolled-up blueprints sitting atop it. Karen assumed that was where he did most of his work.

  Scott sat down behind his desk, and Karen took the chair directly across from him.

  “Don’t worry about the job, Miss Robinson. It’s yours if you’re willing to work hard and learn as you go.”

  “Oh, I am,” Karen said enthusiastically, leaning forward in her chair. “I’m a hard worker. I’m smart. I’m completing my bachelor’s degree in business administration. I know I’d do an excellent job for you, Mr. Prentice.”

  “Business administration,” Scott Prentice said, a smile causing crinkles to appear at the corners of his brown eyes. “You’re overqualified for this job, Miss Robinson.”

  “I’m in a catch-22 situation here, Mr. Prentice. I don’t have a degree yet. I’m paying for my education, and I’m a single mother. I have a two-year-old...”

  “The terrible two’s, huh?” Scott said. He turned around the eight by ten photograph whose back had been to Karen atop his desk. Karen looked into the face of a cherubic girl-child with her father’s skin color and eyes the exact shade of roasted almonds. The face elicited a smile from her.

  “Cute, isn’t she?” Scott said proudly.

  “A heartbreaker,” Karen agreed.

  She saw no reason why she shouldn’t feel free to display her photos of Michael, so she whipped one out and handed it to Scott.

  “He looks like a scrapper,” Scott said. “Who keeps him for you during the day?”

  “My mother,” Karen replied.

  “You’re lucky,” Scott told her. “I get to see Danielle only on weekends and holidays. My ex got custody of her in the divorce.”

  Karen was pleased to hear no irritation in his voice when he mentioned his ex-wife. She didn’t think much of men who maligned the mother of their children. Her experience with Michael had inadvertently taught her that lesson.

  “I know that having to see your daughter on weekends and holidays isn’t like seeing her every day, but whatever time you spend with her is good. My son never sees his father.”

  Embarrassed at the thought that she’d carried the conversation to a much too personal level, Karen looked down.

  “I agree,” Scott said, smiling. “I should be grateful for the time I have with Danielle instead of grousing about the time I don’t have with her.”

  He liked Karen Robinson. She seemed honest, and she wasn’t afraid to say what was on her mind although there was a reticence, a shyness, about her that made him wonder. He’d take a chance on her.

  “You’re hired,” he said with confidence. “When can you start?”

  “Right away,” Karen said, her brown eyes flooded with relief.

  “Don’t look so thankful,” Scott said teasingly. “I may be an ogre to work for.”

  They rose and shook on it. When his hand touched hers this time, Scott knew he’d had an ulterior motive for offering her the position: he was attracted to her.

  Karen continued to smile at him. “You don’t look like an ogre to me, Mr. Prentice. At this point, you look like a lifeline. I’ll have no problem working for you.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Scott said. “Can you really start right away, because I have a proposal that needs to be typed up.”

  “Yes,” Karen replied a little breathlessly. “Just point me to my desk.”

  * * *

  Alana lay her head on the inflatable tub pillow and closed her eyes. The soothing sounds of jazz artist, Cassandra Wilson, playing on her portable CD player came through the earphones she wore and the scent of Orange Flower wafted up from the warm, foamy bath water. She sighed. Nico would be coming over in two hours so that they could discuss how best to approach Michael’s mistress. For the present though, all she wanted to do was relax and let the world recede into the background.

  She felt her muscles loosen up as she sank further down into the fragrant water. The sensation was like floating. She drifted off to sleep, buffeted in a cocoon of seeming euphoria.

  Then, she was in the water at Lake Tahoe. The day was sunny and bright and she and Nico were tossing a beach ball back and forth. She looked around, wondering where Michael was and she remembered he was watching basketball.

  Nico threw the ball over her head. As she leapt out of the water for it and came back down with it, she slipped and went under. She swallowed water and panicked. She couldn’t get her breath. The next thing she knew, Nico was pulling her out of the water onto the bank. He gently lay her upon the grass and she was coughing and spitting up water as he straddled her and massaged her lungs from behind, forcing the water out.

  Soon, she was fine and sitting up, offering him a wan smile. She went to say something and he silenced her with a raised hand. Then he pulled her into his arms and held her close to him. Not a single word passed between them, however, she could feel his love and his relief at not losing her radiating from him. She had never been more content and in her dream-state, thought, “Don’t let me wake up for a while, just let me enjoy this.”

  A hand was on her bare shoulder, nudging her awake.

  “Alana, Alana.”

  It took a moment for her to realize that she was no longer dreaming. With a start, she sat up, splashing water onto the bathroom floor. Nico squatted beside her, smiling at her. “Girl, what are you doing sleeping in a tub full of water? You could drown like that.”

  Alana was grateful there were plenty of bubbles that served as a blanket to cover her.

  “Nico, what are you doing here?”

  Nico rose, reached over and selected a large, fluffy white oversized bath towel from the shelf opposite the tub. He handed it to her. “I arrived early and rang the bell. You didn’t answer. I knew you were here because I saw Jonathan downstairs and he told me you were. Thinking something might be wrong, I used your spare key. Once inside, I called to you, you still didn’t reply so I searched the apartment and found you here snoozing.” He bent down. Their faces were only inches apart. “Let me wash your back for you while I’m here.” When he placed one muscular arm, up to the elbow, into the bath water, close to Alana’s backside, she hastily slid forward in the tub.

  “Where is that sponge,” Nico said, his downward-sloping brown eyes alight with amusement. Alana grabbed his hand and held on to it.

 
“Out,” she ordered sternly, looking him in the eye. “Get out now or in a moment, you’ll be drenched. You only get one warning.”

  “That could be fun,” Nico told her. He stood and began removing his shirt, revealing a washboard stomach and highly developed pectorals.

  Alana stared at him. “You’re playing while I’m rapidly turning into a prune.”

  “No one’s stopping you from getting out,” Nico said. He turned his back to her. “Okay, go ahead and get out.”

  “The second I rise, you’ll turn back around,” Alana accused him. “No. You’ve got to go, Setera.”

  “Oh, all right,” Nico said at last. He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Alana carefully stood and began toweling dry. The door came back open and Nico stuck his head in. “By the way, I brought take-out.”

  Alana quickly wrapped the towel around her and stepped out of the tub. Angry, she slipped and slid on the wet tile. Nico came forward and pulled her into his arms, thereby preventing her from falling. She threw her arms around his strong neck and held on.

  “You are a relentless prankster,” she breathed. He smiled at her and she was unable to maintain an angry frame of mind.

  The feeling that came over her then was reminiscent of the spiritual sense of contentment she’d had in the dream Nico had awakened her out of. I love him, she thought. I’m in love with Nico. It had taken a jolt from her subconscious in the form of the dream to make her face up to it. That’s why she had felt as if she couldn’t let go of Michael. While he was alive, she had been in love with his best friend. It had happened at Lake Tahoe. If she had known Michael was seeing someone else, she would have left him then. Consequently, she wouldn’t have punished herself with guilt-feelings the last year. Deep down, she had told herself: My husband’s dead. He loved me but I didn’t love him as I should have. I don’t deserve to be happy.

  Hindsight, she thought sadly. If I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve chosen Nico the night we all met.

  “What’s that frown for?” Nico asked, breaking the silence between them.