Phish NET Stalkings

by Denise Robbins

  Cooper shut off the shower, stepped out, and hooked a towel around his waist. Then…then she’d experienced the most amazing orgasm in his arms, beneath his tongue. “Damn.” Even now, he could almost taste her. He was rock hard. “Should have taken a cold shower,” he muttered.

  After dragging on a pair of jeans and a Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt, he shuffled barefooted downstairs and into the kitchen where he scrambled a few eggs, burned some bacon, and toasted a couple slices of wheat toast. As he ate his breakfast at the tiny bistro table the previous owners of the house had left behind, he wondered about Jane. Who was she? More importantly, why did she freak in the alley with him and not with the would-be-mugger? What about him frightened her enough to make her bolt? She knew he was a cop. That should have put her at ease, especially after the shock of the pink underwear.

  His friend Jack would ask him why he cared. Jack would say, “If you didn’t get laid, move on.” He didn’t think that way and deep down neither did Jack. Cooper was intrigued, enthralled, and wanted another chance with Jane.

  Dumping his dishes in the dishwasher, he walked into the living room where it had even sparser furniture or décor than the kitchen. It consisted of a sofa and a forty-inch flat screen television used only for watching sporting events and losing his shirt on bets. Aside from those, the only other furnishings were a floor lamp that stood to one side of the sofa and boxes that he used as coffee table, end tables, and ottoman. He shook his head as he walked by the sparse, comfort not a requirement, bachelor looking room. He had to do something about this place.

  When he hit the foyer, an exotic yet fresh scent engulfed his senses. It held a fruity, musky undertone and his body went on instant alert. He didn’t reach for a weapon. There was no need. The smell was Jane. He stood there with his eyes closed, and inhaled the aroma of her. He wanted her. Again. All he had to do now was find her and come up with an excuse to see her. The excuse would be easy. He could cite her for leaving the scene of a crime. The thought put a slow grin on his face. The finding her might not be as easy. All he knew was her first name.

  His eyes popped open as inspiration struck. His good buddy Jack had made time with Jane’s friend last night. Maybe Jack could get Jane’s last name from her friend. No doubt Jack got the friend’s name and number. “Yeah. That’s the ticket.”

  He reached for the front door to go out and grab the newspaper that would be sitting on his porch when something caught his eye. He released the knob and bent over to pick it up. Slid almost beneath the old-fashioned umbrella stand, lay something that did not belong. Cooper picked up the cell phone. “Hmm.”

  Pressing a couple of buttons, the phone lit up and came to life. “Jane’s phone.” Maybe he wouldn’t need Jack’s help after all. Not able to help himself, Cooper flipped through her contact list, last called number list, and finally the owner information. “J.C. East.”

  “Jane C. East,” he said aloud and wondered what the C stood for.

  When a musical beep of a reminder rounded and popped up on the digital screen, a wide grin split his face.

  He wanted a second chance. He had it.

  NINE

  Routine, that was what Jane needed. It was Saturday. She would go yard sale hopping and then to David’s, her closest friend, mentor and business partner. She would cruise through this yard sale, her seventh for the day, and then she would drive to David’s for food, conversation, and gardening.

  Jane skirted the long tables overflowing with ‘lightly worn’ clothing—according to the sign—moved past the children’s toys and man tools, AKA boys’ toys. She headed straight for what most people considered the junk pile, the stuff pulled out from the back of a great aunt’s closet or a grandmother’s bureau. Those people did not comprehend that the trinkets they tossed into a heap at the back of the yard sale were actually a goldmine.

  She had always been a collector, but never had any money. When she first started college as a chemistry major, she met a girl named Amy in her history class. Amy used to sit in class with magazines. At first, Jane thought the magazines were Cosmopolitan or Glamour, the typical magazines college girls read. In one class, Jane sat right behind Amy and as she flipped the pages, she saw photos of salt-n-pepper shakers, cups and saucers, hairbrush and mirror sets. The journal she read was not a women’s fashion periodical, but a publication on antiques.

  While the teacher spoke in the front of the lecture hall, Jane leaned forward and whispered behind Amy. “What are you reading?”

  Amy didn’t respond, but she did close the magazine and slide it to the side so Jane could see the title. It read, Vintage Art and Home Décor.

  When class finished, Jane hung outside the classroom and waited for Amy. “Why are you reading that magazine? Is it for a class or something?”

  Amy wrinkled her nose on one side in a sneer and drew her eyebrows together. “What business is it of yours?”

  Jane stiffened and snapped her shoulders back. “It’s not. It just looked interesting. I like to collect stuff and some of those pictures looked really neat. If they’re old they have to be cheap, right?”

  This time, Amy scoffed at her question. “Only if you’re lucky do you find antiquities cheap. Not only would you have to be lucky, the person selling it would have to be an idiot.”

  “Are you rich?” she asked without thinking. Jane’s grandmother would have rolled over in her grave at the audacity of her question.

  Amy never did answer her question, but they ended up grabbing a cup of coffee at the coffeehouse in the recreation center on campus. She explained to Amy that she lived in a small place off-campus and wanted to decorate it but could not afford new or even moderately expensive. “The place is so stark and boring, I have to do something.”

  “Have you tried yard sales or flea markets?”

  “Other people’s junk?” Jane had asked wrinkling her nose. She may have been poor and desperate, but she didn’t want someone else’s throwaways.

  Amy shrugged. “One person’s garbage is another person’s prize.”

  Amy explained to Jane the art of selecting collectibles. She told her what to look for, and what to stay away from. They set a date to go dumpster diving. That was what Jane had called it and still did.

  That cup of coffee started a lifelong friendship with Amy, and her love affair with vintage collectibles.

  One Saturday her sophomore year in college when Amy was home visiting her parents, Jane struck out to go dumpster diving on her own. On the Thursday before, she picked up the Weekend section of the newspaper, looked for the listings of flea markets and yard sales, and planned her route.

  After a quick breakfast of juice and a cinnamon crunch bagel with cream cheese, she packed up her notes, and went in search of collectible knickknacks. None of the places she stopped at had much. She found one old, glass jar, butter churn that actually had the wooden paddles. She snatched that up for a mere five dollars. It had been worth ten times that. If she didn’t keep it, she could sell it to an antique shop and still make a profit. Tucked in the very far corners of one flea market, Jane saw an old manual typewriter. She pressed a couple of keys and heard the clinking sound.

  “She still works,” an old man dressed in pinstriped overalls, told her from his perch on a folding lawn chair. “She’s all oiled and has a new ribbon. Here, let me show you.”

  “Oh, you don’t…” Jane let her words trail off as the older man hefted himself up from his seat and came to her with a wide grin on his face. Pride radiated from his smile. “Okay. Thank you.”

  Mr. Conrad introduced himself then tugged a clean piece of paper out from under the typewriter. He slid it in and rolled it up. He typed a paragraph as neat as can be onto the white sheet. “Now you try.” He gestured with an outstretched hand toward the typewriter and took a step back.

  How could she refuse? Jane stepped forward and typed just as smooth and efficient as Mr. Conrad.

  “She still hums.”

  “Why do you call the
typewriter a she?”

  Mr. Conrad laughed a loud raucous of a laugh, one of a joy for life. She liked Mr. Conrad.

  “All men’s favorite toys are female.” He winked at her and laughed again.

  His laugh was infectious and Jane found herself chuckling right along with him. When the laughter subsided, she asked about the typewriter.

  “The New Century Caligraph was built in 1899 by American Writing Machine Company in New York.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  He beamed at her. “My grandfather’s attic when I went to school.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a retired lawyer.”

  Her eyes must have bugged out of their sockets because Mr. Conrad practically spit at her when he laughed.

  “Happily retired.” He hooked his thumbs beneath the straps of his overalls and slid them up and down.

  “I see,” she said, but hadn’t understood.

  “No, you don’t, but you will someday. One day you will want the world to slow down so you can smell the flowers, see the sunrise, love life, and not work.” He winked at her. “Mark my words. You’ll come back to me one day and I will get to say I told you so.”

  Jane giggled and hoped that day would come. She sobered. “How much?”

  Mr. Conrad lifted one black and gray eyebrow. “Ah.” He rubbed his hands together. “A woman after my own heart, a straight shooter.” Fisting one hand on a hip and the other one hand rubbing his head in thought, he eyed her, and then the typewriter, back to her again. “For you, five hundred dollars.”

  Jane’s hand flew to her throat where the price was stuck. “F-five…hundred?” she gasped out.

  “Too steep for you?”

  Hell yeah! “Uh, well, I hadn’t exactly planned on spending that much today.”

  Mr. Conrad clucked his tongue. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  Jane’s brows shot up toward her hairline.

  “Relax. I’m not a dirty old man.”

  “I-I…”

  “Calm down, girl,” he said waving a hand pushing air toward the ground. “I can tell you are going to be a force to reckon with in the business world.”

  She felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. At least she thought it was a compliment.

  “Remember though, there is more to life than work and money.”

  “Says the retired attorney.”

  “Touché.” Mr. Conrad bowed then straightened. “I’m going to teach you how to enjoy the other parts of life.”

  Jane’s heart jumped inside her chest and banged against her rib cage. He was a dirty old man.

  The burst of laughter that erupted from his chest surprised her.

  “If you could see your face.” He placed a large hand on her shoulder. “I have an herb garden and I need help in it. Besides, you will be surprised what being out in the sun and playing in the dirt can do for one’s soul. It will help balance you and that drive for success I see lurking under the surface.”

  “You want me to garden?” she asked in disbelief, her eyebrows rising.

  “Yup. That’s the deal. Do we shake on it or what?” Mr. Conrad dropped his hand from her shoulder and stuck it out for her to take.

  It hung in the air, a snake ready to strike. Jane looked up and into Mr. Conrad’s smiling face. His blue eyes sparkled with humor and knowledge. Why not? She shrugged and clasped his hand in hers, as much as she could, considering his hand engulfed hers. He gave it a firm shake and they struck a deal.

  She had gone to Mr. David Conrad’s house every other Saturday afternoon since the day she met him. Long since paid off her debt, she continued to visit him every Saturday. Jane looked forward to their time together. She would show him the trinkets she picked up for a steal and he would teach her more about herbs and plants and life.

  Exhausted from her fruitless search at the dusty and crowded flea markets today, Jane unlocked her small truck and slid behind the wheel. She could not wait to see David.

  As she pulled into the drive of David’s Victorian home, she remembered the visit that changed her life forever. On one visit five years ago, she walked into the kitchen and almost tripped over the boxes littering the floor.

  “What the heck?”

  “It was time,” he announced from the arched entryway that led to the living room.

  “Time for what, David?” she asked and knelt next to the cardboard boxes. She opened the first one and saw crystal. Jane lifted one piece out and held it up. The sunlight streaming in through the bay window struck the crystal and sent shimmering beams of rainbows dancing around the room. “Beautiful,” she breathed out and looked down. The box was eighteen inches by eighteen inches and held nothing but crystal. Crystal vases, dishes, candleholders, even a ring holder.

  “Their yours.” David walked into the room and sat on a Windsor back chair close to where she knelt.

  She stared up at him, her mouth agape. David hooked a finger under her chin, closed her mouth, and smiled at her. She swallowed, wet her lips, and finally managed to squeak out some words. “I can’t… You don’t—”

  “I can,” he said nodding. “I want to. It’s just stuff to me. It once meant something to me, but with Sara gone they are just things that need dusting.”

  Jane saw tears pool in his faraway gaze. Then he blinked and they were gone.

  “I know how much you love those little doodads and pretty baubles, so I’m giving them to you.”

  “David. You can’t—”

  “I most certainly can. It’s done. If you don’t want them then I will take them to a flea market.”

  She gasped, snatched the crystal candleholder to her chest, and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

  David chuckled and tweaked her nose. “I thought you would see it my way.” He rose and offered her a hand. “Now, let’s have some lunch then go play in the garden. I think today we’ll learn about lavender and all of its uses.”

  As part of her lesson, David had made lavender lemonade and lavender cookies. He taught her how to dry lavender and discussed its many uses in cosmetics and bath essentials. “It has to be one of the best herbs, especially in its oil state for relaxation there is.”

  That afternoon her mind had not been on the lavender, but on the boxes of pretty things she could put in her small, dull place and make it beautiful and homey. She could not wait to go home and pick out just the right spot for every single piece.

  By the time Jane arrived at her little cottage that Granny Pearl gave her, it had been late, but she did not feel the least bit exhausted. After carrying the five boxes one-by-one inside, she felt energized. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat on the dingy, rust-colored carpet surrounded by the boxes. Jane opened every single one of the cartons. With great reverence and care, she lifted out the delicate baubles and placed them on the floor.

  Jane finished opening and setting each piece out on the carpet. She sat in the middle of sixty-seven pieces of art. To her, they were works of art, not someone else’s throwaways or garbage. What David Conrad gave her that day was love, a love he had lost, and she had found.

  Surrounded by crystal, ceramic, pewter, and glass, Jane went from shedding tears to giddy laughter, and back again. In her hand, she held a funny looking ceramic frog dish with big bug eyes and a wide, open mouth used to hold a kitchen sponge. She flipped it over and the sip of white wine she had just taken spewed out in a spray when she couldn’t hold back her shock and laughter. The underside of the frog displayed the anatomically correct parts for a male frog.

  With the frog in her hand, she unfolded herself and got to her feet. She stepped over all the baubles and moved to the kitchen to wash her hands and the frog and get a wet paper towel for the floor. When she slid the frog under the slow rain of water from the faucet, wiping off the green ceramic, she felt her world tilt. In gold writing, she saw initials and a number on the underside of the frog. Afraid the wine might have affected her vision, Jane pulled the frog’s bottom closer to
her face.

  Her eyes crossed and breath caught in her lungs. She panted for air. It was numbered in gold paint. Real gold. With a tight grip on the frog, Jane hurried back to the living room. She glanced down at the eclectic array of decorations and saw another frog. As if her arm were a frog’s tongue, she snatched up the green ceramic. She flipped it over and yes, there it was, the male frog’s mate with her anatomically correct features clear as day. She shook her head at the thought of David Conrad owning something so whimsical.

  Then it hit her. She had to sit. He had a pair, a full set of vintage frogs in perfect condition. According to the gold writing, David owned one of only sixty the artist had made. Stunned, heart beating out of control with excitement, she jumped to her feet, still clutching the frogs, and ran to her bedroom.

  She set the frogs on the bed, opened up the chest at the foot of it and started pulling out book after book of antiquity magazines and catalogs. When she came across one for kitchen art and collectibles, she paused, and flipped through the pages. Her hands froze over the page with the image of her frogs. She blinked, looked at the pair on her bed, then back at the magazine.

  “Holy shit!”

  She slammed the magazine shut, leaned back and reached for the phone on a little stand she had picked up at another flea market. Her fingers shaky, she managed to drop the receiver on the floor. Oh, well. Blood echoing in her ears, she dialed David. No answer. She glanced at her watch. It was only eight o’clock. Maybe he had gone to sit on the deck.

  “This can’t wait.”

  Jane hopped to her feet, tugged open a drawer and pulled out her thickest pair of socks. She stuffed each frog into a sock, hoping to offer it more protection than just the inside of a box. With them pinned between one arm and her chest, she ran to the door, snatched up her purse and keys, and left the house without another thought. Fifteen minutes later, Jane pulled up to David’s.