Us.
The distance Julian put between them yawned into a gaping silence. David jumped one step ahead and calculated his options, as he always did. “How many presentations are there today?”
“Twelve. You’re the first.”
The sweat reappeared on his brow as David’s stomach lurched again. Two out of twelve were not good odds. But his defiant confidence muscled that sinking feeling out of the way. “Okay, I’ll take two out of twelve. No other manager will knock the socks off the board like I will. Thanks for putting me first, by the way. I’ll set a standard no one else will meet.” He reached for the suitcase. “Let me show you what I’ve prepared.”
As he unzipped the suitcase, the flash of red was familiar and yet somehow not. He flung open the lid, but he didn’t see his printed financials and his casuals for hitting the town with Julian that night. Instead, a woman’s dress and some kind of warped and distorted hand mirror sat in what he now knew was someone else’s suitcase, along with a smattering of photos of a happy family.
David swore under his breath. This baggage wasn’t his.
5
Michael rounded the bend in the hallowed Clarendon University running track, his calves twitching for action, unused to this slow pace. Usually he would lean hard into the curve, not dawdle behind a middle-aged man dressed in the obligatory cap, oversize shorts, and whistle hanging over a burgeoning paunch. A track coach who held the key to his dream of being an artist.
Coach Crosswell turned to him. “Your dad tells me you live for the track.” He had an abrasive voice, roughened after years of instructions shouted, never spoken.
Michael thrust his hands deep into his track pants pockets. “Honestly, Coach, the track is what I was made for.” That did sound good, even if it was only half true.
Coach nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to hear, Michael, although your dad said you prefer to be called Mikey.”
Michael clenched fistfuls of pocket as his father pulled another string in his life. “I’d prefer Michael, Coach.”
“No problem. You’re a lot taller than him, you know—or at least what I remember from our days at Serviceton High School. And I hope you’re a heck of a lot faster.”
Michael nearly chuckled. His father had never even tried athletics.
Coach quickened his pace, head down, and resumed his graveled sales pitch to the two-toned blue track. “We have a great athletic history here at old CU—Olympians, national championships—a great legacy to the noble pursuit of track and field. We’re so proud of our fortymillion-dollar athletic center . . .”
Michael’s eyes wandered over the empty rows of steel and concrete in the grandstand and floated to the south of the campus, where his future lay—at the art school.
“Michael!”
The graveled half shout wrenched Michael back to the track. Coach Crosswell eyed him with suspicion. “You’ve come a long way to see our facilities here, and I’m doing your father a huge favor, but it looks like your mind is elsewhere, young man. Normally I wouldn’t give anyone this type of personal once-over, but your dad and I did go to school together.”
Michael flushed, sure his face had turned a beet red. He couldn’t lose this opportunity, and his mouth scrambled to answer a question his ears had missed. “It’s just so much to take in—the history, the fact so many great athletes have been a part of your program here.”
Coach smiled. “Well, that’s true. And if you have the privilege of being selected to come here, you can join them. We’ll make you into the best version of you possible.” He laced his fingers behind his back and resumed his strut down the homestretch. Michael fell in behind him, mentally kicking himself.
“Imagine when you’re tearing down the straight to claim another four-hundred-meter win. This will be full of people cheering your name—what every athlete dreams of.”
Michael looked up to the empty stands and nodded, his mind pulling on a tight leash as it strove to fast-forward to the art school visit.
Coach’s eyes narrowed, and his pace slowed. “Next stop will be the athletic center—just a great facility for our athletes.” He stopped and looked at his feet. “But this is home.”
Michael looked down at the line painted across the track, a line with which he was very familiar.
Coach Crosswell swept his hand across the expanse of the grandstand’s front row. “This section is reserved for family. As you cross the line, your dad will be here to celebrate your great wins.”
Michael nodded. At least that was one time when he and his father had a connection.
The coach thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You will come to love this line because it will be your goal every day until you graduate.”
Michael toed the line with his shoe. This was the price he had to pay.
Coach Crosswell’s hard breathing snapped him back to the present. He looked down into eyes that were almost scanning Michael, sizing him up.
“Son, your dad has been emailing me for months, telling me you’re an athletic superstar and begging me for this visit. I’ve seen your results, and you’ve got potential, but you don’t strike me as the sort of kid who lives for the track.”
Art school was slipping through his fingers. Michael tried to inflate the enthusiasm clearly leaking out of him. “I’ll be here every morning for training, Coach.”
Coach Crosswell cocked his head and laid a fatherly hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Son, do you really want to be here? Hundreds will be applying for this scholarship.”
Under the squeeze of Coach’s hand, a part of Michael wanted to tear down the wall he had crafted around a dream that was never acknowledged, around an artist’s heart that was shunned. He wanted to shout to the empty stands that he didn’t want to be here. He just wanted his pencils in hand.
But honesty led to hardware.
He reached for his tried-and-true pasted smile, the same expression that fended off his father’s enthusiastic questions when he’d skipped another training session and instead gone to the high school art studio—his real home.
Michael scuffed at the finish line. “I am very excited, and I’m sorry if I’m not showing you that. It’s just overwhelming. I do want to be here at Clarendon University.”
Coach gave a knowing smile.
“And please excuse my father. He’s just overexcited about the opportunity.”
Coach Crosswell chuckled as he turned and left the track, striding toward the gym. “I’ve met all sorts of parents, Michael—the quiet, proud ones, and the pushy, overbearing ones like your dad. May I give you some advice?”
Michael strained to hear what the coach had to say. It was a nice change to be asked if he minded before advice was thrown at him. “Sure.”
“Most of those pushy parents are pushing their kids into a dream that’s actually theirs.”
Something within Michael pawed to get out, but the hardware shelves beckoned. He swallowed the rising anxiety as he fell in line behind the man who held the pass to his future. He was making a mess of this; the best thing would be to head to the track and show the coach why he would be worthy of a scholarship.
Coach Crosswell held open the gym door. “Your father has sent me countless videos of you on the track, but I’d love to see you run for myself. Let’s get you into some spikes. Where’s your bag?”
They squeaked their way across a basketball court. “I think I left it in your office.” But the artist within him had one more question. “When it comes to studying, how much time will I have to fit in track?”
The coach ushered him into an office lined from floor to ceiling with paper—graphs of achievement, charts of improvement, and schedules that ran students’ lives. “Michael, I want my athletes giving 110 percent. I think you’ll find it’s more about how much time you’ll have to fit in your studies.” Coach stood back, arms folded. “Grab your spikes, and let’s see what you’ve got.”
A black suitcase sat next to a neat stack of traffic c
ones. Michael laid it down and squatted next to it. That’s when he realized the flash of red he’d seen on the carousel wasn’t from his father’s cherished baggage tags. Instead, he saw the red of a university sporting team. The Rams, or something like that. And the barcode didn’t display his name.
Oh no.
Coach laughed. “Well, if you do make it here, we’ll have to get you the royal blue of Clarendon U!”
Michael’s hand dropped, and he stared at the suitcase.
Coach leaned in. “Is there a problem?”
Michael’s mind already answered a question it wasn’t game enough to ask. “I’ve got the wrong suitcase.”
“Didn’t you check it when you picked it up at the airport?”
Michael gave a heavy sigh as his art dream shimmered and threatened to evaporate. The heaviness in the pit of his stomach seemed to sink into his feet and then into the floor as he put his head into his hands. “I can’t run without my spikes.”
The coach placed a meaty hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I can try to rustle up some from around here. You can run in those.”
But Michael’s loss was greater than that. His design portfolio was gone. “I can’t do this without my stuff.” Tears bubbled just below the thin veneer of his confidence.
“Okay. Call the airline. I’ll still look for some spikes here.”
Michael sucked in a deep breath and whipped out his phone as the coach left the room. He Googled the airline’s number, and his call was put through to Baggage Services. The airline’s on-hold music—its latest cheesy advertisement that claimed to value its customers more than its share price—was cut off by a click and a whir and a chirpy, young male voice. “Thank you for calling Baggage Services.”
“Um, I’ve got the wrong suitcase from my flight—”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll arrange for your baggage to be at our city depot inside the hour. Please bring the baggage you’ve got.” He gave Michael the address.
The coach swung around the doorframe, his whistle banging into the woodwork. “We don’t have any extra spikes around here. You’re going to have to find your suitcase.”
Michael stood up in a rush. “I need to get to this address in some place called the Docklands.”
“That’s about ten minutes away, although I didn’t think there was much over there. I tell you what, son. I can book you a cab, but the university can’t pay for it. If I could take you myself, I would.”
Michael nodded as he fought the anxiety that rose again. He had to get his design portfolio back. “How much will it cost me to get there?”
“Ten, twelve bucks?”
That was okay. He’d have enough money for all his cab rides, and a few extra shifts of dishwashing at his job at the restaurant would pay for the sweatshirt he could probably order online. He’d nod through the expected verbal spray.
“I need you back here as quickly as possible. This is a favor for your dad, and I’ve got wall-to-wall meetings after the time I’ve set aside for you.”
He had to hurry back.
6
Gillian sat in silence as a perfect neighborhood scrolled past her car window. Model houses. Manicured gardens. Flower beds and blades of grass sculpted into place. A picture of her own garden, weeds and all, skulked around the edges of her memory.
Becky had to have a new car to go along with the new house. “Well, it just made sense to upgrade the old rust bucket we were driving. It was the oldest one at the tennis club there for a while.” A “rust bucket” ten years newer than Gillian’s.
The expensive leather of the car seat squeaked as a blast of icy air from the Audi’s brand-new air-conditioning system caressed Gillian’s cheek. She stared out the window as a better life than hers flashed past in the shimmering heat.
Becky tapped her leather driving gloves on the steering wheel. “You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”
“Just tired, I guess.”
Gillian’s evasion fired a starting pistol for Becky’s next breathless self-pronouncement. “My new relaxation regime is what you need. It’s all the benefits of yoga and tai chi with some kickboxing thrown in. I haven’t had this much energy in years. Mind you, I’ve needed it considering we’ve just moved into the house and I’ve had to organize all the interior decorating and gardens and you’re never quite sure if you’re going to be able to keep up with all the maintenance . . .”
Becky’s voice bounced around the inside of Gillian’s head until her mind could catch up with all the updates crammed into one rapid-fire verbal attack.
“If your house is anything like these, I’m sure it’s amazing.”
Becky brushed off the compliment. “It’s not much, but you do what you can with the money you have, don’t you?”
No statement was ever more true.
“Anyway, is Rick okay? The boys okay? They’re still joining us for the wedding, aren’t they?”
Gillian was relieved when her sister opened a door for her to share about her life. “Yes, they’re coming. Rick is driving up with the boys on Friday. He can’t get any more time off work with the way his business is going.” She reeled in the rest of her answer to leave an opening for her sister to take an interest in her, to ask a question giving her the chance to offload the pressure of Rick’s job and the strain on the family.
“Good. It wouldn’t be a full family picture for the wedding album if they weren’t here.” Becky slammed the opening shut. “Anyway, your being here alone gives us girls the chance to catch up.”
“Of course.” I thought we were. “You seem run off your feet with all these arrangements. How is Brent doing?”
Becky pursed her lips as she pulled out of an answer. “We’re here.”
Tires squealed on the flagstones as she swung her Audi into the horseshoe driveway, which led to a three-story house, shining with new paint. It could have been the centerfold for a home-decorating magazine. Perfect white shutters, fringed with a hint of white lace, stood against a dark-gray backdrop. Gables framed in cream and white pointed to the sky while set against a slated roof, weathered to perfection. At the top of slate steps, two white columns seated on pebble-stone plinths flanked a front door in rich oak.
“So this is home for the next few days.” Becky charged up the steps and into the house, pulling Gillian’s suitcase. A connection between sisters evaporated in an instant.
Gillian stood next to the car and, open-mouthed, took in the majesty of her sister’s home. That gnawing feeling skulking in the shadows leaped forward and mugged her. Rick often joked that Gillian would compare herself with anyone who walked past, but this was sensory overload to her self-esteem. She hadn’t even ventured inside yet. And it belonged to her sister.
With a deep breath to steel herself, she ascended the slate steps and entered her sister’s perfect life.
The foyer took her breath away. Polished floorboards ran from under her feet through to a living room, which was a decor lesson in sharp edges and contrast. Rich leather furniture settled into comfort alongside glass-and-steel coffee tables. Beyond the furniture, a double staircase wound its way to the upper floor and even more living space. To one side, an oversized coach light hanging from the high ceiling presided over the dining room. A long, majestic dark-oak table split the space, attended by twelve leather dining chairs.
Gillian’s head swam as she scrambled for a suitable response, but it was hard to take it all in. “Wow.”
Becky buzzed past her, phone in hand, headed for the staircase. “Sorry about the mess, but, you know, I have spent all my time arranging the wedding, and life is just frantic!”
The mess? Accent pillows were strategically placed and yet thrown with a casual indifference onto the sofas. It was so far from Gillian’s own living room, where items weren’t placed; they just stayed where they landed.
Gillian had taken in only half of the house on this floor. To her right was a massive home theater, an entire wall plastered with a black screen, itself backlit wi
th cinematic lighting. Recliner chairs were arranged in a basic worship pattern around it, and a popcorn machine offered its services from a stand next to the wall. A popcorn machine?
Becky bounced down the stairs and flashed past her again, a sheath of papers in hand, firing conversation topics like a ninja wielding death stars. “As you can see, we simply had to buy all new furniture. There was no way our old furniture would fit. I was planning to hold the wedding out back, but I decided the garden wasn’t ready. I’ll hold all our pre-wedding events there instead. If you want to grab some water, the kitchen’s just past the dining nook.”
The kitchen was a spotless tribute to reflection and polish. Even the cat’s litter box was immaculate, raked like a Japanese garden. Gillian put her carryall on the large marble island bench and was drawn to a sweeping wall display—a showcase of photographs, cradled in gold frames, the chronology of a happy life. Proud Becky with her newborn. Becky and Jessica smiling in the snow. Becky and Jessica both dressed as ballerinas. Becky with Jessica in graduation gown and cap. Brent and Jessica holding a gleaming softball trophy. Perfect smiles beamed at her from every frame.
Gillian’s photographs were stuck at random angles to her fridge, the constant gathering point for the four ravenous men in her life. They were family moments captured in time, complete with blinks, frowns, and more often than not, rabbit ears lurking behind an unsuspecting victim’s head.
Becky sprinted past Gillian toward the front door, throwing her last words over her shoulder. “I’ve put your suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long, so be ready, because we need to be at Marcellinas for lunch in twenty minutes.” And with that, she slammed the door behind her, the echo finding its way into the kitchen.
Gillian was now alone in this monolith of a house, home to just three people. Her mind swirled out of control, and her self-loathing rose up in her like floodwater. She needed to touch base with something tangible, so she texted Rick. Made it to Becky’s. This place is incredible. We’re heading off to lunch next. I hope you have a good day at work.
The Baggage Handler Page 3
