Her Home Run Desires

by Payne, Jenna

  On the eve of the scheduled golf tournament, an important meeting was being held in the conference room of Arrington Woodlands. Cace Arrington sat at the center of the table, but he would not be chairing this meeting. In a few minutes, the board of directors would be voting to decide his fate, whether he should be replaced as CEO by Sean Cohen.

  ***

  Outside, in the cool evening air, Skye was running across the back of the hotel building. Her feet pounding against the cold, grey paving stones, she clutched tightly to the bundle of evidence she’d compiled over the last two weeks. Dee, the doorman, had once again ‘turned a blind eye’ to her coming on the estate, and Skye had decided to go across the back of the building to avoid any staff inside the hotel, preventing her from getting beyond the lobby.

  As she turned a corner, she realized there would be a problem. Standing in front of the back entrance of the hotel was Petra, a bag of golf clubs strapped across her shoulder.

  “It’s over!” cried Skye. “I’ve worked out everything that you’ve been plotting with Margo. I have all the evidence!”

  Petra seemed prepared as though Margo had called her, worried when Skye failed to turn up to the diner.

  “Are you really going to turn in your own aunt?” Petra demanded, defiant.

  “I’m going to do whatever it takes to clear Cace’s name!” Skye stated.

  The two women stood facing one another, neither one budging, their hair blowing wildly in the wind.

  “Not if I can help it...”

  And with that, Petra pulled out a golf club and swung it directly at Skye. Skye dove for cover, avoiding its impact as Petra’s swing sent it crashing into a paving stone, sending tiny pieces of shattered stone up into the air.

  The impact caused Petra to jolt forward, scattering golf clubs across the paving. Skye managed to grab hold of one, and quickly thrust it up it to deflect another powerful swing from Petra.

  Skye stumbled back a few steps as Petra carried on moving toward her. Petra changed her swing, coming up from under, nearly making contact with Skye’s abdomen.

  Crunch! Petra gave her golf club another powerful downward swing, missing Skye by an inch, and causing the nearby paving to splinter up. Petra didn’t lose any more time. She rammed the golf club forward, poking Skye backwards, and causing her to fall backwards onto the hard ground. Skye lost hold of the golf club she’d been holding, and saw it fall out of reach.

  Feeling a sudden vulnerability at that moment, Skye remembered the little life inside of her that she was now responsible for safeguarding.

  No-one’s gonna hurt my baby, thought Skye.

  Summoning all her energy, Skye rolled to her side as Petra swung her club again. Skye grabbed the golf club she’d dropped. In one solid swing, Skye hit Petra to the ground.

  There was a moment of silence…then a murmur. Petra was down but she was not out of the fight.

  As Petra clambered to get back to her feet, Skye wondered how she would ever get her evidence to Cace. It was then she saw Alejandro. Coming from the back entrance of the hotel, he ran over. As Petra got to her knees, Alejandro grabbed her and restrained her on the ground.

  “Skye! You were right. They’re having a meeting to replace Cace with Sean Cohen. Go to the conference room now!”

  As Alejandro kept a firm grip on Petra, who screamed out angrily, Skye gave him a grateful smile then raced on to the conference room.

  ***

  Skye sprung into the conference room as the second vote had been cast. Cace looked stunned and jumped to his feet.

  “Skye!”

  Skye flung her bundle of evidence on the conference table.

  “Before you make any decision,” she said, addressing the board of directors, “I think you need to know a few things. Isn’t that right, Sean?”

  There were confused murmurs around the table as slowly…one by one…the board members started to pick at and examine the evidence Skye had placed on the table.

  As Cace came to understand what Skye was showing them, he turned to face her. He didn’t care if there was an audience. He leaned in and kissed her, long and passionately.

  *****

  “I’m sure you’ll be throwing me under the bus to the police,” Margo said, as she sat across the table from Skye in the bar of Arrington Woodlands. Her eyes downcast.

  “I told the police what I knew. Nothing more, nothing less,” said Skye, “Unlike some people, I don’t find it easy to hurt the people closest to me.”

  Skye meant that. As she looked over at the aunt that had been like a mother to her, she found it hard to hate her. The woman who had always been a pillar of strength to Skye had now crumbled. It was sad to see her so weak and powerless.

  “It will depend on how much your friends, Petra and Sean want to set the record straight,” Skye reminded Margo, not enjoying the reversal of roles.

  “Cace had such madcap business ideas. Sean was going to bring stability to the company. Create good, solid contracts,” Margo started to explain.

  “You mean protect your business?” Skye questioned.

  Margo dropped her head, ashamed. Skye ignored Margo justifying her actions, and asked, “Why did you lie to me about Cace?”

  “It was not going to be forever. We had worked months to get Sean in a position to replace Cace. Petra felt you were getting in the way of things…we couldn’t take the risk. I really didn’t know the full extent of what Petra was doing…” Margo stammered. Her voice trailed off as if even she saw the feebleness in what she was saying.

  “Things can get in the way of good judgement sometimes,” Skye said, echoing Margo’s own words. With that, Skye stood up and stood tall. She had lost her job, lost her aunt, and was now pregnant…the future was uncertain. But it was time to face all of that head on.

  *****

  Skye stepped tentatively out the vehicle, and observed the signs with balloons pointing towards the venue up ahead. She scanned the other people making their way in the same direction, seeing if she could recognize any of the faces. Just a few months ago, she’d been certain she’d never attend this gathering. Just a few months ago, she’d thought a lot of things that had changed, she realized.

  Cace had wanted them to arrive by limo but Skye had passed up on that idea. She had never been a person overly enthralled by great wealth. It would have been over-the-top. As a compromise, Cace had insisted on having a dress made for her by one the world’s most sought-after fashion designers.

  Standing now in the ravishing dress, that served a dual purpose as a maternity-dress and a head-turner, Skye felt like a million dollars. She then had the uncomfortable realization that at that exact moment, she was worth more than a million dollars–allowing for the dress and the ring alone.

  Cace joined her, and put his strong arm around her waist. She craved his touch. It was that, which was the most welcome change in her life, Skye thought. He made her feel safe. He made her feel secure. Something she’d never experienced as a child.

  She also felt proud to be able to say tonight that she was now the head of her own recruitment company. Cace had been adamant that she had potential, and she’d certainly demonstrated an uncanny ability for working people out. So he’d helped her set up a recruitment company, and then given her the very first contract, to provide staff to Arrington Woodlands. The idea of going into business was terrifying for Skye. But after all that had happened, she’d decided she’d give herself more credit in terms of what she was capable of.

  Skye looked over at Cace, taking in his gorgeous face. She wanted to do ‘naughty’ things with him right then. For now, that would have to wait, they had a school reunion to go to. Taking Cace by the hand, Skye took a deep breath, and strode out ahead. Into the unknown, into the future, and into their lives together.

  THE END

  Bonus Story 34 of 40

  Blood Moon over the Mississippi

  Dead Bouquets

  Violet Miller arrived in Louisiana on April 3, 1923. The train
pulled into New Orleans Union Station, issuing a cloud of steam and soot as it slowed to a stop at the platform, groaning with the weight of ten cars and 800 miles of track behind it. A misty rain was falling, and the warm earth steamed up into the cool afternoon air, blurring the outlines of the city. The station master checked his pocket watch. At 4:00 sharp, the doors of the train were thrown open in unison, and a flurry of activity swarmed over the platform. Red caps and chauffeurs rushed forward to take hold of trunks and hat-boxes. Mothers and nannies grabbed hold of wayward children as they sought to slip away into the fog. Men shouted their greetings to each other. Women kissed each other’s cheeks. The din of many accents filled the air as people from every corner of the country congregated there. The train sighed and settled in place. The fireman wiped sweat and black soot from his weathered brow. Violet Miller stepped onto the platform, and smiled.

  Even in the chaos of the arrival, she turned the head of every man in her vicinity. She stood poised for a moment, looking around interestedly at the goings on. Her dark chestnut bob was nearly hidden by a peacock blue cloche hat pulled down low over her deep azure eyes. She wore a grey dress that dropped just below her knees, blue shoes, and gloves to match her hat. A sable stole was draped casually over her narrow shoulders. She held a small travelling case. She was lithe and tall. The artist Miró had once said to her, over his fifth tumbler of absinthe, that she was the most perfectly proportioned woman alive. Beyond her slender form, it was her bright blue eyes, shining out from beneath thick black lashes that commanded the attention of those around her.

  Her trunk emerged from the train, and immediately a young porter procured it for her.

  “You lead the way,” Violet told him, her voice husky, her words carved out into harsh consonants by her New York accent. “I’m brand new here.” She offered him a smile. He tipped his hat and hurried ahead, cheeks rosy from the encounter. He hailed a black cab, and loaded her trunk inside of it. She gave him the address on Bourbon Street, and the driver whisked her away toward the French Quarter. Violet took in the city from the back of the car, gazing out the window into the rainy streets. Through the gray haze, she could make out ornate porches, and cheerfully painted buildings. Naples yellow and crimson, framed with cast iron vines. Flowers and palms spilled from window boxes and balconies. A streetcar trundled by her window. She was staying at the home of a friend from New York, a banker who had roots in Louisiana. He had warned her of the rough and tumble environment as he handed her the keys, and then he laughed, and allowed that it was probably just the kind of excitement she was looking for.

  Though the rain fell harder as they drove, the streets were filled with people of all colors and origins, crisscrossing in front of them, huddled under umbrellas or the necks of their jackets. Violet smiled to herself. Soon the car pulled to a stop in front of a two story house. It was painted a deep emerald green with grey painted shutters, and the cast iron porches of each story were overflowing with spring flowers. A light hung just above the front doors, glowing warmly in the fog, beckoning Violet into her new home. As she walked up the steps, the cab-driver close behind lugging her trunk, the double doors opened, and she was greeted by a matronly woman with a friendly smile.

  “Welcome, welcome, Ms. Miller. I’m Caroline…Mr. Astor has instructed me to take very good care of you. Come in, come in!” She beckoned Violet forward, shuffling around, taking her hat and her fur and instructing the driver on where to bring her luggage.

  “Thank you Caroline,” Violet smiled, relieved to be rid of her belongings. She looked around the inside of her new home with great interest. She was standing in the front hallway. The grey light of the day filtered in through long sheer curtains, illuminating a room decorated in the latest style. There were bits and pieces of Mr. Astor’s travels on display—an alligator head sat on a small table. Violet recognized paintings by some of their friends. A Picasso nude hung next to a Dalí sketch.

  “I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?” Caroline bustled back into the room. She was a small, round woman, with rosy cheeks, dressed in a classic grey maid’s costume with a flour-dusted apron tied about her ample waist.

  “Yes, thank you,” Violet replied. “I love it already.”

  Caroline lead her through the first floor. The dining room, drawing room, water closet, and through to a back garden, surrounded by high walls, and replete with a small swimming pool. They stood on the back porch for a moment as Violet took it all in. It was nothing like New York City. The colors of the rose bushes that surrounded the yard appeared brighter and more vibrant somehow. The rain had stopped now, and the clouds had begun to turn golden in the early evening.

  “Can I take my supper out here?” Violet asked the maid.

  “You can take your supper in the bath tub, for all I care,” she replied with a laugh. “Speaking of, you must be in quite a state after two days of travel. Why don’t I show you upstairs to your quarters?” She led the way back into the house. Violet followed her up a staircase lined with photographs of exotic places. She glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt, and a Japanese garden as she passed.

  “This the guest room,” Caroline pushed open the door to their right. “And the studio, should you find any use for it.” She opened a second door. This room was unlike any other in the house. It was painted completely white. Even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. The windows were wide and exposed.

  “I say, this is awfully wonderful,” Violet breathed, stepping into the room. There was a desk by the windows, and an easel stood folded in the corner. There were two shelves, each bursting with paints and pencils and chalks. “Mr. Astor is terribly thoughtful, isn’t he,” she said, turning to Caroline with a smile.

  “Yes ma’am,” the woman replied. “Now if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She showed Violet to her room. It was a large room with windows on two sides. The walls were painted a deep dusky blue, and the dark mahogany bed was dressed with white linens. Before the windows, green plants, exotic ferns, and cactuses were stacked on ornate iron stands. Some hung from the ceiling, dripping with pink and white blossoms. A small white couch sat across from the bed with a matching chair. The room gave off an impression of calm. Violet was beside herself with its beauty. Everything in New York was dingy and dirty compared to the vibrancy of this place.

  “And here’s your washroom,” Caroline concluded the tour. “The furnace is going, so the water’s nice and hot for you. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Violet stood alone in the blue-tiled bathroom. Slowly, she turned the knobs of the deep tub, letting it fill with hot, steaming water. She sprinkled soap, and a sprig of lavender into the bath, and watched the water as it became milky with heat and the scent of flowers. She stripped off her clothing slowly. First her shoes, and then her dress. She stood for a moment in her grey chiffon teddy, before gracefully slipping off her thigh-high stockings, and letting the last of her clothing fall to the ground. She stepped into the steaming bath, and with a small sigh, sank beneath the suds.

  When Violet entered the drawing room an hour later, she was refreshed and elegant in a filmy sea-foam green dress. She wore a similarly colored shawl with bright red tassels over her shoulders. It was almost seven o’clock now. The sun shimmered through the windows, and the furniture cast impossibly long shadows across the room.

  “Caroline?” Violet called, gliding from the room and walking towards the back of the house. The woman emerged from the kitchen door, “I’ll spend my evening on the porch, and would you mind fixing me a mint julep?”

  “Certainly,” the woman replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Prohibition was the talk of the town, but Mr. Astor’s cabinet was stocked with every manner of alcoholic delight imaginable, and Violet certainly wasn’t going to allow a silly government ruling to impact her cocktail hour. Now was the emergence of the ‘bright young things’, the rise of the bohemians and their exciting, colorful lives out of the ashes of World War I. It was as if an entire generation was
attempting forget the agony of conflict.

  Violet made her way to the back door. She stepped gingerly out into the evening sunset, following the flagstone path that surrounded the swimming pool through a variety of roses. Her favorites were the bushes of huge white blossoms. Their aroma was sweet and light. In the remains of the day, they appeared almost ghostly, delicate and beautiful. The birds of the garden were chirping their quiet ‘good-nights’, and Violet could hear a murmur of voices from next door. She wondered who her neighbors were, in this strange and exciting city.

  Caroline called her back to the porch for her cocktail, and a delicious supper of alligator gumbo. As the sun set, Caroline lit an oil lamp and set it on the table.

  “I’ll be turning in now, Ms. Violet, unless there’s something else,” Caroline said.

  Violet dismissed her. She wanted to be alone—to take in her new home without interference. She sipped her mint julep and stretched her long legs out in front of her. The train ride had taken two days, from New York to Chicago, and then Chicago to New Orleans. She had hoped for some exciting company on the ride, but was disappointed by the dreariness of her fellow travelers—families and businessmen.

  Violet’s life in New York was far from uninteresting. She had been a model for Vogue and Vanity Fair since her discovery by Condé Nast himself at the tender age of 14. It happened that she was working as a maid at the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Mr. Nast enjoyed the occasional indiscretion. She was supposed to have been making his bed and cleaning his rooms, but had become enamored of one of the dresses that hung in the wardrobe there. She could still remember the feeling of the fabric against her skin: soft white silk that clung to her slender frame and transformed her from girl to woman. Mr. Nast had discovered her, transfixed by her own reflection. He should have been angry—furious that a lowly maid would be so bold as to fondle the garments of the rich—but instead he was delighted.