Of Happiness

by Olivia Luck

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” I interject with an icy coolness in my voice. As much as I want to tell lady off, she’s still the wife of one of Harris’ colleagues. “Thank you for the opportunity, but I’m afraid our working relationship has been poisoned by some unfortunate events. It’s probably best we part ways on good terms.”

  The line remains silent for two beats. “All right, yes, that’s really the ideal choice for this situation,” she says like she thought of the idea.

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “Have a nice day, dear.”

  I disconnect the call. Well, that settles my internal debate about calling her. An overbearing client like Melinda would be dreadful to manage in the best of circumstances. Add this ugly layer to the situation and I see that it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Even though I’m disappointed to lose the work, especially because of the way it transpired, I’m pleased I had the courage to let her go.

  A rumble from my stomach reminds me I haven’t had anything to eat yet. Pushing back from the desk, I head into the kitchen. To my surprise I hear cabinet doors closing when I round the hallway leading toward the living area. My heart rate picks up, thudding against my breastbone as I pause mid-stride.

  Who is out there?

  “He-hello?”

  “Edith, sweetheart? It’s Eleanor.”

  I exhale a sigh of relief and hurry out into the kitchen. Eleanor’s in her late fifties. I’ve only met her the one time, but I felt at ease by her spry and nurturing personality. Her hair still grows long, but she wears it combed into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She waits for me with a cheeky grin when I enter the room.

  “You’re white as wedding dress! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I didn’t think to ask Harris your schedule.”

  “Would you like me to make you something?”

  “I’ll fix it myself,” I say instantly. She watches me hesitantly, her hand hovering over a cabinet door handle.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod and pull a yogurt and berries from the stainless steel refrigerator. In the slim built-in pantry, I find granola. I combine the three in a cereal bowl and take a seat at the bar. Belatedly I realize I’m still only wearing Harris’ robe. Blushing, I readjust the belt together around my waist.

  “Sorry, Eleanor,” I mutter.

  “Dear, do you know I’ve been working with the Grants for more than twenty years?”

  I pause, the spoon halfway toward my mouth. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t mean to catch you off guard, but I want us to be comfortable spending time together.” She stops her progress, rifling through the cabinets, and gives her full attention to me across the countertop.

  “Okay,” I agree. “But in the future, I think it’d be better if I was dressed.”

  She winks at me, and rotates around to continue what she had been doing before I interrupted her. “We’re family now. I’ve been with the Grants through many ups and downs.” She eyes me as if to silently ask if I know. I nod shortly. “Helped our boy Harris raise Claire after their parents left.” She smiles softly. “You brought back the spark that was missing him since before… It’s wonderful to see him living again.”

  Her assessment sends flickers of pride through my chest. “I think so, too.”

  After I eat, I lock myself in the den, attending to work and seeking out new business opportunities for the next several hours. It doesn’t feel like more than an hour has passed, but when I look at the clock, I realize that I have thirty minutes until Marcus is scheduled to pick me up. I hurry into the master bathroom, surveying the damage of hair that I let air-dry. Very quickly, I realize that the frizzy mess cannot be worn down, so I pile my hair into a somewhat neat top knot. With well-practiced movements, I apply my “professional” makeup—a few flicks of the mascara wand and swipes of blush. Then I dress myself in a sleeveless blue shirtdress and my brown heeled sandals. When I pass inspection in the closet’s full-length mirror, I leave the bedroom and pack my tote bag with my work supplies.

  “Bye, Eleanor!”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow, dear,” she tells me.

  As the elevator descends, taking me to the lobby, I smile to myself. It’s hard to believe how much my life has changed since I’ve moved to Chicago, but I’m not dreaming and this bliss is a reality.

  The meeting at the chic furniture consortium produced some new content for my blog and I found a desk that could be a nice fit for Beth’s office. I accomplished a personal goal during my meeting at the store, too; one of my shop girls took a picture of me at the aforementioned desk, a full shot of my face, the first on my blog. Next week, I’ll give my reader’s a complete look at me. The concept no longer worries me, my apprehension about judgment from my peers and others in the interior design community fading.

  With that meeting and subsequent food shopping behind me, Marcus drives me home. In the backseat of the car, I text Harris and let him know my plans for the evening. I ask if his private investigator has any leads on the whereabouts of Claire and Jared.

  Harris: No updates yet. When I hear something, you’ll be the first to know.

  Eddie: K

  Harris: I won’t be back until ten or eleven tonight. Wait up for me.

  Harris: Please.

  I grin. He’s learning better manners. As if I wouldn’t wait up for him. I type a quick response and slide my phone into the front pocket of my bag. Marcus pulls the car into the drive and switches it into park, so I climb out. He collects my grocery bags from the trunk and meets me outside the passenger door.

  “You don’t have to carry those for me,” I tell him quickly. It’s only two bags, and I’ve carried my own groceries my entire life.

  “But Harris requested I help you,” he explains.

  “Thank you, Marcus, but I insist that you let me handle it from here.”

  He eyes me uncertainty. To speed things along, I gently tug at my D.C. Proud reusable bag, the one that I used when Sean and I met my second day in Chicago. Marcus releases it reluctantly, then hands over the other cloth bag. I shift them on either shoulder, one on top of my tote bag, the other resting against my side.

  “Thank you for taking me around today. Hopefully I won’t be your burden for too much longer.”

  “No burden at all,” he says with a slight smile. He looks like he wants to say more, but holds back the words. Somehow I know they relate to his former passenger, Claire.

  Once we exchange farewells, I’m off making my way through the lobby, greeting the concierge and then calling for the private elevator to the penthouse. The ascent takes less than a minute, and then I’m distractedly entering the foyer.

  A buzzing in my bag alerts me to a message, and just because I’m worried about what it may be, I wrestle the grocery bag off my shoulder to seek out my phone. While I’m searching through my bag, I don’t notice the flurry of activity barreling toward me. The loud vibrations distract me from the sound of expensive heels clicking against the floor. When strong, but slim arms make contact with my chest and shove me backward once, twice, until the back of my skull slams into a hanging wall mirror, I’m caught totally by surprise. Unbalanced by the heavy objects swinging on my shoulders, I sway on unsteady feet. My eyes blink rapidly as they try to stay open. But they’re falling, falling like me as I tumble toward the ground heavily.

  Just as my eyes sink close, a powerful kick slams into my side, stealing all the breath out of my lungs. As I gasp, her skinny-heeled shoe collides with my ribcage again. “Welcome home, little mouse,” she says nastily, erupting into cackles.

  A cool breeze flutters across my face and drags me from the darkness. Before I open my eyes, a loan groan emerges from my throat. It feels like a musician pounds a heavy drum in my head, and my ribs are furious, tender, and aching.

  As soon as I remember what happened, my eyes pop open and I struggle to sit up. I realize that I’m unable to move because my arms are lo
cked above my head, tied to something. Frantically, I look around only to find that I’m bound to a chaise lounge on Harris’ balcony. My legs are immobile too, wrapped together tightly along the bed of the lounger. Despite the warmth, my teeth start to chatter in fear. There’s not one imaginable reason why I’d be in this position. Only one person I can dream of with designs to hurt me. It rattles me to my bones, knowing she’s probably just a few breaths away.

  The sun sets in the sky, illuminating the deck, but it won’t be long before I’ll be surrounded in darkness.

  “You really need to buy some expensive clothes. The shit you have is so fucking cheap it wouldn’t even hold to the chair,” she says, sounding bored.

  My eyes jerk to find Claire stretched out on the chair next to me examining her blood-red nails. “I had to use one of my brother’s ties. How embarrassing for you, little mouse.”

  “What is going on?” I ask feebly. It’s the first thing I think to say, and as soon as the question tumbles out of my mouth, I know it was the wrong one to ask. There’s no way she’ll tell me the truth.

  “I wasn’t wrong when I thought you were stalking my brother, I guess.”

  Twisting my hands slightly, I test the strength of the tie. Knowing Claire’s upbringing, she probably took sailing lessons in Lake Michigan and learned to build sturdy knots. From my vantage point, it feels impenetrable.

  She swings her legs off the side of the chair, moving her body to face mine. She rests her forearms on her legs, then gives me a wicked smile. “Yes, you are definitely stalking him. What kind of person frames of photo of themselves and leaves it next to his a bed?”

  “I live here, Claire,” I spell out patiently like I’m not quivering in terror.

  What is her plan? What does she want from me?

  “Right.” She drags out the word sarcastically. “I’m sure you think you live with Harris, but he told me himself just a few minutes ago that he doesn’t want to see you ever again. How else would I have gotten up here? He begged me to take care of you… his inconvenience.”

  She’s delusional.

  I know the girl has all-access to Harris’ condo; she told me herself on the day I moved in with her, and never made it secret when she went to spend time with him.

  Through my rambling inner monologue, I remember I had plans this evening. Plans that were arranged to take place in this apartment and could be my saving grace. “My friend Luke is coming over,” I blurt out. “If you don’t untie me, I’m sure he’ll call the police. Let’s stop this.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she says in a faux nurturing tone, “there’s no one coming for you. I made sure of it.”

  “What happened to Luke?” I shout, furious and terrified. How long have I been out?

  “He’s fine.” She rolls her eyes which are dangerously devoid of emotion. The woman hovering next to me is so far from whom I believed her to be in the past. Roommate, sister, friend, all wiped away by the terrifying callousness before me. “I canceled your plans. You have a more stirring engagement with me. We’re here to chat, and then I’ve come up with the ideal way to get you out of Harris’ hair. Don’t worry, you’ll love it!”

  I try another tactic in my desperate attempt to reach a rational Claire. “Someone could easily see us.” Jerking my head, I look at the surrounding buildings. “There are tons of other balconies nearby.”

  Not really, though. Some of the surrounding buildings are easily tall enough, but not close enough for a clear view of what’s happening.

  “Good one,” she says nonchalantly. “I’m not too worried about other people. They’ll think it’s a naughty little game.”

  Until she utters those words, I’ve blocked the memories of how Jared nearly sexually assaulted me. But with that, the dam breaks and everything rushes back. His alcohol-tinged breath and the bruises left across my body from his punishing fingers. In my mind, I’m drifting terrifyingly closer and closer back to that night. I blink furiously to try and erase the memories. Panic trickles down my spine. I remember the heat of his breath on my body, the glassy-eyed expression.

  “Why did you make up that story about being raped by your ex? Jared told me it wasn’t true. Come on, Edith, you know I frown upon lying, especially when you tarnish the name of a good person like Congressman Gordon’s son. Bad behavior like that deserves consequences. Harris and I decided you needed a taste of your own medicine.”

  How many lies can this girl spit out? It’s impossible to decipher what’s true with her. Not to mention I could never believe Harris consorted with her to make me suffer in this way.

  I’m shocked back into somewhat rational thought. Jared’s attack flits away and there’s a rush of vibrant emotion—rage.

  “What are you doing with my ex-boyfriend? Can’t find one of your own?” I snap.

  She smiles sweetly. “You didn’t make it hard to find him—told me the name of him and his father. Took a few phone calls, and I met up with him instead of that little trip to therapy that Harris suggested. Jared was the one who came up with the plan to get you back. I don’t really get it, but he misses you tons, little mouse,” Claire tells me pointedly like I was foolish to leave the man who nearly sexually assaulted me.

  Her words send me into a furious tailspin. The encounters at the coffee shop now make sense; it was all part of their twisted plot. Unfortunately, it doesn’t occur to me what Claire just revealed.

  “I hate that fucking nickname!” I explode, breathing heavily, arching against my restraints. The combination of my twisting body and deep breaths cause my ribs to shout in protest. I still my movement, attempting to cease the pain.

  Suddenly Claire leaps to the side of my chair, rearing back her hand and slapping me across my cheek. There’s an instant sting, and my eyes well with tears. Despite the pain, the aggression strengthens my resolve, making me defiant.

  I won’t let you get away with this, I tell her silently.

  “Shut up,” she snarls, her face now so close up to mine that her breathes skitter across my cheeks. Each one reeks of vodka, the scent overpowering.

  “That name means more to this earth than you ever will. Do you know where it came from? Do you?”

  “Am I allowed to speak?” I spit back, droplets of my saliva flinging from my mouth and landing on her angry red cheeks. She rears back, using the back of her hand to wipe the wetness away. There’s a trickle of liquid sliding down my nose. A metallic taste hits my upper lip. Blood from the trauma of the vicious slap.

  “Cooper’s nickname was little mouse.” She drops the shocking statement, then sails out of the terrace and back inside, leaving me alone. Will Claire abandon this scheme until Harris returns home?

  Unlikely.

  Several minutes pass in silence. The only sounds I hear are the muffled cars down below and my labored breaths. My head continues to throb painfully, demanding attention. Idly, I wonder if I have a concussion, if Harris will return home early and rescue me, if Luke might still show up.

  Claire flicks on the outdoor lights, flooding the terrace with more visibility. The heavy glass door lugs open and she returns, a wicked smile in my direction. Now I have time to study her. She wears a white eyelet sundress like she’s headed to a summer barbecue instead of imprisoning me on her brother’s urban oasis.

  “Where were we?” she wonders, sitting down on the chair next to me again, crossing one leg over the other.

  The anger I felt before has calmed considerably as I contemplate what I can say to get me out of this situation. Hope still buns that some reason will break through.

  “Cooper’s nickname was little mouse,” I mutter, though curiosity demands to know more about her casual statement. It explains why every time she used the name in front of Harris he would appear furious. Why didn’t he tell me?

  “And I’m sure you’re wondering why I gave it to him,” she says with a gleeful grin that I can’t begin to analyze.

  “Yes.”

  “When he was just a baby, I had a s
tuffed mouse that I would carry with me everywhere I went. After my mom had him, I was so happy to have a new baby brother that I gave him my toy. Cooper lugged that mouse with him everywhere he went, always wanting to keep a part of his big sister with him,” she says almost smugly. “He was always a bit smaller than me, and since he carried around the mouse, which he aptly named mouse, the nickname fit perfectly. Of course we never got the chance to see if he’d become a bigger mouse.” The final sentence is said darkly and her eyes narrow on me.

  “I’m sorry for you loss.” I try to appeal to her emotionally. “It must be so awful.”

  “Don’t be fucking stupid; I’m over his death.”

  Right.

  “Claire,” I say gently, “you lost more than a brother; you lost your best friend.”

  She throws back her head, laughing manically. Her chest heaves with the exertion, and she places a hand to her stomach as the sounds churn out.

  Eventually the laughter settles and she fixes me with a dreamy look. “Cooper wasn’t just a brother or a friend, he was something you’ll never have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We were soul mates. He was… no, is the love of my life.”

  I try to hold my gasp, but it breaks free and my eyes widen.

  “Don’t judge me,” Claire snaps. “You’ve never been in love, never found your other half.” She starts pacing up and down the length of the deck, wrapping her arms around her stomach defensively. “After he died, no one believed me, believed that he and I planned to be together when we were old enough.”

  “Why didn’t they believe you?” I ask quietly.

  “Lies,” she growls, and digs her fingernails into the cotton of her dress. “They tried to tell me he was gay. Mom said they needed to ‘prepare me’ for when he came out. Wanted me to accept his sexuality. Can you imagine Cooper being gay? That’s crazy!”

  There’s only one part of the story that’s unbelievable—you.

  She stops mid-stride, turning to stare at me, though her wild eyes dart around the space. Then she’s sniffling and wiping a hand across her nose.